Boy, Snow, Bird(12)

“Hey,” he said, as if he’d completely forgotten that we despised each other. “So when’s our next double date?”

He may have been told that a rakish grin works wonders. If so, he’d been getting bad advice.

I became extremely conscious of the sound of my heels tapping on the concrete. I wanted to stop walking, but the road was forcing us both down it as fast as it could, and he was already a few strides ahead, looking back at me. And so, hurrying after him with only a bunch of saplings, a couple of cars, and a truck to see us, I told him I never wanted to see his stupid face again.

He said: “Oh,” and continued his run. After that he’d pass me on the road without seeming to see me. And I went merrily on to the telephone exchange. I don’t even know what happened to that particular job. I can’t remember if I really tried at it. All those voices buzzing up and down wires, all those switches and dials, a single shift was like a long day out in dry rain. Of all the things that got to me, I never expected it to be that operator job. I couldn’t work out why, either. It was just people saying hello to each other.

Then there was the usherette job—that one lasted three weeks and a day.

When the ax came, it was because I watched the movies too much. I’d already been given three warnings, two of them in writing. Then, half an hour after I’d received the third warning, the manager himself caught me sitting down and watching a movie like a regular audience member. To be honest I wasn’t even really watching the movie. It was one of those ones they call screwball comedies, where people mislead and ill-treat each other in the most shocking and baffling ways possible, then forgive and forget about it because they happen to like the look of each other. Only they call it falling in love. Those movies are the equivalent of supernatural thrillers for me—if I watched them too closely, I’d shriek uncontrollably. So mainly I was just sitting.

The manager stood over me and asked me to explain myself. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to speak; it just seemed smarter not to. All of a sudden it felt as if I had far too many teeth, more teeth than it was decent to show.

“In that case I’m afraid we’ve come to the end of the road, Miss Novak,” the manager said.

I was a little sad on my last day.

I wasn’t going to miss being an usherette—the uniform itched, and identifying couples who were sitting too close together and assaulting them with a blast of light lost its charm surprisingly quickly. But I’d miss the cool, fresh, all-day darkness of the screening theaters, and the way light played across the screen with a staggering indifference. The men and women up there would speak, and laugh, and sing, and cry, walk away, stand still, and as long as the reel ran, all this would go on whether the audience was there or not, whether they watched or not.

I left the cinema with a tailor who took me to dinner, then stopped me in the midst of some bushes in the park and pushed his tongue into my mouth. The weak wriggling made me so extravagantly sad that I gagged. He looked stricken, and I was sorry. I took an “Are you frigid?” quiz in a magazine once and got the highest score. You are: Winter in Siberia. Few survive you, and those who do are . . . changed! I mentioned this to my date, just to let him know he was dealing with a frigid woman. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear; he left me at the front door of the boarding house and walked around the corner at a pretty fast pace. I’ll bet he started running as soon as he was sure he was out of sight.

The following day Mia came over to the boarding house to celebrate the six-month anniversary of my escape from the rat catcher. Following an ancient Cabrini recipe, she filled a stew pot with cold champagne, stuffed in as many handfuls of chopped fruit as it would hold, and served it up. We clinked bowls at the dining room table, which was otherwise empty because it was eleven in the morning, and Mia said: “This, my friend, is champagne soup. Make a wish.”

And I did.

It was standard-issue stuff. I wanted a family. But it was just as Arturo said—I didn’t know how to start anything from scratch, and I didn’t want to know. Getting pushed around as a kid had made me realistic about my capabilities. I know some people learn how to take more knocks and keep going. Not me. I’m the other kind. That’s what stopped me from telling Charlie Vacic I’d marry him. See, I’m looking for a role with lines I can say convincingly, something practical. And I know Charlie, or at least I know that he’s some kind of idealist. Charlie’s woman probably wouldn’t be able to complain that he didn’t love her enough. She’d be getting his all. Not worship or anything weird, just a certain way he looks at her, something in his voice when he speaks to her, he’d let her know that he’s ready to be asked anything, ready to ask anything. No games, no rules, no about-turns, no limits, by my side when rainstorms sound like serenades, by my side for flat hours of word tennis, each of us guarded, exchanging little comments that are so wretchedly banal that all we want to do is turn away from each other and throw up every single one of our internal organs. It’d be a love like the Siege Perilous. Nice work if you have the constitution for it, but otherwise the harshest of all tests, eliminating everyone who attempts it until the purest of heart happens along. And okay, it’s just about conceivable that you could have a heart that pure and never suspect it until the crucial moment. Maybe I’d give it a shot if the conditions were the same as in the story: You sit in the chair and you die faster than your feet can touch the floor, and that’s how you find out you’re not the one. But in real life the finding out can really drag on, can’t it? Mrs. Boy Vacic was a nightmare of mine. She hit her forties hard and fell to pieces. She had a gushing, anxious laugh that took a while to trickle to a stop (krrr krrr) and made her children ask her if she was okay. She babied herself, rewarding her own good deeds with candy and spoonfuls of grape jelly. That woman—the me that had married Charlie—had tried and failed to find a gap in all of this that was so ordinary, to take some instrument to the gap and shape it, widen it until it got big enough to slip through. She’d wanted to make a beautiful thing, like the Flax Hill natives did. But not a lantern or a bookcase, a life. Not to have what it takes, and to be surrounded by witnesses too. The man you tried with. The children. A boy version of you, or a girl version of him, or both, looking at you with clear, pitiless eyes. These are thoughts that come to you while you spend however long you spend holding icepacks to your eye, or tilting your head back against the wall to try to do something about the way your nose is bleeding, letting your mind work on the question: What reasons might somebody have for leaving her kid in the care of a man like Frank Novak? Don’t ever try to find her. Don’t even try to find out if she’s alive. This way my mother’s alive, she’s dead, she’s whatever she deserves to be on that particular day.