The Night Singers (15 page)

Janet watched her closely, “No, I'm not kidding. They said you'll be here ten days so they can keep an eye on things.”

“I have to be in New York next week.” New York or Minneapolis.

“Well, you'll just have to call Professor Column Inch and say you'll be late for class.”

She saw the stream of students flowing along without her.

“Evelyn, be reasonable. You almost
died
.”

She noticed the late afternoon sunshine pouring through the window. “A window bed. Did you arrange this? The light is lovely.”

Janet shrugged. “You have more important things to thank me for. I convinced your mother not to visit.”

“Oh, god.”

“And I promised to phone her every day until you were up to the task.”

“What a champ.”

“She sent these red roses.” Janet leaned forward, taking Evelyn's hand.

Evelyn grew aware of the greenhouse beside her bed. How macabre: these redolent, wilting flowers.

“And the irises are from Dan. He said he'd call you tonight. I thought you'd want me to give
him
the number.”

“Yes, yes,” Evelyn blinked, losing her battle with Morpheus.

“My parents sent carnations—against our advice—such puny flowers. And Herb found the pepper plant. It just started to bud. He said you'd probably like something that didn't expire before you left the hospital.”

“Good medical instincts. Thanks.”

Janet peered at her.

“What? What's wrong?” Evelyn demanded. “I know you're holding something back. Did they amputate my left foot?” She grinned raising the blanket slightly. “Nope, both feet are still there.”

“Well,” Janet hesitated. “Herb actually does have some intuition. And he thinks he knows what caused the peritonitis.”

“Ice cream sundaes?”

“This is serious.” Janet took her hand. “He thinks you somatised your anxiety about grad school.”

“Somatised?” She was too sensible to let her fears destroy her body.

“You know,” Janet continued, “all the anxiety about leaving Dan or staying with Dan. You've often said Dan was the only thing that kept you from being hysterical with your mother. He's been an anchor. It'd be hard to leave Minneapolis. But equally hard to turn down a once-in-a-lifetime offer from Columbia. You were under a lot of pressure and the stress was too much for your system.”

“So Herb has skipped the course work and landed a residency in psychiatry.”

“Don't be like that.”

“I need to rest. The morphine makes me lightheaded.” And the pain? She wouldn't admit the pain. No sense worrying her dear friend further.

Janet pursed her red lips, wiped her eyes.

“Don't fret.” Evelyn scolded. “I'll be fine. Hey, and thanks for calling Mama and Dan. Tell Herb I love the spunky pepper plant.”

Days passed swiftly in sleep and slowly in wakefulness. She enjoyed two of her ward mates: Diane, a postal worker recovering from gall bladder surgery and Clara, a secretary with some rare skin ailment. Eleanor, the older woman suffering from a broken hip and dementia, played her TV loudly, but no one argued with the poor lady. The little peppers grew redder and redder.

Maybe the decision came to her in a dream. One morning Evelyn awoke and knew she was headed back to Minnesota. She'd never find another man like Dan. As for her writing, she could develop that anywhere. It's something Dan always said, “Journalism is a great, flexible profession. You can practice it wherever we go.”

As she walked off the plane in her blue sleeveless mini dress, she wondered if he'd notice how slim she was: 112 pounds. Size six. She hadn't looked this good since high school.

Not much of an ending, really. More like a suspenseful middle. Where would you take the story?

Dan runs for Governor and Evelyn becomes First Lady of Minnesota?

Evelyn gets an editing job on the
Minneapolis Tribune
and Dan grows rich as a tax lawyer?

Dan and Evelyn hop off the fast track and join a hemp commune in Montana?

Janet leaves Herb and returns home to direct the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra?

Dan discovers he's gay, gives Evelyn a generous settlement, which allows her to take Mama to Sicily, where they live in a Mediterranean villa?

Look over here.

San Francisco Airport in the new century. Espresso kiosks. Cell phones. Fruit smoothie stands. Multi-lingual loudspeaker messages.

Evelyn, still slim, although not an emaciated 112 pounds, in black slacks and a black t-shirt, has knotted her long brown hair into a shiny bun. She's rolling baggage, carrying a computer case, looking around. She spots Janet.

The tall, handsome woman runs toward her friend and hugs her. “We did it, our yearly reunion,” she laughs. “I'm so glad you got an assignment in San Francisco!”

Evelyn is pleased to see how vibrant Janet looks, after decades of full-time teaching, raising four daughters, coping with chronic allergies and Herb's high-powered career as an epidemiologist. But she's fit and fine and the blond highlights in her hair soften mid-fifties skin.

What about Dan? You probably guessed.

After knowing she could never live without him, Evelyn married Dan that fall. Within a year, she realised he was too quiet and although his head was full of ideas, he wasn't much interested in her ideas.

She blamed herself; she should have known that when he didn't apply to the New York schools, he understood something about their future he couldn't voice.

She forgave herself. She forgave him. He forgave her. Of course there was a lot of shouting at first. They both behaved civilly about the divorce, everyone except
Signora
Esposito, who was eagerly awaiting grandchildren.

At seventy-eight, she's still waiting. Evelyn zips around the globe as an environment journalist. She's had a series of remarkable international relationships, but no permanent partner. Ten years ago she bought her mother a comfortable condo and a wide screen TV on which she often appears reporting from Sumatra and Dakar and Santiago.

“How much time do we have?” Janet asks.

“I've got the whole day,” grins Evelyn, “if you do. I want to take you to lunch, first. Then, I thought, oh, a walk in Golden Gate Park?”

As they drive to a fancy North Beach restaurant where Evelyn has made a reservation by a window table, you may be curious about graduate school. Did Evelyn ever persuade Columbia to grant a deferment? Did the waiting list student win the Pulitzer Prize? The answers are no and no. But Janet has won her share of awards.

The old roommates are being served
prosciutto e melone
, Janet's favourite. Evelyn opens her briefcase and withdraws a small box.

“Happy Birthday.”

“You remembered.”

She doesn't tell Janet that this birthday is the only reason for her trip to San Francisco. She's given up a big story in the Aleutians for this celebration.

Janet examines the red glass earrings. “Pretty,” she says in a quizzical, pleased voice.

“Peppers,” Evelyn is laughing. “Mementos of Herb's pepper plant.”

“Lovely,” Janet's voice is a little shaky. Then she pretends to be mad. “You came just for my birthday. Now tell me the truth.”

“Hey, an easy choice. It's a big day,” Evelyn finishes her appetiser. “And, well, I'm lucky to know you. Did I ever thank you for saving my life?”

Flat World

It's a long, flat drive through the heartland on I-90. Once you hit South Dakota, the highway is so straight and the landscape so monotonous, that your mind mirages bagels, espresso, tapas, cream soda, fennel salad. You don't come to a flat world for surprises.

Honeymooning is a good time for compromise and Annette wants to visit her Great Aunt Uma once more before we take up my assignment in Naples. State Department buddies kid me about our camping honeymoon, but the boss agrees that visiting National Parks will be valuable for a press
attaché
.

We like Wisconsin. Reminds us of weekend trips to Upstate New York in grad school. We met in the library, in a quiet corner next to the northern windows when we were both feverishly finishing our theses—her collection of poetry and my dissertation on America's relations with countries emerging from the Soviet Block. One morning we bickered over a table with the best light; that evening we went out for pizza.

After leaving Wisconsin yesterday, frankly, it's all been down hill. We cross the Mighty Mississippi in a
minute
and then it's Minnesota Farmland growing into ranchland into more farmland. As someone who's allergic to wheat and doesn't eat red meat, it's hard to get excited. Where are those 10,000 lakes?

Suddenly we're in South Dakota, which looks the same, but has fewer towns and a zillion signs to Wall Drug, way the hell out by Rapid City. Anyway, by the time we hit the Missouri, I'm feeling like Louis and Clark on a bad day. My bride is revelling in fond memories of Aunt Uma's farm. In my dour moments, I wonder if a happy person can succeed as a poet.

“Let's see if this little town has some decent coffee.” Annette sits up tall and perky.

It is time for a break. She's right. I get too focused on objectives and destinations.

Annette has a kind of travel radar. A few years ago she said as we drove into Cody, and I
do
mean Cody, Wyoming, “I feel like Northern Italian tonight.” Sure enough, we find Franca's Restaurant, run by a Genoese who makes the best
ravioli
west of Italy and serves dreamy
tiramisu
.

So I steer off the freeway into Main Street, South Dakota. And, of course, within two blocks, here's Johnny's Java Jam sandwiched between a laundromat and a dusty stationery shop. My eyes widen.

She smiles and shrugs.

The shiny, neat cafe is furnished with random 1950s linoleum tables and chairs, items that'd go for a song in prairie garage sales. The walls are vividly splashed with Wild West murals—buffalo, cowboys, bucking broncos. Silence. The place is empty. 3pm isn't exactly prime coffee hour on Main Street. A checker game is half finished on a table to the left, almost as if we've stumbled into someone's den.

We approach the counter, ding the bell, wait. No one comes.

Annette groans dramatically. “I must be experiencing interference with my radar, commander.”

“Well, we can get a couple of Pepsis at the gas station.”

She turns, notices a rack of Stash teas, a plastic tiered pastry tray, a snazzy Gaggia machine, breaking into that toothy smile of discovery that won my heart.

I ding the bell again,

“He'll be right out,” drawls a tiny voice. We peer into the shadowed corner to find a small black boy in Star Trek uniform playing computer games.

Startled to discover an African American dwarf astronaut in South Dakota, my voice quavers, “Who, who will be out?” Mr Spock or one of those gruesome Klingons?

He ignores me and shouts, “Daaad!”

Annette is giggling. I really do understand there's nothing to worry about, but sweat slides down my temples.

A short, round man emerges, wiping his tortoise-rimmed glasses on a shirt sleeve. “Cliff. Cliffie, are you OK?” he calls anxiously.

Looking through the glasses now, he gapes at Annette and me.

Does he think we're intruders? Kidnappers? We just want coffee. We have no intention of stealing his cute child. The shingle outside says “Johnny's Java Jam.” Maybe we've been driving too long, walked into the wrong mirage.

He breaks into a wide grin.

So does Annette.

I'm wearing my impassive State Department face, which comes in handy in unreadable situations.

“You will be pardoning me,” he speaks in a musical Caribbean accent. “I didn't hear you enter. I was unpacking coffee in the storeroom. So, well, welcome! What may I offer you—
espresso, latte, cappuccino
? You are visiting from where?”

“Washington,” I announce, fighting an urge to say Naples, for soon enough we'll be living in Italy and then, depending on my career course—Bombay, Istanbul, Paris. We both love Paris. I'm lucky to have a smart, beautiful wife who likes to travel. Poetry is a portable, if not lucrative, profession.

“And you?” Annette is asking. “I'd guess somewhere in the West Indies?”

“Zzzzzzz. Zzzzzz. Ping. Ping. Ruoommmmmm.” From behind us, Captain Boy is creating unearthly noises.

I can almost taste that
java
, so, shifting from foot to foot, I say, a little too abruptly, “Double
espresso
for me and you, honey, what will you have?”

She looks at me curiously. Doesn't like it when I interrupt. Quite right, of course.

Cliffie points his plastic silver toy at us. A vanishing gun, I deduce. “Ping. Ping. Souummmmm. Souummmm.”

I half expect to be projected back on the highway. But here we are waiting for our damn coffee. Now, I need that caffeine in more ways than one.

Turning back to the proprietor, Annette sighs, “I see you do iced drinks. I'd love an iced
latte
.”

“Coming up!” Johnnny declares (I see, now, that his name is printed on his long-sleeved t-shirt, just above a stencil of a steaming cup of coffee.)

“Trinidad,” he answers her question as he presses buttons and levers.

She's smiling again. “Do you mind if I ask what brought you all the way to South Dakota?”

He hoots. “Whole passel of people: Wild Bill Hickcock. Sitting Bull. Calamity Jane. Wyatt Earp. Doc Holiday. Crazy Horse.”

Leaning on the counter, I sigh discreetly, to remind him we're customers, not visiting relatives.

He pauses, creating an artistic foam for Annette's drink.

I clear my throat impatiently and Johnny steps back, as if I've wounded his professional pride.

Cliffie zaps me again, overlooking Annette, who is also, obviously, an alien.

My
espresso
comes with a perfect
crema
. Nothing wrong with this girl's radar. My shoulders relax.