Attachments a novel, p.20
Attachments: A Novel,
p.20
> Are you kidding? Everything about being a copy editor is top secret—by default, really—because no one else cares.
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I’ve been having these strange cramps for the last few days. Not even cramps—they’re more like assertive twinges. I called our midwife and described them to her, and she seemed pretty confident that nothing is wrong. She said that it’s natural to feel your uterus readjusting at the end of the first trimester. “This is your first pregnancy,” she said. “It’s going to feel strange.” She also told me that I might feel better if I talked to the baby.
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I’ve tried it a few times, when I’m alone in the car. But I never get past small talk. I feel sort of like I’m invading the baby’s space or like it’s going to wonder, after two months of respectful silence, why I’ve suddenly decided we need to get all personal with each other.
Also, I don’t want to let on that something might be wrong. So I try to keep it light. “I hope you’re comfortable. I hope I’m eating enough iron. Sorry I stopped taking the expensive vitamins, they made me throw up.” I usually end up crying and hoping that the baby isn’t actually paying attention.
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Maybe I’ll start talking to my eggs. Pep talks. Like William Wallace’s speech in Braveheart.
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I feel like I’ve known all along that something was bound to go wrong at some point in this pregnancy. It’s all been too easy so far.
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And I say it because I trust her, and because I believe that being miserable about some bad thing that might not ever happen won’t do you any good.
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So distract me. Tell me more about your cute security guard. Complain about your sister’s wedding. Pick a fight with me about ending a sentence with a preposition.
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Hey, I have to go now. I’m taking off early to get ready for the rehearsal dinner. Call me this weekend if you still need distracting, okay?
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CHAPTER 64
LINCOLN DIDN’T FEEL like going home that night after work. He kept thinking about Beth in a strapless dress. Creamy white shoulders. Freckles. Maybe he should go out with one of the girls Justin was always trying to hook him up with. Or with one of his sister’s Lutherans. Or with that girl who works at the gym, Becca. She’d been spotting for Lincoln lately on the bench press, and it seemed like she touched his arms a lot when she didn’t really have to. Maybe she was still impressed with his elbows.
Lincoln ended up at the Village Inn, alone. When the waitress came, he ordered two pieces of French silk pie. She brought them on separate plates, which was embarrassing for some reason.
He had a copy of the next day’s paper, one of the perks of working at The Courier, but he was so agitated, he couldn’t read it.
He was so agitated, so at loose ends, he didn’t notice until his second piece of pie that Chris was sitting at the next booth. Beth’s Chris. He was actually facing Lincoln, both of them sitting alone at their tables.
Lincoln remembered the last time he’d seen Chris, on New Year’s Eve, and considered leaping across the table to follow up on smashing his face. But he’d lost the urge.
Chris looked different. Cleaned up. He was wearing a dress shirt, rakishly unbuttoned of course, and a jacket, and his hair looked smooth and shiny. Like a fucking Breck commercial, Lincoln thought. And then, Right, for the rehearsal dinner. And then Lincoln started to laugh. A little. Mostly on the inside.
Because he shouldn’t know that, but he did. And he should hate this guy, but he didn’t. He didn’t want to kill Chris. He wanted to trade places with him. No, he didn’t even want that. If Lincoln had been Beth’s date to the rehearsal dinner tonight, he’d be home with her now. If he were her date to the wedding tomorrow, he’d be counting down the hours until she put on that dress. Until she took it off again.
He laughed again. On the outside.
Chris looked up at Lincoln then, and seemed to recognize him.
“Hey,” Chris said.
Lincoln stopped laughing. Until this moment, he’d believed somehow that he was invisible to Chris. The way he was invisible to Beth. (Except that he wasn’t.) “Hey,” Lincoln said.
“Hey, uh, you wouldn’t have a cigarette, would you?” Chris asked.
Lincoln shook his head. “Sorry.”
Chris nodded and smiled. “I’m unprepared tonight. Nothing to smoke. Nothing to read.” He seemed agitated, too, but he wore it better than Lincoln.
“You can have a section of my paper,” Lincoln said.
“Thanks,” Chris said. He got up and walked over to Lincoln’s booth, leaned against it, and picked up the Entertainment section.
“I missed today’s movie review,” Chris said.
“Movie fan?” Lincoln said dumbly.
“Movie reviewer fan,” Chris said. “My girl, she’s the film critic …Hey, this is tomorrow’s paper.”
“It’s today’s technically … ,” Lincoln said. “I work at The Courier.”
“Maybe you know her, then.”
“I don’t know many people,” Lincoln said. He felt so stiff, he couldn’t believe his mouth was moving. He felt like, if he said the wrong word, he might actually turn to stone. Like he might anyway. “I work nights.”
“You’d know,” Chris said, nodding and looking out the window, agitated again, “you’d know if you knew her. She’s a force. A force to be reckoned with. An act of God, you know?”
“Like a tornado?” Lincoln asked.
Chris laughed. “Sort of,” he said. “I was thinking more … I don’t know what I was thinking, but yeah. She’s …” He patted his chest pocket nervously, then ran his hand through his hair. “You’re single, right? I mean, I never see you at our shows with anyone.”
“Right,” Lincoln said. Not only am I not invisible, I’m visibly alone.
Chris laughed again. It was sharp. Sarcastic. It undid some of the charm of his smile.
“I can’t even remember what that’s like …” He shook his head ruefully, touched his hair again. “It’s this jacket,” Chris said. “I had to take my cigarettes out because you could see them poking out of the pocket. Classy, right? I can’t remember when I’ve gone this long without …You ever smoked?”
“No,” Lincoln said. “Never picked it up.”
“No cigarettes, no girl, you’re living an unencumbered life, my friend.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” Lincoln said, looking hard at the man across from him and wishing for some sort of Freaky Friday miracle right there, right then.
“Oh,” Chris said, abashed. He was pretty enough for that word. “Right,” he said. “I didn’t mean …” He looked down and held out the Entertainment section. “Thanks. For this. I’ll let you go back …Normally, I wouldn’t have bothered …It’s the jacket, you know? I’m not myself.”
Lincoln mustered a smile. Chris stood up.
“I’ll see you,” Chris said, walking back to his booth and dropping a few dollars on the table. “We’re playing Sokol next week, you should say hey if you’re there.”
Lincoln watched Chris walk away and felt himself hoping—really and truly hoping, with the best parts of his heart—that the other man was going home to her.
CHAPTER 65
THERE WAS LESS work than ever in the IT office. The International Strike Force was long gone. Nothing left of them but a stack of blank CDs and a few cigarette burns on the table. “When the fuck did that happen?” Greg asked. Lincoln shrugged. Greg wanted Lincoln to change all the system passwords and shore up the firewalls; he was even issuing new security badges to the whole department.
“Those guys always creeped me out,” Greg said. “Especially the Millard South kid …There’s such a thing as knowing too much about computers.”
Lincoln’s shifts felt decades long.
There was nothing from Beth in the WebFence folder Monday night. Nothing about the wedding. Nothing at all. It was empty Tuesday night, too. And Wednesday.
Lincoln watched for her in the hallways and took long dinner breaks. He saw her byline in the paper, so he knew she was coming to work. He checked the WebFence folder every night, every few hours.
Thursday, empty. Friday, empty. Monday, nothing.
On Monday night, Lincoln walked by Beth’s desk at six o’clock and then again at eight. He brought chicken-leek pie to share with Doris and sat in the break room with her for two hours, talking. Waiting. Doris told him she was going to teach him how to play pinochle. She said she and Paul used to play, and it was a real kick. “I’ve always wanted to learn,” Lincoln said.
On Tuesday, when Beth and Jennifer still hadn’t turned up, he checked the e-discipline file to see if somebody else in IT had sent them a warning. He wondered for a moment if one of the Y2K kids might be responsible. But there wasn’t any sign of it. There were fresh coffee cups on Beth’s desk—she hadn’t disappeared completely.
On Wednesday, when the WebFence folder was empty again, Lincoln felt strangely light. Maybe this was how it was going to end. Not with a humiliating, painful confrontation. Not with self-control and discipline. Maybe he wouldn’t have to make himself stop reading her e-mail. Maybe it would just stop itself.
CHAPTER 66
COULD YOUR BRAIN actually reject information? Like a foreign organ? Doris was trying to teach Lincoln to play pinochle, and the rules were bouncing off his brain. Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, that didn’t discourage her. He’d thought about eating at his desk. If he wasn’t trying to run into Beth, he may as well. But that didn’t seem fair to Doris, especially now that his mother sent treats specifically for the other woman. Now that Doris was the one sharing her cake with him.
“Some people just have trouble with games,” she said. “I’ll deal this time.” She did tricks when she shuffled. “Say, do you have big plans this weekend?”
“No,” Lincoln said. He might play D&D. He might play golf with Chuck. One of the other copy editors was having a “Happy New-ish Year” party that Lincoln was invited to. (“We always celebrate holidays a few weeks late,” Chuck had explained. “Those dayside bastards won’t cover for us on holidays.”)
“’Cause I’ve still got that curio cabinet at my old apartment … ,” Doris said. “I told the super I’d have everything out by the thirty-first.”
“Oh, right,” Lincoln said, “sorry. I can come by Saturday afternoon if you want.”
“How about Sunday? I’ve got a date on Saturday.”
Of course she did. Why wouldn’t she?
“Sure,” he said. “Sunday.”
WHILE THEY PLAYED golf, Chuck tried to talk Lincoln into coming to the copy desk party.
“I don’t really like parties,” Lincoln said.
“It won’t be much of a party anyway. Copy editors throw terrible parties.”
“You’re really selling it.”
“Emilie will be there …”
“I thought I heard she was dating somebody.”
“They broke up. Why you don’t like Emilie? She’s adorable.”
“Yeah,” Lincoln said, “she’s cute.”
“She’s adorable,” Chuck said, “and she can recite the complete list of prepositions. And she’s bringing pumpkin bread and Electronic Catch Phrase.”
“It sounds like you like Emilie.”
“Not me. I’m trying to reconcile with my wife. What’s your excuse?”
“I’m sort of …coming off a bad relationship.”
“When did it end?”
“Slightly before it started,” Lincoln said.
Chuck barked a laugh, little bursts of steam breaking the January air.
“Isn’t it too cold to play golf?” Lincoln asked.
“Sunshine gives me a headache,” Chuck said.
LINCOLN DIDN’T CHANGE his mind. He didn’t feel like parties. Or games. Or people.
Three weeks. That’s how long it had been since Beth and Jennifer had turned up in the WebFence folder. This is good, Lincoln told himself. Even if it doesn’t make sense for them to be so quiet. Even if it’s wildly out of character. They’re making it easy for you. Easier.
He decided to rent a movie, Harold and Maude. He hadn’t watched it since high school, and he wanted to watch the scene at the end where Harold drives his Jaguar off a cliff and then starts to play the banjo. He hoped nobody from the newspaper would be at Blockbuster to see him rent Harold and Maude. (Chuck told him that before they knew his name, everyone on the copy desk called Lincoln “Doris’s Boyfriend.”) He almost hid the video box when someone touched his arm.
“Lincoln. Lincoln? Is that you?”
He turned.
The strange thing about seeing someone for the first time in nine years is the way they look totally different, just for a second, a split second, and then they look to you the way they always have, as if no time has passed between you.
Sam looked exactly like Sam. Small. Curly brown hair—a little longer now, not in that all-over-the-place bob that had been popular in college. Wide sparkling eyes, so dark you could hardly see her pupils. Black clothes that looked like she’d bought them out of state. Silver rings on her fingers. A pink necktie tied at her waist like a belt.
She was still touching him. She’d taken hold of both his arms.
“Lincoln!” she said.
Lincoln didn’t move or speak, but he felt like Keanu Reeves in that scene from The Matrix, when he slows down time to dodge a hail of bullets.
“I just can’t believe it’s you.” She squeezed his arms, grabbed the front of his jacket, pressed her palms on his chest. “Oh my God. You look exactly the same.”
She pulled his jacket toward her. He didn’t come with it.
“You even smell the same,” she said, “peaches! I can’t believe it’s you. How are you?” She tugged at his jacket again. “How are you!”
“I’m good,” he said. “Just fine.”
“It’s kismet that I’m running into you,” Sam said. “I just moved back last month, and I’ve been thinking about you every day. I don’t think I have a memory of this city that doesn’t include you. Every time I go to my folks’ house or get on the freeway, my head’s like, ‘Lincoln, Lincoln, Lincoln.’ God, it’s good to see you. How are you? Really? I mean, the last I heard, well …” She made a sad face. She touched his arms, his shoulders, his chin. “But that was years ago …How are you? How are you now? Tell me everything!”
“Oh, you know,” he said. “I’m here. Working. I mean, I work. With computers. Not here-here. Around.” What else could he say? That he still lived with his mom? That he was renting a movie that he’d probably watched with Sam the first time? That she was the Jaguar he needed to drive off the cliff?
