“I’m pretty sure that’s a racist thing to say.”
“That I love Jewish women?”
“To say you love the bump in their noses, as if they only have one kind. You’d never say ‘I love the slanted eyes of Asian women.’ Or ‘the big asses of African women.’”
“Um,” I say, not sure how to proceed, because those examples seem extreme.
“Did you tell Mrs. Harper that you loved her?”
“I never even spoke with her. She was the checkout lady at the local store. She rang me up hundreds of times, but I never said anything to her other than pleasantries.”
“But you wanted to.”
“Yes,” I say. “I did. Very much.”
“There are other Mrs. Harpers in the world. Some of them have even sexier Jewish noses, you know. Bigger bumps.”
I sip my wine.
“You’re not dead yet,” Portia says to me. “There’s still time for love.”
“And how did love work out for you?”
“Shitty in the past, I admit, but I’m going to give love another go.”
“Okay. You do that.”
“The man who carries your Official Member of the Human Race card and reads it daily. Chuck Bass. You had him in your class back in ’eighty-eight. He put himself through college in his thirties and early forties by tending bar and taking out student loans. He’s looking for an elementary school teaching job. He has no money, lots of debt, and he takes care of his sister and her five-year-old son. Not exactly the best suitor on paper, but he has a spark in his eye, yes he does, and he loves you as much as I do.”
I’m tempted to roll my eyes, but I manage to refrain. “I don’t even remember him. Sorry.”
“He’s a lot like you,” she says.
“Then run away from this Chuck,” I answer. “Seriously. You do not want to be yoked to a man like me.”
“You’re too hard on yourself,” she says. “Too serious.”
“Tomorrow is our last day together, right?”
“Yep.”
“I’m still planning on returning to Vermont so I can kill myself. I want you to know that. And it’s not your fault. You should absolutely write your novel. Forget about me. Be with this Chuck Bass and make a good life for yourselves. Dedicate your novel to him, because—”
“I have a good surprise for you tomorrow,” she says. “It’s going to be a game changer.”
I look out the window and endure a very uncomfortable silence before I excuse myself and retire to my bedroom.
I toss and turn all night. This trip was a mistake. I’m passing on my misery by allowing Portia to get her hopes up. My suicide will destroy her, and yet that’s not a good answer to the first question—or maybe I should say it’s not a good enough answer for me, when I am alone with my thoughts, finally unfettered from the ridiculous notions of former students.
I rub my knees, because they ache tonight, probably from all the walking. I think about all of the metal in my body that will outlast my flesh and muscles and bones should I be buried—or maybe the metal will be found in my pile of ashes when I am cremated.
So strange to think about that.
Stranger yet to be in a presidential suite in this exclusive New York City hotel.
“This woman is not going to take her defeat very well—that’s now certain,” I whisper to myself through the darkness.
CHAPTER 16
I choose death by breakfast again, the monkey suits come and go like androids, and Portia and I eat together in the dining room’s opulence, under the crystal chandelier, wearing our fluffy white bathrobes.
The steak is even better than yesterday’s, somehow juicier, and I decide to consume all of it before I bring up the uncomfortable discussion I’ve been planning since four in the morning, because that’s when I woke up for the last time and tossed and turned until the sun rose. I’m worried about Portia, who seems to be glowing with dangerous confidence this morning, but I’m smart enough to savor this meat, because I am certain I will not have better in the few remaining days that I’ll be caning my way around this planet.
Just as soon as I’ve swallowed the last bite I say, “I think it would be prudent if we parted ways now, and I caught a train back to Vermont before this gets any more complicated than it already is. Because there is nothing—”
“Not a chance,” she says, and the light in her eyes fades a little. “I have you for three days. A deal is a deal.”
“I don’t want to prolong this, Ms. Kane. And I don’t want you to get your hopes up. There is nothing I want, except to be left alone. Nothing.”
“You just need to remember,” she says, and then sips her coffee. “Who you once were.”
“It was a mistake to come with you,” I say. “I see that clearly now. I don’t know why I—”
“Because some part of you, deep down inside, knows I’m right about you,” she says, looking out at Central Park glowing in the morning sun.
“No. That’s not it,” I say, and then take a deep breath. “I’m not proud of this, but I think I came on this little adventure because I wanted to hurt one of my former students, as sadistic as that sounds. Wound you deeply the way Edmond Atherton wounded me, sans the baseball bat, of course. And this was a subconscious wish that was controlling me, but somewhere along the way it became conscious, and now I feel guilty about it and want to be open with you, protect you from any further pain. The conscious part of me wishes you no harm, and so I must protect you from my subconscious. Do you understand?”