Tart by Jody Gehrman Page B

premonition.
    â€œI just do.”
    Yeah, you just did because it was your goddamn wife’s first day, too. What in the hell is he trying to do? Brand me with a scarlet letter?
    Get a hold of yourself, Claudia. Maybe you’re mistaken. Parker is a common name, after all. Here—just look at any phone book. Let’s see: Paoli, Paris, Parker…see. There must be sixty of them. My eyes scroll down the page. Lots and lots of them, even in a smallish town like this. It’s like Jones or Smith or—oh, God. There they are. Parker, Clay and Monica. I slam the phone book closed, drop it on the floor and collapse into my chair. “This is not happening. This is not happening,” I tell myself again and again, like someone reciting Hail Marys. “Not…happening…not…happening.”
    â€œProfessor Bloom?”
    I spin around so quickly I nearly give myself whiplash. It takes me two seconds to recognize her. I haven’t seen her in two or three years, at least.
    â€œOh, my God. Rosemarie. What are you doing here?” I jump up with delight and surprise, rushing toward her.
    â€œChecking in on you. From the looks of things, you could use a little checking.”
    â€œCome in, come in.” I tug at her hand, excited. “Look at you. You’ve lost so much weight.”
    She’s still got that rich olive complexion, the brown, impish eyes, still wearing the neo-hippie garb—a patchwork dress in jewel tones, a big denim bag with Grateful Dead and pot-leaf decals all over it. But she must have lost fifty pounds since the last time I saw her. Years ago she was thick and curvy, now she’s slender, almost willowy. We hug and herbody feels insubstantial in my arms. “My little cousin. And jeez, you sure are little now.”
    â€œYeah…I dropped a lot of pounds after…Jeff and I…did you know we split up?”
    â€œOh. I heard about that.” Jeff is Rosemarie’s old boyfriend. They had a baby together about four years ago, but she died when she was only two. I heard from my mom that Rosemarie went a little crazy then. She was in an institution for six, seven months. Something like that.
    â€œI had a hard couple of years,” she says, reading my face. “But I’m okay now.”
    â€œSure. You look great. Look at you.” She does a little spin. Rosemarie. I realize suddenly that I’ve missed her. “You look fantastic.”
    â€œI guess crazy kind of suits me,” she says, her eyes shining.
    â€œIt always did.”
    â€œSo,” she says, “Do you have time to hang out?”
    â€œOh—oh, my God.” I say, looking at my watch. “I’m going to be late. I’ve got to teach in two minutes.”
    Her face falls. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.”
    â€œNo. Don’t be silly. This class is over by three—want to meet me here?”
    â€œYeah. Okay. What time is it?” Rosemarie never has worn a watch. I remember her patiently explaining when we were twelve that time didn’t exist, and she refused to pretend it did. She’s been true to that; I’ve waited for her so often, I stopped imagining it was possible for her to be anything but late. When she finally shows, she always wears such an innocent, childlike expression, and she’s so quick to recount her dreamy adventures. It would be maddening with anyone else, but somehow with my cousin it’s hard to stay angry for long.
    â€œIt’s 1:30. Meet me here in an hour and a half.”
    â€œRight on,” she says. “I’ll go braid my dog.”
    Since I’m already running late, I don’t bother to followup on this intriguing announcement. I run off to the theater, quickly lead them through some routine warm-ups, then distribute scenes I’ve selected for them to rehearse. Once they’re safely tucked into the various corners of the room, practicing their lines in