The Long Wait for Tomorrow Read online

  Kelly squeezed his eyes shut, squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I think that’s how it was. That’s how I think I remember it, at least.”

  “And all this happened in Louisville,” Patrick concluded.

  “Yes.”

  “And when was this?”

  “I’m not sure …” Kelly picked up his champagne glass. He stared at the bubbles, sighed. “Time’s been kind of strange for a while now.”

  “A while how?” Patrick asked.

  “Can we toast, please?”

  “Kelly, you’ve never been to Louisville,” Patrick said. He glanced over at Jenna, who had once again been trapped in an amazed smile. “Jenna, has Kelly ever been—”

  “Well, I haven’t yet,” Kelly said, rolling his eyes. “Not as far as you know.”

  “Jenna?” Patrick prompted.

  “Kelly.” Jenna raised her glass. “I’d like to make a toast, but there’s something you have to tell me first.”

  Kelly obliged, raised his glass.

  “Where do you think you are?” Jenna asked, holding out her bubbly. “Could you tell me that?”

  “Well, shit, you could’ve just asked,” Kelly told them nonchalantly. His sunburned face seemed unconcerned, eyes sad and happy, contradictions awaiting that first sip of champagne. “The fact that you haven’t bothered to ask only made me more certain as the day went on.”

  “More certain of what?” Patrick asked.

  Jenna leaned close to Kelly. “Kelly, where do you think we are?”

  “I’m in a mental institution.”

  For a few moments, Patrick let it slide as nothing more than a metaphor. He’d always been told the world was a crazy place, after all. You’d have to be insane to be sane, there were endless examples, perhaps Kelly was simply coming out and admitting he was as concerned with his future as the rest of them were.

  “I am in a mental institution,” Kelly repeated, and now there was no doubt he meant it. Bobbing his head silently, as though marveling at the notion, he added: “And I’m sound asleep. Sound asleep, and having the best dream … the only dream I’ve had in many, many years.”

  Jenna’s glass remained in her hand, wasn’t ready to toast.

  Patrick didn’t even reach for his. “What do you mean by years?”

  “Guys …,” Kelly said. “I know none of you are really here. I know that this place, these people, even myself, that this isn’t here. Because this, right here, is round about twenty years ago, as far as my life is concerned. I’m closing in on forty years old, and we’re going to have this toast because I’m positive, any minute now, I’m going to wake up.”

  Beat.

  Patrick couldn’t remember a single point in his life when his mind had rang so empty. Nothing to say, nothing to do. Not a single dispute or contradiction available, because there was no arguing with the impossible. He simply let Kelly’s revelation go unchecked as his glass gravitated toward the center of the table of its own accord.

  “Also,” Kelly added as he leaned forward, “I’m getting the tuna tartare for my starter, so maybe you all ought to try something else, and that way we can all share.”

  Their champagne flutes met with an uplifting clink.

  And Patrick’s brain began to thaw, just enough to set a lone angel free and whisper an equally senseless lament: Should’ve called dibs on the tartare, loser.

  he three of them closed the restaurant.

  Their bill came out to a number reserved for class-action settlements.

  Kelly slapped down his credit card without a peep.

  Signed with a flourish, adding a tip that would most likely clear the waiter of all student loans.

  Patrick hadn’t gone beyond his first glass of champagne, and he drove them all back to Kelly’s, whereupon the liquor cabinet was raided, stereo plugged in, and night sky filled with the drunken laughter of two wasted teenagers.

  Or to believe Kelly, one wasted teenage girl, and one wasted middle-aged man in a teenager’s body.

  Patrick sat at the same table as his friends, drinking lemonade and watching Kelly light up another cigarette. Jenna was pouring two shots of Chivas Regal, giggling uncontrollably. A good portion of Scotch fell onto the table, through the cracks, and onto the deck. The whole table was a mess of such mishaps. A sticky battlefield, covered with all the bottles they could get their hands on, determined to sample each and every one before even considering the evening over.

  Patrick had given up hope on serious discussion of Kelly’s delusion for a while now.

  Jenna had gotten tipsy halfway through the bottle of champagne and simply granted the premise. After that, the subject had been all but forgotten, until the big hand had snuck its way past midnight.

  “OK, future boy!” Jenna snorted, sliding a glass over to Kelly. Both her straps had slid from her shoulders, breasts in serious danger of announcing their presence. “Here’s what I want to know…. In the future, what happens to me? Who do I become?”

  Kelly blew a plume of smoke into the air, grinning with drunk abandon. “No idea, baby.”

  “Liar!” Jenna raised her glass. “You’re just trying to protect the future from us changing it! Otherwise, if we know too much, we’ll destroy our own destiny, right? Like in the movies.”

  “Except … !” Kelly reached for his glass. “This isn’t really the past…. Patrick?”

  Patrick picked up on his cue without much enthusiasm. “This isn’t the past. Kelly’s in the future, dreaming about the past.” He caught Jenna doing her best to focus, swaying slightly with drink in hand. “What he’s saying, Jenna, is that this isn’t really happening. You and I aren’t really here. We’re all in the future, running around in Kelly’s happy little dream.”

  Jenna turned to face Kelly, drink sloshing around. “I am your dream woman, is that it?”

  “Have to drink to that.”

  Kelly and Jenna hadn’t actually toasted in over an hour, and they downed their drinks.

  “So, OK, future boy …” Jenna puckered her face, shook her head with a horselike flap of her lips. “You don’t have any excuses, then. What am I in the future?”

  “I told you, I don’t know.”

  “So you’re from the future….” Patrick shifted in his seat, stretching. “And you can’t tell us anything about it?”

  “I just can’t tell you everything …,” Kelly countered. “To be fair, most things. One of those things happens to be what happens to Jenna, what happens to you, Patrick….”

  “That’s mighty convenient there, Kelly.”

  “What do you want from me!” Kelly stood, reached over the table, searching for a bottle to sample. “Guys, I can’t remember anything.”

  “Well, that’s normal,” Jenna assured him, mocking the comforting tone of a guidance counselor. “It’s been twenty years, Kelly.”

  “No, I’ll be honest about this,” Kelly conceded, picking up a bottle of Beefeater. “I don’t even remember most of my life. I don’t remember what I’ve done, where I’ve been. I can’t even remember what I’m doing in that goddamn nuthouse. I mean, maybe it’s the drugs they’ve shot me up with, but all I’ve got left are moments, anecdotes, things I know I’ve grown to like—”

  “Like six-hundred-dollar dinners!” Jenna testified, waving her arms in the air.

  “Hey, I wish there had been more of those.” Kelly poured them each a hefty amount of gin. “But what can I say, all I know is that I’m giving us the royal treatment. Once I fall asleep tonight, I’m just going to wake up back in that goddamn room, which, honestly, I can’t even remember what it looks like.”

  “Even though that’s where you are right now,” Patrick said with a withering look. “Dreaming all this, twenty years from now.”

  “Doesn’t the memory prove it? You’ve all had dreams. You wake up on an island. You find yourself running up a set of crumbling steps, some awful creature ripping at your heels. You’re in bed, going at it with a girl you once knew, only she’s still the s
ame age as she was fifteen years ago, and what information do you have? Are there ever any hints, or answers to your questions? What am I doing here, where did I come from? If we could remember them, we’d wake up from our dreams the moment they started, because we’d be too certain they were dreams.”

  The CD had run through its tracks, came to a stop with a depressed whirl.

  Kelly took advantage of the gaping silence to make his way over to the stereo. He bent down, pressed Play. From out in the darkness, a dog barked. Kelly waved in that direction as though letting it know that, yes, he was getting to that. He skipped ahead a few tracks, settled on the one he wanted.

  With this fresh injection of music, Kelly closed his eyes, listening to the gravelly voice of Tom Waits. Droplets of piano coupling with lush violins. He followed along without mouthing the words, holding his finger up when it was time for them to listen.

  “ ‘If I exorcise my devils, well my angels may leave too,’ ” he sang along, off-key and uncaring. “ ‘When they leave they’re so hard to find.’”

  “Are you really going to go?” Jenna asked. Suddenly somber, though far from sober. Her eyes were sad, taking Kelly in for all he was worth. “When you fall asleep, that’s it? Goodbye, Kelly?”

  “Let me tell you guys something….” Kelly remained standing, glass of gin at the ready. “I don’t remember much about Kelly McDermott, but my impression is that he was a loser. Maybe not in any way that people think about losers. He was apparently worshipped, feared, successful, but … What can I say, a loser can be all those things and more if they got no heart…. And if any of this were real, if I were really here, I’d tell you to kick Kelly to the curb….”

  Kelly sauntered over to his chair and plopped himself down.

  “Fuck Kelly McDermott,” he concluded, looking into his glass. “I’m going to miss you guys come tomorrow.”

  Jenna set her glass down and wrapped her arms around Kelly.

  “Miss you, too,” she mumbled, rubbing her face against his neck.

  Patrick didn’t avert his eyes in time, and their lips joined together in a wet exchange. He watched them tumble into each other, mouths searching, eyes closed. The music played on, the night quietly accepting their union. Patrick’s stomach turned a few times, deciding between pain and guilty wishes for his tongue in place of Kelly’s.

  Not that it mattered.

  Jenna straddled Kelly’s lap, and the pair continued to kiss.

  Maybe Kelly’s right, Patrick’s angels said, did what they could to pat him on the back. Least as far as they’re concerned, you don’t even exist right now. Patrick ordered his legs to lift him from the chair.

  He turned and walked toward the door, secretly hoping one of them would notice.

  Ask him to stay awhile.

  It wasn’t until he was halfway through the kitchen that he realized it wasn’t going to happen.

  Patrick counted the steps leading up to the hallway, into the guest room.

  Didn’t bother to brush his teeth. He didn’t wash his face, take off his clothes. Just spread himself over the bed, shoes hanging over the edge. He reached under the pillow and pulled out the envelope. Turned it over in his hands, eyelids drooping.

  Fell asleep with the Ohio State coat of arms nestled in the corner of his mouth.

  Woke up in the same position. So flawless, it felt as though time had failed to pass. All at once, it was light outside. The cheap plastic clock on the night table read seven-thirty. Patrick rolled his eyes around, unsure if he should bother getting up.

  He did, of course, peeling the envelope from his face. He sat up and stared at it, as he had several times since fishing it from the mailbox in late January.

  January, February, March, April, May. Patrick’s angels rattled off the months. Just how long do you plan to keep this nonsense up?

  He didn’t answer, just went through the same tired routine: opened the flap, pulled out the letter, and unfolded it. His eyes scanned the words Dear Patrick Saint, tracing each letter, holding off the moment when he would need to look at the following words …

  Congratulations on your acceptance …

  With quick motions, Patrick refolded the letter, slipping it back into the envelope and under the pillow in one smooth motion. He stood up, cleared his throat, and glanced around to make sure no one had seen.

  Nobody had, and then he remembered Kelly McDermott.

  Patrick took a few tentative steps toward the bathroom.

  Once again, he decided to poke his head into Kelly’s room.

  The place was an absolute mess; empty liquor bottles, desk dragged halfway along the wall, several feet from where it should have been. Clothes scattered every which way.

  Jenna lay sleeping in Kelly’s bed. The comforter wrapped itself around her naked body like candy-cane stripes, snug between her legs.

  Patrick traced the contours from her toes up past her calf, thigh … lowered his eyes before he could get any farther. He stood at the threshold, listening to her snore. Imagining how comfortable her body must feel.

  He turned and made his way down the steps.

  Counted each one, shuffling his way into the kitchen.

  Patrick looked around. Kelly’s pants lay abandoned in the middle of the floor. To the left, he caught sight of the disaster area that was once a collection of priceless crystal. He sighed, cold light of day coming in through the windows. Reached up and picked at the corner of his eye, trying to remove the crusty evidence that he had, in fact, managed to sleep.

  Paused in the middle of it, frowning.

  He opened the back door and stepped outside.

  Kelly was seated at the table, facing the forest.

  Perfectly still, modest enough to remember his boxer shorts this time.

  Patrick surveyed the damage, marveling at the vast army of bottles. Half of them turned over due to reasons Patrick preferred not to think of. The morning had an actual chill to it, for once. Gray clouds filled the skies. Crickets replaced with the fresh chatter of birds.

  Patrick circled around, Kelly’s face slowly coming into view.

  His eyes open, glassy.

  Dead, Patrick’s angels warned, just seconds before Kelly’s eyes shifted.

  Looked up at Patrick with a pleading exhaustion.

  “Hey,” Patrick managed.

  “Patrick …,” Kelly croaked, reaching for a lit cigarette and taking a drag.

  He’s still smoking! Patrick’s angels screamed. Still smoking.

  “Sleep well?” Patrick asked, batting away the real questions.

  “Patrick …” Kelly’s eyes begged for a way out of what he was about to say.

  Patrick frantically tried to meet his wish halfway, but there was no stopping it.

  “It’s still today,” Kelly told him. He looked down at his hands, then back up. “Patrick, I’m still here. And it’s still today.”

  Friday. May sixteenth, two thousand and eight, Patrick’s angels clarified. Makes sense to us, Patrick.

  What’s your excuse?

  thought for you this morning …,” Bill Montague began, looking away from the window and addressing his homeroom class. “Henry David Thoreau once wrote ‘Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.’ ”

  Patrick thought it might be mere imagination, but for a moment, Bill’s eyes lighted on him. On him and the Armani suit, a knockout ensemble even in this wrinkled state. He glanced around to see if anyone else had caught on.

  Nobody had, and Bill continued. “I had a friend once, name of Addison. Addison was a man who lived as best he could, following another one of Thoreau’s famous tenets: ‘Simplify, simplify.’ He was a white T-shirt-and-jeans kind of guy. One-pair-of-shoes kind of guy. One-jacket kind of guy. He had very few actual possessions. He liked food and cigars, rum and fireworks, he always told me, because they were gloriously temporary.

  “One day, Addison went in for a job interview. Bought himself a suit, and fastened the tags out of sight with safety pi
ns, hoping to return it after he was done. Thing was, he got the job. And what he didn’t realize is that, generally, the suit that gets you the job is the suit you wear on the job. But a job’s not a lunch hour, it’s nine to five, five days a week. So Addison had to buy himself a few more suits. Spend a little extra on dry cleaning. Cutting his own hair wasn’t doing the trick anymore, neither was shaving with an electric razor. To cover his new expenses, he worked all he could to get a promotion. Which he got, followed by a new briefcase for work. Followed by better suits, more suits, because now he had to look the part of a manager. He even had to buy ‘casual’ clothes, the things he was expected to wear when not wearing … well, what he was expected to wear.

  “And it didn’t end with clothes. New apartment, which began as a lease and ended up as a mortgage. New furniture, decorations for when he had company over. Had to hire a maid service once a week to keep the place up to code, it kept on and on …”

  Bill stopped then, glanced up at the clock.

  Saw that the time was getting away from him, and wrapped things up. “Not to say that he isn’t a very successful man. But every now and then he comes down to visit. We go fishing together, and damned if he doesn’t always have something he’s got to buy before we head out to the mountains.”

  Bill didn’t add anything more.

  He glanced at the empty seat next to Patrick, then shook his head. Reached over to a nearby table and picked up that morning’s business.

  “Some quick announcements, then you-all can get on out of here….” Bill flicked the first item on his list. “For the prom … the school has requested that all students park in the Marriott garage. I know it ain’t free, but that’s where the security we’ve hired is going to be concentrated, so help us out if you could.

  “Item two. As you all know, we’ve hired out a fleet of buses for any students who want a ride out to Charlotte tonight for the game. Lots of seats, not enough to go around; be sure and sign up by the end of lunch if you don’t want to waste your own gas. Buses leave at five. Game starts at eight. That’s all I know on that subject.