Next Year, for Sure Read online

  It’ll be sunup soon, and Chris wonders what the housemates will think of him, emerging from the bedroom with two women. They’ll probably think he’s an asshole. He feels oppressed by the people living all over this house, above and below him.

  He does not, however, in this crowded bed feel the urge to be more alone with Emily. It feels good with Kathryn here. Kathryn is not people. Kathryn and Emily have never been people and he loves them each and both. A small wave of joy is cresting over him. He might be asleep already, dreaming them and this.

  CHAPTER 12

  Being Potatoes

  There is something about sleeping with people, really sleeping with them. It’s the human version of photosynthesis, Kathryn thinks. She is not fully awake yet, but lying here between Chris and Emily’s respiring bodies, this idea feels powerfully true. Like photosynthesis, there are key ingredients, a specific chain of events—the proximity of limbs anticipating sleep, then the long nothingness of it, and ultimately emerging together, full of chemical bonds and simple sugars, into a new day.

  Kathryn will tell this to Chris when he wakes up, he will love this, though already she is losing hold of the details.

  She cannot sense in her body how long she has slept. It is light out. The sun is flooding in through Emily’s uncurtained windows, but this could mean two hours or twelve. Who knows what time they fell asleep. There is on Emily’s headboard a small travel clock, but blank-faced, with the batteries sitting beside it. Emily seems to live in a world without alarm clocks.

  Kathryn could slip out now before the other two wake, and the thought of this, of Chris and Emily waking up and finding her gone, is somehow appealing. It gives her power over something, but over what? What does Kathryn want power over?

  —

  There were certain nights back at the trailer park when they all slept on the floor of the church, grown-ups and kids slotted together like a giant puzzle. Kathryn had looked forward to those nights, and when everyone was settling to sleep, the whole seething floor of them, she would pray God to come in the night and lift all the trailers up and away and leave nothing but the church, so they’d have to sleep like this every night, all together. When morning came and everyone went home to their still-standing trailers, Kathryn would ask her mother when the next lock-in would be—next week? next month?—but her mother would say it was not right to wonder too much.

  —

  These are her best friends now, she realizes, Chris and Emily.

  Kathryn will never tell Sharon about this night, about telling Chris to go sleep with Emily, that it was not a problem, and then going slowly berserk with jealousy. She will never tell Sharon about stalking around in the rain, crossing streets without looking, and showing up at the door of her boyfriend’s girlfriend and blubbering incoherently in front of that taciturn mountain man, and being led through the dark house and up into the room where they were in bed, and then crawling into that bed between them like some little child afraid of monsters, and then talking and talking and sleeping hip to hip to hip with her tormenters and also the only people who care about her, and waking up with this notion of photosynthesis, feeling fresh and green and remade from the inside out. What she will tell Sharon, if Sharon asks, is that things are going fine. Not much to report.

  —

  Kathryn would like something to read now. She has that urge she sometimes gets in strange houses to open someone else’s book, one she would never choose herself, and fall into it. But there are no books in this room, not on any visible plane. The bookshelf is full of CDs, most of which, Kathryn can see, have handwritten covers or none at all.

  That man Moss had a book last night when he came to the door. Something about a bark canoe. She would like to read about bark canoes right now. Or an unsolved murder. Or the peopling of Mars.

  Instead, she stirs Chris lightly with her hand on his arm. I’m gonna go, she says, without meaning to. She was hoping to say something tender.

  I’ll come with you, he says, and then it’s the same stupid conversation all over again, with Kathryn trying to convince Chris that it’s okay, that she’s okay, and Chris trying to convince Kathryn that he would give this up, walk away from his own happiness, to ensure hers.

  Chris, it’s going to be hard sometimes, Kathryn says. You have to deal with that.

  But it has never been hard for them before. For nine years, being together has always been the easiest thing to do.

  —

  Emily wakes up with a stretch, a yawn, a high pterodactyl shriek. Kathryn feels a small wave of adoration for Emily, and cannot tell if it is Chris’s or her own.

  Hey you two, Emily says. She reaches out and touches them both, just lightly touches them. Emily is puffy and creased with sleep and does not look like someone who would steal your boyfriend. She looks like a soft, guileless thing who honestly believes this can work.

  Wow, I have to pee, Emily says.

  Kathryn has needed to pee for some time now, but didn’t want to wander the hall alone. Part of her knows, too, that once she gets out of this bed, she cannot crawl back in. This is a one-time thing, and she has used it up.

  So what should we do today? Emily says. She is sitting now, her back discreetly to them, slipping on her bra under her shirt. Kathryn watches, as does Chris. It seems so matter of fact. Kathryn wishes now that she had taken her own bra off in the night.

  I should probably head home, Kathryn says, again. This keeps coming out of her mouth.

  Oh don’t go, Emily says. There’s probably breakfast downstairs. Or lunch. You should stay, she says. Stay and be a potato with us.

  —

  They all use Emily’s toothbrush. Chris didn’t bring his, he says, because he didn’t want to be presumptuous, though they all knew that he was staying the night. It was written on the calendar beside their fridge—

  CHRIS AT EMILY’S

          —the words nestled right at the lowest part of the square, hugging the bottom line, significantly. Kathryn had stared at it enough. She’d had conversations with it, mostly while Chris was at work, and what she’d come to is: So it’s one night a week. The other six nights of the week, Kathryn would fall asleep being held by Chris and wake up to his furnace-like warmth, and then one night a week she would let him go. She doesn’t own him. And who has Kathryn become that she can’t spend a night alone? Is she not a whole person? Was Jane Goodall afraid to spend a night alone? Was Dian Fossey? No, Kathryn should insist on a night by herself; even when this Emily thing blows over, there should be one night a week that Kathryn and Chris do not spend together, that they’re not allowed to spend together. Kathryn is brushing furiously now. Chris and Emily have wandered off.

  —

  Downstairs, a nebulous breakfast is unfolding in the crowded kitchen. There are pancakes and coffee and the smell of bacon past. Everyone seems unsurprised to see Kathryn there in her slept-in clothes, except possibly Kendra, who says, Well this is very grown-up.

  You can never tell with Kendra. Does she mean grown-up as a compliment? Healthy, mature? Or does she mean, I wish you wouldn’t air your adult themes in front of my five-year-old.

  Zachary, though, is unconcerned. He is talking avidly to Chris about tree houses, seeming to pick up mid-sentence from a previous conversation. Chris and Zachary have a lot to say to each other about rope ladders versus slat ladders, and Kathryn wants to remember the next time she is at home alone imagining Chris over here taking long, sensual baths with Emily and whispering secrets into her ear, that he is in fact, at least part of that time, talking to a little kid about tree houses.

  Zach, I like your hair, Kathryn says, suddenly wanting to be part of this conversation. Zachary’s head is newly shaved and downy with fuzz.

  I’m in a cult, Zachary says.

  Oh, says Kathryn, not sure how to proceed from here.

  But I’m the only one, he says, for now.

  —

  This is a magnificent breakfast, Kathryn says. She is
spooning homemade yogurt and blackberry jam onto her third pancake.

  I could make more bacon, Moss says, if you want. It is the longest sentence she has heard him utter, and Kathryn understands that this outpouring is about last night. This person will never ask Kathryn if she is feeling better or allude to their uncomfortable encounter. He did not, this morning, greet her with a long, sympathetic look, or any look at all, really. But what he will do is offer to make her bacon, which he might not do for someone who had not wept at his door.

  Kathryn hears Chris explaining that she is a vegetarian, was actually born a vegetarian. Which is true. Everyone was a vegetarian at the trailer park. And other than her once-a-year can of medicinal tuna, she still keeps the faith. And yet she resents Chris saying this now, despite its truth. Kathryn can eat whatever she wants. And though she does not want to eat bacon, she would like to accept what is being offered to her, this kindness, even if it is in the form of slabs of fat from some poor pig’s belly.

  Bacon would be fantastic, Kathryn says, and Moss is at the stove.

  —

  They eat and eat and the food seems to never stop.

  Emily says, This feels like a day to just nap until it’s time to eat again. Or go snowshoeing, she says, as if both were equally possible.

  Kathryn and Chris have been talking about snowshoeing for years. All it takes, apparently, is an hour on a bus and the cost of rental, but they’ve never made it happen. With Emily, though, Kathryn imagines, you could say, I feel like snowshoeing, and an hour later be buckling the things to your feet, then straightening up and crunching out across the untrammelled snow.

  You do remember, Kendra says, that we’re doing the attic today. More a statement than a question.

  Oh sure, Emily says in her easy Emily way. There’s decades’ worth of old stuff in the attic, Emily explains between bites, and they’re supposed to go through it today and see what can be gotten rid of. It shouldn’t take long, Emily says, and Kendra makes a face of some sort, but you can never tell with Kendra.

  Do you want help? Kathryn asks. Because now the idea of cleaning out a crowded old attic sounds even more fun than snowshoeing. Kathryn has never lived anywhere with an attic.

  Actually, if you want to be a help, Kendra says, the best thing you could do is show old Moss here how to build that famous dish rack of yours we keep hearing about.

  Again, Kathryn feels both complimented and condemned.

  But yes, of course you can help, says Naveed, whose job, it seems, is to soften Kendra’s blows.

  —

  The attic is small and angular and packed. You can stand up only in the very middle; everywhere else you have to duck or squat. It is everything Kathryn imagined in an attic.

  They each open a box and shout out what’s inside. It’s like Christmas. Naveed’s box is full of sad old books with titles like The Homosexual Soul and Where Is God in a Riot?

  Naveed reads out random sections and everyone laughs or groans. Miriam opens a box of men’s clothes and holds them up against her body for everyone to appreciate. Emily claims a pair of herringbone pants, but nobody wants the polyester. Most things go back in their boxes, marked for donation or disposal, and silent Moss lugs each box down three flights of stairs and out to his truck.

  Kathryn watches him come and go, his head, then shoulders, then trunk rising stoically into the merriment of the attic, then pulling some cast-off box into his arms and carrying it down, down, down through the empty house. It’s a thankless job, and he has chosen it for himself, letting everyone else play. He’ll never manage like this. There’s only one of him and boxes are starting to pile up, so Kathryn abandons her trove of mimeographed leaflets and heads down with a box.

  —

  Mostly they pass each other on the stairs. The first couple of times, they nod to each other, mutter little things, but soon they fall into a silent rhythm. It is, Kathryn thinks, like sharing a stream with a wild animal, each of you drinking from your separate sides, unworried but aware.

  Occasionally though, they converge at the rear of the truck, where they might stand for a minute and speculate about whether it’s all going to fit or how many trips remain. They are both visibly sweating, despite the cold.

  You know, Kathryn says, you could just come look at the dish rack sometime.

  Alright, he says.

  It might be easier than trying to explain, she says.

  Sure, he says, and they climb the stairs again. She feels strong in her legs and arms, even after all these loads. She wonders if it’s the bacon.

  —

  When the last box is dragged from the attic, everyone is exhausted and celebratory. There is talk of going out for dinner, maybe Ethiopian.

  They let you eat with your hands, Zachary tells Kathryn, and he shows her, scooping up an appropriate amount of imaginary food and placing it neatly into his mouth.

  Kathryn would love Ethiopian food right now. She has always wanted to go with enough people to order one of everything. But Chris is already ducking the invitation.

  We should probably get home, he is saying, as if they have unfed pets waiting or a babysitter to relieve. He is peopled out, Kathryn can tell. He has that look he gets when he has been out too long and the tractor beam of home starts tugging at his limbs.

  Kathryn considers for a moment going to dinner anyway, without Chris, but she can’t decide if that’s what she wants or if she wants it for the right reasons. It’s simpler to go home and curl up on the couch together and watch an old movie, maybe rub each other’s feet. That’s not such a bad way to spend the night.

  Emily walks them to the door and kisses them both, Chris on the lips and Kathryn on the cheek.

  I promise, Kathryn says, this won’t happen again.

  No, says Emily, I need a different promise. She pulls a key from her pocket and places it in Kathryn’s hand. Promise me you’ll come anytime you want, okay?

  The key is silver and newly cut. It was clearly made for Chris. And though she won’t promise to use it, Kathryn slides it onto her keychain.

  CHAPTER 13

  Joyful, Joyful

  Chris has always liked his mom. They were a team growing up—cooking dinner together, folding laundry during the movie of the week, mapping the next day’s garage sales in order of tactical importance.

  When his dad finally left for good, Chris and his mom had changed the locks themselves, Chris reading out the instructions as his mom disassembled and reassembled the mechanism. Together they made enormous wallcharts of everything that needed to happen—daily, weekly, monthly—and they shaded in the boxes at the end of every day and admired their progress.

  His sister Claire had no part in this. Claire was older and went to parties, and Chris did most of her assigned tasks because he could not bear empty spaces on the chart.

  They worried about Claire together, his mom and he, and worked hard to at least get her through high school. It was a project, and they both loved a project. When Claire did graduate, only one summer behind the rest of her class, Chris’s mom bought him a ten-speed and said she couldn’t be prouder of him. Chris was twelve.

  After Chris moved away, it got harder to maintain this connection. They never figured out how to have a real conversation on the phone, and without a project to chew on, they had little to say. Still, they do like each other, and when Chris’s mom announced that she would be coming to spend Christmas with Chris and Kathryn this year, Chris started planning projects.

  —

  He outlines these projects for his mother on the cab ride from the airport: installing a hand-held shower nozzle (Kathryn has been wanting one for years); assembling an earthquake kit (he has printed out lists from several websites detailing what to include); setting up and decorating the tree (it’s new, and still in the box, and making the whole room smell like plastic. I’m sure it’s perfect, his mom says); learning once and for all how to make her legendary pickled beets (they’re really nothing special, his mother maintai
ns, but they are); and lastly, time permitting, making a gingerbread house or possibly gingerbread tree house (Chris thought he’d give it to Zachary as a Christmas present).

  It’s more than they can do in five days, Chris knows, and he knows, too, that this is part of what appeals to his mother. She asks questions about logistics and timelines and the best way to proceed, and they sketch out a triage list there in the back seat. They’re having fun. The cab driver turns up his music against their enthusiasm.

  There’s also someone I want you to meet, Chris says. Just puts it out there like another offering, another fun activity, but his mom is instantly suspicious. She sets the list in her lap and gets very still.

  Her name is Emily, Chris says.

  Okay.

  She’s great, he says.

  Mm-hm.

  This is as much as Chris had prepared. He had imagined that his mom would, at this point, start asking mom-like questions: Emily Who? What does she do? How do you know her? Chris would know how to answer questions, but isn’t sure how to keep talking without them.

  She’s really great, he says again, and they bump over a long bridge without speaking. His mother seems suddenly interested in the scenery. Chris watches the meter flick numbers. When it reaches $20 even, he will say something to her. When it reaches $25, for sure he will say something. He reads the decal on the window outlining his rights and responsibilities as a passenger.

  Anyway, he says as they pull up to the apartment, she’s coming to dinner with us tonight, so you’ll get a chance to meet her.

  Well then, his mother says.

  —

  Kathryn is waiting for them with tea and cranberry bread, which is, Kathryn has pointed out, how Chris’s mom has greeted them every Christmas for seven years. These things mean a lot to Kathryn. In her own family, Christmas was deemed a perversion.