Writers & Lovers(38)

‘Do you think these kids had to pose in those positions day after day?’ I say.

‘They look unhappy.’

‘Yeah, and not just from posing in weird positions. Like they’re trying to put a good face on it, but you can tell they’re not going to play some really fun game after.’

‘Is there one you identify with?’

I study the four girls. ‘I suppose I identify with her.’ I point to the second daughter, tense, drained of color. ‘But I’d like to be her, the one standing in all the light.’

‘She’s the focus, isn’t she? Even though she’s all the way over here.’

We lean in at the same time to examine her. She’s exquisite, her white pinafore catching every particle of light.

‘She knows it’s about her, and she’s not sure she wants it to be,’ I say. Our shoulders aren’t touching but the creak of his leather jacket is loud in my ear. I can smell his skin. ‘But there’s something brewing in her.’

‘Look at her left foot. She’s about to take a step.’

‘If I could write something as good as right there, right where that belt cinches her pinafore.’ It’s hard to pull my eyes from it. I don’t know why it’s so moving to me, and I could never explain. There’s a madness to beauty when you stumble on it like that.

After The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit, I go in the same direction as Silas around the rooms. We stand in front of Van Gogh’s Houses at Auvers then Matisse’s Vase of Flowers for a long time without saying anything. After the vivid chaos of the Van Gogh, where nothing is muted, nothing is blended, and the world seems to be separating into fragments before his eyes, Matisse’s vase of white flowers beside a window by the sea is serene and buoyant, as if everything can float if you let it.

On the stairs down to the café, Silas says, ‘I like coming here. It stirs me up and calms me down in all the right ways.’

He orders coffee and I order tea and we sit on modern plastic chairs in an open atrium. I feel light and elated from the art, and the worry about Muriel reading my novel is gone.

On the way back we’re quieter. He’s more comfortable with silence than most people. In the pauses I think about confessing that somehow I ended up going on two dates with Oscar Kolton. But it’s presuming too much too soon, like he would care. This is the guy who started driving thousands of miles west on the morning of our first date.

When we pull into the driveway I hear the dog barking at the car. Adam is away for the weekend, and I’m responsible for him. ‘Do you want to meet Adam’s Dog? We could take him for a walk.’

‘Adam’s Dog.’ He laughs. ‘I promised my roommate he could have the car about an hour ago. I’d like to, though. Another time.’

‘Okay. Thanks.’ I get out quickly, before he thinks I’m waiting for something more. But after he’s gone I wish I’d been a little slower.

I put my key in the lock. I’m in the mood to call my mother, that happy, shift in the wind mood. I calculate the time in Phoenix. Nearly noon. Perfect. The bolt retracts, and I remember she died.





Oscar calls me that afternoon at Iris during setup. ‘I’ve got my mother here on standby,’ he says. ‘She’s willing to give up her auxiliary meeting to help her smitten son.’ There’s a covered pause. ‘She wants me to tell you that it is not an auxiliary meeting. It’s a film group. Made up of very smart women with PhDs like herself she’ll have you know. Tomorrow night. Can you get free?’ He lowers his voice to an exaggerated whisper. ‘She thinks you’re too young for me.’ A howl in the background. ‘She says she did not say that.’

He has a mother, and I do not.

The calendar’s on the wall in front of me. Marcus just made the new schedule. I’m off tomorrow night. ‘Let me check.’

I cover the phone. I’m alone in the office so no one sees me. I stand there a long time. I can’t think. I want to go out with Silas one more time before I see Oscar again. I feel like there’s a misshapen ball in my lungs that isn’t leaving much room for air.

Marcus swoops in. ‘Get off my phone.’

I uncover the receiver. ‘Yeah. I’m free.’

On the way back to the kitchen I think about a scene in my book. Dana is telling me to help her set the twelve-top, but I go to the bar instead and write out a new idea on a cocktail napkin and shove it in my apron pocket. I have a whole stash of notes on napkins and dupes in my desk drawer for my next draft.

I can’t shake the anxiety that night. Usually I can run it off on the floor. On a busy night there’s no time for awareness of the mind or the body. There’s just extra vinaigrette to 21 and drinks to the deuce and two tables of entrées up at the same time. There are little jokes with Harry and Victor and Mary Hand as we collide at the computer or the food window. I can always lose myself in the rush. But that night I don’t. I stay apart. For the first time the stress of the job does not obliterate my awareness of the stress in my body. It enhances it.

When it’s over and we’re doing our totals, Harry pats my head. ‘What is going on in there?’

I can’t explain, so I say, ‘I feel like I should tell Oscar about Silas. I mean, he’s got kids.’