A Wedding in December_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [87]
Like a dark silhouette against a bright background—photographic negatives—Harrison saw Nora as she’d been that spring at Kidd, and, after the summer, during their senior year: a girl in slim jeans and dangling earrings at the sidelines of a game; a young woman with her hair spread all along her back as she hunched over a book in the library, unaware that Harrison was standing behind her; Stephen’s girlfriend, lolling on Stephen’s bed in the dorm while the three of them—Harrison, Nora, and Stephen—listened to Lynyrd Skynyrd and Eddie Kendricks. After Harrison’s realization that Nora and Stephen were a couple, Nora seemed to be everywhere Stephen was, and as a result, the three of them had become a kind of item. Stephen seemed not to mind Harrison’s presence. In fact, his roommate appeared to encourage it. Harrison was an audience, and Stephen, Harrison knew, loved an audience.
By senior year, Stephen had become an icon on campus, albeit a partly tongue-in-cheek one. At the games, an impromptu cheering section would coalesce, yelling, Steev-en! Steev-en! each time the shortstop came up to the plate. The cheering was an end unto itself, as were many of the student endeavors that year, Harrison remembered, entirely ironic, a kind of double irony having the effect of actually celebrating Kidd’s golden boy. From Harrison’s position at second base, he had an opportunity to cast quick glances in Nora’s direction whenever the pitcher was warming up. She didn’t usually join in the cheering, but sometimes Harrison caught a glimpse of her funny half smile. Once, when Harrison turned a double play, the crowd cheered Harri-son! Harri-son!—a triple irony if ever there was one.
Occasionally, when Stephen was at class, or, more likely, sleeping, Harrison found himself alone with Nora. Harrison remembered a day in early May when the two of them came across each other on a footpath.
“Oh, hi,” Harrison said. “You off to practice?”
It was a warm day. Nora had on shorts and a T-shirt in anticipation of tennis practice. Harrison was wearing long pants and a long-sleeved shirt as required by Coach D. They would be practicing sliding that day.
“I am,” Nora said. “But. Um . . .” She looked out to sea.
“But what?” Harrison asked.
“Can . . . can I talk to you about something?”
Harrison didn’t have to be asked twice. “Of course,” he said.
Nora dropped her backpack and sports bag to the ground. Harrison did the same. He followed her to a large flat rock that overlooked a cove. They sat.
“Um. Stephen’s drinking,” Nora said at once.
“I know,” Harrison answered, though he was surprised by the abruptness of Nora’s pronouncement.
“A lot.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s pretty bad,” Harrison said, having seen what he thought was the absolute worst of it a few nights before: Stephen hugging the toilet bowl. His roommate had wanted an audience for that, too, but Harrison, after one glance, had drawn the line.
“Where does he get it?” Nora asked.
“The booze? Frankie Forbes,” Harrison said, referring to a local guy in his early twenties who worked construction in the area. Forbes bought the booze and sold it Thursday afternoons off the back of his truck to students. Cash only. No IDs required.
“You drink,” Nora said. “I drink once in a while. It’s not the same.”
“No.”
“Why? Why is that?” Nora hugged her knees. Her legs, from her shorts to her tennis socks, were bare. Harrison remembered his desire to run his hand along her calf.
“I don’t know,” Harrison said. “Stephen’s engine runs at a different speed than mine.” Harrison, who was mildly obsessed with the notion of buying a ’69 Camaro he’d seen advertised in the local paper, was thinking in automotive metaphors that spring. If he could get his mother to send him the money that his plane ticket home would have cost, and he added that to the cash he’d saved working Sundays at the supermarket in town, he could almost swing the deal and drive home to Illinois for the summer.
Nora swept her hair off her neck and tied it in a knot at the back of her head. “I . . . I don’t know, Harrison. Do you think