“Bail out, Maggie,” Hunt said, handing me a stack of Grisham’s latest novel. “I have a firm belief that you should duck anything that causes this amount of stress.”
“I’m fairly certain calculus is required for med school, Hunt,” I said.
He grimaced, “I know I’m not in a position to give career advice kid, but maybe you need to re-direct your efforts.” He pulled the last books from the box and stuffed them on the heavy, wooden display shelf.
“Like you re-directed yourself out of law school?” I asked, as he picked up the empty box and wandered through the crowded shelves to the back room.
“Hey,” he called, “Harvard Law is wholly overrated.”
Known only to his Manhattan parents, his trust fund, and his paychecks as Wesley Ryan Huntington Jr., Hunt was working on a master’s degree in psychology. As I understood it, he’d been working on it for five years.
He headed back toward me, stopping to straighten his “Great Thinkers” display. It was Socrates, Steve Hawking, Shakespeare, and an episode guide to The Simpsons. “I can’t believe you put that there,” I said.
“I’m telling you,” Hunt said. “Homer Simpson is a master of societal commentary. If anything, Mr. Simpson could teach you something about the value of relaxing.”
I started stacking the books Hunt had dropped, “I waited two years to be able to afford school,” I said. “Being a perpetual student isn’t an option for me.”
“Ah, your grand plan,” Hunt said, twirling an old wire rack of travel books, “Save the world and make a pile of money. There are other options, Mags.”
I frowned. “You always tell me to go for it.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, but you’re miserable. You’re flunking calculus and you spent a million hours a week to get that B in Anatomy and Physiology.”
I swallowed hard and shoved a pile of books onto the shelf. “Pre-med is supposed to be difficult.”
The bell chimed and the hinges squeaked as someone pushed in the front door. Ella’s Bookstore, my chief means of income, eked out a moderate existence by catering to the needs of the university crowd. Ella worked her tiny bookshop from nine to five Monday through Friday. I worked every night and on Saturdays. Hunt worked whenever he wanted.
Once during the summer, after Hunt brought me a dancing Hula girl from his weekend in Oahu, I asked him why he bothered to work at all.
“I have to work here,” he said, “It pays for my book addiction.” Later, I pointed out that his trust fund could have paid for a small library. “My grandfather wrote it into his will that I couldn’t use my inheritance for ‘barbaric athletic pursuits,’” he told me. “I have to pay for hockey somehow.” I knew better than to suggest that Hunt give up hockey. He was the world’s most devoted amateur. On winter weekends he played up to three games a day, even if it meant he couldn’t move the next morning.
It wasn’t hockey puck that had caught his eye today, however. The customer who had walked in was the picture of a frat boy fantasy. She wore a spaghetti strap tank top, low-rise jeans, and had a mile of disgustingly blond hair. In forty-one degree Minnesota weather the outfit said a lot about her priorities.
Hunt headed toward the oak desk that served as the front counter. “Duty calls,” he said with a wink.
I carefully straightened the display on the antique wooden shelf, trying not to listen. Hunt flirted his way from a $5.99 sale of Savage Sunset to a twenty-five dollar hardcover of Neruda’s poetry “meant to be read by beautiful women.” Despite his unreliability, Ella kept him on to boost sales. Ella’s had a lot of female clientele. Hunt flirted with every woman but me. Yes we talked a lot, but he’d never once told me, “You have such stunning attributes.” I doubt it was a comment on her personality.
I didn’t think Hunt was that gorgeous. His nose was a little too big, and he had a scar from a hockey fight at the corner of his mouth. When he smiled that side always pulled down a little. His wiry frame was nearly gangly, and he had perpetually messy light brown hair. There was even a wrinkle here and there.
He did have a jaw line that was sharp enough to cut paper and perfectly symmetrical, long lashed brown eyes, but he wasn’t that attractive. The giggle coming from the undergrad seemed to disagree with that statement. It surprised me that she could read anything but the back of the Clairol box.
She finally left. “Hot date?” I said, sounding catty.
“Not exactly,” Hunt said. “I’m not really into the walking Barbie thing.”
“She’s a little young for you.”
“No younger than you, Mags.”
“Oh, come on,” I said. “She’s nineteen, tops.”
“And you’re twenty-two. Thirteen years is not that different than sixteen years, I’m still too old for you,” he frowned for a minute and then said quickly, “We were talking about calculus.”
It annoyed me than he constantly reminded me about how young I was. I sighed and grabbed a feather duster, moving it over the bestseller display. I couldn’t believe how many ridiculous novels made the top ten, the number one spot always be something like Great Expectations.
Dust scattered into the light filtering through the front window. “I’ll figure it out,” I said. “There’s got to be something more I can do.”
“Like what?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, leaning against the shelf. “I just hope my mom doesn’t ask about it, she gets nervous every time I have trouble.”
Hunt was quiet for a moment, “I know this goes against my usual conversational repertoire, but can I ask you a serious question?”
I put the duster down. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Is it worth it?” he said. “Because you’re stressing out every damn day.” In the nine months I had known Hunt, he had never ventured a real opinion on my life. I’d share my frustrations, he’d make me laugh, and we’d end up discussing the societal ramifications of The Brady Bunch.
“When my father was dying, the doctors were the only people who cared.” I said, not looking at him. “I’ve wanted to be a doctor since I was seven years old,”
“I wanted to be an ice cream truck driver, Maggie,” he said, “but people change their minds. Have you ever once considered doing something else?”
“Like what?” I said. “Studying slap shots?”
I saw his jaw clench.
“At least I enjoy my life. When was the last time you enjoyed yours?”
“You don’t understand,” I said, turning my back to attack the dust on another shelf.
“Apparently not,” he said. He stood there for several seconds. I ignored him, and eventually he headed to the back room. Fifteen minutes later he slipped out the door with a quiet, “See you, kid.” I watched him as he walked across the tiny parking lot.
“What do rich people understand anyway?” I muttered.
I walked back and pulled out my standard copy of Jane Eyre. The book usually calmed me down, but today it didn’t work. I shoved it back on the shelf between Wuthering Heights and a Gwendolyn Brooks collection and went to get the vacuum.
The store was spotless when closing time came. I’d sold three newspapers, a copy of the Cliff’s Notes for Ulysses, two paperbacks, and a cookbook some kid was sending to his mom as a birthday gift, despite my best efforts talk him into something else. It had been a slow Saturday.
I locked the door, cussing mentally as the key stuck in the cranky brass lock. Finally it turned, and I was startled by a voice from behind.
“It’s 6:15, Margaret Mary Donovan, and you’re a workaholic even when you don’t have to be.”
I turned to see Hunt leaning against his blue 1965 Mustang Convertible. I knew no one else crazy enough to drive a convertible in a place with nearly eight months of winter. The khakis and button down he wore for work had been replaced with faded jeans, a New York Rangers T-shirt, and a leather jacket that was probably worth more than my entire wardrobe. He kicked a patch of grass that was dying in a sidewalk crack.
“Did you forget something?” I asked.
Shifting his feet he stared at the ground. “I’m going to visit my uncle,” he said, finally looking back up at me. “I go at least once a week, and we’re getting sick of each other’s company. Want to come?”
“You have family here?” I asked. He’d never mentioned it.
“Just an uncle,” he said. “It’s why I chose this lovely city to live in.”
“I thought it was the thriving amateur hockey scene,” I said.
He smiled finally. “That too. You interested?”
I looked down at my black slacks and gray sweater set. “I’m not exactly dressed for a social occasion.”
“Well,” he said, looking at the ground again. “If you don’t want to…”
“Sure,” I said. My Saturday night was generally a Lean Cuisine and my biochemistry notes, besides this was Hunt. I walked toward him. Reaching out, he took the worn book bag from my shoulder and opened the passenger door to toss it in the tiny back seat. He held the door open and I slid into the car.
The moment the ignition caught, music poured from the obviously updated stereo speakers. It was a nonsense song that was several years old, something about Istanbul. He must have seen the frown on my face. “It’s They Might Be Giants,” he yelled over the music.
“More social commentary?” I asked.
Hunt nodded and winked, “Nothing like nonsense based on cultural upheaval to give you a sense of reality.”
I shook my head. Hunt was not an aggressive driver, but he never went less than five miles over the speed limit. He wove in and out of the sparse traffic, deftly shifting gears. Sailing through a very yellow light, he looked over his shoulder and grinned.
Within minutes we pulled up in front of the Dogwood Glen Retirement Center. It was a three-story tan apartment building with white trim. Trees, still clinging to the red-orange leaves of fall, stood sentinel on the lawn. “Nice place,” I said, reaching to undo my seat belt.
“I suppose,” Hunt said. “Though I never thought I’d see him in a place like this.” We got out and Hunt pulled a sack of groceries and a twelve pack of Dr. Pepper from the backseat.
“What, no beer?” I teased.
He handed me a stack of magazines. “Bobby would like that,” he said, “but it’s against the rules. I’m the one who’s getting to old to drink that crap.”
I looked down at the stack of magazines in my hand and blushed at the front cover. It wasn’t quite a naked woman, but it was close. “Hunt!”
“What?” he asked, and then looked down at the magazine cover. “Oh,” he said, quickly setting down the Dr. Pepper and reaching for the stack. He stuck the magazine on the bottom of the pile. “I’m sure he reads it for the articles,” Hunt said, handing the pile back. Field and Stream stared back at me through the eyes of an innocent doe.
I had to laugh, “Yeah, I’m sure your uncle spends his day worrying about getting into the hottest clubs.”
“You never know,” Hunt said as we crossed the parking lot. “Bobby has a tendency to surprise.”
“You call your uncle by his first name?” I asked.
“Yes,” Hunt said firmly, “and I’d recommend you do the same. I once heard him tongue lash a telemarketer for calling him Mr. Huntington.” Hunt pulled open the front door and nodded to a smiling receptionist who addressed him by name. Another one of his loyal admirers no doubt.
“He’s your dad’s brother?” I asked, as we climbed on the elevator.
“Yeah,” Hunt said.
“But I thought all of your father’s family had…” I paused.
“Bluer blood than the Arctic Ocean, and twice as cold?” he finished. “They do, but Bobby’s the exception.”
“So are you,” I said.
Hunt stared at me with a strange look on his face. “So am I,” he said quietly. “For whatever it gets me.”
The elevator doors popped open and we both flinched. We didn’t speak until Hunt knocked on the door of 317.
“Get the hell in here,” shouted a rough voice.
I looked up at Hunt who shrugged, “He knows it’s me.”
“That’s not particularly reassuring,” I said as we stepped inside. We walked down a hallway that had four pictures in matching frames. There was a black and white family photo, a sixties era shot of a brunette woman in a cowboy hat, one of a man clinging to the back of a writhing horse, and another of the same man and a scruffy teenager on a beach. “Is that?”
“Me,” Hunt answered. “Bobby took me to Fiji for graduation.”
“Nice,” I said, thinking back to the bus ticket and the deluxe copy of Gray’s Anatomy my mom had painstakingly saved for.
We entered the small living room of the apartment. It held a leather recliner, a bookshelf filled with outdated travel books, a small couch, and a giant television. The only decorations in the rooms were three unusual masks hanging above the television.
Sitting in the recliner was the same man from the picture, though it was obvious twenty years had passed. Wrinkles burrowed into his face like river canyons. Still, beneath the bushy brows there was an animation in his dark brown eyes; eyes that looked like Hunt’s.
He blinked rapidly when he looked at me. “Well, now Hunt it’s about time I got to meet…”
Hunt cut him off, “Be good, Bobby. This is Maggie Donovan,” he said.
“Nice to finally meet you,” Bobby said extending a hand.
When I gave him mine, he turned it over and kissed it. From another man it might have been creepy, but instead it seemed friendly. “Nice to meet you to,” I said, smiling.
“That charm of yours is bound to get you into trouble one day, Bobby,” Hunt said, his eyes narrowing.
“Jealous?” Bobby said to Hunt, winking at me.
“Of you?” Hunt replied. “Always.”
Bobby laughed and then coughed, beating on his chest with a fist. “Damn, it’s hard being old. You sit here, angel face, while my worthless nephew gets to work.”
“You like me because I’m worthless,” Hunt said, going toward a spotless kitchenette.
“Now that’s the truth,” Bobby said. I sat down, and he reached for the magazines, “I’ll take those.”
He flipped through the magazines, grumbling over headlines until he found the one on the bottom. He held it up, “If I were as lucky as Hunt, and had you around, I wouldn’t need to look at this damn thing.”
“I don’t look much like that,” I said, as he tucked the magazine away.
“Listen here,” he said stabbing a finger at the wall. “That lady in the hat over there is my Irene. She was just like you. Skinny, brunette, and too smart for her own good, but you’re visions, the both of you, sure as hell.” He looked over his shoulder. “What do you say, Hunt?”
Hunt looked at me for a second, and then turned back to putting groceries in the fridge. “Yep, a vision,” he said, “and definitely too smart for her own good.”
I hoped I wasn’t blushing. “How do you…I’ve only been here for two minutes.”
Bobby laughed, “I know all about you, sweetie. You’re all he can talk about.” He pointed to Hunt.
Hunt stood up abruptly, knocking his head on an overhanging counter. He cursed quietly. I stared at him, he wasn’t usually clumsy.
“You old…” he said, stopping the sentence to glare at Bobby.
“We’d better change the subject, honey,” Bobby said, “Or you might never see me again.”
I wondered exactly what Hunt had told Bobby about me. Obviously, Hunt was paying more attention than I thought. Searching for a change of subject I pointed at the masks and said, “That’s interesting artwork.”
“Kachina masks,” Bobby said. “I shouldn’t have them, but I can’t quite bring myself to give them back. Irene charmed them off a Navajo elder we broke a piebald mustang for. It was a two hundred dollar job, but she wanted the masks.”
“You were a cowboy,” I said.
“Horse trainer,” Hunt called, enunciating each word.
Bobby laughed, “Never touched a cow,” he said. “But the horses I loved.”
“Tell her about the time you trained a circus horse for that Russian,” Hunt said.
So Bobby did. After that, I got to here about the Australian station owner who paid him $10,000 to come train his handlers. “That pissed off your grandfather, Hunt, I’ll tell you.”
“Not quite what he expected when he disowned you,” Hunt said, shutting the fridge and walking over to lean in the doorway.
“You were disowned?” I said.
“Riding horses was fine if I jumped over little white fences,” Bobby said. “But when I ran off to Wyoming, my father didn’t care for it.”
“He did forgive you eventually though,” Hunt said.
“At the age of eighty-five,” Bobby said, “he was afraid we’d be fighting each other in hell.”
“And he didn’t disinherit me,” Hunt said. “So you must have softened him up.”
“He tried to keep you away from hockey, though,” Bobby said. “It’s the same damn thing.”
“I’m not about to make $10,000 a week playing hockey,” Hunt said, still rubbing the crown of his head.
“You played up in Canada for five years,” Bobby said.
I looked up at Hunt. “I didn’t know that.”
Hunt dropped onto the couch beside me, “Bench warming for teams like the Elk Snout Eagles isn’t exactly something I want to brag about.”
“Still,” I said, “to have played professionally at all is something. Why did you quit?”
Hunt frowned, “I wasn’t good enough,” he said. “It frustrated me so much I started to hate it.”
“At least you gave it a try, and even this garbage you study now is better than being a lawyer,” Bobby said.
“Psychology is not garbage,” Hunt said firmly.
I listened as Bobby and Hunt continued to talk. They had very little in common really; Bobby once again said psychology was “hooey.” Hunt said it was more entertaining that smelling like horse sweat. It seemed like an old argument, worn at the edges until it was almost soft.
Not until Bobby had another coughing fit did the banter stop. Hunt looked at his watch and stood up. “We’d better go.”
Bobby’s smile slipped and he swallowed hard. “It’s sure nice of you to come, my boy.”
Hunt nodded, “It’s…” he hesitated. “I enjoy it.”
Bobby pounded his chest again and put out a hand so Hunt could help him to his feet. Bobby reached forward and kissed my cheek. “You should marry this girl, before she figures out she’s not as smooth as you seem.”
“She already knows it,” Hunt said, carefully not looking at me.
He patted my face, “You keep this boy in line, you hear?”
“Mission impossible,” I said and he laughed. Bobby walked us to the door, his steps small and slow.
When we were back in the hallway I asked Hunt, “Is he sick?”
“Yeah,” Hunt said. “He’s got problems with his lungs, but so far he’s been able to take care of himself. It’s getting harder though.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Me too,” Hunt replied.
I didn’t know what else to say. When we reached the car I said. “Thanks, for bringing me.”
Hunt nodded and climbed in the car.
“Do you remember where I live?” He had given me a ride home from work one night when it was pouring.
“Of course,” he replied, turning on the engine. He leaned forward and turned down the music. “It was nice of you to come.”
“No problem,” I said. “He’s great. How come you never told me about him?”
Hunt actually squirmed a little, “My relationship with Bobby is the only one I have that’s not a total disaster, I just…” He stopped talking as he checked the rear view mirror and swerved around a slow car.
“You just what?” I said.
He stared straight ahead, “I guess I’m not used to talking about anything real. It’s easier to be a smart ass.”
I had to chuckle. “And you do it so well.”
He took a deep breath, “Thanks.”
I wanted to ask him more. Every time I tried to speak the words sounded ridiculous in my head, so we rode in silence. Hunt slid neatly into a parking space outside my apartment building. It was a far cry from Dogwood Glen. The bare bulb fixture on the cinder block wall barely lit the cement lawn. A twisted juniper tree, beer cans scattered at its base, loomed near the front door. Still, as I stepped out of the car I could smell someone’s fireplace burning in the chilly air.
Hunt grabbed my bag from the back seat and walked around the car. I stuck my arm out to take it and he slid it up my arm to my shoulder. “Thanks again, Mags,” he said. “Bobby really liked you.”
“Why exactly did you take me to meet him today?” I asked.
Hunt hunched his shoulders and stuck his hands in his pockets. “What do you think?”
“You and Bobby changed the course of your lives, and you want me to do the same thing,” I said.
“I just want you to be happy,” Hunt said. “You haven’t been happy, especially lately. In fact, I’m not sure you even know much about the topic.”
I looked into the distance. “I’ve been working since I was ten years old, and now I’m failing at the only thing I’ve ever really wanted.”
“Then find something new to want,” Hunt said.
“Like what, exactly?” I said staring hard at him. I sounded like a shrew.
“I don’t know…” He made a noise that sounded like a growl. “Friends, family, love, hell Maggie, not everyone has to have their life mapped out at twenty-two.”
“Drop calculus and my problems are solved, huh?”
He put a hand over his eyes and sighed, “No, I just… what am I doing?”
The tone of his voice caught my attention. He’d rant about hockey scores and occasionally his family, but I’d never heard him sound this upset. “You’re a good friend whose trying to help me,” I said and put my hand on his arm.
“Am I succeeding at all?” he asked, glancing up at me over those perfect eyelashes.
“Yeah, maybe.” I said, and felt the corner of my mouth turn up. “What else do you think I could do?”
He smiled in a way that I had rarely seen, light in the eyes, teeth showing. “Social worker, lawyer, circus clown, anything that doesn’t make you miserable.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “It’s your life, Maggie. Just think about it, okay?”
“I can do that,” I said.
He gave my shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Good.” He paused, his eyes not leaving mine and then he dropped his hands. “I should go.”
I walked up the crumbling steps to my door and looked back at Hunt. Hip-hop music floated through the wall from my neighbor’s apartment. As I turned to open the door Hunt said, “Maggie?”
“Yes?”
“While you’re in a thinking mood, could you think about going to dinner with me Monday night?” he said, looking at the ground again.
Something new to want, I thought. “Yeah, Hunt. I could definitely do that.”
Jenel Alan 