April & Oliver (33 page)

“Different how?”

“At first she was like a
Venus de Milo
, perfect in her own disfigured way, but unreal. I knew she caught your imagination, but I wasn’t worried. She was only an
idea carved in stone.”

He swallows, unsettled by how rehearsed she sounds. “And now?”

“It appears you’ve become friends.”

“Isn’t that better?”

“Infatuation burns itself out,” she says. “Friendship mixed with old chemistry—that can last a lifetime.”

“No mixing,” he says, “just friendship.”

She smiles at him sadly.

“What can I do to convince you?”

“I’m not asking you to do anything. I’m just saying how I feel.”

“Which is?”

“Scared.”

He reaches over and takes her hand. “I won’t go to the dog park anymore,” he says. “I’ll explain that I’m too busy, which
is true anyway. Besides, she’s doing fine now. She doesn’t need me.”

“I’m not asking that of you, Oliver. You do what you think is best.”

“I’ll tell her right away. She’ll understand.” He squeezes her hand. “I’m sorry, Bernadette, if I’ve worried you.”

“I trust you,” she says. “I hope you don’t think otherwise.”

“I know you do. I promise to make things right.”

Oliver parks beside the train station and stares up at April’s window. Two am. Her light is on. There’s a pain in his chest
he can’t account for. He looks up at the apartment, the glow of light. The logical thing would be to call her on Saturday
morning and tell her he can’t make it to the park. Or simply not show up. Surely she doesn’t expect him. In fact there is
no need to say anything at all, no less at two in the morning. The only thing he’s sure of is that going up to her apartment
right now is the wrong thing to do. He gets out of the car.

The front door of the building is ajar. So much for security. He goes upstairs without buzzing and knocks on her door. She
opens it as far as the chain will allow. “Oliver?” she says with alarm. She is wearing a large Knicks sweatshirt atop the
black brocade dress, and chewed-up slippers over her black stockings. Dubious juts his scruffy nose through the opening, sniffing
enthusiastically.

“April,” Oliver says, his hand on his chest.

Seeing his face, she unlatches the door. “What’s happened?” she asks. “Is it Nana?”

“No, nothing like that.”

She releases a breath. “I’ve been so worried ever since she burned that teakettle.”

He nods gravely. “May I come in?”

She doesn’t answer, but studies him uncertainly.

“It’s not necessarily dementia,” he says, entering anyway. “I’ve burned pots myself.”

“You?” she says skeptically, pulling her sweatshirt closed.

“We’re all human.”

The dog sniffs his crotch. “Hey,” Oliver says. Dubious flattens his ears and moves to April’s feet. She remains where she
is with her hand on the open door.

“I hear you’re finally moving in with Nana,” he says, glancing around.

April hesitates before letting the door fall shut. She folds her arms. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Nana planned it this way,
burned the kettle on purpose, then let me think it was my idea to move in. She’s very shrewd that way. She’d do anything to
advance her agenda.”

He wanders into the apartment. The living room is lit with a single lamp perched over a worn easy chair. There is a blanket
half on the footrest, half on the floor, an open library book facedown on the coffee table. In high school she was always
reading the oddest things, horticulture, poetry, a biography of Amelia Earhart, all to the detriment of her homework. A few
more steps, he thinks, and he’ll be close enough to read the title of the downturned book.

“Oliver?”

“Yes.” He looks up. “Her agenda?”

“You know, what Nana thinks is right for each of us. Anyway, you’ve got nothing to worry about. You’re living the script.”

“I’m not so sure. She still can’t remember Bernadette’s name,” he says, turning to face her. “Don’t you think that’s a message?”

“She’s proud of everything you do, Oliver. She’ll be thrilled on your wedding day.”

He shoves his hands in his pockets, glancing back at the book.

She cocks her head. “Do you want tea or something?”

“Sure, tea.” He follows her into the kitchen. The kettle steams from recent use. He notices the stove clock is repaired. Two
thirteen am.

“So?” she says, hand on her hip. She wants to know what he’s doing here.

He hesitates, balling his fingers. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to come to the dog park anymore.”

“Oh,” she says quietly. “Of course, I mean, you must be getting very busy with wedding plans.” She lights the burner, blows
out the match, and takes a mug from the cabinet.

She glances over, waiting for him to continue, but he can’t think of anything else to say. She studies him, her scrutiny passing
through and around him like a cool spot in a warm lake. The kettle teeters on its rack and begins to trill. “What kind?” she
says. “I’ve got chamomile.”

“That’s fine.”

She extinguishes the flame and pours the scalding water. She sits down at the small kitchen table and slides a steaming mug
in Oliver’s direction.

“April,” he says. “Do you ever wonder if you’re making the right decisions in your life?”

“I don’t think I’ve made any yet,” she says.

“Maybe you should consider it.”

She glances at her watch. He sees he has made her nervous. She stands, wiping loose grains of sugar from the countertop. Oliver
gets up and moves beside her. The windows rattle faintly. In the distance, a train whistles. “You’ll be a fine lawyer, if
that’s what you decide,” she says, dusting the sugar from her hands. “Give yourself time.”

The train howls through the station, shaking the cups in the cabinets. “It’s the whole package I’m not sure about,” Oliver
says. The apartment quiets. She looks at him.

“Sometimes I worry that I’m doing it for the wrong reasons.”

“No,” she says. “Don’t second-guess yourself.”

“It’s just that I’m not as sure as I used to be.”

“You’re sure. You’ve said so many times. Besides, it’s after two. It’s not a good time to talk,” she says. She goes to the
door and opens it, their mugs of tea untouched on the table. Oliver picks up his jacket and stands in front of her.

“It’s normal to feel jittery,” she says, softening her tone. “Relax, Oliver. Think of the wonderful life you’ll have.”

He stands there, not moving.

“I’m not the person to help you with this,” she says.

“Why not?”

“I really ought to get some sleep.”

He feels the draft from the hallway. Tells himself to leave. The windows begin to rattle again; a local train, slowing as
it pulls into the station.

He takes a small step toward her.

“Go on,” she says, opening the door wider.

“Do you remember the night you first told me about Quincy?”

“No,” she says firmly. “Why do you do this? Why do you drag me back to a time in my life I can’t stand to think about? For
God’s sake, Oliver.”

He puts his hand beside hers on the edge of the door. “The day I left for college, where were you?”

“How can this matter now?” She looks at her watch.

“I waited where we said we would meet,” he whispers.

She closes her eyes.

“April, I know you remember.”

She steps back. “Good night, Oliver.”

“There’s that all-night diner down the street, the one with the fish. Let’s go for coffee.”

“It’s too late.”

“I only want to talk.”

“Not about this.”

“Fine. Current events, then. The Mets.”

She shakes her head no.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Sometimes no means no,” she says.

“Yes, sometimes,” he says. “I’ll wait here while you change.”

She hesitates and then retreats to her room. After a minute or two, she comes back wearing jeans and a paint-splattered T-shirt.
“This is crazy,” she says, grabbing her purse.

Out in the hallway she locks the various bolts on her door. On the last one, the key will not come out of the tumbler.

“Shit,” she says. “This has been happening lately.”

“Let me try,” he says, coming up behind her.

“No, I can do it.”

“I used to have one like this,” he insists, nudging her aside.

“If you would just leave me alone, I could do it.”

She yanks it again and the key flies out. She falls back against his chest and quickly rights herself. The keys have fallen
to the ground and they both bend down at once. Her elbow meets his face.

“Geez,” he says, covering his eye.

“Oh, God,” she says. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he says, straightening. “Just Cyclopsed.”

“Let me see.” She lifts his hand.

He sees her blurrily. She stares worriedly into his half-closed eye, so close the hair at the back of his neck stands up.
Electricity ripples across his skin.

She backs away abruptly. “You’ll live,” she says hastily, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “Let’s go, and this better
be quick.”

T
HE HIGHWAY IS SO QUIET
at this hour, with one lonely pair of taillights far ahead of them. April is aware of how the car smells of Bernadette’s perfume.
She thinks of them, only a few hours before, sitting in these same seats. She cups her hands tightly in her lap, staring out
the passenger window, her face turned away from him. They’ve been on the road a good forty-five minutes. “I’m pretty sure
we’ve passed the diner.” She eyes him.

“I thought we might go somewhere else,” Oliver says. “It’s a place you might remember. Do you mind?”

“I can’t keep my eyes open.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “Go to sleep.”

She turns the radio on low, bypassing many stations before settling on one. “Ah, Horowitz,” she says, leaning back.

“That could be anyone,” he says stiffly. “In fact, I think it’s Serkin.”

“Horowitz,” she repeats. “Do you know he didn’t start practicing seriously until he was in his thirties?”

“He was a prodigy. He didn’t need to.”

“He was tortured,” she says. “Then he came home.”

“Left home, you mean.”

“I wasn’t talking literally.”

When the song ends the announcer sighs, “Ah, the moonlight is audible. That was Beethoven’s
Moonlight
Sonata, opus twenty-seven, number two, performed by Vladimir Horowitz.” She feels Oliver glance her way but doesn’t open
her eyes. He
knew
it was him; of course he did.

To show his irritation, he switches to a commercial station. It’s the Norah Jones song “Come Away with Me.” April shields
herself, telling herself it’s just a pop tune, even though it cuts straight through her. She’s heard it a hundred times in
the bar, and every time she tries to shut the lyrics out of her mind before they crush her. She hates when a song can slice
her open that way. Now, alone in the car with Oliver, she finds it excruciating. She prays not to cry. Oliver drives without
speaking. The space between them feels like a living thing, with its own breath and nerve endings. She doesn’t dare look at
him. When the song ends, Oliver turns the radio off and they drive the rest of the way in silence.

She wakes to Oliver nudging her arm. She grumbles, turning away.

“Come on,” he says. “We’re here.”

She glances at the dashboard to see that it’s four thirty in the morning. She sits up, clutching her head. “Jesus,” she says.
“I don’t know why I drank that champagne with Al.”

They are in a gravel parking lot surrounded by trees swaying in the cool autumn air. A few leaves sail down. A state park?

“You were mumbling in your sleep,” Oliver says.

“Was I?”

“You said Doobie’s name.”

“Oh, that,” she says, rubbing her face. “I keep having this dream that he yanks the leash from my hand and runs into traffic.
It’s horrible. Usually I wake up just when it looks like he’s about to get hit.”

“You didn’t wake up.”

“I think he made it across this time,” she says. “Skirted right between the cars.” She glances at Oliver. “Why couldn’t it
have been that way for Buddy? Do you know how many near misses I had with that same car?”

Oliver shakes his head, looking out the window. She knows he feels the horror of it, too. She loves this quality in him, that
he will let an unspeakable thing be what it is, without feeling compelled to explain or fix or analyze.

“Let’s go,” he says quietly. “I have something to show you.”

She gets out of the car, shivering. “What happened to coffee?”

He takes his field coat from the backseat and hands it to her, then grabs a flashlight from under the passenger seat. She
shoves her arms through the sleeves grudgingly and follows him up the trail.

It’s a steady uphill walk until they come to a small wooden bridge spanning a stream. They stop for a moment, listening. “Now
I remember,” she says. “We camped here with your parents. We took this trail with Buddy and got lost.”

He eyes her. “Only because you insisted on leaving the path.” He turns off the flashlight to hear the water more clearly.
“I’ve come here a few times since by myself. I don’t know why. Something about the sound.”

She looks up at him, his gaze intent on the dark running water.

“Each side of the bridge has its own register,” he says. “The approaching water sounds like a gurgling rush, the departing
water is more like a sweep.”

She listens to one side and then the other. He’s right, of course, though she would never have noticed on her own.

“Come on,” he says. “We’re not there yet.”

They continue to climb, taking turns losing their footing on the growing incline. He offers his hand, and she takes it without
thinking. His palm is warm against hers. They come to a broad, bare rock spread out under the thin moonlight. “Here we are,”
he says. “You have to lie down to really see it.”

They stretch out on their backs on the cold, hard rock, their feet pointing in opposite directions, heads side by side. “Oh,
my God,” she says. “I never knew so many existed.”