What is she thinking about? It’s not diffy Q’s,” Brian murmured.
“That’s because you’re not teaching diffy Q’s,” Rajiv said.
“I’m going to ask her out.”
“Bri, man, she’s got a boyfriend from home.”
Brian grinned. “I have to apply inertial force and remove his gravitational influence from her frame of reference. I’m researching her so that I have leverage.”
“Gravity isn’t yet part of the quantum scenario,” Rajiv offered.
“That’s because gravity isn’t a force, it’s a warping of space-time.” Brian would have elaborated, but the doors opened and people streamed in to find seats. Brian and Rajiv hustled their way into the fifth row, center.
Rajiv spied a square-jawed guy with perfect hair taking a seat in the third row. The guy was chatting a little too amiably with a girl with slicked-back hair, heavy black eyeliner, and a diaphanous shirt with a plunging neckline that arrowed between black-painted nipples.
“That is him,” Rajiv said. “The guy with Debbie Doll. She’s the woman in our class with the arm like Yogi Berra.”
“His name is David Mills, and he drove down from Dartmouth,” Brian said. He scanned David coolly. “What’s he doing with Debbie Doll?”
“They say Debbie Doll doesn’t wear underwear,” Rajiv said with a look of supreme curiosity.
“Yogi Berra was a catcher. And a Yankee. What did I tell you about the Yankees?”
“We don’t like the Yankees.”
“I don’t like David Mills,” Brian said.
“He’s hot, you have to admit. Look at him,” Rajiv said.
“He’s trying too hard. He looks like Dudley Do-Right.” Brian would have expounded on the principle but the lights dimmed.
A man in a tux walked onstage and gestured for quiet. He made the appropriate opening remarks about the musical talent at Yale and then introduced the opening choir performance. After the choir removed themselves from the stage in an orderly fashion, stage hands bustled about, clearing a space and setting up a more intimate diorama, four chairs with a cello and a viola.
Out walked a string quartet that included Tessa.
Her hair fell around her shoulders in a magical, shimmering sheet and she wore a slinky-but-classy, strapless black dress that dropped low on her back.
The guy sitting in front of them gurgled. “I can see the crack of her ass! Is that a heart tattoo?”
Brian leaned forward and tapped the guy’s shoulder. “Excuse me, that’s my future wife. Keep your eyes in their sockets. If you want to keep them.”
David, sitting one row in front of the gurgling guy, heard and swiveled around in his seat. He locked eyes with Brian.
Brian nodded slowly. “Game on.”
* * *
* * *
5
Do not go gently; dance, dance into that good night
I was panting and bedraggled as I let myself into the little office inside Collegiate Church where I practice eldercare, and for which I sometimes even get paid. I paused in the foyer beside a poster I had painted: RETIREE DANCE FRIDAY 7:00 PM, WITH
BINGO! An artfully rendered bingo board graced one corner of the sign, and waltzing white-haired people entwined in each other’s arms enlivened the other corners.
I had painted them after my most favorite charges: Mr. Woolstein, caneless, with his leonine mane of white hair, holding Mrs. Leibowitz in his arms and twirling her over the floor. I imagined that they had cherished a secret, unconsummated flame for each other during their decades long lives, both of them remaining faithful to their marriages while a private tenderness lay dormant, a seed not ready to shoot forth tendrils. Now in the third acts of their lives, they were emancipated into their new, old love.
Come to think of it, was it this very poster that had broken the impasse, that had unlocked the block that prevented me from painting for the last few years, since David had left me? Perhaps. Other signs advertised Bible study, youth groups, and homeless breakfasts, but they were crudely finished. They were not in the same league as my dance poster.
My dance poster was almost real art.
My boss, Reverend Thomas Pincek, swept past me. “Tessa, welcome, welcome. We have a full house waiting for you today. You’re such an angel, you’re packing them in!”
“Thanks, Rev,” I said. “Sorry I’m late. Where’s Mrs. Leibowitz? She was feeling under the weather last week. I want to make sure she’s okay.”
The rev pursed his lips. “Don’t know. Stop by her apartment later if you like. Mr. James here isn’t getting his meals-on-wheels. I told him you would fix him up!” Reverend Pincek clapped hunched-over Mr. James on the back.
Mr. James, who was more than ninety and exuberantly decrepit, coughed and nearly fell over.
But the rev didn’t notice; he was already bustling away to solve twenty other problems for his flock.
I helped Mr. James reconfigure into his walker.
“C’mon back to my office, Mr. James. We’ll call for you. You look sprightly today, are you working out?
Is that a six-pack beneath your cardigan?” I poked my finger at an oblong moth-hole in his faded blue sweater.
Mr. James, whose mind was still as sharp as a scalpel even as his body degraded around it, cackled joyously. “I do one-armed pushups so I won’t lose my girlish figure.”
Then we were laughing together as I guided him through the pews, where were seated a crowd of waiting old folk, toward the tiny, cramped office in back with my desk and a couple of metal folding chairs.
Mr. James coughed—his emphysema was acting up today—but he beamed at me with bright eyes and a big, gummy smile. I was reminded of why I stay in this job for which I was never trained and get paid too little to pay my rent. No matter how much I’ve screwed up my life, no matter what I’ve lost and where I am in my creative process, I always feel uplifted by the appreciation of life the elderly so often display.
Reverend Pincek careened to my door with his secretary and two volunteers in tow. “Only two hours, Tessa. Tithes are down and we don’t want to take advantage of you. We can only pay you for two hours.”
“I’m here to help, Rev. Money’s not my main priority.” But even as the words were emerging from my mouth, I had a flash of myself as a homeless person. I was wearing Mr. James’ ragged sweater and standing beside Brian… . I smacked my head.
The rev was speaking, which helped me tear myself away from the image. He said, “Right now, it’s ours. I’m praying for some earthly angel to make a big donation, else we’ll lose some of our social programs. There’s a lot at risk: the soup kitchen, Harlem outreach. Even eldercare.”
● ● ●
Reverend Pincek’s words still rang in my ears three and a half hours later as I exited the church and closed the door behind me. I’d solved Mr. James’ meals-on-wheels problem, helped Mrs. Anders with her Medicare forms, set up a Gmail account for Mr. Blonstein so he could email his grandson, negotiated with a pharmacy for regular delivery of Mrs. Vaccaro’s medications, called the building super to fix the leaky faucet for Mr. Jelonek, and left messages for the respective doctors of Mrs. Altendorf, Mrs. Crane, Mr. King, and Mrs. O’Reilly. I’d tried to phone Mrs. Leibowitz, but there was no answer.
What would they all do without me?
“I have to help Reverend Pincek,” I said aloud.
How to do that …
“I can’t wait for someday when I’m America’s J.
M. W. Turner. I’ll sell my paintings for millions of dollars and donate 50 percent of it to the programs here.” I could envision it so clearly: I’m at an elegant art opening. I’m the star artist, of course. Adoring art lovers swoon at my landscapes, which float, beatified, in a haze of golden light on the walls.
It was so real to me—I could have been standing in the spotlight of that swanky gallery that even smelled, vetiver-like, of class and money. I’m wearing a black silk sheath gown. I’d better start running again so my
ass is in shape. My ass is a whole size smaller. I love my imagination! Everyone loves me.
I’ve finally left my past far behind; maybe it’s even a charming anecdote to tell my new husband, who wouldn’t leave when I screw up. No, he’d thoughtfully, compassionately, lovingly, help me right my career. I even pay my co-op bills. Great art redeems everything.
Then the lusciousness of it all fractured around me. Someone had barreled into me and was saying my name.
“Brian,” I spat. “What’s going on? Are you stalking me?”
“Yes. No! I just want to explain.” He stepped too close again.
Damned if I didn’t get a flash of a UFO whirling through the blue sky. “About your spaceship?” I asked, and it wasn’t my kindest tone of voice, though I do, as a sacred rule, try to be kind.
“Decohering device,” Brian said, earnestly.
“Listen, Brian, you have to take a hint. I don’t know you, and you have to leave me alone.”
“The decohering device will return me to my universe,” Brian said, as if I hadn’t spoken. He grinned ruefully. “My molecular resonance isn’t synced to here. It’ll decay. It’ll dissolve into a pool of sub-molecular slime.”
“Sub-molecular slime?” I slid away from him.
Where did he get this stuff? “Are you on drugs?”
That would explain a lot—though not my subliminal ease with him.
“Drugs? Never!” He looked offended and then grimaced. “Well, there was that one time at a Blue Oyster Cult concert … ”
“See ya,” I said and turned to hightail it.
“Wait!” he grabbed my arm. “Don’t you have a faint sense, a vague feeling, that we’ve met before?”
“Nope,” I lied, warily.
“You must,” he said. “Because reality is non-local, and once two particles have interacted, they’re forever intimately connected in some way.”
“I’m not a particle, and I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I know, it all sounds very technical. I’m a physics professor.”
Enough was enough. “Let me go, Professor!” I barked. I know, I’m a pansy, but I can drum up a really nasty voice when I need to. Brian kind of jumped. I fled and ran around the building.
Brian was already waiting on the other side. Was he possibly in two places at once?
No, he was just fleet of foot, faster than me!
I skittered off at an angle. Picking up speed, I flew toward Broadway, threw myself into a crowd of pedestrians, and then descended into the 72nd Street subway station. A train was pulling up to the platform, and I just made it through the turnstile and into the train. I didn’t see him. Relief.
* * *
* * *
6
Of Pablo Casals and the birthmark
Cello music spilled forth from Brian’s beat-up boom box. Rajiv sat on Brian’s desk because the office was only large enough for a desk with its own chair and another chair beside it for visiting students.
Brian crumpled up quiz papers and tossed them to Rajiv, who shot them toward the wastebasket.
Despite the three foot distance, Rajiv missed every time.
“Is this all we can listen to?” Rajiv asked.
“Yes, until she comes to my office, hears it, and is impressed with me.” Brian picked up another quiz, smooshed it into a ball, and lofted it to Rajiv.
“She may never come to your office.”
“She’ll come. She’s a Yalie, and by definition, all Yalies are grade grubbers.”
“True,” Rajiv said, missing another shot. The pile of papers beside the trash can got larger and more unruly.
“Also, Rajiv, there is my unifying theory of everything.”
“You solved that?” Rajiv yodeled, falling onto Brian and gripping his collar.
“Not that theory of everything, the Brian Tennyson theory of everything,” Brian wrested Rajiv off his shirt. “That is, the fundamental axiom that there’s good at the root of everything.”
“Good at the root of everything? The Vedas say the entire universe is pervaded by God.”
“God? I don’t know. It’s less personal than that. More neutral. Like Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle. It’s just a statement of nature’s intrinsic inscrutability; it has nothing to do with the ability of experimenters to find a particle’s position and momentum. It’s not a commentary. It just is.”
“Heisenberg went out for a drive to get cat food for Schrödinger, and he was stopped by a traffic cop.
‘Sir, do you know how fast you were going?’ asked the cop. ‘No, but I know where I am,’ Heisenberg said.” Rajiv looked triumphant.
Brian grinned but wasn’t distracted by Rajiv’s joke. “Relying on the universal goodness, I, very elegantly, set the conditions for her to come in: I offered extra credit for visiting during office hours.
She knows her quiz wasn’t good so she’ll come.
When she comes, she’ll hear the music. She’ll fall in love with me, and we’ll get married and live happily ever after.”
“Good luck with that,” Rajiv said.
A knock sounded at the door. Tessa poked her head in.
Rajiv fell off Brian’s desk onto the crumpled papers.
“Oh, you’re busy,” Tessa said.
“Not at all, come in,” Brian said. He waved her in and then kicked Rajiv.
Rajiv whimpered and limped to the door.
Tessa eyed the flotsam and jetsam tide of paper on the floor. “Are those our quizzes?”
“Everyone got a B+,” Brian said.
“Except Debbie Doll, who got an A,” Rajiv said from the door.
“Is that because she shows her boobs around campus or because she understands the material?”
Tessa asked. She sat and twisted around in her seat to hang her backpack off the chair. The side lace of her black thong panties peeked above her jeans.
Rajiv’s eyes widened with appreciation. With two hands, he outlined a figure eight in the air, the universal sign for the beloved female form.
“Tell your TA that’s sexual harassment,” Tessa said.
“Debbie knows the material,” Brian said hastily.
He kicked the door shut in Rajiv’s face. Then he fiddled with the boom box as if to lower the volume.
All the while he gazed adoringly at Tessa.
“Pablo Casals?”
“The great Catalan cellist and conductor?” Brian cleared his throat. “Famed for his recording of the Bach cello suites. You did a nice job with the sara-band the other night.”
“Think so?” Tessa’s eyes softened and filled with light.
“Absotively, posilutely!” Brian exclaimed, feeling himself dazzled again.
“I don’t know, I think I drifted a little,” Tessa said, but her smile warmed him. “It didn’t quite have the power and lilt I was going for.”
“Gorgeous,” Brian assured her. “I had no idea you were so talented.” He paused to pointedly catch her gaze. “What brings you to my office?”
“Bonus points. How many do I get for coming?”
“Half a grade, at least. You’ll need the boost, too.
That quiz indicated that you don’t grok the material.”
“‘Grok’? Is that from Star Trek?” Tessa teased.
“You probably know the episode and season, right?”
She held up her hand in a distinctive hand motion.
“Live long and prosper.”
“Right genre, wrong work. But your technique is impressive.” Brian shrugged. He crumpled another quiz and shot it toward the trash can. He missed.
“Baseball is your genre,” Tessa observed. “I hear you play first base.” Her voice affected a casual tone, but Brian could see a sparkle in her eyes.
“You heard that, huh? Are you asking around about me?” Brian arched his eyebrow.
“Well, you know, people talk,” Tessa said, eyelids drooping.
Score! Brian tossed another quiz at the garbage.
“Glad I have the chance to play here. I was never good at basketball, but I practice shooting hoops.
Never give up, right?”
“Sometimes it’s wiser to accept what you can’t change. How long do I have to stay to get the points?”
“Are you interested in learning the material?”
Brian said. He leaned toward her, so she had to look at him again. “I could actually teach it to you.”
“Is it really necessary?” Tessa mimed a yawn.
“I’m fulfilling a distribution requirement. I’m not much for math. I’m never going to use it.”
“I’d rather be teaching physics. Or better yet, working on my research. But this was part of the deal. Anyway, you’re a musician, and music has the elegance and precision of math.” Brian wadded up another quiz, shot, and missed again.
“Too much backspin, Prof. Good thing you’re not a pitcher. Can I go now? I have a rehearsal. We’re playing again at Woolsey next week.”
“I’ll be there,” Brian said in a steely tone.
“Because you’re a Casals aficionado?” Tessa’s lips quirked, and her expression was knowing.
“I will be by then.”
“I just bet you will,” Tessa said. She twisted and rose to retrieve her backpack. Her delicious lacy knickers rode up while her jeans drooped, revealing a heart-shaped strawberry pink birthmark on her sacrum.
Brian’s eyes gleamed. “Want to go to Naples for a slice sometime?”
“Aren’t I already getting an A?” Tessa asked in a reasonable tone of voice. “You know you want to give me one.”
“Have a slice with me and you’ll get an A+.”
Tessa paused with her hand on the door knob.
“I’m no math and physics genius who got a PhD at age seventeen from MIT while matriculating at Buckingham Brown, and then came to Yale to major in American Studies and play baseball, but even I know you can’t go higher than 4-point-0, Prof. Hey, have you heard that entropy isn’t what it used to be?”
She threw a wink over her shoulder and opened the door.
The Love of My (Other) Life Page 2