Джонатан Троппер - This Is Where I Leave You

“What happened to your mouth?” she says.

“Someone apologized to me.”

She grins. “Does it hurt?”

“Only when I smile.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen you smile.”

“You’re not really catching me at my best.”

“I know.” She turns to look at me. “Phillip has been sleeping with that girl, Chelsea, hasn’t he?” There’s no anger in her voice, just sad resignation.

“I don’t know.”

“But if you had to guess.”

“He’s my brother, Tracy.”

“I understand.” She takes a slow, tentative drag on the cigarette. Smoking doesn’t come naturally to her. “I’m all alone here, Judd. I need a friend, someone to tell me if I’m crazy or not. Between you and me and the sunrise.” She leans forward and pulls the cigarette from my mouth. She holds it up with hers, watching the wisps of smoke float off of them and mingle, and then crushes them both out on the slate. She is dangerously close to tears. “We’re neither of us smokers,” she says.

“No.”

I look at her for a long time. She is older than me, but there’s something of a frightened child in her, some ancient, lingering pain that has never been soothed. “Between you, me, and the sunrise,” I say.

“Yes.”

“I don’t know for a fact that he slept with her. But my guess is that he did. And if he didn’t, he will. And if it’s not her, it will be, or has been, someone like her. The Chelseas of the world are drawn to him.”

The tears slide quietly down her cheeks and she wraps her arms around her knees. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I know how badly it hurts.”

She wipes her eyes and exhales slowly. “It’s my own damn fault, really. Whatever lies he’s told me, they pale in comparison to the lies I’ve been telling myself.”

“You deserve better than him. I love him, but that’s the truth.”

“You know what’s sad?”

“What?”

She smiles a little and turns her face up to the sky. “He really does love me. In his heart, he wants to be the man I need. It’s just not in him.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

She thinks about it for a moment and then shrugs. “I’ll wait until the shiva ends. That seems only right. Then I’ll gather up the tattered remnants of my dignity and say good-bye.”

“He’ll be crushed. You know that, right?”

“I’ll let him keep the Porsche.”

“Wow,” I say. “Parting gifts.”

“He meant well. I’m forty-four years old. I don’t have time for anger anymore.”

“You may be the best person I’ve ever known.”

She smiles and pats my knee. “I talk a big game.”

“Where were you when my life was going to shit?”

“I’m always available.” She fumbles around in her pockets and comes up with an embossed business card. It says her name, followed by a slew of acronyms. Below that it says BOARD-CERTIFIED PSYCHOTHERAPIST, and below that it says LIFE COACH. And right below that, in boldfaced type, it says this: HAVE A PLAN.

“Have a plan,” I say.

“Do you?”

“Whatever the opposite of a plan is, that’s what I’ve got.”

“Can I offer you a piece of unsolicited advice?”

“Sure.”

Tracy turns to face me. “You got married right out of college. You’re terrified of being alone. Anything you do now will be motivated by that fear. You have to stop worrying about finding love again. It will come when it comes. Get comfortable with being alone. It will empower you.”

“Empower me to do what?”

“To be the father you want to be, the man you want to be. And then you’ll be ready to make a plan.”

I nod. I’m picturing Jen, trembling in her empty bed, shredded with regret. She’s alone. I’m alone. I’ve never felt closer to her.

“Being alone isn’t for everybody,” I say.

TRACY’S GONE BACK inside. I’m still sitting on the roof, watching the town come alive, when I see a girl step out the front door of the Callens’ house. She’s wearing a little black dress and high heels, and her hair is a mess, her face smudged with last night’s makeup. It’s the girl Horry was making out with at the bar last night. She squints in the emerging sunlight and looks around, somewhat disoriented. She’s not sure where she is. But the advantage of a cul-de-sac is that there’s only one direction to go. She heads hurriedly down the street. It’s too early to be late for work. She’s rushing from something, not toward it.

I haven’t been in the Callens’ house in years. The action was always at our house. The front hall smells of Pledge and potpourri. The oak flooring creaks beneath my feet. The wall by the staircase is adorned with framed photos of sunsets and forests taken by Linda in her travels.

I find Horry in his basement apartment, lying naked on the floor, in the last convulsive throes of his seizure. His mouth is filled with white foam, which drips down his chin like soap suds. The cloying smell of sex and sweat fills the dark bedroom. I grab a damp pillow off the bed and jam it under the back of his head, which is tapping out a staccato rhythm on the oak floor. Then I throw a blanket on him and press my hands against his chest and shoulders to let him know I’m there. He shakes beneath me like a dying animal, his rhythm slowing, his muscles unknotting as he comes to a gradual stop. I wipe the tears and sweat from his face, and after a short while, I see in the dim light that his eyes are now open.

“You there?” I say.

“Yeah,” he grunts, his voice thick with spit. His eyes roam the room in quick, nervous jerks.

“She’s gone,” I say.

He closes his eyes. “And with a great story for her friends.”

“We should page your doctor,” I say.

Horry shakes his head. “I’ll be fine. Sex can bring it on. Elevated heart rate, endorphins, adrenaline. Something.”

“Aren’t there meds you can take?”

“You can’t get hard on the meds.”

“Well then, I hope she was worth it.”

He looks up at me. The whites of his eyes are vaguely pink, like something ran in the wash. “I wish I could remember.”

After another few minutes, he rolls over and onto his knees. He ignores my proffered hand and stands up on his own, the blanket falling away from him.

“Well, you have some nice fingernail scratches on your ass,” I say. “Always a good sign.”

He smiles weakly and bends down to wrap the blanket around his waist. Horry’s got the kind of abs you want, the kind that ripple and flex effortlessly under his skin. Looking at him, you can’t help but be reminded of who he used to be, who he should be now. We all start out so damn sure, thinking we’ve got the world on a string. If we ever stopped to think about the infinite number of ways we could be undone, we’d never leave our bedrooms.

“Don’t say anything to Wendy, okay?”

“You got it.” It’s not clear to me which part of this he wants kept from her, but it’s not a talk I’d want to have with her anyway.

“Thanks.” He rolls his head around on his neck, stretching out the kinks, and breathes deeply. “I can still smell her on me.”

For some reason, I don’t think he means the girl who just left.

ALICE IS PERCHED on the edge of my bed when I come out of the shower. She’s wearing sweatpants, a T-shirt, and the forlorn expression of an abandoned puppy.

“Alice . . . ,” I say.

“I know.”

Water drips down my legs to my heels, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind me.

She furrows her brow and looks away from me. “I just wanted to apologize for . . . the other day.”