Home > Love May Fail(59)

Love May Fail(59)
Author: Matthew Quick

She’s looking at me as though I have just flashed her my private parts—half shock, half repulsion.

“You can’t fool me,” she says. “This is just a trick.”

“Listen, what you are trying to do is beautiful, but it makes you vulnerable. I know, because I used to live this way myself. The world broke me in a big way, and then I was harder—hard enough to want to do some breaking of others. And you’re a sweet, kind woman, Ms. Kane. I couldn’t sleep last night because I felt so guilty—and so I feel it’s best if we simply part ways now. Thank you for all you have done, for letting me know my class meant something to you. I wish you much luck with—”

“I’m taking you to meet my mother today,” she says. “Whatever reason you had for coming, it doesn’t matter. It would mean a lot to me if you simply met my mother. Maybe that sounds bizarre to you, but I would be very grateful. After that I will drive you home to Vermont and leave you alone for good. You’ll be free and clear of me. I promise.”

“You want me to meet your mother—the hoarder?”

“She’s my mother.”

“But why do you want me to meet her?”

“Because—I can’t explain it, okay?”

“I really don’t want to return to Haddon Township—I haven’t been there since, well . . . since this,” I say and hold up my cane.

“I know I’m asking a lot, but we can make it there in time for dinner, and then after we eat with my mom, I’ll drive you directly home, right away. I won’t even sleep.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Ms. Kane. I’m sorry.”

“Please.” She puts her hands together in prayer position. “I know it’s dumb, but I really just want the two of you to meet. She was in no condition to attend any school functions or back-to-school night, and I’ve told her so much about you. She’s not well, and I think she believes I made you up. I just want to show her that you exist.”

“This is really important to you?”

“It would mean a lot to me. If you’re going to disappear from the world, maybe you could do this one last kindness before you go? It’s a simple thing, really. Do it, and you will never hear from me again. I promise.”

“Dinner with your mother and you—that’s it? I do this, and the game ends? You take me directly back to Vermont.”

“And I forgive you for wanting to punish me,” she says, looking up from under her eyebrows like a wounded little girl.

“Okay,” I say, against my better judgment.

How can I refuse her this simple thing after what I just admitted?

She takes so long packing her things and getting ready that I begin to wonder if she is intentionally stalling for some reason, but I enjoy my view of Central Park, watch the late-morning light climb the trees, and I don’t say anything when she finally emerges from her bedroom with her hair and makeup done.

“Let’s get some lunch sent up and check out late, just to screw Ken a little more in the pocketbook,” she explains.

“Sure,” I say, thinking this will all be over soon, if I can just be agreeable a little while longer.

It’s half past one by the time we are back in the rental car, fighting Manhattan traffic. Portia hits buttons on the steering wheel until she finds the classical station. My old friend, the best cellist alive, is playing.

I must make some emotional noise, because she says, “Are you okay?”

I don’t answer.

“Mr. Vernon? Do you not like this music? I thought you liked classical, and—”

“It’s Yo-Yo Ma,” I explain. “Suite for Solo Cello no. 4 in E-flat Major, BWV 1010, first movement, ‘Prelude.’ Bach, of course.”

“Of course.”

“My dog, Albert Camus,” I say, missing him more than I have since Portia first found me choking to death on my own vomit, “this was one of his favorite pieces.”

“Your dog loved Bach?”

“He loved Yo-Yo Ma,” I explain, and then emotion floods my chest, and I can’t stop myself from crying. I turn my head away from her and pretend to look at New York passing by, but I’m making sniffling noises now.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sure Albert Camus was a great dog.”

“He was the best friend I ever had,” I say, realizing how stupid I’m acting, crying over a dog.

Yo-Yo Ma works his magic—transports me.

And suddenly I’m with Albert Camus again in my Vermont kitchen, listening to our favorite cellist play Bach. I’m cooking us steaks as Albert Camus thumps out the beat against the wooden floor with his tail.

In my mind, I bend down and scratch him under his chin and behind his ears the way he likes, until he stands up on his hind legs, paws at my chest, and licks my cheek in thanks.

“Why did you jump out the window?” I ask him in my fantasy. “Why? We had such a good life together.”

He looks up at me lovingly through his one eye. I told you already. I jumped to save you, like Clarence in It’s A Wonderful Life does to save George Bailey. And I think you should listen to this woman who is driving the car, in real life. She has a good heart. She loves you!

“I’m done, Albert Camus. Got nothing left to give!”

Then why not take a little, eh? he says. Learn from me. Did I ever refuse a treat or a scratch or a ride in the truck with the window rolled down? Never! And what did I have to give back in return?

“Companionship!” I say. “You were the best friend I ever had.”

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