(continued)

Josh Allen waited patiently in his rusty old Mustang, absent-mindedly tapping his foot to one of the songs that played in his head at all times. He reached over and opened the door for Maya, and she hopped in. He was in his usual uniform: black jeans, black T-shirt, black belt, black mussed up hair, black whiskers, black work boots.

He flipped back his hair, which immediately fell over his eyes. Maya watched him, shook her head, smiled to herself. Josh was the only person she knew who could be cool and a caricature of cool at the same time.

He turned to pull out, and the tattoo on the back of his neck stretched. It was a Chinese character he had once explained to her, but his words had gained no traction and she completely forgot what it represented.

For years they had passed each other in the halls of Plainfield’s public schools but did not meet until a few months ago, when Josh’s band was playing a house party the week before Maya’s college graduation. The two of them made their way outside at the same moment and started up a conversation. At one point he looked up at the stars and she started naming them. Maya was surprised at how such a punked-out guy could be so down to earth and accessible, but she accepted his offer to get together.

Four months had passed. She liked him. He was wild, but his wildness often resulted in some kind of learning experience. She stayed at his apartment some nights. Muriel could care less. She had dropped the reins on Maya during junior year, not that she ever kept close tabs.

But glancing over at him now, Maya found herself wondering exactly it was they had. When you factored out the physical attraction, what was left? Was it a relationship? She wasn’t even sure what one was, because every time she thought she was in one it would veer off into dark and scary territory, which sooner or later brought on a pain that would send her running. That couldn’t be what all those happy couples out there were experiencing. And lately, this, whatever it was, with Josh, had been starting to veer.

They rolled down the windows and cruised the streets of Plainfield, the full moon hovering in the darkening sky like a lonely traveler far from home. A warm September breeze flowed across their faces.

The Orion Cafe was packed with regulars, wanna-be Warhols from the Maryland Institute of Art across the street. Josh disappeared inside while Maya snagged a sidewalk table. He returned with two café lattes.

“Excellent,” she said, reaching for the tall glass, drinking half of it down.

“Hey,” he said. “That’s four bucks. Slow down.”

“Whoops.”

Watching the passing traffic of Harlow Street, she tried to contain the geyser of frustration shooting off inside of her. Why wasn’t she at home reading her father’s journal like any sane person would be doing? Was she out of her mind? What if Muriel got drunk and burned down the house?

“What just happened?” Josh asked.

“Huh?”

“You’re a million miles away.”

“That’s where I live, Josh. You know that.”

“I guess I do,” he said, conceding the point. He dropped a pack of Marlboros on the table, leaned back into a slouch. “So what’s up?”

“How do you know something’s up?”

“Something’s always up,” he said in a way that didn’t sound all that friendly.

“This time you’re right,” she said, reaching into her purse for a Chapstick, spreading it on her lips. “I found something. A journal. An old journal.”

“Really? Whose?”

“My father’s.”

“Your father’s?” he said, surprised. “I thought he was, you know, gone. Dead.”

A sudden anger rose in her. “Where did you hear that?”

“Well, from you.”

She thought about it. Yes, she may have said something like that at one time. Her feelings about him had changed many times over the years.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything.”

“No, it’s okay,” she said, brushing it off. “It’s amazing, actually. This journal? He wrote it to me. As in, ‘To my daughter.’ Is that cool, or what?”

Josh picked up the cigarette box, stood it on its side, considered it. Then he turned to Maya. “Maybe you shouldn’t read it,” he said with a wry smile.

“Yeah. Maybe I’ll just toss it out with the trash. Can’t be anything important.”

“No, I’m serious,” he said, flicking the cigarette box down.

Was he? She didn’t know. Josh was a contrarian, always going against the grain, trying to say what you’d least expect. And here he was at it again, messing with her, trying to get a rise out of her.

Then he locked eyes with her, smiled — and changed. She had seen this transformation many times, often over the course of a single second. The other Josh emerged, the one she liked: the warm, inclusive boy; not the too-cool hipster, the guy who played with his hair and threw out glib statements barbed with razor-sharp edges. The sarcasm was gone, melted seamlessly into a knowing smile.

This Josh was connected to something deep, a passion of real power. He was the guy whose vintage ’52 Telecaster could transform a room full of strangers into a single pulsating being. He knew how to channel some kind of primal energy. Maya had always been drawn to people like that. They had the gift.

But the truth was, she wanted to hold that power in her hands, feel it pass through her, tame it, manipulate it. He could and she couldn’t. It was as simple as that. And the fact that he took such a blasé attitude toward it made it that much more irritating.

“Livingston died,” she blurted out.

“Who?”

“My cat,” she said sharply.

“Oh, right. Sorry. Drag. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m all right,” she said. She sighed. “I feel sad about him, of course. Devastated. But there’s this whole other thing going on. This, this … I don’t even know how to describe it. You’re gonna think I’m crazy.”

“Too late,” he said with a smile.

“I feel this existential pressure. This need to understand things. Like I have to figure something out. It just pushes and pushes and doesn’t leave me alone.” She reached for the glass, swirled the creamy liquid around, then set it down without even a sip. “Have you ever felt that way?”

“Tell me more,” he said.

“It’s like this intense pressure to figure out my purpose in life.” She laughed at her own words. “I’m having a purpose attack! The high command inside my head has ordered me to get moving, or else. Or else what? What’s the purpose of my life? You know what? I have no freakin’ clue. None.”

“Maybe your purpose is to live and be happy,” he said.

“Easy for you to say. You’re the next Jimi Hendrix. What about me? What do I do? I get good grades, I can read. I run a fast mile. So what?”

“You really don’t know, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You want to?”

His directness gave her pause. This was not exactly a Josh Allen conversation, yet here he was, engaged.

“Go on,” she said with some trepidation.

He downed the last of the latte and set the glass down. “You’re always thinking about the meaning of life, Maya. Wondering where you’ll find it. Well, I can tell you where it isn’t: in your head. The place you’re always so gung-ho to look. Because you know what’s in there? The past. What’s done and gone. Journals in your backyard that take you backwards when what you need is to go forward—”

“Josh, it was written by my father. You can’t seriously be telling me not to read it.”

“I’m not saying that. Just listen.”

She stared at him, struggling for patience.

“You don’t discover what to do with your life. It’s not something you find. It’s not located anywhere. Looking for it is a waste of time.”

He paused, ran his fingers over the dragon tattoo on his forearm. Maya had known no other than the illustrated Josh, although a less artistic version had of course once existed. He wasn’t born with mythical creatures printed on his skin. At some point he decided what he wanted and just went for it. Maya had always been awed by the absolute certainty possessed by the tattooed. She wished she could feel that much commitment towards anything.

“You make it up as you go,” Josh announced.

She looked at him skeptically. “That’s it? That’s the big secret? You make it up as you go?”

“It’s simple,” he said, a resolution in his voice. “No signposts, no guides. Just what you decide, here and now. What I don’t understand is why that’s so hard to see.”

“Okay, I get what you’re saying,” she relented. “But what about beyond that? Don’t you ever wonder if there’s a greater point than just living?”

He didn’t answer. He just stared at her with an expression of pity, as if she were a child unable to understand his simple words. He shook his head. She was surprised it took this long.

“There’s more to life than Plainfield,” she insisted, then realized she was talking to the air. The conversation was over. She downed the last of the latte. “Okay, fine. I’m just some stupid fool. Glad we got that settled.”

“I didn’t say that,” he objected. “It’s just …” He stopped, unsure of what to say.

She waited, but he just sat there staring at the table.

“Just what?” she said, suddenly nervous.

She looked at him and understood. Of course. This was what he had wanted to talk about. She hadn’t let him. Instead she had blathered on about her purposeless life. She reached up for a clumpful of hair and began to pull at it. Her feet were vibrating.

There was a sound a few feet away as an SUV backing into a parking space bumped into a pickup truck behind it. Maya and Josh both watched, welcoming the distraction. The driver, a heavyset man wearing an Orioles cap cursed loudly, then angled out and sped down the street.

Maya turned to Josh. Held her breath. She knew. She knew the way she always knew.

“I’m not saying we should break up,” he said.

She drew a quick breath and held it. Her skin felt hot and prickly. Her back was moist. She wanted to ask him what he meant but no words came. She felt herself wilt, deflate, transform from the spirited Maya into … her mother’s girl. The mouse. The doormat.

“What are you saying?” she mumbled finally.

“I need some time. On my own. I’m not sure how I feel right now. I mean, about anything.”

“What?”

“Just what I said”

“When you figure it out, let me know,” she said, looking at him through eyes that had become slits.

“Don’t be that way.”

“What way is that, Josh?”

“The bitchy way.”

“Listen to you.” She reached for her purse.

“Wait. Listen. It’s not someone else. It’s nothing like that. Things have been pretty strained lately. Come on, you know it as well as I do.”

She was numb, like a rabbit in freeze response.

He said, “I just need some space. So what? What’s the big rush anyway?”

She sat there, watching him. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Maya, listen, I’m sorry. It’s just what I need to do right now.”

She started to get up, spilling the last of the latte on her jeans, not even noticing. She felt as though her soul had vacated her body, leaving behind an empty husk. Tears pooled in her eyes.

Get up. Go. Before it’s too late.

“Maya,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“I’m going home,” she said, auto-pilot kicking in.

“Please.”

“It’s fine. Really. It’s fine,” she said, walking off. Something was happening with her emotions. She started to zigzag down the sidewalk.

“I'll give you a ride,” he said, appearing beside her.

When he pulled up to the house she got out and strode away from the clunky old Mustang with a quick wave and a head-down nod. He called out. She didn’t turn around. She reached the front door and disappeared inside.

She went straight to her room and paced around for some time, wanting more than ever to touch and hold Livingston. It was amazing what a cat can do. Yet he was gone.

Why hadn’t she seen it coming?

An hour later she climbed into bed and leaned back on three pillows bunched up against the headboard. And then she remembered. The remembering cut through the pain.

How could she have forgotten?

She reached into her drawer for the journal. Just touching the cool leather made her feel better. Quieter. Although she had yet to read it, she could feel its power. It was a talisman. A support to lean on that would carry her forward. The book would help lift her past any difficulty, confusion or block, into safety. As a father would.

She could not know it then but the slender volume she held in her hands would be the doorway she had always longed for, bringing her answers not only to questions which had haunted her for her entire life, but to ones far larger that originated in a world she didn’t even know existed.

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