Six Years

After a while we all stumbled to couches near the former children’s section. My head lolled back, and I may have passed out for a bit. When I woke up, one of the blondes started talking to me. I introduced myself.

“My name is Windy,” she said.

“Wendy?”

“No, Windy. With an i instead of an e.” She said this as though she had said it a million times before, which, I guessed, she had.

“Like the song?” I asked.

She looked surprised. “You know the song? You don’t look old enough.”

“‘Everyone knows it’s Windy,’” I sang. Then: “My dad loved the Association.”

“Wow. My dad too. That’s how I got the name.”

It turned into, surprisingly enough, a real conversation. Windy was thirty-one years old and worked as a bank teller, but she was getting her degree in pediatric nursing, her dream job, at the community college down the road. She took care of her handicapped brother.

“Alex has cerebral palsy,” Windy said, showing me the picture of her brother in a wheelchair. The boy’s face was radiant. I stared at it, as if somehow the goodness could come out of the picture and be a part of me. Windy saw it, nodded, and said in the softest voice: “He’s the light of my life.”

An hour passed. Maybe two. Windy and I chatted. During nights like these, there is always a time when you know if you are going to, ahem, close the sale (or, to stay within the library metaphors, if you are going to get your library card punched) or not. We were at that time now, and it was clear that the answer was yes.

The ladies left to powder their noses. I felt overly mellow from drink. Part of me wondered whether I’d be able to perform. Most of me didn’t really care.

“You know what I like about both of them?” Benedict pointed to a shelf of books. “They’re stacked. Get it? Library, books, stacked?”

I groaned out loud. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Amusing,” Benedict said. “By the way, where were you last night?”

“I didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

“I went up to Vermont,” I said. “To Natalie’s old retreat.”

He turned toward me. “Whatever for?”

It was an odd thing, but when Benedict talked after drinking too much, a hint of a British accent came through. I assumed that it was from his prep school days. The more he drank, the more pronounced the accent.

“To get answers,” I said.

“And did you get any?”

“Yep.”

“Do tell.”

“One”—I stuck a finger in the air—“no one knows who Natalie is. Two”—another finger—“no one knows who I am. Three”—you get the point with the fingers—“there is no record at the chapel Natalie ever got married. Four, the minister I saw conducting the wedding swears it never happened. Five, the lady who owned the coffee shop we used to go to and who first pointed Natalie out to me had no idea who I was and didn’t remember either Natalie or me.”

I put my hand down.

“Oh, and Natalie’s art retreat?” I said. “The Creative Recharge Colony? It’s not there and everyone swears it never existed and that it’s always been a family-run farm. In short, I think I’m losing my mind.”

Benedict turned away and started sipping his beer.

“What?” I said.

“Nothing.”

I gave him a little shove. “No, come on. What is it?”

Benedict kept his head lowered. “Six years ago, when you went up to that retreat, you were in pretty bad shape.”

“Maybe a little. So?”

“Your father had died. You felt alone. Your dissertation wasn’t going well. You were upset and on edge. You were angry about Trainor getting off with nary a slap.”

“What’s your point?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Forget it.”

“Don’t give me that. What?”

My head was really swimming now. I should have stopped several glasses ago. I remembered once when I had too much to drink my freshman year and I started walking back to my dorm. I never quite arrived. When I woke up, I was lying on top of a bush. I remembered staring up at the stars in the night sky and wondering why the ground felt so prickly. I had that sway now, like I was on a boat in a rough sea.

“Natalie,” Benedict said.

“What about her?”

He turned those glass-magnified eyes toward me. “How come I never met her?”

My vision was getting a little fuzzy. “What?”

“Natalie. How come I never met her?”

“Because we were in Vermont the whole time.”

“You never came to campus?”

“Just once. We went to Judie’s.”

“So how come you didn’t bring her by to meet me?”

I shrugged with a little too much gusto. “I don’t know. Maybe you were away?”

“I was here all that summer.”

Silence. I tried to remember. Had I tried to introduce her to Benedict?

“I’m your best friend, right?” he said.

“Right.”

“And if you married her, I would have been the best man.”

“You know it.”

“So don’t you find it bizarre that I never met her?” he asked.

“When you put it that way . . .” I frowned. “Wait, are you trying to make a point here?”

“No,” he said quietly. “It’s just odd is all.”

“Odd how?”

He said nothing.

“Odd like I-made-her-up odd? Is that what you mean?”

“No. I’m just saying.”

“Saying what?”

“That summer. You needed something to hold on to.”

“And I found it. And lost it.”

“Okay, fine, drop it.”

But, no, that would not do. Not right now. Not with my anger and the drink talking. “And speaking of which,” I said, “how come I never met the love of your life?”

“What are you talking about?”

Oh man, I was drunk. “The picture in your wallet. How come I never met her?”

It looked as though I’d slapped him across the face. “Leave it alone, Jake.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Leave. It. Alone.”

I opened my mouth, closed it. The ladies reappeared. Benedict gave his head a shake and suddenly the smile was back on it.