Christopher Sorrentino - The Fugitives

“That’s him all right,” she said, passing the phone back.

“You’re sure?”

“Does the pope shit in the woods?”

“That’s a question for medical science.” Kat put the phone away, glancing at the time. It would be easy to just go, wouldn’t it. But she didn’t.

“You want a real drink?” Becky asked. “It’s after five, come on.”

“These roads,” Kat said.

“Never used to bother you,” said Becky, getting up. She trudged to the kitchen and ostentatiously poured out her coffee, holding the cup at a height above the sink.

“A lot of things used to not bother me,” said Kat.

“You weren’t even here for all the funerals, neither,” said Becky, bringing a glass and a half-full bottle of Smirnoff with her to the couch. “There was this, like, epidemic of crashes right after high school. Tommy Soulier. Greg Delabreau.”

“I remember.”

“Aaron Williams and Amy Kequom.”

“I remember.”

“Well, you didn’t show.” Becky poured two inches of vodka into the glass, then placed the bottle carefully on the floor.

“Nebising doesn’t control world rights,” said Kat, irritably.

“To what?”

“Me. For one thing. Death. Heartache. For a couple others.”

“Home always got some claim on you.”

“Not me.”

Becky patted her hand. “Take it easy, honey. No one’s going to handcuff you to the furnace just because you’re here.”

“Give me a damn drink.”

“Now you’re talking.”

“I don’t know why you always have to give me a hard time.”

“You’re like Mount Everest.”

“Just there.”

“When you are. I got shit to give you I’ve been storing up for years.”

“Can’t wait,” said Kat. She realized that she was expected to get her own glass and went into the kitchen for it, looking in three annoyingly well-stocked cabinets before she found the glassware.

AN HOUR LATERshe was drunk and barefoot. The vodka was nearly gone, but she had a feeling that Becky wasn’t the sort of person to run out of booze.

“Want to ask you something,” said Becky. Kat raised her chin to receive the question, as if it were a fast pitch. “When’s the last time you rode in an elevator?”

“Uh, I don’t know. Monday?”

Becky held up three fingers of her right hand. “Three years,” she said.

“I never thought about it,” said Kat.

“Let me ask you. If you ride an elevator every day, do you ever stop doing that thing?”

“What thing?

“The thing where you look up or down or anywhere but at the other people.”

Kat rummaged deeply in this unexpected area of expertise. “No. I don’t think you ever do. You talk to someone’s baby, maybe. Or if they bring a cute dog on you might talk to the dog, ask the dog questions, which the owner answers.”

“I don’t know why that seems so sad.”

“It shouldn’t. They’re just strangers in a box. I’d rather talk to the dog most of the time anyways.”

“You’re like your grampa. He sure didn’t like talking much, either.”

“I like talking just fine. But ‘Cold out there’? ‘Have a good weekend’? That’s not talking.”

“But he didn’t.”

“The people who really like to talk, anyways, are the crazy ones. They come up to you, with these historical complaints, like they filed the papers and you’re supposed to be all up on it.”

“You came back for his funeral, though, didn’t you?”

“It’s not God stuff, either. I always thought it was God stuff they talked about, but it mostly sounds like trash TV, like they’re pretending they’re guests on Ricki Lake.” Kat emptied her glass. “I had to come back for his funeral. He wouldn’t’ve had one if I didn’t.”

“He missed you.”

“Oh, please. Happiest day in his life was when I left for Ann Arbor. He never bargained for me. He never bargained for anything he got.”

“Nobody ever does.”

“I did.”

“So what’s the best thing about living in Chicago?”

“I can tell you the worst thing.”

“What already?”

“Too many places painted in primary colors. Whole parts of the city look like they were designed by Swedes for children.”

“Not something you hear a lot.”

“It’s a secret,” slurred Kat.

“What do you mean you did?”

It took Kat a moment to realize what Becky was referring to. “I mean none of this was an accident. I mean, there were accidents, why Chicago and why not New York, I would prefer Paris I think but then I’ve never been there, et cetera. I live where I live because we lost a bid on a place in Old Town; that was an accident. You couldn’t tell the difference between Old Town and where I ended up in Lincoln Park, but I cried.”

“Sucks to be you.”

“I know, I know, I’m telling you because it’s so idiotic. But the overall design of it, I mean, being there and not here, is the thing. That was me.”

“Turning your back, never returning calls, that was you.”

“Becky. There were like two people here. And I didn’t turn my back. I wanted out.”

“And all the people in Chicago, they know you’re an Indian.”

“Some do. Some don’t.”

“So when they ask.”

“Nobody asks. They ask did you like your real estate agent. That’s a personal question.”

“You say no, I’m guessing.”

Kat mimed crying, holding her fists up to her cheekbones and twisting them, and they both laughed.

“So you don’t lie ever,” said Becky.

“I never lie.”

All of this was delivered in a playful joshing tone that denied the seriousness of the conversation and the anger they both felt. Kat could feel it in her stomach, and in the roar of the blood in her ears. She could feel her discomfort in the way that she couldn’t look Becky in the eye when she answered her. It was always best to deal with old friends at a great distance, she thought. The standard diplomatic communiqués on the usual occasions. These freestyle conversations ranged into too much dangerous territory and couldn’t possibly be of any use. It occurred to her all at once that it meant a lot to Becky, this idea that she had something on her. It wasn’t moral outrage, but the hostile glee of a potential blackmailer. She got up, too quickly. She felt fuzzy, and suddenly sick to her stomach. Becky said “Uh oh” and pointed toward the hall and Kat headed to the bathroom there, closing the door behind her, turning on the water in the sink, and lifting the lid of the toilet without breaking stride. She leaned over and vomited quietly into the bowl in the soft glow of a night-light; rested there with her hands on the cool rim, panting. Nothing more was coming. She cleaned up and squeezed some toothpaste onto her finger and swabbed out the inside of her mouth.

When she came back into the living room she saw that Brandon had returned home. Squat little boy, with glasses. He said hello at Becky’s urging and then ignored her. Becky was already moving around the kitchen, pulling boxes of dinner out of the cabinets, putting water on to boil. Kat sat on the couch and pulled her boots on. It would be smooth sailing now. You’re not leaving already, I’ve already stayed too long, I don’t want to interrupt your evening, and so forth. They hugged at the door, and Becky came out on the porch to watch as she got into her rental and backed out of the driveway. She even waved.

Fifteen miles later Kat felt sober enough to roll up the window and turn on the heat. She sailed north, back to another shitty place where she didn’t want to be.