Read The City of Your Final Destination Online
Authors: Peter Cameron
The City of Your Final Destination (5 page)
ads
“She's not stupid,” said Omar.
“Yes she is. She's the stupidest dog I've ever known.”
“I'm not going to argue with you about the intelligence of Mitzie,” said Omar.
“I'm sorry,” said Deirdre. “I know I'm being cranky. I'm sorry. It's just that ⦔
“What?” asked Omar.
Deirdre ran her finger through the mist that had collected inside the car window. She did not want to be mean. Just wait, she thought. Wait until you don't feel mean. Don't say anything while you're angry. She rolled down the window and erased her traces. “It's just that, well, this seems awfully symbolic to me in some way.”
“What?”
“This business with your fellowship.”
“What do you mean?”
She turned away from the window and looked at him. She put her hand on his leg. “I mean, it scares me a little. I think if you want things, you make them happen. Or at least you try to make them happen. And sometimes I think you don't want things enough. You just let things go wrong, you don't try, and I think, Well, maybe he
doesn't really want it, what does he want, what does he really want?”
doesn't really want it, what does he want, what does he really want?”
“What are you talking about? Are you talking about the fellowship?”
“Yes, but it's not only the fellowship. It'sâwell, it's practically everything you do.”
“That's not true,” said Omar.
“What about the car?” asked Deirdre. “And your apartment? What if Yvonne hadn't let you use her house? What would have happened then?”
“I would have found another apartment.”
“Yes, and probably burned that one down too!”
“It didn't burn down,” said Omar. “Besides, it was an accident.”
“I guess what I mean is that I don't really believe in accidents,” said Deirdre. “Accidents happen because someone is not paying attention or is making mistakes. I mean the fire occurred for a reason. It wasn't spontaneous combustion. And you did throw water on it.”
“It was a fire, okay? I panicked. And I didn't know you're not supposed to throw water on a grease fire.”
“But Omar, you should know! There are just these things you should know. Things you need to know to cope in the adult world. Sometimes I wonder if it's because you were brought up in Canada. That the social welfare net stopped you from becoming a responsible, autonomous adult.”
“So you think I'm to blame for the fire?”
“This isn't about the fire! Let go of the fire.”
“But you said it was. You said it was everything I did.”
“I was exaggerating, all right? I was exaggerating for effect. It's something I do. You know that.”
“I know. But sometimes, when you say things like that, I wonder ⦔
“What?”
“I wonder if you really love me. I think, how can she say something
like that to me, like You fuck up everything you do, how could she say that to me if she loved me? Or not how but why? How
and
why.”
like that to me, like You fuck up everything you do, how could she say that to me if she loved me? Or not how but why? How
and
why.”
“Listen,” said Deirdre, “I love you. You know I love you. This isn't about that. In fact, I say things like that to you because I love you.”
“It doesn't sound like love. It sounds like anger.”
“Of course it sounds like anger! It is anger! I'm angry, Omar, but that doesn't preclude love. They can coexist, you know. I am capable of feeling several emotions simultaneously. I'm a complex person. Life is complex. Love is complex. It isn't simple. It isn't about just one thing at a time.”
“Why are you so angry?”
“I'm angry because you fucked up the fellowship! I mean, how could you fuck up a simple application? Why didn't you get authorization? Why did you lie?”
Omar was silent a moment. It looked as if he might cry. But then he spoke. “You know,” he said, “you're an extremely capable person. You're hardworking and organized and you've always gotten everything you wanted. That's you. That's who you are. I'm not like that.”
“But Omar, you make it sound as if being capable is some intrinsic talent. It's not. Being capable is about wanting to be capable. It's about making an effort to be capable. It's about following through. We're not talking about painting the Sistine Chapel. We're talking about using FedEx when it's necessary.”
“Well, the fact is that I've fucked up,” said Omar. “As apparently I always do.”
“And now you feel sorry for yourself and you want me to feel sorry for you too. But I won't. I can't. If you really wanted to get this fellowship, and write this book, if you really wanted everything that is predicated on your doing those thingsâand I don't want to be brutal, but a lot of important shit is predicated on your doing
those thingsâif you really wanted to do it, you would do it. You wouldn't let this stop you. You'd get authorization. You'd go down to Uruguay and not come back until you got authorization. You're so ready to give it all up.”
those thingsâif you really wanted to do it, you would do it. You wouldn't let this stop you. You'd get authorization. You'd go down to Uruguay and not come back until you got authorization. You're so ready to give it all up.”
“I'm not,” said Omar. “I just don't know what to do.”
“Go to Uruguay! You have the fellowship money, don't you?”
“Yes. But I should give the money back.”
“No! Use the money. If you give it back, it's all over. Get authorization : go down and meet with the brother and sister and wife.”
“It's the brother and wife and mistress.”
“Whoever. Whomever? Whatever: charm them. Change their minds. You could go down over break. By next semester everything could be fine.”
“Or I could be arrested for spending the fellowship money under false pretenses.”
“They're not going to arrest you, Omar. They'll just fire you. But if you don't do it, they'll fire you too. I really don't think you've got any choice.”
“I wonder how much it costs to fly to Uruguay? And where would I stay?”
“Well, there are answers to these questions. Call the airlines. Buy a guidebook.”
“If I did go down there, I could start my local research.”
“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” said Deirdre. “Look, I'm going in. I've got twenty-five so-called essays to read for tomorrow. Go home and think about this. Call me in the morning.” She opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk, then leaned back into the car through the open window. “And I'm this way because I love you, Omar. If I didn't love you I wouldn't be like this. I wouldn't care about you. I care about you and I love you and I want you to write this book. I know you can. I want you to be successful. I don't want you to be one of those professors who are always wandering
around the halls searching for their office with egg salad spilled down their front. Okay? Is that clear?”
around the halls searching for their office with egg salad spilled down their front. Okay? Is that clear?”
“Yes,” said Omar.
“Then kiss me,” said Deirdre, leaning farther into the car.
Omar had been evicted from his last apartment after a fire had gutted the kitchen. Fortunately, Yvonne Mailer, a history professor, was spending her sabbatical year in Turkey and was looking for someone to house- and dog-sit and as she was a woman who did not listen to local gossip she knew nothing of Omar's incendiary past and was more than happy to leave her keys with him and fly to Istanbul. Her house was about ten miles outside of town in what once had been a lakeside community of summer homes called Hiawatha Woods, but the dam that contained the lake had been sundered by a tornado in 1982 and so now the lake was replaced by a marshland through which meandered a torpid stream. Yvonne's home was the only one that had been winterized and was inhabited year-round, and so living there, among the empty dwellings, made Omar feel like a caretaker at some out-of-season summer camp.
The house was cold when he returned to it. There was a wood-burning stove in the living room, and Yvonne had assured Omar that if properly maintained and securely shut, the stove could be left running all night long or in one's absence, but after his recent experience with fire Omar was afraid to leave it burning out of his sight. And so he wasted a lot of time, and was often cold, as he was constantly extinguishing flames only to rekindle them hours later.
When he got the fire burning he went into the kitchen and fed Mitzie, giving her more than usual to make up for the delay. The dried food cascaded into the bowl, making a tintinnabulation that usually prompted Mitzie to come scurrying from wherever it was she snoozed. But when the bowl was full and the silence had returned the dog had not appeared. Omar called her name. He
walked through the small rooms of the little house, looking for her in the places where she usually slept, but she was nowhere, and then he thought: Could I have not let her in when I left? Did I leave her outside? He could not remember letting her in the house but that did not mean he had not. But she was not in the house. He opened the kitchen door and turned on the spotlight that illuminated the weed-choked clearing. Mitzie was not there. The picnic table on which she liked to stand was an empty stage. He called her name and then listened, but heard nothing that sounded comfortingly canine : no bark, no jiggling of dog tags, no quadrupedal pitter-patter. He went back inside and put on his coat and grabbed the flashlight and then walked out into the dark woods. There were rumors that lapdog-eating coyotes roamed the woods. He called the dog's name again and again, walking forward in the illuminated nimbus the flashlight cast at his feet. He looked back to make sure he could still see the lights of the house behind him and realized he had left the fire burning. Should he go back and extinguish it? Had he closed and latched the little metal oven door? Of course he had. But he could not remember doing it. Why didn't he remember more of what he did? Surely the fire was safe and contained. He turned away from the house and walked farther into the woods.
walked through the small rooms of the little house, looking for her in the places where she usually slept, but she was nowhere, and then he thought: Could I have not let her in when I left? Did I leave her outside? He could not remember letting her in the house but that did not mean he had not. But she was not in the house. He opened the kitchen door and turned on the spotlight that illuminated the weed-choked clearing. Mitzie was not there. The picnic table on which she liked to stand was an empty stage. He called her name and then listened, but heard nothing that sounded comfortingly canine : no bark, no jiggling of dog tags, no quadrupedal pitter-patter. He went back inside and put on his coat and grabbed the flashlight and then walked out into the dark woods. There were rumors that lapdog-eating coyotes roamed the woods. He called the dog's name again and again, walking forward in the illuminated nimbus the flashlight cast at his feet. He looked back to make sure he could still see the lights of the house behind him and realized he had left the fire burning. Should he go back and extinguish it? Had he closed and latched the little metal oven door? Of course he had. But he could not remember doing it. Why didn't he remember more of what he did? Surely the fire was safe and contained. He turned away from the house and walked farther into the woods.
Suddenly his feet descended into the soft, wet earth and he could not lift them. He must have been walking toward the drained lake bed instead of around it. Quicksand, he thought. He had sunk up to his knees. My new shoes! He tried to lift just one foot out of the muck and succeeded, but he could not find solid ground to rest it on while he extracted the other. His foot resettled itself in the unfirm earth. He could no longer see the lights of the house and had lost his sense of direction. Don't panic, he thought. He stood still for a moment. At least he was not sinking further. And then he realized that he was, slowly, sinking. He saw a little sapling growing within arm's reach and grabbed hold of its thin, adolescent trunk and tried to use it as leverage to extract his feet. He succeeded only
in pulling the tree from the earth. He stood still for a moment, guiltily clutching the little tree, as if he might be apprehended, and then he tossed it into the darkness. He tried then to move his feet subterraneanly, shuffling toward more solid ground. But the ground in which his feet were ensconced clutched them possessively. And then he tried again to lift one foot out of the muck and lunge forward and lift the other before the first had a chance to resettle itself and in this way he finally regained terra firma. He sat down to catch his breath and realized he had dropped the flashlight. He could see it shining in the muck a few feet away, taunting him. When he had regained his breath he set off through the woods. As the road circled the lake, he knew he would come out on it eventually, and could find his way home from there.
in pulling the tree from the earth. He stood still for a moment, guiltily clutching the little tree, as if he might be apprehended, and then he tossed it into the darkness. He tried then to move his feet subterraneanly, shuffling toward more solid ground. But the ground in which his feet were ensconced clutched them possessively. And then he tried again to lift one foot out of the muck and lunge forward and lift the other before the first had a chance to resettle itself and in this way he finally regained terra firma. He sat down to catch his breath and realized he had dropped the flashlight. He could see it shining in the muck a few feet away, taunting him. When he had regained his breath he set off through the woods. As the road circled the lake, he knew he would come out on it eventually, and could find his way home from there.
He approached the house from the front. It had not burned down. It looked a little like a house in a fairy tale: the windows shone with light and smoke cutely wafted up from the chimney. Mitzie sat on the porch and watched him approach, patiently, as if they had been out for a walk together and she had raced ahead and returned first. Omar stood for a moment. It was not that he was afraid to enter the little house, it was more that he felt he had somehow forfeited the right. It's not my house, he thought. It's not my dog. He wished that something was his, unequivocally and irrevocably his, but he knew that nothing was. It had never occurred to him, or troubled him, before, but here he was, twenty-eight years old, standing in front of a house that wasn't his in a deserted community surrounding a nonexistent lake watched by a dog he neglected. Mitzie looked at him curiously and then padded down the front steps and walked toward him as if she knew it was her place to welcome him. She sniffed at his muddy pants and then sat down and gazed up at him. He reached down and palmed the warm, furred dome of her skull. She whined. And then they entered the house together. It was now warm: the fire sang from inside the stove. Mitzie found her dinner. Omar took off his pants and shoes
and sat down in the living room and listened to her eat. When she was through she came out of the kitchen and laid her head on his lap. For a dog who communicated in odd ways, her message was clear: he was forgiven. Dinner had been eaten and they were both home and it was warm, and everything, as far as it concerned Mitzie, was all right.
and sat down in the living room and listened to her eat. When she was through she came out of the kitchen and laid her head on his lap. For a dog who communicated in odd ways, her message was clear: he was forgiven. Dinner had been eaten and they were both home and it was warm, and everything, as far as it concerned Mitzie, was all right.
“Maybe I should call him,” Deirdre said. And then, because Marc Antony did not look up, she said it again.
Marc Antony's real name was Michael Anthony but Deirdre called him Marc Antony. He was her roommate. She really didn't need a roommateâat least not financiallyâbut she liked having someone around she could talk to, and since she didn't want Omar to live with her until he had responsibly lived on his ownâand who knew when that would beâshe got a roommate. Marc Antony. Marc Antony was a very good roommate. He was quiet and clean. He liked to bake, and dust bothered him, so he actually dusted. He was going to law school. He was cute, too, but gay.
ads
Other books
Bonded (Soul Ties, #1) by Clarke, Peyton Brittany
The Flesh Tailor by Kate Ellis
Requiem by Clare Francis
The Black Chalice by Marie Jakober
Three Weddings And A Kiss by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss, Catherine Anderson, Loretta Chase
Angel Souls and Devil Hearts by Christopher Golden
Kev by Mark A Labbe
The Time of the Uprooted by Elie Wiesel
Recovery and the Return of Ethan Hart by Stephen Benatar