Kristopher Jansma - Why We Came to the City

“It’s no big deal,” he said. “It’s not like I have to be drunk all the time. It just makes me happier when I’m already happy, you know?”

This statement hung there in the dark basement for a moment. With a defiant click, the chain in Jacob’s hand snapped down and the basement lights came on. They found themselves standing in front of a network of shelves, where the tiny colored noses of bottle after bottle peeked out from the shadows of perfectly fitted boxes. There had to be hundreds. It was hard to see how far back it went. A fur of dust lay over everything. Jacob’s cries of glee bounced off the high, curving stone ceiling as he pulled bottles out two at a time.

“1991 Cabernet Franc. 1961 Grand Cru. 1984 Bordeaux… 1944 Cuvée… Holy shit, this bottle’s older than my father.”

George breathed in deeply as he ran a gentle hand over the smooth curve of the glass. He imagined all that had gone into the air and the soil and the vines. 1944. In the middle of a world war, some farmer had harvested his grapes and split his oak trees and dried and charred the wood and forced the slats together with bands of metal. Outside there had been horror and fear, but in this bottle he’d hidden something made from holy sweat. Someone had corked it and set the bottle down with a prayer, knowing he’d never drink it. It was for sons and grandsons. It was waiting for some future, for someone. George wished that it had been waiting for him. Reluctantly he slid the bottle back into its place.

When he looked back again, Jacob was bearing down on him. “All right. Enough. Are you going to tell me what the hell is wrong with Irene or not?”

George froze. “What do you mean?”

“She’s been texting that psycho ex of hers, Alisanne. I looked at her phone.”

“She is?”

“Yeah, all this shit about how they need to talk and there isn’t time to waste.”

“Damn it,” George cursed.

“She’s not writing back, thank God, but clearly something’s going on. The last couple of months you three have all been on another planet. So what is it? Did William do something to her?”

“No, no,” George said. “I can’t — I’m not supposed to say anything.”

“Enough drama—. This is too much. Even for her. It’s not like she’s dying .”

George felt as if his heart had stopped, and he must have looked like it had. Jacob glared at him for another minute, then suddenly his face went slack. Without another word he turned and marched up the stairs.

George followed after him and came up just as Jacob reached the top of the stairs and pointed at the girls, who were scraping dried eggs off the stovetop.

“—the fuck didn’t you tell me?” Jacob shouted.

For a moment everything was frozen. Then Irene threw her sponge down and walked out through the sliding-glass door that led onto the porch and began running at top speed into the spiky, sandy-colored grass that stretched between them and the foggy bay.

Jacob went after Irene — stubby legs tripping and stumbling with every step over the uneven terrain.

George was about to follow when Sara grabbed his wrist. “Let’s give them a minute.”

“I swear I didn’t say anything,” George said lamely.

“It doesn’t matter.” Sara looked relieved, and suddenly George realized that he had— eureka! — solved the problem. The truth was finally out, and Irene could blame it on him. But it would be forgiven, as it always was.

They cleaned in silence for a few more minutes. Then they walked along the path where they found Jacob embracing Irene in a low trench of dune grass that stretched long and empty in either direction. The surf pounded against ancient black rocks and loosed a white spray that danced in the air for just a moment before falling into the sea again.

“It’s just not fair,” he heard Jacob saying as they got closer.

“There’s no such thing as fair,” Irene said softly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

“I didn’t want you getting all moody about it.”

“I don’t get moody .”

George watched the waves pounding the shore, each surge of salty water carving another molecule off the stones. In a hundred years the shoreline would be ever so slightly nearer. A hundred years ago, it had been ever so slightly farther out. A hundred years before that, it had been farther still. Hundreds of years from now it would carve in so far that it collapsed the house. Two hundred and fifty million years before, the continents had been fused. Maybe in another two hundred and fifty million years they’d all smash back together again.

George and Sara sat down next to their friends. Irene smiled at him and he took a deep breath. Sometimes it paid to take the blame. Now there would be peace at last, and they could get on with their fun weekend. They’d clean for a few hours until the house looked better than new. He’d make jokes about hazmat suits, and they’d find more plus-size underwear, and Irene would begin sifting through the junk looking for sculpture pieces that complemented her seashells, and Jacob would call up Billy Budd from the oyster place and they’d talk, long into the night, just like they used to.

“If I don’t make it—” Irene said slowly.

Sara immediately cut her off. “Don’t say that.”

“Seriously, Irene. You seem much better—” George began, but stopped as she shook her head.

His stomach turned to lead as Irene slowly lifted the left sleeve of her shirt to reveal another lump. It was the size of a golf ball.

He didn’t know what to say, but Sara seemed to have it covered. “Has that been there since before we left? Irene, I swear to fucking Christ —”

George knew Sara was right. Irene had known it. Probably she’d even known it that day in Dr. Zarrani’s office. She’d hidden it so she wouldn’t spoil the trip. He wanted to run into the ocean and pound back at the waves until they were still. He looked into the wide gray sky. For what reason — what reason could possibly exist for this? What plan could it be part of? And if there was Something out there that had known about this, well then fuck Him and fuck His plan and fuck whatever it had all been written on.

“I’m just saying. If I don’t make it,” Irene repeated, “heaven had better look like this. It’s absolutely mythic.”

George wished he could believe in it, but just then he couldn’t. Sara looked ashen.

“I wouldn’t like it by myself. Just me here all alone,” Irene went on. “But I guess you and George would be along soon enough.”

She put her arm around Sara, and Sara fell into her, leaning on Irene’s shoulder — on the good side. Irene kissed Sara’s forehead and reached her hand out for George. “Jacob, I don’t know. I guess we’d visit.”

He laughed. “Jews don’t believe in hell. Though we’re not too sold on heaven either.”

“Good thing you’re a terrible Jew then.” Irene smiled. They sat there for a while, quiet in each other’s company.

George ran his fingers through the dune grass. Then, all at once, another solution came to him. “Fuck it,” he said suddenly, “I’ll be right back.”

He turned and stumbled back through the sand toward the house. Inside he went through the messy kitchen, past a table filled with sticky, half-empty liquor bottles, to the basement door. Taking the rickety steps three at a time, he came to the bottom and soon located the dusty green bottle that Jacob had picked up earlier. He ran his fingertips over the year. 1944. The glass was cold against his palm as he went back upstairs and returned to his friends on the beach.

“What’s that?” Sara asked immediately. “Is that Luther’s?”