The Business of Naming Things

by Michael Coffey

  Harold suddenly seemed tired. His eyes were at half-mast. “Yes, I suppose so. It’s the best we can do. But not enough.”

  Ellen brought some scones out, and offered lemonade. “Fruit only for you, Harold.” She placed a bowl of melon cubes in his lap.

  I crumbled through a scone while Harold sucked at the melon bits. We recovered, for it seemed we had to.

  “What else did you want to ask?” he said, and I felt the shadow of the nurse behind me.

  “I wanted to know, sir,” I replied, adopting for no good reason a jocular tone, “if you felt that not having a complete uninterrupted story to your life, because of the adoption and being raised by, what, a second cousin to your father and her husband in a weird place like University City, Missouri, you were unable to write—or was it uninterested in writing—a conventional narrative, something beyond the template of, say, sexual coming. Some of your stories follow the same path.”

  He was silent for a time. I stopped chewing my scone.

  “Uninterested,” he said. “Ergo unable.”

  As I descended in the elevator, I realized I had forgotten to have him sign my book. In fact, I had left it there. When the doorman showed me the street, the sunlight was blinding. I stared into the sun’s wide glare for the second I could stand it, then dropped my lids. An explosion of reds, sheets of Rubylith and sea life, in a flood.

  I THOUGHT YOU WERE DALE

  IT WAS DELIA IN PRODUCE who told Carla about the guy who’d moved in down by the lake. Took over the condo when old Mrs. Beauharnois died, might’ve been a cousin or a nephew or something, Delia said. He’s a widow, she said.

  Er, said Carla. It’s widower.

  That’s when Carla got to thinking—out of the blue—that she just might, someday, in her own way—in her own time—might make a move on this guy Dale Sweeney, though she’d never laid eyes on him.

  Carla was on the rebound from Jeff. She still felt young, only thirty, not too worn if you didn’t look too close. Worked off the baby fat. She’d check herself out mornings in the ceiling mirror Jeff had installed—a little harder around the edges, she thought, from work and worry, of course. She liked the look—kind of a fuzzy Madonna look after she’d found Pilates. And Carla’d started reading her books a little again. Ayn Rand. Terry McMillan. Danielle Steel.

  So what if Jeff had split. Good riddance to bad rubbish. He left the truck; at least there’s that, Carla reasoned. Let him drive the little goddamn broken-down old Datsun to his shit job at Wendy’s and his girlfriend’s dump on Rugar Street. That’s rich: Had to go find himself, and he finds himself all right—over in Wiggletown. And sinking.

  On the other hand . . . Carla on the upswing! Nice promotion at Price Chopper, new responsibilities, the pinstripe shirt and blue skirt rather than the sweatshirt and hairnet deal in bakery. Plus a raise—up to $10.50 now. And she just loved that clipboard she had to carry around; she even kept it with her in the truck, the thing sliding around on the dashboard importantly. And her kids weren’t fucked-up like most kids in this situation; not yet. They had Grandma and school and they loved their room now that Jeff had finally put down the purple carpet.

  DELIA, TALL AND BROAD as a cigar store Indian, saw everyone come in the store from her spot in produce. Everybody had to walk through there—aisles of fruit on the left, veggies on the right—before they got to anything else they might really want. There were really good scientific reasons for this, Mr. Crevecoeur said so, and said someday she, Carla, could read up on it in the company literature that he kept in a binder in his office. There was a word for this, but Carla couldn’t remember what it was, but whatever it was, basically it explained why you buried the things people were most likely to be coming in wanting—milk, beer, meat—at the back of the store, so they’d have to walk through the things they might not really want or’d rather forget they were supposed to get—like peas and carrots. Whatever. Carla was somewhat interested.

  Delia had come up to the desk early last Saturday and said to Carla, Looky-who, and nodded over her shoulder. Which one? said Carla. With the cute butt, said Delia, and that little giddyup there, that limp. Delia pronounced with a flourish, I give you . . . Dale Sweeney.

  Carla saw him. He did have a cute ass, in worn jeans. His limp—yes, he did have one—was more of a swivel, to the discerning eye. He had a big wallet in his rear-end right pocket, and a chain swung from that down and then up toward his front somewhere. She could see an old faded bandana spilling a little from his rear-end left pocket. He wore a jean jacket.

  They watched Dale Sweeney lean over to pick up a rutabaga from the basket. He brought it to his nose and sniffed. He then held the rutabaga nearly at arm’s length in his right hand, admiring the root vegetable. He had large hands. With his thumb, he worked away the wax on the purple rim, and then took another sniff. Why, he’s a gourmet, Carla thought. Then he bent down quickly—Carla saw only the smallest of love handles on his hips, white as pork—and put the rutabaga back. Pick-EEE! She and Delia exchanged looks.

  Dale Sweeney continued on down the aisle, past all the lettuces—the iceberg, the Boston, the romaine, the Bibb, the frizzy shit, the mixed mesclun bin—before Mr. Crevecoeur said, Carla, c’mere, dear. Also: Delia, problem? No, sir. Just needed a price check on the rutabagas. She shuffled off. Carla could see little leaves of whaddyacall-it—watercress—pressed into the white underside of Delia’s fat forearms like little shamrocks.

  Carla, said Mr. Crevecoeur. Yuh, said Carla, resigned to not seeing her man till perhaps he swung out of produce, moved along smoked meats, and then headed right up aisle two—coffee, teas, specialty—and there she’d see the face of the man she already loved, with the nice ass and the adorable hobble.

  Carla?

  Uh, yessir.

  Do you watch TV? Mr. Crevecoeur seemed to be squinting at her, or perhaps it was a slow-moving wink in process.

  Carla surprised herself with a quick and very effective reply: Of course not. I can’t. I mean, migraines, sir.

  Right, of course, of course, he said, his mind stalling. How old are you?

  Carla gave him a look that said, You’re out of line. Old enough, she said.

  Of course, said Mr. Crevecoeur. Who’s that out there you and Delia Heffer are so fascinated with? He removed his glasses to work at a smear on the lens with his thumb and forefinger, but he just made it worse. His left eye was dripping.

  Weirdo, she thought, turning to go back to the customer service desk, her clipboard across her belly. It made her feel . . . professional, like a doctor with his charts. Her charts.

  Do you know his name? asked Mr. Crevecoeur from behind her.

  Carla turned around. No, she said. What are you talking about? Who?

  Mr. Crevecoeur put his glasses back on and gave his head a little shake, as if he were clearing water from goggles after a swim.

  Pay no attention to me, Darla, he said. And then he started his strange laugh, more like a sniveling sound.

  It’s Carla, Mr. Crevecoeur.

  That’s what I said, he replied, with a cracked grin that looked painful. As he walked away, she thought she heard him mutter that he thought she was Dale! She thought he said, I thought you were Dale! Dale Sweeney? How could that be? She let it drop.

  She took a cigarette break on that one, standing out back, where the old cracked-up tarmac looked like a map of strange countries, like Africa.

  CARLA FIGURED SHE WAS SMARTER than your average Price Chopper employee. She was a Regents Scholar and took calculus once. She was a woman who knew her way around, who knew how to get what she wanted from a man, so she didn’t need to talk to the likes of Big Delia or anybody else at work or at the gym, where she sculpted her butt. She could handle it. She had a plan.

  Her plan was this: Dale Sweeney’s new place was just up the lake from the Yacht Club, which had a decent brunch on the weekends. JayPee and Callie were old enough now to eat cereal on their own and watch their shows in the morning, so that would give
Carla a good start on what she called intelligence gathering. She’d cruise down to the Yacht Club for a modest breakfast—brunch—on the deck in back (no fries). She would eat alone. People would understand, what with Jeff just having left. Just about everybody knew it, didn’t they? From there, from that big round table in the corner of the back room, looking north up the lake shore, she is sure she could see Dale Sweeney’s condo. She could probably see the sliding doors to his living room. Could probably see his TV and through the archway into his kitchen!

  BILLY AT THE BAR GAVE CARLA A HARD TIME. She showed up at ten-thirty and there was no one in the place. Where’s the brunch crowd? she asked him.

  Been out all night, Car? I heard about Jeff.

  She knew it: Everybody did know!

  Carla made it clear to Billy that her comings and goings weren’t any of his biz, but now she was busy killing time, like, did she really want to sit here and have brunch in an empty dining room with Billy at the stick and she wasn’t even hungry? No. And how would she get away with sitting there looking at Dale’s condo without it being pretty clear she was sitting there looking up the lake at Dale’s condo? So she asked when the Bills game was on and was told that the pregame began in about forty-five minutes. She asked if the newspaper was around and if the kitchen was open yet and whether or not they were still suffering from the exchange rate. Main thing to avoid was Billy giving her the first degree. He was a sweet-enough guy, but he used to be a psych major, so everything was mom and dad, and whatever you said you didn’t want was really you saying what you did want, according to Dr. Billy.

  What’ll you have?

  Carla hesitated. She didn’t want anything but a pair of binoculars and, maybe, a Percoset.

  How about a Bloody Mary? A bullshot?

  There was no use telling Billy no—to him, it meant yes.

  She ordered a Bloody Mary, even though it wasn’t noon yet and it wasn’t legal, and took a menu and went back to the sunny area in the back room. And there it was. One, two, three condos up the lake. His jeans were actually hanging on a clothesline.

  She still hadn’t really seen Dale up close—his face, that is. Not of recent vintage anyway. She and Delia had looked through a bunch of old yearbooks from his school, where, as it happens, Delia’s cousin was once the nurse and so had all the books from a certain era. And there he was, Dale X. Sweeney, class of ’84. Blondish hair upswept at the temples, a scattering of freckles, high, sharp cheekbones to die for, eyes a little beady, to be honest, like maybe he was a car thief. He really looked more 1950s than 1980s, more duck’s ass than disco. Can’t see no teeth, said Big Delia, which was true. I assume he’s got ’em, said Carla.

  Carla had barely touched her Bloody Mary when Billy came over. It’s a bye week, actually, he said. There ain’t no Bills game today.

  Wow, thought Carla. How interesting.

  She teased him. Billy, you’re so . . . honest with me. It’s like we was brother ’n’ sister. Were, she corrected herself, silently.

  No, he said. I mean, I meant, you know, there’s not likely, um, to, you know, like the crowd, it’ll be a slow one today. Not much for me is what I’m saying.

  Really, said Carla in a deadpan.

  It’s nice to see you is all, said Billy, moving away from her table back to the bar.

  She drew the straw of her drink to her lips and sucked a good jolt of vodka from the bottom. She let the warmth of the sun off the lake through the porch glass glint off her cheeks and toast her lightly. She gazed at Dale Sweeney’s jeans doing a slow cowboy’s dance in the wind.

  Nothing came of that but a headache from the second cocktail she had, plus the Marlboro she smoked in the parking lot before heading home to make lunch for JayPee and Callie. Carla went back the following Saturday, and there was a bit of a crowd for a college game of some sort—she couldn’t care less; college football was all southern wasn’t it, like NASCAR?—but no sign of Dale, not even his pants. She went again the next Sunday, pretending a little interest in someone she knew would never be there—an old flame from a distant town, who, she knew, had moved to Colorado. But she told Billy he might be in—this guy—on Sunday, explaining her presence once again. But no Dale.

  She decided, This sweetie pie doesn’t come home or doesn’t get up till afternoon, now does he? I’m too early in this brunch deal. So she made a quick change of plans. The Bills are the Monday-night game, yeah, Billy?

  Why yass, he said with a leer.

  Out the door she went.

  Right then, of course—like clockwork!—Carla’s mom’s colostomy bag broke—really, right about then, because when she got home, JayPee said Grandma had called and to call her right away.

  She couldn’t believe it. The bag had blown in the living room, where Carla’s mom had leaned over to adjust the TV set, and the bladder got squashed between her thigh and her midriff and—you know—all over the TV screen and that perforated speaker plate and, of course, the pile carpet she and Jeff had given her for Christmas a year ago. There was even shit high up on the brass clockworks on top of the TV, right on the underside of the hat brim of the bronze cowboy on the bronze horse. Shit bronze: amazing to behold, amazing that Carla noticed. But she was superwoman, anything for her mom today. Carla got there in ten minutes and brought her own bucket and mop and ammonia.

  Things got worse, of course, the next day. Carla stopped off at Dragoon’s to get a resupply of bags and a fresh TV Guide. They watched Meet the Press together, but her mom got sicker as Sunday afternoon began to fade. Carla finally left at eight to get back to the kids and give them dinner and baths, but she knew she would be back. Sure enough, her mother called at eleven, saying she needed EMS. She had a fever, her stoma was infected, and she had cramps. Nice progress.

  As Carla drove to her mother’s, she was proud that she knew what a stoma was, thanks to Mr. Crevecoeur. Somehow it had come up months ago, in the employee lounge—someone else’s mother maybe—and Mr. C. said it meant mouth in Greek. Stomach, he said, was really a big mouth. The doctor just gives you another mouth. Everyone thought, What? Colostomy means colon mouth, said Mr. C. carefully.

  IT WAS TRICKY GETTING BIG DELIA to sit with the kids on Monday night, but Carla finessed it. She ran a guilt trip on Big D. You’re the one who got me all interested in this guy, she said. Just let me do my thing.

  What’s your thing, Car?

  You never mind.

  Carla’s mom was all set up in a semiprivate room. John’s coverage from the prison was still top-notch, even though he’d died six years ago. As a surviving spouse, Marie qualified. She assured Carla she was just fine; she liked the woman in the bed next to her—an Indian from the reservation with failing kidneys; they both liked the soaps.

  Carla had to put in half a day at Ye Old Price Chop, as Mr. Crevecoeur called it at the company party after a couple of Buds, before beginning her prep for Monday night. She expected an easy half shift; Mr. C.’d be doing his inventory. But instead, there he was in customer service with a bandage on his head. He was jabbering when Carla signed in; again she thought he was maybe talking to her and maybe not. Sir? she said.

  Darla, er, Carla, he began. I thought you were Dale! He said it with a theatrical flourish and a southern twang.

  Carla was confused. I’m just signing in; half day today, sir. Bakery.

  You just don’t know. You’re so young. A TV commercial. We were all saying it: I thought, I thought you were Dale! He laughed and then winced. His head hurt, you could tell.

  I said bakery, said Carla, clarifying.

  It was a Grape-Nuts commercial, actually. A teenage boy. Underwater. Now listen: A teenage boy underwater, he pushes a woman in a bathing suit to the surface. Splashing everywhere. She lets out a yelp! Turns out it wasn’t that young buck’s girlfriend—Dale—but her mother. And he says, But, but, I thought, I thought you were Dale!

  Mr. Crevecoeur laughed. Carla started tapping her foot like she did when she got impatient. You know why? You know
why he thought she was Dale? I’ll tell you.

  Because she ate Grape-Nuts and had a nice figure, offered Carla as a guess.

  Mr. C. closed both eyes, as if waiting to pass something painful. Carla headed off to the bakery.

  SHE GOT A LIGHT FROST FROM DEBBIE’S HAIR We Are and then took a step class at the Comfort Inn for a little tone and to give a slight humid jostle to her locks. She took a long shower at home (with shower cap) and imagined Dale looking at her through the frosted glass. I don’t need to eat Grape-Nuts, she thought, if that’s what it was. Then she sat on the edge of the toilet seat, wrapped in a towel, her skin pink and tingling in the way that happy skin slowly cooling tingles, and she waited. Carla felt she could wait forever in just this phase—this transitional stage. She wasn’t wet and she wasn’t dry; the mirror was fogged, though she could see the shadow of the shape of her head through the clouded surface; she was not single and she was not married; her parents were alive, and dead; she was and was not a lot of things, and in there, in between things, she felt free. She wondered why she wanted to change a thing about her life. These were interesting thoughts to her. Suddenly, she was afraid her cell phone would ring—she turned it off. She locked the door—she could hear the scramble of cartoon noises with kids’ laughter mixed in; they’d be content for hours; they could pee upstairs when they needed to. Carla turned the tub faucet back on, hot. She wanted more steam to rise. For a few moments, she hung over the tub itself, letting her towel loosen, and tickling with her fingers her own neck beneath her ringlets. Chills rose from within her, only to be satisfyingly warmed and melted at her skin’s surface. She could hardly get enough of this.

  Carla sat back on the flipped-down toilet seat and decided that Mr. Crevecoeur was scary—maybe gay without knowing it, which was the scary part, and no way was she going to a bar for Monday Night Football, Dale or no Dale. No way was she going. No way she was going anywhere, and she let the water run.