“That’s great,” I say.
“Hey,” he says. “I know you’re busy a lot, but do you ever want to…get coffee sometime?”
“Ronald,” I say, “this is a coffee shop, and I come in here all the time, and I never order coffee.”
“I just thought…” he says. Now I feel mean again.
“What else do you like to do,” I ask, “besides drink coffee?”
“Oh, I don’t drink it,” he says. “I just thought you might. I don’t like coffee. That’s why Murray likes me working here. He knows I won’t drink it.”
“Sort of like the eunuchs guarding the harems.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Do you like movies?”
“Sure, but I don’t have cable.”
“I’m not talking about cable,” I say. “We could go see a movie someday. Or get lunch or dinner.”
“That sounds good!” Ronald says. “We could eat before my shift.”
I go for days without social contact, and it might be nice to have someone in the neighborhood to eat with. And I would like to know more about Ronald than just the basics we exchange when we bump into each other. He could even become, well, a friend.
“I’ll visit you on your next lobster shift and we’ll make plans,” I say.
“Great!” he says.
“Maybe I’ll bring lobster,” I add.
He laughs. “Not live ones.”
“Have you ever seen Annie Hall?”
“I don’t have cable.”
“It’s—never mind. Well, I’ll see you later.”
“Hey, Carrie.”
“Yeah?”
“You know, you’re a nice person, too.”
This stops me. No, I’m not.
“I wish I was.”
“You are,” he says. “Of course you are. Just like Cy. Like that day you asked me why I was stacking the tumblers, or whenever you see me in the street, you ask me what’s new at the coffee shop. You always talk to me. It’s nice.”
“Well, thanks,” I say uncertainly. It is true that I never see anyone besides me or Cy bothering to talk to Ronald. But it seems like the least I can do for a neighbor. “You’re a nice person, too.”
He grins.
“I’ll see you soon,” I say.
I go to bed early that night, then wake up at four in the morning. I don’t feel tired, so I push myself above my window and look down the street, toward the building where Sheryl and Dan live. I wonder if Petrov is inside her apartment. Maybe he’s been avoiding the neighborhood since I caught him. But I still wonder.
I wonder if, across these power lines and pigeon-poop-encrusted cornices and light poles and antennae, Matt is sleeping across Shauna, his head on her body, and she’s running her hand over his hair, comfortably believing everything in her life is right where she wants it. I wonder if Kara is curled up with some bartender or waitress, if Stephen and Pat are side by side, if Natto is with anyone. I know I’m not. Maybe for now, that’s okay. Being with someone seems awfully confusing.
I get drowsy again and sleep until ten.
It’s a week until Christmas. I don’t have Matt and Shauna’s home number, but I do know his last name, and he just happens to be listed. I call around two in the afternoon, and Shauna answers. “Hello?” she says. She has a sweet voice. Which makes me feel bad all over.
I say I’ve worked with her former employers, and I tell her that they recommended her for a project I know about in my church. I tell her a little bit about it and give her Joe Natto’s number. Then I call him right away. It sounds like he’s munching on something.
“It’s good to hear from you,” Natto says. “I’ll be expecting her call. You know, I know you’re probably a busy young lady—”
Ugh.
“And if I ever infringe on your free time, please let me know. But I really think you’ve got a lot of energy to bring to the church. I might be able to pay you for your time. Maybe even a salary. You could be a sort of PR consultant.”
A job? A real job? “Well, you don’t have to—” I say.
“You’re well educated. You have good ideas. You’re smart, you read a lot, and you could represent the church well. You deserve pay for your experiences. Do you write? Are you a good editor? You said you do legal proofreading.”
“I think I’m okay.”
“I’m not trying to buy your loyalty. I know you’re a cynic by nature, as all intelligent people should be. But what I’d need is a few hours of freelance work here and there. These sermons, it’s hard to think of topics all the time. I mean, I know they’re divinely inspired and all, but…”
I laugh. “God isn’t giving you ideas fifty-two weeks a year.”
“Yes,” he says. “I could definitely use someone like you.”
I feel accepted and encouraged. I haven’t felt that way in a long time.
Natto’s line clicks. “Oh,” he says. “That’s my other line.”
“Might be Shauna,” I say.
“Probably. I’ll give you another call soon and we’ll set up a time to go over some things.”
“Sounds good.”
“Bye,” he says. That’s a blessing, for those who don’t know. Goodbye is derived from “God be with ye.” Good b’ye. Get it?
I go to my dictionary, just to make sure it’s in there, that I haven’t been misguided all these years. It is. Then I look up dictionary. What it theoretically should say is, “You’re in it, stupid.” But of course, the constraints of professional etiquette prohibit the authors from being direct. The definition is, and I’m not kidding, “A reference book having an alphabetical list of words, with information given for each word, including meaning, pronunciation, etymology, and often usage guidance.” Then, it’s got three other definitions that basically say the same thing. I guess it doesn’t want to give anyone short shrift in explaining itself. Or the lobster, graveyard or swing shrift.
That reminds me to look up lobster shift. But when I try to find it, it’s not there.
What a gyp.
I have bought a tiny Christmas tree for my little living room, and it’s by the doorway to the kitchen. I have strung bright lights around it, white as popcorn, and piled my father’s wrapped gifts underneath. I’ve even hung two stockings on nails in the wall. I’ve filled them with candy, and even though I know what’s in them, I can’t wait to get them Christmas morning.
I’ve opened the sofa in the living room so that my father can sleep on it. I should probably make sure it’s away from the front door so Dad won’t wake up at night, wander outside, look into Petrov and Sheryl’s window, and catch them playing Strip Dreydl.
I have sprayed fake snow on the Christmas tree, but I confess it smells bad and I knew this and still I did it anyway. I won’t get snowed again.
As I’m walking around in a toasty thick green sweater I bought, humming to myself, my father calls. “I have the place decorated,” I tell him. “I even bought stockings. I just need to get a comforter for the sofa bed.”
“Oh,” he says. “I didn’t know if you’d want me to stay at your place, or in a hotel.”
“You should come and stay here. I want us to have a normal Christmas, like people all across the city. Even the Jews.”
“Okay. What time do you want me to come by?”
“Do you want me to make dinner,” I ask, “or do you want to order?”
“We could order,” he says. “I don’t want to put you through the trouble.”
“If you show up around five, we can order food and then watch TV or a movie. I want us to wake up Christmas morning and open presents, like when I was little. And stockings.”
“Stockings.”
“I put your favorite caramels inside. And…well, it’s a surprise.”
He laughs. “All right. It’s great to hear you sounding so happy. I’ll see you Friday.”
At my pre-Christmas visit to Petrov, I tell him, “My father said I sounded happy when I talked to him.”
&nb
sp; “Is that bad?”
“No, but I don’t like someone else judging my emotions. If I’m not happy, then he’s making a judgment that doesn’t ring true.”
“So you’re unhappy?”
“No. I guess not.”
“I don’t think so,” he says. “I think things are going to change for you.”
“My beliefs haven’t changed.”
“No, but I think you realize that you need to talk about them and be willing to consider other ideas. I bet if I ask you something that I’ve asked before, you’ll give me the answer.”
“Like what?”
“Tell me what makes you cry.”
I think a bit. “Nothing. But there are some things that might make me sad.”
“Okay. What makes you sad?”
Before I can answer, Petrov says, “Don’t say what you were about to say.”
“Why?”
“It was going to be sarcastic.”
I shrug. “I—”
“Don’t say that one, either,” he says.
“How did you know?”
“I was right, wasn’t I?”
I guess now I have to come up with a real one.
“The word ‘mommy.’”
“The word ‘mommy’ makes you sad?”
“Yes,” I say. “It always has.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s always said by someone vulnerable. Someone who’s needy. A certain kind of needy.”
“Hmm,” Petrov says. “What about ‘daddy’?”
“That’s generally said by a princess who’s asking for a new car. So yes, that makes me sad, too.”
Petrov laughs. “I almost had you. I almost had you talking about your emotions for two consecutive sentences.”
“Maybe we’ll get to three next time.”
Petrov rubs his hands together. “You know,” he says, “one day, you might be in danger of letting someone get to know you.”
I look at him. I guess he wants to know me. That wouldn’t be so bad.
For the two days before Christmas, my phone doesn’t ring at all. No legal jobs, no telemarketers.
I decide I’ll make one last call to the personals to make sure there are no more responses to my ad. It turns out that there is a lone straggler.
“Hi, I’m John,” the voice says. “I’m a thirty-eight-year-old, financially secure, emotionally secure, never-married white male who is looking for a woman to wine and dine, take on vacation, and show a good time. I’m not into head games, emotional baggage, couch potatoes or gold diggers.” I can tell he’s reading from a script. “I am five foot ten, 170 pounds, with brown hair and brown eyes. I am looking for someone active and attractive, playful and sexy, with no baggage. She should look great both in dresses and slacks, in sneakers and high heels. If this sounds like you—”
I think what he should really be looking for is his own personality.
Someone should call him back and tell him that. It’s scary that he’s thirty-eight. Have people really been doing him a favor all his life by not telling him?
I write down his number and call him. I get his voicemail.
“Hi, John,” I say. “I wanted to let you know that I’m not going to leave you a real response to your answer to my personal ad because you were reading from notes. Also, you have to expand your horizons. You have to look for someone who’s a real person with quirks and hobbies and fears and dreams, not just a mannequin in dresses and high heels. By the way, everyone has baggage. What if you find some woman who doesn’t have any, and she’s beautiful and happy, and the two of you have kids, and one of the kids is disabled. Or what if one of you gets sick. How will you handle it? What will you do? Life isn’t perfect, and you better learn how to revel in its imperfections before you finally come upon one and it’s too late to learn.”
I hang up. I hope I wasn’t too harsh. Besides, I was half giving that advice to myself.
After I hang up, the pre-Christmas silence is unnerving.
I use the time to think about a few things.
I think about how the word loophole is redundant.
I think about whether almost really does count in horseshoes.
I think about how bankruptcy lawyers can ever collect their fees.
I think about whether it would have been more honest for George Washington to just not chop down the damn cherry tree in the first place.
Finally I go rent movies: The End of the Affair, Affair to Remember, Love Story, Jane Eyre. I wonder if there’s a trend here. I remember reading once that a lot of what we choose to watch or read is meant to make us feel better about our own lives by seeing other people’s fumbles and failures and being glad it’s them and not us. I suppose films about other people’s forbidden affairs provide a sort of solace.
On Christmas Eve Day, I’m nervous. (It’s so annoying to have to say Christmas Eve Day, but what better way is there to describe it?) I feel similar to how I used to feel when my father was setting up my birthday parties as a kid. I’d run to the window to see if anyone was arriving, then back to the living room to watch him set up “pin the capital on the foreign country” or “vocabulary piñata.” I stopped having parties when I turned eight and was already too young for my classmates. I guess I never really had friends in school after that, but fans—people who needed help with their homework, people whose mothers told them to be nice to me, people who figured that at least I wasn’t mean. I never really figured out how to keep friends because I never made them.
I wait at the window and see a sedan come to a stop in front of my house. I run downstairs and catch my first glimpse of my father since summer. He has always been tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and a beard, but now his hair looks much grayer. When did my father get old?
But he smiles at me and I know he’s happy. He looks teddy-bearish. I run outside and hug him.
“You look so mature!” he says. I smile, and Bobby peeks out his window. I don’t think Dad’s seen him since he rented the place for me. “Hey, Bob!” Dad yells. “How are you doing? Keeping Carrie safe from the Village people?”
Bobby bobs his head nervously. Then he disappears into his lair.
My father’s raincoat trails behind him as he heads up the stairs with two suitcases and, hanging off his arm, an insulated bag of Chinese food he picked up on the way over. He puts his bags down and we set up the plates.
When we sit down, he says, “Well, you’re going to have to tell me everything about what you’ve been up to. Phil Petrov can’t tell me.”
“He keeps an eye on me,” I say, smearing plum sauce on a rib.
“I know. I know he does.” Dad looks at me. “I need to do a better job of that. I’m going to be in New York most of next year. I’ve made sure of it. I’ll buy dinner for all your friends.”
“That should be cheap.”
He smiles. “So,” he says, “tell me what’s going on in your life.”
I pick up my chopsticks, and he does the same, even though I’ve always been better at using them. “Well,” I say, “there’s this new church I’ve been looking into. They’re trying to lure young professionals who are cynical and stopped going. It’s better than I thought it would be. The guy who runs it seems to want people to think for themselves.”
“A church that lets you think for yourself?” he says. “That is new.”
“That’s what Dr. Petrov said.”
“He’s Jewish. He’s not supposed to say that. Only we can pick on our own religion.” He pulls out a cigarette. “Mind if I smoke in your house?”
“You know you’re killing yourself.”
“I only do it once in a while.”
“It’ll save seven seconds of your life if you don’t.”
He stops. I feel a test coming on. “If I end up living to be seventy,” he says, “what fraction of my life have you saved by preventing me from smoking this cigarette?”
He used to give me these tests all the time when I was in elementary school.
I loved it. Let’s face it; I love challenges. I’m like Matt. Damn.
“You’ve saved two billionths of your life,” I say.
He’s flabbergasted. “That’s amazing!”
“No it’s not. I just made it up.” I run to my room and return with a calculator. “Oops. I was off by a billionth. It’s really three billionths.”
“I’m still impressed that you know how to calculate it on a machine.”
“I’ve always liked math,” I say.
“I always wondered why. You read so much, but your best subjects in school turned out to be math, science and philosophy. Not writing and the arts. Why?”
“Math and science are exact,” I say.
“But you like philosophy, too, and philosophy isn’t exact.”
“Philosophy can be a search for the exact,” I say.
“How so?”
“There are whole passages on causality. The idea that if I let go of a ball, it’ll drop to the ground. We’ve decided, through science, that gravity is pulling this ball. We’ve determined there are formulas for how fast it will accelerate, even how many times it will bounce, and how high. But that’s science. In philosophy, when studying questions of causality, we ask, ‘What if, even though it happened that way in 100 billion trials, it’s a coincidence? How do you know that the one-hundred-billion-and-first time, it’ll happen that way, too?’ Now, science assumes, and we assume, that it will. Everything, or at least lots of things, have an order to them, a formula. But that doesn’t satisfy a philosopher. He wants to be even more exact than the scientist. We’re talking about a field in which you have people doubting their very existence in order to prove it. A scientist says, I can tell you that the dropped ball will accelerate at the rate of 9.8 meters per second squared, because it always has. But a philosopher says, there’s no way to prove it always will. It may have been a coincidence that it happened 100 billion times. Philosophy attempts to be even more exact than science. I love it and I hate it.”
He looks impressed and concerned at the same time. “Well,” he says, “I suppose that’s why ignorance is bliss. We’d all like to believe the sun will rise tomorrow.”
Carrie Pilby Page 25