Six Years полностью

Shanta ordered a grilled portobello mushroom sandwich. I went with the turkey BLT on rye. When the waitress was gone, I leaned across the table. “What do you mean you found nothing?”

“What part of ‘nothing’ is confusing you, Jake? I found nothing on your ex—zippo, nada, zilch. No address, no tax returns, no bank account, no credit card statement. Not-a-thing, no thing, nothing. There is not one shred of evidence that your Natalie Avery even exists anymore.”

I tried to take this in.

Shanta put her hands on the table. “Do you know how hard it is to live off the grid like that?”

“Not really, no.”

“In this day and age with computers and all the technology? It’s pretty close to impossible.”

“Maybe there’s a reasonable explanation,” I said.

“Like what?”

“Maybe she moved overseas.”

“Then there’s no record of her going there. No passport issued. No entry or exit in the computer. Like I said before—”

“Nothing,” I finished for her.

Shanta nodded.

“She’s a person, Shanta. She exists.”

“Well, she existed. Six years ago. That was the last time we had an address on her. She has a sister named Julie Pottham. Her mother, Sylvia Avery, is in a nursing home. Do you know all this?”

“Yes.”

“Who did she marry?”

Should I answer that one? I saw little harm. “Todd Sanderson.”

She jotted the name down. “And why did you want to look her up now?”

You made a promise.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I should just let it be.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am. It was a whim. I mean, it’s been six years. She married another man and made me promise to leave her alone. So what exactly am I looking for anyway?”

“But that’s what makes me curious, Jake.”

“What does?”

“You kept this promise for six years. Why did you suddenly break it?”

I didn’t want to answer that, and something else was starting to gnaw at me. “Why are you so interested?”

She didn’t reply.

“I asked you to look a person up. You could have just told me that you didn’t find anything. Why are you asking me all these questions about her?”

Shanta seemed taken aback. “I was just trying to help.”

“You’re not telling me something.”

“Neither are you,” Shanta said. “Why now, Jake? Why are you looking for your old love now?”

I stared down at the popover. I thought about that day in this restaurant six years ago, the way Natalie tore off small pieces of her popover, the look of concentration as she buttered it, the way she simply enjoyed everything. When we were together, even the smallest thing took on significance. Every touch brought pleasure.

You made a promise.

Even now, even after all that had happened, I couldn’t betray her. Stupid? Yep. Naive? Oh, several steps south of that. But I couldn’t do it.

“Talk to me, Jake.”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Who ordered turkey BLT?”

It was another waitress, this one less perky and more harried. I raised my hand.

“And the grilled portobello sandwich?”

“Wrap it for me,” Shanta said, rising. “I lost my appetite.”

Chapter 13

The first time I met Natalie she was wearing sunglasses indoors. To make matters worse, it was nighttime.

I rolled my eyes, thinking it was for effect. I figured that she fancied herself an Artiste with a capital A. We were attending a mixer of sorts, the art colony and the writers’ retreat, sharing one another’s work. This was my first time attending, but I soon learned that it was a weekly gathering. The art was displayed in the back of Darly Wanatick’s barn. Chairs were set up for the readings.

The woman in the sunglasses—I hadn’t met her yet—sat in the last row, her arms crossed. A bearded man with dark curly hair sat next to her. I wondered whether they were together. Remember the blowhard named Lars who was writing poetry from the perspective of Hitler’s dog? He began to read. He read for a long time. I began to fidget. The woman in the sunglasses remained still.

When I could listen no longer, rude or not, I wandered toward the back of the barn and started to check out the various art on display. Most of it, well, I will be kind. I didn’t “get it.” There was an installation piece called Breakfast in America that featured spilled boxes of cold cereal on a kitchen table. That was it. There were boxes of Cap’n Crunch, Cap’n Crunch with Peanut Butter (one person actually muttered, “Notice there is no Cap’n Crunch with Crunch Berries—why?—what is the artist saying?”), Lucky Charms, Cocoa Puffs, Sugar Smacks, even my old favorite, Quisp. I looked at the spilled cereal coating the table. It did not speak to me, though my stomach grumbled a little.

When one person asked, “What do you think?” I was tempted to say that it needed a little milk.