Back when I lived in Connecticut thoughts of moving to the City expanded in my mind until it seemed inevitable and when it did I had a vision: slogging up a sidewalk at night after work, looking for a street sign to mark the yawning black path to my anonymous home around the corner. City Life. I was struck with depression at the thought of it and I figured whatever came, I'd have to fight it off. And it's true, I'd better.
I was seeing this girl Jenny now. Jenny Axtell. She was beautiful; dark hair and big, mascara’d eyes, and there was something wrong with her. The first night I stayed at her dark little apartment in Brooklyn she laid down some ground rules.
“I need you to promise me something,” she said. “I need you to promise to never, ever, come find me after we, you know, if we break up. After that. I need you to promise to never like, come looking for me.”
I told her I understood.
“This is very important to me,” she continued solemnly. I nodded. “Never, never—what are you never going to do?”
“I’ll never come looking for you.”
“You know where I live now. I don’t want someday to answer my door and—”
“I understand. I promise.”
“Also there’s a guy I fuck sometimes.”
“What?”
“An old friend. Brendan. He’s an old high school friend. We get together like once a year and we fuck. It’s kind of a goof really.”
“A goof?”
“Yeah but I’m telling you this. I’m telling you this now.”
Again I said I understood.
We did the normal things, bars in her neighborhood, parties. My sister referred to her as Jen X: “How’s it going with Jen X?” or “How’s Jen X doing?” The nickname was playful but there was something in it too. I don’t know. It seemed right.
There was a loft party one night in SoHo somewhere, a friend of my friend Joanna’s. Everyone piled their bags and winter coats in a bedroom and went into the vast main space to socialize. Jenny left for a while, to get some money or fresh air, I don’t know, we were drunk. Later we went back to my place and she left in the morning like normal.
Joanna called. Her voice was tense. Her friend’s credit card had gone missing and someone was pretty sure they’d seen Jenny pawing through the pile of belongings on the mattress on the floor. The malefactor had bought a MetroCard at eleven something something pm, according to the bank. Immediately I had a sense that she was right. Why didn’t I protest, come to her defense? Offer words of caution and reason? But I was carried off by Joanna’s cold, grim tone. It sounded true. And once it sounded true it all made sense. Jenny’s teasing, flirty quality. Her touchiness and unease at unexpected times. Of course. She was a thief. A what—a kleptomaniac, maybe. I felt I had the complete picture of her personality, the measure of her.
I called Jenny. I presented her with the facts, with what I thought were facts. She’d been seen. She had left for a time around eleven. She was dumbfounded by my accusation. She began to weep. I’ll show you it’s not true, she said. Her denial was earnest, as compelling as Joanna’s words had been before. Now I believed her. Did I? I didn’t know what I thought or who I was. We agreed to meet.
At a table at her local bar she again burst into tears. I can’t believe you’re saying this, she said. I could not believe it either. Tremblingly she showed me an ATM receipt from around the time the purchase had been made. See? See? I’m not lying. I was at a bodega. I wasn’t underground. More tears. The wilted, crumpled receipt lay on the table before me. Might it have been tear stained? Yes. Accusing me of wanton accusation.
I did not know what to think. I did not know what to believe. I thought I knew but I knew nothing.