Eye to Eye Page 23

  “Pretty please. A beer would be nice. It’s around happy hour.”

  Earl twists the beer caps off and pulls up the one other kitchen chair we have so that he’s facing me, our knees touching. He leans toward me and I stick a finger in one of his dimples. “I missed these.”

  “I ain’t going Hollywood, you know. I’m just meeting with the woman on Friday. Said she wanted me to read something. I didn’t want to mess up.” Earl scratches at his beer bottle with his thumb, looks down at the floor and then looks at me, sheepish, through those long, sandy eyelashes of his.

  “I’m not worried. Not yet.” I kiss him and take a sip of beer. “But you shouldn’t try to get too slick. Bet you ten bucks they like you just the way you are, especially the way you are.”

  “I know it,” Earl says, staring at the street through the screen door. Neither one of us speaks until Earl clears his throat. “I didn’t come out here to bartend, Veronica. Not saying I hate it, but I remember telling you back in Langsdale that I wanted to go to law school because I couldn’t bartend for all the rest of my days, and now look.”

  Something about the way Earl says this makes me sad and out of nowhere my eyes well up. Moving back to L.A. has mostly been about me. “I’m sorry, Earl. I know you wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me. And what are we doing?”

  “Hey, hey.” Earl tips up my chin so he can look me in the eyes. “Where’s this coming from? Are you going to cry on me? We’re fine, baby, we’re having a good time here together. That’s something.”

  Yes, but what is the something? Coasting isn’t really “something.” Even Bita had figured that out.

  “Hey,” Earl says again. “Look at me. We only got here not too long ago. It hasn’t been but, what, five months? Give it some time. Let’s you and me just decide to do what it is we really want to do. For now. You told me once: that life is transitory. That’s what we’re doing now, being transitory.”

  Check him out. I was creating monsters everywhere, poisoning Ian and now Earl with the lingo of grad school.

  I nod. “So you really want to act? Are you serious? Actors are the worst. Almost as bad as academics,” I add, sniffling. “I hate actors.”

  “Wellll.” Earl chuckles. “I ain’t no actor, but I can sing. I know that. Let me just see what’s what about all this. They might send me packing before I’m in the door good. Now smile for me.”

  I give Earl a weak smile and hold his face in my hands. “You’re a damn good guy, you know that? They don’t make ’em like you anymore.”

  “For that, I’ll whip you up some fried chicken for supper,” Earl says, and gets up to get himself another beer.

  doris

  Modernism: A literary movement directly tied to life as it is now, distinguished as it is by fragmentation, a mix of high and low forms, and a latent nostalgia for the days when things were whole. Some lovely high-end writing, and the great heyday of the dead white man. Well, that’s a stretch, but it is the movement of William Faulker, Ernest Hemingway, Ezra Pound, T. S. Eliot…all the writers my students think of as “real.” But it’s also a time when writers like Virginia Woolf, Millay and Marianne Moore entered the playing field as not only equals, but challengers: who lived life on their own terms, asking for that proverbial room of one’s own, trying to figure out a way for women to have it all, or at least have what they ask for. A problem still not solved.

  A sure indication of modernity is the rapid dislocation of the subject, the separation the subject feels when confronted with their own tenuous construction based largely on surroundings rather than some innate sense of self. In other words, is a person still herself if she gains thirty pounds, dyes her hair brown, and gets air lifted to some deserted island where skinny blondes are one step shy of hagdom? Doubt it. Dislocation, however gentle, is hard on the self. When one moves from place to place, it’s natural that one’s new surroundings feel alien for quite some time. I imagine that even Cinderella took a few months to adjust to castle living, probably scrubbed a toilet or two and hemmed a couple curtains just to feel like herself again. Two sure benchmarks on the road to adjustment involve travel from the place and the arrival of houseguests. As wonderful as L.A. was, there was something comforting about returning home to Lotto’s newest catch-phrase, “you’re in or your auf,” in his most divalicious Heidi Klum.

  It was also nice to be greeted by Toni the second evening after Ronnie’s departure. Toni was back to her usual glam-boho self, hair teased out wildly with a think headband holding it off her forehead, wildly patterned free-flowing minidress and cool go-go boots that only a truly daring soul could wear.

  “Look at you,” I say. “You taking an author photo for the new book?”

  “No,” she replies, handing over a magazine story folded neatly into quarters. “I thought you’d get a huge kick out of this. It’s the revisitation of that story from years back, you know, the one that said a single woman was more likely to get trampled by a herd of angry buffalo than get hitched after age forty. They changed it to buffalo because of the whole terrorist situation making the odds a little different.”

  “That was big of them.” Toni makes a beeline for my couch and flops back, crossing her legs defiantly. “Well,” she says. “Not only have they revised the odds, but they proved what we’ve always suspected. That single women in their forties are some badass broads. I think this is a paraphrase of a direct quote, ‘Single women in their forties are cream of the crop, men in their forties, who have never been, are bottom of the barrel.’ So ha. For once we’re not the crew being dumped on.”

  “But, Toni. We’re not in our forties.”

  “But we could be single fortysomethings, and I’m just glad that I can put in my book that we are not hallucinating. That it’s confirmed that women who stay single are not necessarily pariahs, but potential demigoddesses.”

  “So you’re now single and proud.”

  She gives me a little smile as if she’s been sneaking in while I was in L.A. and hording the Pop-Tarts.

  “Actually, Tino and I are back together. And I think it’s really serious.”

  “You’re kidding! Details, details.”

  “Well, as it turns out, when he was in college he was practically engaged to a woman who was black, and his family was just awful about it. Called him up, told him he was bringing down generations of race purity, that people would think he was trash, what would the neighbors say, and all that shit that folks who claim not to be racist start spewing when interracial dating is the issue.”

  “Yikes. That’s harsh.”

  She gets up and paces a little as she continues.

  “So he does the right thing, tells his family to screw themselves, and then the almost fiancée cheats on him. Totally dumps him for some hippie joker she met on a job interview. So he’s totally screwed, blew the family off, then she blows him off. So he figures, once he feels like dating again, that it’s just easier to date a white girl than go through that same hell with his family.”

  “I guess that makes sense.”

  “I’m not sure it makes sense, but it’s the best explanation I could possibly have received. And he’s totally down with dating a black girl, and he says he’ll go nuts if he loses me. I swear, he sounded like some cheap-ass romance novel, but instead of wanting to throw up, I just wanted to thank God and the heavens and everything else that this one thing was not going to total shit.”

  “See. Thank goodness you heard him out!”

  “I know,” she says. “So I have an idea. Let’s go get loaded. I’m all dressed up, and Tino’s out of town for the weekend, and we haven’t had an official girl’s night in millennia.”

  “Godfather, that is an offer I can’t refuse.”

  Hungover, the next morning, one of those laws of thermodynamics came to bite me in the face. The one about how for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction, or put in dating terms, for every reconciled couple, some poor beeatch (to quote Lotto) is getting dum
ped on her arse. This morning, said arse was mine, and said dumping took place over the inglorious medium of voice mail. Specifically, Maxwell saying somewhat sheepishly, I was hoping to talk to you before you saw the paper this morning, but I guess you’re still sleeping. It probably wouldn’t have worked anyhow. Not words to warm one’s heart before the first cup of coffee. And, of course, I’m thinking which paper, and I don’t even get the paper, and would Toni notice or care if I stole hers first thing?

  Fortunately, Toni was up and running ahead of me, and I answered the gentle knock at my door to find her looking sad and sympathetic. She held out her newspaper like some tract on how Jesus was going to save your soul.

  “Don’t shoot the messenger,” she said, handing me the Life & Style section. “Open to the gossip page.”

  And there, on page three, was a picture of Maxwell with Maggie Mae Mischner, canoodling over something that was decidedly not beet juice and bean sprouts. Beneath the photo was the caption: “CELEBUTANTE MOVES ON WITH DEBONAIR LAWYER.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” I say. “Must every man alive have some form of savior complex?”

  As far as I was concerned, Maggie Mae Mischner might as well have had actual pinwheels spinning at the center of her eyeballs, and a veritably bunny farm in the backyard ready for easy harvest, when the next poor bastard crossed her. And Maxwell was dating her? In a way, it could make a perverse kind of sense. Anyone sensitive enough to care about the fate of cowhide could probably get sucked in by a slow dose of nut bride.

  Toni looked at the picture again and laughed.

  “Guess he never heard that old saying that when you see crazy coming, better cross the street.”

  “He heard it,” I say. “He’s just confused about which direction you cross to. He is officially doing the emotional equivalent of walking into oncoming traffic.”

  “In pleather,” Toni adds.

  “I wash my hands of it,” I say, gesturing dramatically.

  The next day my invitation arrives for the opening of Zach’s movie theater. The layout looks like an old pulp fiction cover, heralding the arrival of the “Langsdale Lounge.” Evidently, it’s going to be a place where one can order a coffee, a small meal and watch art films or re-releases. And as promised, the back announces the inaugural series on “Femme Fatales and Fallen Females.” I question the use of “female,” but give Zach credit for attempting consonance. First film is, indeed, What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? followed by Mildred Pierce, Out of the Past and The Last Seduction. An absolutely fantasy lineup, to my way of thinking, and I wonder if Zach isn’t doing a little bit of covert seducing himself. And while I know that calling on one’s ex is standard just-dumped protocol, that’s not the only reason I pick up the phone to see how Zach is doing.

  The real reason is that I miss him.

  “Got the invite,” I say when he answers. “You’re really in touch with your inner gay man these days. Are you sure there’s not something you want to tell me?”

  “Just to buy a ticket now because airfare’s going to go up.”

  I twist my hair unconsciously, flirting with Zach visually even in his absence.

  “So it’s all good to go?” I ask. “Do people seem interested?”

  Note to self: do not be maternal. You are not dating. Any failure is his alone.

  “Great response from the community. We’re going to do a series on Italian cinema, from neorealism on, and then one on vintage comedies. And I think they’re going to let us use the park to set up a screen next summer, not that it will make any real money, but it will generate even more interest.”

  I try to stop myself from asking, but can’t. “What about your dissertation?”

  Zach pauses for a minute, and I fear that I’ve blown it again.

  “I wrote nearly two chapters since you left. Every down minute, I’m working on the book. I’m practically a hermit.”

  Again, I try to stop myself from asking the obvious, but cannot. “What about your girlfriend.”

  Zach laughs. “She wasn’t exactly my girlfriend, Doris. Those are more your words than mine. Just trying to see how easy it would be to get over you.”

  “How could you not get over me?” I ask. “I’m such a pain in your ass, it’s probably a relief.”

  “Maybe at first,” he says. “But you were a lot more than a pain in my ass. My thought is that you should come here for the summer, see how things are, and then we’ll figure something out for the fall.”

  Now he’s pissing me off. I stop twirling my hair and gesture at the invisible Zach in front of me.

  “Problem one—I know how Langsdale is in the summer. It’s a festering hellhole of mosquitos, hundred percent humidity, tornadoes and bad English department parties. Remember? I fled Langsdale, and while I might miss you, I don’t miss that place one minute of my life. Not one lonely, shitty, crappy, I-am-alone-in-Atlanta minute. I hate small towns. I hate running into my students at the three normal venues in the entire place. I hate everything about living there except for you.”

  “Can’t that be enough? Just for one summer. I’m not asking forever, just a summer that we can not fight, and try to get ourselves back on track. Because I know you love your job, Doris, and I know you’ve worked hard for it, but don’t you want someone in your life to share it with?”

  I look at my empty but fabulous apartment, and close my eyes to keep him from tricking me with his codependent babble.

  “Like we wouldn’t fight,” I say. “I’ll have to think about it. Can we talk about something else?”

  “How was Ronnie’s visit?”

  “Fun. We ate enough macaroni and cheese that even I’m sick of it now, and Ronnie got most of the work finished on her novel. They made her revise it so the thinly veiled version of me is black. It’s slightly hilarious.”

  “Another black valley-child. Just what the world needs.”

  “But black Doris is very sassy. She grew up in the hood, and being in Langsdale tapped into her inner militant. She and Wanda are cotokens, but in true novel fashion, they handle things very differently.”

  Zach laughs. “Does black Doris dress like you? That’d be funny.”

  “I didn’t check. But I hear in the book she dates some real jackass from her English program named Mack.”

  “That black Doris,” Zach says. “Whatever does she do with him?”

  “You’ll have to read the book to see.”

  Zach laughs again. “Ronnie must be going crazy with that. What’d they do with Earl, make him a Black Panther?”

  “You’llllll seeeeee.”

  “I gotta run,” Zach says. “But I have it under good authority that black Doris would spend the summer in Langsdale to see how things turn out with Mack. I heard she’s just that kind of madcap, risk-lovin’ gal.”

  “You could come here,” I say. “Does that thought just flee your mind every time you think of our possible future together?”

  “I never said I wouldn’t come there. I just asked that you make this one step toward me for the summer. Then we’ll see.”

  We’ll see is what high school boys say to their girlfriends whom they want to sleep with but not necessarily date. It’s what producers say to fat models and ugly actresses when they go on auditions. We’ll see, is most often, Leave me alone until I have the balls to say “no.”

  “Are you going Buddhist or something? I hate ‘we’ll see.’ It smacks of self-righteous detachment. And what am I supposed to do for money?”

  “I thought you’d just write. If this all works out, I’ll have enough money for both of us, for summer at any rate. Just keep it in mind. And buy your ticket for December. I’m working on Earl to get him and Ronnie out here, too. A regular reunion, you know, between you two sistahs.”

  “Shut up, Zach.” I’m smiling even though he can’t see it.

  “Word.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” I say.

  And then I hang up the phone.

  If Zach had been lig
hting candles at the local parish for a change of heart on my behalf, he couldn’t have lined up a better first customer of the day than Paige Prentiss. I thought that I’d dodged a bullet when I first got back from L.A. Two weeks of office hours passed without her mystic tan and Gucci bag materializing in my office. If she’d once wanted to talk to me, the desire seemed to have passed. In fact, it was almost as if her desire to talk, period, had passed. She wasn’t even sullen proper, just withdrawn during class. And while a good teacher-mommy, since mommy and teacher are often cross-referenced in the average student’s mind, would have called her into the office to find out what was really going on, I had clearly crossed over to bad teacher-mommy, and was just relieved to have some time without the thought police hot on my trail.

  So I almost wondered if Zach hadn’t paid her off when I see her outside my office first thing on Tuesday morning. As usual, I am juggling two tote bags full of papers, books and unread memos about department meetings and the like. At least Paige has the good, Southern manners to take an armload of books while I opened the door. Paige looks a little tired, a little less made-up than I’d come to expect, and her hair, while still close to camera ready, is looped in a decidedly unfashionable pink and blue scrunchie straight from the back page of Glamour magazine don’ts.

  “I’m sorry it’s early, Dr. Weatherall,” she starts. “But your office hours do start at nine, correct?”

  She’s right, although it’s already just past nine fifteen. This might have been a barb, but it sounded strangely like a plea. We enter my office and Paige sits straight backed in the chair across from me. She folds her hands in her lap and then closes her eyes as she says, “My mother is getting married. Again.”

  I have no idea what this has to do with anything English related, but decide to quiet my inner voice, which is all but screaming, “GO PAY A THERAPIST FOR THIS,” and ask, “Is that a good thing?”

  “Her third marriage, since my father. And every time she changes completely. Phil, the guy, runs a construction company that’s building a new skyscraper for Ted Turner. He’s rich, but so, so tacky. You cannot buy taste. Did you see that bra my mother wore to your class? That’s not my mother. Even I don’t have a red bra, too hooker-y. That’s Phil. And Phil has enrolled her in good wife classes at his church. I want to get married. I know that. But my mother…”