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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780810152403 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Northwestern University Press |
| Publication date: | 09/30/2013 |
| Pages: | 176 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.40(w) x 8.40(h) x 0.50(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
THINK OF ME AND I'LL KNOW
Stories
By Anthony Varallo
Northwestern University Press
Copyright © 2013 Anthony VaralloAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8101-5240-3
CHAPTER 1
SOME OTHER LIFE
All day a little song loitered inside Mira's head, in part because it was sunny out, and the song suggested a summer day, but mostly because she was wearing headphones, listening to her iPod as she went about her work. It was her second week temping for an insurance company, but the song told her otherwise. It told her she was a netted butterfly pulsing toward the light. An ocean loosed upon a rocky shore. The insurance company was housed in a former elementary school; the offices were old classrooms divided into cubicles, conference rooms. Mira let the song fade, then took the headphones off and put the iPod inside her desk.
"The last girl never listened to music," a voice said, and Mira turned. A boy stood in the doorway, a kid. "So why do you?"
Mira closed the desk drawer. "I guess because I'm not her," she said.
The boy considered this. "She was the best one. She let me put all these papers into those drawers." He motioned toward a row of black file cabinets. "She was an actress," he added.
"Oh," Mira said.
"She gave me a nice pen once." His voice strayed to a smaller place. "And a poinsettia. For my sister."
Mira nodded. She did not, as a rule, love children. "Well, that was nice of her."
The boy shrugged. "I guess." He was about ten or eleven, Mira figured, but maybe older. He had blond, Cub Scout hair, and wore a red windbreaker that was too big in the shoulders. His eyes were small and wise; his lips masked a certain tension.
"This building used to be my school," he said.
"Oh."
"It was a good school. You got a scratch 'n' sniff for a B." He wandered over to a bulletin board crammed with notices, flyers, and office party pictures that Mira had already mocked in emails to her friends. "I cried when they closed it down." He reached for one of the photos and straightened it. "And Merilee still doesn't know."
"Merilee?"
"Merilee's my sister. We live across the street."
"Oh."
Mira glanced out the window. "That must have been weird, living so close to school," she offered. "Like on sick days. I'd be afraid the teacher would spy on me through the window."
The boy gave her an appreciative look. "Merilee would like you," he said.
At that moment Ted, the office manager, appeared from the back office. "Well, it's Robbie," he said.
"It is," Robbie said.
"And how is Merilee doing these days?"
Robbie shrugged.
"Still won't come over and say hello?"
"Can't," Robbie said, and Mira saw a change in his expression. He pulled a piece of paper from his jacket and folded it into quarters. "Here," he said, handing it to her. Up close, his skin was freckled and pale.
"Well, we'd all sure like to meet her one day," Ted said.
"We come over here at night sometimes," Robbie said. "You could meet her then."
"Sounds like a plan," Ted said. He gave Mira a look.
Robbie walked to the door and put both hands to the knob, pulling against its weight. "Merilee wouldn't like this door," he said, and then closed it behind him.
Mira unfolded the note.
Hello! it began, in a girl's neat, exuberant script. Me again. Just wanted to say thank you for the beautiful poinsettia. I put it on top of my dresser. (Did you know that a cat could die if it eats a poinsettia? Don't worry—we don't have one anymore!)
Next there was something crossed out, then the note continued:
Well, thanks again for thinking of me.
Best wishes and take care,
Merilee
P.S. Apple seeds are poisonous, too.
Mira handed the note to Ted.
"Oh Merilee," he said.
The year before, Mira had been engaged, but she'd broken it off. She couldn't say why, really, except that getting married seemed like a very good idea and then it seemed the opposite. She couldn't explain it. She wanted to explain it, but every time she tried to explain it she couldn't think of anything to say. Her fiancé said he understood. He wasn't angry; there was no point in being angry, he said, so he wouldn't be angry. He'd be there for her, for when she was ready—whenever that was. He wanted her to know that whatever she decided would be OK with him. It would. He wouldn't want her to think that he would feel one way or the other about whatever it was she decided, since he wanted the decision to be her decision and not something he'd accidentally influenced by letting her know how he felt about her decision, whatever it might be. She should think of him—if she thought about him at all, and he wasn't saying she should—as someone who only wanted the best for her, since wanting the best for her was all he ever wanted, and was, in fact, the thing that had led to them getting engaged, although he wasn't trying to say that he thought he was the best thing for her, necessarily. No. He was only saying that his wishes, in regard to her decision, were impartial, and should have no bearing on her decision, whatever it might be. The point was that he was there for her if she wanted him to be there for her; unless the idea of him being there for her was in any way depressing or imposing or wearying or cloying or anything like that. He wouldn't want it to be anything like that. That would be the last thing in the world he would want it to be. He looked up at her and offered a hopeful smile. "OK?" he said.
They were sitting in a café. They were always sitting in a café. Mira had unwisely ordered hot chocolate; she usually finished hot chocolate in about thirteen seconds flat. She sucked on chocolate foam and nodded at her fiancé. What she wanted him to say was, "Don't be dumb; let's just get married."
"OK," she said.
He took her hand in his. "But it's OK if it isn't," he said.
One Thursday afternoon Mira took a break from imagining she was outside and went outside for a break. There was a playground next to the parking lot, fitted out with a tall swing set, sliding board, jungle gym, and a row of sea horses on rusty springs that nodded in the breeze. Mira went over to the swing set and sat down on the middle seat. There was a puddle her feet would need to pass, so she raised them, toes out, and began.
One pass. And a truth. Her life was going nowhere.
Second pass. But what feeling in her legs. And the clouds above.
Third. She could quit. Trees were so good.
Fourth. Every human enterprise was an attempt to approximate the beauty of a tree.
Fifth. She couldn't quit. Not for a while, at least.
Sixth. One of the sea horses was waving at her.
Mira braked and tried to disguise the surprise in her voice. "I thought you were a sea horse," she said.
Robbie's look was serious. "Only little kids rode the sea horses. And girls. The boys got the swings." He gave the sea horse a little kick, sending it juddering like a smacked antenna. "Merilee likes this sea horse. She wanted to come over and ride it last night, but I said it was too cold."
"You guys really come over here at night?"
"Sometimes. We can't come over in the daytime." He put his hands in his pockets and toed at the dirt beneath the sea horse. "Because of Merilee."
"You know, I hate to tell you this," Mira said, already sensing that she would later wish she had been more kind, "but a lot of people around here think that Merilee doesn't really exist." She watched Robbie describe a circle in the dirt. "I'm not saying I don't, but—"
"But you do," Robbie said. "You believe." He approached the swing set and stood before her. "I told her all about you. I told her what you said about the teacher spying through the window. She really likes you."
Why? Mira wanted to say, but instead studied herself in the puddle, an elongated blob with crisp, perfect shoes. She looked up now, and saw Robbie watching her with new curiosity. "Why can't Merilee come over in the daytime?" she asked.
"She can't go out in the sun. Not for more than a few minutes. Or else." He made a sizzling noise and grabbed at his arms.
"She has some kind of disease or something?"
Robbie nodded. "No sun."
"How does she go to school then?"
"She doesn't. Me and my mom teach her everything. Plus we get these videos in the mail. They're totally cool. Did you know that Beethoven used to keep his pee under his piano?"
"Robbie," Mira said, searching. "Do you see why all of this might be a little hard for someone to believe?"
"No."
"You don't?"
"No. Why shouldn't they? It's no lie."
"It's just that—" Mira began, but a change in Robbie's expression blocked its passage and opened another, where a girl and her brother sat side by side on a long white sofa, watching television with thick curtains drawn tight. "I'd like to meet her," Mira said.
"Her, too," Robbie said. He put his hands in his pockets and regarded the building with one eye closed. "You can see in at night. Through the blinds. I keep telling Merilee not to look, but it's getting harder and harder." He kicked a stone a remarkable distance. "One night she's going to find out it's not a school anymore."
"She doesn't know?"
Robbie shook his head.
"How could she not know?"
"Merilee listens to me," Robbie said.
"What does she think about the company sign?" Mira said.
"I told her that was a project."
"A project?'
"Uh-huh. Like the time capsule," Robbie said. "Did you know there's a time capsule by the old cafeteria stairs? There's a toothbrush in there. Plus a yo-yo."
There were shadows from the trees that Mira had not noticed until now. For a moment they offered up something wise and obvious to her, but what? Robbie walked over and sat down on a swing, twisting lazily from side to side.
"Everything in my life is something I don't want to do," Mira said. "I don't want to go to work; I don't want to go home. I don't want to say 'good morning' or 'good night.' I don't want to watch TV; I don't want to turn it off." She looked over at Robbie. "Do you know what I mean?"
"Nope," Robbie said. Then he stood and said good-bye, leaving Mira to the shadows and the day stretched dauntingly before her.
At the temp agency, Mira's interviewer had asked her what quality she most admired in a boss.
"Translucence," she'd said, chancing a joke.
To her surprise, they placed her anyway.
Part of Mira's job was to sort and deliver the mail, which she didn't mind. She liked steering the mail cart through places where people weren't, through the copy room with its ghost scent of fresh milk and damp mittens, past the women's restroom, where the afternoon sun sometimes revealed blond lettering G I R L S etched into the dark-stained door, and beyond the collections office, where the occasion of turning the doorknob always left the vaguest feeling of chalk dust between her fingers.
Mira entered the office now, pushing the door open with the cart. She saw an employee sitting on a computer chair in the center aisle, his back to her. He was wearing dress pants, dress shoes, and a crisp white undershirt. Two other employees crouched next to him, laughing. Other people peered over the tops of cubicle dividers, watching whatever was going on. Mira's first thought was to turn around, but one of the employees—the guy with the Pez dispenser collection—addressed her and she froze.
"Don't mind us. We're just gluing pennies on Francis."
The room rang with laughter.
Mira felt her face grow hot, and tried to smile. "Oh," she said.
She made her way to Francis, who sat grimly in his chair, as one woman dabbed his undershirt with glue and the other pressed pennies into place. "Do you want me to leave these on your desk?" Mira asked, indicating the letters.
"Bitte," Francis said. "Wunderbar."
Mira nodded, and one of the women turned. "Do you want to do one?" she asked, holding out a penny.
"No," Mira said, "that's OK."
"Sure?"
"Yeah."
"All the cool kids are doing it," the woman said.
"I know, but—sorry."
"All the hipsters," Francis said.
Mira felt tears form in her eyes. "Sorry," she said. "I'm lame."
"That's OK," the woman said. "We'll get you next time."
"Yeah," Francis said. "All the cool kids want you in the scene."
Mira nodded and felt as if she'd just lowered herself into a hole. "Sorry," she said. "I really am. Sorry."
In the bathroom, Mira checked herself in the mirror and reviewed everything she'd done wrong. This took a while. Then she dampened her hair and took a drink from the faucet. The water was warm and unpleasant, but it presented a truth nonetheless: stop saying sorry so much. Mira wiped her mouth and pushed through the bathroom door, awakened, renewed—and immediately knocked into a woman carrying a potted geranium.
"Sorry," Mira said.
The woman knelt and scooped a line of dirt back into the pot. "Oh, that's OK," she said. "He's been through worse."
Mira knelt down to help, but the woman told her not to worry. "Hey," she said, putting her hand on Mira's shoulder. "No use crying over spilled ... dirt."
Mira shook her head. "Sorry."
Mira walked back to her desk without the least recollection of doing so. Outside, sunlight bloomed against the windows, coaxing the color out of the panes and placing it about the room. Brightness was where brightness usually wasn't. Mira noted the difference, and then another: a note on her desk.
Dear Mira, the note began.
How are you? (don't you hate letters that start that way?) I thought I'd tell you my favorite thing and see if it's your favorite thing, too. My favorite thing is when you've got guests coming over and you've just put out the biggest bowl of potato chips and just as the doorbell rings you take the potato chip that is at the very top of the bowl and stick it in your mouth. That's my favorite thing. (Besides Altoids—do you like them?)
Just wondering.
Merilee
"He gets his mother to write them," Ted had told her, the day Robbie handed over the note. Together, they'd watched him hop the playground fence, stopping to free his windbreaker from a snag. "She's some kind of weirdo. Came over here one time and told us to stop parking in her driveway. Well, there wasn't anyone parking her driveway. There wasn't a single car in her driveway. Not one. So I said, 'No one over here is parking in your driveway, but I'll let everybody know, just in case.' But she said that wasn't good enough. She'd been blocked in all morning. Couldn't get here, couldn't get there; well, she went on and on. So I said, 'Let's go have a look and I'll see what I can do,' and we went outside and of course there were no cars in her driveway, so I said, 'Looks all clear to me,' and she said, 'They must have just left.' Crazy lady," Ted said. "I feel bad for the kid."
The homes across the parking lot were partially eclipsed by the rise of a sharp hill, and by the tall, flowered weeds that Mira sometimes watched with a certain fascination, seeing things she could not possibly see moving within, like tiny hands and manes of hair. They were town houses, connected in twos, with short lawns between them, and gravel fronts with cars parked under ports. A few had back decks with screened-in porches, others without, and one unit—the last in the row—had a bedroom window with plywood boarded across the panes.
Once, on her way to meet her ex-fiancé for dinner, Mira slowed into the drive and cut the engine. She sat for a moment, considering what she would say if someone opened the front door, when someone opened the front door. A woman stood at the door, older, her hair whirled inside a bath towel. She looked at Mira as if she were a felled oak.
Mira rolled her window down. "Sorry," she said.
"Are you?" the woman said. She had one hand on the doorknob, the other propped against the jamb. "Why?"
"I must have the wrong house."
"The wrong house. What's wrong about it?" The woman gave Mira a look she wasn't sure how to read.
"Well, sorry again." Mira started the engine. "Thanks anyway."
"If you say so," the woman said.
At dinner, Mira's ex-fiancé talked excitedly about downloading music from the local library, a new interest of his, as was fishing, something he used to do as a kid but hadn't done since. He was also really getting into cooking eggs. It was amazing how good baked eggs tasted, something he'd forgotten about. Bacon—that's the secret to everything. You can't beat bacon. Remember bacon? He was finding all these old things he'd forgotten he liked, he explained.
"Take this shirt," he said, and opened his sport coat to show her the dress shirt he was wearing, cornflower-blue with a wide collar. "I must have bought this thing before I left for college, but I swear I've never worn it, not once. Just something I'd forgotten about. And now I'm wearing this shirt like two times a week. Three. It's ridiculous. It's like my favorite shirt ever."
"That's good," Mira said.
"And radio. I'm listening to the radio all the time now."
"Radio?"
"In the car. On the way to work, at home—I forgot I could listen to the radio at home. Who listens to the radio at home?"
"Nobody much," Mira said.
"Exactly. But try it out sometime and you'll be like, 'Wow, how cool is it that I'm in my house listening to the radio?'" He made the face he sometimes made when he was really thinking about something—Mira had forgotten about that face. "There's something really comforting about it. Like you're even more inside your house than you'd normally be. Does that sound stupid?"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from THINK OF ME AND I'LL KNOW by Anthony Varallo. Copyright © 2013 Anthony Varallo. Excerpted by permission of Northwestern University Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
Acknowledgments.................... ix
Some Other Life.................... 3
Time Apart Together.................... 19
Everybody Knew.................... 39
Slow Car.................... 59
Tragic Little Me.................... 73
No One at All.................... 93
After the Finale.................... 107
The Nature and Aim of Fiction.................... 113
Lucky Us.................... 135
Think of Me and I'll Know.................... 153