Chapter Thirteen
Janie
I groaned as the doorbell rang just as I was about to get into my bath. I wondered if Anabel had left something in the living room earlier. I wrapped my towel around myself and hurried to the front door as the doorbell rang again. “I’m coming,” I shouted as I opened the door quickly. “Oh.” I stood there frozen as I saw Nate standing on the other side. “It’s you.”
“It’s me.” He nodded as he looked at me. “Can I come in?”
“You have a key, you could have just opened the door.” I looked away.
“Can I come in please, Janie?” His voice sounded hoarse.
“Why?” I looked at his face. He looked unkempt. He hadn’t shaved since I’d last seen him and he almost looked skinnier as well. His hair was an unruly mess and his clothes were crumpled.
“I need to see you. I need to talk to you,” he pleaded. “Please. I’ve tried to give you your space, but I need to talk to you. I can’t take this anymore.”
“We have nothing to talk about, Nate.” I shook my head and all of a sudden tiredness hit me. “Please just leave.” His handsome face stared at me and I could feel every piece of my heart breaking as he looked at me with sad puppy-dog eyes.
“Please, Janie. I’m sorry. I miss you,” he said. “Can I please come in?”
“I suppose so,” I said warily. I didn’t really want him to come in, but I had a feeling he wasn’t going to leave unless I let him in. “What do you want, Nate?”
"I need you, Janie.” He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “I need you in my life. I need you to live. Just like I need air, and food and water. In fact, I could do without them. I can’t do without you. I can’t live without you. I don’t want to and I don’t think I physically can.” Nate’s face looked intense as he stared at me. He grabbed my hands and he pulled me toward him. “This last week has been the hardest of my life.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Nate.” I shook my head as I refused to get my hopes up.
“I didn’t want this to happen.” He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “I still remember the day when we reconnected after college and you ran up to me and you hugged me so tight and you kissed me on the cheek and you told me you missed me. And I saw you standing there in front of me and all the old feelings came rushing back. And I realized in that moment that I had missed you as well. I saw you and I knew that I never wanted to lose you from my life again. Never. For no reason. I saw you and I thought to myself how could I have treated you so poorly in college. I thought to myself maybe we should give it a go. But then I remembered that relationships come and go. They end. And when they end, those people go away from your life. Lovers leave you. Friends don’t. True friends are for life. I didn’t want to risk it. It was never a possibility in my life that we could or should be more than friends. I didn’t want to ever have to go without you again. I didn’t want to go through the pain and heartache of losing you ever again.” His eyes burned into mine. “Do you understand, Janie?”
“I’m not sure what you want me to understand?”
“I love you, Janie. I think I’ve always loved you. Deep inside. I’ve always been jealous of you and other guys. I don’t want you to be with anyone else. I don’t want to be with anyone else. You’re inside of my heart. You always have been.”
“You’re lying,” I said, though I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe him so badly.
“No. No. I love you so much, Janie. I’ve been a fool. I know you might not believe me. Might not trust me right now, but I need you to know that I’m being sincere. I need you to know that I’ve always felt this way. I just haven’t wanted to acknowledge it.”
“I don’t know what to say, Nate.” I looked into his eyes, trying to find the truth. “You know I love you. You know I want to be with you. I always have.”
“I need you to read this story I wrote for my granddad,” he said as he led me toward the living room and then we sat down on the couch. “I need you to understand what it was like for me. How close we were. He was like a part of me. When I was younger he looked after me like I was his son. He took me to ball games, he played chess with me. He was my everything and then he got old and he couldn’t remember me. Only sometimes he could. And then I could remember things about him and I’d try to remind him. And sometimes when I told the stories it was almost like it was me.”
“You really loved him,” I said. “It’s hard to lose someone you love. I know that.”
“It’s so hard, Janie. I don’t ever want to lose you. Romantic relationships end, but friendships don’t. Not real friendships. They last forever. What we have can last forever, Janie. I can’t lose you.”
“I want more than friendship, Nate. I love you as more than friends.”
“Janie.” His face was twisted and he leaned over to kiss him. “I need you to understand where I was coming from. Please read this story. I love you as more than friends as well. I realize that now. I realize that I’ve always loved you. I just didn’t want to acknowledge it. I was scared that accepting it would mean accepting that one day we would part, but I was wrong. I was so very wrong.”
“What do you mean?” I asked him quietly. Did he really love me?
“Please read this story first. I know you might not think it’s relevant, but it really is. It’s the last piece of the puzzle that’s me.”
“Okay,” I said, wanting to scream at him. I didn’t want to read another story right now. I wanted to have a real conversation about the two of us. I wanted him to give us a chance. A real chance. I wanted him to tell me he loved me and that he wanted to give a relationship a chance. Now, not later, not after I read something. But I knew I had to be patient. This was important to him. And what was important to him was important to me as well.
“It’s called Edward Sullivan. After my grandfather,” he said as he handed me his laptop as he took it out of his backpack.
“Okay.” I stared at the screen and then at his face. This meant a lot to him. I needed to concentrate. I needed to feel what he was feeling to truly understand what was in his mind. To understand why he had pulled away from him. I closed my eyes for a few seconds so that I could concentrate and then I opened them and started reading.
Edward Sullivan
They say his name is Edward Sullivan. He lives in room 35. He’s seventy-seven, graying, his memory comes and goes. I think he has Alzheimer’s. Scary disease that. Alzheimer’s. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. I couldn’t imagine not being able to remember things. Important things. Like where I left my keys or hid my pack of smokes. Or the first time I held a gun. Powerful moment that. Or my first kiss. Not that it was anything special. It’s just nice to remember. Janie was her name. Janie what, I don’t know. She had freckles, big brown eyes and a nervous giggle that always made me feel anxious. She wasn’t my first love or anything, but still it’s nice to remember. It’s weird the things you still remember. Maybe she was my first love. I don’t know. She’s gone now.
Edward Sullivan used to be a bookstore owner. Or maybe it’s better to say the proprietor of a bookstore. That sounds smarter. The words we use matter. And even more importantly the order of words matters. At least it does to me. Sometimes. Sometimes I don’t care. I met Edward ten years ago. Well kind of. It’s complicated you see. We met a while ago, only we didn’t realize it at first. We met in a bathroom of all places. It was awkward making eye contact with him in the mirror as we both pissed our hearts away. My young eyes meeting his old ones. Both blue, both curious, both familiar, yet not. We nodded. Said hello. It’s always awkward to say hello in the restroom. I didn’t really want to acknowledge him, but I’m not an unfriendly guy. He looked away first. I pretended that he wasn’t fumbling with his zipper when he was done. Not like I wanted to offer to help him. Then I saw him the next day in the cafeteria trying to decide between the lasagna and the meatloaf and something in what he said sparked something in me. He said, “what the good lord wants me to eat, so shall I eat.” I remembered that saying, from somewhere, from the back of my mind, from when I was young.
Edward Sullivan, such a common sounding name. It should have been familiar given our history. When I was a young boy I knew so many people. I lived in a small town you see, used to have a paper route, not that I got to keep the money. No siree. My momma needed every dime of that money I made. Not that she liked to admit it. It was just ’til my dad came home from war, only he never came. I had two sisters, younger than me, annoying pains in the asses, though I loved them. I didn’t have many friends, I think because as my great aunt used to say, I was a “unique” kid. I wasn’t into the things other boys were into: I didn’t play ball, didn’t go down to the crick on the weekends, I didn’t like going to old man Smith’s farm and stealing apples from his orchard. I liked to read. First it was the papers I used to deliver, I used to get up extra early just so I could read the paper before having to deliver it. If I’m honest, I didn’t start reading for the fun of it. I started reading because I wanted news of my pops. Weird word that, pops. I don’t even know why I use it. In my everyday vernacular, I use father or dad, but pops, well pops seems more homey, more familiar, more loving. Makes me seem more relatable. I like to be relatable, even though I’m a words guy. Momma told me once that every single word was important, no matter how big or how small. She said the words we used in speech, in writing, even in scribbling notes mattered. Made a difference to someone. Momma was smart of course, she was a schoolteacher. At a time when really all she could be was a teacher or a nurse, but that didn’t detract from her greatness. Momma taught me that if only one person saw our greatness that was enough. That was enough because all you needed was one. One person meant that it was real. I was that person for Edward Sullivan. I believed that he had the talent. I believed that he was destined for greatness. I believed. I can remember one night we had a long conversation and talked about how much he wanted to write a book that changed the world. That changed lives.
“One day, I want to impact someone. I want to make them believe in things like God and dinosaurs and aliens. I want to make them believe that anything is possible, that everything is probable. I want the power of my words to give them faith in themselves. I want the power of my words to change lives. It doesn’t even have to be multiple lives. It can be one life. If I can change just one life. If I can make just one person believe. If Poppy could only understand that all the things I did, all the things I said, all the things I wanted, if she could only understand that I did it all before I knew, before I understood exactly what I wanted. If she only knew that I wasn’t half the man I would grow to be in those early days. I want to write a book for her. I want to write a book to make her understand. She was the love of my life. I just figured it out too late.”
The pain emanates in me every time I think about those thoughts. I had faith that Edward could get those words out. I had faith that he could get Poppy to understand. I had faith that if he just wrote, even a few words a day he’d be successful. That’s all he needed to do. That’s all that needed to happen. Then he could do all the things he wanted to do. He could achieve his dreams. He could convince Poppy before it was too late. He just had to have faith. That’s what I thought. That’s what I told myself. That’s what I told Edward. That’s what I tell him. Every day.
***
Edward Sullivan lives in room 35 and I live in room 19. In a big apartment building in New York City. We both like to be noticed. We both like to talk. We both like to remember. Though, it’s so very easy to forget. So many intertwined memories. So much baggage. So much pain. So much we forgot. We both came to the realization that we knew each other at the same time. It was all about the words, you see. The words matter. It was the words that brought it all back.
***
They make us go to church. Me and Edward. I don’t know how that’s legal, but Edward and I endure it. Some weeks he doesn’t go, but I always do. It reminds me of my childhood. And it’s nice to remember something. Anything these days. Sunday’s were all about church growing up. Much like now. It’s comforting, even though I don’t really enjoy it. How I hated church. A more boring activity I’ve not come across. And it was an all day affair. I can still feel the itch against my chest from my freshly starched shirts and the tightness in my too small dress pants as I kneeled in prayer asking God to forgive my sins and to make me a better boy. Better in what ways I didn't know. I suppose that later on in my life, my wife would have asked for me to be a better husband and my kids would have asked for a better dad. Or a dad that seemed to care. I don’t know. I never had a way with kids. Didn’t know how to connect. Kids don’t care about the words like I do. They want the time and the fun. I wasn’t about fun. At least not the fun that they craved. I was too inside my head, too caught up in being fantastic. I wanted to be a writer. A writer that touched people. I wanted to change the world with my words.
Edward Sullivan helped me write my first short story. It was a Sunday. I was meant to be in Sunday school, going to my confirmation classes. On the first day, God created the earth. Or did he make Adam? Or Eve? Or did he spend the day laughing? Maybe God didn’t create anything. Maybe he didn’t exist. Strike me down with lightning. I still feel a sense of guilt when I push my thoughts to the realm of disbelief. My momma would have beat me if she ever heard my doubt. She didn’t know I used to skip confirmation though. Only Edward, the priest, and the good lord knew. I could hear the boys saying the Lord’s Prayer like good sheep, hallowed be thy name, they said in unison as I sat in the dirt reading psalms, taking in the words, trying to figure out the meanings. Wondering if God would strike them or me down first for being a sinner. I desecrated the words on the pages. Questioned everything. Doubted nothing. Makes no sense does it? I’m a complicated fellow. Unique, remember? My son once said that if I spent, as much time thinking about people as I did about words then I wouldn’t have a hard time connecting or remembering. I don’t know if he meant to hurt my feelings or not. Either way, it’s fine. I deserve it. Fine, that’s a lovely word. Means absolutely nothing in any context. What is fine? Really? Useless. Apathetic word. Apathetic.
Edward whispered in my ear as I bent over the Old Testament, his voice clear and curious, “What you reading, boy?” I looked up, the sun blurring my eyes as I gazed at his face, his features distorted, his hair a halo of blinding gold in the light.
“The bible,” I said, my voice a squeak. He looked like a shepherd to me and I blinked as I stared at him. Was this the reincarnation of Moses? Was he here to lead me to the Promised Land? That’s what I remember. Edward in my mind, with a cane, watching me with keen eyes. Familiar. Testing me. Testing myself. Pushing the limits.
“Seeking the Kingdom of God?” he asked, amusement in his tone. The seeds of doubt being planted not by me, but by some external source. Who was I to be a non-believer?
“Seek ye first the kingdom of God,” I repeated dutifully, wondering if I was being tested. I don’t remember his next words. I wish I did. I remember thinking that they were inspired. At least inspired enough to get me to follow him away from the church and down to the bookstore a mile down the road. Edward Sullivan was always a man of few words. Few words, but powerful ones. I wish I knew how to explain it. I wish I could tell you of how he spoke, how he felt, how he looked. I wish I could tell you in finite detail the thoughts that went through his head. I wish so many things. But then I guess we all do. When you get on in life, there are so many things you look back on and ponder. What if I’d done this? What if I’d done that? What if I hadn’t waited? What if I’d paid more attention? What if I’d lived a different kind of life?
Poppy Sullivan. That was Edward’s wife. I see her sometimes. She wasn’t from here. She had a slight accent, made it hard to understand what she was saying sometimes. She had the blackest hair I’d ever seen in my life. As black as the night sky, blacker even. It was beautiful. Silky. Asides from the days when it wasn’t. She hated those days. Those days she locked herself in the bathroom trying to perfect it. Or she’d go to the hairdresser. I think she thought that having perfect hair would make Edward love her more than he did. She didn’t realize that he loved her as much as he was capable of. His lack of enthusiasm and interest had nothing to do with his love for her. Poppy gave him three kids. Maybe four. Maybe even five. I know they lost one. When she was six months. It hit them both hard. Pain. Real pain. That’s what you feel when you lose a child. Cutting, deep, cold pain. The despair and distraught can take over your life. I still remember the baby. I think her name was Alice. Yes, Alice was her name. She was a wonder. A capricious delight. She had her mother’s raven hair and her father’s bright blue eyes. And she giggled like she was an angel. Which I suppose she is now. Perhaps. If I still believe in things like angels, and heaven, and God. Edward Sullivan didn’t like believers. He tried to indoctrinate me. Tried to make me lose all of my good teachings. Tried to make me a heathen and take away all the things my momma had taught me. ’Cause momma loved all the teachings, believed every single one of them. Momma tithed ten percent every week, even during weeks when we barely had enough to eat. Momma made me pray day and night. I prayed for everybody in our damn town almost every week. Though, damn’s not a good word. Kind of obfuscates the whole thought, right? Damn and prayer should never be in the sentence. Blasphemy. What fear it is to incur the wrath of God into a little boy? Hell and damnation and eternal fires singing the skin. Hard to not be a believer when the alternative was so scary.
***
1980 was a glorious year. That was the year that I realized that nothing in life was as important as just being able to live. That was the year my best friend Yakov died. Yes, it’s weird to call a year glorious when your best friend dies. It was also weird that a Hasidic Jew and a devout Christian, such as myself, would have been bosom buddies. Only it wasn’t really. We just never spoke of Christ. Or the fact that Yakov was the believer and I wasn’t. Irony laughs in the face of those who test him. Yakov knew Edward about as well as I did. He knew that Edward read five books a week. What a feat it is to read five books a week. I don’t know how he did it. Edward loved to talk about books and the greats. I sometimes wonder why he never wrote his own book. Such was his love of the written word. I thought and Yakov thought that he could have been a great writer, if he only put himself to the task. However, he worried too much about everything being perfect. He said he preferred to devour what others had written. I knew that that wasn’t true, but sometimes you can’t make a man step out of his comfort zone. No matter how hard you try. No matter if it’s his dream. 1980 was a great year. I see Yakov sometimes in the apartment building. He has dinner with Edward every Friday night. Like they did in the old days. They drink bourbon and talk about history. I try and stay away when they start talking about Zionism and Israel. I know on those nights, they’ll be arguing all night. Blame the English, Edward says always. And I always agree, no matter what state I’m in.
***
Jazz brought Edward and I together. Soulful jazz. Etta James, XYZ, XYZ, XYZ. Like music to my ears. I could close my eyes and just imagine sitting in an audience somewhere, listening to the saxophone player taking his breaths, swaying to the beat. It made my heart race. Jazz music makes me remember. Nights when blurry images didn’t matter. Poppy smiling. My mother kissing me on the cheek. Memorizing psalms and poems. Laughing loudly when my son told jokes he’d made up. Lying in bed trying to remember where I was at three in the morning. Closing my eyes and picturing Alice’s eyes. Thinking of her growing up. Crying. Loving. Being closed off. Hating how hard it was for me to share what was in my head. Preposterous really.
***
Edward Sullivan is my neighbor. My best friend. He lives in apartment 19. I mean room 19. I live in room 35. He’s graying, though sometimes his hair is jet black. Some days he reads the dictionary for fun. Some days, he plays with his kids. Though, those days are rare. Some days he tells me stories that make me laugh. Other days he makes me cry. Those are the days when he can’t remember who I am. When his eyes stare at mine in the mirror and I see someone I don’t really recognize. I remember that the lord is my shepherd, but somehow I’m always left wanting. Momma wouldn’t like hearing me say that. Pops either, though he never heard anything because he was never there. Pops, papa, father, dad. Sometimes I see him coming to me. I have vague memories that pop into my mind at random times. I saw my son once and he told me, with a sad look in his eyes, you thought I was Granddad. Do I look like Granddad? I just blinked at him. I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. I had no idea who he was.
***
They told me I should be a writer. All my life. They told me, you could be one of the greats. I knew they were just being nice. I knew that I didn’t have what it took. But now, now that I barely remember my own name. Now that the memories come and go so frequently. Now that I see her face in every woman. Now when I see my fifty-year-old son as a teen. Now that I dance in the rain and jump over fences and can’t sign checks anymore. Now that I get angry at the drop of a hat and punch the wall in frustration. Now that my hand shakes when I play dominoes and I read the same newspaper over and over again. Mark Ballast hit a home run. Mark Ballast hit a home run. Mark Ballast hit a home run. He did? He did? He did? Who are you? Are you my son? My friend? My mother? My doctor? Get away from me? I don’t know you. I miss my wife. My miss my life. I miss my freedom. They told me I should be a writer. All my life. They told me, you could be one of the greats. I knew they were just being nice. I knew that I didn’t have what it took. But now, now that I barely remember my own name.
Now.
They say his name is Edward Sullivan. They say my name is too. I’d like to meet him someday. Maybe I will.
“You named a character, Janie,” I said, tears in my eyes as I looked at him. “Was it after me?”
“No.” He shook his head. “It was you.” He grabbed my hands. “I know that was a long read and I know that you wanted to talk, but I needed you to read that first. I wanted you to see. I wrote that after we met in college and you’d stopped talking to me. I wrote that I loved you, Janie. Don’t you see? You’ve always been my first love. My only love. I’ve tried to forget. So many times. I didn’t want to lose you again. But I can’t keep living this lie. I love you more than life itself. I love you as more than a friend. I want to be with you, Janie. I want us to be lovers and friends and I want us to get married and have babies and I want to write stories about our adventures and journeys through life together. I’m not scared anymore. My granddad wouldn’t want me to be scared. I was scared to write and share it with people and he encouraged me. And then you encouraged me and I realized that this was what it was all about. It’s about taking chances. It’s about living. Not just playing it safe.”
“Oh, Nate.” My heart melted at his words. “Is this real life? Are you really here?”
“You’re so brave, my darling, Janie. You’ve taken so much crap from me and yet, you’ve always been here for me. You’ve loved me and forgiven me and opened up to me and I’ve been an idiot. Will you forgive me, my darling? Do you still love me?”
“Of course I still love you, Nate. Of course I still love you. I’ve always loved you. There’s never been anyone for me, but you.”
“Will you marry me, Janie?”
“Isn’t that moving a bit fast?”
“I think we’re moving pretty slow.” He grinned at me. “And is that a yes? I haven’t heard an answer yet.”
“Of course that’s a yes,” I said happily and then yelped as he pulled me into his arms and started kissing me. I could feel warm tears on my face and I looked up at him in shock. “Are you crying?”
“Yes, I’m crying.” He gave me a huge kiss. “You have just made me the happiest man in the world. You don’t even know how happy I am right now.”
“If it’s anything like how happy I am right now. I would say that you’re super duper happy.” I grinned at him.
“Can you forgive me, Janie? I know I’ve been horrible. A jealous brute. A fool. I’ve broken your heart and I’ve hurt you dearly and it pains me so much.” He looked strained. “I don’t know how I could have done that to you. I just don’t know.”
“I forgive you, Nate.” I wiped the tears off of his cheek. “I love you, Nate. I would forgive you anything. You know that.”
“How did I get so lucky as to deserve someone like you?” he asked me softly as he kissed both of my hands. “I don’t deserve someone like you.”
“No, you don’t.” I laughed and then winked at him. “But I’m glad you recognize that I’m worth more than a hookup.”
“Ugh.” He made a face. “I don’t even want to think about that. Though, if I remember correctly, you’re the one that said that you wanted to hook up. And with Dylan I might add.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me.” I made a face at him. “I can’t believe I even thought about playing those silly games to try and get you.”
“What silly games?” He paused. “The chess stuff?”
“Ha-ha, kind of.” I leaned forward and kissed him again. I didn’t think now was the time to tell him about the jealousy plan. “By the way, do you know what happened with Dylan and Anabel? She won’t tell me and I’m dying to figure it out.”
“I have absolutely no clue.” Nate shook his head and he looked at me thoughtfully. “I never thought I would say this because I never thought it would ever happen, but I really think that Dylan fell for Anabel.”
“You think so?”
“Well, I don’t really know, but I’ve never known him to be upset about a girl ever,” he said and then he kissed me again. “But enough about them, how about we get this towel off of you and then I can show you just how badly I love you.”
“You mean how badly you want my body.” I laughed as I stood up and dropped the towel to the floor. He gawked up at me with lust and desire in his eyes and I grabbed his hand. “Come with me, big boy. Come and show me how badly you want me.”
“Yes, Janie. Anything you want.” He jumped up and I headed toward the bedroom feeling like the luckiest woman in the world. Everything hadn’t gone according to plan when we’d gone to Belize but it had worked out even better than I’d thought possible.
“I love you, Nate.”
“I love you, Janie. More than you’ll ever know,” he said and then he pushed me against the corridor wall and kissed me softly. “I love you with everything in me. Never forget that, okay.”
I nodded up and him and I could see the love staring down at me. “I won’t forget.”
“This is forever,” he said as he kissed me again. “This is forever and ever.”
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