Forgive Me (24 page)

J
ason lies in my bed watching me read for what seems like a week. Exams are hard enough without his body anywhere near me. He’s happy, though. My roommates start to warm to him. He tells them about Oklahoma and steer wrestling, and how much he loves me between their exams, and they can’t help but adore him.

He drives me home as snow falls on the turnpike. The garden state is in a constant state of gray now, the air permanently cold and threatening snow. I sit next to him in the truck, my hand between his legs, and for the first time since my parents died I’m actually looking forward to a holiday.

“I was thinking of taking you later to get a tree,” he says, and I’m delighted.

“Really? I didn’t think you cared about such things.”

“I haven’t, but this year I want to celebrate Christmas, with you. Properly.”

“It’s time,” I say, nodding my head.

The tree is small, one of the only ones left on the farm, and lopsided, but it’s ours. We set it up in the front window of the house and I find my mother’s decorations in the attic. I hand each box down to Jason.

“The tree’s not that big, you know?” He says with his head sticking up into the attic, waiting to carry the boxes down the stairs.

“You’re the one who said ‘properly’,” I remind him and hand him the lights. I’m giddy, excited for Christmas. I hope he likes my gift. “I think we should invite your dad to Christmas dinner. The last time I saw him he seemed to hate me a little less,” I say. Parents usually like me, but not Butch.

“Why would you want to eat with someone who hates you?” Jason asks, and I look at him as if it’s the dumbest question I’ve ever heard.

“He’s family. Whether he likes me or not is irrelevant.” Jason shrugs and keeps carrying the boxes to the living room. “Where are you from?” I ask indignantly.

“He doesn’t hate you. At least not any more than he hates every other person since my mom died. It’s the way he is now.”

What way am I now?

We decorate the tree and it’s beautiful, at least when the lights are lit at night. Everything is more beautiful with Christmas lights. I bake sugar cookies in the shape of trees and wreaths and decorate them with green sprinkles, and Jason eats them before I can even get them cool.

“I can’t remember the last time I had Christmas cookies,” he says, and he’s happy.

“Yes you can,” I say, and the joy drains from his face. “I think we should go to church Christmas Eve.” Jason looks down, as if I’m suggesting he take Russian language classes with me. “Jesus is the reason for the season,” I say, and kiss him to lighten his load.

“I’m not sure why, but I don’t want to go,” he says, and my heart breaks for him. I know exactly why he doesn’t want to go. Nothing will remind him of his mother, of the pain of losing her, more than setting foot in that sanctuary.

“It would be a way to honor her, too,” I offer, but it does little to console him. “If not church, than we need to visit their graves. My grandmother’s, too. They all need grave blankets.”

“Okay. I’ll go. No one knows how to ruin a cookie like you do,” he says, and kisses me in a way that ends a conversation and starts a new one with our tongues.

We manage to hang lights on the trees out front without breaking our necks and buy poinsettias for the front porch. I stand back and admire the house. My mother would be proud.

We lay grave blankets on the graves of our loved ones. I cry like a baby in Jason’s arms at the sight of my father’s. Jason can barely approach his mother’s. We’re a complete mess, but it must be some sort of progress. He pulls me close to him, tolerating my tears like the brick wall he’s become.

Sean and Michelle come for dinner and bring Auburn Road’s Classico Wine and we drink too much of it. Butch even has some, citing the local winery as the only reason for his indulgence. Sean hands me a large box wrapped in silver paper and I put down my glass to tear into it. It’s a gray Rutgers Sweatshirt and a gift card to Stuff Yer Face. I look at him ruefully.

“You’ve got a bit of Mom in you, huh?” I say.

“God help me, yes. She’s been haunting me in my dreams as if it’s my responsibility to keep you in New Brunswick.”

“If it’s any consolation, she haunts me, too.”

“Not really. No,” he says, and laughs as we clink our wine glasses together. I give Sean and Michelle a painting of our family’s first farm house that I found in the attic and had framed, and a gift card for a hotel in New Brunswick. When Sean opens the gift card he looks at me confused.

“For the night of graduation. We’re going to celebrate. You guys can’t drive home,” I say, and Michelle pulls the card out of his hand and lets out a big Yahoo at the thought of a night away. It’s as close to tradition as Sean and I can come and I look across the room and realize Jason and Butch are even further away than we are. Will these two ever be able to heal?

Our family leaves and Jason and I are left alone by the fire. I pour the last of the open wine bottle into my glass and cuddle close to Jason on the couch. His chest, impossible to sleep on, is perfect to lean against. I inhale deeply the kiwi smell and run my nose up the side of his neck. Jason closes his eyes and leans his head back on the cushion, giving himself to me.

I climb on top of him. His face is inches from my own and I study him. My beautiful Jason, left to me on Christmas and every other day. I have to take good care of him.

“Jason.” He raises his head and answers me without speaking. “What do you think we owe the dead?”

Eventually, the corner of Jason’s mouth tilts up and I can see, even in the dim firelight, that he is happy.

“Is this about your mom not wanting you to be with a cowboy?” he asks, and my breath catches. Even for him this is knowing too much. “You talk to her in your sleep. You beg her to understand.” My astonishment can’t be hidden. I lean back, my mouth hanging open.

“How long? How long have I been saying it?” I ask, feeling betrayed.

“Since a few weeks after they died. I think it was right around the time you could start forming a thought. You used to think so much back then. Torture yourself, even in your sleep.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“It’s a conversation between you and your mom. Just because I overheard it doesn’t mean you’re ready for me to listen.” I pull him to me and hold him. My arms wrapped around his neck can’t save me from the tears that overcome any safety I know. Jason runs his hands down my hair and rubs my back. He kisses my head and holds me until I quiet down.

Jason takes my face in his giant, rough hands and says, “Annie, honoring the dead can’t mean sacrificing the living. I belong to you.” He reaches to the side table for his Christmas present. “Look at your face in this picture,” he says, and holds up the frame. It’s a picture of me hugging him and the look on my face exalts pure joy. There is no doubt from this image that in his arms is where I am the happiest. “Now and forever. You belong to me, too.” I kiss Jason on the lips and try to imagine how he’s felt all these months listening to me beg my mother for understanding.

“Besides, you never listen to a goddamned thing I tell you. Why would you listen to her?” he asks, and I laugh. He and my mother could discuss my stubbornness at length.

We package everything back up. The decorations, the doubts, and the memories of the dead and begin to deal with another separation. Jason and I join Margo, Jenn, and Noble at the Pedricktown Christmas Tree Burning. The whole town piles their trees on the lawn of the fire house and then set them on fire. It’s a giant bonfire complete with hot dogs roasting and hot chocolate and yet one more memory of my parents I fight through. They took me every year when I was a little girl. I watch the fire burn the hotdog on the end of my stick as Jason wraps his arms around my waist and rests his heavy chin on my shoulder.

“Four more months, Annie.” His is a one-track mind. He kisses my neck and I amend,
two-track mind
. “No excuses come May. I’ve been very patient.”

“This is patient?” I ask, and flip my dog over, black bubbles forming on the one side. “Six weeks of rodeos should keep you busy while I work in New York City.”

“Why does it have to be New York? Can’t you do statistics anywhere?”

“Because people come from all over the world to work in New York City and I can just hop on a train and get there every day. It’s a gift.”

“It’s a curse,” he says, and kisses my neck.

“Hey, you two, Mrs. Shabo invited us over for hot toddies tonight if you can tear your bodies apart long enough to drink one,” Jenn says. I’m going to miss them, too.

“We’ll be there,” I say, and Jason groans on my neck. “We have all night,” I whisper in his ear and he gyrates a little into the back of me.

“Promise we won’t stay long. I still haven’t given you my gift,” he pleads and I nod, filling with anticipation of his present. I breathe deeply and the smoke-filled air invades my lungs.

“That was nice,” I say, satisfied with Jason hanging out with my friends. Mrs. Shabo seemed excessively pleased with the idea of a real cowboy on her estate. I was surrounded by the best life has to offer and Jason was at the center of it.

“It was long,” he says, and walks out of my bedroom. I climb into bed and listen to my heart race as I wait for his return. He falls on the bed with a flat box, obviously wrapped by a female, in his hand. “Merry Christmas, Annie,” he says, and his face is utterly wicked. I take my time unwrapping the paper, and pull out the most beautiful blue silk scarf. I spread it out across the bed and realize it’s the ocean and the waves are painted in such a way the water actually appears to be moving.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, and look at him confused.

“It’s to replace the belt.”
What belt?

Jason takes the scarf and wraps it around each of my wrists in a figure eight and raises them above my head. My racing heartbeat sinks to the throbbing between my legs. My breathing is shallow and rapid, but I manage to get out, “Merry Christmas to me,” just before he pulls me toward the headboard by my bound wrists.

J
ulia graduated in December and lucked out in the poor economy by landing an entry-level job at Condé Nast. “It’s like barely in the door, entry level,” she told me, but I’m still proud of her. Lots of degrees are hitting the streets, which are already filled with overqualified candidates. She insists she was making more money by not working, because the cost of the commute is killing her.

We walk to the New Brunswick train station together every cold, gray morning and she buys a coffee at the Dunkin’ Donuts stand while I jockey for a spot on the platform. Rarely, we get seats; usually I try to use my height to block us off a little space. The heels help. I typically tower above a large percentage of the commuters. We ride to Penn Station and switch to the subway headed uptown. Our offices are within four blocks of each other. They’re some of the most grueling and exhilarating days of my life.

I drink in every element of it: the smells of the city, the languages being spoken on every corner, the crowds, and the bitter cold. Julia takes it all for granted and complains as we drudge through the streets day after day, but I know I’ll never have it again and I won’t squander a moment of it.

I become fast friends with the receptionist, an over-the-top, bilingual—obscenities being her first language—girl whose name is Renee, and within minutes you know she would take a bullet for you if necessary.

“What the fuck’s up, my little Jersey buttercup?” she greets me with in the morning, or some other completely inappropriate verse. Once I look past her colorful use of curse words in all sentences not related to business, she becomes my closest friend at the office.

My boss is a man about my height, bald before his time, a badass named Bruce who inspects me immediately and clearly likes what he sees.
The HR gods have shined on you this semester, Bruce, because I’m a really hard worker, too.

“So what are your plans after graduation, Charlotte? Is a career in statistics your goal?”

“Definitely. I’m here to learn as much as possible,” I say, and Bruce is delighted.

“You’ll learn a great deal during your time here. The best way to open doors is to provide results. It’s tough out there right now, but interns at Robertson are given first consideration when a permanent position opens. You make your own opportunities.” I’m excited by his words, swept up in the concepts of success and contribution. I want a permanent position. I want to beat out every other candidate.

I work myself to the bone. No assignment is too difficult, no hours too late. I can feel the pride rising from my father’s grave. That man defined work ethic. He was of another generation, one that appreciated the company they worked for and considered a job a gift for their family.

Bruce and his peers are openly complimentary. I make sure Bruce looks good with every assignment I turn in, and quickly become his go-to employee, taking on more than actual paid statisticians. It’s the perfect arrangement for everyone involved, except Jason Leer.

He absolutely hates me working in New York. The long hours are killing him. He worries about me every day of the week. Several days I think about lying and saying I’m home when I’m not yet, but it’s a line if crossed I’ll never return. He abhors Bruce’s attention and finds his praise to be more related to my legs than my actual work product, which demeans my efforts and hurts my feelings.

But I keep moving. I listen to his complaints and patiently try to appease each one while Julia and I go to happy hour and have lunch near the park. We are a walking, talking, dress-up game for little girls and I’m not going home from the play date early. No matter who comes to pick me up.

By the first weekend in February, Jason is threadbare. I detox the entire plane ride and as we touch down on the runway, I’m confident I can seem properly unexcited about New York City. As I walk through the security barrier, I realize I have nothing to worry about. The sight of Jason, standing by the pillar, takes my breath away. Without a plan I run to him and throw myself against his body and he wraps his arms around me and buries me within him. It’s the closest thing to the truth I know.

“Annie,” he says, and kisses my cheek with an unshaved face that scratches me. I leave my head exactly where it is, unwilling to release him. “You okay?” he asks, worried by my reaction.

“I’m overwhelmed with you,” I say.

“It’s my goal to overwhelm you,” he says playfully. “And overtake you, and overcome you.”

“I get the picture.” I lean back so I can look into his light gray eyes. “Did anyone ever tell you your eyes darken with your mood?”

“My mother. She used to say they were not of this earth. Whatever that means,” he says, and picks up my bag, flinging it over his shoulder as he grabs my hand and starts walking toward the parking lot.

“I think it means they’re of the atmosphere. A storm one day, cloudless sky the next,” I say, and he turns toward me.

“Have you been attending a lot of hippie dippie poetry readings in New York, or something?”

“Yes,” I say, and climb into the truck next to him.

We head west to Stillwater and somehow the land looks twice as flat as when I left it. I wonder how many miles ahead I can see. I think of the three inches, if I’m lucky, I can see ahead of me on any given corner in Manhattan. How can a few hours on a plane be the only thing between these two regions? They’re foreign to each other in every way.

I spend the rest of the ride considering the similarities of the two places. Both Oklahoma and New Jersey have rodeos, but that’s really only South Jersey. The farms, the land, the openness of Christianity, that’s all Salem County. I realize Oklahoma is not that different from home, but it is a world away from North Jersey and the New York City Metro area. Perhaps that’s why I love Rutgers so much. It’s different from home. And that’s probably why Jason hates it so much. He doesn’t like different.

Jason pulls into his driveway and I smile at the loft sitting in the backyard of its house. I reach down to pick up my bag and see Jason watching me from the corner of my eye. He’s been quiet the whole ride.

“What?” I ask.

“I’m glad you’re here, Annie.”

“Me too,” I say, and jump out of the truck.

Jason opens the door for me and I step inside to a five-by-five picture of the New York City skyline. It’s anchored by the Empire State Building in the center with other unidentifiable buildings surrounding it. The picture was taken at dusk and there’s a pink hue lying around it like fog. I walk in and stand in front of it. It’s enormous, taking up almost his entire side wall. I imagine him affixing it to the wall with multiple nails and dread creeps up within me. There is something desperate about the picture and the thought of him hanging it, as if he’s spending his time searching for ways to make me like it here.

It’s cold in the loft and Jason throws two logs in the wood-burning stove. He comes to me and stands behind me, his heat warming my entire back. He wraps his arms around my waist and rests his chin on my shoulder as we look at New York City together. Is this how it will always be? Jason and I looking at the skyline from inside his bedroom in Oklahoma because he’ll never want to visit with me?

I notice a pile of papers on the table with my name written across the top. I leaf through them and find job postings and campus job fair flyers.
How long have you been collecting these?

“I know you love it there. There’s nothing here,” he says, and the cold reality of his statement drains me.

“You’re here.” I reach back and run my hand through his hair as he turns to my neck and kisses me there. He’s hungry and I pull on his hair as his breath on my neck sends chills throughout my body. I bend my knees slightly and caress the front of him with my rear. Jason reaches down and slides his hand into my pants, finding a wetness that disputes his version of what’s here.

“Annie, you’re always so ready,” he says, and I turn around to face him.

“You don’t have to try so hard. I am, and will be, happy here.” I kiss him to force the truth into his mind. He has to know that whatever is not in Oklahoma is far outweighed by the fact he is.

“I know you can do anything, but the sound of your voice when you tell me about New York scares me. You’re never going to sound that way talking about something here, about the rodeo, or the lake. I won’t ever be able to give that to you. It’s not in me,” he says, and the sight of desperation on his face curls in the back of my throat.

“Let New York give it to me. You just worry about being in me.” Relief crosses his face and he picks me up like a pillow and throws me on the bed and dives on top.

Jason’s fears were justified. On the car ride back to Rutgers from the airport I search for Statistician jobs in Stillwater, Oklahoma. I’m excited to see forty-three come up on the results, but I curl my lip as I realize not one is a real statistician job. They include plant manager, customer service representative, and several tutor positions. Just to torture myself I run the same search for New York, New York. There are 36,757 jobs listed for statisticians in the New York Metro area. I’ll bet Jason’s already done these. One step ahead in the bad news parade.

I close the window on my phone. One thing at a time. I’ll finish this internship and then figure out a job. I don’t want Jason to think I hate it in Oklahoma. I don’t know why. He clearly doesn’t mind telling me what he thinks of New Brunswick. It’s the difference between temporary and future. The driver pulls onto Hamilton Street and I’m home. Students are walking, talking, and avoiding cars that don’t care if they hit them. This town is alive and it shoves the life back into me.

“How was Tornado Alley?” Julia asks.

“A whirlwind,” I say, and can’t believe I’m back already.

“Are you going to expect me to come visit you once you move there?” she asks as she plops down on our couch.

“I’m expecting to be back a lot, but I’m trying not to create an idea of what it’s going to be like. I don’t want to be disappointed.”

“Me either,” she says, and I know that’s true. “He’s from New Jersey, for God’s sake. It’s not like you met him in North Dakota. Can’t he move home? Salem County’s so much closer than Oklahoma.”

“I don’t think Salem County has what he needs,” I say, and recognize he’s outgrown it.

“It has a rodeo. Which, by the way, no one up here believes exists in New Jersey.”

“I know, but I think he’s out of that league now. He’s too good. He’s going to have to travel around the country competing on a bigger stage.”

“Like how much? How often is he going to be on the road? Are you going to be hanging out by yourself on the great plain?” Julia asks, and I’m frustrated by her obviously intelligently thought-out questions. AND she reminds me of my mother.

“I don’t know. I haven’t figured it all out yet.”