Pug Hill (26 page)

I think how Evan was a Republican. Then I think of all my exes, and I think so many of them were.

“What if one of them was The One?” she asks us, looking around yet again. “What if they were all The One?” She looks down, looks back up again, and smiles.

Lawrence jumps to his feet and shouts, “Bravo, oh, bravo, Amy, bravo!” Amy thanks him, really rather graciously.

“Wonderful job, Amy!” Beth Anne exclaims. “Such an effective presentation!” And all I can think is,
effective indeed.

“What was your anxiety level?” she asks, and all I want to do right now, all I want to do in the world, is raise my hand high, raise it high in the air, and say that my anxiety level is about a ten.

“Uh, you know, it wasn’t so high,” Amy answers, really pretty calmly. “It was, like, a three, at most a four.”

“Well, claaaaaass, I hope you were all able to see this excellent,
just excellent,
example of how if you concentrate more on what you are saying than on the fact that you are saying it up in front of a room of people, that wonderful results can occur.” She beams proudly at Amy.

But I’m not seeing that so much. Maybe I’m not seeing that at all! I look around at my classmates, all nodding sagely in agreement with Beth Anne. I wonder if they’re seeing what Beth Anne is telling us we should see, or if they’re seeing that maybe Amy could have found her happy ending, that things could have turned out so differently for her, if maybe she’d been just a bit more open-minded.

All I can wonder is, what would have happened if Amy had—instead of balking, instead of deeming each one of these men her own equivalent of a Sprocket—just looked at these men, one by one, and said, “Really, it’s gauche to talk so much about money and it kind of turns me off.” “Your name is Kevin and you are an alcoholic. Put the drink down, baby, one day at a time,” or whatever it is that helps alcoholics. What if she’d just said, “I prefer, generally, not to be twirled.” “I don’t like stuffed bears.” “Wear something other than a vest?” “Wear a baseball hat, maybe?” “I don’t like my armpit being licked.” “Be a man!” “Be nice?” “Would you like to see my dictionary?” “Would you like to see my phonetic pronunciation program?”

Or. What if she had said nothing? What if she had just accepted these men, instead, for who they were? What if she’d been more open-minded? What if she’d seen things differently, seen people for who they were rather than only for their mistakes?

As we all stand outside the elevator, as everyone agrees to go for a drink at Cedar Tavern, it isn’t only Rachel who declines, it’s me, too. As I turn in the opposite direction of everyone else, and walk north along Fifth Avenue, all I can think is,
What if I’d just laughed at Evan’s jokes?

Okay. I’m over it. Well, I’m not entirely over it, but I feel I’m over the worst part of it. I’m over thinking that maybe Evan, after everything, was The One That Got Away. The fact that most of, well, to be honest
all
of, his humor was entirely lost on me though, has been duly noted. The fact that Amy’s speech resonated so completely has not been lost on me. The fact that Pamela has oft implied that I can be close-minded, as close-minded as I lamented Amy being, has not been lost on me. And another thing that hasn’t been lost on me? When it comes to judging people, to forming opinions based perhaps on not a hell of a lot of pertinent information, I may very well need to lighten up. Just as soon as I figure out who was The One That Got Away, make a speech about it, graduate from
Overcoming Presentation Anxiety
class, make my speech at my parents’ anniversary party, somehow get over my crush on Elliot, and rethink the amount of importance I tend to place on footwear.

I buy a second cup of coffee from the vendor right outside the museum; the past weekend was not one in which I got a tremendous amount of sleep. I drink half of it standing outside on the steps, before heading off to the Conservation Studio.

When I get there, the mood in the basement of unrequited love is, I have to say, quite tense. Elliot looks up as I walk in. “Hope,” he says, and I almost drop what’s left of my coffee right on the floor. Except for the very occasional telling me that I have a phone call, I don’t think Elliot has ever just spoken to me, just like that, unprovoked. In fact, I’m sure that he hasn’t.

“Hi, Elliot,” I say, and damn it all to hell, my voice actually cracks.

“Uh, I just wanted to tell you. May just told Sergei and me that she’s making an announcement after lunch.”

“Oh, okay, thanks.” I look over at Sergei: he looks surly, a little bit pissed. Elliot does not. I wonder if Elliot knows what the announcement will be.

I head to my desk where I sip my coffee and look suspiciously around at Elliot and Sergei. I’m pretty sure that when I am not looking, they are looking suspiciously at me. I long for the days before we all knew of this promotion, before we all entered silently into this world of competition. I’ve got this new feeling now, too, this premonition-type feeling, that as far as our competition is concerned, Elliot has pretty much got it in the bag. I mean, if I think about it, really think about it, in a way I have so far been loathe to do, Elliot, as you know, was a Head Restorer before he came here. And as you also know, to get the promotion, such would be the way of Elliot. But maybe, I think a bit positively, maybe that’s just me. Maybe the rest of the world isn’t in love with him from afar. Maybe the rest of the world doesn’t jump to conclusions and think things like, “Such is the way of Elliot,” as they sip their coffee.

I turn to the Rothko, and try to see if I can decipher any of the tiny, tiny dots I have painted on to it. When my eyes start to lose focus, I turn away and sift through my brushes to find the one I want again. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Sergei. He’s keeping to himself over there, by the hot vacuum table, wielding his canvas pliers in a way that now seems to me, and this actually might be just in my head, sinister. Sergei seems different as I watch him painting glue onto the back of some tortured canvas.

May returns to the Conservation Studio, talking quietly into her cell phone, and I can’t help wondering how she could pick either of them over me. But then I remind myself that she hasn’t picked anyone yet, and that she could still very well pick me. I pull my magnifier visor down over my eyes, but not before I dart accusing glances in the direction of Sergei, Elliot, and, maybe most of all, May.

An eternity later, I push my magnifying visor up, and look at my watch. It is ten-thirty. Ten-thirty in the morning, and already I am desperate for it to be after lunch. I’m not good with suspense. Not at all. Honestly, I’m almost wishing at this point that I could stop thinking that maybe Sergei and I have a chance. I’m almost wishing we could all just skip ahead to once we’ve already lost. Even if it means that once we’ve skipped ahead, Sergei and I might be looking back at it all with regret, shaking our fists at the tiny bit of light coming in through the basement windows, saying to each other, to Elliot, “I coulda been a contender!”

And though, clearly, this is not the best scenario that I could envision for myself, I’m pretty sure that it would be better than this, than all this tension. Because, really, there is so much tension.

I manage to work continuously through the rest of morning, not thinking about any of it, thankful for the respite, until I hear everyone rustling around behind me, putting things aside, and getting ready to break for lunch. I’ve got that blurry feeling. Looking at what appears to be an endless field of red under a magnification lens for a few hours makes it so that your eyes don’t just get blurry, your entire body does. I take the visor off completely and turn around to set it on my desk. I notice May heading out again, notice Sergei opening up a newspaper over at the lunch table, as far away from the paintings and canvases and chemicals as it is possible in the Conservation Studio to be. I glance over at Elliot, who’s leaning back and squinting at what must surely be the twelve millionth Old Master landscape he’s worked on today. I pull my visor off, and head over to join Sergei at the lunch table. As I do so, I look up at the April sun shining through the window. I am tempted to run away from this and head to Pug Hill, but I imagine it is not in my best interest to do that, regardless of what May’s decision will be.

It all happens pretty quickly.

“Hey, gang,” May says joining Sergei and me at the table. Elliot sidles up right behind her. “As you all know, in a month or so, I’ll be heading off for a year.” We all nod solemnly.

“Elliot’s going to be in charge while I’m gone,” she says and smiles shyly. There is no “I’ve given this a tremendous amount of thought,” no, “This was a very difficult decision for me to make because you are
all
so conscientious and studious and hardworking, just some in subtler ways than others, and I’d trust each of you to be in charge.” Things like that would have been nice to hear, had they been said. The way she says it, so casually, like there was no contest, makes me wonder if she just thinks that will make it easiest, will make it so that Sergei and I feel okay. Because May is really nice like that, she wants us to all feel good. But also, I can’t help wondering if it seems like there had never been any contest, because all along, there never really had.

“Thanks, May,” Elliot says, and smiles, “Thanks a lot.” He’s not smug or triumphant about it all. Not that I really ever thought he would be, he’s not that type of guy. Sergei gets up and claps him on the back. Elliot puts his hands in his pockets and . looks down at the floor.

“Congratulations, Elliot,” I say.

“Thanks, guys,” he says to all of us, “thanks.” And seeing him so humble, and so, well,
Elliot,
I get butterflies in my stomach. I forget all about everything I’d thought at first, how I’d thought that if Elliot got the promotion I’d be bitter, outraged, and how I’d maybe hate him for taking the promotion that was so rightly mine (well, not really but it’s better to think of it that way in order to fuel said outrage). I forgot how all of that was supposed to set me free.

I spend the rest of the afternoon picking at my Rothko and occasionally sighing. Sergei scrapes glue off the back of a Rubens, and Elliot seems to be filling in the missing paint chips on an Old Master still life. And it seems like everything is, in a way that I think is probably okay, the same.