Read Online A Life in Men: A Novel by Gina Frangello - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gina Frangello
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is a zoo in here somewhere, but Mary does not see it. She watches swans wandering around, wondering if they are the same swans Nix mentioned in her first letter describing the school.
Ah, the magic of London!
Nix wrote with the irony of a traveler more experienced than she really was. Once, Nix climbed a fence into the college grounds after hours, when the gate was locked. Mary is not sure what Nix was doing that for; she cannot remember if she ever knew. She was with her flatmates, girls who have graduated by now and are home with their own memories of Nix—of
Nicole
—and no memories of Mary, whom they have never met.
Mary is exhausted. Since her “major hemoptysis” (as Dr. Narayan called it on the phone), there has been no more blood in her sputum. Still, she does not feel the same. All week she’s been afraid to use her inhalers, to thin anything out lest she start bleeding again. She found herself making excuses to Dr. Narayan: how smoggy London was, how smoky the air of Arthog House and the Latchmere. At last, she ended up blurting out, as if to a priest in a confessional, “I’ve been skipping my PTs—the house where I live is so crowded, it’s just hard to find the privacy to do them.” She pronounced “privacy” the English way. Silence expanded on the other end of the line, and her cheeks burned. Dr. Narayan sighed. “I thought you were smarter than this,” he said, his clipped accent not unlike the mysterious woman’s in the Indian restaurant. “I thought you understood there is no way we can help you unless you’re willing to help yourself.”
Until the night of blood, Mary had not felt truly
ill
since the infection that led to her diagnosis at seventeen. Now, heading back to the Baker Street Station from Regent’s Park, her ragged breath and clammy skin shame her, her body revealing its ugly truth. Waiting for the Tube, she leans against a wall, trying to stay out of the way of flextime commuters, when an announcement comes on the PA system that the Bakerloo line has been delayed owing to a “body on the tracks.” Mary looks around in disbelief, but no one else seems to have registered the news. Londoners calmly read newspapers or munch a Cadbury. Soon the train comes anyway, the body no doubt having been unceremoniously removed.
Next to her in the crowded car is a trendy boy, hair dipping deeply over his left eye, jaw sharp as a knife beneath the curtain. “Does this happen often?” she asks him. “Delays because of . . . uh, bodies on the tracks?”
The boy laughs, one short bark. His breath smells of smoke, and momentarily Mary imagines burying her face in his chest. “You have no idea!” he proclaims, almost proudly.
Apparently, all over London, commuters are hurling themselves to be electrocuted and run over, but nobody minds. It would be in bad form to make a fuss.
She changes trains at Earl’s Court, rides back to West Kensington. Outside, the sky is dark now. She needs to go back to the Indian restaurant to ask the
real
questions. Were there former owners? Has Hasnain died? Moved away? She has to find him.
Outside the station, the Three Kings pub dwarfs one corner, beckoning as it did the day she rode here with Yank. Nix would have seen this pub every time she went to and from the Tube, which would mean—though none of the letters mention it—that she went there at least occasionally or, let’s face it, probably a lot. The Three Kings is the antithesis of the Latchmere, the crowd well heeled, sparkling clean. Girls drink wine and half pints of cider. Guys are loud but in a good-natured way, so familiar in their bland good looks that Mary doesn’t feel strange entering alone. The pub is gigantic; nobody will notice her amid the commotion. If people look her way at all, they will think her friends are at the bar getting drinks; they will think she is waiting for a date. She sits at a table with her cider.
She is on her second drink, wishing cider were more carbonated so
Ah, the magic of London!
Nix wrote with the irony of a traveler more experienced than she really was. Once, Nix climbed a fence into the college grounds after hours, when the gate was locked. Mary is not sure what Nix was doing that for; she cannot remember if she ever knew. She was with her flatmates, girls who have graduated by now and are home with their own memories of Nix—of
Nicole
—and no memories of Mary, whom they have never met.
Mary is exhausted. Since her “major hemoptysis” (as Dr. Narayan called it on the phone), there has been no more blood in her sputum. Still, she does not feel the same. All week she’s been afraid to use her inhalers, to thin anything out lest she start bleeding again. She found herself making excuses to Dr. Narayan: how smoggy London was, how smoky the air of Arthog House and the Latchmere. At last, she ended up blurting out, as if to a priest in a confessional, “I’ve been skipping my PTs—the house where I live is so crowded, it’s just hard to find the privacy to do them.” She pronounced “privacy” the English way. Silence expanded on the other end of the line, and her cheeks burned. Dr. Narayan sighed. “I thought you were smarter than this,” he said, his clipped accent not unlike the mysterious woman’s in the Indian restaurant. “I thought you understood there is no way we can help you unless you’re willing to help yourself.”
Until the night of blood, Mary had not felt truly
ill
since the infection that led to her diagnosis at seventeen. Now, heading back to the Baker Street Station from Regent’s Park, her ragged breath and clammy skin shame her, her body revealing its ugly truth. Waiting for the Tube, she leans against a wall, trying to stay out of the way of flextime commuters, when an announcement comes on the PA system that the Bakerloo line has been delayed owing to a “body on the tracks.” Mary looks around in disbelief, but no one else seems to have registered the news. Londoners calmly read newspapers or munch a Cadbury. Soon the train comes anyway, the body no doubt having been unceremoniously removed.
Next to her in the crowded car is a trendy boy, hair dipping deeply over his left eye, jaw sharp as a knife beneath the curtain. “Does this happen often?” she asks him. “Delays because of . . . uh, bodies on the tracks?”
The boy laughs, one short bark. His breath smells of smoke, and momentarily Mary imagines burying her face in his chest. “You have no idea!” he proclaims, almost proudly.
Apparently, all over London, commuters are hurling themselves to be electrocuted and run over, but nobody minds. It would be in bad form to make a fuss.
She changes trains at Earl’s Court, rides back to West Kensington. Outside, the sky is dark now. She needs to go back to the Indian restaurant to ask the
real
questions. Were there former owners? Has Hasnain died? Moved away? She has to find him.
Outside the station, the Three Kings pub dwarfs one corner, beckoning as it did the day she rode here with Yank. Nix would have seen this pub every time she went to and from the Tube, which would mean—though none of the letters mention it—that she went there at least occasionally or, let’s face it, probably a lot. The Three Kings is the antithesis of the Latchmere, the crowd well heeled, sparkling clean. Girls drink wine and half pints of cider. Guys are loud but in a good-natured way, so familiar in their bland good looks that Mary doesn’t feel strange entering alone. The pub is gigantic; nobody will notice her amid the commotion. If people look her way at all, they will think her friends are at the bar getting drinks; they will think she is waiting for a date. She sits at a table with her cider.
She is on her second drink, wishing cider were more carbonated so
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