Twenty-Two

However, because such are the rules in these kind of circumstances, once I decide that perhaps I should grant Jake the opportunity to say whatever it is he’s been trying to tell me, I don’t hear from him again. Every time I go out, I race back home, hoping to find the answering machine light blinking or Ilse waiting with a message. But day after day, I find nothing. I guess all of my pleas for him to leave me alone have finally taken effect.

After about a week of desperately hoping for another call, I finally start to resign myself to the fact that I’ll probably never hear from Jake again. I try to tell myself that this is what I wanted, but the truth is, I’d become kind of accustomed to his groveling and find myself missing it now that it’s not there anymore. Eventually, however, I manage to push him out of my mind, filling it with other concerns, like surviving the first week of classes.

One day, I return home from my feminist literature class to find Ilse waiting for me eagerly, practically bouncing up and down with excitement. I notice that she’s holding a large, cream-colored envelope in her hand.

“What is with you?” I ask, tossing my backpack on my bed.

“This just came for you!” she exclaims, holding out the envelope. I see that my name is printed on the front in calligraphy, but there’s no address or stamp or postmark. “By messenger,” she adds with a raised eyebrow.

I exchange a curious glance with her. Who could have possibly sent something to me by messenger?

I rip open the envelope and pull out a stiff, cream-colored invitation with tiny print.

“The honor of your presence is requested at the Inaugural Ball of President-Elect William Jacob Bennett. Nine o’clock in the evening. East Ballroom, The White House.”

I look up at Ilse. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“What?” she asks, confused. “What is it?”

“It’s an invitation to General Bennett’s inaugural ball in Washington,” I tell her. “Why would this have been sent to me?”

“Let me see that,” she says, grabbing both the invitation and the envelope out of my hands.

“Hmm,” she says as she studies the invitation, turning it over. Peering inside the envelope, she exclaims, “Hey, there’s something else in here!”

She pulls out a smaller piece of stiff paper and scrutinizes it. At first I think it’s probably just standard directions or further details, but the way she’s screwing up her face while reading it makes me think otherwise.

“Do you know what this means?” she asks, handing the paper to me.

There, scrawled in what I can only assume is Jake’s handwriting, I find the last verse to “Hallelujah.”

“I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch
I told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though it all went wrong,
I’ll stand before the lord of song
With nothing on my tongue but hallelujah.”

I read the words in a whisper, flashing back to the day Jake and I spent in San Francisco. And yet, I can’t help but feel that his sending me this verse of the song is meant to convey something deeper than just a reminder of that day. “I told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you.” That line in particular reverberates through my mind as I sink onto my bed, staring at Ilse with my mouth open.

“What?” she asks impatiently. “What does it mean?”

“I think it means that you were right about Jake,” I tell her slowly.

“I told you!” she cries triumphantly. “Now you can go to the ball and apologize to him yourself!”

Immediately, I snap out of the daze that Jake’s note had put me in. “What?” I exclaim. “No I can’t!”

“Why not?” Ilse demands.

“Why not?” I repeat incredulously. “I cannot go to the inaugural ball of the man to whom my father lost the presidency. And especially not as his son’s date.”

“Oh, please,” Ilse scoffs. “I’m sure your father will understand. Especially in light of the fact that you’re obviously completely in love with him.”

“In love with whom?” I cry, my voice reaching new levels of shrillness.

“With Jake,” she responds, as if the answer should have been apparent.

I reel back at this pronouncement. “I don’t think so.”

“Really,” Ilse says sarcastically, rolling her eyes. “Then why have you been racing back to this room to check for messages from him every day for the past week?”

“You put it into my head that I should give him a chance to explain,” I reply defensively.

“Whatever,” she responds disbelievingly. “Answer me this, then. If Chris is the one who hurt you, who betrayed you, why are you mad at Jake instead of him?” I try to answer, but she cuts me off. “Could it be that maybe, just maybe, he’s the one you really care about?”

I can’t think of anything to say to that. Ilse gives me a pointed look and leaves the room. I sit down on my bed, turning Jake’s note over in my hand. Is she right? Am I in love with him? No, that’s impossible, I think. I’m mad at him because he was the one behind my sabotage, that’s all. But was he really the responsible party? I study the note again, trying to draw some meaning about my own life out of Leonard Cohen’s lyrics.

This is ridiculous, I think, tossing the note and the invitation in the trash can. Those words were written by someone else, about someone else. They have nothing to do with Jake or me. I can’t really know what his reasons were for including that note, but regardless, there’s absolutely no way I can attend the inaugural ball. It would hurt my father too much, and I’ve already caused him more than enough grief as it is.