by Zoe Chant
Feni began reading an idyllic story about child almond-pickers on the Greek isle of Kos. She was followed Linette, who read a chapter from a romance.
Joey found his attention shifting from the stories to the writers themselves. Especially Doris. She moderated so well that she made it look effortless. Joey wondered how many of them recognized the skill it took to call on the shyest introverts only after others had read, to start discussions with a question when no one seemed to have anything to say.
Doris interjected smoothly whenever anyone began to repeat themselves. Finally, when Bill began shuffling his feet impatiently, Doris called on him. He harrumphed, then began to read:
Chapter Seventeen. After defeating the Russian mobster’s torturer, Wilhelm Stryker fought his way through the bodyguards, leaving a trail of corpses. The kingpin himself had run like the coward he was, the second Stryker broke out of the handcuffs binding him to the torture chair.
No chance of stopping at the hospital to get his wounds bandaged—if he wasn’t at the courtroom on the dot of one, his ravening ex-wife Cindy would sic her attack lawyers on him for yet another frivolous lawsuit.
He ran down the steps five at a time, and vaulted over the electrified fence. His blood dripped on the live wires, sizzling. He forgot his many wounds when he spotted the mob boss’s Jaguar parked behind the compound.
He opened the driver’s door—then halted when a beautiful face turned his way. Lips pouting like succulent tomatoes, her breasts barely contained in a low cut chauffeur’s outfit. “Oh,” the young chick said breathily, eyes wide. “You’re . . . that guy!”
“I’m taking the car,” he grated.
Her eyes widened even more, and she took a deep, sobbing breath, breasts bouncing like soft watermelons. “Can you get me away from Vilny Villainovitch Villainov?”
It kept going on that style. Joey found his mind wandering to Doris, whose profile was absolutely unreadable.
Joey was considering what to say to her— or if he should speak at all—when polite clapping startled him out of his reverie, signaling the end of Bill’s chapter. The discussion that followed demonstrated that Bill only accepted praise from women, but listened to suggestions from men. Joey was irritated on the behalf of the women in the group, and relieved when Doris called on Jen.
“I realize I’ve started three books in the last few months, but I’m trying to find one to stick to,” Jen said. “This is a portal fantasy . . .”
Her story drew Joey right in. She was the best writer who’d read so far. He sensed a longing in the vivid words, transporting the reader out of the present and into an ancient world full of magic and beauty. Joey noticed Doris listening with her eyes shut, a smile on her face. At the end, the clapping was noticeably more enthusiastic.
Bill harrumphed. “Very nice and full of girly details, but a rational reader won’t get far unless you describe the exact mechanism by which your protagonist gets into this other world.”
“Oh,” Cassandra cooed, cutting off three other people who had their hands up. “But it’s so atmospheric! Why, I was reminded immediately of the first time I visited Paris, and the beauty of the Parisian skyline from the balcony of my Parisian apartment—”
She paused for breath, and Doris said smoothly, “I completely agree about how atmospheric it was. Angelique, I saw your hand up. Did you have something to say?”
Doris drew out the more timid commenters, after which Tomas read a lovely poem about fog and identity in verse as atmospheric as Jen’s prose.
Then Godiva read what Joey recognized as a vivid, moody version of the scene he’d witnessed Doris acting out on Bird’s terrace. He remembered how skillful Doris had been at using her body to suggest the downtrodden, resentful Oona. This was not just talent, but signified someone who was very good at drawing on the invisible armor of roles.
Joey was impatient for the gathering to be over so he could talk to Doris. But they were not done. After Godiva finished to enthusiastic comments, Cassandra cleared her throat, rattled her beads, then read what she called a literary tone poem.
“ . . . genderless goat bellies
Cock ribs cow udders
Cricket carapace
Old young blood sinew Armageddon.”
Doris said firmly, “Very original images, Cassandra. I’m afraid I’m fairly ignorant poetry-wise, but I certainly reacted to that imagery.”
“Cricket carapaces,” someone else observed in a tentative voice. “Very . . . unique!”
Joey reflected on how story in any form can be an extension of self.
He was careful not to stare at Doris too often lest she feel it, so he was unprepared for her to say, “And we’re down to our newcomer. Have you anything to offer, Mr. Hu? Or should I say Professor Hu?”
Tell her a story about us, his fox yipped.
FIVE
DORIS
Doris fought against staring at Joey Hu the entire evening.
It should have been easy. Moderating the group took all her attention even when there wasn’t a newcomer. But no matter how hard she concentrated on making sure the talkers didn’t squash the shy, silent people, and seeing that everyone got a turn—and their fair share of comments—she was always aware of Joey. She only let herself take a single look, but she could feel him.
That one glance was imprinted in her mind like an oil painting. He hadn’t dressed to impress, the way Bill did, in flashy clothes that were too tight. She had learned to sew as a child, so she knew about fabric.
Joey wore excellent fabrics in muted colors. His clothes were well made, suited to the proportions of an active man. And she sensed he was an active man. He was not much taller than she, and slim, but she’d noted the curve of muscle in his arms and along his thighs. No paunch or sloped shoulders there!
Now I understand what Godiva means about arm porn, she thought.
All during the last few readers, she was increasingly aware that she was going to have to speak to him. Offer him a chance to read.
She nerved herself to turn his way and keep things professional. Gah! She hated that word, after hearing Bill bash it about week after week. She had to maintain her Teacher Face. That was it. Teacher Face had eased her through many nightmarish parent conferences, and dull meetings with pompous administrators who had never actually stepped inside a classroom once they’d graduated from school themselves.
She could do this.
She had her Teacher Face in full force as she invited Joey to speak—and too many words rambled out. She suppressed a groan, intensely aware of how inane she must sound, calling him Mr. Hu, or should I say Professor Hu.
But he smiled. Right at her. It was not a sarcastic smirk like Bill gave women, or a bland nothing of a smile the way she knew her Teacher Face smiled. It was a quick, beaming smile that acted on her like stepping into clear, warm sunlight after being enclosed in a stuffy, air-chilled building.
He didn’t move an inch, but for a breathless heartbeat they were the only two people in the room, just her and that golden gaze, with an errant lock of hair drifting across his forehead above his slim form. She gripped her hands tightly, trying to squeeze out the urge to smooth that lock back, and feel if it was as soft as it looked.
She managed to wrench her gaze away as he said, “I’ll tell you a very old Chinese myth, the Story of the White Snake.” His voice was soft, mellow, pleasant— and she could breathe again. “I realize it’s late, so I’ll keep it to a short version.”
Now Doris was in agony lest someone be rude to him. She gritted her teeth as Bill smothered a yawn and Cassandra picked at one of her bracelets.
Doris’s attention leaped back to Joey as the mild, warm voice went on, “There are many versions, for this legend is centuries old. Likewise she has various names, but we’ll stick with the simple Lady Bai—bai meaning white.”
He smiled as he held up his hand. “She had a best friend, another snake, named Lady Green. The two snakes had spent many years studying the classics
in order to improve mind, body, and spirit. The heavens granted them the ability to become humans, and so, one day, she and Lady Green transformed themselves and strolled over a bridge in order to enjoy a beautiful spring day.”
His hands swooped, indicating an arched bridge, and then he spread his fingers to sketch trees blossoming in spring. Doris was so mesmerized by his hands she almost missed the thread of the story.
“ . . . the two maidens reveled in the clear, warm air, the chuckle of water under the bridge, and the green of spring. They began a game, each composing a poem to celebrate their delight. They clapped at the efforts of the other—but Lady Green insisted that Lady Bai, whose improvement exceeded that of her friend, was the best. Then they were taken by surprise as from the banks of the river a voice rose, offering a poem in compliment to Bai’s. The two snakes crossed over to discover a handsome young man on the far bank, also enjoying the scenery. His name was Xu Xian. He was a student preparing for the imperial examination . . .”
Doris shut her eyes against the distraction of those beautiful hands, the quick glimmer of humor in Joey’s voice as Lady Bai and Xu Xian fell in love over poetry and the music of nature in spring.
His voice changed, deepening when the conflict arrived, in the form of a fanatical monk who believed that all shape-shifters were demons and must be destroyed. He dedicated his life to eradicating them, using his powers to create a staff with hanging beads that rattled whenever shifters were near.
Doris opened her eyes to see Joey sweeping his gaze around the circle—assessing his audience, she recognized. She felt his gaze like sudden sunlight as he whispered, “And so, the monk came to the village where the student Xu Xian lived. The very day the young student and Lady Bai agreed to marry, the monk passed near, and his staff rattled. . .”
Though he was speaking to the room, it felt like he was personally telling Doris the story. It was the effect of his voice, she told herself. She did her best to just listen to the words, separate from who was speaking.
It sounded like the story was going to take a turn toward tragedy, as so many myths did. The fanatical monk was determined to see the gentle Lady Bai as a demon, because her other form was a white snake.
Joey’s warm, lovely voice went on with Lady Bai’s adventures as the monk did his best to trap and kill her, convinced he was doing the right thing. Doris reflected that myths persisted as long as they had because they spoke to a variety of experiences. The young might only hear a story of star-crossed lovers, while older people like herself might understand more.
,” . . . many versions end tragically, but not all. It depends on who is telling the story,” Joey said. “And when. In my version, that last battle ends with the monk, who was willing to destroy anything and anybody in order to catch his ‘demon,’ being eaten by a giant crab. Lady Bai, her beloved Xu Xian, and their son, who could transform into a snake, all lived happily ever after.”
Doris understood the message: the power of love brought different people together, and gave them a happy ending against the odds. And she felt as if it had been directed at her.
No, that couldn’t be. It was just a story, from which anyone could take any meaning. She was letting the effect of his voice get under her skin.
She caught sight of Bird watching her with a puzzled expression.
“What?” Doris mouthed the question.
Bird blushed a vivid red. “Um, Doris, you left yourself to the last. Does that mean you brought something to test on us?” She spoke too quickly, as if she’d had something else on her mind, but what? Maybe it was Chinese myths.
Doris raised her thermal lunchbox. People looked up expectantly. Doris firmly wrenched her mind to her new project as she said, “Last offering of the evening! Flódni is a traditional Hungarian Jewish confection. It’s a four layer pastry, like the four seasons of the year, with fillings of poppy, walnut, apple, and plum jam. I’ve printed up the ingredients for anyone with dietary concerns.”
As slices of pastry were passed around, Doris explained, “My new project is a historical recipe book. My criteria are easily obtainable ingredients, simple tools, and recipes older than the twentieth century. The older the better. My grandmother passed down a little wooden box full of recipes written in Yiddish and Hungarian, so be prepared for more culinary trips to Old Hungary’s Jewish Quarter. All reactions appreciated.”
Food always brought the group back to life again. With long practice, Doris shut out the “Ohmigod is there gluten in it—everyone says gluten is fattening!” and “How many calories is it?” and watched reactions to the taste and texture. She could always tell when people were enjoying a food item, and when they were forcing it down. She looked for the upper-lip crimp of too salty, and the grab for water of too dry.
She consciously avoided looking for Joey’s reaction. But when she turned toward the coffee, she found him standing at her left.
“This is wonderful,” he said, holding up his plate with crumbs on it. “The thing I appreciate with old recipes that are still popular is how generations have refined the balance of flavors. It’s all the more remarkable because they usually rely on just what is immediately available.” His beaming smile hit her like a sun-splash.
Her breath caught and she stepped back, away from him, saying, “Uh, yes, thank you.”
His reaction was subtle. No, say it honestly, his acceptance of her inadvertent step back was very subtle. No more than his pupils losing the reflection of the light overhead, which made his eyes seem to darken and his smile dim a fraction.
Next moment she was blinking at the place he’d been standing and he was on the other side of the room, putting in a contribution to defray the cost of the pastries and coffee.
Had she hurt him? Her swirling emotions jolted at that horrible idea.
Impossible. She was imagining herself more important than she was. They were total strangers. He surely forgot her the second he turned away.
She began to collect the used paper plates, to discover her hands were shaking. She rubbed them down her sides, then groped for the manila envelope full of votes.
“Are you okay?” Bird asked, so softly no one else could hear.
“I’m fine,” Doris said quickly. “Just—you know. Long week. School.” She turned away, aware that she sounded unconvincing. She began packing up the leftover paper plates, keeping herself busy, while hyperaware of Joey’s voice as he thanked Linette for hosting.
And then he was gone, taking all her strength with him. She was suddenly aware that she was tired, even on the verge of a headache.
To get control of her still-shaky hands, she plumped down on a chair and slid the papers out of the envelope. She was pretty sure she knew how the vote would go, but she went through the votes anyway, until the only people left in the room were Linette, Mikhail, and Bird. He stacked chairs, and Bird swept.
“Thanks so much for helping,” Linette was saying. “Whew. A full house tonight!”
“I really like where your romance is going,” Bird responded.
“Thanks.” Linette laughed. “I’ve been reading the hero’s dialogue to my boyfriend, and he tells me what a guy would really say.”
Bird sent a glance her way, then smiled. “Since it’s just us, I take it we’re talking to our new moderator?”
“Officially, Linette edged out the other candidates,” Doris said. In fact, it had been a landslide. “I’ll dispose of the votes at home.”
She suspected that Cassandra was quite capable of going through the trash behind the building to find them.
Linette blushed, looking both embarrassed and pleased. “I’ve never been elected to anything before. Ever. I used to hate class elections in school.” She turned to Doris. “I mean to copy the way you run the meetings.”
As Doris left, she was aware that she should be pleased. She’d gone out on a good note—Linette had sounded sincere. Most had loved the flódni. Her new project was off to an excellent start. But she still felt tired, achy. Ou
t of sorts, like nothing quite fit.
She’d only become aware of that feeling after Joey left. While he’d been there, she’d felt fine. Better than fine—she’d felt great.
The first person she saw at the synagogue the next morning was her mother.
“Doris, liebling? I love that pink dress of yours. So. Have you met Nicola’s latest yet? A gold-digger! She’s been dodging me all week.”
“Mom, not here. We’re not supposed to be thinking negative things on the Sabbath.”
“Negative things,” her mother repeated, throwing up her hands and doing an eye roll toward heaven that would have made a melodrama actress in the silent films look tame by comparison. “She says, negative things. What is wrong with thinking about family, is what I ask?”
Doris’s dad knew a rhetorical question when he heard it. He leaned forward to kiss Doris, and muttered, “Come to dinner. Let me have one night of hearing about something besides Nicola’s new love interest, Brad the Schnook, and his two demon children.”
Doris smothered a laugh, then turned to her mother. “I need to talk to you about Great-Aunt Sophia’s knish recipe. You always promised to write it down for me, but you never have.”
“That’s because it’s impossible to write it down. It’s not a simple dumpling recipe. I cook it the way she did, a little of this, a dab of that, and if you’re short on meat—and they were, always—another handful of groats, plus the garlic, a sniff and a stir . . . it’s like her ghost is at my elbow, and let me tell you, that’s no easy thing. She was a wonderful cook, but oh, could that woman talk!”
Doris breathed a sigh of relief at having successfully changed the subject.
She ended up promising to go ‘home’ for dinner, and her reward was successfully diverting her mother from speculation about Nicola’s new boyfriend as she watched Mom make Great-Aunt Sophia’s knishes.