creases.
He stood up slowly, threw his balled-up lunch bag neatly across the room into the open barrel. The grace of his set shot surprised me. He smiled down at me and said, “Liar.” I watched him collect the rest of his trash and reassemble the thermos; he took my coffee cup and swallowed the rest like a belt of scotch. The huge Adam’s apple dipped; below it, his blue pinstripe shirt was unbuttoned at the neck. A few chest hairs poked through a small hole in his T-shirt. I felt a sudden pull in my gut for no reason—a poignancy I might feel over another kind of man with a tiny rent in his T-shirt and the first glimpse of chest hair. But Dwight’s shirt? Dwight Willamee’s chest hair? It made no sense at all.
“I’ll see you,” he said.
“Coming back tomorrow?” I asked.
He rolled his eyes. “Not until someone dies and gives up a seat.”
It registered as funny, but I didn’t laugh. The Girl Scout cheer and the charitable smile I had for weeks bestowed on Dwight no longer fit.
SIXTEEN
B ernice said no to Ted, and he broke it off completely. I fretted about how she had ruined everything; how she’d never grown up. I had argued myself into believing that Ted was some kind of answer.
She began to tell me things: his proposing on their first date; his jealousies; his accusing her of being interested in whatever male guests appeared on the show.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” I asked.
“It was sweet at first! Harmless little questions about what I did. ‘Tell me what you did today,’ he’d say. Harmless. Then he started with the ‘Is he attractive?’ and ‘Do you like him?’ I went along with that crap! I even started to feel guilty. I had to reassure him that whoever it was wasn’t attractive, no, I didn’t like him—about perfectly nice, attractive men who I could have liked. He would get belligerent—you wouldn’t believe the crap he’d throw at me. ‘Does he have a big prick?’ he asked me afterI had Bobby Orr on the show. You know what I said? I said, ‘I don’t know. I can’t tell by feeling the outside of his pants.’”
I laughed. Bernice said, “Funny, right? Well, he has no sense of humor. He sulked for the rest of the night.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this part before? This is serious crazy stuff. No wonder he’s sixty and proposing on the first date.”
Bernice shrugged. “You hope it’s not permanent, or you attribute it to his being so madly in love he can’t think straight. Because one thing I’ve learned is, Don’t spit in the water. You may have to drink it.”
It was Saturday. We were at Saint Botolph’s in the South End for lunch. Bernice was wearing a huge white shirt over black jersey calf-length pants. We sat quietly, smiled politely as the waitress brought menus. After ordering, I asked softly, “Why is it, do you suppose, that you haven’t met someone you like enough to marry?”
Bernice looked surprised. “I wasn’t selfish enough to put you aside and work on my life,” she said.
I said I didn’t quite understand. She knew where I was, even if she hadn’t made her move yet. Under the circumstances, I hardly took up any of her time.
“After a certain age, I told every man about you. I spilled my guts on first dates to every schmuck I went out with. It scared plenty away. They knew I was a serious person with a cause. I’ll tell you—it separated the men from the boys. Once in a while a guy would act as if he understood my pain. Most of them, nineteen out of twenty, would say, ‘I don’t get it, Bern. You were seventeen years old. You got pregnant, you gave the baby up for adoption instead of ruining your life and probably the kid’s. He probably went to a rich family who’s giving him everything he ever wanted.’
“‘She,’ I’d say. ‘It was a girl.’
“‘Oh,’ they’d say. ‘What kind of music do you like?’ as if you were just a thing I brought up to make conversation.”
“Why
did
you bring me
He stood up slowly, threw his balled-up lunch bag neatly across the room into the open barrel. The grace of his set shot surprised me. He smiled down at me and said, “Liar.” I watched him collect the rest of his trash and reassemble the thermos; he took my coffee cup and swallowed the rest like a belt of scotch. The huge Adam’s apple dipped; below it, his blue pinstripe shirt was unbuttoned at the neck. A few chest hairs poked through a small hole in his T-shirt. I felt a sudden pull in my gut for no reason—a poignancy I might feel over another kind of man with a tiny rent in his T-shirt and the first glimpse of chest hair. But Dwight’s shirt? Dwight Willamee’s chest hair? It made no sense at all.
“I’ll see you,” he said.
“Coming back tomorrow?” I asked.
He rolled his eyes. “Not until someone dies and gives up a seat.”
It registered as funny, but I didn’t laugh. The Girl Scout cheer and the charitable smile I had for weeks bestowed on Dwight no longer fit.
SIXTEEN
B ernice said no to Ted, and he broke it off completely. I fretted about how she had ruined everything; how she’d never grown up. I had argued myself into believing that Ted was some kind of answer.
She began to tell me things: his proposing on their first date; his jealousies; his accusing her of being interested in whatever male guests appeared on the show.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” I asked.
“It was sweet at first! Harmless little questions about what I did. ‘Tell me what you did today,’ he’d say. Harmless. Then he started with the ‘Is he attractive?’ and ‘Do you like him?’ I went along with that crap! I even started to feel guilty. I had to reassure him that whoever it was wasn’t attractive, no, I didn’t like him—about perfectly nice, attractive men who I could have liked. He would get belligerent—you wouldn’t believe the crap he’d throw at me. ‘Does he have a big prick?’ he asked me afterI had Bobby Orr on the show. You know what I said? I said, ‘I don’t know. I can’t tell by feeling the outside of his pants.’”
I laughed. Bernice said, “Funny, right? Well, he has no sense of humor. He sulked for the rest of the night.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this part before? This is serious crazy stuff. No wonder he’s sixty and proposing on the first date.”
Bernice shrugged. “You hope it’s not permanent, or you attribute it to his being so madly in love he can’t think straight. Because one thing I’ve learned is, Don’t spit in the water. You may have to drink it.”
It was Saturday. We were at Saint Botolph’s in the South End for lunch. Bernice was wearing a huge white shirt over black jersey calf-length pants. We sat quietly, smiled politely as the waitress brought menus. After ordering, I asked softly, “Why is it, do you suppose, that you haven’t met someone you like enough to marry?”
Bernice looked surprised. “I wasn’t selfish enough to put you aside and work on my life,” she said.
I said I didn’t quite understand. She knew where I was, even if she hadn’t made her move yet. Under the circumstances, I hardly took up any of her time.
“After a certain age, I told every man about you. I spilled my guts on first dates to every schmuck I went out with. It scared plenty away. They knew I was a serious person with a cause. I’ll tell you—it separated the men from the boys. Once in a while a guy would act as if he understood my pain. Most of them, nineteen out of twenty, would say, ‘I don’t get it, Bern. You were seventeen years old. You got pregnant, you gave the baby up for adoption instead of ruining your life and probably the kid’s. He probably went to a rich family who’s giving him everything he ever wanted.’
“‘She,’ I’d say. ‘It was a girl.’
“‘Oh,’ they’d say. ‘What kind of music do you like?’ as if you were just a thing I brought up to make conversation.”
“Why
did
you bring me
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