MiAvE Is Nice, MiAvE Is Nice, So I’ll Say It Twice…

The fairly recent establishment of Hudson Yards as a New York neighborhood – in real life – has done something to me gastro-intestinally. Go to its website. You will learn that these few blocks by the river are: “A triumph of culture, commerce and cuisine.” If you investigate apartment pricing, you may also feel, as do I, that the alliteration should be extended to include, “crass capitalism, co-op boards, and cash confiscation.” There’s yer triumph.

But that is not the point, really. The point is, and in defiance of the laws of physics, Manhattan has yet another Goddamned new neighborhood. Why? I’ll tell you why. So that Connor or Cheyenne or Megan – pronounced ‘Meeegan,’ thank you – can say, ‘No, I don’t live way west on 35th Street. Hell, no. I live in Hudson Yards.’

Goodness knows, minds far more nimble than my own have tackled this matter. Why, back in the 1970s, and when I was camped out in the West Village before it became a borough encompassing about seven icily defined neighborhoods, the sassy Fran Lebowitz offered new designations. These required cutting up existing stretches into the sub-atomic, residentially speaking; as I recall, for example, two adjacent brownstones on Jane Street got their own identity. I may be exaggerating but, if I am, not by much. This is and has been the reality. The pie of Manhattan has not been sliced. It is slivered. It been shaved like the corned beef meant to last three meals.

Strangely, some arenas defy the knife. I can’t explain why the Upper West Side is allowed to remain whole, and a pretty big whole, too. It may be due to the children and the schools, but that’s just gut feeling and I can’t back it up. The Upper East Side, too, remains, like the maiden in chivalry, intact. Step below Midtown, however, and anything goes. Step carefully, in fact, for it is likely that any moment may find you rebranded when you cross a street that used to be West 10th, and nothing but West 10th, and is suddenly WeVillMeatPack, or WeViMePa. This is the way things are.

Except for a patch of the West Side: Eighth Avenue, a block or two after Chelsea quits and running a few blocks shy of 42nd Street. To date, it has no fashionable name. Largely, it is a void in the frenzy of reclamation and gentrification. It is the unvarying eye of the storm. It is Brigadoon. And it is so odd, it doesn’t even have a cool or uncool name at all. Some brave souls have long tried to make ‘Midtown West’ happen, like Gretchen gave her all to ‘fetch’ in Mean Girls. But they fail, and they fail because such a blah tag can’t survive right next to the queen mother of all neighborhood brandings, Hell’s Kitchen. So no one thinks of it as anything at all, really, other than a Penn Station event horizon.

Lost boulevard! I christen thee MidEighthAveEternus, or MiAvE.

So, what is MiAvE? What is has always been, as long as we keep ‘always’ as the era of my youth. Not fashionable, it is a survivor, and the only real change I’ve seen there in about fifty years is the closing down of a few Blarney Stone bars. That’s bad enough, but everything else is the same. On every block will be found footwear emporiums, each staffed by about, no kidding, several hundred young Latinos. On every block is a narrow place, not quite café and not quite convenience store, in which you may purchase egg, cheese, and bacon on a roll. On every block is a retailer selling wigs. I swear to God. Inexpensive, scary wigs.

This, I love a lot. I love it so much, I’m glad that my naming of it has as much chance of sticking as a hefty painting hung to the wall by Command Strips. Manhattan has endured much, which may explain its feistiness. Mayor Jimmy Walker, devilish smile on his mug even when busted. Elevated trains, or the Industrial Revolution’s answer to the Matrix. Many, many Liza Minnelli impersonators. Even Liza Minnelli. Connors, Cheyennes, Meeegans – mitts off Eighth Avenue and the thirties. Fix your avaricious gazes elsewhere, if you please. Or just move to Weehawken. You’ll find it right near the coming Hudson Docks, or HooDo.

At the Lake

By the second day, only the second day, almost everything was in place in the new house. It was, to Cathy's mind, extraordinary. She and Trey worked together or independently of one another, no scheme guiding them, moving and unpacking in a way Cathy described as organic. She did not, as she told Trey over a bottle of wine that evening, even consciously think of where anything should go, as she had before the move.

“I had ideas,” she said, a little grubby and prone on the sofa, her feet resting on her husband's thighs. “Like, the big painting. I just figured it had to go over the mantle. Never occurred to me once we brought it in. The wall over the stairs was right.”

Trey listened but was not entirely present. The day before, he and a few old friends had brought in the furniture. Forty, he had never before considered that the strength of his youth had diminished, there having been no occasion to feel this. The massive oak dining table, the heavy matching chairs, the boxes filled with plates and cookware so that no space was wasted – these things made their way into the new home accompanied by masculine grunts and teasing insults, masking the effort at the time.

“I ain't moving for a week,” he whispered. Then amended: “Sure as hell ain't movin' ever again. Hope you're happy here, babe.” It circles his mind that he overdid it – they all did, certainly – because men take on more than is reasonable to carry when other men are doing the same. His eyes were lazily fixed on the French doors to the deck, thinking rather than seeing Douglas Lake just beyond the slopes of their yard.

“Are you listening to me?”

Trey nodded slowly, dreamily.

“What I say?”

“Honey. Pots and pans go in the kitchen. The sofa goes right here. Where's the miracle?”

She playfully pressed her heels hard into his legs, pretending annoyance. Not looking at her, Trey smiled, and she fell in love again with his marvelous directness and goodness. Other women were drawn to his good looks and size, taking his genial nature as somehow an element of this attractive physicality. He was the big, strong, handsome man, then and today. But Cathy was only partially interested in these attributes, even made them the object of jokes when they dated. She saw in Trey Bilderbeck a kind of purity. Over thirty herself at the time, there had been much experience with men she could not be sure were good. She had learned that basic decency was not a thing a woman could take for granted, there to fill in the time and the life when the excitement of courtship was done.

“I know where pans go. All I'm saying is that...the other things seem to belong here.” She took a long sip of white wine. “And in certain spots. That's all I'm saying.”

Trey nodded again, his open face still focused away from Cathy, seeing and not seeing the lake in the distance. “Good thing. They don't, they can move their own fuckin' selves out.”

She reclined back further, dropping her head to the sofa's arm, closing her eyes and giving Trey the half smile his joke merited. Two dogs, both shelter rescues from the first years of the marriage, dozed fitfully on the rug by the fireplace, wearied from chasing the activity of the long day, yet caught up in racing in their own dreams.

“Nice, though. Quiet.” Trey emptied his wine glass. “Think I'll sleep here tonight, babe. No stairs.”

Cathy opened her eyes, puzzled. “Where's the afghan?” she asked with some urgency. “For the couch. You see it?”

Before he spoke, Cathy could see the words coming together in his mind, see the shifting in the curl of his upper lip. “Don't worry. Like you said. It'll find its way where it belongs. Wait – I think I hear it comin' now...” Once again, she pressed her bare heels into his thighs, biting her lower lip in mock irritation.

*

Two days later Cathy was washing a few things in the kitchen sink. It was mid-aftertoon and, the dogs dozing on their beds aside, she was alone. Trey had gone into work, an unexpected development but also not one unwelcome to him. He had scheduled a full week off from the lawn and garden service company he owned and ran but, as both husbands and wives come to know in such situations, there is no actual urgency in putting everything in place right away. And marriages are not usually made stronger when spouses encounter only one another for days at a time. So Trey made irritated noises about returning to work and both he and Cathy were, tacitly, grateful for it.

Cathy's eyes were on the window above the double sink and she saw a transparent reflection of herself. A handsome woman, early forties, a broad, wide face, and hair so naturally rich in auburn and red tones she had long since grown weary of women in stores, or anywhere at all, asking who did her color.

Then: Cathy noticed a crack in the window never before seen, visible only when the light struck the large pane at this time of day. She closed her eyes. They had accepted so many minor flaws in the house, from bathroom fixtures needing replacement – the powder room had been a nightmare of pink – to patches of carpet in the guest bedroom no longer attached to the floor. That this crack had never been mentioned struck her as a worse falsehood, an insult, in fact. She reached for her phone to call Trey but, at that moment, there was a knock at the door.

“Hi.” Whoever this woman was, she was cradling what looked like a casserole, glistening in its plastic wrapping. “My name is Natalie. Schin. We're neighbors.”

Cathy immediately shed her annoyance over the window, genuinely appreciative of this effort and gesture. She had been a little concerned about the neighbors in this upper-class suburb being...stand-offish. She introduced herself and insisted that Natalie come in, for coffee or maybe iced tea.

Moving through the short hall into the great room, Natalie lost no time in explaining what she carried. It was nothing, only a simple casserole, easy to heat up. There were eggs in it but no meat, and Natalie laughed at herself, saying that she had omitted meat because she couldn't know if they were vegan or something, but still used eggs. Defeating the intent. Cathy found her hurried explanation charming.

For the next hour, Cathy had the agreeable sense of suddenly being a part of this neighborhood. She learned that Natalie – rather short, thin, brunette, also early forties yet still girlish in appearance – lived only several houses away on Fox Lane, and lived alone. No more was revealed regarding this solitary life, and Cathy simply assumed that a divorce was in the woman's past. She would soon know the reality if this contact was continued, of course.

Natalie rose, apologizing for taking up so much of Cathy's time when moving is so difficult, Cathy waved the courtesy away, and they both heard the front door open.

“Well, hey.” Casual introductions were made and, a few minutes later, Cathy and Trey walked Natalie to the door. Before she left Trey suggested she stop by for a drink some night soon, maybe that weekend. After Cathy closes the door, she rested her back against it for a moment, her palms lightly pressed on the wooden panels.

*

“You should've waited before asking her to come over. Till we talked.”

Cathy says this in bed, suddenly reversing her earlier determination to say nothing.

“Huh?”

“Natalie. You invited her over for a drink.”

Trey regards his wife's face carefully. He has done this for years whenever anything seems not quite right, even as it fails to help him or provide insight. “Uh...yeah. I did that. What's the problem, hon? She's a neighbor. You told me she brought food. To welcome us.”

Cathy runs her hands through her thick hair, then holding it up like a woman experimenting with a new style. “That's not the point, baby. You should've waited because maybe I didn't like her.”

“You don't?”

“I didn't say that. I like her fine. But maybe I was pretending when you came in.” The dogs, on their upstairs padded blankets on the carpet at the foot of the bed, prick up their ears.

“But you weren't. Pretending.”

“No.”

“So I don't get it, hon.” But Trey's tone implies surrender as well. There is no other way for him to go at these times. As has happened before in their marriage, there are times when he must trust to her conviction even as he fails to understand it. The rare episodes do not make him feel weak; on the contrary, he is able to do this because he is strong enough to give in when, as he sees it, a woman is thinking like a woman.

*

As it happened Natalie Schin called the following Saturday, asking if the invitation for a drink still stood, asking what she could bring. Cathy was completely warm and gracious in her reply. She had decided that Trey's inappropriate action was unimportant. What mattered was that she liked this Natalie, that she even had been touched by the neighbor's taking the trouble to welcome them. It would be nice, Cathy considered, to develop a sane, respectful friendship with another woman here. Not too much contact – there had been experiences in the past, when minor acts of kindness to neighbors had led to undue and eventually dreaded interactions. But Natalie struck Cathy as, above all, sensible and considerate. She had said something, that first day, about a largely unknown legal restriction about boating on the lake, something even Trey, as good as he was with research, did not know. It could work. It could, maybe, work out very well.

“Natalie. I told you, just come, no need to – “

But Natalie shook her head, handing Cathy the bottle of good Cabernet when she arrived. “It's nothing. Like I could come and not bring anything. Cath, this is the Lake. Civilized, civilized.” No one laughed but all three smiled.

Trey watched a game on TV, Natalie helped Cathy in the kitchen – she is placed in charge of the salad – and the dogs wandered in and out, drawn by the scent of the steaks cooking. That Natalie would stay for dinner was understood and her protestations were ignored. The women, Cathy at the stove and Natalie chopping mushrooms and greens, talked. It was the sporadic, broken conversation of acquaintanceship; there are lags, but they are not uneasy.

“I love the house,” Natalie said, referring to her own. “But it’s kind of a pain in the ass, you know? My husband…never mind. But he could fix things, at least.”

Cathy smiled to herself, flipping the steaks. Had she even doubted a divorce in this woman’s life? For a moment, she considered suggesting that Trey could help Natalie out from time to time. Then she fixed her eyes on the flame under the large skillet. It was too high, she adjusted it, and the suggestion was never voiced.

Then: Trey came into the kitchen space, said, “When’s dinner, girls?,” and Cathy had an immediate and unclear dislike of Natalie.

“Relax. I know watching a game is exhausting, but you can survive for a few more minutes.” In making this reply, Cathy also had a sense of shame. Something informed her that she was teasing her husband in this way to make a point. I can do this because he is mine.

At dinner, Trey complimented the wine Natalie had brought. He himself, he said, was useless in choosing wines.

*

Months passed, the season changed. Natalie had the Bilderbecks to her home for dinner. Trey offered to repair her garage door without being asked to do so. One day, Trey said that it might be a good idea to have Natalie and a single friend of his over. Cathy did not support the proposal. She referred only to the unsuitability of Trey’s friend, whom she had always considered crude. She did not say what she believed, that any such attempt at a fix-up was pointless. She would have been unable to even explain this conviction.

Getting together with Natalie become an occasional, but not insistent, reality. Nothing untoward or remotely questionable was in Natalie’s behavior. Visit after visit, she invariably engaged with Cathy. Just girlfriends, nothing more, with Trey as the ancillary, genial man of the house.

One day in October, Cathy was shopping at the local supermarket. Looking over jars of sauce, she was startled by hearing her name. It was of course Natalie, wheeling a cart herself, beaming at the unexpected encounter. Cathy looked at her and, with absolutely no thought, turned her cart into the next aisle. Natalie followed.

“Cath? Anything wrong?”

The need to say nothing became implacable in Cathy, then. She slowly moved down the aisle, briefly scanning the items. At the end of it, she peripherally saw Natalie still at the lane’s beginning. Staring. Unmoving. This was all that occurred between the women, or did not occur, and the Bilderbecks did not see Natalie again.

Home and putting away the groceries, Cathy was sure that she wouldn't try to tell Trey about what happened at the supermarket. There would be no point to it and, she knew, any wondering on his part as to why Natalie just dropped out of their lives would, Cathy also knew absolutely, fade to nothing in little time. She always relied on his trusting her, to think as a woman thinks, to act in ways a man can't understand.

Dinner at Alberto's

They went all the time, John and Lucy. This was known to their small circle for long years, known to the restaurant's staff as well, naturally. Whenever another couple suggested getting together or came to mind as having not been seen for too long a time, the reservation would be made. A new boy was in the charge of this in more recent years. It was too bad; for ages, Joseph would recognize the voice, John's or Lucy's, and immediately ask how they were, when could the place hope to see them again. For Lucy, this was always an additional treat, a warm and flattering bonus before the anticipated pleasure of time and good food with old friends.

Of course all that was years ago, really. This was heavily on Lucy's mind when she called the restaurant, that late December afternoon. To book a table for only herself and John. She was glad that Joseph, with the weather-lined face and blue eyes that seemed to see everything, was no longer the maitre'd. She was glad that no one familiar to her would have reason to wonder, even for a moment, why the Corsaros were dining alone. If they were lucky, Lisa would still be serving there. Lucy in fact mentioned their preference for this server. It had been so long, there would be only the agreeable exchange of smiles, modestly affectionate greetings, between them and a waitress who would be uninterested in the absence of other guests.

Having made the reservation, Lucy suddenly experienced misgivings she could not identify. John would be fine with her having decided this. He would lift his eyebrows a little but nod while doing so. He was good about things like that. She had relied on this compliance in small matters throughout their marriage. A purchase maybe a little too expensive, a movie she wanted to see and which was not to John's taste – he would always nod, accepting. On this day and for the first time in fifty-two years of marriage, Lucy was aware that he never expressed happiness for her, or amusement, or anything at these times. He just agreed. On this day it felt contractual to Lucy, and not even especially a virtue.

“I thought we would eat at Alberto's tonight,” she said within minutes of his coming home. He had been to the doctor, complaining about a whistling in his ears. The doctor, long accustomed to John's frequent and usually meaningless concerns, gave him some drops.

His coat hanging from one hand, John stood in their large and elegant living room and regarded the small vial of ear drops held in the other. Still thin, still tall, John had a way of challenging whatever was before him, his nervous energy suggesting confrontation, even with a small vial of ear drops. “I''ll bet I could get these at any drugstore. I don't think he took me seriously. What? Alberto's?”

“Yes. We haven't been in forever and I thought it'd make a nice change. Plus, it's so pretty with the snow and all.”

John moved to a chair while nodding his head, to deposit the coat on its arm. He moved more slowly and carefully lately, Lucy thought, and not for the first time. But then she paced herself as well. As age overtook them, John would say that this was an obligation for people of their years. Anything at all could be dangerous.

“Did you want to call James and Caroline, see if they're up to joining us? Been forever.”

Lucy, still reclined on the gray sofa, forced a chuckle. “I did. But they've got family over, staying on after Christmas, apparently.” She looked down at her fingernails but only to look down, because this was a lie and it had a great deal to do with the misgivings troubling Lucy, about the dinner out.

*

Two hours later they were dressing, Lucy feeling increasingly self-conscious in the choosing of what to wear, what to do with her thick gray hair. They passed each other going from closet to chest of drawers, moving in the silent and measured choreography of husband and wife so attuned to the other's movements, there is never even a momentary faltering. The bedroom, like every room in the house, was large and beautifully furnished. With the three children grown and settled – although with their youngest, Rob, there were difficulties – the home was, as both had known for years, too much for them. Lucy had insisted that she could not leave and John complied here as well, but she perceived too that he would in time bow to her change of heart.

“The new guy better give us the table we like. You can't trust these new people. They don't know how to treat their better customers.” John was adjusting a necktie as he said this, facing a mirror, and Lucy's hands were stilled at one ear, the clasp on a pearl between her fingers, her head cocked. At this moment she had a vivid awareness of her own face in the mirror as old, yet not only as old. Beaten down, somehow. There was as well a feeling new to her. It was not exactly anger. It was more exasperation.

“I asked for the one we like, in the corner by the window.” Lucy said this in almost a hushed way, as though it were a thought and not a spoken answer. “He said he'd give us Lisa.”

“If they can't appreciate customers like us, I'll make sure they know we expect to be treated right. Lisa's still there?”

Lucy had trouble breathing just then, and she planted the tips of her fingers hard on the vanity table. Over fifty years. This is what he has always been. It was unthinkable that now, an old woman, she should be stunned in this way, hearing him as she would hear a stranger. Something was happening but she knew only that it was a tide carrying her.

Lucy finally stood and John brought her coat to her. “You're shaking,” he said. '”It is chilly in here.” He did not say that he'd be talking to the men who installed the heating system, there being no need for him to say this.

*

What had actually happened, before the call to Alberto's was made, was that Lucy phoned Caroline. The impulse felt daring, in a way; they had not spoken for some time, rendering any attempt at contact awkward, as happens when old friendships fade. In Lucy was a shadowy intent to seek confirmation of a kind.

The phone rang six times and Lucy sensed – correctly – that Caroline was deciding that, all things considered, it would be better to take the call. Get it over with? Yes.

“How are you doing? It's been ages.”

“Oh, God, Lucy. You know how things are at our age. Time just...goes.” Then Caroline, whom Lucy had long thought of as her best friend, related ordinary details about the holiday just past, the children coming by, the dinner she made with her daughters. It did not escape Lucy's notice that Caroline failed to inquire after her own life or about John.

Lucy held the phone in both hands and realized that it was impossible to suggest dinner out. There would be an evasion, poor pretenses of other commitments, and Lucy was not prepared to take this graciously. With this realization came an urgency, to end the call.

Before phoning Alberto's, she made one other call but heard, not her son, but his message. “Maybe you could come by soon? Bring Don, if you like. I'll make sure it's all right, honey.” Then she sent her love to the voice mailbox, hung up, and was ashamed of herself because she could not make it all right, and Rob would certainly know this and just feel sorry for her. She sat for a while, thinking that something was happening, a thing larger than she wanted or could even foresee.

These were the calls made that afternoon, before Lucy contacted Alberto's and decided to wear the pearl earrings.

*

Of course all the Christmas decorations were still up. They were unusual as well; no plastic ornaments or standard angels pinned to walls. Instead Alberto's annually displays hand-woven mats – from Tuscany – with discreet clusters of real greenery and dried cranberries on them. The only Santa is old and Victorian, in lush red velvet and a porcelain face, and little ceramic cherubs, the patina of age adding charm, sit and pray on a windowsill.

“He tries too hard. You can tell.” John offered this opinion of the young maitre'd as they sat, the favorite table in fact secured. He pushed his chair back and looked under the table as he usually does. Lucy never asks why. It is a part of his scouting out the space, claiming it.

“At least he tries, John. That's something.”

He ignored this. His manner was not disagreeable. It never is especially so, unless others are present. There having been no others on this occasion, John then chose to regard the menu. Lucy watched him and thought: he is not looking for what appeals to him. He's looking for what will disappoint him.

“Well, well!” Lisa greeted them, naturally affable as she was in the past, a sheen of perspiration on her forehead. Lucy always liked the woman's lack of artifice, her easy-going and oddly maternal care of their table. John approved of her because Lisa would fix her eyes on him when he ordered, clearly taking in everything he would specify, attentive, respectful.

“I'll be right back with your drinks,” Lisa said. Lucy watched her move away, feeling abandoned.

We look fine, Lucy thought over a shared plate of calamari. We look exactly as an older couple out should appear. Attractive for our ages, dressed well, obviously long used to one another. We don't talk much but that's fine as well. Anyone seeing us would take that as evidence of familiarity, the tacit understanding between those attached forever.

Little was said for some time. It occurred to Lucy in fact that nothing really need be said at all, but she saw this as cowardice in herself. Their entrees were served, Lisa adjusting the plates and other items on the table to make things easier. When Lucy smiled at her before she left, she had the sense of wanting to leave a final and favorable impression with the woman.

“I called Rob today,” Lucy said, her eyes on John's face, a fork poised with a piece of roast pork by her plate. She had to repeat the statement, though; a Christmas song was inexplicably loud. The repetition gave the statement a force she did not want it to have and she was aware that her hand was trembling.

“It's not the music. I should be able to hear fine.”

“So you heard what I said.”

“Of course I heard. What he have to say?”

Lucy then sat back, realizing she had no strategy at all. If she was to be understood, it was necessary that John respond in certain ways but, already, he was not aggressive enough. She remembered again that his bluntness was directed at others, not herself. It was a bitter knowledge this evening, a protection she wanted to discard.

“Nothing. I got the machine.” Lisa came by to check on their satisfaction with the dinners and John asked her if a new chef was at work. She replied in the negative and waited for the criticism of the food she was sure was coming, but none came. John chose at this moment to allow only an unsmiling nod to express his disappointment.

Lucy felt a little sick in her stomach and placed her hands on her lap, not wanting to make a pretense of eating. Silence was between them in thick layers, a small space defying movement, a pool of stagnant water.

“Something wrong with your food?” John was nearly eager for this to be true, she knew. Even as he asked, his eyes scanned the dining room to locate Lisa and complain to her.

“I told Rob that he should visit. I told him to bring Don. If he liked.” The music's volume had lessened but Lucy spoke loudly still.

John said nothing. He ate and she knew his mind, knew how he was foreseeing such an event. She knew even that would be all right with him, their son coming by with his partner, because John would gather up all evidences of wrongness in the visit. He would present these after the young men had gone, for Lucy's benefit. He would do this to express as well a hurt, a father's unjust suffering, he did not in fact feel. A surge of real anger shook Lucy's frame, momentary but alarming. It passed quickly because she could not consider that his thinking and actions for so many years had denied her closeness with her youngest son. This could not be taken in. And why, she thought, now? Why after allowing so much damage to be steadily and quietly done?

“Maybe some dessert,” John said, pushing away his plate. “If they haven't messed with the tiramisu.”

*

Teaspoons clink against thin porcelain, sugar being stirred into strong coffee. Already Alberto's is emptying; only a few tables of younger people remain, boisterous, empty bottles of wine held in the air to attract a server. But calm still reigns. Alberto's permits exuberance to a point but all who work there are empowered to politely scold guests who go too far, even request their departures.

The evening out is nearly done for Lucy and John. She believes she will say nothing, express none of the resentment within her like a disease taking hold over long years. She tells herself the timing is wrong but knows this to be a silly evasion. She has never had the courage to oppose him. The day's small events, the calls, the thinking, exist apart from this deeper reality.

Then John says, “You should call Caroline again, soon. Makes no sense, not getting together for so long.” Lucy's eyes fix on him, steely, hard, inquiring. He could not have said anything worse. He should not have opened the door to her discontent, freshly more painful from that afternoon's phone call.

“I don't think it'll do much good,” she replies, now staring into her coffee. In her mind are dinners in the past, both James and Caroline exchanging quick expressions of suppressed shock with every modestly derogatory view put forth by John. Who never once perceived the reactions. Lucy remembers the night, over linguini and clams for four, when John told James that he was a fool to go on helping his children with money. A fool. Lucy had then stiffened, seeing Caroline's face and fully expecting an outraged response from her which, remarkably, did not come.

“Hm?”

“I just think...they've gone their own way. It happens like that. With old friends.” The lie took its toll on her, Lucy's being frozen and poised for trouble, like a soldier's.

“Maybe. Well. Their loss.”

With these words tears well in Lucy's eyes. He should not have said that word, loss. It is too potent. It too goes to their son and all the time in which she has felt his loss. Arguing, fighting, is impossible. And she is crying a little for herself, for the shame of having let it all go on. She is complicit in her own victimization. She always has been. One day, she thinks even now, she may understand why.

John's hands then hold the table's edge. He sits upright, alarmed, and asks what is wrong. Lucy shakes her head, saying nothing for long seconds. Finally she says, “No, I'm all right. Just feeling a little shaky.” She suddenly applies her husband's own strategy when things are not right. “Maybe the coffee is too strong for me.”

John says nothing, mutely witnessing his wife's using her napkin to dab at her eyes. Lisa comes by and asks if everything is all right, if they need anything else, not referring at all to Lucy's state, which is barely perceptible.

“The check. Please. Mrs. Corsaro doesn't feel well.”

“I'm so sorry! Anything I can do?”

“Just the check. And maybe you should watch how strong you make the coffee.” Even as he so addresses the server, however, John's eyes are on Lucy. Lisa nods and moves away. A minute passes and John says, “I'm making an appointment tomorrow, you should see Demarest. Not that new idiot. Demarest.”

Again, Lucy shakes her head, an unthinking response. “There's no need. I'm fine. I'm – “

“No.” John is notably resolute, not speaking in his usual way, not issuing criticisms or opposition in a furtive, if still supremely confident, manner. “No. No sense in taking any chances. I'm calling first thing in the morning.”

Everything is still. The younger party with the wine is gone, the windows reveal a landscape of snow and asphalt, of a few cars and trees beyond them, branches sagging under the weight of snow, nothing moving, nothing changing. The young maitre'd, his tie now loosened, passes John and Lucy, smiling at them. They both fail to see this. John is carefully examining the bill, carefully calculating a suitable tip. Lucy is looking at him, unable to turn away. There is in her, suddenly and shockingly, a sense of being reprieved, of being somehow forgiven for never challenging her husband's behavior. Because he needs her. He is afraid of her not being there, ever. She considers: have I always known this? Have I never resisted because, if I did, he would have nothing, and he does not deserve that, even at his worst? That I could not allow that?

“I'll help you to the car,” John says. But Lucy requires no help. With the revelation comes the awareness that she is, has always been, the stronger of the two. Loss still exists. It is a consequence of this bargain. Still, she has survived it. She may also bring Rob and Don to the house, and combat the loss. He will not fight her. This she knows. He dare not and Lucy moves to the door of Alberto's, John's hand at her elbow, awareness like a dawn she is first taking in.

In the car, John, as always, takes his time adjusting his seat belt, starting the engine, checking the mirrors. Lucy sits patiently, also as always. There is no happy ending, no worthy resolution resulting from her defiance. There is only what has always been. But something happened in Alberto's, something freeing her. It was not a miracle, yet it feels miraculous to her.

Driving home, Lucy knows she will see Dr. Demarest, as John wishes. She can be compliant because his life is in her hands.

Elena and Mr. McGinnis

It strikes Elena from time to time that there is something remakable about Warren McGinnis. More exactly, it occurs to her at odd moments that the ordinariness of their relationship – which word doesn't even come to her mind – transcends that same quality, and merely by virtue of its length and the quality of it. Other waitresses of course attend to other regulars for years. It is hardly unusual that diner customers, particularly in a country setting with minimal options, become so routine as to be fixtures. There is for example Scotty Falk, coming in for cheeseburgers and fries every Saturday night for longer than Elena can recall, on his way to the local dance hall outside of town. There are the Holleys as well, elderly and excessively polite, and the tradesmen who make a point of stopping by for pie and coffee with a regularity dictated by their work, and the weekly runs of supplies they make.

“How you keeping, Elena?” He always asks this as he takes his seat at the counter. The inquiry is perfunctory but she has noticed, more than once, that Mr. McGinnis seems to invest some genuine interest in the question. As though, if she chose to tell him a great deal about herself, he would not be surprised. As though he might welcome it.

“Not bad, Mr. McGinnis. Bearing up.” She varies her responses but never fails to reply as she moves to pour his coffee. There is never any need to ask what he would like. Nor does she write out an order for Simon, the cook; she nods at him through the service window and he knows to fix the eggs over easy, sausage, rye toast, and potatoes nearly burnt that Mr. McGinnis has eaten there twice a week, always on Mondays and Thursdays, always at one in the afternoon, for eighteen years.

It is a damp and cold Thursday in late November and Elena, for no reason she can imagine, is regarding Mr. McGinnis with a slightly heightened degree of interest. She knows that he owns and runs a small dairy farm just outside the town of Maple Hill, actually only a few miles from the diner. She knows that he inherited the farm long ago from a father who died in middle age, and she knows that Mr. McGinnis, perhaps sixty-five, maybe seventy, lost his own wife to cancer over thirty years ago.

Elena knows nothing more about him and what she does know was learned, casually and long past, through Gerry, the diner's owner.

“The damp makes it colder. Had to yell at Simon to jack up the heat.” He looks up and smiles. There is never any sense that he is only being polite, nicely indulging her but, if truth be told, uninterested. Elena believes this because the smile lingers just a bit. Sometimes he knits his brow by way of response, which Elena finds charming. She herself is fifty-five, a brunette of average height who has become more attractive with age. The round face and full figure, attributes less than desirable in her girlhood, add youth and an easy, confident womanly quality today. Elena does color the few streaks of gray in her hair but this, apart from the most minimal and discreet applications of make-up, is the extent of her vanity.

Mr. McGinnis adds cream to his coffee, takes two sips, then turns to the newspaper he carries in. He sets it aside when his food is served and finishes reading whatever concerns him when his dish is removed and he has a third cup. Five minutes after this, he pays his bill. For eighteen years, he has simply left the money on the slip of paper set discretely to his left on the counter. Prices have risen slightly over the years but he always has the exact change, and he adds three dollars for Elena. Ten years or so ago, it was two.

Maybe, Elena thinks this day, it is the weather. There is a holiday feel to the charcoal skies and the cold, and she has noticed that the hardware and drug stores a few doors down on the highway have lights and wreaths in their windows. Even Milton's Auto, nothing more than a run-down garage, set out a plastic Santa the day after Thanksgiving. She finds this agreeable, even lovely. This may then be prompting her interest, the hazy importance of Mr. McGinnis in her mind, although she has never felt quite this way in other years when Christmas neared.

“Keep well, Elena,” he says, rising to leave. She thanks him, reciprocates the farewell and, this afternoon, keeps her eyes on his lanky figure retreating through the door. She can even see him yanking open his truck, fumbling for the keys in his jeans pocket at the same time.

It is just then that Elena realizes that she is, or was, experiencing a feeling of gratitude for Mr. McGinnis. It is nothing more than that but it has a rich quality to it. It feels like the deep and nameless satisfaction of sitting near a fire when damp and cold are just beyond a wall, safely seen through a frosted windowpane. Then she makes an effort to dismiss the impression, an effort wholly instinctive. There is no one to serve after he goes and she actually concentrates on scrubbing the coffee maker, moving its bulk aside to get underneath, and permitting herself to think only of this. Nearly two hours later, breakfast and lunch shifts done, she takes her bus home, taking with her the subdued and pleasant feeling of warmth.

****

They are alike in one way, Elena Handy and Warren McGinnis, if only barely, and she has never once considered this herself. She too lost a spouse decades before, but the similarity ends there. In her late twenties, she had married a man named James Padleski. This was in her hometown of Decatur, Georgia, and the relationship developed as Elena, a waitress then as well, served James on his increasingly frequent stops at the Square Cafe in the center of town.

Leaving behind a family in Gainesville largely uninterested in her, Elena had one ambition then: to secure a simple life in which she worked, lived alone, and was secure from the messes of personal involvement. Nothing was ever natural in the home; Elena was ignored because, unlike her younger brother, she caused no trouble. As years passed, however, and Dylan Handy's deliquency began to involve the law and local scandal, the little attention she did receive from her mother and father was somehow tainted by association. She was not the good child all the more cherished; she was another reminder that children may go horribly wrong.

This safe life she achieved, and rather easily. It was a blessing to find that her father and mother made no efforts to stay in contact. Shame, maybe, she imagined. It did not matter, there having been no affectionate ties to lose, no debt of care to be repaid. It was a wonder to be highly valued at work which she found easy, even enjoyable, and there was real pleasure in turning the key to her small attic apartment, in shopping for weekly groceries, in training new servers after a few years, in being appreciated by the customers who would accept no other waitress. Everything was ordinary and all of it never ceased to generate actual happiness.

“Baby, you got an admirer.” This was said by Rebecca Nye, thin and tiny, blond, and a virtual whirlwind of energy and motion. It was a Saturday dinner service and both young women knew that the observation only stated the obvious, yet required being said. Elena and Becca had become close over the previous year, the distinction of Elena's higher rank, even within the small staff, fading in proportion to the other's value as a worker and striking personality. In Elena's mind Becca was a blade, lightning fast in all her actions, and strangely all the more human in her directness and quick tongue.

That same night, she agreed to have a drink with Jimmy when she was done with her shift. Becca became maternal and protective, and as immediately as she took on any task.

“I don't know. Go. Sure. Just keep it short and don't fall in love or anything.” All these years later Elena remembers the words, the squint in Becca's eyes appraising Jimmy from the hidden corner serving as waiter station, the clatter of the cafe around them. One day, she believes, she will thank Becca for the warning she should have heeded. She has not yet done so, however, and probably never will because there is no need. In the ways life has of moving things in circles, she is in Maple Hill now because of Becca. They share a small house and live as sisters, closer than most sisters are, each offering a kind of rescue for the other.

When Elena reaches her stop and walks the short block to the well-kept, two-story clapboard house on Grierson Avenue, there is in her the comforting expectation of security and good company, a feeling that has not diminished since she first came to this town.

The details of the changes in her life have been mercifully dulled by time. Over twenty years ago, just after Becca left the cafe to care for an ill mother in North Carolina, the dates with Jimmy rapidly took on an unexpected and oddly ordered structure. Over drinks or a late meal he would disclose information about himself, steadily moving from rote realities to more personal matters, and he would request, even politely demand, that Elena provide the same. He proposed two months after their first date and Elena had the impression that this timing had in fact been planned by Jimmy, as according with precisely how much time is necessary before going so far.

Still. She liked him very much; Jimmy had a sly way with him, a caginess that contrasted, and enhanced, his boyish good looks.

“My place should be home,” he had said after Elena agreed to marry him. This took place at a steakhouse in Buckhead and Elena never forgot the unreal sensation of the moment, of seeing the small diamond on her finger, listening to Jimmy, and feeling as though a charade of some kind had reached its conclusion. She had not yet been there but understood that he had a spacious apartment in Atlanta. There were of course doubts. She had, really, only his word as to his home, his career as a business machines consultant for IBM, his everything. They had not yet been intimate beyond minutes of holding and kissing, on empty street corners. No, not a charade; a film or a part of a film.

Was this how life is supposed to happen? Elena wondered while she allowed Jimmy's intentions to sweep her away. She did not know if she was in love with him but this was no real dilemma, any kind of love being unknown to her. Instead she relied on his unvarying sureness. He told her he had no family in Georgia, none to speak of at all, and she accepted this because it echoed her own experience. She relied on how Jimmy's holding her made her feel and she set aside concerns, date after date, until the ring was there on his palm, for her to take. Besides, Becca had gone and there was no one to whom she could express doubts, anyway.

****

When he struck her three days after the wedding, she fell to the floor because the blow was intensely strong. He left, swearing at her, as Elena propped herself up by her elbows and saw blood dripping from her nose onto the parquet floor of their – Jimmy's – apartment. She felt outrage, even beyond that created by the abuse, because he left while she was still on the floor. It seemed more cold-blooded than the punch to her face.

Resolution possessed her being as soon as she was able to stand. She went to the bathroom and attended to her nose; it was unbroken and the blood resulted more from the impact to her entire face as he punched her jaw. Then she went to the living room and locked the door with the chain, and propped a chair against it. Then – and Elena had not consciously summoned this course at all – she found the handbag in which she had left Becca's new address and number. Within an hour her things were packed in two suitcases – a good deal had to be left behind but this was unavoidable. She called a taxi and only when she was completely ready to depart did she move the chair from the door, holding the sharp edges of the keys in her hand ready.

There was the chance that he would be downstairs but there was no alternative, and she intuited that he would not risk a scene on the street. But no such scene of any kind occurred and Elena simply stepped into the cab. In this action she realized she was able to escape because, in a kind of bitter irony, she was not leaving behind a man she loved or needed. She would call Becca from the train station on Peachtree; the awkwardness from having not been in touch would quickly disappear, it only having been a few months since they parted, the urgency of the circumstances excusing it as well.

“Oh, shit. Elena. Honey. Just get here,” was Becca's response. Elena closed her eyes in a kind of prayer.

On this same evening Caroline Benoit visited her father, Warren McGinnis, for the first time since her mother died. Given the lengthy separation, which was owed to nothing more than Caroline's several pregnancies and distance – she and her husband made Seattle their home – she stayed for five days. Warren became used to the calls she made three times daily to check in even as he felt guilty for being annoyed by them. Then, too, his daughter had never been domestic and Warren experienced further guilt for not perceiving any advantage in having her in the home she had left behind so long ago.

The wind picks up a little as she nears the house but Elena does not draw her coat closer around herself, the door only a minute away. She mentally reviews what's in the refrigerator, easily planning something, a meatloaf, fried potatoes. Becca will not yet be home; she works at the animal shelter in town and the hours are normal, unlike a diner waitress' schedule. Tonight Elena will cook and they'll watch an old movie together, maybe. Or Becca will go out – there's a man in her life. Elena has met him but there is no danger of any kind. Becca, like a seer, knows that great change is not a thing she will like, anyway.

****

“Merry Christmas to you, Elena.” Gerry Doyle says this while handing her an envelope. The bonus is the usual amount but Elena is unconcerned. What matters to her is that it comes every year. Each Christmas envelope confirms another stage, another layer of security in this life. She has served young people in this town, young people feverishly making plans to create lives in Charlotte, or even New York. Frantic to leave the dullness, the limbo, of the town behind. She smiles to herself at these times.

Everything outside the diner is gray. The sparse town seems stilled by the cold, sleeping, dormant. Elena will be off from work tomorrow, Christmas day, and that is yet another source of profound pleasure. She and Becca will watch old movies, cook, and joke with one another wearing robes and warm socks or slippers.

“Big holiday plans, Elena?” Simon asks this through the pick-up window and her eye-rolling is the traditional and awaited response.

One o'clock comes and Elena immediately feels uneasy. Mr. McGinnis has not yet come in and something like real fear overtakes her. Should he not come today, for whatever reason, she knows that her contentment would be jarred, and badly. This is all it is but that is enough; he is a part of this life and routine. Elena does not hold to omens but his failure to appear would be to her a sign of a greater reality not right.

Then she sees, quite by chance, his truck pull in. She turns her head and literally breathes a sigh of relief. Then she catches herself. Something is different. Something was different about the truck.

“Merry Christmas, daddy's diner!” This is expressed as Caroline Benoit enters, her father behind her, his face a mask of stone. Out of habit Mr. McGinnis moves to the counter but his daughter redirects him to a booth, and he complies. There is one moment when his eyes meet with Elena's. Nothing is exchanged because the shock of the circumstance is too much for either of them.

“Merry Christmas,” Gerry says, pleased that a customer, any customer, so wishes to enhance the atmosphere of the place. He even brings them menus himself. Mr. McGinnis regards his as unaccountable, a document of some kind he has no use for. Still, he keeps his head down and pretends to scan the items.

Elena wills herself to not think as she approaches the table. He looks up at her, however, and his weak smile pains her. It seems to be so many things – a plea, a defiance, some measure even of apology. She greets Mr. Mcginnis, relying on his natural courtesy to make the introduction he offers.

“My daughter Caroline. Stayin' with me for Christmas. Caroline, this here is Elena.”

Caroline is breathless and animated, as though both the cold outside and the occasion are overwhelming. She presses her palm against the top of her chest and holds the other hand up, as people do when they require a moment to pull themselves together. Elena does not directly look at Warren McGinnis but, peripherally, she is aware of his blankly staring at his daughter, much as he had regarded the menu.

Elena tries to take the orders, fielding Caroline's many questions about the fat and gluten content of the meals. In this process she also learns that Caroline has left her own family to be with her father. She learns this because, still undecided, Caroline urges Mr. McGinnis to order and she places a call to Seattle.

Mr. McGinnis nods and Elena understands that he'd like his usual. As this is a rapid interaction, Elena than mouths to him that she will be back shortly to see what Caroline wants. Walking from the table, Elena can hear – it is impossible not to hear – Caroline affirm that she will be flying back home the next day, Christmas day, and that everything there is great. Even more loudly she sends her love.

“Simon, hold Mr. McGinnis. I don't know what she wants yet.” Suddenly the diner seems stilled, only the sound of Caroline's voice moving in the space. Oh, it's cold here too. Miss me? Miss you too.

Elena stands at the service window, an elbow resting on it, one hand over her mouth as in contemplation.

****

The hour passes. Caroline finally decides on an egg white omelette and, Elena notices, looks disapprovingly at her father's food as she probes and picks at her own. There are other customers and Elena is grateful for the distractions. At this point her only feeling is that all of this is too bad. Father and daughter speak very little to one another and Elena is certain that the relationship is strained, that this is no silence of mutual comfort. She is also aware that, time and again, this Caroline turns her head to regard her.

But it will be over. The woman will be gone the next day. Elena is quite sure that she herself will never mention this meal to Mr. McGinnis, ever. She is equally certain that he will never refer to it.

Mr. McGinnis does have coffee after eating, and his daughter scowls at this as well. Then he pays the check. Elena comes by to pick up the money and he says, “No change, Elena. Merry Christmas.” Feeling Caroline's eyes on her, Elena deftly takes the cash and the bill, and thanks them. She makes it a point to thank them both, although this is not easy because Caroline's expression is one of amused shock.

Behind the counter Elena discovers that Mr. McGinnis was more generous than he usually is on a holiday. She is aware that father and daughter are rising, getting into their heavy coats. The large tip somehow changes things. She does not consciously perceive it but, in the action, Mr. McGinnis restored the natural way it should be there, will be there again, and in no time.

But Caroline whispers something to her father and then walks to the ladies' room. Mr. McGinnis goes to the truck, to wait.

Elena can actually feel Caroline's coming to her, the deliberate moving to the counter rather than the door. She watches it, step by step, anticipating a wrong and disturbing encounter, the broad smile on Caroline's face reinforcing the sense of danger.

“Hey. Thanks so much for the service.” Her voice drops to the conspiratorial hush of the girlfriend. “I have to tell you, I think my dad likes you.”

Elena does not think as she responds. She is aware only of holding a damp cloth, gripping it. “Well, we've been friends, kind of, for a long time.” Then it upsets her that she declared a friendship when no such relationship has been in place, really. In the briefest of moments, this woman has trapped her.

“Well, woman to woman, I think maybe it's more than that. I think it's great. He's been alone way too long. Don't get me wrong – I'm not saying that anything's going on between you. God, I don't know! But it'd be so good, his having someone. I'm just saying, Elena.” Caroline reaches out to touch Elena's hand. “You take care, now.” And she exits the diner with the stride of a woman with a rich prize in her possession.

The day passes and Elena's shift ends by late afternoon. There is a thought in the back of her mind as she cleans up and prepares to go home. She wishes a merry Christmas to Simon, the regulars, and Gerry, and, when the diner door closes behind her, she defines the thought. Memory has returned and she knows, absolutely knows, that walking out of her marriage years before was not this painful.

Elena walks to the corner but she does not want to board the bus and walk the rest of the way home. It is extraordinary, what this child of Mr. McGinnis did, extraordinary and unspeakable. Elena hates her, never even having hated her own husband. Something important was taken from her, just like that, like it was nothing.

Minor revision but hopefully a stronger tale....

Visiting Pauline

Pauline chose, as she did nearly every day, to take her lunch hour on a bench strangely set away from the schoolyard, just outside of the woods. From this point she could eat her sandwich and fruit in solitude and see, with ease, if anyone was coming near. No one ever did; the girls in her class, in fact all the girls at St. Elizabeth's, invariably clustered together in the main area of the yard, cliques huddled at their usual tables, the occasional unpopular girl on her own.

There was no hour in the day Pauline enjoyed more. This she repeats, almost fifty years later, to Robert, who takes his customary place on her red velvet sofa, who listens with genuine interest and some admiration.

“Never lonely?” He asks this even as he knows the answer. It is more that his interruption triggers in Pauline attention to their drinks, which she rises to refresh. He cares but he also cares about her excellent gin and tonics, always served with many slices of fresh lime. He cares as well for these hours in the gracious space, and he consciously enjoys the awareness that he is at home here. It is the result of some effort but all the more satisfying because it has taken time.

Robert can see her grin, charming, even as her head is lowered in taking his glass.

“Never. And it was better, so much better even, after Sarah's...visit.” Robert watches her slim, elegant form retreat to the makeshift bar on the vintage console table.

“Tell me,” he says, really wanting to know.

The exact day is never recalled but that is unimportant. What mattered is that something unusual happened. There was tuna fish on rye and a pear in her bag, and a small thrill went through Pauline's frame, like always. It was the rustling of the brown paper, the way it marked the period of freedom and solitude. Pauline had one hand in the bag, reaching for the sandwich, when she saw Sarah walking in her direction. A bird from the woods cawed in an ugly way and this Pauline took as a warning.

As Sarah Gibb approached, Pauline kept her eyes on the girl's face. She did not mean to be rude; Pauline was in fact never rude, even to the girls at St. Elizabeth's most deserving of scorn. It was instead that this occurrence, this nearing of Sarah, was unreal. There was absolutely no reason anyone would do this and, realizing it, Pauline already had a vague and unformed sense of the reasoning.

“Polly, hi.” Tall for her age, darkly brunette, pretty and glossy in a natural way, Sarah looked like a girl any other girl would be pleased to welcome. She was in fact immensely popular at the school and, what was more odd, resented by no one.

“Hello.” Pauline, in spite of herself, admired Sarah's ability to stand there, uninvited to sit, yet not awkward in any way.

“It's nice here,” Sarah said, looking around as though seeing a new landscape when in fact it was nothing more than an extension of the yard she saw every school day. Still, Sarah's remarkable ease of manner made the remark seem right, even insightful.

“Do you mind if I sit?”

“And did you?” Robert asks this today, wanting to fully understand the workings of the woman's mind when she was a girl. Pauline Keeley is something of a legend in Pittsburgh, celebrated as a restorer of art, notoriously independent, yet good company and a hostess with the grace of bygone ages and salons of the European past. She entertains rarely but it is always an event, a coveted invitation.

Robert has his own place in her life. He simply is there, reassuring and companionable, an erudite and safe escort to be counted upon as such. Both he and Pauline have likened this status to that of a pet, though never to one another. Today, he perceives an occasion, a turning point, with revelation going to greater intimacy.

“Well, Lord. What could I do? Really, Robert. I wasn't raised in the wild, you know.” She sits again, delicately holding her own glass by the base, a silk wrap draping her thin body like a breeze.

Sarah sat, discretely distanced from Pauline, and said, “I can see why, you know, you like it here, Polly. God, the girls. Sometimes....” She leaves the sentence unfinished, there being no need to add more.

Pauline turned her head to take in her companion. She did not object to “Polly”; teachers, some of the girls, even her father used the nickname. Then – and the moment was extraordinary for Pauline – she looked at Sarah further and considered several realities at once, or in a cascade, one bit of awareness or wonder falling upon another. She is here now, Pauline thought, because I am both almost as pretty as she is and because I am not poor or strange. Sarah's family had more money than most and her father held some mysterious position with the government. They were not rich – no one in the neighborhood was – but there were signs of comfort beyond the ordinary. Women like Pauline's mother noticed that Mrs. Gibb dressed smartly at the supermarket and bought expensive cuts of meat. At Christmas, the Gibbses had hired help for their party, and the two cars in their drive were new and well-tended. The Keeleys were not as comfortable but their middle-class status was assured. If Sarah sought to visit with a poor girl, and for whatever reason, the implication of condescension would be too damning to be overcome.

Then, Pauline understood fully that this coming of Sarah was in no way random. She knew no more than this but she knew it absolutely. She also realized that she could not eat her lunch, it being rude to do so in front of the other girl. Her hands held her sandwich in her lap, like a handkerchief or purse.

“Go on, please, eat,” Sarah said as this thought came to Pauline. “I just came by to say hi, really.” And nothing in Sarah's manner betrayed in the slightest anything more. Pauline saw that it was true, what the girl said, but she saw as well that Sarah's unawareness of a different motive did not mean that one wasn't in play.

“There must've been deer behind us in the woods,” she recalls to Robert. “We were just sitting there but I heard twigs and things crunching.” Robert smiles at just the right angles. They had met when he was a waiter at a downtown cafe, years earlier. Casual conversation between server and esteemed guest – Pauline – evolved as these things sometimes do. Rank became less important proportionately to the growing interest within the modest relationship; after a few months, it felt natural for Pauline to ask Robert over to her place for a drink.

He knew then how unusual the invitation was, and he has since given this reality much thought. Still, and for the three or four years and of their hazy friendship, Robert is careful to never overstep the privilege. He has ideas but he keeps them to himself. Three or four years is not so long. Meanwhile, Pauline is going on with her memory. “It was the crunching, now that I think about it, made me...recognize something.”

“You know, I think I'm a little jealous of you, Polly.” Sarah said this looking directly at Pauline and her face betrayed no jealousy or envy at all. Pauline had no experience with perfunctory adult exchanges, the polite chit-chat of parties and the like, but she knew at this moment that this was the exact form it took. The lovely and warm Sarah, elevating the presence of a girl essentially unknown to her, only softness and mild amusement at her own folly in her eyes. “I mean, you're just fine on your own and there's no reason why you couldn't have a ton of friends. If you wanted.”

Pauline of course knew this. Still. There was something offensive in Sarah's statement, something suggesting a reason in spite of the claim that none existed. Equally offensive was the burden on Pauline to say something in response.

“Maybe. I guess. I don't think about it, really. It's just nice to be alone out here.”

“God, and I'm here ruining it for you!”

Because you have to, Pauline thought, suddenly knowing the truth of the encounter. A girl near the school screamed, piercing the distance, but the sound had no menace in it. It was shock, or glee.

Pauline's slim legs are crossed as she speaks. Her voice is captivating, husky and scratchy, like the voice of someone who has not spoken forever. Robert rises and refreshes his drink. Skilled in these things, Pauline assesses the action – it is the first time he has ever done this – while maintaining the flow of her story. It is too bad, she thinks. It never fails, she thinks. Outside the cozy apartment, outside the few small rooms rich in fabric and art, the sky darkens and dusk falls on the city like a thin rain. Changing everything and changing nothing substantially.

Very little more was said by the girls. Pauline ate her sandwich, first offering half to Sarah, who declined and was overly appreciative of the kindness. The hour was passing and Pauline accepted the loss, yet this was not easy; she had to consciously try to ignore the unfairness, the theft of her one hour of peace, and even knowing that Sarah came for a reason did not lessen the effort.

“Why? What did you think?” Robert's interest remains authentic but that, Pauline sees, is hardly the point. He will take in what is meaningful here, if not just then. She shakes her head gently and the silver of her hair, coiled behind her neck in a loose chignon, bounces a little and gleams in the lamplight.

“It was feeling more than thinking. But I still had a sense, a...knowledge, that Sarah Gibb came to me because she was afraid of something. I did that to her, too. I think that, for a long time, she would see me out there by myself, and it made her...uneasy. I never meant to, of course. But just my being there, away from everybody, gave her the awful sense that her life, her popularity, was empty. I wasn't sure, mind you. It was a vague kind of knowing.”

The knowledge, which Pauline does not share with Robert, was confirmed just before Sarah left the bench that afternoon. There was a lengthy silence between the girls, not entirely disagreeable, but nonetheless eerie by virtue of Sarah's presence as being motivated by nothing explained. Pauline considered asking her – in some language she could not imagine – to leave. She would try to be polite and phrase it inoffensively, however that could be done, and because there were only twenty or so minutes left to the hour and Pauline was suddenly greedy for them.

But then she turned to look at Sarah and could say nothing. The girl was sitting with her hands clamped between her knees, shoulders hunched a bit, and her face, even in profile, was as vacant as any expression Pauline had ever seen. Sarah was staring out but in the way that sees nothing. Pauline felt a chill pass through her. Then she slowly ate her pear, feeling angry and imposed upon. What had begun as an annoyance and the theft of her private time had evolved into something unaccountably treacherous, like a secret to be imparted, a secret in touching distance, but still a thing unwelcome and not asked for.

The bell rang. Sarah said goodbye and Pauline resented as well the need to lag behind, as accompanying the girl back to class was unthinkable.

Robert's drink is empty but, this time, he does not take it upon himself to make another. He believes that a new level of intimacy has been reached with Pauline, and this pleases him. He has the sense that the story is concluded – Pauline has ceased speaking and her face, turned toward the rich layers of fabric draping the window, suggests finality. But it is also clear that some element of it is undone, unsaid.

“Did she ever do the same thing again? Seek you out, whatever?”

Pauline does not turn to look at her guest as she answers. She can hear the ice clink as he jostles his otherwise empty drink. “No. That was the only time.”

“Well, it certainly made an impression on you.”

Still she does not turn her head. Her arm bends and a long, slender hand rests on her waist. “Yes, but only after, really. After I heard that Sarah killed herself in college.” She pauses, then adds: “You know, I can't for the life of me remember who told me about it. My mother? Maybe. Yes, she would have known about anything having to do with the Gibbs.”

Robert rises because the information, while not wholly shocking, triggers in him a reflex of needing to move. With the dark has come the sound of fireworks, enhancing the vague sense of menace created by the news of the suicide. Pauline is accustomed to the angry bursts of the celebrations in downtown Pittsburgh; living near to the Point, the explosions mark what is to her an endless series of regattas where the rivers meet. She chose brocade for the windows because it appreciably muffles the sounds, softening what otherwise brings to her mind, not festivities, but gunfire and invasion.

“Wow,” Robert say, feeling that the expression is too young for him but unable to summon anything else. “How did that make you feel?,” he asks, and realizes in the asking that the question is all wrong.

Pauline finally looks at him and as though she has no idea who he is, or how this man came to be in her apartment. “What? Feel? I didn't even know the girl, Robert.”

“I know. But, still. You remember the lunchtime thing really clearly. Like her coming to you was a cry for help.”

Pauline smiles just then and looks at him, and Robert thinks that this smile, gracious and natural, is in place at many different moments and in many circumstances. It strikes him now as a door slamming, an impression augmented by a blast of fireworks heard in the same moment. This impression is furthered, unpleasantly, by how Pauline maintains eye contact with him.

“'Cry for help'. How melodramatic, Robert! I didn't know the girl. I had no reason to know the girl, for heaven's sake.” The emphasis is hard, not lightly said. Her hands suddenly take firm hold of the sides of her chair. It would be comic to Robert, like a mimicking of an airplane passenger frightened by take-off. But it is not comic. Pauline's palms then run back and forth over the chair arms, and she says, looking at him directly still, “I have always had boundaries, I imagine you'd call them.”

Robert, like his hostess so many years before, has a sense of a reality he cannot define but knows to be disagreeable. The two exchange fragments of conversation after this, bits of gossip which he offers and Pauline shrugs away, and in a matter of minutes he excuses himself. He goes for his jacket but, like a scientist, also probes for something he believes must be there.

“This weekend, Paul. Are you doing anything? Feel like the Art Cinema?”

She rises in a strangely hurried manner, preparing to bring both cocktail glasses into her kitchen and surveying her parlor as though a great deal needs to be done, to set the room right. “I don't know. Call me, why don't you?” There is a quick peck on a cheek and he is gone.

Robert walks down Wylie Avenue, the sulfur of fireworks oddly pleasant in the air, the last stragglers exploding above. He must weave between small clusters of people leaving the Point and this annoys him. It is a relief to turn down 6th Street, take his time crossing the bridge, and cut through the park to his place on North Avenue.

His mind is blank for a good part of this walk. He knows his own mind; what will come to him must settle before it can be known as sure. On the bridge, however, knowledge intrudes, prematurely and almost violently. Robert recognizes that Pauline, elegant and disarmingly intelligent woman, friend or acquaintance, was not engaged in reflection earlier. She was not revealing to him an episode from her girlhood that profoundly affected her. Stepping off the bridge, he suddenly remembers what he did not believe he had seen. Pauline's face as he sat again, with the drink he had made himself. Then there was Pauline's intensity of expression soon after.

“I've been warned. Son of a bitch. Warned.” He says this out loud, smiling but aware that anger will follow. Three or four years is no minor stretch of time. To have wasted.

He turns the key and climbs the single flight to his apartment, feeling the space claustrophobic and ugly, when it is only plain. He retains the smile but it is prompted by incomprehension and, as he remembers Sarah Gibb remembered, disgust. A girl who had reached out as anyone troubled would, rebuffed by another girl with no heart, no sense of what human beings owe to one another.

Robert goes to his little galley kitchen and finds a bottle. He pours a drink, neat, not even concerned with the type of liquor. I have always had boundaries, I imagine you'd call them. For the rest of the evening, for the rest of his life, he will despise Pauline for cheating him, as he will reserve hatred for himself and his wretched, misguided confidence.

Three years? I thought it was longer since I'd been here. And I'm stunned that Mr. Net has retained this fossil. It's like Cher - just when you're sure it's dust, there it is, still young and vibrant. Never mind. I reinstall this blog BECAUSE I want to share with all a new short story I done. Up in a day or so, once I nail the ending in a craftsmanlike manner. Here i am, in fact, hard at work on it....

Method of Modern -------

Knoxville! Setting of my Beautiful Man and Other Stories.
And just a few remarks, to answer questions that maybe, just maybe, occur to someone either getting my new book or just wondering about the process.
The process. Yes, I self-published. I chose this course because, ironically, I've been published in the traditional way. Don't get me wrong; that experience was excellent in many ways. But it was also transitional. By 2006, what had happened to the music industry had overtaken the world of publishing and, unless you were uniquely positioned as a writer to generate massive sales, no houses did much in the way of marketing for your book. Today, they do less, possibly because the last of the traditional publishers, downsized and downsized, are busy trying to stay alive. This is not sour grape-ism on my part. It's business reality.
Another thing about that old-fashioned process: it demands lots of energy and time. I got lucky, in having a marvelous agent believe in me and work for me. But the many, many months of her helping me to construct a proposal - which did sell the title - were then followed by many, many months of editing, all of which a) rendered my Internet dating guide less than timely, and b) took out, I believe, the stuffing that might have made it a little successful.
Which brings us to today. Long ago, I did my homework and isolated the best e-publisher out there. I used them this year, and in the intervening years they have only expanded their abilities and made the most of technology. Simply, as with a traditional publisher (were I to find one willing to accept a book of short stories, which is poison in the industry), I have a thoroughly professionally done book out, in print or in e-format. And it's up to me, if anyone chooses to buy it.
That's all. Thanks. I do hope you get my book, and I hope you don't regret the getting.