The Leftovers (23 page)

“I’m at a loss,” the counselor told him. She was an earnest young woman with long, straight hair and rimless octagonal glasses. “It’s a complete academic meltdown.”

Jill had just sat there, poker-faced, her expression wavering between polite boredom and mild amusement, as if they were talking about someone else, a girl she barely knew. Kevin came in for some pretty harsh criticism himself. Ms. Margolis couldn’t understand his blasé attitude, the fact that he hadn’t spoken to any of Jill’s teachers or responded to the many e-mails informing him of his daughter’s unsatisfactory progress.

“What e-mails?” he said. “I didn’t get any e-mails.”

It turned out that the messages were still going to Laurie’s account, so he’d never actually seen them, but the mix-up just proved the counselor’s larger point, which was that Jill wasn’t getting enough supervision and support at home. Kevin didn’t argue with that; he knew he’d dropped the ball. Ever since Tom had started kindergarten, Laurie had been the parent in charge of education. She supervised the homework, signed the report cards and permission slips, and met the new teachers on back-to-school night. All Kevin had to do for all those years was try to look interested when she told him what was going on; he obviously hadn’t come to terms with the fact that all this responsibility now belonged to him.

“I realize there’s been some … upheaval at home,” Ms. Margolis said. “Clearly, Jill’s having some adjustment issues.”

She concluded the meeting by scrawling a big
X
through the college wish list that she and Jill had drawn up at the beginning of the school year. Williams, Wesleyan, Bryn Mawr—they were all out of the question now. It was late in the process, but what they needed to do in the upcoming weeks was shift their focus to less selective institutions, schools that might be a little more forgiving of a semester’s worth of terrible grades from an otherwise excellent student. It was unfortunate, she said, but that was where they found themselves, so they might as well face reality.

I’ll play my drum for him, pa rum pum pum pum …

“So what do you think?” Kevin asked, eyeing his daughter across the narrow Formica table.

“About what?” She stared right back, her face patient and unreadable.

“You know. College, next year, the rest of your life…”

Her mouth puckered with distaste. “Oh, that.”

“Yeah, that.”

She dipped a french fry into a little pot of ketchup, then popped it into her mouth.

“I’m not sure. I don’t even know if I want to go to college.”

“Really?”

She shrugged. “Tommy went to college. Look what happened to him.”

“You’re not Tommy.”

She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. A faint flush had crept into her cheeks.

“It’s not just that,” she told him. “It’s just … we’re the only ones left. If I go you’ll be all alone.”

“Don’t worry about me. You just do what you need to do. I’ll be fine.” He tried to smile, but only got halfway there. “Besides, last time I checked there were three of us living in the house.”

“Aimee’s not part of the family. She’s just a guest.”

Kevin reached for his glass—it was empty except for the ice—and brought his mouth to the straw, vacuuming up a few stray droplets of moisture. She was right, of course. They were the only ones left.

“What do you think?” she asked. “Do you want me to go away to school?”

“I want you to do whatever you want. Whatever makes you happy.”

“Gee, thanks, Dad. You’re a big help.”

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

She brought her hand to the top of her head, pinching absent-mindedly at her stubble. It had grown noticeably thicker and darker in the past few weeks, much less severe without the pale scalp shining through.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “I’d rather just stay home next year, if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course it’s okay.”

“Maybe I could commute to Bridgeton State. Take a few classes. Maybe get a part-time job.”

“Sure,” he said. “That would work.”

They finished their food in silence, barely able to look at each other. Kevin knew that a less selfish parent would have been disappointed—Jill deserved way better than Bridgeton State, everybody’s college of last resort—but all he felt was a relief so intense it was almost embarrassing. It wasn’t until the waitress took their plates that he trusted himself enough to speak.

“So, uh, I’ve been meaning to ask what you want for Christmas.”

“Christmas?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Big holiday? Right around the corner?”

“I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Come on,” he said. “Help me out.”

“I don’t know. A sweater?”

“Color? Size? I could use a little guidance.”

“Small,” she told him, grimacing as if the information were painful to disclose. “Black, I guess.”

“Great. What about Aimee?”

“Aimee?” Jill sounded surprised, even a bit annoyed. “You don’t have to get anything for Aimee.”

“What’s she gonna do, sit there and watch us open presents?”

The waitress returned with the check. Kevin glanced at it, then reached for his wallet.

“Maybe some gloves,” Jill suggested. “She’s always borrowing mine.”

“Okay.” Kevin took out his credit card and set it on the table. “I’ll get her some gloves. Let me know if you think of anything else.”

“What about Mom?” Jill said after a few seconds. “Should we get something for her?”

Kevin almost laughed, but stopped himself when he saw the serious expression on his daughter’s face.

“I don’t know,” he said. “We’re probably not gonna see her.”

“She used to like earrings,” Jill murmured. “But I guess she can’t wear them anymore.”

*   *   *

THEY WERE
standing at a pedestrian crosswalk right outside the diner when a woman rode by on an orange bike. She called out to Kevin as she zipped past, a terse greeting he couldn’t quite decipher.

“Hey.” He raised his hand in a delayed salute, addressing the space she no longer occupied. “How’s it going?”

“Who’s that?” Jill’s eyes followed the cyclist as she headed down the street, rounding the bend toward Pleasant Street, flowing at the same speed as the car that hemmed her in.

“No one you know,” Kevin said, wondering why he didn’t want to say her name.

“That’s hard-core,” Jill observed. “Riding a bike in December.”

“She’s dressed for it,” he said, hoping it was true. “They have all that Gore-Tex and whatnot.”

He spoke casually, waiting for the emotional disturbance to pass. He hadn’t seen or spoken to Nora Durst since the mixer, the night they’d danced together until the lights came on. He’d walked her to her car and said good night like a gentleman, shaking her hand, telling her how much he had enjoyed her company. Her sister was standing right there, a squat, impatient-looking woman, so it didn’t go any further than that.

“Call me sometime,” she told him. “I’m in the book.”

“Absolutely,” he said. “I’ll do that.”

He’d meant it, too. Why wouldn’t he? She was smart and pretty and easy to talk to, and it wasn’t like he had a whole lot going on at the moment. But three weeks had passed and he still hadn’t made the call. He’d thought about it a lot, enough that he no longer had to look up her number in the Mapleton white pages. But dancing with her was one thing, and going on a date, actually getting to know her, getting close to whatever it was she had to live with—that was something else entirely.

She’s out of my league,
he told himself, without really knowing what he meant by that, what league either one of them belonged to.

He drove Jill back to school, then went home and lifted weights in his basement, an ambitious dumbbell workout that got a nice pump going in his arms and chest. He cooked roast chicken and potatoes for the girls, read a chapter of
American Lion
after dinner, and then wandered over to the Carpe Diem, where the night passed without any surprises, just the familiar faces and pleasant banter of people who knew each other a little too well and would be doing the exact same thing tomorrow.

It wasn’t until he got into bed that his thoughts returned to Nora, the jolt he’d felt when she passed him on her bike. In the daylight, the moment had come and gone in a jumbled rush, but in the dark, in the hush of his bedroom, it slowed and sharpened. In this simplified version, Jill wasn’t with him; Main Street was empty. Not only that, Nora wasn’t wearing spandex or a helmet, just the same pretty dress she’d worn at the dance. Her hair was loose and flowing, her voice clear and firm as she floated by.

“Coward,” she said, and all he could do was nod.

THE BEST CHAIR IN THE WORLD

IN THE CAR, NORA DID
her best to act like it was no big deal, like going to the mall at the height of the holiday season was just something you did—because you were an American, because Christmas was right around the corner, because you were part of an extended family whether you liked it or not, and needed to buy gifts for a certain number of your relatives. Karen followed her lead, keeping the conversation light and casual, not saying anything to call attention to the significance of the journey, to suggest that Nora was “being brave” or “taking a step forward” or “getting on with her life,” any of the patronizing phrases she’d come to despise.

“It’s hard to shop for teenage boys,” Karen said. “They won’t even tell me which video games they want, like I’m supposed to know the difference between Brainwave Assassin 2 and Brainwave Assassin Special Edition. Plus, I told them I wouldn’t get anything rated M—I don’t even like the T games, to be honest—so that really limits my options. And the boxes they come in are so small, it just looks …
empty
under the tree, not like when they were little and you had all these presents spilling out, taking up the whole living room.
That
really felt like Christmas.”

“Maybe books?” Nora said. “They like to read, right?”

“I guess.” Karen kept her eyes straight ahead, fixed on the glowing taillights of the Explorer in front of them. Traffic was heavy for seven-thirty in the evening, almost like rush hour; apparently, the herd had made a collective decision to do some shopping. “They like that fantasy crap, and all the titles sound the same. Last Christmas I got Jonathan one of those boxed set trilogies—
The Werewolves of Necropolis,
or something—and it turned out he already owned them. They were right there on his bookshelf. It was like that with everything. I don’t think the boys got anything that really made them happy.”

“Maybe you should surprise them. Don’t focus so much on the things you know they want. Introduce them to something new.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Like surfboards or something. Gift certificates for rock climbing or scuba lessons, that kind of thing.”

“Hmmm.” Karen seemed intrigued. “That’s not such a bad idea.”

Nora couldn’t tell if her sister was being sincere, but it didn’t really matter. It was a half hour to the mall, and they needed to talk about
something
. If nothing else, it was a chance for her to practice her small talk, to remember what it felt like to be a normal person having a harmless little chat, nothing too heavy or disturbing. It was a skill she’d need to develop if she was ever going to reenter the social world in a serious way—get through a job interview, say, or a dinner date with an interesting man.

“It’s—it’s pretty warm for this time of year,” she ventured.

“I know!” Karen’s reply was oddly emphatic, as if she’d been waiting all day for a chance to discuss the weather. “Yesterday afternoon I went out in just a sweater.”

“Wow. In December. That’s crazy.”

“It’s not gonna last.”

“No?”

“Cold front’s moving in tomorrow. I heard it on the radio.”

“That’s too bad.”

“What can you do?” Karen’s high spirits returned as abruptly as they’d vanished. “Be nice if it snowed for Christmas. We haven’t had a white one in a while.”

There was nothing to it, Nora thought. You just kept babbling, piling one inane remark on top of another. The trick was to sound like you were interested, even if you weren’t. You had to be careful about that.

“I talked to Mom this afternoon,” Karen said. “She might not make a turkey this year. She says maybe a big roast beef or possibly a leg of lamb. I reminded her that Chuck doesn’t like lamb, but you know how she is. Things go in one ear and out the other.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Though I have to say, I do kind of sympathize with her on the turkey question. I mean, we just had turkey for Thanksgiving and the leftovers lasted forever. It’s like, enough with the turkey already.”

Nora nodded, though she didn’t really care one way or the other—she wasn’t eating any meat these days, not even poultry or fish. It wasn’t so much an ethical objection as a conceptual shift, as though food and animals had ceased to be overlapping categories. Even so, she was relieved to hear that there might not be a turkey at Christmas dinner. Karen had made a big one for Thanksgiving, and the whole family had gathered around it for what felt like an excruciating length of time, rhapsodizing about its golden brown skin and moist interior.
What a beautiful bird,
they kept telling one another, which was a weird thing to say about a dead thing without a head. And then her cousin Jerry had made everyone pose for a group photograph, with the beautiful bird occupying the place of honor. At least nobody would do that with a roast beef.

“This is so great!” Karen said, as they waited at a red light on the mall access road. She squeezed Nora’s leg, just above the knee. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

The truth was, Nora could hardly believe it herself. It was all part of an experiment, the impulsive decision she’d made to stay home this year and face the holidays head-on, instead of running away to Florida or Mexico for a week, baking in the sun, pretending that there was no such thing as Christmas. All the same, she’d surprised herself by taking Karen up on her invitation to go to the mall, the epicenter of all the madness.