—I should have figured this out by now, Deborah said. I should have done book orders. They’re making me teach two sections of freshman comp.
—I like freshman comp.
—You always did. I don’t.
—I have this one lady, Ruben said. Then she said, I’m tired of my husband.
—What about the lady? said Deborah.
—I know, I’ll get to the lady, but I hate Harry—doesn’t that come first?
The trails were marked by color: the Blue Trail, the Yellow Trail. She was trying to remember which trail led to the North Peak. Maybe they’d be lost—but they wouldn’t be lost. They were too close to where they lived to be lost. They were perfectly safe. They were half a mile from the playground where they had met when the babies were little.
—It was a hard week, said Deborah.
—Husband, children, or work?
—Oh, all that. And the news. Toby, I still think about that woman all the time.
—What woman?
—My imaginary woman. Every time there’s news about Rwanda, I think of her. I picture her sitting in some kind of building, and people come and yank her daughter out and shoot her. I always picture Mary Grace, but black.
—But she’s imaginary, said Ruben. Maybe it didn’t happen.
—What do you mean, Toby? There are thousands dead.
—I know, said Ruben, but maybe none of them happened to see their children shot. Maybe they got shot first. Maybe the kid was shot behind a tree.
—So she heard the gunshot! So what?
—It’s sloppy to spend the whole week thinking of something that vague.
—Vague, said Deborah. I don’t know what you call vague. You have a kindness defect, Toby.
Ruben felt bad for the woman whose child was shot, but she wanted to talk about Harry. Deborah wouldn’t agree, but she, too, might be angry with her own husband, and Ruben liked to hear about Jeremiah, who still glittered, although less, and who had cried twice in Ruben’s presence: when he’d knocked the art teacher off his bicycle, and then, five years later, when Jill turned up pregnant and had to have an abortion, Catholic or not.
—I’m sorry I have a kindness defect, she said, but let me tell you about Harry. Yesterday I went out for milk and fruit, and Harry saw me walking as he was driving home. So he parked the car and got out and walked with me.
—He didn’t just give you a ride? Was that what made you angry?
—No, he felt like a walk. I did, too. It was just getting dark. I’d been at work at the store all day. I like the way things look at twilight at this time of year.
—I know, said Deborah. I love it every year. The trees are black and the sky is fluffy.
—We walked to Gagliardi’s, she said. On the way back we passed a group of young black men hanging out, leaning on a car. It was that block on Porter where there’s parking on only one side of the street, because it’s so narrow, and cars were going by fast. One of the men was holding a baby. I saw him hold it up—a three-month, dangly sort of baby.
—I know what you mean, said Deborah.
But the story was not going to be interesting. She had thought, all day, that it was interesting. She went on, though. The baby was overwhelmed by its clothes.
—Right.
—He sat the baby on the roof of the car. As we passed, he lowered his head and kissed the baby’s face. It was in a floppy hood. He had to burrow in to kiss it. I saw the baby’s curled hand, and it was white. I was so happy, watching them, Deborah. I said, That baby’s hand is white. And Harry said, So what? And I said, So nothing. It was just interesting. And Harry said, You think he kidnapped a white baby? You think it’s not safe to put him there, with the cars whizzing by?
—Was that what you thought? said Deborah.
—Of course not.
—It doesn’t sound safe. What did you think?
—I don’t know what I thought, said Ruben. I thought nothing. I thought looks. The way it looked—like a painting. Maybe the baby wasn’t white. Maybe it was a trick of the light. Maybe he looked white under a streetlight, or in a passing headlight.
—African-American people have light-colored palms, said Deborah.
—No, it was the baby’s fist, Ruben said. But it wasn’t important. I mean, it wasn’t racial.
—Maybe his wife is white.
—No, that’s just my point. I mean, maybe she is. I don’t know. But it wasn’t racial.
—But why did you talk about the baby’s color then? said Deborah.
—Because I could see it. I was talking about what I saw. Like a painter. Like Peter. But Harry. He just jumps to the nearest category. I say black person, white hand, he thinks the history of race in America. If I said fur coat he’d think baby seals getting clubbed. I might just mean fur coat.
—I don’t think you can mean just fur coat anymore.
—Bad example. I thought, I have to divorce this man. He is keeping me from thinking.
—I know, I know, said Deborah, and now Ruben knew she would talk about Jeremiah. All of a sudden you hate them, said Deborah. All of a sudden, after all these years, you cannot stand them. What I cannot stand about Jeremiah is he pees like a waterfall. I hear it all over the house.
—Does he leave the door open?
—Sometimes, but even if he doesn’t.
—Day after day, you don’t mind it. . .
Deborah said, I remember minding it even before we got married. But it gets to me more lately. I thought I was a better person than that. Is that menopause, when you can’t stand the sound of your husband peeing?
—You think he pees less often so more comes out? said Ruben.
—I don’t know. He pees pretty often.
—Maybe it’s the way he aims it that makes it so loud.
—Is your period heavier these days? Deborah said. Mine is heavier. I think it’s menopause.
—I don’t have periods very often.
—Imagine, said Deborah. No periods. No more moozum.
—No more what?
—Menstrual blood, said Deborah.
Ruben wondered if she’d mind loud peeing.
Deborah said, So did you fight with Harry about the baby with the white hand?
—Oh, I did. Of course he didn’t know what I was talking about. I didn’t, either. I didn’t even want to know. I didn’t want to understand it. That would mean I was thinking in categories.
Deborah didn’t answer and they walked on the trail. They scuffed the damp leaves with their feet. It was darker under the trees. Ruben liked the feel of the leaves. She wanted to step through leaves. The dogs circled back to them and Granny came over and stretched her round, gray head up to be stroked. She liked to make sure everyone was there. They came to a fork and Ruben remembered which path to take. The trail began to climb. Around them in the woods, the leaves still on the trees were dark red and dark orange. Ruben took off her sun-glasses and put them away, even though she didn’t have her clear glasses. But she wanted to see the true color of the leaves, even if she couldn’t see their exact shapes.
Deborah said, One of my students said something I never expected. We were talking about Halloween. Of course we weren’t talking about Halloween, that makes it sound like first grade. We were talking about Toni Morrison and somebody talked about ghosts, because you know she writes about ghosts a lot.
—I get bored with her ghosts, said Ruben.
—Somebody said Halloween ghosts are different, Deborah said. And one of the students said, When the ghost of my aunt comes to see me, we play checkers.
—Did she mean it?
—I don’t know. She has a nose ring.
—Did anybody laugh?
—Nobody laughed.
—Does she really see the ghost of her aunt? said Ruben.
—I told you about it, said Deborah, because it was unexpected. You wanted Harry to say something unexpected.
—Yes, that’s right! said Ruben. That’s exactly right.
; —The point of the man kissing the baby, said Deborah, could be men and babies. It doesn’t have to be race.
—Why does it need a point? said Ruben.
—Good point, said Deborah, and laughed.
Ruben said, This student hates me.
—My student?
—My student.
—So what? said Deborah. That was the matter with Deborah as a teacher. She didn’t mind being hated. But maybe it was good to be hated, and Ruben taught in a foolish blob of good fellowship, despite her kindness defect. Could a person with a kindness defect teach in a foolish blob of good fellowship? Yes, unfortunately, thought Ruben in an instant. The good fellowship wasn’t real. She was competitive. She was nice to the students so they’d think she was the best imaginable teacher. She said, Well, I don’t want to be hated. She doesn’t hate me. She disapproves of me. She’s the youngest in the class. I have all these prejudices. I think the youngest should be the most lighthearted.
—I forget what you’re teaching this term.
—Freshman comp to grown-ups, same as before. Saturday morning. Deborah, why can’t you remember?
—But today’s Friday. Why aren’t you home getting ready?
—Good question.
—I mean it, said Deborah.
—You’re the one who insisted on Friday, Ruben said.
—I didn’t know.
—I’ve been teaching on Saturday mornings for five years.
—I thought it changed. I thought it was Tuesday evening.
—Last spring. In addition to Saturdays. Never mind.
—Why are you angry? said Deborah.
—I’m not angry.
—You are. Of course you are.
—I’m not. Anyway, I guess she’s twenty-eight. Most of them are in their forties. She works for the phone company. First she’s angry because I don’t start on time. Her name is Maddy and she’s always mad at me. But I wait, because I feel sorry for the people who drive a distance. They come in with coffee and two doughnuts apiece.
—You let them eat in class? I’d never do that, said Deborah.
—But I learned from you! You let those women eat in class, back in the GED program.
—Oh, no. I wouldn’t do that. Do you eat?
—No, said Ruben, but I get coffee at the break. There’s a coffee machine. It’s magic. It’s supposed to dispense coffee, milk, and a cup, and it almost always does. But not in the same order each time.
—You mean sometimes the milk comes before the coffee and sometimes after?
—No. Deborah’s sense of humor was faulty. She had a humor defect. No, Deborah. Sometimes the cup comes before the coffee and sometimes after.
—But then you can’t drink it.
—Right. You watch it go by. Anyway, this young woman, Maddy, disapproves of my coffee. When I complain about the cup coming last, she says it doesn’t happen to her.
But they were reaching the peak. The White Trail crossed the Blue Trail, and Ruben picked it up, though at this point it didn’t matter. The peak was right before them. They could see it, an outcropping of stones. They climbed silently. The dogs raced off through the woods below them. Maybe they’d heard an animal, or smelled one. Ruben could see both dogs a long way off through the bare trees. Then she watched them come back.
The North Peak was just a little peak with a few rocks on top. They each stood on a rock. They could see the woods below them, and a piece of the city beyond the woods. The sun was just setting, bright red. The wind had come up. Ruben stepped off her rock and put an arm on Deborah’s shoulder. This raincoat is sticky, she said.
—It’s not warm enough, Deborah said.
Deborah mussed Ruben’s hair and she mussed Deborah’s. Do you want to go? Deborah said.
—I want to see the sun set, said Ruben.
The sun was a red disk opposite them. It would disappear behind a hill, but not for a while. Deborah was impatient. Mac whined. Ruben took her sunglasses from her pocket. She also had a small bottle of eyeglass cleaner, and she cleaned them and wiped them with a tissue. Deborah took a drink of Poland Spring and gave Ruben a drink.
—Are you cold? Ruben said.
—I’m worried that it will get dark. We won’t be able to find our way back.
—Oh, the woods are so small, the trails are just for fun, really. We just walk downhill.
—I don’t know, said Deborah. You could wander around here for a while.
—You think they’ll find our skeletons?
—No, I don’t think they’ll find our skeletons.
At last a chunk of sun went behind the hill, and then it seemed to move faster. When the sun set, the air became less red. It was grayer and colder right away. Ruben watched a little while longer, then she turned, belatedly worried about Deborah in her thin raincoat, and led the way down.
The spot just below them was flatter and freer of underbrush than most of the woods, and the dogs ran ahead. Then they ran back and forth, side to side, in the flat place. Then Ruben heard someone coming. She thought she saw the whole woods spread out ahead of her, but someone she didn’t see was coming. Maybe there was a trail around the peak.
Ruben and Deborah walked side by side for a few yards, and then Deborah stepped ahead. They were awkward, shuffling down the short steep stretch just below the peak. What a middle-aged lady Deborah was, in her raincoat, her hands grabbing air on both sides of her for balance. Again Ruben heard someone rustling, and then someone stepped out of the woods just to the left of where they were coming down, a man wearing something white. He stopped, and at first Ruben thought he had seen them and was waiting for them, but then she thought he was peeing—like noisy Jeremiah—and she wasn’t sure, but she thought she might hear the sound of his urine hitting the leaves. He was just far enough away that she didn’t know whether Deborah had seen him or not. When they came closer he was zipping his fly. The dogs circled back and approached him, and Granny barked.
—Cool it, the man said to Granny, who did not stop barking. The man crouched and Ruben was afraid he might be feeling for a stone.
—Granny, she called.
The man eyed Granny and stood up. Those people took everything I had, he said.
—What people? said Deborah.
The man took a worn leather wallet out of his pocket. The people at the crossing.
—I don’t know what you mean, Deborah said.
—I never bothered them, he said. He had on a dark sweater over a white shirt. He was a youngish man, maybe in his thir-ties.
—Did they ask you for money? Ruben said.
—I gave them all my money.
—Was it a man with a dog? said Deborah. He’s the only person we’ve seen.
—Are you in a hurry? said the man.
—Yes, said Deborah. She started walking.
Ruben didn’t know whether to be afraid of the man or concerned for him. Where are you going? she said.
—It’s getting dark, Deborah said.
—Take care, said Ruben.
Deborah was already ahead of her, the raincoat looking brighter in the dusk. It looked very manmade. Ruben followed the raincoat. The dogs were ahead with Deborah, then Granny came back to her. For a while she wondered whether the man would follow or even hurt them. She didn’t like keeping him behind her when she couldn’t see him. They came to the inter-section of two trails, and Deborah looked back at her for directions. Ruben stepped into the right-hand trail, which she was almost sure was correct, but in truth she wasn’t certain.
—Did you ever go to Barcelona? Deborah said.
—No.
—When I was in Barcelona, said Deborah, one night I was alone in a bar. A man spoke to me, and I went for a walk with him. He was Swedish. He spoke English with a beautiful accent. He kept telling me how much he hated Barcelona, and after a while I noticed it was because of everything everyone else liked about it, the liveliness and the history. He was afraid of himself. He told me he was afraid he might hurt me or kill m
e. I didn’t want to run away, because it would let him do what he was picturing. It would be like joining him in his mind.
—What did you do? I can’t believe you never told me this story.
—I slept with him.
—I can’t believe that, said Ruben.
—Well, I did. Then when he was still naked in his hotel room, I picked up my clothes and went out into the corridor before he could stop me. I’d been careful to leave them in a pile, despite my passion. I really was terribly attracted to him. I knew he wouldn’t follow me without clothes on. I was praying. I was praying to Jeremiah as well as God—it was just after we’d met, but he was home in the States. I thought somebody might see me come out naked, but it would be better than dying. Nobody did, though.
—A nice Catholic girl! Ruben said. Then she said, Did you see? That man was peeing.
—He was masturbating.
—No, he was peeing. My god.
—He was masturbating, said Deborah.
—Why did you talk to him?
—You talked to him more than I did. You have to prove there’s no such thing as crime by talking to a criminal.
—He was a harmless nut, said Ruben. What would a criminal be doing in the woods?
—The woods are a good place for crime.
—But nobody comes here, said Ruben.
—We come here.
—You think he waited all day for us? said Ruben. If I were a criminal, I’d have more important things to do.
—I think you’d like being a criminal, Deborah said.
—I would, I would, said Ruben. Wouldn’t you?
—No, said Deborah. I don’t want to hurt anybody.
—And you think I do? said Ruben.
—I think sometimes you do.
Now they walked in twilight. They crossed a paved road that was closed to traffic, and Ruben knew they were in the right place. They stepped back into the woods on the other side, and Ruben was aware of the greater darkness, though she could see the trail. The dogs had no trouble. She wished she had her other glasses. She was still wearing her sunglasses. Things were too blurry-edged without glasses.
The Book Borrower Page 14