aspiring concert pianists. Long hair, spiked hair, streaked hair. I could also see a homeless man, mumbling to himself, rocking back and forth, back to the wall of an alleyway, hidden in part by shadows. He might have heard many voices, or one craving, it was hard to tell, as I turned away. On the street nearby, a BMW honked at some students jaywalking against the light, then accelerated with a squeal of tires.
For a moment, I paused, thinking that what made Boston unique was its ability to accommodate so many different currents, all at once. With so many different identities to choose from, it was no wonder that Michael O’Connell found a home here.
I did not know him well, yet. But I had the inkling of a feel for him.
Of course, that was the same mystery Ashley faced.
6
She waited until midday, unable to move from her bed, until sunlight came pouring through the windows and the city streets beyond her apartment walls hummed and buzzed reassuringly. She spent a few moments staring out through a streaked pane of glass, as if to tell herself that with all the normal ebb and flow of another typical day, nothing much could be out of order. She let her eyes follow first one person, then another, as people walked up the sidewalk into her field of vision. She did not recognize anyone, and yet, everyone was familiar. They all fit into easily identifiable types. The businessman. The student. The waitress. There seemed to be a world of purpose just beyond her reach. People moved about with determination and destination.
Ashley felt like an island in their midst. She wished for an instant that she had a roommate or a best friend. Someone to confide in, who would sit on the other side of the bed, sipping tea, ready to laugh or cry or voice concern at the most modest of prompts. She knew a million people in Boston, but none she would trust with a burden, and certainly not a Michael O’Connell burden. She had a hundred friends, but no Friend. She turned to her desk, littered with half-finished papers, art history texts, a laptop computer, and some CDs. She rummaged around until she came up with a small piece of scrap paper with some numbers on it.
Then, with a single deep breath, Ashley dialed Michael O’Connell’s phone number.
It rang twice before he picked it up.
“Yes?”
“Michael, it’s Ashley.”
She let silence fill the line. She wished that she had mapped out what she was going to say in forceful phrases and unequivocal statements. But, instead, she let emotions overcome her.
“I don’t want you to call me anymore,” she blurted out.
He said nothing.
“When you called this morning, I was asleep. It scared the hell out of me.”
She waited for an apology. An excuse, perhaps, or an explanation. None came.
“Please, Michael.” It sounded a great deal as if she were asking him for a favor.
He did not reply.
She stammered on, “Look, it was just one night. That’s all. We had some fun, and a few drinks, and it went a bit farther than it should have, although I don’t regret it, that’s not what I mean. I’m sorry if you misunderstood my feelings. Can’t we just part as friends? Go our own ways.”
She could hear his breathing on the other end of the line, but no words.
“So,” she continued, aware that everything she said was sounding more and more lame, increasingly pathetic, “don’t send me any more letters, especially like the one you sent the other week. That was you, wasn’t it? It had to be. I know you have a busy life and a lot on your mind, and I’m wrapped up with my work and trying to get this graduate school thing going, and I just don’t have time for a serious relationship now. I know you’ll understand. I just need my space. I mean, we’re both involved in so many different things, it’s just not the right time for me, and I bet it’s not really the right time for you. You can see that, can’t you?”
She let this question hang in the air, surrounded by his silence. She grasped at the quiet as if it were an acquiescence on his part.
“I really appreciate your listening to me, Michael. And I wish you the best, really, I do. And maybe, sometime in the future, we can be better friends. But not right now, okay? I’m sorry if this disappoints you. But if you really love me like you say, then you’ll understand I need to be on my own and can’t be tied down right now. You never can tell what the future might hold, but now, in the present, I just can’t handle it, okay? I’d like to end this as friends, okay?”
She could hear his breathing on the other end of the line. In and out. Regular, unhurried.
“Look,” she said, exasperation and a little desperation creeping into her words, “we don’t really know each other. It was just once and we were both a little drunk, right? How can you say you love me? How can you say these things? We’re perfect for each other? That’s crazy. You can’t live without me? That makes no sense. None. I just want you to leave me alone, okay? Look, you’ll find someone else, someone who’s just right for you, I know. But it’s not me. Please, Michael, just leave me alone. All right?”
Michael O’Connell didn’t say a word. He simply laughed. It came across the phone line as something alien and distant when nothing she’d said was in the smallest way funny or even ironic. It chilled her completely.
And then he hung up the telephone.
For a few seconds she stood, staring down at the receiver in her hand, wondering whether the conversation had actually happened. For a moment she wasn’t even sure that he had been on the other end of the line, but then, she remembered his one word, and that was unmistakable, even if he was almost a stranger. She carefully hung up the phone and looked around the apartment wildly, as if expecting someone to jump out at her. She could hear the muted sounds of traffic, but it did little to lessen the sensation of total and complete solitude that crept over her.
Ashley slumped down on the edge of her bed, suddenly exhausted, tears welling up in the corners of her eyes. She felt incredibly small.
She had no real grasp of the situation, other than the feeling that something was just starting to pick up speed, moving dangerously forward-not yet out of control, but on the verge. She dabbed at her eyes and told herself to get a grip on her emotions. She tried to layer a sense of toughness and determination over the residue of helplessness.
Ashley shook her head hard. “You should have planned what you were going to say,” she said out loud. Hearing her own voice bounce around the narrow space of her small apartment unsettled her. She had tried to come across as forceful-at least, that was what she had wanted-but instead had seemed weak, pleading, whining, all the things that she thought she wasn’t. She forced herself up off the edge of the bed. “God damn it to hell,” she muttered, adding, “What a goddamn fucking mess.” She followed this with a wild torrent of obscenities, spewing every nasty, harsh, and inappropriate word she could recall into the still air around her, a waterfall of frustrated anger. Then she tried to reassure herself. “He’s just a creep,” she said loudly. “You’ve known creeps before.”
This, Ashley knew inwardly, was untrue. Still, she felt better hearing her own voice speaking with determination and ferocity. She searched around, found a towel, and walked purposefully into her small bathroom. Within a few seconds, she had the shower running hot, and she’d stripped off her clothes. As she stepped under the steaming stream of water, she thought to herself that the conversation with Michael O’Connell made her feel dirty, and she scrubbed her skin red, as if trying to remove some unwanted smell, or deep stain, that lingered despite all her efforts.
When she stepped from the shower, she looked up into the mirror and dabbed away some of the steam from the glass, looking deep into her own eyes. Make a plan, she told herself. Ignore the creep and he’ll just go away. She snorted and flexed the muscles in her arms. She let her eyes linger over her body, as if measuring the curve of her breasts, her flat stomach, her toned legs. She was fit, trim, and good-looking, she
