Ok, folks, first ever finished short story. All comments and suggestions welcome. Thanks.
He had chosen this restaurant because of the hakarl. Now, with the fork cresting near his mouth, he seemed to be rethinking the decision. Sitting across from him, painted orange by the candle’s light, she decided that this was it. They had graduated to yuppiedom. All the world was a conversation piece when intelligent people choose restaurants based on obscure menu items.
“Not bad,” He said, “The texture is really nice actually.”
“Mmm.”
His chewing had worked well enough, though took longer than expected. And he didn’t appear to be breathing during it. Still, obviously a delicacy. They had come straight from Reykjavik’s airport and had to give their bags to the Maitre D’. Droning plane engines in her head were carried on by all the little reverberating, chittering conversations around her. Five years prior, in South Boston, is exactly where she wanted to be.
Back then, she was still in the semi-glow of the MFA; 33 and dreaming. There was the imagined promise of exhibitions and cheap studio space. In the summer, she’d take the T up from Dorchester and see the yuppies jogging around the Common, networking; while she painted. Afternoon showers would push the bodies into coffee shops and brownstones ringing the narrow cobblestone streets. At night, the city would morph into a million points of lights. The epicenter was Prudential One, jutting up holy, into the sky. Weekend heat would rise from the hives at Fenway and Quincy, churned out by the buzzing activity. It was in this time, when the city was sacred and connected, that she met Darren. On the T, no less.
They were on the red line north at South Station. He had come up from New Haven for a conference in Cambridge. Steph sat down next to him and tried to forget she was in public by reading Dostoevsky. She was an unlit fuse, passing the neutral day. And of course, seeing her without makeup, in rainboots wearing an oversized flannel, reading Notes From Underground, he had to have her. This is how these things work.
What luck then, when the young Latino man next to him decided to propose to his novia. The train was swaying heavily with the conductor shouting, “Next up! Boylston St.” The man-child, down on one knee at this point, briefly toppled to his left before catching himself. His mortified girlfriend put on a left-then-right glance, pretending she didn’t know this guy. There was no way out.
“Mi Cariño,” he said, “Baby, in front of all these people…”
“Strangers.” She whispered, shopping bags at her feet.
His confidence didn’t wane, “Where we first met…”
A few beats. Then came the small jolt in Boston English. “No. Normal people talk about these things. We’re on the subway.”[O1]
The doors were opening at Boylston and she openly scoffed as she got up and walked out. His head and shoulders slacked, the downslope of a wave. His Puerto Rican passion had failed. Every other human being on that train was as embarrassed as the girl. Except for Darren. He was smiling. He realized an opportunity with this Underground Girl . What kind of woman would turn down a man after that debacle? Probably the kind who reads Dostoevsky. But still, his odds had improved. Females have moments, though few in number, of genuine sympathy, and this might just be one of them. After stopping her at the top of the tunnel stairs, she wavered but told him she is happy once every 7 years. He was lucky; today was that day. Yes, was the answer. [O2]
A remarkably standard courtship followed. Years of culled experience made this an unsettling proposition. She swam upstream to memories of football players, boys in trucks, then budding investment bankers in her college years. Each had a formula, usually handed down by the gods of television. Pursuing, calls and emails, picking up checks, buying martinis “for the lady” unimpeded and shameless, wearing stupid blazers. The thoughts produced shivers and an anxiety circling her back and shoulders, pulsing in her spine.
Maybe it was age, but Darren’s emails after a night out became charming. “Ya know, I had a really great time tonight, would love to do it again.” She felt like Meg Ryan. And she felt lame and guilty for this, like she must be missing the point somewhere. They went to New Hampshire to see his parents and his dad didn’t mind the pink streaks in her hair. They went sailing and she drove the boat, and had fun doing it. They flew to Napa for a long weekend because they could. Back in Boston, lights out, half-finished paintings sat dried and covered in the studio. What world was this? The world of everyone else’s dreams, for a time.
…
Day, month and year. The time calcified and little blots of doubt crept into her head. His self-assuredness and direction were startling to her pinging mind. The days came and went, 9 to 5. Darren immersed [O3] himself in his Post-Doc, studying the volcano. When he was in town, they had nights in the North End with his friends, Dana and Eric. Also geologists, they made a tag-team wrestling match of reason and purpose. Hers had moved on, to New York, Philly, L.A.; anywhere but staid Boston. The weeks gathered themselves with her staring out a cold window most days. He would come back from Iceland with a “Hey babe. How’s it goin?” And she could tell that she was being rented along with the apartment.[O4]
On 9/11 he was home with her, taking a day off. The first building was hit, and her anxious parents called from Ohio, even though she was 200 miles north of Manhattan. Darren was at his computer in the study. After hanging up with her mom, Steph stared at the screen. Could prop planes fly over Manhattan? He wandered in after seeing the news online.
“I can’t believe this,” she said, “Some amateur flies his Podunk plane into the World Trade Center.”
For the first time, CNN flashed a video of the plane hitting WTC 1.
Darren said, “That’s a commercial plane.”
“You don’t know that.” It did seem rather large to her.
“I fly on them all the time. It’s an airliner.” He went into the kitchen and she could hear the fridge being opened. Two minutes later, he walked back bowl in hand.
“What are you doing?”
“What?” Her question had caught him off guard with his mouth full of ice cream.
“Are you eating ice cream?”
“Yeah. It’s my day off. Breakfast.”
“You’re just gonna sit there and eat ice cream while the World Trade Center burns?” She was on the couch almost twitching the words out.
“If you wanna put it that way, yeah. But I don’t see a connection between the two events.”
She had wanted to say Disgusting,[O5] but it surely would have turned into a discussion about his rationality and her emotions.
A few minutes passed sitting on the couch. After the second plane hit, he spoke up blankly, “Those buildings are gonna come down.” She turned toward him.
“Remember Ricky?” She did remember Ricky, his dipshit childhood friend, interrupting adult conversation with maniacal, bloody historical tidbits about war, science, various potentialities for the end of the human race. “Well, he’s an engineer, and we actually talked about this once. You know “What would happen if...” kind of thing. And he said the jet fuel burning off would eventually bring a building down.”
Now, stepping out of the restaurant, she could almost see why she had come to Iceland this time. Small streets with snow drifting down. Little houses and businesses stacked along the sides, behind the gas-lit lamps. Each one looked like a little triangle placed atop a square. It reminded her of childish illustrations of her family’s Dayton home, years ago.
Darren wondered how to get to the hotel, “Well, I guess we should get a cab.”
“Guess so.”
He gave a half-wave in the direction of the street. Swiftly, their 2-cylinder chariot arrived. It was a European version of some tiny Dodge hatchback. And its driver, slowing toward the couple through the slush, was anything but a model of Nordic stoicism.
“Helloooo! My friends,” He sang through the open window.
“Hey there.” Said Darren. “I guess we’ll try and scooch on in. Just gotta get these bags in first.”
“Ah yes sir,” He called back, “This car is my bull. It’s strong, durable. Like a yak carrying village goods across the Mongolian steppe. It will hold your bags. No problem.”
Dragging her bag through the snow toward the speedy yak, Steph, barely above a whisper said “That’s good to know.”
They got into the little cab, shoulder to shoulder in the backseat.
“Ok now. Where we going?”
“324 Reykjavik st.”
“Ahh, yes. Verrry nice place.”
He was like any other cab driver in the world, minus his curved and swaying Icelandic “Rs”; overweight, bald, mediumish facial hair. He flipped through the radio stations, landing on one playing Marvin Gaye. Crescendoing horns erupted through the crackly speakers. And he began to hum/mumble “Heard it Through the Grapevine.”
Ooh, I bet you’re wondrin how I knew
‘Bout your plans to make me blue
With some other guuuy you knew before
The “guuuy!” note was all nasal in its alarming pitch. He turned down the radio.
“So, what do you, both, do?” Europeans have incredible cadences.
Darren: I’m a geologist.
Steph exhaled: I paint.
Darren sportily played along. “So do you just do the cab thing, or, uh, anything else. Like hobbies…”
“Oh no! No time for hobbies! I’m running for mayor.”
“Oh really? That’s great, like of your little hometow-”
“Mayor of Reykjavik.”
Silence pulled together like a slow-forming fog.
“That sounds like a big step,” Steph weakly volunteered from the backseat.
“Not so much,” he said, waving his right index finger, “I have lot of friends. It’s small country, you see?” Tapping his temple, smarter than the average bear, “Ahh, ahh.”
Darren blessed this municipal arrangement. “Yes, well, good luck.”
“Thank you sir.”
Both hands were back on the wheel. Bits of Icelandic gibberish trickled through his headset as he turned the volume up. And he hummed again with Marvin.
I’m just about to lose my mind. Honey honey, yeah.
Minutes later, they arrived. The booking had been under Darren’s purview. She understood this, being the guest on the trip. What she saw did not shock, but dulled her emotions further. Like they were being chopped off then smoothed over before their fullest expression. Outside their window, in beckoning green light, stood a Holiday Inn. She was certain for a moment that this was a dream and they had just turned off of the Ohio Turnpike. The sign displayed “All Travelers Welcome!”, in English no less. Maybe Iceland was a dream.
The lobby was kitsch heaven. Every framed photo was stock, the desired effect to make one feel as at home as in Topeka, Spokane, wherever. A carefully located Christmas tree sat in the corner, right next to the “employee of the month” pictures on the wall beside it. This month’s winner was an enthusiastic middle-aged man named Burt, giving a thumbs up. Even the front desk clerk was imported. She was from Tennessee, Go Vols! Haha, and an exchange student. Things in Iceland were so great she was thinking about buying a condo. After the directions about a fabulous continental breakfast from 6-9, they went upstairs to the room.
They were laying in bed when Steph began.
“Are you having fun?”
She heard a slight dragging sound from the sheets, shhhh, and a mumbled, “Excuse me?”
“Are you having fun?”
“You mean sleeping?”
“No. With all of this.”
Sleep rounded the edges of his voice.
“I mean…yeah. I dunno. Sure? Are you not having fun?”
“No, I’m not. We’re at a Holiday Inn in Iceland. Jesus. Why?”
He turned to the convenient double-lamp placed just to the northeast of his head. Click. On.
“Honey, I’m not sure I follow.”
She looked at herself in the mirror directly across. Then rubbed her temples, under her eyes. The cracks were coming. Little bits of her body that once seemed like a contiguous whole now slowly failing.
“I’m bored, and old, and boring.”
“I brought you along because I thought you’d enjoy this.”
“It needs to be different. All of it.”
“Ok. How do we do that?”
She lifted up her hand, examining the back of it and her manicured nails, wondering if she once could see her reflection in her youth.
“Pray. Prostrate. Whatever.”
They caught the late end of the continental breakfast the next morning, sitting in worn hotel robes. Paunched, fanny-packed men and their visored wives filled the place, eating eggs and bacon. Greyed sneakers matching grey legs. A tour bus would turn up any minute. Steph thought they would sleep late, but Darren’s Swedish colleagues had banged on the door at 7:30.
Twin scientists, Lars and Klaus, they had been there to drop off the Jeep. Darren had thrown on a robe after jumping from the bed, strips of purple under his sleep-deprived eyes. On opening the door, he had seen dual-chambrayed shirts, matching khakis and safari hats. Multiple forms needed filling; insurance, releases of liability, compensation agreements. The work was characterized by incredible efficiency, Lars handing the pertinent sheet to Darren, explaining, then Klaus filing away the signed copy into his tan leather briefcase. She wanted to call them “1 and 2” or “A and B”. They were a semiotic problem in human form. She turned on the TV to drown the grind of bureaucratic gears for the next hour.
Not long after returning from breakfast, they were sitting in the Jeep. The night had birthed a warm spell. In place of snow crumbling its way down, there was rain like slicing canvas, tearing at the land. Steph’s nerves were on alert, heated pinpricks in her neck and shoulders. She knew they’d have to drive the hills in this.
She considered the good times. When he told her he loved her for the first time, and she could see him shaking. How he pulled her in smiling, no words, and held her after she sold her first painting. How he got along with her parents. He could never understand her; she was left with brick walls, stale rain, empty canvas. But he had tried.
The drive was “scheduled” to take 45 minutes, according to a twin. She didn’t know which. He had underlined it twice on the itinerary they were given. More a warning than a plan, she felt. Her plan was to sit and read while Darren’s team did their tests on Eyjafjallajökull. She was “intemperate”, as he put it. An eruption would cause problems beyond the island.
Halfway through, a tire gave. They pulled to the side, the rain a drizzle, up against a perfectly rounded green hill. Darren had just taken out the spare and jack, when it appeared. Three little houses, thatched in green grass extended into reality, right in the side of the slope. Little people were walking through, carrying tiny tools, whispering an ancient tongue. In a whirl, the last of the rain wisped over the top of the hill, shining a rainbow onto the huts, where they vanished. She knew they would be ok.