The Weight of Heaven (24 page)

until after lunch,” he said. “Small table.”

“Sorry. That makes sense.”

“Though if you’re in a hurry?”

“No, I’m fine. I’ve nothing planned for today, thank God.”

“So why psychology?” he asked, while thinking, If you don’t

sleep with me I’m going to spontaneously combust.

“It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. Help people heal their lives. I

think it’s one of the reasons I’ve always been drawn to music, too.”

“Yeah. Hearing you yesterday, I’m surprised you’re not studying

music. You were fantastic.”

“Thanks. When I was younger I used to think I’d be a professional musician. I was a music major as an undergrad.”

“Where’d you go to school?”

“Oberlin.”

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“That’s where you’re from?”

“No, I grew up in Shaker Heights, near Cleveland. But my dad

taught at Oberlin, so . . .”

“I’ve heard of Shaker Heights. Do your parents still live there?”

Frank was aware that he was being rude by asking so many questions, but he couldn’t stop himself. He was charmed at how easily

Ellie spoke. She had none of the guarded self-consciousness that

often afflicted beautiful women.

“Your childhood sounds happy,” he said, and hated the trace of

wonder and envy he heard in his voice.

She looked embarrassed. “It’s that obvious, huh? Guess I’m

going to have to keep this a closely guarded secret from my clients.

But it’s true—I had a happy childhood. Go figure.”

She smiled, and he felt himself getting flustered. Everything

about this woman was throwing him off stride. He didn’t know what

to focus on—her flawless, tanned skin, the radiance of her face, the

careless way she pushed her shiny hair out of her eyes, the way she

moved her hands as she spoke, the rich, silver words that tumbled

out of her like a waterfall. Frank knew that he was good-looking.

While growing up, he had strangers at the mall telling his mother

how cute her little boy was; had Jenny Waight, the girl next door,

give him his first kiss when he was twelve; had his male roommate

profess his love for him while in college. But he suddenly felt as nervous and uncertain of himself as he had been the night Jenny Waight

had kissed him behind the garage.

“Did you hear a word of what I said?” Ellie was saying.

“Oops. Sorry. Guess I wandered off for a minute.”

She pulled a face. “Is the company that boring?”

He realized she was flirting with him, and the realization made

him laugh. “Not at all.”

“I was asking about where you grew up.”

“Grand Rapids. A little over a hundred miles from here. That

and a universe away.”

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“How do you mean?”

He looked at her, unsure of how to explain. “I was born in Grand

Rapids,” he said. “But I never felt like I belonged there. It was—

there was something defeated about the place. But my first day here

in Ann Arbor, I felt like I was home.”

She nodded. “How about your parents?”

“My mom wasn’t too crazy about the town either. But she still

lives there. My dad—” He stopped for a slight second, wanting to

ensure that his voice would be smooth and matter-of-fact when he

spoke. “My dad—he left when I was twelve. So I have no idea what

he thought.”

The dark eyes held something in them now, a sharp, probing intelligence. “I’m sorry,” she said simply.

He looked away, afraid of seeing pity in her eyes. He thought

back to the day he’d come home from school and found his mother

weeping in her bedroom. He had immediately blamed himself,

thought back to how defiantly he had spoken to his dad when he’d

been ordered to clear the table the previous week, was convinced

that he had inadvertently conveyed to his father the growing contempt and animosity that he was beginning to feel. For weeks he

had sat on the front porch bargaining with God. In school, he gave

Tommy Hefner a bloody nose for asking if he was okay, now that

his father had left.

“It was a long time ago,” he now said. His tone was measured,

pleasant, as if he was telling her about a recent picnic.

“I see,” she said. She opened her mouth as if to say more, and

he stiffened imperceptibly. “Well?” she continued. “Should we go

back to discussing the matter at hand?”

He stared at her blankly. “What’s that?” he blurted.

She laughed. “The party? At your friend’s house? I thought I

was auditioning for the part? Don’t you want to come up with some

dates and look at the music selection?”

Did she know that he had made the whole thing up? He couldn’t

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tell. At this moment, he hated himself for having made up this cockand-bull story. Maybe he would’ve been better off if he’d told her

the truth—that he would
die
if she didn’t sleep with him. But just as

he was trying to decide whether this was the moment to sit back in

his chair and say that he had a confession to make, she pulled out her

calendar and something about the gesture told him that she had no

idea that there was no friend and no birthday party.

Something stirred in him, a deep tenderness at this trusting,

gullible girl with her head bent over her large appointment book.

Now she was leaning into her bag and pulling out a notebook and he

realized that she had written down possible musical selections. He

pulled his chair closer to hers, saying, “Let’s take a look,” and his

voice was so husky with sexual desire that he was surprised that she

didn’t notice. He felt like a pervert, getting his jollies merely from

inching closer to a pretty girl.

She told him a little bit about each musical piece and he half listened in a semi-delirious state, happy to be smelling her shampoo,

inhaling the subtle sweetness of her perfume, glancing at her face

every chance he got. “You know what?” he said finally, knowing

that she was waiting for him to respond to her many suggestions.

“You decide the music. I have implicit faith in your—good taste.”

And this time he let his eyes linger lightly on her face, her neck, the

sweet place where the white of her dress met her chest. She blushed

and looked away, but when she spoke her voice was light and jaunty.

“Not a problem. Let’s come up with a date, though.”

“Tell you what. Why don’t you give me three dates and I’ll—run

them by my friend?”

“Great.”

He felt a sudden panic at the thought of saying good-bye now

that lunch was over. Leaving Ellie would feel like coming down

from a drug-induced high. “Hey,” he heard himself saying. “I was

thinking of walking down to the art museum. Do you know about

the new Chagall exhibit? Any interest in joining me?”

Th e We i g h t o f H e av e n 1 7 1

“I’ve already seen it,” she said, and the sun disappeared as if

someone had plucked it out of the sky. “But I adore Chagall. If

you’re going, I wouldn’t mind seeing it again,” and the sun assumed

again its rightful place in the sky.

“Cool. Let’s go,” he said, setting down a twenty-dollar bill, and

when she reached for her handbag, he touched her hand lightly and

said, “No way. I asked you. This is my treat.” And all the while his

mind was saying, Remember this moment. It’s the first time you

touched her.

They spent three happy hours at the museum. When they left,

Ellie wanted a Coke, so they went to a nearby café and soon Frank

was talking about this wonderful Chinese restaurant that had recently opened up on Main. Ellie said she loved Chinese food and

he invited her to join him for dinner. It was nine o’clock when they

finally parted, after Ellie refused Frank’s repeated offers to drop her

off at her home. He walked down the streets to his apartment whistling to himself. A first date that had lasted for eight hours, as long

as a workday. While the other schmucks in the city were punching

clocks, appeasing bosses, putting in a full day at work, he had just

spent eight hours in the company of a woman who seemed to get

lovelier with each passing moment. Eight hours. Not bad for a first

date, Frankie boy, he told himself, not bad at all.

He phoned her the next day, but Ellie was going out the door

and couldn’t talk. But she phoned him back that evening and they

talked for three hours. Just before hanging up, he asked her casually

if she was free for lunch on Saturday. She wasn’t, she was playing

in a wedding, but she had to go to Borders on Sunday to pick up a

book she’d special ordered, and did he want to go with her? He did

indeed, but what about grabbing a quick lunch before that? Maybe

do Ali Baba’s again, if it wasn’t too soon.

He showed up at the restaurant intending to confess his deception to her. He had practiced keeping his tone light, making a rueful

face, admitting to being a little starstruck. She was already at the

1 7 2 Th r i t y U m r i g a r

restaurant when he got there. “Hi,” he said brightly, and she turned

to face him, but her eyes were cold. He sat across from her, a sudden

feeling of dread enveloping him.

“What’s up?” he said uncertainly, but she interrupted him. “I

want to ask you something. And I want you to tell the truth. There’s

no friend, is there? No birthday party that I’m to play at?”

He shook his head, trying to find that rueful, puppy-dog expression that he had practiced. But suddenly he saw it as she did—not

as a playful ruse by a love-struck man but a ploy by a man ruthless

enough to lie in order to get what he wanted. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I

was going to tell you today.”

She shook her head angrily, and he saw that what he’d earlier

seen as coldness was actually rage. “One thing about me, Frank. I

hate being lied to. Even so-called white lies.” She shook her head

again. “God. I feel like such a loser. Can’t believe I fell for such an

obvious move. I figured it out this morning. Anyway. Guess the

joke’s on me.” She pushed her chair back and got up.

“Where—where are you going?”

Her voice was low but deliberate. “Away. From. You.” She moved

away and then looked back. “Please don’t call me ever again.”

He sat at the table transfixed, watching her stride away until he

could not see her anymore. He did not feel sad. He felt angry. Angry

at himself for having blown this, for having told a lie in order to

get something that he thought he had no realistic chance of getting

any other way. Only to lose her, anyway. And he was angry at her

for not understanding this, for treating him as if he was a goddamn

stalker or something, instead of just a twenty-three-year-old guy

with a serious crush on a woman. Screw her, he told himself. She’s

not worth it. Probably snores in her sleep. He hardened his heart,

became again the twelve-year-old boy who, after he’d stopped keeping his vigil for his father, didn’t allow himself to miss him again.

His anger protected him, allowed him to leave the restaurant without dissolving into tears.

Th e We i g h t o f H e av e n 1 7 3

The tears came as soon as he turned the key and entered his

apartment, which suddenly felt as empty and desolate as a grave. He

collapsed on his futon, his mind leafing through the many snapshots

he’d clicked in the past few days—Ellie with her head bowed over

her notebook, Ellie bent over the cello like a lover, Ellie searching

his face with her all-knowing, probing eyes—and then he was a boy

again, sobbing his losses, his pain at the loss of his father coming at

him fast and evil, like a madman with a knife, and merging with

the pain of this most recent loss. His rational mind tried to tell him

that this was insane behavior, that he barely knew this woman, that

he was crying over a phantom, but it did him no good. He turned

on the stereo so that the neighbors couldn’t hear him, and then he

sobbed, dimly aware that the sounds he was making were not so

much the sounds of a grown man but of someone much younger. He

thought of phoning Scott, but that would have required words, and

he felt beyond words at the moment.

He didn’t eat for a full day after the talk with Ellie. Didn’t shave for

four days. Barely left the apartment. Ignored the two messages that

his mother left on his answering machine. Played Jim Morrison on the

stereo each night and drank two beers before collapsing in bed.

On the fifth day, he woke up early, shaved, and got dressed. He

resolved to stop acting like a goddamn imbecile. He decided to go

for a bike ride down to the river. After the ride, he ran into some

friends and hung out with them. He was pleased with himself when

he finally wound his way home at about four in the evening, proud

to have under his belt a day without lamenting the loss of Ellie. He

took a shower, and when he came back into the living room, he noticed the flashing light on his answering machine.

“Listen,” Ellie’s voice said. “Just because I asked you to never

call me again doesn’t mean that you should—you know,
never
call

me again.”

He was dialing her number before he’d heard the rest of her

message.

Chapter 15

All that fall, it smelled of watermelons. And burning firewood. The