Turn of Mind (32 page)

Whatever power you had to attract was of a colder variety.
Touching
nerve-terminals / to thermal icicles
. Who told you that? No matter. As it turned out there were some who appreciated it. Enough of them, yes.

You have been walking for miles. Hours and hours. South, judging from the sun, which is setting to your right. This endless street of endless festivities. You cannot see beyond it, an eternal pleasure fair. And nowhere to sit.

You realize you are hungry. It is long past dinnertime, your mother will be worried. You are suddenly tired of the gaiety, and you would settle for the quiet kitchen, the dried-out pot roast and soft brown potatoes, the boiled carrots. You realize you are beyond hunger, indeed famished. But why are you hesitating? You are surrounded by bounty!

With some trepidation you approach the nearest restaurant. Italian, its name unpronounceable, written in fancy neon script over a flowery bower. Outside, perhaps a dozen tables covered with white tablecloths, full of diners.

The din is tremendous. You can't see inside the restaurant, it is dark and the entrance is overflowing with people laughing and talking, at least a dozen men and women holding glasses filled with red and white wine lounging against the railings of the outdoor seating area, toasting one another. You try to get closer to see inside.

Just one, ma'am?
This is a man in jeans and a white shirt. Is he talking to you? You look around, but no one else is there.

My husband is parking the car, you say. This must be true. You do not eat alone in restaurants.

The wait is at least fifty minutes. Would you like me to put you on the list?
Unless you'd like a seat at the bar.

He seems to be waiting for an answer, so you nod. It seems expedient. He beckons and you follow him through the path he clears in the crowd. He leads you to a high stool, places a menu in front of you, and a menu in front of the empty bar stool to your right.

I'll show your husband here when he arrives,
he says. You nod yet again. Gestures seem to take you a long way. You are relieved, as words seem evasive, unreliable. It seems like months since you have had congress with anyone. You have been a wraith weaving through the streets of revelers, unseen and unheard.

You open the menu, but cannot make sense of it.
Penne all'Arrabbiata,
Linguine alle Vongole, Farfalle con Salmone.
But the words are evocative, make your mouth water. How long has it been since you've eaten? Days and days.

People sit elbow to elbow, some with plates of food in front of them, others with glasses of different shapes and sizes filled with colorful liquids. Some are watching a television mounted on the wall, surrounded by shelves and shelves of bottles that reach to the ceiling.

On the screen, beautiful girls in evening gowns are pointing to appliances—refrigerators, microwave ovens. It is a pretty, even spellbinding sight: the girls in their bright dresses flashing across the screen, the light flickering over the bottles.

The noise is high but not unpleasant. You feel as though you are in the belly of a live organism. The camaraderie of productive bacteria, the kind that sustain life.

The bartender approaches. He is a heavyset man with thick black glasses. Young, but he will need to monitor his cardiovascular health, his ruddy complexion is not due to sun or overexercise. A stained white apron tied around his ample waist.

And how-a can-a I-a help-a you, my-a beauteous one-a?
he asks in a mock accent that you assume is meant to be Italian. You point to one of the menu items, the one with the shortest name.

Ah, the
Pasta Pomidoro.
A specialty of the house-a! And to drink?
You are thirsty but cannot think of the right word. Something in a liquid state. You point to the bottle he is carrying. You test out your voice.

That, you say, and are grateful that it comes out only slightly rusty.

Jack Daniel's?
He drops his accent and gives a spontaneous-sounding laugh.
This day has been full of surprises! Straight?
You nod. He laughs again.
Very well, a straight whiskey it is. I don't suppose you want to follow
that up with a beer chaser?

You try to judge from his expression what the right answer is. You nod again.
What'll it be?
he asks.
We got Coors, Miller Lite, Sierra Nevada on tap.

Yes, you say. Something changes in his face. He gives you a look that worries you. Watchful. You have seen that look before. You never could fool anyone. You always got caught. That is what keeps you on the straight and narrow. Not a conscience. No. But the knowledge that you are no good at cheating, that no bad deed goes unpunished.

He shrugs and turns away, busies himself at some machinery with complicated handles, and then places a tall frosted glass filled with something frothy and yellow in front of you. What is this. Where am I. You suddenly have a revelation. You are Jennifer White. You live at 544 Walnut

Lane, in Germantown, in Philadelphia, with your beloved mother and father. You are eighteen years old and have just started classes at the University of Pennsylvania. A biology major. Your life stretches out in front of you, a clear path, no encumbrances to speak of. There is a cold beer in front of you. Your first in a restaurant! You have never ordered a beer on your own before. You have every reason to be lighthearted. Suddenly you are.

You notice another glass at your elbow. This one is smaller, not cold. Filled with a rich amber-colored liquid. You pick it up and swallow. It burns going down, but it is not distasteful. You drink again, and it is gone.

Another?
asks the man. You are startled. You did not realize he was still there, still watching. You nod. You test out your voice again.

Certainly, you say.

He gives a short laugh and again you catch that look. He places another small glass on the counter, pours, pushes it in your direction. You leave it there, turn your attention to the tall cold glass, and take a sip. This goes down easier. Beer, yes.

Your father always pours a small amount into a teacup for you whenever he opens one for himself. This one quenches your thirst in a way the other one didn't. You drink deeply. You are starting to feel good—you hadn't noticed how on edge you had been. That edge is dissipating. Slow, pleasurable warmth. A heaviness of limbs. Colors are brighter, the noise subdued. You have traveled into a private space within the organism, a private pocket of comfort. You love it here. You will come back every night. You will bring your mother and father and let them work their considerable magic on these delightful people, your comrades.

The bartender puts a napkin and some silverware in front of you. You pick up the knife. There is something about this. Something that is familiar yet strange. You have a sense of anticipation. You press the sharp edge of the knife against the wooden counter, press and pull it toward you. A white line appears in the wood, straight and true.

If you could press harder, split open this dark matter, what would come out? What would be revealed? O the excitement of exploration! You pick up your beer again and drink some more. Good. You had not realized how tight your shoulders were, the tension in your neck.

Waiting for someone?

The voice is from a girl to your left. She is about your age, you estimate. Perhaps a little older. Twenty. Twenty-two perhaps. Very pretty. Her hair cut so that it hangs longer on one side of her face than the other, and fringed unevenly at the edges. It is not unattractive. She has a nice smile. Her eyes are ringed with blue, mascaraed to bring out their size and brilliance.

Am I? You consider this. You want to answer, but you do not yet trust that the words will match your intent. You try.

No, you say. I'm alone.

You are heartened that she is not disconcerted. You try again. I was hungry, you say. This looked nice.

Oh, it's a great little place. We love it.
She gestures to a young man on the other side of her. He watches the television.
And Ron takes good care of
everyone.
She smiles at the man behind the counter. He leans forward to you and speaks confidentially.

If this young lady gives you any trouble, just let me know. I'll take care of her,
he says. The pretty girl laughs.

A plate of noodles covered with thick red sauce appears in front of you. It smells fabulous. You are ravenous. You pick up the fork and begin eating.

So, let me guess. You're a professor.
This is the young man to the girl's left. He has forsaken the television, the beautiful girls, and now seems to be addressing you.

Excuse me? You wipe your mouth. The food is as good as it looks. The noodles al dente, the sauce rich and aromatic with spices. So much better than what you could do. James is the real cook, the children's faces fall when they come into the kitchen and find you there.

The girl interrupts.
Oh, it's just a game we play in bars. Guessing who people
are, what they do. He thinks you look like a college professor. I can see that. But
I need to think about it before I guess. There's a lot at stake! Winner has to buy
everyone a round of drinks.
She puts her hand to her forehead, acts as if she is thinking hard.
Definitely someone professional,
she says.
You weren't
just a housewife.

The young man hits her playfully on the arm.

Okay, okay, I shouldn't say that. It's just that you look like you've been out in
the world more.

The young man hits her again.

Oh, did I say something else stupid?

No, you say. The words come out smoothly. You are saying what you mean to say. Relief. The path between your brain and your tongue is open.

And, yes, I am most definitely not a housewife, you tell her.

You realize your voice sounds contemptuous. James always warns you about this. You wrap another length of pasta around your fork. You take another bite. You have not been this hungry in a long time. There were only five women in my program, you explain.

What type of program was that? No, let me guess.
The young man is enthusiastic.
I'm good at this. You'll see. My guess is
. . .
English literature. Medieval poetry.

The girl rolls her eyes.
How sexist can you be? A woman, she must be an
English major, must be poetry.

Well, what would you guess, Einstein?

The man behind the bar breaks in.
Given the way she throws back her
drink, I'd say something a little tougher. Engineering. You built bridges, right?

No, no. You are laughing. It has been so long since you have enjoyed yourself so much. These fresh young faces, their ease, no trepidation around you. You realize, suddenly, that you have been frightening people. That thing you see in their eyes, it is fear. But what have they to fear from you?

What's your guess, Annette?
The young woman pretends to think hard.
I'm going to go out on a limb here and say lawyer,
she says.
I bet you defend
the poor and defenseless of the world against unfair prosecution.

No, no, you say. Never a lawyer. Words have never been my forte. That's my husband.

See? I was close!

Well, I wouldn't exactly call him a friend of the underprivileged, you say. The thought makes you smile.

Then what would you call him?
asks the girl.

The last resort of the rich and powerful. And he's very good at what he does. He always gets them off. He's worth every one of the considerable pennies he charges.

Something closes down in the girl's face.
And you?
she asks.

You realize that you have erred. That you have forgotten the hypersensitivity of the young. Fiona and Mark were inured to it early. The cynical joking about it around the dinner table. During Mark's teenage years, he insisted on opening up every meal with a particularly egregious lawyer joke. He was hoping to get to James, but that wasn't the way. He'd bring his own to the table.

How can you tell the difference between a dead skunk and a dead attorney on
the road?
Then, after a pause, he'd triumphantly bring out the punch line:
The vultures aren't gagging over the skunk.

The girl is still waiting for your answer.

I'm a doctor, you tell her. An orthopedic surgeon.

That's bones, right?
the young man asks.

Yes. It's more than just the bones. It's everything to do with injuries, degenerative diseases, birth defects. I specialize in hands.

Annette does hands, too.

The girl laughs.
He means I read palms. I took a Learning Annex class in
psychic skills. Most of us were there as postmodern cynics. But I learned some
things.

Chiromancy, you say. You'd be surprised how many believers there are. There's been a considerable amount of research into palm creases and fingerprint whorl variations published in medical journals.