listening.
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Julia Glass
“You barge in here,” I said, “invite Luke, act like you’re running from the law, crash my date. You think you can stand there and tell me nothing?”
“Sorry.” The repentance in her expression was so unusual that I had no choice but to buy it. “I am sorry. I’ll tell you later. Trust me.”
We focused on food for a while, working quietly, listening to the men. Now they were talking about New York. Luke was talking about the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. “I saw it light up once, totally by accident. I was lost in New Jersey, and suddenly I’m driving up on this palisade—
Jersey City? I still don’t know where I was—and I saw the bridge in the distance, and exactly then the lights went on: from one end to the other, these pale green bulbs, swooping up and down along the spans like a pair of birds flying in tandem. It was . . . I could feel it in my chest—right here—do you know what I mean?”
“Oh I do!” said Sam. “Right there!”
“It was something else, ” Luke said. I glanced at Clem, to see if she was moved by the rhapsody in his voice, but she was intent on slicing a radish.
“It’s sweet, the way he’s so openly passionate,” I said.
“Yeah. It is.” She scraped the sliced radishes into the salad. “What next?”
I gave her a cucumber. “I’m on it,” she said.
The kitchen is the only place where Clem still follows my orders. She’s a good cook, but I’m better and she knows it. I like it when she phones me long distance for recipes. In her life, for the most part, I feel superfluous.
“Okay,” I said. “I may as well ask what you think of Sam.”
Clem laughed. “Yeah, you’ll hear it if you ask or not.”
“So.”
“Great eyes. Cute, in a retro-hippie sort of way. Talks like this is nineteen sixty-eight, everything but ‘groovy.’ It’s quaint. But please, that ponytail. Who does he think he is, Cochise? He’s cute, though, he really is. And he’s nice. You could use some nice. Though he doesn’t seem Glas_9780375422751_3p_all_r1.qxp 7/2/08 10:21 AM Page 65 I See You Everywhere
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overly, uh, complicated.” She was leaning against the sink, sipping vodka. She grinned pointedly. “And I’m afraid—you asked—I think he might be too self-centered. Too sort of . . . larger than his smallish life. Maybe a tad too much Kenny Rogers. I can’t put a finger on it. . . .”
“Kenny Rogers? Cochise? You’re so mean. And you are certainly spending the night here.” I reached for her glass, but she twisted away.
“Actually, I don’t care what you think. I think he’s sweet. And you ought to see his paintings. They are very complicated.”
“Well, antifreeze is sweet. Dogs lick it off the road and die.” She laughed loudly. “Just kidding.”
“God you’re a bitch.”
“Hey, you’re always telling me so. Must be so.”
We both laughed, but I was faking.
Clem poured me a glass of wine. After she handed it to me, she stood staring out the window. “Poor things.”
“What things?”
“Those rabbits, those birds. Victims of haute cuisine.”
“Well then,” I said, “poor trout.”
“Not the same thing,” said Clem, pointing a finger at me. “Eating wild animals, that’s something else.”
“Look, could we please not get into some Greenpeace debate, just for tonight? Things are tense enough, no thanks to you.” About ecology, I am a dunce. I can hardly manage cocktail banter on the greenhouse effect. Clem is always telling me alarming things about the future, how immoral we all are, how it’s too late even if (and forget it) we could change our ways. Imagine Jonathan Schell and Rachel Carson as Siamese twins: that’s my sister at her worst. She’d told me, for instance, how thousands of dollars were wasted on cleaning up birds after a major oil spill off the coast of Scotland. “That relocation business? Bleeding-heart ignorance. These
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Julia Glass
“You barge in here,” I said, “invite Luke, act like you’re running from the law, crash my date. You think you can stand there and tell me nothing?”
“Sorry.” The repentance in her expression was so unusual that I had no choice but to buy it. “I am sorry. I’ll tell you later. Trust me.”
We focused on food for a while, working quietly, listening to the men. Now they were talking about New York. Luke was talking about the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. “I saw it light up once, totally by accident. I was lost in New Jersey, and suddenly I’m driving up on this palisade—
Jersey City? I still don’t know where I was—and I saw the bridge in the distance, and exactly then the lights went on: from one end to the other, these pale green bulbs, swooping up and down along the spans like a pair of birds flying in tandem. It was . . . I could feel it in my chest—right here—do you know what I mean?”
“Oh I do!” said Sam. “Right there!”
“It was something else, ” Luke said. I glanced at Clem, to see if she was moved by the rhapsody in his voice, but she was intent on slicing a radish.
“It’s sweet, the way he’s so openly passionate,” I said.
“Yeah. It is.” She scraped the sliced radishes into the salad. “What next?”
I gave her a cucumber. “I’m on it,” she said.
The kitchen is the only place where Clem still follows my orders. She’s a good cook, but I’m better and she knows it. I like it when she phones me long distance for recipes. In her life, for the most part, I feel superfluous.
“Okay,” I said. “I may as well ask what you think of Sam.”
Clem laughed. “Yeah, you’ll hear it if you ask or not.”
“So.”
“Great eyes. Cute, in a retro-hippie sort of way. Talks like this is nineteen sixty-eight, everything but ‘groovy.’ It’s quaint. But please, that ponytail. Who does he think he is, Cochise? He’s cute, though, he really is. And he’s nice. You could use some nice. Though he doesn’t seem Glas_9780375422751_3p_all_r1.qxp 7/2/08 10:21 AM Page 65 I See You Everywhere
65
overly, uh, complicated.” She was leaning against the sink, sipping vodka. She grinned pointedly. “And I’m afraid—you asked—I think he might be too self-centered. Too sort of . . . larger than his smallish life. Maybe a tad too much Kenny Rogers. I can’t put a finger on it. . . .”
“Kenny Rogers? Cochise? You’re so mean. And you are certainly spending the night here.” I reached for her glass, but she twisted away.
“Actually, I don’t care what you think. I think he’s sweet. And you ought to see his paintings. They are very complicated.”
“Well, antifreeze is sweet. Dogs lick it off the road and die.” She laughed loudly. “Just kidding.”
“God you’re a bitch.”
“Hey, you’re always telling me so. Must be so.”
We both laughed, but I was faking.
Clem poured me a glass of wine. After she handed it to me, she stood staring out the window. “Poor things.”
“What things?”
“Those rabbits, those birds. Victims of haute cuisine.”
“Well then,” I said, “poor trout.”
“Not the same thing,” said Clem, pointing a finger at me. “Eating wild animals, that’s something else.”
“Look, could we please not get into some Greenpeace debate, just for tonight? Things are tense enough, no thanks to you.” About ecology, I am a dunce. I can hardly manage cocktail banter on the greenhouse effect. Clem is always telling me alarming things about the future, how immoral we all are, how it’s too late even if (and forget it) we could change our ways. Imagine Jonathan Schell and Rachel Carson as Siamese twins: that’s my sister at her worst. She’d told me, for instance, how thousands of dollars were wasted on cleaning up birds after a major oil spill off the coast of Scotland. “That relocation business? Bleeding-heart ignorance. These
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