Chapter 2

 

 

August

 

THE AIR conditioning in my car died somewhere in Ohio, so it’s hard to hear Ginger above the highway sounds coming in through the windows I’ve rolled down to avoid roasting. Fortunately, the girl’s never been accused of being quiet.

“Okay,” she says, “so I google-mapped this town of yours and I’ve gotta tell you, pumpkin, I’m a little concerned.”

It’s taken Ginger all summer to be able to remember that I’m moving to Michigan—not Minnesota, not Missouri—so this is progress.

“Number one: are you aware that this state is shaped like a mitten and people actually refer to it as The Mitten?”

“I am,” I say. Ginger is one of the smartest people I know, but she reminds me of someone’s grandmother sometimes with her insistence that the things beyond her daily routine are bizarre and shocking.

“So, you’re moving to a state that people refer to by its winter wear. This state also gets a lot of snow. There is only so much geological coincidence I can bear, sweet cheeks. Also, from what I can tell, the main claim to fame of this hamlet you will soon call home is its cherries. Tart cherries.”

“Yeah.”

“Daniel! Tart cherries. Who wants a tart cherry?”

“Dunno, Ginge; I’ve never tried one. I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“Okay, fine, clearly you’re not in the mood to be distracted, so get on with it. What did your dad say?”

I didn’t tell my father or my brothers about getting the job at Sleeping Bear College until last night, after I finished packing. I got the call offering me the job only about a week after my visit. Bernard Ness, the chair of the job search committee, was enthusiastic and friendly and didn’t even mention anything about my never checking in to my hotel the night I was there. At first, I didn’t tell them because I kind of couldn’t believe it had happened. This was what I’d been working toward for about the last decade of my life. It was surreal and shocking to all of a sudden have achieved it.

Then I didn’t tell them because I was madly finishing up my dissertation and planning for my dissertation defense where my committee would decide whether or not to award me my PhD. That was three weeks of fifteen-hour days where I guzzled coffee all day and NyQuil at night, terrified I wouldn’t be able to sleep.

The thing about my father is that he’s like the world’s most accomplished boxer: there’s no predicting which direction the hit will come from. After I passed my defense, I thought of every angle I could—every way in which telling him “hey, I just got my PhD” could be met with something more negative than all the things he’d been saying ever since I decided to go to college and then grad school in the first place. It seemed like a pretty safe announcement. So, that night, I stopped by my dad’s house, knowing I’d catch at least one of my brothers on the couch, drinking my dad’s beer. And if one of them knew something, all of them knew.

My mistake was showing up a little tipsy after drinks with some of my grad school friends, on my way to meet Ginger at her tattoo shop. I’m usually able to keep it together and take whatever my dad and brothers throw at me. And I’d certainly learned long before that if they saw me get even the littlest bit upset, they were like sharks smelling blood in the water.

My dad and Brian, the youngest of my three older brothers, were watching the Phillies when I got there and they barely looked up when I came in. My other brother, Colin, came into the room a minute later and didn’t acknowledge me at all. I told them about passing my defense at a commercial break. Brian looked up, confused, and said, “Didn’t you do that last year?” Typical. My dad said, “Well, that’s great, son. I’m glad you’ve gotten that out of your system. Now what?” Colin didn’t say anything at all.

It was nothing, really. He even said the word “great,” when I’d anticipated the possibility of something like, “Ah, so now you’re a snob officially.”

“Now what?” I said, and I could hear the nasty edge creeping into my voice that tries to scare people away before I fall apart. “Now I thought I’d take a few weeks off after working nonstop for the last twelve years.”

Brian looked up again, taking in my suit, and said, “Whoa, Danielle, what are you all dressed up for?” My brothers had called me Danielle before they ever knew I was gay, but learning I was gay had made it more pointed.

“Don’t call your brother that,” my dad snapped. It wasn’t out of protectiveness for me or anything, he just hates to be reminded of how I’m not the to-the-garage-born specimen of beer-swilling, sports-watching, car-fixing masculinity that he wishes I were.

Then the game came back on and they forgot I was there.

Needless to say, I didn’t tell them about the job then, either. And, okay, I may have gotten a little choked up as I slammed the door and walked to Ginger’s shop, but I blame it on exhaustion. The upside was that when I told Ginger about the latest installment of the Mulligan family assholism, she gave me an emergency tattoo to distract me. The fact that I woke up the next morning and saw that I’d asked her to tattoo “Let Sleeping Bears Lie” above my left hip suggests that I was feeling a bit more sentimental than I’d thought.

Which brings us to last night, when I finally told my dad I was leaving Philadelphia and moving to the middle of nowhere in Northern Michigan.

“Well?” Ginger asks again.

“He was fine with it,” I say.

“Which means?” Ginger presses.

“I told him about the job and he said great, at least I wouldn’t have to borrow money from him.”

“Not that you ever have,” Ginger chimes in, a familiar chorus.

“Not that I ever have. Then I told him it was in Michigan and he seemed confused.”

“Understandable.”

“I don’t actually think he ever considered the fact that jobs exist outside the county of Philadelphia.”

“So you never told him when you went to Michigan for the interview?”

“Nah. I think I told Sam I had an interview because I borrowed a tie, but that’s it.” Sam, my oldest brother, is married to Liza, a really sweet woman—god knows what she sees in him—who does things like invite me over to dinner once a month because she cares about family and stuff. Sam… goes along with it. “Anyway, he just did his handshake-shoulder-pat thing and said good luck.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah. Well, no, he looked under the hood of my car and gave me twenty bucks for gas.”

“Which is, like, your dad for ‘I love you,’ though, right?”

“Yep. Just think: some kids only get told things like, ‘I love you, son,’ or ‘I’ll miss you,’ which aren’t actually useful for anything, whereas I get a tune-up and gas money. Lucky me.”

“So, lucky you,” Ginger drawls, clearly changing the subject, “what about this Sleeping Bear of yours?”

“Dude, would you stop calling him that?”

“Ooh, touchy. I like it. Speaking of secret languages, that’s Daniel for ‘I’m invested in someone and it’s freaking me out.’”

“If by ‘invested in’ you mean ‘made a complete fool out of myself in front of,’ then, yes.”

“You didn’t make a fool out of yourself; he kissed you.”

“Yeah, to calm me down. Then I basically assaulted him.” My stomach sinks and I shiver at the memory, despite it being approximately two thousand degrees in my car right now.

“Whatever; he obviously wanted you. He was just being a gentleman and not falling into bed with you when you were drunk and possibly suffering from a closed-head injury.”

I snort.

“Sooooo, do you think you’ll see him again?”

“Dunno. I mean, it’s not like it’s a bustling metropolis; I’m bound to, right?”

“Great. So, do you think you’ll, like, see him see him?”

“I just….”

“What, pumpkin?”

“I just can’t stop thinking about him, Ginge. It’s idiotic. I mean, I barely know the guy. But when I woke up and he was gone, I just….” I was fucking devastated.

That morning, I woke up warm, the blanket wrapped around me, soft light coming in through the curtains. It took me a minute to remember where I was, but when I registered the cedar smell of the blanket, the whole night came rushing back. I rolled off the couch, my bruised chest and my throbbing head competing for which was most pissed off at me, determined to talk to Rex. To apologize for throwing myself at him, to thank him for not only saving the dog but kind of saving me as well.

But the house was empty. Even the dog was gone. I wandered around the cabin, feeling like some demented fairy-tale character (and cursing my stupid brain for instantly supplying about ten filthy Goldilocks and the three bears references). In the kitchen were a pot of coffee and a plate of toast that was slick with butter and cool to the touch. On the lip of the plate, where I couldn’t miss it, was a Post-it with a phone number on it. I called it right away, thinking it was Rex’s, but a cab company answered.

He hadn’t left a note. Not even a Nice to meet you, or a Try not to hit any more dogs in the future.

“I’m just nervous about running into him, that’s all. I didn’t make the best first impression—you know, what with me practically killing a dog, getting drunk and sexually assaulting him, insulting his town, and all.”

“I have the feeling you made a better impression than you may think,” Ginger says in the know-it-all voice she generally reserves for lecturing me about people I sleep with and telling college students who wander into her shop that they should definitely not get that tattoo.

“Whatever,” I say, sounding petulant even to myself. “Hey, what ever happened with that new guy you hired? The one with the Motörhead shirt.”

“Changing the subject: check. Um, he’s…. Well, he’s….”

“Ah ha! How was he?”

“Let’s just say that Motörhead isn’t an inapt analogue to his approach in the bedroom,” she says.

“Um, I’m not actually sure I know enough about Motörhead to understand that,” I admit. “What does that mean: wham, bam, thank you, ma’am?”

“Yeah, only without the thank you.”

“Yikes. Well, at least he didn’t seem the type to make things awkward in the workplace.”

“No. And he’s only here for the month as a favor to Johnny. No big deal.” Johnny taught Ginger to tattoo.

Out the window to my right are trees, trees, and more trees. I’m not sure exactly where I am, but I should be about an hour away.

“Listen, Ginge, I’m getting close; I need to go so I can look at the directions.”

“Okay.” She pauses. “Hey, pumpkin, listen. I think this is a good thing. This Michigan thing. This job. I’ll miss the shit out of you and I’ll be royally pissed if I don’t hear from you at least once a week, just so we’re clear, but seriously, I have a good feeling.”

“God, I hope you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.”

“Well, I’m glad the self-esteem is coming along.” I don’t want to hang up. I don’t want to cut off the one tie I have to the only place I’ve ever called home.

“Bye, babycakes.”

“Later.”

 

 

LYING IN bed, tossing and turning, I try not to think about how freaked out I am.

The apartment is even worse than it looked online. First of all, it’s tiny. The door at the top of the stairs opens into a kitchen that’s sticky with disuse. That opens into one medium-sized room that’s the living room slash bedroom, and off to the side is a tiny bathroom with a shower stall and a sink. The walls are a greasy off white; the kitchen linoleum is yellowed and peeling up at the edges. The blue carpet in the other room is thick with dust and matted in places with I don’t want to know what. The windows are mostly painted shut, so it’s incredibly hot and stuffy. What I thought, based on the pictures, was a door to another room turned out to be a door out to a rickety fire escape that would as likely kill me as save me in the event of an actual fire. The ceiling is low, since it’s really an attic room, and even at average height it feels claustrophobic. It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever not wished to be taller.

I guess it’ll only be for a year or so, until I can pay off my credit card bills, but it’s still a little depressing. I don’t know why, since my apartment in Philly was kind of a shithole too. It’s weird, though. I’m supposed to be an adult now—a real professor with a real salary who moved to start a real job—but I’m still living in a crappy apartment, only now my concerns can be roasting and/or freezing to death instead of getting mugged.

I’d opted for an apartment that was close enough that I could walk to campus and the library. I figured if I was going to be living in the middle of nowhere, at least I could be in the center of what town there is. It’s a single apartment above a hardware store with a side entrance. Carl, the man who owns it, used to live up here before he got married, but it’s been empty since, so he let me have it dirt-cheap. At least I won’t have to worry about living in the same place as any of my students. Since Sleeping Bear College is so small, only underclassmen live in the dorms, and the last thing I want is to end up sharing a parking lot with a student angry about a grade on a paper.

After I lugged in the stuff from my car, it only took me about an hour to unpack. I’d left my shitty furniture on the curb in Philly for someone to grab and I don’t have much stuff. The bed is here, like Carl promised, and a couch, but there’s no air conditioner and no way I was staying in this stuffy place without it. So I grabbed my keys and went to go find one, figuring I could stop and grab some takeout on my way back.

Outside, the sun was setting and the air was thick, at least as humid as it was back in Philly. It smelled nature-y, though, even in town. Like trees and water and lots and lots of oxygen. It wasn’t even 8:00 p.m., but almost nothing was open.

The town of Holiday—seriously? it sounds like something on a postcard, or one of those Christmas towns that only exist during December—is picturesque. I’ll give it that. The only thing I have to compare it to is Manayunk, a neighborhood in Philly that’s gotten really gentrified in the last ten years or so and now has freshly painted storefronts and arts festivals in the summer.

The shops here are all one of a kind. On Main Street, it’s touristy shops: candles with scents like “Winter Wonderland,” “Morning Rain,” and “Indian Summer”; expensive-looking kitchen stores with hand-carved cutting boards and Swedish-looking single-use gadgets with faces painted on them; specialty food stores selling dried fruit, tiny packets of nuts that are more packaging than food, and every conceivable type of preserves. And, every other storefront or so, shops selling Michigan paraphernalia: aprons and boxer shorts and visors and scarves; oven mitts and cookie cutters, field guides and notepads. Everything cut in the shape of the Michigan mitten (the oven mitts with hearts where Holiday would be on the map) or emblazoned with it.

Off Main Street it’s a bit more normal, but still, it looks like something from a movie set—so curated and clean. The sidewalks are even and wide, separated from the streets by decorative brick, and a line of trees alternating with lamp posts, mailboxes, and the most attractive garbage cans I’ve ever seen, painted a dark green, as if they too are a part of nature.

I finally peeked into an Italian restaurant and immediately regretted it because it was kind of a nice place and I was sweaty, wearing jean cutoffs and a black T-shirt with the sleeves torn off from Ginger’s shop, which said Tattoo Bitch in bold Gothic font across my chest. I asked the hostess if there was a diner or a takeout place nearby and was peppered with overly friendly questions about my favorite foods. I wandered off in the direction she had pointed, reminding myself that this was a small town and people were probably just friendly, not trying to give me the third degree.

At the diner, people stared again. I grabbed a sandwich to go and practically ran back to my apartment with it.

It’s finally sinking in. I live here now. I live here in this tiny town. Everyone knows each other and I’m a stranger. They’ll want to know me. Know about me. And then maybe they’ll hate me.

Before, I always had the option to just disappear. Don’t like the people in my classes? No problem. Hide out in the library or hop on the subway and go work somewhere else. Don’t want to run into an ex in the coffee shop? Slept with the bartender at this bar? Just walk half a block and go to another one. Have an awkward encounter with someone? Who cares? I’ll never see them again.

But now it all counts. There’s nowhere to hide here. No blending in or fucking off. I’ve never felt so terrified or so exposed.

 

 

IN THE past week, I’ve cleaned my apartment, scraped together a quasi-professional wardrobe for teaching, finalized my syllabi for the upcoming semester, eaten at every single nonfancy restaurant in town, and answered some variation of the question “who are you” approximately eight thousand times. I ran into Carl, whose apartment I’m renting, at the diner and he was solicitous—how’s the apartment, how do I like Holiday—but I got the sense that it was mostly for the benefit of everyone else in the diner who was listening when he asked me if I had a partner. Kind of like he wanted to prove that he didn’t have any problem with me being gay.

Bernard Ness, the chair of the job search committee, had me over to his house for dinner. It was pleasant enough, and it’s lucky we have work to talk about, since I don’t think we have much else in common. He filled me in on enough departmental gossip to last a lifetime and the entire time I prayed that this would not become my life: gossiping about which of my colleagues is getting a divorce and whose forthcoming article should never have been accepted for publication.

And all week I’ve wondered when I’d run into him. Rex. Last night, I had a dream that I walked into the diner and he was working there, only it was one of those old-timey soda shoppes and he was wearing the whole soda jerk getup: white shirt and apron, black bow tie, dorky white hat perched on his perfect head. He made me a delicious-looking milkshake but then refused to give it to me. I know, right? You don’t have to be Freud.

Classes start on Monday, so the town has begun to buzz as students get back. Still, it’s nine o’clock on a Saturday night and it doesn’t look like anything is going on. At least I won’t have any distractions while I’m here; it’ll give me time to work on turning my dissertation into a book, which, among other things, will be required of me to get tenure at Sleeping Bear. More to the point, I’ll need to have a publication offer in hand if I have any hope of getting a job that isn’t in the middle of nowhere.

Now, though, I’m antsy as hell. It’s hot in my apartment, even with the air conditioner that I had to drive an hour to find. I spent the day making sure I knew where everything was: my classes, my office, the library, the one pizza joint that stays open after ten. I’ve finished all the reading and done course planning for my first week of classes. I’ve watched four documentaries that have been in my Netflix queue for ages. And I may or may not have googled “Rex + Michigan” to no avail.

I decide I just need to get out of the house, so I throw on shoes and grab my beat-up copy of The Secret History. I’ve read it a hundred times, but it fits perfectly in my back pocket and it’s a comfort book: as long as I’m reading it, it doesn’t matter where I am. Besides, the main character of the book leaves his home in California to go to college in a small town where he’s never been before, so it seems particularly relevant to my life right now. I figure I’ll take a walk and find a park bench to read on or something.

It really is beautiful here once it’s not sweltering. I’m actually looking forward to the winter; I bet it looks like a storybook village when everything’s covered with snow. The quiet freaks me out, though, so I pop in the earbuds of my beat-up iPod, saying a tiny prayer to the music gods, as I do every time I use it these days, that it’ll last me just one more year.

That was my mantra all through grad school. When I first started, it was a nightmare. Everyone at Penn came from good colleges that had prepared them for the classes. I went to community college for three years, then transferred to Temple and squeezed all my remaining credits into one year since it’s all I could afford. I’m pretty sure I only got into grad school at Penn because they needed to fill a quota of first generation college students or something. I was totally unprepared, but I told myself that after one year, the playing field would have evened. One more year. Then, when I was so exhausted from doing all my reading and writing for coursework while bartending five nights a week, I would tell myself, Just one more year and then you’ll be done with coursework and starting your dissertation. When I felt like I would never finish writing, I told myself, One more year; you just have to hang on for one more year.

Now, here I am. If I can just deal with my crappy apartment for one more year, I’ll have enough money for a nicer place. If my car will just keep running for one more year, I’ll be able to get a new one—well, a less-used one. Et cetera. One more year.

I’ve walked farther than I meant to, away from campus, and somehow, even though I’ve always associated Tom Waits with the city, his voice like pavement and whiskey and heartbreak, listening to him makes me see the winding road in front of me in a new light. He’s the perfect soundtrack to this deserted place, the only light now from the moon, the trees encroaching.

I’m looking up at the moon, feeling a bit smug and rather impressed by myself for, like, being in nature, when I’m knocked over from behind.

I pitch forward, barely catching myself on my right hand, and jerk my earbuds out, whipping my head around to see where the attack is coming from. I should have fucking known better than to be walking alone at night when I couldn’t hear someone coming. I’ve known that since I was twelve years old. I can’t believe I thought it was safe here just because there’s nothing to fucking do. Serial killers, Daniel! Remember?

All this runs through my mind in the second it takes me to see that I am, in fact, not about to be serial killed. Because what knocked me over was a dog. A brown and white dog that is now licking my face and trying to put its paws on my shoulders.

“Marilyn! Marilyn, here, girl.”

I know that voice. That low, commanding voice. Not as gravelly as Tom Waits, but so much more welcome.

Rex.