Me Again (17 page)

Rebecca laughed, a rare occurrence. “You’re worried about saying the right thing? Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?”

“Good point,” I said, smiling. “It’s weird to say this, but from what little I saw of Victoria...” Again I tapered off.

“What?” Rebecca’s voice was gently insistent. “Go ahead and say whatever it is.”

I sighed. “From what I saw of Victoria, I just, well, I just didn’t like her very much. I wasn’t attracted to her.”

Rebecca raised her eyebrows. “Not attracted to
her
? Jonathan, she’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, other than in the movies or something.”

“Oh yeah, she’s really great
looking
,” I said, “that much is obvious. It’s like you said – she looks like a movie star.”

Rebecca went on. “And I thought all men liked big boobs.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “She has a great figure, if maybe a bit extreme. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“What, then?”

I tried to assemble my thoughts, recalling my meeting with Victoria. “It was weird. Even during the short conversation we had – and this is
before
she broke up with me – I was noticing that she seemed kind of fake.”

“Well, she wasn’t exactly candid with you about Teddy.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. It wasn’t that I thought she was lying. It was like what she said – even the expressions on her face – were all just things she thought she should do.”

I was having a hard time explaining, and Rebecca’s furrowed brow told me I hadn’t made my point clear. I tried again.

“It was like she was...
acting
. Trying to be some kind of perfect woman or something, but basing it all on really shallow, clichéd stuff.”

I shook my head, frustrated by how hard it was for me to articulate this. “Does that make any sense?”

Rebecca nodded. “She sounds like trophy wife material,” she said.

Then a look of horror washed over her face, and she turned to look at me. “Oh, God – I shouldn’t have said that, should I?”

I waved a hand. “No, it’s fine. And you may be right. I guess I used to make a lot of money, and the photos I’ve seen make it look like we went out a lot, to all kinds of flashy clubs and events. And she was always right there, smiling for the camera.”

I noticed Rebecca was still frowning. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

Now Rebecca shook her head, no longer looking at me. “It’s just... well, here I am, sitting here criticizing this woman I don’t even know, even going so far as to call her a trophy wife...”

When she didn’t continue, I said, “So?”

Rebecca’s gaze was cold and level, focused solely on the road in front of her. “So it sounds like exactly what
I
used to be. And what Big Bob wishes I still was.”

Chapter 20

“I
THINK THIS IS THE STREET,” Rebecca said. “What was the house number again?”

As I reached for the map, she turned towards me and said, “Um, can you read the house number?”

I smiled. “Yes – I can
read
numbers fine. They’re like... like letters in words that I can’t understand.”

“Oh,” she said, nodding. “I wasn’t sure how that worked.”

I looked at my map and announced, “We’re looking for three two five. It’s a big yellow house.”

Rebecca slowed the car down and strained to read numbers on the sides of houses. Finally she said, “There’s three twenty-five, but it’s not a yellow house. Are we maybe on the wrong street?”

“No, that’s my fault,” I said. “I forgot that Mrs. Margolis told me the house wasn’t yellow anymore.”

Rebecca stopped the car in front of a large grey house. “So, is this it?”

I looked at it for a long moment. It fit the configuration of the house I remembered, but the pale grey siding was throwing me off. I squinted at the house, and the effect was that of looking at a black-and-white photo. Suddenly I felt that strange inner tingling – that all-too-rare sensation that I had learned to associate with
remembering
.

“This is it,” I proclaimed.

Rebecca parked the car across the street, and we got out and surveyed the house, neither of us making any move to approach it.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah – I’m just trying to see what I can recognize.”

I stood taking in its details, comparing it against my own mental picture to see what was new, what was the same.

“Which one was yours?” Rebecca asked.

“My what?” I asked, puzzled.

“Your house. Didn’t you say this lady was your next-door neighbor?” Rebecca pointed to the houses on either side. “So, which one is it?”

Whether brain damage or simple stupidity was to blame, I stood there slack-jawed. In all my preparation for this trip, I’d never once thought about the fact that I’d be seeing my old house. I had focused entirely on my meeting with Mrs. Margolis – my one true link to a past I couldn’t otherwise access. But I’d never taken the next logical step.

“I don’t know,” I said stupidly. “Believe it or not, I never even thought that far.”

Rebecca was gracious enough not to reply, and I turned my gaze to the house on the right. It seemed to be the mirror image of Mrs. Margolis’s house, with all its features reversed. Its driveway was on the left, while Mrs. Margolis’s was on the right. Its front door was on the right, as opposed to the left-side door on the house that faced us.

But that was the extent of its similarity; while the grey house in front of us was tidy and well-kept, the one on the right was dilapidated, its shabby white paint peeling, its yard overgrown. An ancient rust-riddled van was parked in the driveway, its side emblazoned with stick-on letters urging us to “Call the Happy Housepainter! No job too large or too small!” Apparently the house the van was parked next to was the exception.

Looking at it, I felt...
something
. A name came into my mind: Ronny Something. Bark. Park. No, Clark. Ronny Clark.

“That’s not my house,” I said quietly. “I think a kid I knew named Ronny Clark lived there. But I’m not sure.”

I turned my attention to the house on the left, and nearly fell over.

“What is it?” Rebecca asked, as she saw me lurch backward, groping for the car. I needed something to support me. She hurried over to me while I stabilized myself, leaning heavily against the side of her car. I was aware of her studying me with concern, but my eyes remained locked on the house on the left.

It was nothing much to look at. A white, low-slung house that I think some call a bungalow. It was neither as well-kept as Mrs. Margolis’s, nor as run-down as the house on the right. But something about it was making me feel...
awful
.

“What is it?” Rebecca repeated. “Are you okay?” Following my stare, she pointed. “Is that your old house? Did you just remember something?”

I became aware that I’d been holding my breath, and exhaled, a long sigh that burned my throat. My legs felt rubbery, and something hot and unpleasant was twisting inside my stomach.

“I don’t know,” I said, my voice choked.

“You don’t look good,” Rebecca said. “You look like you just saw something terrible.”

“I feel terrible,” I said. “But I don’t know why. I’m not remembering that house, at least not like I remember this one.” I shifted my gaze to Mrs. Margolis’s house and instantly felt much better. I shook my head at the weirdness of the situation.

“I don’t know what’s going on, Rebecca. But looking at that house makes me feel... well, it makes me feel really bad. But not for any reason I can identify.”

“How about this house?” Rebecca said, pointing to Mrs. Margolis’s.

“No, I feel okay looking at it,” I said. “This is really weird.”

“Why don’t we go see your old friend?” Rebecca said. She reached for my arm. “Do you need a hand?”

As always when she touched me, I was extremely conscious of the physical contact.

“No, I’m okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

On wobbly legs I made my way towards the big grey house, doing my best not to let the smaller house on the left into my peripheral vision.

Mrs. Margolis’s house had a raised front porch, which meant I had to navigate several steps. Reading my thoughts, Rebecca said, “Here – give your cane.”

I did so, and she took me by the arm, her grip firm and confident. With my free hand I gripped the banister, and together we worked our way up the stairs.

“Thanks,” I said when we reached the surface of the porch. “That was my first time doing stairs.”

“It gets easier,” Rebecca said. “You’ll see.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Hey, look at me,” she said, a request I was all too glad to fulfill.

“I know,” I said. “You’ve been an inspiration to me.”

Rebecca gave me a dubious smile. “Seriously?”

I nodded. “Yes. Seriously.”

Together we walked towards the front door, and I pressed the doorbell.

Deep inside the house, I heard the bell, a dong-
ding
-dong melody that was instantly familiar to me.

“Isn’t that the NBC theme, or jingle, or whatever it’s called?” Rebecca asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I remember hearing it.” Suddenly I knew I had pressed that doorbell many, many times. And the memory made me happy.

“This is really cool,” Rebecca said quietly.

“What?”

“This whole thing,” she said gesturing towards the house, then turning to face me. “Seeing how happy you look. You don’t smile much usually.”

This caught me by surprise. “I don’t?”

She shook her head. “No, you don’t. But it’s okay – it’s not like you’re grumpy or anything. You just probably have a lot on your mind.”

“In my case,” I said, “I think the bigger problem is that there isn’t a lot
in
my mind.”

We waited at the door, and I made a mental note to myself:

Smile more.

Chapter 21

“W
HAT A DELIGHTFUL YOUNG LADY,” Mrs. Margolis said, after Rebecca excused herself to use the bathroom.

“I agree,” I said, between bites of some truly amazing coffee cake that Mrs. Margolis had put out for us.

She nodded knowingly. “Yes, there is definitely some chemistry between you.”

I choked on my cake. “But... but...” I sputtered, “she’s married!”

Mrs. Margolis’s face turned thoughtful. “Well, that sort of thing can complicate matters.”

“That sort of thing?”

She patted my hand, “All I know is, whenever somebody comes into your life, there’s a reason. Even if you don’t see it at first.”

“Well,” I allowed, “she
is
a really good friend.”

“But you want more than that,” Mrs. Margolis said, her smile returning.

“No,” I protested. “I don’t want to do anything...
wrong
.”

Another pat on the hand. “Oh, I know that,” she said. “I’m not saying you want to do something wrong. I’m saying you wish things were different.”

“Boy, do I.” I’m not sure why I felt comfortable being this candid with her, but I did.

“Well, Jonny, in case you haven’t noticed, things
can
change. Look at you – you’ve gone through some very big changes.”

“True,” I said. “I just...”

I stopped myself. I just
what?
Wished Rebecca wasn’t married? Wished my brain worked better? What good was wishing?

“Be patient,” Mrs. Margolis said. “Good things are happening for you.”

This elicited a bitter laugh from me. “Yeah,” I said, “really good things. Let’s see: a six-year coma, nearly total memory loss, and oh yes, let’s not forget a career and a girlfriend, both down the drain. Yeah, life’s going great.”

Mrs. Margolis kept smiling, but her gaze grew more intent.

“Well, you did wake up. And from what I hear, that wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Okay, she had me there.

“What wasn’t supposed to happen?” Rebecca asked, returning to the cozy living room where we sat.

I smiled sheepishly. “Me waking up.”

“Of course you were supposed to,” Rebecca said. “Everything happens for a reason.”

“Do you believe that?” I asked. I wasn’t being argumentative; I was genuinely curious.

“Based on some of the stuff I’m going through,” Rebecca said, “I kind of have to.”

“More coffee cake?” asked Mrs. Margolis.

“Actually,” I said, “I’d love to see that tree you had in the back yard. Is it still there?”

“Oh, it’s still there,” Mrs. Margolis said. “I had to have it trimmed pretty severely after that awful ice storm we had, but it’s a very resilient tree. But I do hope you’re not planning to climb it.”

I smiled. “No, I’m not quite ready for any tree-climbing just yet.”

“Glad to hear it.”

The three of us made our way through her kitchen out to the back porch, which overlooked a beautifully manicured yard lined with flowerbeds guarded by concrete statues of angels, saints, and one stern-looking garden gnome. And at the center of it all stood a majestic maple tree. And I suddenly
knew
it was a maple tree, not because I knew anything about trees, but because I remember being told as a boy that this was a maple tree.

To confirm, I said, “Maple, right?”

Mrs. Margolis nodded. “The leaves are a nuisance during the fall – I have to pay a boy who lives up the street a fortune to rake my yard. But I couldn’t bear to cut it down.”

We stood looking at the tree, while memories and feelings washed over me in weird, thrilling waves.

“You were like a little monkey, climbing around in that tree,” Mrs. Margolis said, smiling at the memory. “You were such a cute little fella.”

“He was, wasn’t he?” Rebecca said. “I saw some really cute old pictures of him at his parents’ house.”

On one hand I was flattered by all this attention. But I couldn’t help noticing everybody was complimenting me in the past tense.

“Oh, I’ve got some great old photos of him in one of my albums,” Mrs. Margolis said. She paused, her smile flickering and then disappearing for a moment. Then she was all smiles again, saying, “But we’ll look at them some other time.”

We adjourned to the living room, where Mrs. Margolis directed me to a curio cabinet containing a huge variety of ceramic figurines.

“You used to love looking at all my paddy-whacks,” she said.

“Paddy-whacks?” Rebecca asked.

It came to me then – a surge of memory almost physical in its intensity.

“I called them that,” I said hesitantly, like a newscaster relaying a story to his audience a moment after it is beamed into his earphones. “Mrs. Marigold – er, Mrs. Margolis told me they were called knick-knacks, and that would always make me think of that song. You know,
knick-knack, paddy-whack, give a dog a bone
? So I called them paddy-whacks.”

Rebecca smiled. “You really
were
a cute kid, weren’t you?”

Past tense again. Oh, well.

“And now he’s a very handsome young man,” Mrs. Margolis said, giving me a none-too-subtle conspiratorial wink.

Embarrassed, I said, “Oh yeah. Chicks dig guys with canes.”

Mrs. Margolis turned away distractedly. “Howard carried a cane,” she said. “You know, because of the shrapnel. From the war.”

I felt like an idiot.

“Looks don’t matter,” Rebecca said. “I mean, Jonathan’s really skinny, his mouth is kind of funny, and his right arm doesn’t look quite right.”

God, this was getting brutal. And I thought she’d missed the whole right arm thing.

“But he’s still the nicest guy I know,” Rebecca concluded. “That’s what’s important.”

I’ll admit, this got a smile out of my funny-looking mouth.

Self-conscious, I turned my attention back to Mrs. Margolis’s curios. My gaze fell on a small figurine of a fat smiling man, sitting shirtless and cross-legged, his round belly exposed. It was a deep rich red, made of some sort of glazed clay, and very shiny. Instinctively I picked it up – it nestled in my hand, no larger than a golf ball.

“Buddha belly,” I said, not sure where the words came from.

Mrs. Margolis laughed. “
That’s
what you called him – I was trying to remember!”

Perplexed, Rebecca leaned close to see the object I held in my hand. I was conscious once again of her wonderful smell, clean and fresh, not cloying like the perfumes so many women wore.

“You always loved my little Buddhas,” Mrs. Margolis said. “I had a set of three, but I finally gave you one.”

Seeing Rebecca’s puzzled look, she said, “I guess I told Jonny that it was good luck to rub his belly. And in classic Jonathan style he came up with a name for the little fella: Buddha belly.”

Rebecca said, “Where’s the third one?”

“The third what? asked Mrs. Margolis. “Oh, the third Buddha.” She frowned. “It got lost, I’m afraid.”

“That’s too bad,” Rebecca said. She reached for the figure, so I handed it to her. She held it in one hand, and rubbed its belly with the index finger of her other hand.

“So this is supposed to bring me luck?” she said.

Mrs. Margolis smiled. “Wait and see,” she said. “It just might.”

I was still staring at the smiling Buddha. “I think I still have mine,” I said. “I seem to remember it. Sitting out somewhere where I could see it every day, like maybe on my dresser or something. But it’s not at my parent’s house. I don’t remember much of anything there.”

“Maybe you had it in Chicago,” Rebecca said.

I shrugged. “Maybe. In that case, I should find out soon. I’m planning a trip up there, to sort out all the stuff I have in storage.”

Rebecca frowned. “How would you get there? Would your parents take you?”

“They offered,” I said, “but I told them no, thanks.”

“But why not?” Rebecca asked.

Mrs. Margolis looked at me evenly, not saying a word.

“It’s a long story,” I said, hoping they wouldn’t press me. Frankly I was afraid of what I might find in my storage space, worrying that there might be things there that would incriminate me. It just wasn’t a risk I wanted to take in front of my parents. They were just too nice to be forced to confront the fact that their son might be a criminal.

“You’re not planning to go up there alone, are you?” Mrs. Margolis asked.

“I’ve been getting around here all right,” I said, a little more defensively than I’d intended.

“Jonathan,” Rebecca said, “this is Springfield. It’s nothing like Chicago.” Scowling, she said, “Do you even remember Chicago?”

Crap.

I sighed. “Not really. But I know they’ve got trains from here that take you straight there, and after that I can take a cab wherever I’m going, right?”

It was Mrs. Margolis’s turn to speak. “Jonny, unless you’ve miraculously remembered how to add and subtract, how on earth are you going to pay the cabby? Just hand him a bunch of bills and ask him to give back the part you don’t owe him?”

It occurred to me that perhaps my plan was not yet fully fleshed out.

Instead of poking another hole in my scheme, Mrs. Margolis surprised me by saying, “Why don’t we all go up? You know, make a nice day trip out of it. It’s only three and a half hours by train, and they run all day.”

“That might be fun,” Rebecca said. “I’ve been wanting to go up there to do some shopping. I hate all my clothes, and our mall isn’t exactly the greatest.”

Now Rebecca and Mrs. Margolis were on a roll, carrying on the conversation quite well without me.

“We could go up first thing in the morning,” Mrs. Margolis said. “I think the early train is around six-thirty or seven. How’s that sound?”

“That would get us there around ten or so. We could get Jonathan to his warehouse, then the two of us could go shopping.”

“Maybe catch a matinee of one of the big shows. I still haven’t seen
Sweeney Todd
, have you?”

“No, but I used to like going to plays.”

“Round up Jonathan after the show, maybe grab a quick bite to eat, then take a seven o’clock train, and we’re home in time for Leno.”

“That sounds good.”

“Perfect. When shall we go?”

Their discussion concluded, the two turned to me for input.

“Whenever,” I said. “My calendar is open.”