Sara Jaffe - Dryland

I said, Downtown. But I’m leaving soon. I’ll call you later. I said, Someone’s waiting for the phone.

There was a bus in the distance that was probably mine. There was no reason for me not to get on it. A huge cemetery spread out on the other side of the street. Ben might have walked home through the cemetery as if it were just another park. I went back to the parking strip across from The Alderwood. There were sixteen windows on the face of the building. Each apartment could have been identical, or different, from the others. My brother, if he had stayed, or if he’d left and come back, might have lived in one of those apartments. He and Ben might have been neighbors who kept their doors unlocked. They could move through the two apartments as if they were one. A tan car, a Datsun, pulled up across the street.

Ben said, Julie! He was smoking a cigarette. He said, What brings you to these parts?

The cigarette surprised me, though it shouldn’t have. I said, I thought you were working.

Ben laughed. He said, Right. Sorry I bailed on your dad today.

I said, So you finished work already? He didn’t sound sorry.

Ben looked at me and squinted. He said, Julie, I can tell you this, right? His voice had a scraped-out quality to it, as if he’d just woken up. He said, The truth is, I had a late night last night and I couldn’t muster for the viburnum this morning. Between us?

He didn’t sound guilty at all. He wasn’t acting as if he suspected that I might rat him out. I said, My dad ended up moving that wheelbarrow himself.

Ben put out his cigarette. He said, If you came over here to give me a guilt trip, I think I’m going to need some Advil with it. Want to come in? He walked into the building and held the door open for me. He took out a key and opened a long, skinny mailbox, and he took out some letters and a magazine.

I said, Then where are you coming from? I didn’t care if the question was a hammer against his hangover.

Ben laughed. He said, That’s a good question. You’re a good questioner. He opened a door on the second floor and scooped up the gray cat as it tried to run out. Ben said, This is Patty. The cat meowed. Ben said, She’s a good questioner, too. He said, Shoes, if you don’t mind, and kicked off his sneakers.

Ben’s apartment was small and very neat. The kitchen linoleum and metal cabinets looked old-fashioned, the refrigerator like something that could be called an icebox. Ben took out a beer. He said, I’m not going to offer you one. He opened the beer and swallowed some pills with it. He said, What would you like? Tea, right?

I said, How about coffee?

Ben said, Right on. I could use some of that, too. He got out a small metal pot and spooned coffee grounds into it.

My raincoat and backpack were still on. My shoes were by the door. I said, I can go. I had just shown up. There was no reason for me to be there.

Ben said, No, stay for a few. I’d be vegging on the couch with Divorce Court if you weren’t here.

Ben’s kitchen chairs had puffy vinyl diner cushions on them. Patty jumped into my lap. Ben said, Cat person?

I said, I don’t know. Patty pressed her head into my chest.

Ben said, She’s a sweetheart. He leaned over and scratched under Patty’s chin. He said, Except when she’s not, right, girl?

Ben moved around the kitchen, sipping from his beer, scooping out cat food, taking out mugs and acting as if there were nobody else in the room. His refrigerator had fliers photocopied on fluorescent-colored paper. They looked as if they’d been made in five minutes with a glue stick and scissors. I said, What’s the Anchor?

Ben brought the two mugs of coffee and a carton of milk and his beer over to the table. He took a sip of his coffee and held it in his mouth before he swallowed. He said, Why, have you heard of it?

It was as if he hadn’t been listening. I said, I just asked you what it was. I would have expected him to listen, after making a point of inviting me in and asking me — telling me — to take my shoes off in his kitchen.

Ben put his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands and leaned in and looked right at me. He said, Did I do something to make you angry? Your dad didn’t sound mad on the phone.

Ben’s hair was greasy and the skin under his eyes was grayish. He wasn’t making it clear whether he was pissed at me for being mad or if he actually cared. The coffee was doing something to me. I said, The other day, did you tell my dad I was at swim practice?

Ben said, What other day? I don’t think so. He said, Why? Do they not know? He said, I get it, it could be heavy to tell them.

My skin moved. My whole body was a heartbeat. Ben must have made the coffee some special hangover strength and not told me.

Ben said, You can feel free to talk to me about it. He said, Or not. No pressure.

My mug had a picture of a four-leaf clover on it and it said Shamrock Run 1987. Ben didn’t strike me as a runner. But he could have been, who knew? I didn’t know anything about him. I said, It doesn’t matter. I’m going to quit.

Ben said, No way! I thought you were into it.

I said, I hate the coach. I said, He’s really judgmental. I said, I think he puts extra pressure on me, because of Jordan.

It hadn’t occurred to me until I said it. I said, It’s not like everyone’s trying to be in the Olympics.

Ben said, Of course.

I said, And my friend Alexis? She should totally be in Lane One. She’s basically the best breaststroker on the team. I said, Girls’ team. I took another sip of coffee. The cup wasn’t halfway empty.

Ben said, That coach sounds like a douche bag.

I said, He is.

Ben was touching the bead on his necklace. I could tell he was thinking about what to tell me to do. I would listen. He knew something, I could tell, about swimming.

He said, Well, how much do you like to swim?

I said, What do you mean?

He said, If you really love it, you shouldn’t let some asshole coach make you quit. Jordan’s coach was an asshole. He said, Not that Jordan thought so.

It was that thing he did, the loose way he threw around information about my brother. As if he were referencing things I was automatically supposed to know about.

The coffee was acid in my stomach. Ben’s hangover brew or whatever it was was making me dizzy. On the wall was a crazily blurred pink poster. I said, What’s that poster?

Ben said, Oh my god. Have you not heard Loveless? My Bloody Valentine? Of course you haven’t. Hold on. He went into the living room and fiddled with the stereo and a needle-dropping sound came on and then a thick swath of music. The singer sounded as if she were under layers of gauze, or maybe water, something thicker. It was impossible to tell if she was trapped or if she was there because she wanted to be.

Ben said, If you like it, I’ll tape it for you. And the R.E.M., too. It’ll be fun. He said, Oh my god, I was always trying to force my music on your brother.

Someone made a sound in the next apartment — a clanging pot. The Alderwood had thin walls. Ben must have driven the neighbors crazy with that choked-syrup music he played. The Alderwood was clearly a dump. I said, My brother wouldn’t live here. My coffee had little specks of grounds floating in it. I said, That metal pot you use doesn’t work very well. I said, I have to catch the bus. My jacket was still on. I said, That coffee was kind of strong. Three or four sips had turned me into a tin can rattling.

AT LUNCH THEday of the meet Erika showed me that she’d written 100 Back on the back of her hand. The night before she’d waited outside until the clouds cleared so she could wish on a star. I’d never known her to be so superstitious. She didn’t need all those charms. She was the best backstroker in Lane Four. I’d watched her. It was as if all she had to do was lie down on her back in the water and there it was, off she went, never swerving, never crashing into the wall.