A Soft Place to Land: A Novel Read online

  “Hey. I just wanted to call and check in.”

  It was Gabe. Gabe Schwartz. That low, warm voice.

  “Hey. It’s good to hear from you. Are you okay? Is Schwartzy?”

  “We’re all accounted for. How about you?”

  She told him she was waiting to hear from Julia in New York. That she had been trying her sister’s number all day and couldn’t get through.

  “God, I hope you hear from her soon. What are you doing while you wait?”

  “Drinking Guinness at a pub with my roommate and her sister. Watching CNN. Trying not to go crazy with worry.”

  “Have you ever heard of Taizé?”

  He pronounced it like “tie-zay.”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “It’s this meditation service. The one I go to is held at an Episcopalian church, but the service is ecumenical. What happens is this amazing singer leads the congregation in fifty minutes of simple prayer put to music. Basically you just sing the same prayer over and over, but it’s in Latin, so it feels deeper. And then there’s ten minutes for silent meditation.”

  “I thought you were Catholic.”

  “I am. But my church doesn’t hold Taizé services, so I sleep around a little.”

  “Just don’t get pregnant,” said Ruthie, a bitter edge to her voice.

  “Funny. Look, I’ve been watching TV all day and it’s just—it’s just too much. I keep watching because it feels weird not to. But I’m already starting to feel desensitized. I really need to go somewhere and be quiet. Anyway, I wanted to know if you might like to come with me. The service starts at six thirty.”

  Ruthie looked at the cold fries on the plate in front of her, at the bartender who appeared exhausted, at the smoke that surrounded her, at the bright TVs with their unrelenting images, at Yael motioning from the back room, presumably because the pool table was available.

  She said yes to Gabe. She would meet him at the church.

  She lied to Dara and Yael about where she was going. Told them she was going to drive up into the hills, just for the view, the fresh air, the perspective. Asked Yael if she would mind taking Dara home.

  “You’re sure you don’t want us to go with you?” Dara asked. “You’re just going to drive around by yourself?”

  “You know how I am,” said Ruthie.

  The church was on Cedar, just a few blocks away from Chez Panisse, which amused Ruthie, because she thought of Chez Panisse as her house of worship. Much as she liked to analyze books for her literature courses, she liked thinking about food even more, and she would study the menus posted weekly at Chez Panisse as if they were poems to savor, meditating on each word. She was so jealous of Robert, who had been invited to the restaurant’s thirtieth-anniversary celebration, held just a few weeks before. She had listened hungrily as he described his favorite parts of the meal: the Provençal fish soup, the spit-roasted lamb with chanterelles, the homemade mulberry ice cream. She could taste what he was describing, the char on the meat, the intensity of the berry tempered with sugar and cream. She loved food so much that she was considering enrolling in culinary school after graduation, so that she might become a chef.

  Gabe was waiting on the sidewalk in front of the church, a weathered gray wood building with an arched doorway and stained-glass windows. He was wearing the same Levi’s he wore that first day of class and a green T-shirt with the words BARTON FINK printed across it. His face brightened as she approached. His eyes focused solely on her.

  “Hey,” he said, hugging her. She could feel his muscles through his T-shirt. “I’m glad you came. I’ve been thinking about you.”

  “I’m kind of a wreck. I guess everyone is. I still haven’t been able to get ahold of my sister. I keep trying her cell phone. At first I got a busy signal, now just nothing. And I’ve been so out of touch—I don’t even know what she typically does in a day. I don’t know where she was supposed to be this morning. I don’t even know if she changed her number. What if she changed her number? But if she did, why hasn’t she called me?”

  “I’ve heard that all of the phone lines are jammed in New York. There are just too many people trying to get through. Your not being able to reach her probably doesn’t mean anything other than that. I know you’re worried, though. I understand.”

  “You know what else I realized? I didn’t even call her after she sent me her book. I had this grand idea about writing her a long letter, but I never did. So now it looks like I just didn’t give a shit.”

  “I think you’re being too hard on yourself. Try to let it go for an hour, okay? Let’s go on in. It’s peaceful in there.”

  She let herself be led into the church. It was simpler than she would have imagined an Episcopal church to be, though truth be told, the last time she’d seen the inside of a church was at her parents’ funeral. There was a font with holy water at the entry, in which Gabe dipped his finger before crossing himself. Ruthie dipped her finger in the water, too, though she just touched her wet finger to her forehead. There were lighted candles flickering in glass holders on the floor by each simple wooden pew. And at the front of the church was another set of votives, these placed on top of a wooden cross that was positioned flat on the floor.

  About two dozen people were already seated, dispersed about the sanctuary. They were all different ages. White hairs and spiked hairs. While looking around the church Ruthie noticed the stained-glass windows, which depicted simple images: two fish circled by five loaves, a lamb with its feet crossed beneath it, Mary kneeling beside Jesus on the cross. On the wall behind the altar was a metal crucifix.

  Ruthie sniffed. The air smelled of melting wax and burnt sage, same as Gabe had that first time she met him. He must have just come from a Taizé service. Either that or he didn’t shower much.

  “How often do you come here?”

  “I try to come for Taizé every week. I go to mass a couple of times a week, too, at my church. St. Joseph the Worker.”

  “So you’re a complete religious fanatic?”

  “Define ‘fanatic,’” whispered Gabe. He genuflected, then crossed himself before taking a seat in the third pew from the front.

  Ruthie sat beside him. “I’ve never known how to do that. Cross yourself, I mean. I tried before when I used to go to church with my best friend’s family in Atlanta. With Alex Love. Do you remember her, from St. Catherine’s?”

  “Blond and athletic? Tall?”

  Ruthie nodded.

  “I remember being intimidated by her.”

  Ruthie smiled. “Anyway, I could never remember how it goes: do you go up down or down up or what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you cross yourself.”

  “Just remember ‘spectacles, testicles, wallet, watch,’” whispered Gabe, crossing himself to demonstrate the order. “Of course that’s only if you wear your watch on your right arm. And really, you tap your chest, not your testicles.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Ruthie. “Because I don’t have testicles.”

  “Good.”

  She smiled at him, thinking this was the oddest flirtation she had ever engaged in. Turning talk of religious gestures into something dirty. On the day that terrorists hijacked four planes and flew them into the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and the fields of Pennsylvania. Just then, from inside her purse, her cell phone rang. A Latino man sitting in front of her turned and frowned.

  She fished out the phone and glanced at the number. It was from a 917 area code. Julia.

  She punched the answer button. “Julia?”

  “Oh my god, I’m so glad I got through. I’ve been trying to call you all day.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I guess. Freaked out, a little drunk, but more or less okay.”

  “Can you hold on one second? I’m in a church of all places. I’m just going to go outside where I can actually talk.”

  Ruthie stood, walked down the aisle and out the church door. Standing in the crisp eveni
ng air, she put the phone back to her ear.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m in Brooklyn. I’m on the rooftop of my building. I’ve been standing out here all day. I watched the second tower go down.”

  “Jesus. Is anyone with you?”

  “I think everyone who lives in the building is up here. My landlord lives on the first floor. Her husband worked in the World Trade Center, and they hadn’t heard from him after the planes hit. They thought he was dead. But he showed up this afternoon. He got out. Had to walk all the way from lower Manhattan. They were so convinced he was killed in the attacks; it was like a second coming when he knocked on the door. Anyway, they’re up here, sharing their vodka. Oh, and this girl I’ve been seeing, she’s here with me.”

  Well, that was news. Ruthie didn’t know that Julia dated girls—was dating a girl. She took it as a good sign, that Julia was interested in someone. Ruthie had imagined her sister living as a permanent hermit, locked away in a room, scribbling away at her memoirs.

  “I’m so glad you’re safe. That’s amazing about your landlord’s husband. And I’m so glad you’re seeing someone. That’s great. What’s her name? What’s she like?”

  “Molly. She’s a therapist. She was my therapist, actually, until I tried to seduce her during one of our sessions. Then she kicked me out. It’s a long story. I’ll tell it to you someday. But she’s good. Very domestic. Like, she knits. And braises things.”

  “If she knows how to braise, then she’s a girl after my own heart. Not that I date girls; I just mean—”

  “I get it, Ruthie; I know what you mean.”

  “I read Straight. I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner to tell you. But it’s really, really good. I’m proud of you. And I’m so sorry you had to go through that shit—the Center, I mean. I had no idea it was that kind of a place.”

  “Yeah, well, no one did. Thanks for reading it, though. You really thought it was good?”

  “I thought it was great.”

  “God, Ruthie, I know this is not what I’m supposed to be thinking about right now, but I am just so grateful that my pub date got pushed back. Originally it was supposed to come out October first of this year. Can you imagine? Who would want to read a memoir about rehab in the middle of all of this crap?”

  “Hmm,” said Ruthie.

  “Oh God, I’m such a narcissist. I can’t even believe I’m thinking about the book. It’s just you work so hard. . . . Anyway, I’ll shut up. I’ve had too much to drink. Everyone has. It’s like, what the hell else do you do besides break out whatever hard liquor you have in the house? There were people up here with peppermint schnapps, Godiva chocolate liqueur. I think I was the only one who had bourbon on hand.”

  “Bourbon for sorrow,” said Ruthie. “I spent the day at a bar. And now I’m at church. How odd is that?”

  “Not as odd as I would have thought yesterday. Hey, did I tell you I’m going to be in Berkeley for my book tour? I’ll be reading at Cody’s. Sometime in late March.”

  “That’s great. I’m so there. I’ll bring friends, too, okay? And you can stay with Dara and me if you want. You and Molly.”

  “She’s not coming on tour with me, spaz. She has an actual job. And it’s not like we’re U-Haul lesbians or anything. Anyway, I think my publishing house is arranging places for me to stay. But thanks. That’s nice of you to offer.”

  It had been so long since Julia had called her spaz. It was nice actually, that Julia felt comfortable enough to tease Ruthie.

  A woman was hurrying past Ruthie, headed for the church. When she opened the door Ruthie saw the flickering of the lighted votives. Someone was playing the piano. By the altar a corpulent woman, her arms lifted, palms toward the sky, was singing something in Latin, in a voice that filled the room. Was singing something about pacem.

  “So you’re okay. I’m so relieved. Is everyone you know okay?”

  “As far as I know, but that’s not saying much. It’s been impossible to get in touch with anyone. All of the lines are jammed. And I don’t want to further jam them up by trying to call friends. I’m kind of amazed I got through to you. It’s so surreal, Ruthie. All day we’ve just been up here on the rooftop, watching the smoke from the towers and listening to the news on the radio. It’s just relentless, this smoke. Just this solid line of gray, leaning toward the left. And no one knows what else is going to happen. If there’ll be another attack.”

  “Will you call me again tomorrow? Let me know you’re still okay?”

  “Yeah, assuming my phone works. Listen, would you mind calling Mimi for me now? God knows if I’ll be able to get through again once we hang up.”

  “Of course. I’ll call her as soon as we get off.”

  “Okay. I should probably go. Giuliani is saying something—they’re playing it on the radio. God, I’ve hated that guy for so long and today it’s like, I’m really glad he’s mayor.”

  “I know,” said Ruthie. “He looked so together on TV.”

  “Okay, Biscuit, I’m going to go. Call Mimi! I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Egg.”

  Ruthie pressed end, dialed Mimi’s number. She would tell her aunt it needed to be a quick call. Now that Ruthie knew Julia was safe, her thoughts flew at full speed to Gabe. She wanted to return to him, to sit by him, listening to the woman with the beautiful voice sing Latin words that she did not understand. She was thinking about the expression on his face when he first saw her, arriving at the church. She wanted to see that look on his face again. As if she were the only person in the world he wanted to see.

  Chapter Twelve

  After the Taizé service Gabe invited Ruthie back to his home. He had walked to the church—he didn’t own a car—so she drove the two of them to his house in her little VW Golf. It seemed so natural to drive through Berkeley with him, stopping along the way at the La Med on College Avenue, where they each got a glass of retsina and shared an order of hummus with pita. It seemed so natural to park on the street in front of his rented shingled bungalow, to walk up its front path and in his front door. His roommates were in the living room, sprawled out on the two sofas, which looked like Goodwill finds. They were watching the news on a vintage TV, framed in brown wood. They lifted their heads in greeting, murmured hello, and returned their attention to the news. Details were being given about Osama bin Laden, the man thought to be the mastermind behind the attacks. The news was listing his past crimes, his past statements about America. There must have been a complete file on him, Ruthie thought, just waiting to be pulled should the need arise.

  The living room smelled of stale beer and boy sweat. Empty Rolling Rock bottles littered the floor, and a cardboard box that contained one remaining piece of mushroom pizza sat in the middle of the room. Ruthie wondered how long it had been there. She mumbled a shy “bye” to the roommates and followed after Gabe, who was already walking down the bungalow’s center hall. He opened the last door on his right, which was on the opposite side of the hall from the kitchen. When Ruthie peeked into the kitchen she noticed the dishes piled on the counter by the sink, and the old-fashioned white enamel stove.

  Gabe’s room wasn’t much neater than the living room had been, but it smelled better. Smelled of Irish Spring soap instead of stale beer. The bed—a twin-sized mattress—was unmade, and there was a lump of clothes on top of the dresser. A damp towel lay on the floor, on top of the braided rug, which looked as if it had started out red but had faded, so that in some spots it was pink. Scotch-taped to the wall were small prints, their edges curling, of paintings by—Ruthie was guessing here—Latino artists. Ruthie liked the one of a thick man and woman, dancing, his pelvis pressed into hers. She studied it, feigning a more acute interest than she actually had. She suddenly felt very shy to be alone in Gabe’s room with him. He was standing by the CD player, pushing buttons. Ruthie heard the opening bars of “All I Want” from Joni Mitchell’s Blue.

  “Nice seduction music,” she said. This was a tic of hers, to joke w
hen she was nervous. Gabe didn’t answer, just gave her a look that implied she was a little immature. She was a little immature, at least when it came to men. Her only sexual experience had been with Brendan, and that had begun badly and ended even worse. Ruthie worried that her inexperience would be obvious to Gabe. She hoped he wasn’t too seasoned. She hoped the fact that he only had a twin-sized bed with a single pillow meant he was not used to bringing women in here. Then again, it would be good for him to have had a little practice. She certainly didn’t want him to be a virgin. If he was a practicing Catholic, would that make him a virgin? But no. He said he hadn’t converted until his sophomore year. And besides, hadn’t he said he was vigilant about birth control?

  Gabe interrupted her thought by walking to her, putting his hand on her cheek, and kissing her slowly, taking his time. She had imagined his lips would feel like this, soft and full against hers.

  “Do you want to spend the night?” he asked. “We don’t have to do anything; we can just sleep.”

  She said okay, but that first she had to call her roommate, tell her where she was. She phoned Dara, feeling enormous relief when she got her voice mail. It would be much easier to lie on voice mail.

  “Hi,” she said. “First of all, Julia is fine. She called me around six thirty tonight. Her phone was jammed all day. Also, I’m really sorry, but I’m not going to be able to come home tonight. I’m such an idiot, I’m sorry. It’s just I stopped at La Med after my drive, and I ended up running into a friend from my O’Connor class. Somehow we kept ordering glasses of retsina, and now I’m too tipsy to drive. I suck, I know. But my friend lives really near the bar, so I’m just going to crash on her couch. I’ll be home tomorrow morning. Maybe Yael can stay with you tonight?”

  It wasn’t that she wanted to lie, but had she told the truth, that she was (quite soberly) choosing to stay with a boy she hardly knew instead of returning home to Dara, her best friend—on the day the U.S. was attacked by terrorists—Dara would have been deeply wounded.