Adam Haslett - You Are Not a Stranger Here

ACROSS THE COMMON, kids scurried over the public courts, swatting at tennis balls that arced slowly in the damp air. Along the perimeter, people jogged on the asphalt path. James crossed the green, headed toward a line of trees whose branches swayed against a darkening sky.

There was food in the refrigerator, he reminded himself, and a guide to the evening’s television awaiting him should he lose his nerve. Beneath the trees, he took a seat on a bench.

The occasional car passed behind on the far side of the stone wall that surrounded the common. Music from an open window rose and fell on the wind, losing itself in the hushing sound of the trees. A couple, hand in hand, walked along the park’s edge. Just off the Underground, their briefcases weighed heavily in their hands; his tie was loosened, she wore sneakers. James watched as they disappeared through the gate, headed for the warren of row houses that stretched over south London toward the river. It was seven-thirty, the light beginning to go, and parents were collecting their children from the football pitch. Nearby, a gardener stowed tools in the municipal shed before padlocking the door behind him. A middle-aged woman in evening dress hurried a terrier over the edge of the grass, pulling it back toward the lights of the houses, visible now through the gate’s arch.

James opened his letter pad and began to write on the small, lined sheets:

Dear Father,

Today I left my job at Shipley’s. We’ve been doing very little business, and they won’t miss me. This isn’t for lack of effort on my part. I’ve worked long days and made lot of calls, but the market is bad just now and no one has made a sale in three weeks. My manager was helpful and said I could take my holidays straightaway. The hardest thing was saying good-bye to Patrick, the fellow I’ve told you about. We’d become quite friendly, he even asked me for a drink this evening, but I was afraid of what I might have been tempted to say. I don’t suppose he notices my glances at the office.

This must all seem rather odd to you, worrying about the young man across the desk. At my age, you’d already married Mum. I wonder what you really make of it.

He could just make out the words on the page when the streetlamp across the wall came on. He closed the pad and returned it to his pocket. The common was dark. Above the faint glow of the city rose the lighted towers of the housing estates at Sand’s End. The distant sound of traffic crossing the river floated toward him over the grass, making the space before him seem vast, the darkness rolling in quiet waves up to his feet. A few minutes passed before he heard the first steps on the path, slow and intermittent. Then to his left, a shape moving through the trees, catching the corner of his eye, vanishing as he turned to look. The streetlamp felt like a spotlight now, blinding him to the darkened house. He unzipped his jacket and put his hands in the pockets of his jeans. A light flickered by the hedge beside the tennis courts, lit the tip of a cigarette, and was gone, leaving behind the glow of an ember. James felt his breathing become shallow; he dropped his shoulders and told himself to relax. Here and there leaves were brushed aside by shuffling feet. Rising from the bench, he headed for the small copse beyond the gardener’s shed, impatient for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. He leant against a tree, training all his senses on the darkness. Nearby, a man groaned softly. From over the wall, music still floated. Several minutes passed before he sensed a figure approaching. As the man came closer, James saw he was wearing a suit, his tie pulled down from the collar of a white shirt. Late thirties, James guessed quickly, unsure whether to advance or retreat. The visage emerged from shadow—a broad neck, double chin, the features of a once handsome boy cloaked in the flesh of a man’s face. Their eyes had met and James already felt with paranoid terror the disappointment he would inflict were he to step away now. The man attempted a half smile, generous and disarming. James cast his eyes to the ground. The hand on his shoulder came as a surprise, but he fell into the touch, making of the man’s extended arm an embrace. Afterward, walking home, the air felt cold against his face. His breath became full again and he jogged the two blocks from the gate to his front door. On the stairs, he felt lightheaded, as though all of a sudden his blood had gone thin, and he took the last flight more slowly.

A WEEK PASSED. On Tuesday, the office called about a semidetached in Parson’s Green; they couldn’t find the paperwork. James let the machine answer and phoned back the next morning. How was the holiday going? Simon asked.

Where had he gone off to? A village in Cornwall, James said, just a bed-and-breakfast, a quick walk to the sea.

Wonderful to have time on his own.

Matinees were cheaper than evening shows and London was full of movie houses. He watched the films he had missed over the last few months, soon moving back further in time to the repertory houses—seventies classics, the Italian directors, the films of Dirk Bogarde. If he rose at eleven, had a leisurely breakfast, and chose a long picture, the matinée would consume most of the afternoon, and evening would soon be upon him. He cooked at home and visited the common at night. Each evening, as he sat on the bench waiting for the light to fade, he wrote a letter to his father, even if it was only a few lines, being sure to place it in an envelope as soon as he returned to the flat.

One Friday night he arrived home from the cinema to discover the fridge was empty; he had seen a double feature, and it was now past closing time. Just as happy not to have to cook, he showered and changed before heading out for a curry.

The place was crammed with an after-work crowd that had stayed for supper and was getting progressively drunker. He sat on his own at a table near the kitchen, reading the newspaper. Just as his food arrived, he heard a voice behind him.

“Is that you, Finn?” He turned around and saw a broadfaced male of his own age, his complexion brightened with alcohol, leering down at him. “Clive Newman, from Stockwell, you remember—football in the fog.” Without waiting for confirmation, he went on. “Crazy coincidence, hey? I’m back for just a week, Hong Kong—banking—and Trisha’s here too, girlfriend of mine. Why don’t you come over then, Jamie? That’s it, right? Jamie?”

“James.”

“Right. Eat with us,” he instructed, lifting the dish of rice from James’s table and heading for his own. What could he do?

He picked up the rest of his food and moved reluctantly to the front of the restaurant, where a group of seven or eight sat around a table covered with beer glasses.

“Everyone! We have here Stockwell’s finest actor— H.M.S. Pinafore , wasn’t it, Finn?” A few of the assembled chuckled absently while the others continued to chat.

Someone had passed his tandoori down the table and a young woman in pearls and lipstick was picking at it with a fork.

“Did we order this?” she asked.

“Actually…,” James began, but Clive had his arm around him and had begun to speak.

“Have you ever been back, Finn? I was there last year—Old Boys’ Day—cricket versus the school side and all that.

For a prep school they do quite a job—tents, speeches—the whole routine. None of the fellows showed up, though, just a pack of geezers.” The table’s food arrived and people began spooning the oily mixtures onto their plates. “Where do the years go, hey? Lost there somewhere.”

Despite himself, James’s mind wandered back: chapped legs in winter; the mud-soaked parquet of the basement changing rooms.

“It’s all ahead of us,” Clive Newman said. “Christ, we’re only a quarter century old, aren’t we, my angel?”