The Book of Joe

know not to believe everything you read.”
    “Did you write the article?”
    “I edited it. The first draft was ... strongly worded.”
    “I can imagine,” I say. “They’re throwing books at my house.”
    Carly laughs. “That would be the book club. They met last night and decided to return their copies to you en masse.
    How many have you gotten?”
    “Three or four.”
    “There’ll be more.”
    “Hey,” I say. “Did you ever get the one I sent you?” I’d sent her one of the first copies of Bush Falls to come off the presses.
    “I did,” she says. “I read the entire book that weekend.”
    “Oh. Good.”
    “I meant to call you afterward,” she says, her voice trailing off.
    I wave my hand dismissively. “I didn’t expect you to,” I lie.
    “I just wanted you to have one, from me.”
    “No, I really meant to. I was going through something then, something bad, and I don’t know, nothing seemed very real to me at the time.”
    I nod as if I understand. “We should get together,” I say.
    “Catch up and everything.”
    “Okay.”
    “Good. I’ll call you tonight.”
    “Only if you want to,” she says. “Don’t feel obligated.”
    “I want to.”
    She considers me for a moment, and then shakes her head lightly, as if whatever she thought she’d seen has turned out to be a trick of the light. “Wayne has my number,” she says.
    I look at her, nodding stupidly. I’m still not fully comprehending that after so many years of being canonized in my mind, this is really Carly again, standing in front of me, ever so slightly weathered but fundamentally unchanged.
    “Well,” she says. “I have to get back to work.”
    “Sure.” I say her name as she starts to walk away.
    “Yeah?” she says, turning back around.
    I hesitate, unsure of what I’m going to say until the words are out of my mouth. “I still know you,” I say.
    Carly smiles, a genuine smile so heartbreakingly familiar it takes my breath away. “Joe,” she says softly, “you don’t know shit.”
    I watch the soft curves of her calves as she walks away, the smooth muscles beneath them flexing and extending with each step. I always loved her legs. She was glad to see me; I’m pretty sure of that. Of course, that doesn’t really mean anything in the overall scheme of things, but maybe it does.
    Since I came back, my past has achieved a fresh, reckless immediacy and nothing seems completely out of the question. I sit down on one of the attached styrene chairs in the lobby, suddenly incapable of standing. What it all comes down to is this: I still love her.
    Maybe.

Eighteen
    I don’t know where I’d been planning to go when I stormed out of the hospital room after my argument with Brad. Probably I would have just cooled down in the cafeteria for a half hour before going back upstairs to rejoin him. But after speaking to Carly, sitting still to eat a soggy pre - wrapped tuna sandwich is out of the question, and so is returning to the silence of the hospital room to squirm in the harsh glare of Brad’s disapproval. Something lying dormant in me has been stirred up by seeing Carly, and now I’m a pulsating bundle of raw energy, twitching, antsy, and surging with adrenaline. I am suddenly claustrophobic in the white, sterile hallways of the hospital and feel as if I might start bouncing off the walls if I don’t get out. I leave my cell phone number at the nurses’ station and head outdoors, feeling strangely keyed up. Later I’ll get Carly’s number from Wayne and give her a call. We’ll sit and talk, and eventually the strange-ness will start to wear off and then ... Well, I can’t really see past that, but it still feels exciting in an old, familiar way. In the meantime, I decide as I climb into my car, I’ll go visit Wayne.
    The damp aroma of steaming vegetables and curry engulfs me as Wayne’s mother lets me in with a mumbled greeting before retreating through the swinging door of her kitchen. Her frown makes it clear that I will not soon be forgiven for my borderline blasphemy the night before, and my counterfeit smile and cheery greeting make it equally clear that I couldn’t care less.
    Wayne is propped up in his bed on pillows, scrupulously smoking a preposterously fat joint when I enter his room. He looks pale and remarkably haggard, his eyes squinting deep in their sockets, his lips heavily chapped. When he smiles at me, his teeth look like large, jagged stalactites in his receding, colorless