The (Other) You Read online

  Jammed onto the portable coatrack were cloth coats of various colors, nylon jackets, a single fox-colored fur coat, suede jackets, leather. A scattering of children’s clothing. Surprising, and disconcerting, the clothes resembled creatures without heads—decapitated.

  De-cap-i-tated was a new word the girl had recently discovered. It was not a nice word but it was an impressive word to be whispered aloud at such mysterious times: de-cap-i-tated.

  In the interior of the apartment voices were solemn and murmurous as a waterfall. You could not distinguish words only just sounds. A baby cried and fretted. Someone hushed it. There was a thin sort of music playing—piano music: M__ was startled to recognize her own tentative playing, which must have been recorded without her knowledge. That airy little rondo by the child Mozart which M__ had tried to play, an assignment in her lesson book repeated for weeks by her teacher Mrs. F__ who’d told her good, very good, keep practicing. In the kitchen M__ stood apprehensively awaiting the familiar D-sharp which she usually mis-struck as D-natural, and indeed to her chagrin the mistaken note was struck for all to hear, hovering in the air like a drunken moth.

  Oh but why had her parents recorded such a thing? The Mozart rondo? M__ had many months of practice ahead before the piece would sound anything like the charming composition the child Mozart had dashed off at the age of ten.

  There did seem to be a sizable audience gathered in the apartment. Some persons were sitting, most were standing. On the floor, a number of children sat Indian-style. (Classmates from M__’s fifth-grade homeroom? Her teacher Ms. T__ whom she adored?) From the kitchen doorway she could see a few familiar adult faces—relatives, neighbors. The faces were averted, M__ could not see them clearly.

  How strange! On the living room walls were Crayola drawings and paintings M__ had done in fourth and fifth grades and had brought back home proudly to show her parents. At least twenty of these childish efforts, neatly affixed to the wall with transparent tape, like a serious art exhibit. Embarrassing.

  On the kitchen counters were empty Styrofoam food containers, empty bottles of Coke, sparkling water, wine, hard liquor. A smell of scorched cheese as if something had been hastily heated in the oven and in the sink, black ashes of scorch that would dissolve when the faucets were turned on. Caps of beer bottles, crumpled napkins on the tile floor.

  M__ drew nearer the doorway to the living room, to hear more clearly. The halting Mozart rondo had ended—thank God! There was an awkward silence. Then a woman spoke, and M__ recognized her mother’s clear bell-like voice, a beautiful voice except when impatient or exasperated: “Thank you for coming to us! Thank you so much. Our dear, kind, generous friends—in this tragic hour—your presence is so comforting, we are very grateful. As you can see we are barely managing our grief—but we are managing it—for that is all that we can do, God has not made us any stronger than we are. To all of you who knew our dear, sweet, beautiful daughter—thank you for your sympathy, and for joining us today in this heartbroken household. Thank you for being here for us. And for bringing such fantastic, delicious food. Imagine, so unexpectedly—a wake! We loved our little girl very much but as you’ve just heard demonstrated, and can judge for yourselves seeing her ‘artwork’ displayed on the walls, M__ was not a particularly gifted child. She was not even ‘beautiful’—except to her parents. She was not ‘angelic’—hardly! She tried—it was touching, in one so young—she displayed many of the traits of precocity but not the ‘gift’ that redeems it—so her teachers have attested, with uncanny accuracy. She was not an average child but rather a ‘B’-child—sometimes ‘B+’—sometimes ‘B-.’ A dozen times a day we said to each other how heartrending it is, this child is trying so hard.”

  There came protests, voices lifted in objection to the mother’s words, though these were carefully measured, judicious: “M__ was as ‘gifted’ and as ‘beautiful’ as any other child her age, you’ve been too hard on her. She was only eleven—”

  “Only ten. She was not yet eleven.”

  “Only ten. In another year or two she might have—grown, developed . . .”

  “—matured. God, yes! That seemed to be next. The poor child, so immature mentally, and beginning to mature bodily—that is, sexually. With that sweet, plain face in another nine months growing breasts . . . At least she was spared that, as her parents were.”

  “—I think I’d meant mentally developed. In some ways M__ was a remarkable child, I think you have underestimated her—”

  “Oh, thank you! That’s very kind of you. Perhaps you are correct, we’ve been too harsh on M__, we’ve been judgmental as doting parents often are, but we have not been myopic either—we are not deluded like so many American parents. And it is true, as Don has been telling you, we will miss our little girl like hell—”

  Here M__’s father interrupted in a voice of raw anguish: “We certainly will! It’s been seventy-two hours since we lost her. It’s heartbreaking to see her little room, her bed and her stuffed animals we haven’t cleared out yet, and to realize that she won’t be coming back.”

  “She was not, as many of you know, a ‘planned’ child . . .”

  The father began to sob. Another adult intervened heartily.

  “Well, Don—nothing is ‘planned.’ Or—‘the best-laid plans of mice and men oft-times go astray’ . . .”

  Nervous laughter. A child whimpered, wanting to be taken home. The mother spoke again, in a firm, forceful voice:

  “—but still M__ was a welcome child. Once she arrived, and we saw that she was not some sort of freak—we were perfectly delighted with her. Indeed, we doted.”

  “—pretty, with curly red hair, blue eyes—”

  “—pebble-blue eyes, mouse-colored hair—”

  “—some aptitude for drawing and music—”

  “—a sweet girl, at times. Though she could cry—”

  “—accident-prone! God.”

  There came startled laughter. Mourners who had not expected to laugh, nonetheless laughing.

  Not derisive but affectionate laughter, M__ was thinking.

  In the doorway standing with her weight on her good, right leg, as her (left) ankle pounded with pain. Through a buzzing in her ears she’d been listening. With a hopeful smile waiting to be noticed. Oh, by anyone!—but mostly by her mother whom she adored more even than she adored Ms. T__.

  Any moment now M__’s mother would glance around to see her, and would give a little cry, and run to hug her, and burst into tears. For there had been some terrible mistake, and seeing M__ would correct the mistake.

  As M__ waited for this to happen M__ seemed to understand that it could not happen. For it was too late.

  She had stepped into the freight elevator. She had dared to enter the apartment building by the rear entrance which children, especially unaccompanied by adults, never entered. In that instant, it was too late.

  In the instant in which she’d stepped into the crack, it was too late.

  In the instant before she’d stepped into the crack, already it was too late.

  “—lawsuit, absolutely! You are correct. ‘Depraved indifference to human life’—‘professional negligence’—our lawyer is starting at fifty-five million. The nerve of these crooks leaving an elevator door unsecured—”

  “—opened to an empty shaft—nightmare—”

  “—with children in the building—”

  “—an accident-prone child in the building—”

  “—at such an age, so young, the poor thing seemed to have no judgment—every decision she made was a poor decision—”

  “—biting into a banana, she could choke-struggling to swallow a mouthful of raw spinach that had gotten tangled (somehow) around her back teeth—”

  “—yes, it is funny—if also sad, tragic—heartbreaking—uncanny, how an intelligent child could make such poor decisions—so often—”

  “—yes, it’s true—‘intelligent’—M__ was ‘intelligent’—”

  “—but accid
ent-prone. Hardwired in the DNA—”

  “—falling from her high chair, falling on the stairs—”

  “—hitting her head, turning her ankle—spraining her ankle—”

  “—falling into a crack—an inch-deep crack—that every other child in fifth grade has managed to avoid . . .”

  “—but the elevator shaft, how’d she manage that?—to force the door open—on the eleventh floor—”

  “—the damned door didn’t require being forced. People said it just—swung open . . .”

  And on, and on—a litany of remembrances to which M__ stood listening, scarcely daring to breathe.

  Me! They are remembering me.

  But then, no one seemed to see M__ in the doorway. No one seemed even to glance in her direction. One of M__’s mother’s relatives had brought two large fruit tarts, that were set on the glass-topped coffee table in the living room; with a silver knife the tart was cut into pieces, and these pieces passed around on paper plates. By this time the sky outside the windows was beginning to darken. Soon it would be dusk. And soon it would be night.

  Quietly M__ turned, to retreat. Eager to escape before the first of the guests began to leave. Especially, she dreaded one of the girls from her fifth-grade homeroom seeing her. Or two, or three. She dreaded relatives seeing her. And Daddy, and Momma. Their eyes gliding onto her, widening. Oh. You.

  Limping back through the kitchen M__ paused to take with her, in a white paper napkin, a half-slice of cold pizza, for she’d become very hungry.

  Left the apartment, closed the door. Follow the corridor, turn a corner, two corners. The freight elevator, she will find it.

  Waiting for Kizer

  1.

  Waiting for his friend Kizer on the outdoor terrace at the Purple Onion Café, Smith is beginning to be concerned.

  They are to meet for lunch at 1:00 P.M. on this day, Friday, June 9. Smith is certain. But already it is 1:26 P.M.

  Checks his cell phone another time: no email from Kizer, no call. Tries to call Kizer but call failed—not even a ring at the other end.

  Second time, unless it’s the third the teenaged-looking waitress with buzz-cut hair has approached him with an annoyingly cheerful smile—Excuse me sir shall I bring you something to drink while you wait for—Smith cuts her off with a glare. Thanks, no! He’d rather wait for his friend.

  It is Smith’s custom to arrive early to secure a table on the outdoor terrace of the café and to sit facing the entrance so that he can observe strangers without their observing him; also, Smith wants to be in a position to see his friend Kizer approaching before Kizer sights him.

  That slight advantage. Inexplicable but unmistakable.

  Another time Smith checks his cell phone. Nothing.

  It isn’t like Kizer to be this late. In their many years of meeting together for lunch—(or sometimes, meeting for a game of squash beforehand at the university gym)—in their many years of friendship, that began decades ago in grade school—Kizer has never been more than ten or fifteen minutes late, Smith is certain.

  Well, one distressing time—when Kizer didn’t show up at all. (A death in the family?—Smith vaguely recalls.)

  Smith leaves his table to inquire of the hostess who has been seating diners on the terrace: has a call come from his friend, for him?—his cell phone doesn’t seem to be working, and his friend is a half hour late . . .

  “D’you mean ‘Nate Kizer’? No, Mr. Kizer has not called today.”

  “Kizer? Do you know him?”—Smith is taken by surprise.

  “No, I don’t know him,” the hostess says. “All I know about Mr. Kizer is that he has lunch here sometimes.”

  “You mean with me—Nate Kizer has lunch with me.”

  “Yes, sir. But with other parties, too.”

  Parties. Not sure what this means.

  Tall streaked-blond hostess in long peasant skirt like a wraparound quilt smiling at Smith heedless that his heart has been lacerated.

  Ridiculous! Why should Smith care that his friend has lunch at the Purple Onion with others, not always him? Of course, Smith doesn’t care in the slightest.

  He has lunch with other people, too. From time to time. At the faculty club at the university.

  “Are these ‘parties’ men? Women?”—Smith is innocently curious.

  “Men. Usually.” But the streaked-blond hostess isn’t smiling so brightly as if beginning to wonder if she has said too much.

  “Men! I see.” Somehow, it seems that Smith would have preferred to hear that Kizer has lunch at the Purple Onion with women.

  “But—sometimes women? You said?”

  The hostess has not said, exactly. “Well—not for a while. Yes, I think—not for a while. Excuse me, sir—” Clasping the oversized Purple Onion menus to her bosom the hostess is eager to greet new customers.

  He has done it again, Smith thinks. Revealed his insecurity, his existential unease, in an imprudent exchange with a stranger. His shameless curiosity for the lives of others that are no business of his—he knows.

  Rebuked, Smith turns away. Returning to his table he feels a light tap on his arm and there’s a man, a stranger, in olive-tinted glasses seated alone at another table—“Excuse me? Were you talking about ‘Nate Kizer’? I couldn’t help but overhear.”

  2.

  Where the hell is Kizer?—Smith, the most placid of men, the least impatient, is beginning to be annoyed.

  It’s 1:38 P.M. Kizer is almost forty minutes late. For the third time at least Smith checks his cell phone: no messages. Tried again to call Kizer’s cell. Not even a ring. Call failed.

  Yet stubbornly Smith isn’t going to order his own grim lunch, eat alone and depart. No. He has brought a book to read—An Anthropology of Time. Dog-eared paperback he’d picked up on campus, retiring professor (philosophy) emptying his office, stacks of books once diligently read, underlined, and annotated, “taught”—now abandoned on a table in a busy foyer.

  But Smith can’t concentrate on mere words. Peers again at the God-damned phone cupped in his hand like a talisman.

  (Has Smith, like virtually everyone he knows, become compulsive about checking his phone? Good that his family can’t know. Scolding fifteen-year-old Trevor for spending so much time on his phone or online, video games up in his room . . .)

  Smith has to wonder if something happened between him and Kizer of which he isn’t aware. Longtime friendships can become strained, precarious. Tries to recall the last time they saw each other—in fact, here at the Purple Onion a few weeks ago—if Kizer was behaving strangely, Smith noticed nothing.

  Resents you. Feels inferior to you. Since you saved his life. No good deed goes unpunished.

  It’s a fact, no need to bring it up, when they were boys Matt Smith saved Nate Kizer’s life. Smith rarely thinks of the incident but guesses that Kizer thinks of it often.

  Saving another’s life. How it reflects upon your own.

  Smith wonders: Was his life altered, at eleven? Suffused with a sense of confidence as his friend’s life must have become suffused with a sense of unease, insecurity. Debt.

  For the past several years Smith and Kizer have been meeting for lunch at the Purple Onion Café, a relatively new restaurant located midway between Smith’s office at the university and Kizer’s office at the medical center. The Café isn’t either man’s first choice but it is moderately priced, unpretentious, specializes in “organic” food, and in warm weather there is outdoor seating.

  Good too, that the Purple Onion doesn’t have a liquor license.

  Today, Smith has driven his car to the Purple Onion. Very likely Kizer will drive, too. Not long ago each was likely to bicycle, walk, or even jog to lunch. There’d been a subtle rivalry between them: who would take the easier course, by driving.

  Though he has become somewhat paunchy around the middle, and is sometimes short of breath climbing stairs, Smith considers himself more athletic than Kizer, overall. Taller than Kizer, just slightly. Leaner, m
ore fit. More levelheaded. Less likely to brood, hold a grudge. He thinks so.

  Smith’s marriage, Smith’s children: on the whole, more satisfactory than Kizer’s. Possibly, Kizer’s career has been more impressive.

  Like (identical) twins, in a way. In such relationships there is inevitably the dominant, stronger twin.

  “Let’s play squash next week”—Smith plans to suggest to Kizer. Strange, it has been months since the men have played together . . .

  It has become Smith’s custom to arrive a few minutes early at the Purple Onion. In this way, he has the advantage. Asks for a corner table shielded from the sidewalk by a wisteria trellis. Always brings a book with him, lowers his head as if reading while observing diners at other tables, arrivals at the entrance. In a familiar reverie fantasizing strangers stripped naked and at his mercy . . . Boldly copulating with the (attractive) women, who never resist his advances; overpowering, humiliating the men. (Of course, Matt Smith is not like this at all. The most civilized of men, a gentlemanly man, in fact embarrassed when strangers turn out to be known to him, women friends of his wife’s, mothers of his children’s friends, the lewd fantasies dissolve at once.)

  And he is keen to sight Kizer before Kizer sights him—who can say why?

  Owes his life to me. Like no one else in the world. Every heartbeat, every breath—Kizer has to acknowledge.

  Born within a few months/miles of each other in San Rafael, California. Grade school, high school. Friends, rivals. Kizer was chess champion of the school district three years in a row but Smith was elected president of the class in their junior year; Kizer barely managed to get onto the track team but Smith still recalls, with a smile, that amazing season when, on the junior varsity softball team, until then just an OK player he’d hit a crucial home run—and earned the grudging admiration of Coach Fenner.

  True, both boys were attracted to the same girls. And true, the girls might’ve preferred Kizer except Kizer was too shy, socially maladroit, to take advantage.

  Who had fallen in love first?—that remains unclear.