Points of Interest

Jeremy shows up with a big grin on his face. Rachael's only been home a couple of hours; she isn't surprised: their family's been friends for years and the first person her mother would call is his. Rachael's home. Deliver Jeremy.

Her mother brings him into the living room, thrilled to see him. She keeps coming back into the room, bringing more cookies, more coffee. Like she can't decide whether they're kids or grown–ups, wanting to see them as both.

"So—you haven't flown the coop yet," Jeremy says.

"Don't look at me like the waiting fox."

"It's only sporting, giving fair warning."

"This is why you're always hungry."

"It's good to see you, Rachael."

"I know what you're up to."

"It be easier if your mom didn't talk to my mom. So often."

"I like hearing about you."

They know Rachael's mom is on the phone with his; they know Rachael's mom is eavesdropping.

"You want to go for a drive?" Jeremy asks.

"You should have asked five minutes ago."

"I know," Jeremy says, grinning. His grins have always held all the soft aspects of self-effacement, humor, kindness, camaraderie.

"You haven't changed."

It's been a long time since Jeremy's heard Rachael complain like this; it makes him feel nostalgic and all marshmallowy inside. She feels it too, his nostalgia vibrating alongside hers like the wings of hummingbirds.

Outside, Jeremy offers his sleek black convertible. Rachael insists they get into her grimy compact instead.

They haven't been driving for long when Jeremy says, "You look horrible, Rachael."

"I'm not sleeping."

"Get some sleeping pills, damn it."

"Last time I took a little pill, I woke up two days later across state lines, in my car, the motor still running. That was interesting. I had no idea I was such a good driver."

"Just get your doctor to change the prescription. Or the dosage. You weren't drinking alcohol? Good."

"Sleeping isn't the problem. Waking is the problem. Everything wakes me up. I snore and I wake up."

"You snore? When did you start that up?"

"I don't know. Part of growing old, I guess."

They take a quick glance at each other: they've known each other a long time; stepping through each decade together like this feels a little strange.

"Should you be driving?" It'd been a mistake not to take his car, Jeremy realizes. He should have insisted. But he'd been afraid. Things had been going so well.

"Am I veering off the road?"

"No. No. You're doing fine. So why are you really home?" Jeremy wants to know.

"I don't know. I was driving and I suddenly realized I was only an hour away and it just happened. Home. Primal instinct, I guess."

"Your mom told my mom that you've become a vagabond."

"I have."

"Really?"

"This is my home. I'm living out of this car."

"How long have you been doing that for?"

"Eight months?"

Jeremy turns around and looks at the back seat again. There's a large closed box on one seat, but otherwise, things all neat and tidy, like Rachael, boxed up. "Shouldn't you have gotten a bigger car?"

"I just got whatever had the best fuel economy. You know how I hate filling up at gas stations. Really can't deal with those pumps. I don't have very much anyway. My life is in two small suitcases. My mom says I live like a war refugee. I guess I do."

"How did you get your life into two small suitcases?"

"I don't know. Every year, I just want less and less in my life. Less and less things have less and less meaning."

"But why live in your car, Rachael?"

"I don't know. I had this suffocated little apartment I've been meaning to move out of for years and suddenly my lease was up and I was going to look for a new place and then I just thought—and then I just thought—" She smiles a little to herself. "I'll just drive around for awhile. It's not too bad. I stay at little B&Bs and funny little motels. Make small chit-chat. Participate in the human condition."

"Well, it's an improvement. From the last time I saw you."

"I'm still pissed about that."

"You were living in squalor."

"It wasn't as poetic as that."

"I still don't understand. Why you wouldn't let me help you."

"I don't understand why you would."

"That's an old tune and I'm tired of it. You don't live in a vacuum. You have people who care about you."

Jeremy's voice is like authority; it always made Rachael laugh, not out loud, not in a mean way. That authority could sometimes be ridiculous, but it's Jeremy and she can't help liking it, deep inside her cells.

"Sometimes your voice pops up in my head, out of nowhere," she says.

"What do I say?" Jeremy's curious, and excited. He'd hoped Rachael might think about him once in awhile, but this is something altogether different.

"`Do you have to be so mean?'"

He has to admit she does a good imitation of him; was he always so critical? He flinches a little, thinking of all the times he might have said this.

"You pop up in my head too, Rachael. Like at my rehearsal dinner for my wedding. I was having this great time and I couldn't wait to be married, and you just pop into my head and say, `Are you sure?'"

"And what did you say back?"

"Fuck off, Rachael."

"Good for you. It was nice of you to send me an invitation. I'm sorry I didn't come."

"I didn't think you would, but I wanted you to know I was thinking of you."

"And if you had thought I'd come?"

"Come on, Rachael."

"I guess I owe you a wedding present."

"Do you?"

"I don't know. You're more an etiquette expert than I am."

"I don't think you owe me anything. You like being a vagabond?" He wants to understand Rachael; he'd always wanted to understand Rachael.

"It keeps me alert."

"Are you doing the writer thing? Going to new places and meeting new people? Getting inspiration, maybe?"

"There isn't any. Everything looks the same, everybody is the same. You run into the same couple of types over and over again, no matter where you are on this claustrophobic little planet. And then sooner or later, you start running into yourself and you realize you're just a type like everyone else. Just as ridiculous as everyone else. That's really the end of the world."

"Have you run into me anywhere?" Jeremy asks.

"Yes. In Kyoto, of all places. This guy looked exactly like you—only he was Japanese. But you guys could have been twins. It was the freakiest thing. I kept staring at him. And, well, you know what happens when you stare at a guy. How vain are you guys? Even the ugliest guy thinks, `Hey, she wants to fuck me' and the girl's only staring at him because he's got snot running down his chin."

Jeremy can hardly hear Rachael talking for laughing so much.

"So who did you end up marrying?" Rachael asks. "I mean, what kind of girl was she? I think I know."

"You know. The cute, safe kind. We thought we were in love but it was just me wanting someone cute and safe and she wanting someone cute and safe so we could have a nice, cute, safe marriage."

"Ideal. What happened?"

"She fell in love with the girls' dentist."

"Oh, no." Rachael laughs; somehow it makes so much sense. Doesn't everyone eventually run away from cute and safe? "Well, I suppose if you're going to screw up your safe marriage, a dentist is a pretty safe way to do it."

"I like marriage," Jeremy says after laughing at himself. "I like that there's a wife. And kids. I like having a home. I like coming home and there's this built in thing and it's marriage. It was sort of like visiting an amusement park."

"So how long did all this safety last?"

"Six years. I almost got married again last year. Another cute, safe girl. I was looking forward to it. Only you popped into my head again."

"What did I say this time?"

"`You've got to be kidding.'"

"I'm really liking this fantasy creation of me you've lodged in our head."

"Me, too. I don't understand why we didn't have the real thing. Why were you just in my head, Rachael?"

"Because you bought me clothes. Like my mom."

"I bought you one sweater, Rachael. One fucking sweater. For your birthday."

"A sweater set. With pearl buttons."

"It was what all the other girls were wearing. I had no idea a present could be so wrong."

"You thought you could tell me. Strategize. Hand me orders. You were a fucking pain. Telling me how to act. Telling me how to live. You were just like my mom."

"She was the one who asked me to help you out. Look after you."

"Why is she always asking you?"

"She knows I care about you."

"She made you care about me. She's evil. You have no idea. The things she can make people do."

"Does she know about you and Davis?"

"No. No one knows. Except you."

"Do you still keep in touch?"

"I'm not going to talk about it."

"I'm not going to get upset."

"I'll get upset—that's the problem, Jeremy. You get me upset. I'm fine with everything and then you show up and insist everything is wrong and then—and then I don't know anymore. Maybe everything is wrong. And then I'm like that. For weeks. For months."

"I'm sorry, Rachael. I think I'm helping."

"I know. I know to you everything in my life looks wrong. And it is wrong if life is like yours. Everything so straight, with forecasts of sun and rain."

"That is my life. A little dull, very manageable. I like sunny days. Driving around with the roof down."

"I thought the Navy would have at least given you an edge. I was looking forward to that."

"You were my only creative outlet."

"I know. But you have to understand: my life's got its own set of Bingo numbers."

"When you told me about you and Davis—I was upset because I felt betrayed. I felt betrayed because I thought we knew everything about each other. I thought you told me what was going on with you."

"You always take control like this. Make me talk about things that I never should."

"You don't talk about anything unless I force you."

"I don't want you to misunderstand."

"Do you keep in touch?"

"Yes."

"Will you tell me about it?"

"No."

"It affects me, Rachael."

"Without Davis do you imagine we would have gotten together? Married? Kids? Happily ever after?"

"Yes."

"That would have killed me."

"So are you happy with Davis?"

"With Davis? There's me and there's Davis."

"So you're not happy."

"You are missing the point."

"Does Davis know about us?"

"Yes. Look. You have to stop. At least, get me a lawyer of something."

Jeremy sucks in all his remaining questions. But one, falling out of his mouth before he could stop it: "So—what's he like these days?"

"He's thinking about getting married again. To a ballerina."

"So you guys aren't together?"

"This is where I can't make you understand. I never looked at Davis and thought, `Here's my forever after. It wasn't like us." Her voice breaks a little at that last sentence.

And then Rachael does a very uncharacteristic thing: she reaches out and touches Jeremy's hand with her own. He's so stunned, he loses his opportunity, forgets to take her hand, lift it up to his mouth and kiss it. He's so stunned, he doesn't even realize she's pulled her hand away.

"I feel like getting some ice cream," Rachael says. "Where can you get ice cream in this town? The soft kind you pile up into cones and melts all over you before you can eat it all."

"Take the next right."

They eat their ice creams outside, leaning against a short brick wall. She has vanilla and he's got chocolate. They take turns eating from each cone.

"I finally read those Edgar Rice Burroughs books you recommended," she says.

"I'd forgotten I used to read those!"

"There's a lot of slaking going on."

"I don't remember."

"Read them again. I want to know if you could still like them."

"I really liked the Mars stories. It'd be fun to reread them all. When are you thinking about leaving?"

"I think I'll go tomorrow."

"Why don't you stay?"

"So you can take care of me?"

"Yes."

"Have you been brooding all these many years, angsting over what you did to me? Because you did nothing wrong."

"I do think about it, but not about what I did to you. More about what I did to me. Look—what if this is one of those times, one of those points in time that turn out to be important. One of those points in time we'll always go back to. If you leave. You don't want me to spend the next twenty years thinking about this moment, do you? For me. For our old friendship. Stay. Not forever. Just stay. Until that point is gone."

At this point, she stops to think.

Notes

Jeremy

After graduating from college, Jeremy became a Navy Seal, just as he'd always planned. He liked the water and the sea. He liked having a career with a purpose. After ten years, he left the armed services and started up a real estate developing company with a Navy pal. He liked building things, first it was his life, and now property. He met his wife at a college friend's wedding. They had two girls. Strangely, he wasn't surprised when they divorced, but he was surprised by how suddenly wrong his life felt. And then he began thinking a lot about Rachael, because she'd always had that feeling, that feeling of wrongness, even without a divorce.

Rachael

After college, Rachael drifted, first seeing Davis in Italy, and then drifting from city to city, working at bars and hotels for money. She always seemed to drift back to Davis. Each time together, it was almost like they were trying to rewrite a misbehaving story. Rachael never wrote when she was with Davis, although he never had problems working when she was around (he worked better when she was around, as if she focused his imagination)—he was the one who had first suggested she write. When she was sixteen or so.

"You should write."
"I don't have anything to say."
"You do. You say it all the time—just not out loud."

He'd just gotten out of college and had had a few short stories published. He was Jeremy's cousin, his mother's nephew.

With Davis, she became a pretty good cook. When he wrote, she left him alone, going out on her own to look around, do some shopping, making meals. He was surprised she started writing science fiction and fantasy books for children. She was too.

"Why in the world science fiction for children?" her mother had asked. She was annoyed. Her mother could have better understood Rachael if Rachael had written Carson McCullers–like stories. You always made me feel like an alien, Rachael had deadpanned. But when Jeremy had asked, she'd said, "I guess I always liked being nine, ten years old. I always liked looking out at the stars. On a cold night, they were so sharp and it was hard to breath. I felt happy."

At Age 15

Jeremy

It always baffled him that Rachael couldn't take a joke. Someone would say something and she'd snap.

"You just have to be less sensitive, Rachael."
"What do you know about it?"
"Don't you want people to like you?"
"No. Not particularly."
"Everyone wants to be liked, Rachael."
"You want to be liked. And everybody likes you. And you like everybody. So be happy and leave me the fuck alone."
"I don't get you."
"I'm not like you. I don't see life the same way as you. It doesn't feel the same. It doesn't sound the same. It doesn't smell the same. You think that shit is funny? I think it's fingernails on chalkboard."

It was the first time he'd understood there were other realities. He wanted to see what she saw, feel what she felt. So he watched her more closely, followed her around in a way she wouldn't notice. (She did notice.) He became more thoughtful, more introspective. But because he had a cushion of good nature, none of this hurt him.

At Age 17

Jeremy had spent the summer working at a summer camp. Rachael had spent most of the summer playing chopsticks on the piano. At the end of the summer, they compared notes.

"How was summer camp?"
"Great. It was pretty great."
"You lost your virginity, didn't you?"
"How—"
"`It was pretty great.'"
"How was your summer?"
"I wasn't at summer camp."
"You should have gone with me. I told you there was a job if you wanted it."
"Then your summer might not have been `pretty great'. One change in the timeline and you know how the entire universe gets fucked up."
"I'm glad you didn't go then."
"So am I. This universe is so perfect as it is."
"It's pretty great."

At Age 20

Jeremy kept seeing Rachael in a different, nuanced light.

"What are you doing this holiday weekend?"
"Nothing."
"So you're staying around campus?"
"I guess."
"I'm not doing anything either. Can I come and see you?"
"Sure."

It was a three hour drive between schools but the distance didn't seem very much to Jeremy. He hopped in the car and he was at Rachael's before he could think.

She'd just gotten her hair cut short and the ends were curling around her neckline. He was sure he loved her.

And she—she loved him too.

They didn't say very much, and when they made love, it was with a reservoir of history, with everything they knew about one another re–expressed through their bodies. But afterwards, the next day—the thought kept resurfacing.

"You never told me you'd been with anyone," Jeremy said.

"You were expecting me to be a virgin." At first she thought the idea was funny, and then she quickly realized she hadn't thought about it at all, hadn't realized how difficult it was going to be.

"I wasn't expecting—only you never mentioned anyone so I thought—I've told you everyone I've ever been with."

"I didn't ask you too."

"I wanted to tell you."

"It was just one other person."

"When?"

"It was awhile ago. Three years ago."

"When?"

"That summer you were working at the summer camp."

"Who was it?"

"Davis."

"Davis."

"Right before he left for Rome. We spent his last two weeks together. I knew he was leaving. I knew he was going to Rome to be with that girl."

"Then why?"

"It just happened. We were bored. And lonely. And he was leaving. I liked him."

Rachael

She'd always liked Davis. He noticed everything, while Jeremy only noticed her. Davis wasn't liked the way Jeremy was. Subconsciously, people knew Davis could see things that they were hiding even from themselves. Not that Davis wanted to see this. For the most part, he liked a quiet life and so was quiet. Rachael was the one person he liked to talk to. It had always been that way, even when she was a little girl. She had never been a little girl to him. Their relationship seemed to have begun even before they'd known each other so he had never had to discover her the way Jeremy had. That first time they were together had been a surprise, and they were always happy that it had happened. But each time after that, the balance changed and everything became stacked into a column that was leaning. What had made their relationship possible also made it impossible.

Jeremy, Watching Rachael Think About His Proposition

It's clear to him that Rachael needs rest, as well as a place to rest. That's easy enough for him to provide. He smiles and relaxes. Rachael only needs to reclaim what's in his heart and everything in between those terrible two points would lose its value. It's going to be okay. Just by her rising expression he knows she's going to stay.