Chapter 13
When I got back to my apartment it was quarter to eight in the evening and Paul Giacomin was there. He was lying on the couch reading a New Yorker and drinking a long neck bottle of Rolling Rock Extra Pale.
'You're right,' he said when I came in, 'this stuff is habit-forming.'
'World's best beer,' I said. 'How are you?'
'Good,' he said. 'You?'
'Fine,' I said. 'You eat yet?'
'No.'
'I'll make something.'
He came out into the kitchen and sat at the counter while I looked into what was available. Rolling Rock Extra Pale was available, and I opened one. Paul had grown since I had acquired him. He was maybe a shade taller than I was now, flexible and centered.
'You're looking in good shape,' I said. 'You working hard?'
'Yes. I dance about four hours a day at school, and a couple of times a week I go into New York and work at a gym called Pilate's.'
'The money coming?'
'Yes, my father sends it every month. Just the money, no letter, nothing. Just a check folded inside a blank piece of paper.'
'Ever hear from your mother?'
He nodded. 'I get a letter every once in a while. Pink stationery, tells me that now I'm in college I have to be very careful in choosing my friends. Important, she says, not to get in with the wrong crowd.'
'How about pasta?' I said. 'Supplies are low here.' I put the water on to boil and sliced up some red and some green peppers and a lot of mushrooms. Paul got another beer and opened one for me too.
'You happy with Sarah Lawrence?' I said. 'Oh, yeah. The dance faculty is very professional. A half hour from New York, you can get people.'
I stir-fried the peppers and mushrooms with a little olive oil and a dash of raspberry vinegar, cooked some spinach fettuccine, and tossed in the peppers, mushrooms, and a handful of walnut meats.
Paul and I ate it at the counter with grated Jack cheese and half a loaf of whole wheat bread that was left in the cupboard.
'How about the wrong crowd,' I said. 'You getting in with them?'
'Not much luck,' Paul said. 'I'm trying like hell, but the wrong crowd doesn't seem to want me.'
'Don't quit,' I said. 'You want something, you go after it. I was nearly thirty-five before I could get in with the wrong crowd.'
We opened two more Rolling Rocks. The last two.
'My fault,' I said. 'It's what happens when you let your work interfere. How long you home for?'
'Over Thanksgiving,' he said. 'I go back Sunday.'
'Thanksgiving is tomorrow,' I said.
'Yes.'
'There's nothing to eat.'
'I noticed,' Paul said. 'Maybe we can go down to the rescue mission.'
I finished the last Rolling Rock. There was a bottle of Murphy's Irish Whiskey in the cupboard above the refrigerator for emergencies. I got it out and had some on the rocks. 'I'm glad to see you,' I said.
'Hard booze?' Paul said.
I nodded. 'Want a sniff?' I said.
'Sure.'
I poured a little for him, over ice. He sipped it and didn't look completely pleased.
'Is it worse than drinking nothing?' I said.
'No.'
I put the dishes into the dishwasher and wiped off the counter. We went into the living room with two glasses and the whiskey and some ice.
'Since when have you been drinking hard booze?' Paul said.
'It's come to seem soothing lately.'
Paul nodded. 'One of those all-hour convenience stores will probably be open,' Paul said. 'I could run out and get some sliced turkey roll and a loaf of Wonder bread. Maybe a quart of Tab, for the festive board.'
'We'll eat out,' I said. 'The hotels are usually open. The Ritz, maybe.' I drank some whiskey. When you've been nursing it out of a bottle neck, a glass and ice seems like being on the wagon. 'I thought you were bringing a girl friend.'
'Paige, yeah. I was. But her parents got bent out of shape, so she went home.'
There was a fire laid in the cold fireplace. It saved time in case I met someone who wanted to jump on my bones in front of a romantic fire. I'd gotten this one ready in August. No sense wasting it. I got up and lit it and sat back down and watched the flames enlarge. The hell with romance.
I drank some more whiskey. Paul nursed his. I knew he didn't like it. My glass was empty. I added more whiskey. An ice cube.
'Susan still in Washington?' Paul said.
'Yes.'
'Couldn't get back for Thanksgiving?'
'Nope.'
'I'm surprised you didn't go down.'
I nodded.
'Where is it she's at?'
'Children's Hospital National Medical Center,' I said. ' One Eleven Michigan Avenue, North West, Washington, D.C., 20010.'
'Internship?'
'Yes. Pre-doctoral internship.' I leaned forward and poured a little whiskey into Paul's glass. The kindling was fully flamed and the larger hardwood logs were beginning to burn. I stared at the flames as they flickered over the wood. Matter is neither created nor destroyed. E = mc2.
'She quit being a guidance teacher?'
I nodded. 'Actually took a leave, but she's not likely to go back. Not with a Harvard Ph.D. in psychology.'
'You mind?' Paul said.
'Her quitting guidance?'
'The whole thing,' Paul said. 'Ph.D., internship, off to Washington, not around for Thanksgiving. You mind that?'
I got up and walked to the window and looked down into Marlborough Street. It was bone empty. 'Susan is doing something very important to her,' I said. 'She needs to do this, to strive, to seek, and not to yield.'
The holiday desolation of the empty street was depressing. In the streetlights' shine it was manifestly silent. Over the hills and through the woods to grandmother's house we go.
Paul said, 'Yeah, but do you mind?'
I drank some more whiskey. 'Yes,' I said.
'How come you didn't go down for Thanksgiving dinner with her? She have to work?'
'No. She's spending it in Bethesda with the head of her intern program. It's important to her.' I kept staring out the window.
'More important than being with you?'
'There's other times,' I said.
A cab came up the empty street and stopped on the other side. An old woman in a fur coat got out carrying a fat white cat. The cabbie pulled away and she walked up the dark steps to her door and fumbled at the lock and then went in.
