Very Nice Read online

  Also by Marcy Dermansky

  The Red Car

  Bad Marie

  Twins

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  Copyright © 2019 by Marcy Dermansky

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.

  www.aaknopf.com

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Dermansky, Marcy, [date].

  Title: Very nice : a novel / by Marcy Dermansky.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Alfred A. Knopf, 2019. | “This is Borzoi book.”

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018033631 (print) | LCCN 2018035654 (ebook) | ISBN 9780525655640 (e-book) | ISBN 9780525655633 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781524711597 (open market)

  Classification: LCC PS3604.E7545 (ebook) | LCC PS3604.E7545 V47 2019 (print) DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2018033631

  Ebook ISBN 9780525655640

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover illustration by Justin Metz

  Cover design by Janet Hansen

  v5.4

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Marcy Dermansky

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One

  Rachel

  Becca

  Zahid

  Khloe

  Rachel

  Becca

  Zahid

  Khloe

  Rachel

  Becca

  Jonathan

  Zahid

  Becca

  Part Two

  Rachel

  Becca

  Zahid

  Khloe

  Rachel

  Becca

  Zahid

  Khloe

  Rachel

  Part Three

  Jonathan

  Becca

  Zahid

  Khloe

  Rachel

  Becca

  Zahid

  Khloe

  Rachel

  Acknowledgments

  A Note About the Author

  To Nina

  One

  Rachel

  I didn’t think, the day I kissed my professor for the first time, that he would kiss me back. His lips were soft. He tasted like coffee. The coffee I had made for him.

  “That was very nice,” he said.

  My professor smiled at me. Though hesitant at first, he had returned the kiss.

  My professor, my creative writing teacher, had asked me to watch his dog, Princess, for the day. It was the last day of the semester. He had a standard poodle. A large dog with apricot-colored fur. I loved standard poodles. I had grown up with standard poodles. The family poodle, Posey, had just died. She was a big, white, beautiful dog. I had not gone home to say good-bye because the semester was almost over. I wished I had gone. Often, my professor took his poodle to class. He loved his dog. I understood why.

  My professor lived in Brooklyn. He commuted up the Hudson River to campus. He took Metro-North. He had been sick most of the semester. A virus, he said, a flu that would not go away. He was incredibly beautiful, my professor, like his dog. Together, they were a breathtaking pair. My professor had long eyelashes, big eyes, brown skin. Silky hair. He was tall, thin, too thin. He was from Pakistan.

  My professor had published a novel that had won all the big awards the year it had come out. I had tried to read his book but I couldn’t. A sentence was as long as a paragraph. A paragraph was as long as a page. At a reading on campus, I asked him to sign a copy of his book. Though I had not been able to finish it, I told him that I thought it was beautiful.

  “So are you, Rachel,” he had said, looking up from the book. The compliment had come out of nowhere, blindsided me.

  I thought he probably didn’t mean it, like the way I had complimented his novel.

  * * *

  —

  My professor was in my house off campus when I kissed him.

  We were sitting in my kitchen. My roommates were at the library, studying for exams. My professor was drinking the good coffee I made him. His dog, Princess, was sitting at our knees and we were both petting her, our hands almost touching. He seemed agitated, my professor, agitated in a way I had never seen before.

  “I couldn’t get a seat on the train,” he said, entering my house without even waiting for me to invite him in, Princess bounding in with him, wagging her tail. He’d accepted the cup of coffee I’d offered him, nodding as I poured in the half-and-half. “There were open seats, several, but no one would make room for me.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because of my skin color, of course,” he said, bitterly.

  I stared at him.

  “Because people think I am a terrorist,” he said.

  “You are a writer,” I said. “A famous novelist.”

  My professor shook his head. “I had to ask the conductor to ask a woman to remove her bags. The trip takes over an hour. I was not going to stand. I had asked her, twice. I knew I should just move on, but I was tired. I am tired today. I am angry, too. This is not the first time. Normally I am used to it, but today, it was too much. I am just a person trying to go to work. I am dressed well, am I not?”

  My professor was wearing faded blue jeans, a worn blue button-down shirt that looked incredibly soft. Loafers. His hair was growing long, wisps covering his ears, bangs over his eyes.

  My professor had told me once that I could be a good writer if I would just let myself write. Most assignments came and went and I did not turn anything in. I wanted my work to be brilliant, which meant it was impossible for me to write anything at all. I would be getting an incomplete for the semester, in a class where everyone got 4.0s.

  “That sounds horrible,” I said. “She sounds like a horrible woman.”

  “I am sure she doesn’t think of herself that way. I am sure she gives money to Planned Parenthood and votes Democrat. She doesn’t even know she is racist. She is the kind of woman who says that she likes Indian food but won’t eat cilantro.”

  I wanted to tell my professor that when I made salsa I used lots of fresh cilantro. That while I often put my knapsack on my seat, hoping that no one would sit next to me on the train, whenever it was crowded, I always made the seat available, before I was asked. I told my professor this.

  “Of course, Rachel,” he said. “Of course you would do that. You are a beautiful person.”

  He looked so sad, my professor, and this was the second time he had called me beautiful, and so I kissed him.

  At first, he did not return my kiss, and then, just when I was about to pull away, he did.

  * * *

  —

  “You thought it was nice?” I asked him. “Very nice? You thought it was a very nice
kiss?”

  Once, early in the semester, I had turned in a short story and he had deleted all of the verys.

  “It is the nicest thing that has happened to me in a long time,” my professor said.

  He had crossed out all of the reallys. All of the justs. There was not much story left.

  “Really?” I said.

  “Really.” My professor took another sip of his coffee. He sighed. “If you don’t mind, I would like for you to kiss me again.”

  “Is that okay?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Honestly, I am so fucking law-abiding. I don’t even cross the street until the light changes. Right now, I just want what I want, and I would like it if you would kiss me again.”

  And so I did.

  This time, I put my hand on the back of his head, my fingers in his hair, and I leaned in, not letting him go. I considered putting my tongue in his mouth, but decided against it. It seemed possible that at any moment my professor might change his mind.

  * * *

  —

  Finally, my professor pulled away.

  “I am going to be late for class,” he said, looking down at his watch.

  It was a beautiful watch. It looked like an antique. It had roman numerals, the brown leather band was soft and worn. I wanted to touch his watch, but I restrained myself. I did not want my professor to think that I was strange. I did not want him to know that I loved every single thing about him. That I loved his blue shirt. I restrained myself from touching his shirt. “I have class in ten minutes,” he said.

  My professor stood up. His poodle, Princess, also stood up, but he was leaving his standard poodle with me. I had been looking forward to spending the day with his dog. He had brought a rawhide bone with him for her to chew on.

  “You be a good girl,” he said.

  I walked my professor to the door, Princess following us. I didn’t want my professor to leave us. I wanted to wrap him in my arms. I wanted to protect him. I felt afraid for him. He seemed like he required protecting.

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

  “What are you sorry for?”

  I didn’t know. “For making you late,” I said.

  My professor shrugged. He did not disagree with me. But even then, he didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. The tips of his fingers brushed my side. He had long, beautiful fingers.

  “I’ll bring Princess to your office at six,” I said.

  That was the plan we had previously agreed on. I would keep his dog for the day, walk her, feed her, play with her. Up until now, my professor used to take her to class, but there had been complaints. A student claimed to be allergic to dogs, which was ridiculous because Princess was a poodle, hypoallergenic. And then there was another student, a girl who claimed that Princess had growled at her. I didn’t think it could be true. Princess was the nicest dog.

  When my professor asked me how much I wanted to be paid, I had said that I didn’t want any money. He’d told me he would pay me twenty dollars. My professor did not want to take advantage of my kindness. He did not want any appearance, he had said, of impropriety. That had been yesterday.

  * * *

  —

  At five-thirty, half an hour early, my professor appeared at my door, his hands at his sides. It had started to rain unexpectedly and he was wet.

  “Do you want to come in?” I asked him.

  I took his hand and I brought him inside. Princess was resting on the living room floor. She thumped her tail, but she didn’t get up. I had taken the dog out for a long walk. We had played ball. I had tired her out.

  I had looked my professor up on the Internet during the day. I read his Twitter page. His job at my liberal arts college, a two-year writer’s residence, was ending today. His health insurance, it also ended today. His second novel, long overdue, was not working. His advance already spent. My sad and beautiful professor had laid himself bare on Twitter. I had learned a lot.

  “Would you like to have a glass of wine?” I asked him.

  “You are too young,” he said, shaking his head.

  This, of course, was ridiculous. I had been drinking alcohol since I was fifteen years old. I also realized that there was a line my professor did not want to cross and that it did not matter that somehow we had already crossed it. I would not contradict him further.

  * * *

  —

  We walked upstairs, trailed by Princess. My professor smiled when he saw my bedroom. The art posters on the wall.

  My professor sat down on my bed, taking off his shoes. “She had a good day, didn’t she?” he said, looking down at his dog. “Sometimes I envy her,” he said. “The name, Princess, was supposed to be ironic, but somehow she has grown into it. It suits her. Do you know what I mean?”

  I nodded. There was something regal about my professor’s dog. She crossed her front paws when she lay down on the floor. She commanded your attention.

  I sat on my bed, next to my professor. I also took off my shoes. I felt happy, even though I understood that my professor was sad. I realized that I would probably not be able to make him happy, but that I would still try.

  “I am going home tomorrow,” he said.

  “New York?”

  I thought he was going back that night. Catching the train.

  He shook his head.

  “Pakistan.”

  “You are?”

  “My grandmother is dying.”

  “Is that a good idea?” I asked him.

  Things had been all wrong in America since the election. Immigrants who left were sometimes not allowed back. If you were Mexican. If you were Middle Eastern. Probably Pakistani, too. I was not sure. I wished I knew.

  “She took care of me when I was a little boy,” my professor said. “I have to go.”

  I pushed his hair behind his ears. I felt the urge to say my professor’s name, but I was afraid I would mispronounce it. I had practiced during the afternoon, his first name and his last name, over and over again, it was not that difficult a name, but I didn’t want to risk it. I did not want to make a mistake. My professor would not look at me, but I knew what I had to do.

  For the third time that day, I kissed my professor. This time, it was not that nice. Our front teeth clattered. It hurt, even, and I jumped back. So did my professor. My professor, I realized, who had led me up the stairs, was nervous. I wanted to set him at ease. I wanted to let him know that he wasn’t doing anything wrong. He wanted what he wanted. That was okay. Somehow, it was okay.

  I pushed him gently down on the bed.

  “This will be nice, too,” I told my professor. “Very nice.”

  My professor did not correct me. I began to unbutton his blue shirt. It was soft, like I thought it would be.

  Becca

  Rachel came home for her summer break with a dog, a standard poodle. I had just put down my dog. She was twelve, my sweet Posey, also a standard poodle. I thought we would have a few more years. I was not ready.

  I needed a new dog. I didn’t function properly without a dog, but this was too soon. Somehow, losing Posey was hitting me worse than losing Rachel’s father, who was not dead. He had left me for a younger woman. He was living with her in the girlfriend’s apartment in Tribeca. I would have preferred if he had died. My feelings would be less complicated. I wanted my dog back.

  “Whose dog is this?” I said. “And don’t say a present for me, because I will kill you.”

  Rachel shrugged.

  Sometimes, I thought there was something wrong with my daughter. There was a flatness to her that I found unnerving. It was like she had a switch, an on-off mode. Even when she was a girl. She would want to sleep in my bed, hug me like there was no one else, and then gleefully go to another girl’s house for a sleepover, and like that, I did not exist.
On-off.

  I knew, intellectually, that my nineteen-year-old daughter was not a sociopath. She was the way that she was, but I never knew which daughter would wake up in the morning. I had been planning to pick Rachel up later that day from the train station, but instead she arrived hours early, sweaty, pulling her suitcase and this dog on a leash. It was a gorgeous dog. Long legs, apricot-colored fur. An expensive dog.

  “Rachel,” I said. “Whose dog is this?”

  “My writing professor’s,” she said. My daughter had been excited about taking his class. She had been required to submit a story to get in and was over the moon when she was accepted. “He had to leave for the summer because of a family emergency. I told him I would take care of Princess until he gets back. I know you miss Posey. I miss her, too.”

  Rachel was aware of me staring suspiciously at the dog, tears welling in my eyes. At least she wasn’t an idiot. She also did not mention her father.

  “Isn’t he from Pakistan? Your professor?”

  “You remember that?”

  I wondered why I remembered that.

  “He was striking. His author photo. Dark eyes.”

  “That’s an inappropriate way to talk about a writer,” Rachel said.

  “Is it?” I asked. “Isn’t that the point of an author photo?”

  Rachel looked at me with that blank expression.

  “You talked about him, a lot, in the beginning of the semester,” I said. “I read his book.”

  “Did you like it?”