Russell Andrews - Aphrodite

He said good night, went into his room, closing the connecting door but leaving it unlocked, took out his two possessions that had survived the explosion-one of the phones he'd bought and his gun, both of which had been jammed into his jeans-and put them on his night-stand. Justin lay back on the bed, and before he could even get undressed, he started to doze off. As his eyes closed, he realized that Gary had never called back. He forced his eyes back open, checked his cell phone, and swore: The battery had run out. He had no way to charge it; the charger had been lost in the explosion. He added that to the list of things they needed to do tomorrow, then he forced himself to remove his clothes and get under the covers. Then he was asleep. The next thing he knew, the dream was back; he was reliving his own past, watching his life being shattered, and he woke up screaming from the pain. And the next thing he knew after that, Deena was in his bed, holding him, holding him close, and telling him that he'd had a bad dream and that she was there, that the nightmare was over.

"Will you tell me what you dream about?" she said.

It took Justin a few seconds to orient himself. He knew his hair was wet, that his sweat had soaked through the sheets and pillowcase. Deena was holding his head to her breast and he could feel her heart pounding against his ear. He was breathing fast and hard. His shoulder pulsed with a dull ache. Slowly she released him, her hand stroking the back of his head until the last possible moment, until he fell back wearily against the headboard. She got up, went into the bathroom, and brought him back a plastic glass full of water, which he downed gratefully. Then he realized she'd asked him something.

"What did you say?" His mouth still felt dry, his tongue thickly coated with crust.

"I asked if you'd tell me what you dream about."

"Could I have more water, please?"

She nodded, got up again, and returned with another full glass. When she handed it to him, she sat on the bed, not at all self-conscious about their physical proximity. Her hand rested on his hip and he couldn't help but be aware of the fact that he was naked under the covers. She was wearing her souvenir T-shirt and a pair of socks. That was all. When she twisted to tuck one foot under her leg, he could see the muscles on her thigh and calf go taut. Her hair was a mess of unruly curls, which she realized just at the moment he found himself staring at her, so she shook her head and ran her hands through the tangle. It didn't do much good. She swung her head one more time and shrugged.

"I don't talk about this," he said quietly.

"Yes, I know."

"I've never talked about this. Not all of it."

"Maybe it's time," she said, matching the softness of his voice.

He shifted his weight on the bed, watched as she brushed a last, feisty curl off her forehead.

"Maybe it is," he said.

And he began to talk. "It's not what you think," he began. "It's never what people think. Even after all the publicity and the stories, no one ever really knew what happened. You didn't see the Times the other day-Jesus, was it just the other day? They got some of the details right, but they didn't know what was underneath. They didn't remotely get to the truth.

"When we were in East End, on our way to the library, when that guy pulled up in the car, said he was my college roommate, you thought I was embarrassed 'cause I went to a junior college or something, but that's not what it was. This is really hard for me…You want to know where we roomed together? It was at Princeton. I went to Princeton and then Harvard. Harvard was medical school."

"Excuse me," Deena said, swallowing hard. "Can I have some of your water?"

He nodded, handed her the glass, watched her gulp what was left. She went back to the bathroom and he heard the tap run. Then she returned with two glasses, both full.

"Okay," she said. And then she muttered, "Harvard. Jesus Christ. I thought…Princeton and Harvard."

"I lived in Rhode Island, in Providence. My father's very successful. He's… oh, hell-he's one of those really rich guys. Big house in Providence, mansion in Newport, right on the water, on the Cliffwalk, the whole deal. It's old money. My great-grandfather. He started a bank and my grandfather inherited it and then my father-"

"Your father owns a bank?"

"No. He owns several banks."

"A Harvard rich guy," Deena said. "Did that bottle of scotch get blown up?"

"I'm afraid so."

"So when you bought the car…" she began.

"I gave the guy a check for ten thousand dollars. Five grand more than the car cost. Once the bank told him it was okay, he promised to forget we were ever there."

She shook her head in disbelief. Then she said, "Go on. I won't interrupt anymore."

"The whole family is pretty conservative. Stiff upper lip and all that. Very concerned with class and image. They're not very interested in your Buddhist ideal of the whole. And they're not big on denying self. So it was a major deal to them when I-I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me go back…

"When it was time for college, I went to Princeton. It's where my dad went. And his dad. I studied business and everyone thought I'd go back home and… and run a bunch of banks. But I didn't want to." Justin took a long swig of water. "I wanted to spend my life dealing with something other than money. So I decided to become a doctor and I switched to premed. Caused kind of a ruckus back home, but they calmed down after a while. A doctor was a little up close and personal, too much like work, but at least a doctor was respectable. And when I got into Harvard I think they actually got excited about the whole idea. They saw me running a hospital or becoming dean of a med school. Something prestigious and-clean. I lasted two years and then I quit. Dropped out."

"You weren't cut out to be a doctor?"

"I was pretty good at it. The problem was that I found something else I wanted to do." He managed a smile, rubbed his dry lips with his hand. "You know, I wish I had a joint right now. I'd very much like to get stoned out of my gourd."

"Finish the story, please. What is it you wanted to do?"

He shook his head as if he still couldn't believe it. "I don't know how to explain this. When I was at Princeton, what I was good at was figuring things out. Business puzzles. I could look at a company and see where it was going. Look at the debt and inventory and the earnings potential and it was like a connect-the-dots picture. I could see the whole thing in my mind-exactly what was going to happen to this company. I absolutely could tell if it was a good investment or if it was going to tank. And I could do it in reverse, too. We'd study a business that failed and I could put the pieces together, figure out what went wrong and why. When I got to Harvard, I thought I'd find the same kind of satisfaction. You know, find someone who was sick, trace the problem, fix the problem. And I could. I did. But I woke up one day and suddenly I saw the big picture. That's not what I was going to be doing. That fixing thing. At least not fixing anything I cared about. And none of my classmates were going to be doing that either. We weren't going to be family doctors, patching people up and sending them on their way. We were going to be curing rich people's tennis elbows and staring up billion-aires' rectums. I could feel myself falling into the trap.

"Then one day I was sitting in a class and I looked around and I thought, I hate all these people. I mean, my classmates, my professors, the residents. And I really did. I couldn't stand to be around them-they were everything I didn't want to be. Smug and privileged, isolated from the real world. So I quit. I went back to Providence. My parents couldn't believe it. My father is not someone who understands the words 'I don't know what I want to do.' He also doesn't understand the idea of not doing anything. But that's what I did for a while. Nothing. I hung out with my buddies and messed around. And that's when I realized what I wanted to be. One of my best friends, this guy named Albie Flett, he was walking down the street in Providence, downtown, right near the Biltmore Hotel in downcity. It wasn't even late at night, and some guy came up to him, robbed him at gunpoint. Albie gave him his cash and his watch, his credit cards. He wasn't rich but he gave the guy whatever he had. The guy took it, told Albie to turn around, and when Albie did, the guy shot him. For no reason. Just for the hell of it."