by Jenna Blum
Trudy stays near the truck while Thomas loads the contents of his cart into it, ostensibly keeping a lookout for muggers but really rehearsing apologies to him about what they have just heard. When he is done, however, and they are standing face-to-face on the curb, all Trudy can say is: Wow.
Yes, says Thomas. Wow.
They stand awkwardly in the cold, chuffing vaporous breath like racehorses, Trudy prodding with one foot at a dirty chunk of ice. While they have been engaged with Frau Kluge, the world has turned from day to night—something that always startles Trudy no matter how she tries to prepare for it. She squints at Thomas, trying to gauge his expression in the sickly orange flicker of the streetlights, but he is gazing over her head toward Frau Kluge's apartment. His jowly face is stern, remote.
I'm sorry, Thomas, Trudy says. That was rough.
That's all right, he says. It was about what I expected.
Trudy frowns down at her boots. But we're not all like that, she wants to tell him. Really we're not. There are some good Germans. Instead, she gives the ice a good kick, sending it skittering across the street.
I could use a stiff drink right about now, she says.
Thomas laughs. Me too.
Trudy looks hopefully up at him. Do you want to go get one? I know this place not far from here, in Dinkytown, that has great margaritas—
I would, says Thomas, but I already have plans. Sorry.
Oh. Okay. Maybe next time.
Sure, he says. Next time.
Trudy tarries a minute longer, wanting to say something to confirm that there will be a next time, that Thomas will give her another chance, that lets him know she truly is sorry. But she can't think of how to phrase it, so finally she just flutters a hand in the air near his elbow, half rescinded touch, half wave.
Thanks again, she says. I'll talk to you soon.
Bye, says Thomas.
Trudy sits in her car while her engine warms up and watches Thomas climb into his truck and speed off. He honks as he turns the corner—shave-and-a-haircut, two-bits. Maybe he actually does have somewhere else to be. On the other hand, maybe he just wants to get away from Trudy and her German Project as fast as possible. Trudy doesn't blame him. She sighs and shifts into gear.
She really does want a drink, not so much for the alcohol as to wash the bad taste of her sycophancy to Frau Kluge out of her mouth, to return to the world of normal things. She is not ready to go home to a solitary brandy—she craves company—yet she is not about to go to a bar by herself to seek it. There is little in the world more pathetic, Trudy believes, than a middle-aged woman sitting alone on a bar stool. She runs over her list of possible drinking companions: there is Ruth, but this being her short day at the university, she is probably home preparing dinner with her husband. There are a couple of colleagues Trudy could call, but they are more acquaintances than friends, and casual conversation with them—invariably consisting of campus gossip—seems both irrelevant at the moment and too much work. And aside from this, there is ... Trudy gnaws her lip and makes a decision on impulse. Perhaps it is because her pre-interview sparring with Frau Kluge has made Trudy think of him for the first time in a while; whatever the cause, she will pay her ex-husband Roger a little visit.
She gets off 394 at Fifth Street, where Roger's restaurant, Le P'tit Lapin, is still located despite the girders of the highway, a dream in some city councilman's head when Roger and Trudy first bought the place, that now eclipse it in permanent darkness. Trudy smiles a little as she parks and picks her way over the ice to the door. Given the restaurant's success, Roger could certainly afford to move it to a more upscale neighborhood, but it is typical of him that he has not. Such an act would smack of pretension, which Roger claims to despise above all else. He has always thumbed his nose at trend; whereas the city's newer establishments boast imported light sconces and marble-painted walls reminiscent of Italian villas, Le P'tit is as plain as ever. It is a tiny place, seating only forty at its fullest capacity, with sooty tricolored awnings flapping over the windows. Inside, the brick walls are whitewashed, the lights bright so as to be able to see the food. A Vivaldi string quartet plays quietly from somewhere overhead; when Roger is feeling wild and crazy, he will slip an Edith Piaf CD into the sound system, but normally the music is as muted as the decor. Nothing that will distract from la cuisine.
The dining room is empty at this hour, although in the kitchen, Trudy knows, the line and sous chefs will be sweating and swearing in an ill-tempered frenzy of dinner preparation. She finds a spindly server wedging napkins into wineglasses and asks the boy to let Roger know she is here. Then she waits by the hostess stand, looking around a bit sadly. Imagine, a whole decade of her adult life spent in this place as Roger's helpmeet! Trudy can almost see a translucent version of her younger self, hair parted in the middle and tied back with a hank of yarn, moving among the tables to set tealights on them. These have been replaced, she notices now, by fat tapers sparkling with embedded glitter. Tinsel twines about their bases. A Christmas tree bedecked with gingham bows presides in the window. Trudy is startled by this display of seasonal kitsch, which—certainly not Roger's idea—must be the doing of Roger's current wife, Kimberly. Who at the moment is clacking quickly toward Trudy from the swinging doors to the kitchen.
Well, hi there, calls Kimberly. What a surprise!
I hope you don't mind my dropping in like this—
Don't be silly. Not at all.
Kimberly leans in to bestow air kisses on either side of Trudy's face. She is a well-coiffed blond in her midthirties, her porcelain complexion and china-blue eyes so making her resemble a doll that Trudy fancies she can hear the click of lids when Kimberly blinks. She does so now, rapidly: click click click. But it is a mistake to underestimate the brain beneath that fashionably tousled hair; it is, Trudy knows from the post-divorce division of property, as relentless and practical as an adding machine.
Roger's in the wine cellar, Kimberly says. Some mix-up with the Merlot delivery ... But you know how that goes.
She winks, twinkling.
So I thought I'd keep you company until he comes up. Can I offer you a drink?
Please, says Trudy.
The pair cross the hall to the bar, a dark-paneled little room whose draperies exhale the breath of decades' worth of cigars. Trudy settles onto a stool and watches in the leaded mirror while the younger woman sets out glasses. If not for the twenty-year gap in age, Trudy and Kimberly might be mistaken for sisters.
Red or white? Kimberly asks. Oh, silly me, did you want something stronger? A vodka tonic, or a Scotch—
Red's great, thanks, Trudy says.
She samples the Bordeaux Kimberly pours for her. Chateau Souverain, an excellent vineyard, a vintage year. Unlike most restaurateurs, Roger has not hired a sommelier, preferring to select his wines himself. His taste has not slipped.
Kimberly fills Trudy's glass to within a half inch of the brim and prepares her own drink, a Perrier with lime. She glances at the mirror and scrapes the lacquered nails of thumb and forefinger over the corners of her mouth to remove any crumbs of dried lipstick collected there. Then she comes around the bar to perch on the stool nearest Trudy.
So, she says, crossing her legs to exhibit a thoroughbred's thighs encased in glittery hose. How are you?
Trudy nods, glancing at the haunches while taking a long swallow of her wine. Maybe it wasn't such a bright idea to come here.
I'm fine, she says. Busy as always. You know.
Oh, I sure do. This time of year, it's crazy, isn't it?
Kimberly sighs deeply and pulls at the wisps of her bangs. I could just yank it all out, she says, laughing. You know, Trudy, I was just thinking about you the other day.
You were?
I sure was. Thinking how I envy you. You single gals have all the fun. No family to cook for—Roger's whole family coming for Christmas, even that ancient aunt, can you believe it? And no grouchy old bear of a husband to put up with ... So tell me, sinc
e I have to live through you. Any new men in your life?
Not really, Trudy says.
Kimberly pouts and leans closer, providing Trudy with a view of the admirable and freckled cleavage nestled in the salmon satin of her blouse.
Oh, now, she says. It's not nice to keep all the good stuff to yourself. There must be somebody.
She smiles expectantly at Trudy, who gulps her wine.
Well..., she says, thinking of Thomas.
I knew it! You couldn't fool me for a second with that poker face. I could tell by just looking at you!
Kimberly gives Trudy's arm a playful just-between-us-girls tap. So who is he, she says.
Oh, it's nothing serious, says Trudy. We just met, really.
There you go again, not playing fair. Come on, tell me. Tell me all about him.
Well[[[mdash.gif]]]
Trudy is saved by Roger choosing this moment to make his entrance. She gives him a huge smile. She hasn't been so happy to see him since their wedding day.
Whoopsie! Kimberly says brightly and zips the air near her lips.
Roger strides to Trudy and kisses her on both cheeks, the rasp of his mustache raising its usual prickle on the nape of her neck.
I should have known I'd find you two ladies in the bar, he says.
Kimberly vacates her stool and Roger slides onto it.
I'll have a glass of whatever she's having, hon, he says to his wife. Thanks.
Then he turns back to Trudy and slaps his knees.
So! he says. This is an unexpected pleasure. How long has it been?
I don't know, says Trudy. Too long?
I think we saw her about eight months ago, hon, says Kimberly from behind the bar. Remember, when we ran into each other at Lunds?
Oh, that's right ... Well, that's still too long. Roger smiles at Trudy. You look great, though.
So do you, Trudy tells him, although this is something of a lie. Like his restaurant, Roger is both as familiar to Trudy as her own skin and subtly, disconcertingly changed. He is still a big fellow-the female servers, their ranks once including Kimberly, ever prone to remarking this, to squeezing his biceps and cooing over Roger's resemblance to the Brawny paper towel man—but now his center of gravity has shifted from his chest to the spare tire around his waist. His face, in the past a healthy pink leading Trudy to tease him that he looked as though he were made of marzipan, is now the red that signifies high blood pressure. And there is more than the suggestion of a double chin.
I see business is good, Trudy can't help saying.
Roger gives her a look and sips his wine.
Can't complain, thanks, he replies, and swabs his mustache on the sleeve of his chef's whites. So! How's the teaching? How, as they say, are kids these days?
Apathetic as tree sloths, says Trudy. But one can always hope that something one says is penetrating the ether.
Oh, I'm sure it is ... And what else is going on? Any ventures outside the academic realm?
Not really, says Trudy. I am doing a research project that's of personal interest, but I got funding through the university, so I guess you'd consider that academic.
Well, that depends. What's it about?
Trudy takes a larger gulp of Bordeaux than intended and spills some of it. She licks the side of her hand.
Germans, she says. I'm interviewing Germans of my mother's generation. To see how they're dealing with what they did during the war.
Really, says Roger.
Yes, well, it's still very much in the beginning stages. I just came from my first interview, in fact. And it was ... difficult. But I thought it would be interesting—I mean, necessary—to hear about the war from live sources. There's not much documentation of the German reaction, especially straight from the horse as it were, and it'll be invaluable to the study of this time period to add—
Well, here's where I leave you two, Kimberly interrupts. Trudy, super to see you again. Give me a call and we'll do lunch, okay? So we can talk about—you know. What we were talking about before this big lug came in.
She drops a kiss on Roger's hair, sends Trudy a final wink, and leaves.
Trudy glances at the antique railway clock over the bar.
I should probably let you go too, she says.
No, that's all right, replies Roger. I still have a few minutes, assuming there're no brush fires in the kitchen ... So. Difficult, you said. In what way?
What?
Your interview.
Trudy raises her eyebrows at Roger. Is he just being polite? But he appears genuinely interested, so she gets up, goes behind the bar, refreshes her wine at Roger's go-ahead nod, and returns to her stool, where she recounts Frau Kluge's interview for him in detail.
And that's it, Trudy says when she has finished, with a flourish that sends a tongue of Bordeaux leaping onto the floor. Interview ein. Kaputt.
She sets her glass carefully on its napkin. She is getting a little drunk.
So she never admitted she was the one turning in the Jews, Roger says.
Not outright.
And you didn't confront her with it.
Well, no. But. It was obvious she was talking about herself.
Yes, of course, says Roger. Mmmmm. Interesting.
He props an elbow on the bar and tugs his mustache, examining Trudy with the heavy-lidded, deceptively sleepy gaze that she knows masks his keenest curiosity.
What, Trudy says.
Nothing. It's nothing.
What it's nothing. It's not nothing. Not when you're giving me the Look. What is it?
I really don't want to get into this, Trudy.
Into what? Come on, Roger. Out with it.
It's just still amazing to me, that's all.
What is?
The lengths you'll go to to avoid therapy.
What? says Trudy. What are you talking about?
Roger gazes at the ceiling as if beseeching the skies above for patience.
It is beyond me, he says, why you would waste all this time and energy on this project of yours when you could just get counseling to deal with your issues in a normal way and move on.
I am doing, says Trudy, biting off each word, empirical research.
For whom? Tell me honestly. For the academic realm? Or for yourself?
What difference does that make, Trudy snaps.
A smile spreads Roger's mustache, and Trudy bristles. She knows exactly what he is thinking of: their single session of marriage counseling, after which Trudy had a fit of hysterical giggles in the car over the therapist's earnest, sweating attempts to foster rapport—Now, Roger, hold Trudy's hands, that's right, and look deep into her soul and tell her exactly how you feel about her—and bulging froglike eyes. She refused to go back.
Counseling is not the answer to everything, Roger, she says now. Just because you and Kimberly go to, to encounter groups and retreats and sweat lodges to, to discover your inner animal spirit guides or God knows what—
Roger's smile curls further.
Oh, Trudy, he says.
Don't you take that pitying tone with me.
I don't pity you, says Roger gently. I'm trying to help you. Don't you see, Trudy? It's all about your mother. I still don't know what your particular beef with her is, but any Psych 101 student could tell you the underlying pathology: you're just like her.
Trudy is so enraged that she can't speak. She sputters incoherently for a minute, then finally manages to come out with, Oh yeah?
Absolutely.
Trudy slides off her stool. Well, that's exactly what I'd expect from Psych 101, she says.
She reaches for her wine to polish it off in a show of bravado, but her hand is shaking so hard that she has to put the glass down. She decides not to give Roger the satisfaction of watching her try to button her coat.
Besides, she says, snatching her purse from the floor, what would you know about it? You've hardly even met my mother.
Of course not, says Roger smoothly. You wouldn't let me. But fr
om the rare occasions I did meet her, I'd say the similarity is obvious. More than obvious. Striking.
Is that so.
Yes, it's so.
Well, it is not. I am not remotely like my mother.
Now there's an interesting Freudian slip, says Roger. She is remote. And so are you. You always have been. Remote. Formal. Cold. Compulsive about cleaning. All those good German traits. You know.
I do not know, says Trudy, storming toward the door to the street. I do not know anything of the kind. All I know is that you're still a pompous ass. You haven't changed a bit.
Nor have you, says Roger, following her. Sadly.
He opens the door for her with a sardonic little bow, denying Trudy the chance to slam it in his face.
Always a pleasure, he says.
Go to hell.
Trudy brushes past him and stalks down the sidewalk, cursing the ice for making her watch her step and foiling her grand exit.
And Roger ruins it further, for as Trudy reaches her car she hears him call, And hey, Trudy, about your German Project? I don't know why you're even bothering. Of course all those old Krauts are Nazis! What else did you expect?
21
BY THE TIME TRUDY GETS HOME, IT IS FULL DARK AND snowing a little—a few flurries spinning uncertainly in the motion-sensitive light over her garage—and the large round thermometer affixed to the neighbors' deck shows the temperature to be fifteen below zero. But Trudy doesn't notice the cold. She steams up her walk with her coat still unbuttoned, and as she shakes out her keys to unlock the door she tells the indifferent yard all the things she should have said to Roger back at Le P'tit.
Just like my mother, she mutters. Typically German. Krauts! What would he know about it? Big ox. Stupid Scandinavian. Big—dumb—woodenheaded—Viking!
