couldn’t remember because she’d been introduced as Wife First, Name Second. “Really love it.” The men talked about department politics. James was nodding at everything the professor said, making mental notes about who was overly flirtatious with his students, who hid what in his desk drawers.
They had a large dining room, with plates and glasses that all matched. I kicked James under the table. The professor sat to my left, at the head of the table. His wife sat facing me, placidly smiling.
“So, Sophie,” she said. “What do you plan to do here, while James is off molding young minds?” She tented her fingers in front of her, as though holding one of the young minds in her hands.
“Well, you can remove mold with any sharp knife,” I said. “Then you can just go ahead and eat it.”
“Excuse me?”She was still smiling, but James had returned my kick.
“I’m thinking about culinary school,” I said. “I hear there’s an excellent schnitzel academy just down the road. Or was it the wurst one, James, do you remember?”
James daubed his mouth with the corner of his napkin, pretending to be civilized. He looked at the professor’s wife. “Sophie works freelance. She’s just published an article in one of the local New York papers.”
The wife nodded. “You know,” she said, “if you’re looking for some good schnitzel, I know just where you should go.” She looked to her husband and widened her eyes, as though remembering a particularly impressive sausage.
I excused myself and went to pee, happy to have a moment alone, a moment with only the belongings of strangers and not the strangers themselves. I sat down and was surprised to find myself staring at a familiar panel of fabric. “We have the same curtains,” I cried. “Only ours are in the bedroom!” The professor’s wife materialized on the other side of the bathroom door. I could see the shadows of her chunky shoes moving back and forth across the small pane of light coming from the kitchen. After washing my hands, I stood for a minute in front of the curtains, and asked them which they preferred, seeing the outside world, or seeing nothing but tiles, shampoo bottles, and nudity.
There had been other jobs, other interviews. James brought two suits to the rounds of interviews at the hotel in Midtown, one pin-striped, one gray, and he’d changed in the bathroom in between. He thought the pin-striped made him look likea businessman, and was better for the larger schools. The gray suit, he thought, made him look like a real intellectual. We could have gone anywhere, that’s what we’d decided. Tucson. Miami. Detroit. Each time James presented me with a city, I’d walk to the bookstore on Seventh Avenue and sit down in the travel section. I’d find us a neighborhood, a coffee shop to frequent. I knew where we’d go for fun, to people watch. There were the restaurants our parents would take us to when they came to visit; first mine, then his. There was the park I could take walks in, and the places we could meet for lunch during the school day. The suits would take us there. I never imagined we’d actually leave New York. I had a part-time job, and friends, and neighbors whose names I didn’t know. We were settled. There were never any boxes in my daydreams.
When I finally told my mother the truth about where we were going, she gasped and said, “A
fly-over
state?”
My mother had lived in Greenwich, Connecticut, for fifty of her sixty-five years. The intervening years—college in neighboring Massachusetts, an early marriage in California—were looked upon as a sad experiment, the kind where the potion turns purple instead of orange and hisses briefly, instead of bubbling dramatically to the top of the beaker.
“It’s not so bad, Mom.” We were on the telephone, and I could tell from the static on her end that she was outside in the yard. There would be someone gardening nearby; she was supervising.
“Mm-hmm, sure,
They had a large dining room, with plates and glasses that all matched. I kicked James under the table. The professor sat to my left, at the head of the table. His wife sat facing me, placidly smiling.
“So, Sophie,” she said. “What do you plan to do here, while James is off molding young minds?” She tented her fingers in front of her, as though holding one of the young minds in her hands.
“Well, you can remove mold with any sharp knife,” I said. “Then you can just go ahead and eat it.”
“Excuse me?”She was still smiling, but James had returned my kick.
“I’m thinking about culinary school,” I said. “I hear there’s an excellent schnitzel academy just down the road. Or was it the wurst one, James, do you remember?”
James daubed his mouth with the corner of his napkin, pretending to be civilized. He looked at the professor’s wife. “Sophie works freelance. She’s just published an article in one of the local New York papers.”
The wife nodded. “You know,” she said, “if you’re looking for some good schnitzel, I know just where you should go.” She looked to her husband and widened her eyes, as though remembering a particularly impressive sausage.
I excused myself and went to pee, happy to have a moment alone, a moment with only the belongings of strangers and not the strangers themselves. I sat down and was surprised to find myself staring at a familiar panel of fabric. “We have the same curtains,” I cried. “Only ours are in the bedroom!” The professor’s wife materialized on the other side of the bathroom door. I could see the shadows of her chunky shoes moving back and forth across the small pane of light coming from the kitchen. After washing my hands, I stood for a minute in front of the curtains, and asked them which they preferred, seeing the outside world, or seeing nothing but tiles, shampoo bottles, and nudity.
There had been other jobs, other interviews. James brought two suits to the rounds of interviews at the hotel in Midtown, one pin-striped, one gray, and he’d changed in the bathroom in between. He thought the pin-striped made him look likea businessman, and was better for the larger schools. The gray suit, he thought, made him look like a real intellectual. We could have gone anywhere, that’s what we’d decided. Tucson. Miami. Detroit. Each time James presented me with a city, I’d walk to the bookstore on Seventh Avenue and sit down in the travel section. I’d find us a neighborhood, a coffee shop to frequent. I knew where we’d go for fun, to people watch. There were the restaurants our parents would take us to when they came to visit; first mine, then his. There was the park I could take walks in, and the places we could meet for lunch during the school day. The suits would take us there. I never imagined we’d actually leave New York. I had a part-time job, and friends, and neighbors whose names I didn’t know. We were settled. There were never any boxes in my daydreams.
When I finally told my mother the truth about where we were going, she gasped and said, “A
fly-over
state?”
My mother had lived in Greenwich, Connecticut, for fifty of her sixty-five years. The intervening years—college in neighboring Massachusetts, an early marriage in California—were looked upon as a sad experiment, the kind where the potion turns purple instead of orange and hisses briefly, instead of bubbling dramatically to the top of the beaker.
“It’s not so bad, Mom.” We were on the telephone, and I could tell from the static on her end that she was outside in the yard. There would be someone gardening nearby; she was supervising.
“Mm-hmm, sure,
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