April & Oliver (4 page)

He gets back in his car and tries to think of the fastest route to the cemetery. He has been away so long, it takes him a
minute to remember the Long Island roads. He doesn’t expect April to be at the cemetery, but now that the idea has entered
his mind, he has to try. He feels his pocket for his keys and touches something small and hard, the button he found after
dropping his keys in his father’s driveway. Black satin, the size of a pearl—he recognized it as belonging to April’s dress.

As he pulls up to the east gate of the cemetery, he spots Buddy’s car parked beneath a tree. He waits for a long moment, staring.
As children, hide-and-seek was pointless; he and April always knew where the other would be. He felt her presence gravitationally,
as when she would inch toward him from her end of the seesaw, letting him feel his own weight.

Light rain falls, drops beading on the hood. The car, glistening beneath a streetlamp, appears incandescent in the darkness.
Oliver parks and gets out, the ground slick with decaying leaves, the aroma sweet and moldering. The car is unlocked. He reaches
in and pops the trunk. No duffel bag, no rifle. He’s not sure if he should feel relieved or worried. He glances into the cemetery.
The gate is locked. He looks at the wrought-iron fence and regrets that he is still in dress shoes. He scales it, holding
his breath as he swings one leg and then the other over the prongs. He jumps to the opposite side, landing on all fours in
the sodden grass.

The graveyard is dark. He walks hesitantly, bumping into headstones, trying to recall the direction of the grave. Rain falls,
bringing down leaves. A startled animal scurries in an overhead branch. Oliver hopes he will not come upon his mother’s tombstone
by accident. He doesn’t want to see it, not in the dark.

He does not see April until he is upon her, her dark hair and dress almost invisible. She is kneeling beside Buddy’s grave,
her back to Oliver, ankles splayed. He runs his hand through his hair. “April,” he says softly, not wanting to frighten her.

She does not answer, but continues to rock.

He squats beside her, her eyes glassy and unfocused. “April,” he says hoarsely. “It’s me, Oliver.”

For an instant their eyes meet. “He was afraid of the dark,” she says finally. “Remember? We used to read him to sleep.”

Oliver bows his head. He touches her back, her dress damp. “Let’s go,” he says, feeling a catch in his throat. “You’ll get
pneumonia.”

She gets to her feet in a slow, druggy way. He is surprised by her compliance. The way she looks, he thinks he can suggest
anything and she will agree.

“When was the last time you slept?” he asks.

“I pace,” she says. “It’s a kind of sleep.”

“Hardly.”

“My body won’t stay down. Like it’s full of helium.”

Ballast,
Oliver thinks. “I’ll follow you home.”

They walk to the gate, and she tosses her shoes through. Oliver clasps his hands together to give her a leg up. It’s an automatic
gesture snatched from childhood. Her stockings are torn, her dress clinging to her thighs. When she is perched on top, he
tells her to wait, fearing that the sidewalk will hurt her feet. He hoists himself up and leaps down.

“I can jump by myself,” she says. “How do you think I got in?”

“It’s cement on this side,” he says, reaching up. “I’ve got you.”

He takes hold of her waist and she slides down, her dress bunching up against his abdomen. It doesn’t matter how many trees
they scaled as kids, how familiar these gestures; she is completely alien. She gazes at him, her eyes black as volcanic ash.
“Oliver,” she says. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

He hesitates, and then lets go.

She tugs down her skirt and picks up her shoes. He watches. Nothing about what to do next occurs to him until he hears her
ignition.

Oliver trails closely, April’s taillights reflecting on the slick highway. She pushes eighty, exhaust billowing. He imagines
the wheel vibrating in her hands. When they reach her building, Oliver follows her upstairs. The hallway is floored with dingy
linoleum, the walls in need of paint.

“Your suit,” she says.

“It’s only rain,” he says, draping his jacket over the back of a chair. “Have you eaten?”

“The olives gave me indigestion,” she says, opening the refrigerator.

Oliver glances at the stove clock to see that it is gaping from its socket, wires exposed, stopped dead. “What’s his name?”

“Excuse me?”

“The protection order.”

“History,” she says. “That’s his name.”

“What if he comes back? Shouldn’t you stay someplace else?”

“Here, have some salami before it goes bad. I don’t eat it.”

Oliver glances at the meat. “What did the police tell you?”

“To change the locks.”

“And have you?”

“Here’s some bread, but you probably don’t eat white, do you?”

Oliver rolls a slice of meat with his fingers and puts it into his mouth. He is hungrier than he realized. “April.” He swallows.
“Locks?”

“He’s got the protection order,” she says. “He won’t come here.”

“So you’re still sleeping here while he has a key?”

“Budweiser?”

“April.”

“I haven’t brushed my hair in three days,” she says, exaggerating. “I need a shower. Can you let yourself out?”

“Do what you need to do,” he says.

She slips out of her muddied heels and walks languidly on the hardwood floor, reaching behind her neck to release the top
button of her dress. Oliver remembers the one in his pocket.

Once the bathroom door clicks shut, he starts opening cupboards. The existence of the rifle strikes him as a disastrous prospect.
The apartment is small enough; he ought to be able to find it. He opens a cabinet stuffed with electronic parts, camera lenses,
and various tools in no apparent order.

When Oliver hears the shower, he moves to the bedroom, glances under the furniture and into the closet. On her bedside table
is a plastic-coated library copy of Flannery O’Connor stories. More books line the bureau. He notices one about do-it-yourself
plumbing repairs, and a travelogue on Patagonia. His heart quickening, he pulls open the heavy dresser drawer. Would a rifle
even fit in here? He glides his hand beneath April’s clothing. What he’s doing is wrong; he knows that. The fabric is silky.
He imagines the rifle layered beneath her slips. What if he feels it? He has never touched a gun in his life. What if he moves
it and the thing goes off?

“It’s not there,” she says from the doorway.

Oliver looks up. He hears the shower running. Steam drifts from the room behind. Her dress is unbuttoned halfway down her
back, loose across her shoulders.

“I left it in your father’s garage.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just thought . . .”

“There’s a bottle of aspirin in the bathroom,” she says, coming toward him. “Knives in the kitchen. A train platform across
the street. You think I’d need a gun?”

She is so close he can see condensation on her skin, droplets of moisture in her hair. She smells like grass after heavy rain.
“Just tell me you won’t do anything stupid.”

“If you trust me, Oliver, you’ll go home.” She closes the drawer with her hip and leans against it. He moves her aside and,
to his own surprise, reopens the drawer.

Folded inside a satin slip is an envelope bulging with photographs. He leafs through them, grainy black-and-whites, mostly
taken at a distance: April tending bar, buying a newspaper, filling her gas tank. Al is in one of them. Nana, another. Oliver
looks at April. She takes the stack from him.

“Did
he
take these?”

“Before he knew me,” she says. “Followed me for weeks. Creepy, right? But I was vain enough to be flattered.” She tosses the
pictures in a wastebasket. “It’s time for you to go.”

Oliver loosens his tie. “The sofa will do.”

“The trains will keep you awake.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

April sighs and turns back to the bathroom.

In the kitchen, Oliver eats a sandwich then makes another. His head swims with exhaustion. Beside the toaster is a dog-eared
copy of
The Elegant Universe
by Brian Greene. He rolls up his sleeves, takes off his belt, anxious to get out of the damp clothing. The light blinks on
April’s answering machine. He wonders if she will listen in front of him.

She comes out of the bathroom wearing a long T-shirt and oversize gym shorts that he guesses are the boyfriend’s. Her hair
drips onto her shoulders, dampening the shirt. She tosses her dress over the back of the sofa and paces to the coffee table,
the window, the bookshelf, then stops, confused.

“April.”

She whirls around. “Jesus,” she says. “You’re still here?” She comes into the kitchen.

“Hungry?” he says, offering his sandwich.

She shakes her head, striding out of the room, then back again. She puts her hands over his on the sandwich, closes her eyes,
and takes an enormous bite. Her hair smells of shampoo. Her shoulders are wet. “I’m starving,” she says, wiping her mouth.

“You have a message.”

“Did you have the Budweiser? I don’t touch it.”

“Has he called you?”

She takes the bottle out of the refrigerator, holds her T-shirt over the cap, and twists it off. She touches the cold bottle
to her forehead, then hands it to Oliver.

He hasn’t had a beer in years. He prefers wine now, quality labels because the cheap stuff gives him a headache. He takes
the beer.

Kids’ voices rise from the street below, a naughty shriek and a tangle of laughter. Oliver looks at April. He imagines their
childhood selves bursting into the room, hot and sweaty, running to the refrigerator and filling glasses with iced tea. He
sees April’s braid speckled with bits of grass, his own tanned skin and backward Mets cap. He pictures them staring over the
rims of their cups as they gulp thirstily. Who, they wonder, are these two somber and preoccupied adults standing in the corners
of the room? Not their future selves, surely. They run out again and hop back onto their bikes.

“I see you still like to read,” he says.

“We all have our escapes, right? You understand; you’ve got your piano.”

He shifts uncomfortably, taking a swig of beer. It tastes better than he remembered. He takes another mouthful and passes
it back to her. Her throat moves as she swallows. The fine hairs framing her face are beginning to dry, waving up, and he
notices a strand of white amid the black. She hands the bottle back to him, pressing it to his chest, and walks off.

He glances at the moist impression left on his shirt, shivering as he unfastens the buttons. He finishes the beer alone, goes
into the living room, and takes off his shoes. She left a blanket and some dry clothes on the sofa, pin-striped boxers and
a Rangers T-shirt. Oliver does not like the idea of getting into another man’s clothes, this guy’s least of all. They are
big on him. She has always gone for monstrous men. Oliver doesn’t get it.

He sleeps restlessly, his body too long for the couch, the trains roaring through his dreams. After midnight the schedule
slows, and the apartment is quiet for longer intervals.

At 3 am, he awakens with a start. The room is faintly lit by the glow of the station. April paces in the dark, touching the
walls, her hands moving like a mime testing imaginary confines. Oliver sits up, meaning to console her, but he feels tranquilized.
April traces a crack in the wall with her fingertips. Oliver stands groggily, bumping the coffee table, and makes his way
to her.

“Listen,” she says. “There’s a baby crying.”

Oliver squeezes her shoulders. “You need sleep,” he says, leading her to the bedroom. The bed is untouched. He pulls down
the covers and guides her down, but when he straightens up, so does she.

Oliver does not think about what he does next. His body moves of its own accord, wanting only to anchor her, to coax her down.
He lies beside her and drapes his arm over her arm, his leg over her leg, and his chest to her back, his weight securing her.
Ballast. He has never felt so tired, so thoroughly leaden. He is vaguely aware of the snugness of her body, the light pressure
against his groin, her breath deepening.

His mind drifts, yet he is awake. Or nearly so. A train whistles. Above the bed, a photograph clatters against the wall. Oliver
cannot remember the image inside the frame. Past and future rattle the windows, powerless to enter. Through a fluke of physics,
he and April are beyond the reaches of space and time. He holds her against him, wanting to restore her, himself, and Buddy
missing between them.

“You’re killing me,” she says, though he can’t be sure if he hears it or dreams it. He is falling hard into sleep, his mind
struggling to find her, remember her; the person he was.

Oliver awakens alone and disoriented. Birds chirp outside an unfamiliar window, sunlight flooding the sheets. It takes him
a moment to reconstruct the night.

In the living room, curtains billow, the window fully open. April sits on the fire escape. Oliver climbs out beside her. A
light breeze moves her hair. Her eyes look calmer; she might actually have slept. She looks up into the elms, nearly bare.
“When I first woke up,” she says, “there was a second before I remembered.”

He nods.

“Everything’s unhinged,” she says. “I need to do laundry, but it doesn’t make sense. My mail’s piling up in my box. The only
place that feels normal is work. People ask for drinks and I get them, automatic pilot. But when it’s time to come home, I
have to get back into Buddy’s car, and I can still smell the aftershave he wore on his last date.”

Oliver thinks of things he might suggest: counseling, Prozac, a roommate. All ridiculous. “It’ll wear off,” he says. “The
aftershave.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He touches her hand, lacing his fingers between hers. She turns away and without looking returns the pressure.

“Oliver,” she says later as he puts on his jacket, reaching for his keys on the table. “I like her.”

He turns to her. April stands at a distance, arms crossed in front of her. He puts his hands in his pockets and feels the
button there, silky and pearl-shaped. He almost forgot to return it.