“Well, let’s talk about something else.”
“The work always kept you too busy to think of yourself. It was always Edward and me and the work. If you ask me, you deserve some good times now.”
“I didn’t ask you, baby. And I like my work. That’s good times. It is. And I’m good at it.”
“Okay.” Her young son sighs. “Just sayin’.”
—
A WOMAN OF MEANS, as the phrase goes, still attractive at forty-nine, doing work she does indeed like. But in the following days she thinks about the empty house when she’s working. Seeing the gladness of couples for whom she finds dwelling places makes her happy, but there’s a melancholy in it, too, now.
“I really miss my boys,” she says to one of her colleagues, whose last child left in the summer for a stint in the army. The two of them are sitting in her office, with the picture window facing out onto the traffic of Poplar Avenue, passing cars flashing reflected sun. “You had five—five—grow up and leave. How’d you do it?”
The colleague, whose name is Darnell, makes a motion with her hands, as if she’s gently but forcefully pushing someone away from herself. “Like this.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m absolutely not kidding. I’d started dating Brad. And I wanted time with him. And they had their own lives and all that, except where they still needed things from me, like doing their laundry and paying their bills and cooking for them. So it was ‘I love ya, boys, and now it’s time to go out on your own, you know? Bye-bye.’ ”
They watch a man in a baseball cap crossing the wide avenue. His cap blows off in the wind, and he nearly gets hit stepping forward into the next lane and the flow of traffic to retrieve it. There’s the screech of car brakes. Eliza gasps and puts her hand to her mouth. “God, did you see that?”
“He almost bought it.”
“It’s so hard, thinking of Cody all the way in California.”
“I’m sure Cody looks both ways before crossing the street.”
“It’s so far. He might as well be on the moon.”
“It’s a plane ride. Come on. You’ve gotta find somebody nice to go around with. It’s time to think of yourself. Really. You should start dating again.”
—
ONE LATE EVENING she goes on a site herself and spends valuable time surfing through the faces, the descriptions of histories, hobbies, accomplishments, and requirements. The posts are often so similar as to seem dull: so many passionate, spiritual, and fun-loving men. But there are remarks about favorite pieces or styles of music, and some about books and movies, too. Finally she fills out a profile and joins.
BestMatch.com.
But then weeks go by. Occasionally she checks in and finds several inquiries—gentlemen in their late forties and early fifties whose smiling photographs tend to seem rather discouragingly of that category of person who hasn’t aged well. Substantial seeming, round faced, with good teeth and all their hair. Two with beards. But many are clearly a little or a lot overweight. Her own photo is recent, and is a good one. She likes the way her dark hair frames her face.
One man’s photo does please her for the fact that he’s not exactly smiling. There’s just the slightest turn at the edge of his mouth. His hair’s thinning. His expression seems faintly doubtful, appears in fact to reflect her own sense of not being quite sold on the idea.
“I’m fifty-two, and a widower,” says his profile. “By the time Abraham Lincoln was my age, he was president. I’m an associate professor of English at Rhodes College, and I live in the Cooper-Young district, in a nice house I’ve owned since 1990. I have three grown daughters, who will all vouch for me. I don’t have any pets, though I did own a dog for twelve years. But that was ten years ago now. I have a Ph.D. from Vanderbilt; I play some piano, a little guitar, but mostly I like to listen and I like all kinds of music. Everything from Palestrina to Lady Gaga. I read mostly the writers I teach—so Shakespeare, the Romantics. I like poetry and novels but I read history, too. I like to talk, and be talked to, and especially I like to be told stories. I like that you said you raised two boys alone, and that you sell real estate and that putting people into nice homes delights you. And I very much like your face—there’s kindness in it.”
She writes him back, that late afternoon, from her office. And by the time she gets home, he has responded with a phone number. How simple. She pours herself a white wine, drops an ice cube into it, and sits down at the kitchen table to call him.
“Hello.” No question in it. She likes the nearly gruff baritone sound of the voice.
“Hi. Is this Scott?”
“Yes.”
“This is Eliza.”
“Yes, you actually called me.”
“Wasn’t I supposed to?”
“Oh, believe me, I’m happy you did.”
There’s a pause.
“So what do we do now?” she says. “I’ve never done this before.”
“Neither me.” He gives forth a small laugh, and she laughs, too. Then it’s quiet again.
“We can talk awhile,” he says. “A few times if you like, before we meet.”
She’s a salesperson, after all. She gets along with people and is not afraid to meet strangers. “Well, let’s meet. Don’t you think?”
He suggests a restaurant out in Cordova, called Pasta Italia. An excellent quiet little place, with a good wine list and a pasta dish he loves called rosette al forno.
“I love Italian,” she says. “Well, like everyone else.”
He laughs again. It’s charming. He’ll pick her up in an hour. “Is that—would that be all right?”
“Sure.” She gives him the address, and they hang up. After showering and putting her hair up, she spends a little more time than usual deciding what she’ll wear. She doesn’t want to be too overtly sexy, but she doesn’t want the look of her professional life, either. This isn’t a walk-through or a showing. She chooses a white blouse, slacks, and sandals.
In the kitchen she drinks down the wine, rinses the glass, then calls Cody. His message plays: “You know what to do.”
She doesn’t wait for the beep. He calls, less than a minute later. “I was in the shower. Everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine. I have a date. I thought you’d like to know.”
“Oh good.” He clears his throat. “I think I’m coming down with a cold.”
She says, “Are you taking care of yourself? I keep thinking of a man I saw who almost got hit on Poplar, going after his baseball cap.”
“This your date?”
“No—something I saw from the window at work.”
“Well, I never cross the street here. I don’t go out, actually. I stay pretty much in the closet. And then there’s the ventilated steel box where I sleep.”
“Okay,” she says. “Sorry. It’s my prerogative to worry.”
“Well, but I’m worried now. How do you know this fellow you’ve got a date with? He’s not off one of those online sites, is he? Because I understand they’re full of crazy people and sex offenders.”
She doesn’t feel like the teasing, so she decides not to tell him about BestMatch.com. “You’re so very funny, darling. I met him in my Chaucer class.”
“Ha.”
“You’re the one who suggested online dating.”
“So this is from a dating site.”
“I’m thinking about that bridge to China.”
“Which site did you use?”
“Have you talked to your brother?”
“Not in a while. You?”
“I’d bet it’s been longer since I talked to him.”
“Well, he’s a busy guy.”
After a brief pause, he says, “I was just kidding about the crazy people and the sex offenders.”
“Wish me luck tonight?”
“I’ll call you at midnight,” Cody says. “Check up on you.”
She laughs. “You do that.”
—
; IN THE REST of the hour of waiting she tries to read, and twice she gets up to look at herself and fuss with her hair. He did say he liked her face, and in the online picture her face is framed by her hair. She decides to take it down. She shakes her head, fluffs it, turns her face to one side and then the other.
Sitting in the living room by the window looking out onto the street, she imagines an evening leading to laughter, friendship—and, why not? Romance. The men she’s occasionally gone out with over the years were pleasing in their way, but they were all in the business, and their talk finally depleted her. She likes her work, but not to be going on about it all the waking hours of the day. She had one blind date, a year ago now, an acquaintance of Darnell’s, a man who turned out to be at least seven inches shorter than she, and who, at one point during a terrible dinner at Paulette’s, leaned into her and said, “I want to give you my pleasures. Come home with me.”
In a word, no.
It reminded her of the line Come with me to the Casbah, and she did not even know where the line came from. She nearly laughed in his face.
—
SHE GETS UP NOW, moves to the stove, reaches into the cabinet above it, and brings out a bottle of Elijah Craig. She pours herself half a shot glass of it and sips it down. Two sips. This whole thing’s beginning to feel like a mistake. She paces a little and realizes she’s wringing her hands. Ridiculous. Looking at herself in the mirror again, she smiles to check her teeth. Finally she sits at the window in the living room and waits, going through some papers for a closing that’s coming up this week.
When he pulls up, she worries about protocol: should she ask him in? He’s parked there at the curb and seems to be hesitating about getting out of the car. It comes to her that he’s nervous, too. She steps out. It’s gotten a little cooler since she came home. The air is fresh and smells of the magnolia in the yard. He stands from the car and gazes at her over the roof.
“Want to come in and have a glass of wine first?”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I made the reservation for six o’clock.”
She walks over, and after a half second’s hesitation he hurries around to greet her. They actually shake hands. For a few seconds it’s like so many passes she experiences greeting prospective buyers all week. He opens the car door, and she gets in, and now it’s like a date—it is a date—waiting until he walks around to get in behind the wheel. She lifts herself slightly and adjusts her slacks at the knee.
As he settles in, he says, “It’s about fifteen minutes from here, but they’ll hold it for us.” Edging the car forward, he turns to check for oncoming traffic.
“There’s almost never any traffic on this road,” she says.
“Quiet neighborhood.”
They remark on the cooler air, the lovely green of the trees overhanging the road. It’s mid-October, but the leaves won’t begin turning for another month. One of the beautiful things about Memphis is the long fall, always the most beautiful weather, cool and sunny and breezy. He says that’s what he loves about it.
She says, “I like the sense that I’m living in a small town, even though I know it’s a big city. There’s just something about it.”
“Always lived here?”
“I grew up in Knoxville. Moved here when I was in high school, though. How about you?”
“New Orleans until I was nineteen. Then the air force. Then Vanderbilt, then Chicago for three years in my early thirties. I taught at Northwestern.”
“My son Edward lives there now. He went to the U of Chicago.”
“Great town. But I couldn’t wait to get back south.”
“Weather?”
“I think it was the people. Not bad people up there, but I missed everyone I knew. And then Northwestern wouldn’t give me tenure. That might’ve had something to do with it.” His smile is a little sheepish, even with the faintly sardonic tone.
—
THE RESTAURANT IS WEDGED into a row of shops. There’s a parking spot right in front. They get out and walk up onto the little stoop, and he opens the door for her. Inside, it’s cooler. The place itself is quite small. There are wooden beams in the ceiling and tables ranged along opposite walls. An archway in back leads into a hallway and restrooms. In the center of the space, and the first thing you see as you enter, is a half-barrel-sized cheese wheel above which, like the crown of a cap, a dark wooden circular ledge contains small plates, utensils, and napkins.
The hostess is young and long limbed, and Eliza thinks she’s seen her before. This comes to her as a topic for conversation: You meet so many people in my business. The hostess with the vaguely familiar face seats them at a table next to the curtained front window and places two menus down with the wine list.
He says, “Want to order the wine?”
“You choose,” she tells him with what she intends as an encouraging smile.
There are three other couples at tables on the other side, and a family of five in the alcovelike corner, seated around a circular table. He looks over at them. “I never see a young family that I don’t start doing math.”
“Math.”
“Yeah. Imagining how old they are, and how old I was when. It goes so fast.” Something catches in his voice, but perhaps she’s imagined it.
A waitress comes and puts a basket of fresh-baked bread on the table. She introduces herself as Cindy. She has a pretty overbite smile and seems a bit too cheerful. Scott takes a piece of the bread, looking at the wine list. He says, “I’m thinking Montepulciano d’Abruzzo.”
“I like all the red wines,” Eliza tells him.
He orders it. Cindy the cute waitress leaves, and they sit there for a time, occupied with the bread.
“It’s still warm,” he says. “With a crispy crust. Scrumptious.”
Eliza nods: “Mmmm.”
A little later, he says, “So your boys are grown.”
“Yep.”
“And you raised them alone.”
“Well, for the last fifteen years. My husband lives in Pensacola now. With another wife, his third. He’s kept up with the boys, though. I mean they’re in touch.”
“Are you in touch with him?”
“Sometimes. It’s cordial enough.”
“I don’t mean to pry.”
“No, it’s fine. My youngest, Cody, was only five when the marriage ended. His brother Edward was nine. For a while I think Edward blamed me, because I’m the one who initiated the divorce.” She sighs. “It’s all evened out, though he does see his father a little more often. I mean, well, they like more of the same things, anyway.”
“And you’ve been too busy to remarry?”
“I don’t know. Could be I just haven’t met anyone. But I’ve had the boys to raise. It was pretty busy most of the time—first when they were small, elementary school, all that. Edward had ADD and ADHD, and there was that business, too. And then the baseball practices and the soccer and the drama club. I had some friends I’d see occasionally, and I’d go out and breathe a little bit, get some adult conversation about something other than escrow.” She laughs. “I sound unhappy about it. I love my work, in fact.”
“You said in the profile—yes—that it delights you to place good people in nice houses.”
“Homes,” she gently corrects. “I did say that. Right. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, no. Don’t apologize.”
She goes on, really just to fill the silence that threatens. “But it was hard sometimes to carve out any time. I mean it can be pretty demanding work. There’s no set hours, and if you want to do it well, it does mean putting in some time, you know.”
“I can tell just from hearing you talk that you’re very good at it.”
“You’re sweet to say that. And now tell me more about you.”
“Well, you know I’m new to this, too. I’ve only been alone a year.”
Cindy the waitress brings the bottle of wine, and briefly they have this with which to occupy themselves. After he sips and nods, she pour
s the two glasses and asks if they’re ready to order.
“I’m sorry, Cindy,” he tells her. “We haven’t even looked at the menu.”
“That’s so romantic,” she answers, and marches off.
Eliza, seeing his embarrassment, says, “Tell me about your girls.”
He’s gazing into the wine. “They’re the best people I know. Or am ever likely to know.” His eyes well up.
She waits, sipping from her own glass. “Do they live close?”
“One does.” He smiles. “Lilly. She lives in the converted garage of a big house in Chickasaw Gardens. Teaches at Christian Brothers. Math.”
“She the oldest?”
“No. The youngest. My oldest, Caroline, lives in Saint Louis. Married to a sweet man, a dentist. She’s actually studying for a real estate license. I visit them now and then. Holidays. My middle daughter, Tracy, lives in Boston and isn’t married, though she’s living with a musician. They seem to get along fine. He travels a lot.”
Eliza says, “I’m missing my younger one, who just left in August. I mean the house seems too quiet, now. Though—what am I saying. He was always out running around town when he was home.”
Cindy comes by the table again and pauses.
“One minute more,” he says. They look at their menus. “The rosette al forno is the best thing here, if you like pasta.”
“Okay,” Eliza says.
He asks for the small mixed salads to be brought with the entrée. “And for our entrées, we’ll have the rosettes.”
“I don’t blame you.” Cindy gives them her lovely overbite smile. She takes the menus and moves off.
“Sweet smile,” Eliza says. “And I think I’ve met the hostess before.”
“Tell me more about you,” he says.
“Well. I sell real estate.” She laughs a little shakily, but sits straight and continues. “And I’d be glad to talk with your daughter about it.”
He nods. “That might be just the thing.”
“I met my husband on a blind date. Which this sort of is, isn’t it.”
“In a way.” He smiles.
“I don’t know why I mentioned my husband. It’s been so long. And I was more than ready for the marriage to end before it did end.”
Living in the Weather of the World Page 3
