Real Life(9)

“It’s nothing,” he said again, and tried to mean it this time because he didn’t know exactly what it was that bothered him. What could he say except that it was nothing?

“Doesn’t look like it, mister.”

“My dad died,” he said because it was as true as any other thing, except when he said it, he did not feel relieved. Rather, it jolted him, like a sudden cry in a quiet room.

“Fuck,” she said. “Fuck.” Then, collecting herself, shaking her head, she said, “I’m sorry, Wallace. I’m sorry for your loss.”

He smiled because he was not sure how to meet someone’s sympathy for him. It always seemed to him that when people were sad for you, they were sad for themselves, as if your misfortune were just an excuse for them to feel what it was they wanted to feel. Sympathy was a kind of ventriloquism. His father had died hundreds of miles away. Wallace had not told anyone. His brother had called him. Then had come the social media posts from family members, those concerned and those just after information, that ugly, frothing spectacle of public mourning. It was strange, Wallace thought as he smiled at Emma, because he didn’t feel a crushing sense of loss—no, when he thought of his father’s death, he felt the way he always felt when someone didn’t show up for lab in the morning. But perhaps that wasn’t the truth of it either. He didn’t know what to feel, and so he tried not to feel anything. It seemed more honest that way. A real feeling.

“Thank you,” he said, because what else did one say when caught in the confines of someone else’s sympathy?

“Wait,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder at the table where the boys were sitting, now occupied with Scout, who was enjoying being petted. “Do they not know?”

“Nobody does.”

“Fuck,” she said. “Why?”

“Because it was easier, I guess. You know?”

“No, Wallace. I don’t know. When is the funeral?”

“Weeks ago,” he said, and she looked positively startled by this. “What?”

“Did you go?” she asked.

“No, I didn’t. I had work,” he said.

“Jesus Christ. Did the she-demon say no?”

Wallace laughed, and his voice skipped out over the water ahead of them. What a thought. That he might have told his adviser and she might have told him not to go. It was tempting to let Emma believe that because it was something Simone might have done. But then it would probably get back to Simone, and he’d have that mess to deal with.

“No,” he said. “She’s not that bad, you know. She wasn’t even in town.” Simone was tall and striking, a woman of terrifying intelligence. She was not particularly demonic. More like a constant hot wind that, after a while, wore Wallace down.

“Don’t protect her,” Emma said, narrowing her eyes. “Did she fucking say you couldn’t go to your own dad’s funeral? That’s sick.”

“No,” he said, still laughing, doubling over and grabbing his stomach. “It wasn’t like that. I just didn’t have the time.”

“It was your dad, Wallace,” Emma said. The laughter in him died. He felt chastened by that. Yes, it was his father. He knew that. But the trouble with these people, with his friends, with the world, was that they thought things had to be a certain way with family. They thought you had to feel something for them, and it had to be the same thing that everyone felt or else you were doing it wrong. How could he laugh at the thought of not going to his father’s funeral? How strange could he be? Wallace did not think he was strange. He did not think he was wrong or bad for laughing, either, but he made his face into a calm mask of quiet, still sadness.

“Fucking hell,” she said. She was angry for his sake. She kicked at the water, sent it flashing into the night, drops of silver fading to black. She then put her other arm around him and hugged him. He closed his eyes and sighed. Emma began to cry a little, and he put his arms around her back and held her close.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said, but her crying only intensified as she shook her head. She kissed his cheek and hugged him more fiercely.

“I’m so sorry, Wallace. God. I wish I could change it. I wish,” she said.

The size and scope of her sadness alarmed him. It seemed impossible that this display of grief could be entirely sincere, that her body shook in his arms because of a loss she felt he must have felt. He wanted to cry for her sake if not for his own, but he couldn’t. People at nearby tables began to hoot and holler at them, clapping and blowing kisses.

Emma growled at them, but they could not hear it. Only Thom stood with his back straight, like he sensed something wrong. When Wallace looked back at him, Thom was scowling, glaring. Thom knew that Wallace was gay. He knew that there was nothing between him and Emma. So why was he staring so hard? It was like someone had told him a joke but he hadn’t gotten it. He could be stupidly unironic, to the point of self-parody. He had messy hair and wore hiking boots year-round, even though they lived in the flat part of the state and he was from the middle of Oklahoma. Thom was all affectation all the time. He was getting a doctorate in literary studies, and he was strapped to the drowning enterprise of academia. Still, Wallace liked Thom more than he disliked him. He gave Wallace reading recommendations. He talked to Wallace about books the way the others talked about college football and hockey. It was just that every so often, in moments like this, he could be found staring at Wallace and Emma as if he wanted to decapitate them both.