Читать книгу Close Your Eyes - Amanda Eyre Ward - Страница 10

Chapter 4

Alex’s apartment, one half of a duplex, was right underneath Interstate 35. When he had parties, you could sit outside at his splintered picnic table and watch the lights of cars flying by overhead like spaceships. Alex played sad jazz music or heavy metal from his computer speakers and stood by his barbecue, poking meat with giant tongs, usually wearing his favorite yellow T-shirt, which read ‘good times’.

It was completely dark on the morning I picked up Alex to take him to the airport. Though it was early September, it was clammy and warm, no hint of fall, which didn’t arrive in Austin until late October. Around Halloween, the weather shifted abruptly from scorching to tepid, then in December to vaguely chilly. January held a few thirty-degree days during which people pulled out parkas and even fur hats, and by March it was hot again. Once every few years it snowed for twenty minutes to an hour, and people crashed their cars or stayed home from work and school to marvel. I had never seen a snowman in Austin.

‘Hey,’ said Alex when he opened his front door.

‘Hey,’ I said.

Alex picked up his duffel. It was a flowered bag; Alex had bought it for cheap from REI online. It said hannah on the side, and sometimes I wondered about the woman who had ordered it and then changed her mind. I saw her as a stewardess from Honolulu, a woman who had finally admitted a wheelie bag was more damn practical.

Alex seemed thin in his worn jeans and black cardigan sweater with a white button-down shirt underneath. He was good-looking in an unkempt way – you wouldn’t guess he was a medical doctor in his Converse sneakers. He looked more like an out-of-work actor or a philosophy graduate student. But Alex stood with his shoulders back and had a loping gait that told the world he was someone important despite his scruffy getup.

I didn’t turn down the radio; it was Love Songs for the Lonely, my favorite show. On the drive to Alex’s apartment, the husband of an elderly woman had dedicated Whitney Houston’s ‘I Will Always Love You’ to his wife. ‘She’s sitting right here with me now,’ he had told the DJ, ‘and she’s as beautiful as the day I met her at the Dairy Queen on Hamilton Boulevard.’ The radio show was syndicated, but it didn’t really matter in what city (or town) Hamilton Boulevard was located. At least not to me.

‘I’ve got to say, I’m excited,’ said Alex, settling next to me.

‘How nice,’ I said, putting the car in gear. Whitney Houston ran out of steam, and the DJ (her name was Mary Helen) began talking to a high school freshman who had been dumped by a baseball player. ‘My heart hurts for you,’ said Mary Helen, ‘but you have so much happy ahead, honey, and this is just God getting you ready for your real true love.’ Mary Helen cued up ‘Like a Virgin,’ which seemed an odd choice.

‘What a load of crap,’ said Alex, snorting.

‘I love this show,’ I said.

‘I find that really strange.’

‘What?’

‘You are the least romantic person in America,’ said Alex.

I felt a headache gathering behind my eyes. ‘That isn’t true.’

‘Forget I said anything.’

I didn’t answer, but I knew Alex was wrong. I was filled with desire. I read romantic novels. I watched Lifetime television. I wanted love so badly it made me feel sick sometimes, scraped out. But I knew the cost.

The sky lightened as we drove south on Airport Boulevard. ‘I’ll be honest with you,’ I said. ‘I feel like maybe you won’t come home.’

‘Hey.’ Alex put his hand on my knee. ‘Shhh,’ he said, which was what he always said when he wanted me to calm down. Shhh, also meant that he would protect me.

‘Even if you marry a beautiful Iraqi,’ I said, ‘come home and tell me in person.’

‘I promise.’

‘Or a TV reporter. Christiane Amanpour. Is she married?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I think she is. But to tell you the truth, Alex, I could see it. She’s similarly dour.’

‘I am not dour!’ He shook his head, smiling. He smelled so familiar – that dirty-sock funk had been the same since we’d shared the guest room at our grandparents’ Houston house.

‘Alex,’ I said, ‘what happened to all our stuff?’

‘What stuff?’

‘From the house on Ocean Avenue.’

‘It’s in a storage locker. I guess if Dad ever gets out, he’ll want some of it.’

I ignored the bait about my father, who was never getting out, as we both knew. ‘Where?’ I said. ‘Where’s it in storage?’

‘White Plains.’

‘How do you know this?’ I said.

‘I’m paying for it,’ said Alex.

‘Are you kidding me?’

‘Gramma and Pops told me to clear it out years ago,’ said Alex. ‘I didn’t. I don’t know why. I haven’t been there. I just called and had them send the bill to me.’

‘I only have that one picture of her,’ I said.

He knew what I was talking about because he had the same photograph: our mother sitting on the living room couch, a toddler me on her lap, a boy-size Alex to her right. She was reading to us, a Richard Scarry book, Busy, Busy Town. Maybe that book was in a cardboard box, too, somewhere in White Plains.

‘Where’s the key?’ I said.

‘Don’t go there without me,’ said Alex.

‘Why not?’

‘Why not? You’d freak out! And you were too young when everything was put in there. You won’t know what’s important and what can be tossed.’

‘When you come home,’ I said.

‘Right,’ said Alex. ‘When I come home.’

Austin-Bergstrom Airport was bustling with early-morning commuters. I turned in to the parking garage, and Alex said, ‘It’s expensive to park. You can just drop me off,’ and I said, ‘Shhh.’

I carried one strap of Alex’s girlie duffel bag, and he carried the other. ‘Did you pack any books?’ I asked.

‘Blue Highways,’ said Alex.

‘I loved that in college,’ I said. ‘This is the ultimate blue highway, I guess.’

‘I guess,’ said Alex.

‘Or blue airway,’ I said.

‘Hm,’ said Alex, unimpressed, or maybe not listening.

I stood with my hands on my hips as Alex checked in, showing his new passport to the woman behind the counter. I had gone with him to Kinko’s for photographs, and had applied for my first passport as well, in case Alex wanted – or needed – me to visit. I didn’t want to go to Iraq. I didn’t want my brother to go to Iraq. My general feeling about Iraq was: leave them the hell alone.

We walked across shiny floors, past a Swatch shop, a Which Wich? sandwich shop, a Waldenbooks. I noticed a woman with a baby staring at us. Though it had been ten fucking years since the attacks, our coloring still earned us nervous glances at the airport. I wanted to meet the mother’s gaze with defiance but turned away, peering into the window of the bookstore.

‘What are you going to read on the plane?’ I said. ‘Let me buy you another book.’

Alex looked at his watch. ‘Okay,’ he said.

I scanned the best-sellers, trying to figure out what might bring Alex comfort, or even better, a story that would make him think twice about leaving. What book, I wondered, would make him get off the plane, meet a nice woman who could be my friend and his wife, and encourage him to buy the 3/2 for sale down the street from us? I could even broker the deal and give him the commission for some new clothes.

‘Lauren, I should go,’ said Alex.

‘Wait – just one—’ I grabbed For Whom the Bell Tolls off the shelf. ‘Hemingway,’ I said, moving to the register. ‘You can’t go wrong with Hemingway!’ I paid and brandished the plastic bag.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘Let me . . .’ I said. I sat on an airport bench and rummaged in my purse for a pen. I found a ballpoint and wrote, Dear Alex, on the title page. Then I wrote Love, Lauren. I added the date. I stared at the blank inch I had left for something careful, something meaningful, some poetry.

‘I’ll come home for your wedding,’ said Alex.

‘Shut up,’ I said.

‘Seriously. He’s going to stop trying eventually.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You know what I’m talking about,’ said Alex.

I glared at him. Then I admitted, ‘You’re right. I do.’

‘Say it to Gerry,’ said Alex, ‘not to me.’

We were still for a moment. I looked back at the book but couldn’t think of anything to write. ‘It’s okay,’ Alex said finally. ‘I’ve really got to go.’

I stared at my message: Dear Alex, Love, Lauren, 9/08/10. Starting to cry, I wrote, Goodbye.

Alex took the book and pulled me into his arms. We hugged for a minute, and then Alex broke free. ‘Here,’ he said. He took a small object from his pocket. ‘It’s the earring. I don’t want it anymore.’

‘What do I want with one damn earring?’ I said.

‘What do I want with one damn earring?’ said Alex.

With that, he kissed me on the forehead and walked toward security. The earring was cold in my hand.