was him. Thank God for him. I laugh. Into his answering machine, I laugh. "I should have known that was you, Mr. Gretzky," I say. "Fucking jerk."
I hang up and when I turn around I run into a fly strip. It falls from the hanging cord and sticks in my hair and on my sweater. I can't even throw it away, because it sticks to my hands. My sweater looks like a snail has traversed my body.
Nicholas, the boy I dated for three years of college, the one who taught me to fire guns, calls me.
"How'd you get my number?" I ask. "Your parents," he says.
"What do you want?" I have to talk to them about giving out my number to him. To anyone . "The money you owe me."
We'd made plans to rent a house in upstate New York this past summer with some of his friends. When we broke up in March, I told him I'd pay him back my share of the rent when I'd earned it.
I'd known from the start he was troubled. Four years ago, he sent me a bouquet of red roses on Valentine's Day. I was dating someone else and he knew this, and the guy, quite well. I found the gift of the roses sweetly delusional. After that, I couldn't get him out of my mind.
We dated for three years and eventually there was a second clue and a third, a fourth and a fifth, and finally that weekend we spent at his family's third second home—this one in New Hampshire—a whole bouquet of evidence confirming what I feared was true.
That night in New Hampshire we'd made a nice dinner of Cornish hen and we both drank too much wine. I'd had the procedure where they'd taken my eggs, and I had just found out that the woman from the U.S.S. Intrepid was pregnant. My plans for the trip to Portugal were in the works. Nicholas didn't know about the eggs or the trip. Over dinner, I told him.
"Why didn't you ask me for money?" he said.
"I didn't want to. I don't want to ever borrow your money." "And so you just go and have sex with a total stranger?"
I fake-laughed because I didn't want to raise my voice. "It's not like that." "Why wouldn't you just take my money? I don't get it."
"It's not even your money. It's your fathers," I said. "And besides, I didn't want to owe you anything."
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"I didn't want to tell you until it was definite," I said. "Until it worked. The chances of it not working were pretty high."
"But what if we want to have lads? You've ruined that. You've already done that with someone else."
"Nicholas," I said, and then didn't know what else to say.
We were silent through the rest of dinner, silent as we watched TV. Silent as he poured himself another drink, as we got into bed. The house was so quiet I could hear sounds from the neighbors' home a mile away. At some point, I fell asleep.
When I awoke, it was to something circling above my head. My first thought was that it was a bat. My second was that I must be mistaken—maybe it was a piece of fire-blackened paper swirling in the breeze.
"Nicholas" I said, shaking him. He was the heaviest sleeper. "Nick." Finally, he awoke. "I think there's a bat in the room."
"It probably got in through the fireplace," he said. "That used to happen a lot. They'd swoop down during dinners and we'd fend them off with tennis rackets."
"Tennis rackets?" I was whispering.
"Let's go into another room," Nicholas said. "You first."
I ran out into the hallway and he came out and closed the door behind him.
We went in another room, the bed already made with fresh sheets. Damn these rich people with maids . I pretended to be asleep but I could hear Nicholas getting up and doing various things—watching TV, taking a shower. It was 3 a.m.
In the morning I woke up and couldn't find him. The door to the room with the bat was still closed and I didn't want to open it. I looked outside the window to make sure he hadn't left, leaving me stranded. But the Saab was still there. Finally, Nicholas ascended the basement stairs.
"What're you doing down there? Were you up all night?" "Looking for
I hang up and when I turn around I run into a fly strip. It falls from the hanging cord and sticks in my hair and on my sweater. I can't even throw it away, because it sticks to my hands. My sweater looks like a snail has traversed my body.
Nicholas, the boy I dated for three years of college, the one who taught me to fire guns, calls me.
"How'd you get my number?" I ask. "Your parents," he says.
"What do you want?" I have to talk to them about giving out my number to him. To anyone . "The money you owe me."
We'd made plans to rent a house in upstate New York this past summer with some of his friends. When we broke up in March, I told him I'd pay him back my share of the rent when I'd earned it.
I'd known from the start he was troubled. Four years ago, he sent me a bouquet of red roses on Valentine's Day. I was dating someone else and he knew this, and the guy, quite well. I found the gift of the roses sweetly delusional. After that, I couldn't get him out of my mind.
We dated for three years and eventually there was a second clue and a third, a fourth and a fifth, and finally that weekend we spent at his family's third second home—this one in New Hampshire—a whole bouquet of evidence confirming what I feared was true.
That night in New Hampshire we'd made a nice dinner of Cornish hen and we both drank too much wine. I'd had the procedure where they'd taken my eggs, and I had just found out that the woman from the U.S.S. Intrepid was pregnant. My plans for the trip to Portugal were in the works. Nicholas didn't know about the eggs or the trip. Over dinner, I told him.
"Why didn't you ask me for money?" he said.
"I didn't want to. I don't want to ever borrow your money." "And so you just go and have sex with a total stranger?"
I fake-laughed because I didn't want to raise my voice. "It's not like that." "Why wouldn't you just take my money? I don't get it."
"It's not even your money. It's your fathers," I said. "And besides, I didn't want to owe you anything."
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"I didn't want to tell you until it was definite," I said. "Until it worked. The chances of it not working were pretty high."
"But what if we want to have lads? You've ruined that. You've already done that with someone else."
"Nicholas," I said, and then didn't know what else to say.
We were silent through the rest of dinner, silent as we watched TV. Silent as he poured himself another drink, as we got into bed. The house was so quiet I could hear sounds from the neighbors' home a mile away. At some point, I fell asleep.
When I awoke, it was to something circling above my head. My first thought was that it was a bat. My second was that I must be mistaken—maybe it was a piece of fire-blackened paper swirling in the breeze.
"Nicholas" I said, shaking him. He was the heaviest sleeper. "Nick." Finally, he awoke. "I think there's a bat in the room."
"It probably got in through the fireplace," he said. "That used to happen a lot. They'd swoop down during dinners and we'd fend them off with tennis rackets."
"Tennis rackets?" I was whispering.
"Let's go into another room," Nicholas said. "You first."
I ran out into the hallway and he came out and closed the door behind him.
We went in another room, the bed already made with fresh sheets. Damn these rich people with maids . I pretended to be asleep but I could hear Nicholas getting up and doing various things—watching TV, taking a shower. It was 3 a.m.
In the morning I woke up and couldn't find him. The door to the room with the bat was still closed and I didn't want to open it. I looked outside the window to make sure he hadn't left, leaving me stranded. But the Saab was still there. Finally, Nicholas ascended the basement stairs.
"What're you doing down there? Were you up all night?" "Looking for
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