Read The Lesson Online

Authors: Virginia Welch

The Lesson (2 page)

BOOK: The Lesson
12.06Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Gina looked at him skeptically. “And
that’s
supposed to persuade me to open the door?”

“What I mean is,” he said, his tone abruptly turning serious, “I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not like that. I just want to talk to you, that’s all.”

Truthfully she was more stunned at his sudden appearance at her door than nervous about any real threat to her safety. He was so ordinary looking, so artless, not subtle enough to be dangerous. He seemed genuinely sweet and wouldn’t scare anyone, though Gina could think of a few New York fashion designers who would rather eat their weight in worms than see their names on tags inside those polyester pants. And Mrs. Menzies had introduced them, so it must be alright—it wasn’t like he had followed her home from a bar. The only lingering fear she felt was anguish in the back of her mind over what her mother would say if she knew that Gina had opened her door to someone she had only just met, at night yet. But she was too polite to tell him to go away and too stunned to think of a plausible excuse. And it appeared he was truly alone on the stoop and all was as he said—he just wanted to socialize. Suddenly she heard herself say,

“Okay, but only for a few minutes. I have class in the morning.”

With an
I can’t-believe-what-I’m-doing
rising in the back of her mind and her heart pounding fast, Gina pulled the chain and opened the door. Kevin stepped inside and she closed the door behind him, being careful not to take her eyes off him. He stood behind the door with his ball cap in his hand. She saw him take a quick look around her oddly laid out, tiny apartment.

“Nice place," he said.

“Yes, I consulted every detail with a local interior decorator,” she said, “who I found at the San Jose Flea Market.” She shrugged. “But the price was right.”

Kevin smiled at her little joke. Then he swept his eyes over her living space again, which he could see in its frugal, frumpy entirety from where he stood behind the door.

“The floor plan is kind of helter-skelter,” she said, nodding toward the bathroom door that dominated, strangely, one wall of the living room. “I suppose at one time it must have been more logical. The original house was chopped up into three units.” Her words sounded lame. Certainly he hadn’t followed her home to hear about the architectural history of her shabby off-campus apartment. But it wasn’t like she’d had time to plan a speech. And she was so flustered at his unexpected appearance at this late hour that she didn’t know what else to do other than keep going. So, awkwardly, she did. “My parents own this building. It used to be a single-family house. I think it was built in the 1930s. A former owner remodeled it into three small apartments. There are two others behind mine.” Gina motioned toward the rear of the building.

Kevin smiled. “It is cozy. How long have you lived here?”

“Since the spring. When I was a freshman I lived on campus, in Swig Hall on the sixth floor, but it was noisy, and I changed a lot my sophomore year, so I left.”

“I can imagine why they call it ‘swig.’ We have some hideaways on the ship that could be called swig rooms.” He lifted his hand to his lips and tilted his head back as if to swallow a big one.

Gina smiled to be polite. He was, she sensed, trying to make her feel at ease, but she couldn’t bring herself to do the hospitable thing and invite him to step away from the door. So he was entertaining. Fine. She still felt safer near the only exit. Why had he come? What did he want? He was just another skinny swabbie in geeky street clothes, not her type at all. Surely she wasn’t his type either.

“There was a lot of that in the dorms, and all the craziness that goes with it. That’s another reason I don’t miss the place, though I did make
some good friends. But actually Swig Hall was named after a donor, Benjamin Swig.”

Then, a lull, during which it occurred to her that she should do something or they’d spend the remainder of this bizarre evening blabbing foolishness behind her apartment door.

“Are you hungry?” She wasn’t, but her mother always offered visitors something to eat, so that was the first thing she thought of to fill the awkward silence. Then she offered to take his jacket. That, at least, created a sense of normalcy about this weird, late night visit and occupied her hands. “All I have in the frig is eggs,” she explained, embarrassed. Eggs were fine with him.

Gina stepped into the kitchen and flipped on the light. He followed her in, but the area was so small that his presence made it impossible for her to reach the refrigerator. It occurred to her suddenly and with breathtaking terror that she had allowed herself to get cornered with someone who could turn out to be the Bay Area's most notorious serial killer. What had she been thinking? Sharply she told herself to stop imagining the worst.

"Kevin, can you get the eggs for me?"

"Sure."

He seemed delighted to be involved, and he hadn't yet pulled a gun or knife, so Gina decided it was safe to turn toward the stove and start cooking. She opened the ancient porcelain oven to retrieve her cast-iron frying pan, but not before glancing furtively in his direction. His clothes looked more garish under the bright lights of her kitchen than they had in the dusky lamplight of the Menzies’ living room. His polyester pants had a sheen. Odd: A guy who recognizes cheap chic in furniture but who is clueless about his clothes. Too bad. He seemed genuinely nice.

She found the pan under a stack of cookware and, using a match, lit a burner. A promising scent of cooking gas filled the little kitchen. Then a whoosh and a boom as blue and yellow flames danced a circle around the burner.

“Not even a Moon Pie.” He muttered this more to himself than to her as leaned into the cold emptiness to retrieve the lone box of eggs.

“Excuse me?” She stopped what she was doing at the stove to hear him better.

“I said, ‘You have no food.’ What do you eat?” He turned toward her and waved the half-empty egg carton above the refrigerator door.

Gina shrugged and took the eggs. “Mostly I eat at the restaurant where I work. I only work about twenty hours a week, though, so after I pay my rent and a few expenses there isn’t much left over for groceries. I try to take as many meals as possible at work. Big Bick’s allows waitresses one free meal per shift. I take advantage of it as often as I can.”

“If the Navy fed us like this there’d be mutiny. What do you do on days you don’t work?”

“I manage.”

“Do your parents help you?”

“They would if I’d ask, but I don’t ask.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a long story,” she said. To keep it a short one, she turned back to the stove, and just in time to avoid a gooey mess in the sink, snatched an egg as it rolled down the ancient metal drain board. “Why don’t you sit down while I finish? I’ll just be a minute. You can sit there if you like,” she said, deftly steering him to the vinyl chair with the least amount of duct tape.

While they ate they talked. She was surprised to learn how much they had in common. He had graduated from Del Mar High School in San Jose two years before she had graduated from Buchser High in Santa Clara. Their schools were barely six miles apart.

“So what’s a Del Mar Don?” Gina said, referring to his alma mater’s mascot.

“Oh, I dunno. The Spanish Don mystique, I suppose, rooted in California history. Back in the late 1950s having your school associated with a Spanish count must have made reading, writing, and arithmetic seem cosmopolitan. Though personally, I find it difficult to emulate anyone who runs around in a canary yellow vest with a doofus black hat tied under his chin. It’s weird what educators think will motivate young people. My parents always used bribes. And what about the Bruin? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Buchser Bruins. Bears.” Gina, feeling a little more relaxed now, pounded on her chest like a gorilla. “You’re supposed to think big, hairy, tough guys. Must be a sports thing.” She felt silly pounding on her chest, but there was no one around,
so it didn’t matter. She took a bite of egg. She had scrambled them perfectly, well blended, not tough or laced with brown. If all she had to serve a guest was scrambled egg, at least it was good scrambled egg. “I hear there’s a high school down South somewhere that has a horned toad for a mascot. What do you think that inspires?”

Kevin cupped his chin in exaggerated concentration, leaned in toward her flirtatiously and batted his eyes, camel-like. “Another horned toad.”

Gina pushed her tongue against her lower teeth to keep from laughing. He was ridiculous, but she wouldn’t be baited. Why bother? This was the first and last evening they’d ever spend together. The simplest way out was to change the subject. “Tell me about growing up in San Jose,” she said.

"Well, when I was little my family and I lived in the Quito District."

Gina knew that area. It was just minutes down Lawrence Expressway from her family home near Homestead Road and Pomeroy Avenue, so as children they had practically been neighbors.

In the next few minutes while they finished their eggs he told her his life story. He had an older brother who had fought in Viet Nam and a younger sister who was married and lived in San Francisco. Gina was the second of four girls, so they were both second-borns. His older brother and her older sister shared a birthday. His parents had divorced when he was about ten. Both their fathers had fought in World War II; her father had also fought in the Korean War. Their fathers were the same ages, so
were their mothers. His father owned a one-man pest control business, his mother was a nurse. Her father delivered mail, her mother was a secretary. Kevin had joined the Navy right after high school and had two years left on his enlistment. He was currently serving aboard the USS Flint, an ammunitions ship, though he had once served on the USS Shasta and had sailed to the Philippines, Taiwan, and Japan. Gina also learned that Kevin, like her, loved to read. But what interested her most of all is that he wanted to join the FBI.

“Why become an agent?” Gina had never known anyone who aspired to a life behind a badge.

“It’s important work. Fight crime. Sneak around and follow people.”

“Oh I bet you’d be good at that,” said Gina, smiling at her attempt to be funny.

He returned the smile.

“But don’t you need a degree to become an agent?”

“Yes, you do," said Kevin. "I took a few classes at the University of Hawaii when I was on Midway Island, at a satellite school. But I plan to enroll full-time as soon as I get out of the Navy.”

“Why not become a firefighter like your dad?”

“Actually I tried that when I first enlisted. Rode a big red truck on Midway Island.”

“Where’s Midway Island?” Gina had heard of it but had never thought about its location.

“It’s in the Pacific. Halfway between the U.S. and Asia. That’s how it got its name. A strategic battle was fought there in World War II. Not much happening there now, though. It’s just a few little islands thrown together in the middle of the ocean. The only excitement there for sailors now is Mail Call. The Navy sent me there when I was eighteen. It was my first time away from home. I nearly died of boredom.” He paused and looked down at his plate as if remembering the pain. “And loneliness.”

That was a sad thought. Kevin, so far from home, so alone, and so young too. Gina had not known the acute pain of loneliness until just recently when Michael left. Now she understood why they called it
pain.
Hearing of Kevin’s experience instantly fanned the smoldering coals of her own burning loss into a hot flame within. She tried to cool them by getting control of her thoughts. Tonight’s events were weird enough without her falling apart over Michael in front of a stranger. Again. She had to pull herself together. Thoughts led to memories which led to pain which led to tears.
Stop it!
She must discipline herself to think only forward, to dream only of the future, to imagine someone wonderful. It was masochistic to keep reliving painful memories from the past. She
could
be happy again. There
was
someone perfect out there, somewhere. She must be patient. She must have faith.

“Wasn’t there a town or something there for you to visit?” said Gina.

“No, no town. Just a few civilians employed by the military. They lived in these old, 1940s style homes. Everything we needed to live, including entertainment, was shipped in by the Navy. The highlight of our week was a new-release movie. And of course, mail from home. But I didn’t get much mail. And when there wasn’t a new movie, we chased gooney birds.”

“What’s a gooney bird?” Gina had finished her eggs. She pushed her plate toward the center of the gray Formica table and leaned in with her elbows to listen.

“It’s this big, floppy, black-and-white bird. They’re everywhere on Midway. It’s an albatross, actually,
Laysan Albatross
. There are lots of other birds on Midway, but nothing like this clown. It’s about a foot-and-a-half high.” Kevin held one hand above the table. “I think the Navy imported them years ago to distract the sailors from the fact that there is nothing to do and no girls on the island.”

“How so?”

Gina forgot, at least for a moment, the polyester pants and too-clingy sweater as she concentrated on his storytelling. Kevin told a wonderful story, with lots of animation and perfectly timed facial expressions. And she was no longer nervous about his being there, though she certainly should have been more circumspect, considering she hardly knew him and he had brashly tailed her car from Cupertino to Santa Clara to learn where she lived. Her mother had opinions on scallywags who committed such scandalous acts. Gina had a good idea of what those were. She tried not to think about them.

BOOK: The Lesson
12.06Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Undercover by Vanessa Kier
Use of Weapons by Iain M. Banks
The Book of Lies by Brad Meltzer
Lady Sabrina’s Secret by Jeannie Machin
Kulti by Mariana Zapata
Mortal Stakes by Robert B. Parker
The Supervisor by Christian Riley
Max Brand by Riders of the Silences
Politically Incorrect by Jeanne McDonald
Redefining Realness by Janet Mock