Love May Fail (20 page)

I choose death by breakfast again, the monkey suits come and go like androids, and Portia and I eat together in the dining room’s opulence, under the crystal chandelier, wearing our fluffy white bathrobes.

The steak is even better than yesterday’s, somehow juicier, and I decide to consume all of it before I bring up the uncomfortable discussion I’ve been planning since four in the morning, because that’s when I woke up for the last time and tossed and turned until the sun rose. I’m worried about Portia, who seems to be glowing with dangerous confidence this morning, but I’m smart enough to savor this meat, because I am certain I will not have better in the few remaining days that I’ll be caning my way around this planet.

Just as soon as I’ve swallowed the last bite I say, “I think it would be prudent if we parted ways now, and I caught a train back to Vermont before this gets any more complicated than it already is. Because there is nothing—”

“Not a chance,” she says, and the light in her eyes fades a little. “I have you for three days. A deal is a deal.”

“I don’t want to prolong this, Ms. Kane. And I don’t want you to get your hopes up. There is nothing I want, except to be left alone.
Nothing.
”

“You just need to remember,” she says, and then sips her coffee. “Who you once were.”

“It was a mistake to come with you,” I say. “I see that clearly now. I don’t know why I—”

“Because some part of you, deep down inside, knows I’m right about you,” she says, looking out at Central Park glowing in the morning sun.

“No. That’s not it,” I say, and then take a deep breath. “I’m not proud of this, but I think I came on this little adventure because I wanted to hurt one of my former students, as sadistic as that sounds. Wound you deeply the way Edmond Atherton wounded me, sans the baseball bat, of course. And this was a subconscious wish that was controlling me, but somewhere along the way it became conscious, and now I feel guilty about it and want to be open with you, protect you from any further pain. The conscious part of me wishes you no harm, and so I must protect you from my subconscious. Do you understand?”

She’s looking at me as though I have just flashed her my private parts—half shock, half repulsion.

“You can’t fool me,” she says. “This is just a trick.”

“Listen, what you are trying to do is beautiful, but it makes you vulnerable. I know, because I used to live this way myself. The world broke me in a big way, and then I was harder—hard enough to want to do some breaking of others. And you’re a sweet, kind woman, Ms. Kane. I couldn’t sleep last night because I felt so guilty—and so I feel it’s best if we simply part ways now. Thank you for all you have done, for letting me know my class meant something to you. I wish you much luck with—”

“I’m taking you to meet my mother today,” she says. “Whatever reason you had for coming, it doesn’t matter. It would mean a lot to me if you simply met my mother. Maybe that sounds bizarre to you, but I would be very grateful. After that I will drive you home to Vermont and leave you alone for good. You’ll be free and clear of me. I promise.”

“You want me to meet your mother—the hoarder?”

“She’s my mother.”

“But why do you want me to meet her?”

“Because—I can’t explain it, okay?”

“I really don’t want to return to Haddon Township—I haven’t been there since, well . . . since this,” I say and hold up my cane.

“I know I’m asking a lot, but we can make it there in time for dinner, and then after we eat with my mom, I’ll drive you directly home, right away. I won’t even sleep.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Ms. Kane. I’m sorry.”

“Please.” She puts her hands together in prayer position. “I know it’s dumb, but I really just want the two of you to meet. She was in no condition to attend any school functions or back-to-school night, and I’ve told her so much about you. She’s not well, and I think she believes I made you up. I just want to show her that you exist.”

“This is really important to you?”

“It would mean a lot to me. If you’re going to disappear from the world, maybe you could do this one last kindness before you go? It’s a simple thing, really. Do it, and you will never hear from me again. I promise.”

“Dinner with your mother and you—that’s it? I do this, and the game ends? You take me directly back to Vermont.”

“And I forgive you for wanting to punish me,” she says, looking up from under her eyebrows like a wounded little girl.

“Okay,” I say, against my better judgment.

How can I refuse her this simple thing after what I just admitted?

She takes so long packing her things and getting ready that I begin to wonder if she is intentionally stalling for some reason, but I enjoy my view of Central Park, watch the late-morning light climb
the trees, and I don’t say anything when she finally emerges from her bedroom with her hair and makeup done.

“Let’s get some lunch sent up and check out late, just to screw Ken a little more in the pocketbook,” she explains.

“Sure,” I say, thinking this will all be over soon, if I can just be agreeable a little while longer.

It’s half past one by the time we are back in the rental car, fighting Manhattan traffic. Portia hits buttons on the steering wheel until she finds the classical station. My old friend, the best cellist alive, is playing.

I must make some emotional noise, because she says, “Are you okay?”

I don’t answer.

“Mr. Vernon? Do you not like this music? I thought you liked classical, and—”

“It’s Yo-Yo Ma,” I explain. “Suite for Solo Cello no. 4 in E-flat Major, BWV 1010, first movement, ‘Prelude.’ Bach, of course.”

“Of course.”

“My dog, Albert Camus,” I say, missing him more than I have since Portia first found me choking to death on my own vomit, “this was one of his favorite pieces.”

“Your dog loved Bach?”

“He loved Yo-Yo Ma,” I explain, and then emotion floods my chest, and I can’t stop myself from crying. I turn my head away from her and pretend to look at New York passing by, but I’m making sniffling noises now.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sure Albert Camus was a great dog.”

“He was the best friend I ever had,” I say, realizing how stupid I’m acting, crying over a dog.

Yo-Yo Ma works his magic—transports me.

And suddenly I’m with Albert Camus again in my Vermont
kitchen, listening to our favorite cellist play Bach. I’m cooking us steaks as Albert Camus thumps out the beat against the wooden floor with his tail.

In my mind, I bend down and scratch him under his chin and behind his ears the way he likes, until he stands up on his hind legs, paws at my chest, and licks my cheek in thanks.

“Why did you jump out the window?” I ask him in my fantasy. “Why? We had such a good life together.”

He looks up at me lovingly through his one eye.
I told you already. I jumped to save you, like Clarence in
It’s A Wonderful Life
does to save George Bailey. And I think you should listen to this woman who is driving the car, in real life. She has a good heart. She loves you!

“I’m done, Albert Camus. Got nothing left to give!”

Then why not take a little, eh?
he says.
Learn from me. Did I ever refuse a treat or a scratch or a ride in the truck with the window rolled down? Never! And what did I have to give back in return?

“Companionship!” I say. “You were the best friend I ever had.”

We are still best friends—best friends forever
, he says, and then licks me furiously all over my face as I close my eyes and laugh.
Now stop being such a pussy! Let the girl help you.

“Did you just call me a ‘pussy’?” I say, making the stupid air quotes with my fingers.

Yes, I did, and it is the absolute worst thing a dog can call another dog. A pussycat. And you are acting like one. Snide. Selfish. Self-absorbed. An untrustworthy, taciturn pussycat. Be a dog, Master Nate. A true and good dog is affable and loving and kind and ready for adventure. Ready to piss on the entire world, marking every inch with his many drops of urine, which he believes to be inexhaustible!

“This is getting a little weird, Albert Camus. Even for me. I must admit.”

Use this new life. Mark it with the urine of your essence.

“What did you just say?” Portia says a bit loudly.

I open my eyes and look at her behind the wheel of the rental car, blinking several times as my mind wakes up and my eyes focus.

“Did you just say something about ‘the urine of your essence’?” she says.

“What?”

“I think you may have been dreaming, but that’s disgusting. I’m stopping for coffee. Maybe you’d like some too.” She pulls into a rest stop off the highway, where we get some overpriced java and sip it quietly at a little plastic table as scores of faceless background people swarm about.

“You’re almost done,” she says. “Almost free of me.”

I nod at her, suddenly exhausted.

This is the longest I’ve been around another human being in many years, I suddenly realize. No wonder I’m so depleted of energy.

There’s an endless slow-moving snake of traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike, which makes me think of that old song by Simon and Garfunkel about counting cars on this very road, but as the hours creep by in interims of standstill and five-miles-per-hour, Portia’s knee starts to move up and down, and her bottom lip gets chewed fiercely.

“Why are you so agitated?” I ask.

“We’re meeting my mother at seven,” she says. “I don’t want to be late.”

I look at the clock on the dash: 5:30.

We take Exit 4 around 6:40, and Portia seems even more agitated. I can feel her nervousness filling up the car like some sort of poisonous gas; it’s stifling.

I take a deep breath and remind myself that I only have to eat dinner with a crazy old lady before I’ll be returned to my home in Vermont, where I can finally be done with everything and enjoy eternal rest.

Portia navigates through and mostly around the South Jersey rush-hour traffic, taking less-traveled residential roads through Cherry Hill, Haddonfield, Westmont, and then we are on Cuthbert Boulevard and she is pointing out the row home in which she grew up across the street from the Acme, and then she’s pulling over and pointing at the Haddon Township High School public announcement board and football field.

“Why did you stop
here
?” I say.

“Thought you might like to reminisce,” Portia says, and it’s like all of my bones are being broken again.

“Keep driving!” I yell, and now it’s me who is feeling anxious. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”

“Don’t you want to take a second to—”

“Drive!”

She pulls away and heads toward Oaklyn.

“I’m sorry stopping by the high school upset you so much,” she says, after my breathing returns to normal.

I don’t respond, mostly because it upset me more than even I thought it would, and now I’m sweating and my heart is banging.

“You’re really shaken,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ll be okay. Let’s have dinner with your mother, and then I’ll be happiest if you return me right where you found me.”

“Okay,” she says, but there is a hint of music in her voice, like she knows something I don’t, and when I look over at her, I see it clearly in her eye—the spark.

We pull into a rather full parking lot across the street from a place called the Manor in the small town of Oaklyn, and alongside my former student I make my way to the entrance door, over which hangs a sign featuring a suspiciously young boy sitting on a barrel and drinking beer directly from a pitcher.

Before we go in, Portia stops and faces me. Then she kisses me on the cheek, which shocks me. “You were the best teacher I ever had. Thank you.”

Her eyes are watery, and I’m not quite sure what’s going on, so I say, “Let’s not keep your mother waiting.”

She nods and then opens the door for me.

I cane my way inside, looking down so I don’t trip over the step, and when I look up, I hear a few dozen people yell, “SURPRISE!!!!!!”

It scares the hell out of me, and I almost fall backward, but Portia is nudging me forward toward the mass of people who I quickly understand are my former students, because they are all holding up
those stupid Official Member of the Human Race cards I used to make and distribute to my seniors on the last day of school. It feels like a dream at first—like something that can’t possibly be true—and as I scan the beaming, smiling faces in the room, I recognize several and can even name a few.

My entire body is instantly slicked with sweat.

Everyone is looking at me.

Edmond Atherton’s face pops out in the crowd dozens of times, peeking up from behind shoulders and around heads in rapid succession, so I know I am hallucinating, seeing my attacker everywhere I look, and all of these former students are waiting for me to say something. It’s so deadly quiet, I can hear them breathing.

They want me to send their emotions soaring with goodwill and belief in possibility. Even though I would actually like to provide them with what they need, with what would keep them believing and carrying around those recklessly hopeful cards, I have nothing left in my tank. I no longer own the Mr. Vernon Super Teacher Mask. So I turn around, push past Portia, and limp my way out of the building.