Laura van den Berg - What the World Will Look Like When All the Water Leaves Us

He was standing at one of the bookcases, examining the spines. The same floppy dark hair and easy posture, a hand in the back pocket of his jeans. He faced me and smiled broadly, his teeth straight and white.

“Any luck?”

“Nope,” I replied. “Still haven’t been able to get a copy.”

“That’s too bad,” he said. “I had a good feeling about this week.”

“You must be an optimist.”

He shrugged. “I guess so.”

I told him I had some business cards in the office, stores in New York that specialize in rare books and might have what he needs. “I’m guessing you’d be willing to travel for it.”

“Sure,” he said, still smiling. “Maybe I could even get you to come with me.”

“Maybe.” When I stepped into the office, heat moved across my cheeks and down my neck. This was the first time we’d ever left the open area of the store. I sat in the chair and rifled through the desk drawer, pushing past paperclips and pencils to look for the business cards. Jordan leaned against the desk and crossed his arms.

“So what’s with Moby Dick ?” I peered into the back of the drawer. “Some kind of phallic obsession?”

When he didn’t answer, I looked up from the mess of cards and papers. His lips were bent into a frown.

“Joking,” I said.

“I know.” His expression softened. “It’s just that the book belonged to my wife.”

“Wife?”

“Well, she’s not my wife anymore,” he said. “But she had the copy of Moby Dick . A first American edition with green linen binding. It belonged to her grandmother and her mother. She kept it in the drawer of her bedside table, where some people might keep a Bible. One of her favorite things.”

“What happened to it?”

He took a pack of Camels out of his pocket. “Mind if I smoke?”

I shook my head. He lit a cigarette, took a drag, then exhaled through his nose. “After she served me with divorce papers, I took the book to a pawn shop and told the man behind the counter to sell it for whatever he could get. Or give it away. I really didn’t care. I just never wanted to see it again.”

I accidentally squeezed a card for a bookstore in Chicago, the sharp corner pricking my skin. “She must have been upset.”

“Devastated. Totally broken up.” He stared at the end of his cigarette for a moment. “Got an ashtray?”

I took the empty ice tea can out of the trash and placed it on the desk.

Jordan ashed into the small opening. “So a few months after we split, she’s driving with her new boyfriend. They were going to the airport and had to pass through this long tunnel. You know which one I mean?”

“I think so.”

“He was speeding. I imagine they might have been arguing. Of course, no one knows exactly how it happened. Just that they crashed in the tunnel and the man died on the spot and my wife a week later, in a hospital. And ever since, I haven’t been able to think of anything but that first edition of Moby Dick .” He dropped the cigarette into the can and it made a hissing noise. “Your parents died in a car accident too, right?”

I resumed looking for the business cards. “Sort of.”

“Let me guess. The crash came first and then they were in some kind of vegetative state for a while, right? In a coma, like my wife was?” He whistled. “That must have been tough on you and your brother.”

“Yeah,” I told him. “It was pretty awful.”

I found three cards for New York stores and handed them to Jordan. They had strange and elegant names, like Gotham and Hagstrom. He thanked me and slipped them into his cigarette pack. I tipped back in my chair and stretched, raising one arm over my head.

“Whose work is that?” He pointed at the wall behind me.

“Gorky.” I’d asked my boss about the print once and he said it had come with the shop.

He walked over to the picture. “He had a funny first name.” He touched the edge of the frame. “Archie, was it?”

“Arshile.” I watched him from behind. I did not go to him. “He killed himself, you know. A hanging. His wife left him, his studio burned down, and then he was in an accident that paralyzed his painting arm.”

“I remember hearing that story. He left some kind of weird suicide note.”

“He wrote it in chalk, on the crate he used to reach the rope.” In college, the art students loved to talk about famous artist suicide stories. Malaval’s gun and Rothko’s knife and Gorky’s rope. “‘Goodbye my Loveds.’ That’s what he said.”

Jordan came over to the chair. He kneeled at my feet and rested his chin on my leg. My fingers disappeared into his black hair. I leaned in close and asked him to shut the door, my lips grazing his cheekbone. He closed the door, then resumed kneeling in front of me. His hands began at my ankles and glided up my calves and thighs, coming to rest on my hips. My body turned feverish. I had not felt this kind of exhilaration in so long, the subtle thrill of being overtaken coupled with a complete possession of self, when the giving in was both deliberate and desired. I wanted to tell him the truth about my life, but he gently squeezed the sides of my waist, as though he was sculpting my body, and I stayed quiet. I was reaching for the collar of his shirt when I heard the phone. Five rings passed before I answered.

I touched Jordan’s chest, then brought the phone to my ear. The voice was unfamiliar and I had trouble making sense of the words. The police. Calling to tell me they had Denver at the station. I told them I would be right there and dropped the phone.

“Let it go, whatever it is.” Jordan’s hands were still up my skirt. “Stay a little longer.”

“I have to leave.” When he didn’t move, I nudged his leg with the toe of my shoe. “Now. I have to go now.”

“Someone in trouble?”

“My brother.” I gathered my purse and the keys to the store. I bumped against a stack of magazines and they flew off the desk. I left them scattered across the carpet.

When we stepped outside, I smoothed my hair and straightened my blouse. The sidewalk was crowded, the street clogged with cars. It was hotter than it had been in the morning and my thighs were sticking together. He stood with me while I locked the door, shadowed by the purple awning. I told myself to keep moving, to stop thinking about how I wanted Jordan to continue, about how a part of me wished I could leave Denver in that police station until he snapped out of it and started acting like a normal kid. I was about to walk away when I turned and told Jordan there was something he should know.

“My parents didn’t die in a car accident like your wife.” I dropped the store keys into my purse and zipped the bag.

“They died in a jungle. I’m sorry for the lie. I won’t ever know what really happened to them, so we still have that in common.”

He didn’t reply right away. He slipped his hands into his pockets and looked at something in the background. His eyes narrowed; his mouth and jawline hardened. “The first time I saw you, I thought you looked like a mess,” he finally said.

A group of students brushed past us, carrying backpacks and bottled sodas. I stepped out of their way, trying to decide if this was the moment to say everything or to just let it go. I thought of Lugo’s letter arriving from South America, the green stamp in the right corner of the envelope, the musky scent of the paper. I wondered what would have happened if I’d shown Jordan the letter, if he would’ve believed the story. After a few seconds, I wished him luck with Moby Dick because if I said anything about myself, about Denver or Lugo or my parents, I felt like I would start talking and wouldn’t be able to stop. Jordan sighed and walked away. I watched until he disappeared into the swarm of bodies. I knew he wouldn’t be back next week. For an instant, I forgot all about Denver. When I remembered, I began to run.