Ask Again Later (14 page)
Authors: Jill A. Davis
SHE DOESN'T WANT
to go anywhere special, Mom says. She just wants to enjoy lunch somewhere, knowing that the radiation treatments are completed. We choose an
Austrian place off of Fifth Avenue. There are a lot of German-speaking tourists eating spaetzle.
We make a toast with our glasses of ice water.
“Congratulations,” I say.
“Thanks. It doesn't seem real,” Mom says. “Does it?”
“To me it does,” I say. “But I know what you mean; it may need to sink in.”
I look up and see a familiar face. Mom's friend Phil comes toward us with his big happy face.
He takes a seat next to my mother. They hold hands. They exchange a stream of nonstop kisses on their cheeks.
“It's just so wonderful,” Phil says.
“It really is,” Mom says. “All those relaxation exercises paid off.”
I look at the menu so I don't have to think about what that could be a euphemism for.
IT'S FRIDAY.
I get into the elevator with my father. He presses the button. He turns to me.
“Bowling ball, number two pencil, anemone, hot shoe, tension column, carboniferous reptile, and hydraulic brake hose,” Jim says. “Your turn.”
“Bowling ball, number two pencil, anemone, hot shoe, tension column, carboniferous reptile, hydraulic brake hose, and frangipani tree,” I say, not looking at him.
“Bowling ball, number two pencil, anemone, hot shoe, tension column, carboniferous reptile, hydraulic brake hose, frangipani tree, and antibiotics,” Dad says.
Where are those senior moments he's supposed to be experiencing?
I'M IN MOM'S KITCHEN
trying to slice a pineapple. I feel like I'm shucking oysters.
“This is impossible,” I say. “I don't think it's ripe.”
“Marjorie had no problem cutting up my tropical fruits last week,” Mom says. “If you don't know how, it's okay. I can call Marjorie.”
“Okay, call her,” I say.
“Well, I'm not going to bother her now; she's on bed rest,” Mom says.
“They sell these things fully filleted now,” I say.
“Still enjoying work?” Mom asks, changing the subject.
“Yes. The people are nice,” I say. “The time goes quickly. I can't believe I've been there four weeks. I'm surprised by how much I like him.”
“Like who?” Mom says.
“Dad,” I say. It's the first time I've called him Dad.
“You're nothing like him,” Mom says.
“I didn't say I was like him, I said I was surprised
that
I like him,” I say.
“He can be very charming,” Mom says.
Charming is code for unfaithful. My mother is still very much a lady. Ladies do not discuss men who stray.
“I wonder if it was difficult for him, just leaving home like that and never really knowing us afterward,” I say. “It must have been.”
“You're too empathetic, “Mom says. “You can always imagine the other side, and so you can't quite get mad at anyone, can you? I don't think that's healthy.”
It's the truest thing she's ever said to me.
“We're spending too much time together, Mom; it's starting to drive me a little crazy,” I say.
“Yes, I sensed that,” Mom says. “But I so enjoy the company.”
MY SANITY SAVIOR
for the moment arrives in the form of a potential client. Or so I think. My guess is that he's in his fifties. He keeps calling saying he needs to talk to a lawyer “pronto.” When I explain he needs an appointment, he hangs up. Then I imagine he walks around his hovel of an apartment wringing his hands, drinking beer, then dialing again. In order to get a different result, you need to have a different response. So I do. This time.
“Civil or criminal?” I ask.
“Criminal,” he says.
“Violent or nonviolent,” I ask.
“They say violent, but I was just tryin' to help,” he says.
“Well, we have many qualified attorneys; unfortunately, they're all busy. So you can make an appointment and come in next week,” I say.
“It can't wait,” he says.
He also sounds like he can't pay.
“Can I just explain it to you?” he says.
“I've got a few minutes,” I say.
“Long story short,” he says. “I'm volunteering at this suicide hotline and this guy calls and he's miserable and he says he's going to kill himself. He starts telling me about his awful lifeâno job, no wife, house burnt down, car was stolen, twice. No auto insurance. He has Lyme disease. No health insurance. He's allergic to every food imaginable. He's manic-depressive. Nothing about his life is easy. So he calls three days in a row saying he's going to kill himself because he's so miserable. I try an' talk him out of it. Then the fourth day he calls, and I'm like, Look, buddy, meet me at Pier fifty-seven tonight at six
P.M
. I get there. I push 'im in. I jump in after 'im. I hold 'im under water for forty seconds. No dice. I'm tellin' ya, he had gills or something. I hold 'im under a minute. He's kickin' like a mother. Well, turns out the son of bitch
didn't
really want to die after all, and now he's pressing charges, sayin' I tried to kill 'im.”
“You tried to drown him?” I say.
“Tried my best,” he says.
“Was this protocol recommended in the volunteer handbook?” I ask.
“No, but at some point it's put up or shut up,” he says.
“Acquiring that level of misguided conviction is almost artful,” I say. “It's borderline impressive. Now, you'd been volunteering for the hotline how long?” I ask.
“A month,” he says.
“This was your first attempted murder?” I ask.
“Are they gonna ask that?” he asks.
“Who?” I ask.
“The cops,” he says.
“I don't know. I was just curious,” I say. “Listen, you're not volunteering anymore, are you?”
“'Course I am, I'm not letting one bad apple spoil it for the rest,” he says.
“
You
are the bad apple,” I say.
There is a pause. “That's tricky; are the cops going to say tricky things like that?” he asks.
“I don't know, I'm a receptionist. I'm not a cop,” I say.
He hangs up.
AT LUNCHTIME, I
use my minutes wisely. I have forty of them. The elevator up and down eats up four minutes. Just thirty-six minutes left. I go to the bank. I buy a bottle of
water. I have twenty-six minutes left. I've never been more aware of how much time matters.
I line up for a salad at a place that offers sixty salad toppings. I get overzealous, due to the mountain of choices. I get hard-boiled eggs, mushrooms, shredded cheese, chickpeas, avocado, tofu, green peas, and bacon all heaped onto lettuce then shaken together with their house dressing. It was fun making it. But once it's all combined, I have no desire to eat it. I pay for it and walk down Fifth Avenue.
Fifteen minutes to go. I sit on the steps of the New York Public Library and try to catch some spring sunshine. I open the salad and start to eat. I see a pea on my fork. The size of a peaâ¦I think about cancer and feel nauseous. I put the salad back in the bag. So I watch people. There are people kissing. People talking to themselves. People spitting.
I see my father and a woman eating hot dogs next to the hot dog and gyro stand. They are fifteen yards away from me. When they are finished eating, my father squeezes the woman's shoulder. They hug. Then they walk in separate directions. He looks happy, but his steps seem heavy, in slow motion. He's getting older. The opportunity to know my father as a younger person is gone.
I stand up. Six minutes to get back to work. I think about my father hugging the woman just moments ago. He's making much better use of his lunchtime than I am. He gives me an idea.
I BUY A POSTCARD
and stamp in the library gift shop. I take a pen out of my purse and, in large type, I write:
Dear S.,
There is so much to say. Unfortunately, it won't all fit on this postcard.
E.
I surprise myself by mailing it.
TODAY IS WACKY
Sock Day. I'm wearing a pair of rainbow-colored knee-highs. My father is wearing socks with crossword puzzles on them. This is depressing. It indicates he does pay
some
attention to detailâ¦yet for two decades he managed not to remember he had a family.
“I look forward to this day all year long,” says Wendy. “It lightens the mood and gives everyone a chance to express their creativity.” Her socks feature different colored cats, all playing with balls of yarn.
“Since when is buying a pair of socks that aren't just black or blue considered to be the creative process?” I ask.
“Don't be a spoilsport!” Wendy says. “I look for fun socks every time I'm in a clothing store. It wasn't a coincidence that I found these. I hunted for these. I saved them for today.”
“Maybe you all could sign up for a pottery class or somethingâso we can put an end to this collective humiliation. I'm no spoilsport; I wore the socks, didn't I?” I say. “People were hissing at me on Fifth Avenue when I was coming into the building. I don't want to start my day that way.”
“Rookie mistake,” says Wendy. “You put the socks on when you get to work. You don't wear them to work. Think of riding the subway and imagine the person most likely to get muggedâit would be the person with the cute socks, right? They make a person look so innocent. Like a victim. It's okay, you didn't know. Well, I'm off to organize the trash bags in the kitchen. Someone keeps mixing the six-gallon mini-bags in with the thirty-two-gallon kitchen-size bags.”
Will steps off the elevator. There's something appealing about his shaggy-dog, I-could-live-on-$12-a-week look. He's wearing navy socks with pinpoint white dots. Ah, wacky for him. He is a monochromatic sock guy. Navy. Black. Khaki. No stripes. No disruptive variations on the theme. I buzz him in, quickly, because if I leave him out by the elevators too long someone else might grab him before I decide if I want to or not.
“That's a great idea,” I say, staring at his ankles.
“What?” Will says.
“Subjective wackiness,” I say. I imagine us much later, in year two of our unlikely odd-couple marriage. I will learn that he has a sock “theory.” He buys them in bulk, so when they get lost or mismatched, well, they don't. When you have ten pairs of the same socks, you don't spend much time sorting. The day he tells me thisâconfides reallyâI will start the “Will's Economy of Time File.” Throughout the happy course of our marriage, I will add gems here and there. We will create oddball traditions of our own. And then it hits me: I am imagining a future. I never do that.
“Are you sticking around tonight?” Will asks.
“For what?” I say.
“No one told you? It happens only once every one hundred twelve years or something, when Pluto's moons are all in line. Wacky Sock Day coincides with Thirsty Thursday,” Will says.
“Pluto has only one moon,” I say. “What's Thirsty Thursday?”
“Beers in the conference room after hours,” Will says. “Why do you know that Pluto has one moon?”
“I have a lot of time to read,” I say. “Did you know that Mercury and Venus have no moons? Jupiter has sixty-two.”
“A two-class solar system,” Will says.
“Not really, Earth has one, and you don't see people losing any sleep over it,” I say. “One seems like plenty. Maybe sixty-two are too many. Maybe a lot isn't a good thing in the case of moons. How special would a full moon be if you had a chance to see sixty-two of them?”
Stop talking! For the love of God, Emily, just stop talking!
“You've given this some thought, haven't you?” Will says.
“I guess I have,” I say.
I'm the one who will eventually get to leave. I need to remember that. But for now, the invitation is appealing. Something tells me my predecessor Esther never missed a Thirsty Thursday.
Toward the end of the day, there is a palpable energy in the air. A quiet thrill is waiting to be unleashed. It is five fifty-fiveâ¦Wendy steps off the elevator. I buzz her in. She carefully maneuvers a pushcart. A chariot. She's the hero who gets to roll in all of that wonderful beer. No expense has been spared. Winter ales. Light beer. Japanese beer. Mexican beer. It's an eye-popping tower of chilled hops.
No great decorative preparations are made on Thirsty Thursday. All the money is in “product.” This surprises me.
“No decorations?” I say to Wendy.
“Oh, good idea! You be in charge of those for next month,” Wendy says.
“I'm not sure I'll be here next month,” I say. “Besides, I thought it seemed like something you'd enjoy doing.”
“I'm really more of an idea person,” Wendy says.
“Okay,” I say.
My father walks over and hands me a beer.
“It's a twist top,” Dad says, sounding jubilant that someone thought to invent such a convenient way to get a bottle of beer opened.
“I see that,” I say. “Thanks.”
“I just knew you'd enjoy working here,” Dad says. “It's a bevy of activity. All thanks to Wendy.”
She smiles from across the room. Wendy is in love with my dad.
“How long has Wendy been working here?” I ask.
“I don't know,” Dad says. “A few years. Quite a while, actually.”