Real Life(26)

Nothing. Except to work.

And now the work has been turned on him. His work is an insult to them. She hates him because he works, but he works only so that people might not hate him and might not rescind his place in the world. He works only so that he might get by in life on whatever he can muster. None of it will save him, he sees now. None of it can save him.

Wallace reaches over and shuts off his flame, for a moment thinking that he’s pushed the dial too hard, that he’s broken it and the room will fill with gas. But the handle holds his weight. He then turns back to Dana, this panting, miserable girl. Her face is red. Her eyes gleam. He steps closer to her on the bench. The soles of her shoes press flat to the front of his thighs.

It isn’t hatred. He does not hate her. Because she matters so little to him. It would be like hating a child. It would make him like his parents, who had certainly, in some way, hated him. And he does not want to be like them. But he cannot bring himself to be good. To be generous.

“Fuck you, Dana,” he says finally, and it feels like a relief, so much so that he is briefly thankful to her for the gift of it. “Just, totally fuck you.” A rush of air buoys him. He collects his racquet bag from the low storage on the floor, and all the time she is staring at him as though she has been slapped.

He rises. Another look passes between them. She looks like she’s on the cusp of saying something, but he turns, leaves. Away through the blue shadow that has taken the lab now that the lights have turned off. His motion doesn’t trigger them, as though he is a natural part of this place or a ghost.

Dana shouts after him, that she’s not done, that he doesn’t get to end a conversation before she’s had her say. She is shouting after him because she doesn’t know what else to do with her fear and her anger, and soon her shouts turn to sobs. But Wallace is already crossing the hall.

The light in the hall is too bright, searing. His steps echo. He walks hard. He’s got a heavy step. His mother used to make fun of him for that. You’re so heavy footed; you never look down. He does look down now. Sees the thin shawl of his shadow on the tiles. Passes the kitchen, passes Miller’s lab door.

“Hey,” Miller calls after him, but he does not stop. He can hear Miller’s steps after him, which only spurs him on, past the posters of experiments, past the fliers advertising employment opportunities, past the familiar bulletin boards with their cartoons and silly sayings, past the row of lockers where, in the eighties, people used to store their belongings. He is walking so fast that his feet are slipping over each other. He’s back at the stairwell that overlooks the atrium by the time Miller catches him. “What’s going on?” Each word is deliberate, drawn out.

“Apparently, I’m a huge misogynist,” Wallace says.

“What? Come on. What was all that shouting about?” Miller’s eyes are kind and concerned. He takes Wallace’s arm in his hand, and it’s like before, in the kitchen. Wallace can feel himself vibrating, with anger, with fear—who can say?

“Nothing,” he says. “Nothing.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what? Tell the truth? It’s nothing.”

“It’s obviously not.”

“Well, it’s not your problem,” Wallace says, and he snatches away from Miller. “I’ll deal.”

Miller is both angry and annoyed. He reaches, Wallace avoids.

“Come on.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” Miller takes his hand and pulls on him. They go into the library on the third floor, into one of the little rooms with doors that lock. Miller makes Wallace sit on the table and he steps between his legs. He is not letting him get away. The room smells vaguely dusty and like dry-erase markers. The carpet is hideously purple. Miller smells like his shampoo and soap. His eye is still puffy from last night, with the peppers and the nachos at the pier.

“I’m mad,” Wallace says when it becomes clear that Miller isn’t going to say anything or initiate the conversation. He’s got his arms folded over his chest and there is a patient look on his face.

“Obviously.”

“She said women are the new niggers and faggots.”

“I’m not even sure what that means.”

“She hates me.”

“Seems likely.”

“You aren’t helping,” Wallace says.

“I’m sorry it’s so bad,” Miller says, and he kisses Wallace softly. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop being nice to me. You hated me too, just the other day, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t hate you. I didn’t understand you—I don’t understand you—but I never hated you,” Miller says. How strange, Wallace thinks. A strange thing to say. He can’t look at Miller. Feels weirdly exposed. The table is cheap and yellow, laminated plywood. He wants to get down. Miller won’t move. Wallace pulls at the hem of the gray sweatshirt.

“I hate you. I hate you a lot.”

“I know,” Miller says. “Do you feel better?”

“No,” he says at first, and then, shrugging, “Well, maybe some.”

“Good.” There is another kiss and then another, and then Wallace is sliding his fingers through Miller’s hair, and Miller is biting at the side of Wallace’s neck. The table creaks beneath him as he shifts to get closer and then to get away.