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A whole stack of memories
never equals
one little hope.
—Charles M. Schulz
“Big surprise,” Jones told Carmen when she walked into their loft two nights later. “I got your dad a room—a nice room, an upgrade—at the SoHo Grand for this weekend.”
Jones still had his jacket and tie on, which indicated to her he’d made a reservation at either a good or a trendy restaurant, where she would be able to eat barely anything, because she’d eaten a sandwich for lunch and hadn’t had time to go to the gym. You didn’t stay a size 0 by eating lunch and dinner, not if you had an ass like hers.
Carmen hung up her jacket and checked the mail. Jones was talking to her from his seat in front of the giant glow of their living room computer.
“But I told him he could stay here,” she said.
“Of course he can stay here. But you gotta admit it’s a lot cooler to stay there.”
Her dad came to visit her in New York from his home in Charleston every few months since his wife, Lydia, had died, whereas Jones’s parents tended to stay put in Fresno, where he liked them. Her and Jones’s loft wasn’t the SoHo Grand, maybe, but it was pretty nice. A lot nicer than any of her friends had.
“I’ll ask him,” she said.
“I already asked him. He’s into it.”
“You talked to him?”
“Yeah, he called here about an hour ago.”
Carmen sighed. Would her father never learn to call her on her cellphone? “All right.”
“You gotta love that bar. Maybe he’ll meet a girl.”
“Jones.”
He smiled and she couldn’t help smiling back. His conciliatory smile was always pretty winning.
She watched him clickety-clacking on the keyboard. She considered how the light gathered on his bald head, which he shaved as assiduously as she followed any of her beauty regimens. He said it was the only way he liked it. Jones was all about choosing, but she also knew that certain patches of his scalp were going to stay bald whether he liked them to or not. It was amazing, really, the effort that went into the absence of things.
“Is this all the mail?” she asked.
“I think so. Why?”
“Tibby said she was sending something.”
“Tibby?”
“Tibby.”
“You hardly ever talk about Tibby anymore.”
“That’s not true. I talk about her. I just don’t talk to her.” That was why Carmen had been ecstatic to see a text come in under Tibby’s name and why she was impatient to get home to the mail.
Jones finished whatever he was doing at the computer and came over to her and kissed her shoulder. “Put on something gorgeous, gorgeous. I’m taking you out.”
“Where?”
“Minetta Tavern.”
“No way.” She loved that place. Damn. How could she not eat?
She started thinking her way through her large closet. The new Gucci? The pink Stella McCartney from last year? She wouldn’t need to spend much time on her hair and makeup, having already spent most of the day on it. Maybe the little Catherine Malandrino dress that Jones loved? She’d definitely end up having sex tonight if she wore that one. “What’s the occasion?” she asked.
He kissed her ear. “I’ve got a gorgeous woman, who’s going to be my bride.”
She laughed. “You have that every night.”
“That’s why I want to celebrate.”
“I guess turkey would be good.”
Lena leaned her elbows on the counter and watched Drew’s back as he sliced the turkey, slowly transforming the edge of poultry-blob into a fringed and delicate pile. He kept going until the pile was absurdly tall and then flipped it onto a piece of whole wheat bread. One of the good things you could say about his job was that he got free sandwiches.
“Lettuce, tomato, peppers, mustard, no mayo,” he recited, turning his head to check with her.
“Yes, please.” She considered his brown shirt with the hood. It seemed like everything he wore had a hood. Sometimes he had on as many as three hoods, when he wore a hooded shirt with a hooded sweatshirt and his hooded parka.
He expertly cut her sandwich in two, placed it on a deli paper plate with a ruffled edge, and put it on the counter in front of her. He added half a pickle.
“Thanks,” she said.
She stood and ate at the counter to keep him company, as she usually did. She was used to their conversations being punctuated by customers ordering sandwiches and she didn’t mind. If anything, it facilitated them.
She watched him as he made a complicated wrap involving some kind of cheese she’d never heard of. She watched him and chewed her sandwich and wondered whether he was the sort of person—or even the actual person—she might marry. Maybe it was because of Tibby, whom she had not seen in almost two years, and the mysterious thing coming in the mail, which got her thinking about time and the changes it brought or was supposed to bring. She would be thirty years old on her next birthday. All four of them would turn thirty in and around next September. Somehow the fact of their doing it together made her feel less accountable to it.
Though Carmen claimed she was engaged (maybe it was Lena’s wishful self, but she didn’t totally believe it), none of them was married. When Lena had mentioned this fact to her mother’s friend Maria Cantos, Maria had said, “Well, who are you waiting for?”
Thinking about it after, Lena wasn’t sure whether Maria meant were they waiting for the guy to come along? Or were the four of them waiting for one another?
Drew was growing a beard. Lena could tell it was important to him by how often he touched it. It was kind of patchy, and fairer than the light brown hair on his head, so that even the parts that did grow blended into his face. He’d been growing it since the beginning of the semester and hadn’t made much progress. It seemed hopeless to her, but she tried not to judge. She’d grown up mostly among Greek men who could grow a full beard by bedtime but never did—who in fact shaved twice a day.
“Do you want to watch something after you close up here?” she asked between bites.
“Sure.” He wiped the counter down.
“A movie? Or an episode of The Wire?”
“Either one.” He wasn’t just saying that; he meant it. He was possibly the only person in her life who wasn’t opinionated or stubborn.
“Maybe The Wire,” she said.
He liked her to pick, because he said he could never tell, even while they were watching, which ones she hated and which ones she loved. And it was true she experienced even the strongest pleasures and poignancies down pretty deep. They tended not to make it all the way up to her face.
Lena finished her sandwich and sat at a table to wait while the rest of the customers made their way out. She rested her chin in her hand as she watched Drew put away the food, lock up the kitchen, turn off the lights.
“Ready?” he asked.
She followed him out of the shop and watched him pull down the noisy metal gate and lock it with a key. As they walked he didn’t reach out to put his arm around her shoulder or grab her hand, and she didn’t expect him to. They walked side by side along the dark sidewalk. Companionable as they were, she felt as though the night air encapsulated each of them separately.
A few months before, Effie had declared, having already broken two engagements (and sold two rings on eBay), that if you were almost thirty years old you should not be in a relationship with a guy you didn’t at least think you could marry. Lena wasn’t sure Drew met that qualification. No, if she was honest, she did know. Drew was considerate and smart. His eyes were a lovely pale blue and he liked most of the things she liked. But she wasn’t going to marry him. She knew that, and it didn’t put her in any hurry to break up with him. Truthfully, it was kind of a relief not to have to be spinning into the marriage vortex.
Lena was content walking beside him, but she knew there was more. Drew might not know that, but she did.
