A Soft Place to Land: A Novel Read online

  And then, even though she usually had an iron stomach, even though she had only drunk beer and nothing stronger, she knew she was about to throw up. Immediately. (Mr. Z was right! How annoying. How pleased he would be.)

  “Pull over, pull over,” she gasped, and Gabe did. As soon as he stopped the car she opened the door and, thrusting her head forward, threw up pulled pork barbeque onto the edge of someone’s grassy lawn. Tears ran from her eyes. She spit several times, then lifted her head, remaining in the passenger seat, her body turned so her feet dangled out of the car.

  “Are you okay?” asked Gabe, rubbing her lower back with his palm.

  For a moment she was quiet, just letting the cold night air hit her face. She leaned over, spit again. The inside of her mouth tasted horrible.

  She readjusted so she was facing forward in the passenger seat. She pulled the car door closed.

  “Can we go home?” she asked. “To your house?”

  “You just lean back and close your eyes and I’ll get you home as soon as I can.”

  He put his hand on her thigh and she shut her eyes, leaned back against the headrest. She would just sit here, cool and quiet. Dignified. She would not say a word.

  Except that she was crying. Blubbering, really, blubbering and drunk. And suddenly she felt overwhelmed by Gabe, overwhelmed by his kindness and care. What was he after? Why was he treating her so gently?

  “Why are you so nice to me?” she asked, a wasted, slobbering mess of a girl who still had the taste of vomit in her mouth.

  “Because I love you,” he said. And though he had never before said these words to her, he was almost nonchalant in his utterance. As if his love were a fact, a mathematical solution that made everything simple: solve for x and unlock the equation.

  Chapter Thirteen

  March 2002

  Ruthie, Gabe, and Dara carpooled to Julia’s reading, arriving early, anticipating that it might be difficult to find parking in downtown Berkeley. Mimi and Robert were at that moment on a plane, returning from France, where they had gone on a research trip for Robert’s new book on chocolate, tentatively titled The Devil’s Food. They had promised Julia that they would be at her book event in Marin the following day. Ruthie planned on going to that reading as well. Afterwards they would all return to San Francisco and Mimi and Robert would take the girls to Zuni.

  They drove by Cody’s, knowing that sometimes a space in front of the bookstore—rock star parking—would suddenly appear. On this night they had no such luck. There was always the option of parking in a pay lot, but Ruthie felt like a sucker using one. She circled around the block slowly, scanning for a space. She had to brake suddenly when a guy on a bike sped across the street in the pedestrian walkway.

  “Good thing you didn’t hit him,” said Dara. “That would have started a riot.”

  The bicycle rights people were very big in Berkeley. Every month they staged a “critical mass” and hundreds of cyclists, many in outrageous costumes, would ride together down the middle of the street during rush hour, blocking traffic.

  “Do you want to jump out and I’ll circle and find parking?” asked Gabe. He was wearing an old Braves T-shirt, tissue thin from years of washing, along with jeans and New Balance sneakers. New Balance sneakers always made Ruthie think of Dara’s dad, who was devoted to the brand. Ruthie loved Dara’s dad, that sweet man who still sent his daughter care packages filled with candy and sugary cereals, even though she was a senior in college. Even though she only lived across the Bay Bridge from him.

  “Let me do one more loop,” said Ruthie. “Readings usually start late, don’t they?”

  “Hail Mary full of grace, help us find a parking space,” intoned Dara.

  Ruthie glanced quickly at Gabe, to see if he was offended. He was frowning a bit, but Ruthie was pretty sure that was because he was concentrating on finding a space. Dara often said irreverent things in front of Gabe; she claimed it her duty to be a provocateur. She was flabbergasted by his conversion, and tried to talk him out of it. She had even implied that his becoming a Catholic indicated internalized anti-Semitism.

  After meeting Gabe for the first time, Dara had declared to Ruthie, “He’s a dirty boy. But he’s sexy as hell. My prediction is you two will hole up and be dirty together, before he graduates and moves back to Atlanta.”

  “What makes you think he’s going to go back to Atlanta?” Ruthie had asked.

  “Are you kidding me? He went on and on about it. About the bungalow his mom bought for nineteen thousand dollars, and the ‘holler’ behind their house where all of the kids in his neighborhood would play, and the way he knew all of his neighbors growing up, and how his mom and some dude named Earl would share a joint every afternoon on the front porch.”

  “There’s one,” said Gabe, interrupting Ruthie’s memory. A blue Toyota Camry was backing out of its spot. She put her blinker on and waited. The Camry had a bumper sticker that read: BARBARA LEE SPEAKS FOR ME.

  Barbara Lee was the lone member of Congress to have voted against authorizing the U.S. invasion of Afghanistan.

  “I’d send Schwartzy one of those,” said Gabe. “But people in Georgia would probably just assume Barbara Lee is a country music singer.”

  Cody’s was a great bookstore, cavernous and overflowing, with tables and tables of books up front and rows and rows of books in the back. There was a balcony level, too, where readings were held. It was only 7:10 when they arrived. While Gabe and Dara headed for the bathroom, Ruthie scanned the store for Julia. She didn’t see her, at least not in the flesh, but there was a poster propped on an easel by the front display tables, announcing that Julia Rose Smith would be reading that evening from her “acclaimed” memoir, Straight. Julia’s picture was on the poster. It was black-and-white and in it her eyes looked very shiny. Like they would reflect anything. She was not smiling in the picture but instead stared straight ahead, her mouth a straight line. Julia looked good, smart, but Ruthie wished her sister had smiled. She walked over to the table of new fiction on display and started turning over books, looking for the author picture. In almost all of them, the authors met the camera with a serious expression.

  Suddenly she heard her name and her sister was rushing toward her. Before she really even had a chance to register what her sister now looked like, Julia was hugging her tight, then stepping back, looking at Ruthie from arm’s distance.

  “You look gorgeous!” Julia said.

  Ruthie had spent a lot of time that evening getting ready. She used a flatiron on her hair so that it hung perfectly straight and shiny. She applied brown liner to the edge of her eyelids, and just below each eye. She even wore lipstick, a deep ruby stain that contrasted nicely with her pale coloring. And all that sex with Gabe must have burned the calories away, because she certainly wasn’t dieting, yet she had lost five pounds, which made a real difference. Her jeans were loose on her hips. She wore a silky green tank top embellished with tiny white polka dots, and a button-up red cardigan that she had found on the street, over by Tilden Park. (Gabe was really big into wearing “recycled” clothes, and she found herself picking up his habits.) Dara had screamed at her for picking the sweater up off the sidewalk. But once it was dry-cleaned, it was actually quite cute.

  Julia looked great, too, although utterly different than Ruthie expected. Mainly because she had cut her hair. Those long crazy curls were gone, replaced by a springy head of short ringlets, adorable, but not nearly as sexy as her old style had been. Having short hair did highlight her features, her delicate wisps of eyebrows, her dark brown eyes. Julia was dressed differently, too, a little edgier than before. Black jeans over a spiky heel, the front of the shoe covered in some sort of black webbing. The jeans were the highly stylized ones that had become so popular, the ones that looked worn but cost a fortune. She had on a blue ribbed tank top with no bra, revealing the push of her nipples against the fabric of the shirt. Ruthie hoped she had a jacket somewhere; it was chilly outside. Julia’s necklace w
as made of a single piece of thin brown leather, which tightened around her throat and hung long from one end, as if she had escaped from a teeny-tiny gallows.

  Out of the corner of her eye Ruthie saw Gabe, scanning a row of books. Probably books on religion. She waved him over.

  “That’s him,” she said to Julia, as Gabe walked toward them.

  “Nice,” said Julia.

  When Gabe reached the two of them he held his hand out to Julia. “Hi. Great to meet you. Congratulations on the book.”

  “Congratulations on banging my sister,” said Julia, her eyes shining with mischief.

  Ruthie gave her head a quick shake, not sure what she had heard. “Julia?” she said.

  “Oh God, I’m sorry. Nerves. And, well, I have impulse issues, as Molly is constantly reminding me. And anyway, am I wrong?”

  “We’re really excited to hear you read,” said Gabe.

  Julia slapped Gabe lightly on the arm. “Oh, don’t get all formal with me. What’s the good of being a big sister if you can’t tease your little sister? Right, Biscuit?”

  Ruthie had a pressing urge for a drink. A beer, glass of wine, shot of bourbon, anything.

  “What sections of the book are you going to read?” she asked.

  Julia pursed her lips. Shrugged. “I don’t know, either the bullshit blanket chapter, or chapter twelve, where I wake up to find one of the counselors standing above my bed, whacking off.”

  “I really loved the bullshit blanket chapter,” said Ruthie. “But maybe you should read chapter twelve. That one gave me the creeps, and I mean, that was what you were after, right?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I should stick with the bullshit blankets. Gabe here is already looking a little freaked out.”

  “I’m fine,” said Gabe. “Believe me. If I look freaked out it’s just that you really remind me of my mom. You could be her spiritual sister.”

  Ruthie couldn’t figure out whether Gabe considered that a good or a bad thing.

  Julia looked so powerful standing in front of the crowd—a small crowd, but still—reading and talking about the terrible things that had happened to her. She read the chapter about the counselor who used to stand beside her bed at night and masturbate, but she skipped around and read bits from other sections, too. She enunciated and varied her cadence. Laughed a lot. Joked about the b.s. blankets, how everyone knew “b.s.” stood for “bullshit,” but no one was allowed to use the actual word. Joked about the fact that the paddle they used to beat kids with was named Rod, as in “spare the rod, spoil the child.”

  After the reading the floor was opened to the audience for a Q&A.

  The first question was from a woman with short blond hair. Ruthie was sitting behind her and couldn’t see her face. “Do your dad and stepmom know about the book?”

  Julia raised her brows and nodded solemnly. “They do. And while I ended up portraying them somewhat sympathetically toward the end of the book—and especially in the epilogue—they are still pretty upset that I chose to write it. Let me put it to you this way: they have not called to congratulate me on publication.”

  The members of the audience murmured their sympathy. Ruthie opened her copy of the book, flipped to the back. She hadn’t remembered an epilogue in the bound manuscript Julia had sent her. But there it was, “Epilogue: Seven Years Later . . .”

  The next question came from a graying man in a plaid flannel shirt whose ears stuck out as if they were handles for his head. “This so-called rehab place? I’m thinking someone shut it down, right?”

  “I’m so glad you asked that. And sadly, no, the Center is still in operation. I’m hoping that somehow this book might help to change that, that when parents are researching rehab programs for their kids this book might steer them away, at least from the Center’s type of program. I speak about this at length in my epilogue. The epilogue was a last-minute addition—my editor wanted to kill me for springing it on her—but I realized it was really important to clearly articulate my intentions behind publishing this book.”

  Ruthie put her hand on Gabe’s knee. Gabe turned his head to the side, smiled. He was flipping through the copy of Straight he had purchased, reading the chapter titles.

  A woman in a UPS uniform raised her hand. She was young, pierced, a little punk. Ruthie wondered if she really worked for UPS or was just dressing that way to be ironic. “Okay, we know the Center really, really sucked, but, like, don’t you think you needed some sort of help?”

  Ruthie tensed in her seat. This was the question—perhaps phrased a little differently—that she had wanted to ask ever since she read the draft of Straight that Julia had sent her. Did Julia realize how reckless she once was, hiding out in Golden Gate Park with some runaway who hung out on Haight Street?

  “At seventeen, when all of this happened, I was a pretty messed-up kid. I had recently lost my mother and stepfather, whom I thought of as my dad. Lost my beautiful sister, who’s here tonight—wave ‘hi,’ Ruthie—because of the way our custody arrangement was set up. So I was very, very angry. The living situation I was put into happened to not allow for much expression of that anger. I needed help. I self-medicated with pot and alcohol. And I’m sure I was a royal pain in the ass to deal with. But did I need traditional rehab? Was I an actual alcoholic? I’m perfectly able to have one or two drinks every now and again without going overboard, so I’m not sure if that was my problem.”

  Julia fingered the long end of her leather necklace. “I needed some sort of help, that was for sure. But I don’t think anyone benefited from the quote-unquote help the Center offered.”

  Dara raised her hand. “I read the copy you sent Ruthie. I was kind of shocked that there wasn’t more anger in it. I mean there was so much humor. And no self-pity!”

  Julia grinned. “Thanks, Dara! Everyone, this is Dara, my sister’s roommate. Stand up, Dara.”

  Dara stood, waved as if everyone had come to see her.

  “I’m not nearly as angry as I once was. Growing up will do that to you. And hell, I owe the center some credit for helping me to become a writer. You had to make up so much shit about yourself to survive there. Confession was demanded, every afternoon for five hours during ‘Group.’ That of course is when the b.s. blankets came out. But it was a catch-22 because once you confessed to—say—doing more drugs, they could keep you in the program for longer. So you had to confess in order to get out, to ‘graduate,’ but you also got stuck there longer and longer the more drugs you said you had done.

  “Anyway, as I write about in the book, this catch-22 made me very crafty when it came to making up confessions. I stuck to one drug—pot—and I simply exaggerated the number of times I had used it. I realized at the Center that when lying the best thing to do is to start with a grain of truth and spin the story from there. Now when I wrote Straight, which is nonfiction, I was utterly meticulous about sticking to the truth. Or at least, the truth as I understood it. But I’m now working on a novel, and I find that often I start a scene with something that really happened and then I spin a new story out from there. So I guess in that respect I have to thank the Center for the ‘lying’ skills they engendered within me.”

  The audience laughed. Ruthie smiled. She was so proud of her sister, standing up there, speaking so candidly and with such confidence. Taking this horrible thing that had happened to her and somehow spinning it into art. It made Ruthie think of the kitchen alchemy Robert had taught her, how you could turn a tough old cut of meat, stringy and inedible, into something wonderful simply by braising it for hours in wine and stock and fat until it was fork-tender and delicious. Until it was something everyone wanted to eat right up.

  After the reading Ruthie, Gabe, Dara, and Julia walked the five blocks to Le Beret, a cute little French bistro with copper-topped tables and Edith Piaf playing on an endless loop. The restaurant was crowded, but Ruthie had made reservations, so they were seated right away. Immediately Ruthie ordered a carafe of the house red for the table.

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bsp; “You were so good, Julia!” gushed Dara. They did not have their wine yet, so she lifted her water glass instead. “Cheers!”

  “Thanks,” said Julia, raking her right hand through her short curls. “Strange to be reading about masturbation to a group of strangers. I kept glancing around, hoping no one was too offended.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Ruthie. “It’s hard to shock people in Berkeley.”

  “Unless you said you didn’t believe in evolution or something like that,” said Dara.

  Their waitress, cute and young, with a small metal butterfly pinned to her short, dark hair, returned to the table with the carafe of wine and four glasses. “Is everyone partaking?” she asked.

  “We all are, right?” asked Ruthie.

  Julia and Dara nodded and the waitress began filling their glasses. “What about you, Gabe?” Ruthie asked.

  Gabe, who was hunched over the table reading the epilogue to Julia’s book, looked up. “Oh sorry. Yeah, I’ll take some. Julia, I’m loving what you added.”

  “Thanks, sweetie,” said Julia.

  Ruthie felt just the tiniest flash of irritation that Julia was calling her boyfriend sweetie, as if he were five, but she told herself to let it go. To let it all go. Everything. Looking over the day’s specials, she noticed that they were serving the chicken liver pâté with Calvados. It was only occasionally on the menu, and Ruthie always ordered it when it was. She loved how buttery and rich it was, with just a hint of sweetness from the apple brandy.