by Kidd, Chip
“Besides, it’s better,” she said, gunning the engine of her Corvair, “the sauce has more tang. Everyone’s afraid to say it.” The “but not me” went unsaid. It always did.
I was still in a kind of shock—were I to wake up in my bed in the next second, Himillsy gone like a smoke ring, I would not have been surprised.
But there she sat, as real as three years ago when we used to cruise down College Avenue: head scarcely clearing the dashboard, lacquered ebony fingernails orbiting the stick shift, the world behind her racing past, ever trying to keep up.
God, Hims. If there’s a word for how much I’ve missed you, it’s not in my vocabulary.
“Stop staring at me. I’m not the Hottentot Venus.”
“Sorry. It’s just that—”
“And what happened to your neon paint? Lose your nerve?”
“I put it on hold. Something came up.”
“Did it. And that would be…?”
“The human equivalent.”
She chuckled dryly, pulled over onto State and into a spot across the street from the restaurant. After she turned the engine off, she hesitated, chortling: “In human, darling.”
She didn’t bother with the menu. “We’ll have a large red, light on the motz, quarters: sausage, mushrooms, onions, pepperoni. Extra sauce. And two Rocks.”
We got the last booth before the rush. Dean Martin oozed “That’s Amore” over the loudspeakers. The impasto paintings of the Ponte Vecchio and the Leaning Tower of Pisa were fifth-rate, but the perfume of broiled garlic and simmering San Marzano tomatoes wafting from the ovens was perfection. A waitress in a red-and-white–checkered gingham number that matched the tablecloths planted the beers in front of us.
Himillsy shook out a Lucky Strike and returned her sunglasses to their upright position. “Did you ever think about brains?”
“What?”
“I’m in a brain phase. Brains are just amazing. I’m crazy for them. I’ve been making scads of brains, whole regiments, out of Plasticine.”
“Brains.”
“In all sizes. And colors.”
“Except fluorescent.”
“Especially NOT fluorescent.” She flicked open her Reddy Kilowatt Zippo and sparked her cigarette. “Too much to bear. But you really ought to consider brains. Dangerously overlooked. You’re missing out, trust me.”
“How so?”
“Well, first of all,” she was really fired up now, a martinet on a mission: “did you know that we only use ten percent of our brains? It’s totally amazing. One. Tenth. The rest is pure mystery.”
We hadn’t seen each other for a third of a decade. Why were we talking about this? “And just how was that proven, exactly?”
“Easily. Look at all of human history.”
“You’ll have to do better than that.”
“Why? Mankind sure hasn’t. We’re a bunch of lunkheads! I mean really, just look at the past ten years—Styrofoam, McCarthy, Disneyland, the Korean War, Liberace, frozen spaghetti. Come on. I seriously doubt we use even ten percent, most of the time. It’s the geniuses that can tap into the rest—that’s what’s interesting. I’ve been doing brain exercises.”
“Have you now.”
“Don’t laugh. I’m very serious.”
Should I say it? “Actually…it’s bunk.”
It was as if I’d just spilled the beans on Santa Claus to a five-year-old. “What is?”
“The ten percent thing. We learned it in second-year Psych. There’s still a lot they don’t know, for sure, but it’s a common misconception, since the turn of the century. When they were finally able to study it with any accuracy.”
She was not liking this. Not one bit.
Might as well continue. “See, the fact is that only ten percent of your brain cells are neurons, the key cells used in learning. And of those, only ten percent of your neurons can fire at any given time, or else your head would explode. When someone has a seizure, that’s what’s happening.”
I could practically see the steam shoot out of her ears. Instead, smoke issued in mighty plumes from her nose—she the dragging dragon.
“It’s not fair to be actually informed on the subject,” she hissed, crushing out her smoke for emphasis. “You have no manners.”
“Well, I’m—”
“ANYway, brains are my thing right now and that’s that.” She threw back a healthy slug of brew. “I think they’re beautiful. I’ve changed the name of our cat to Bulbous Medulla. He’s having none of it, but tough titty, kitty.” Then: “All right, smartyboots. So what are you doing here?”
“Having lunch, I hope.”
“Cretin.” She fired off two matches together from the side of a Modern’s tinderbox, lit up, inhaled. “To what does the godforsaken necropolis of New Haven owe your divine intervention?”
“Can’t you guess? I got a job. At that advertising agency. Spear, Rakoff and Ware, on Trumbull Street.”
She propelled another cloud to the ceiling and waited for me to continue.
“Remember?” I said, “Jeez, that whole thing, back at school, with Winter’s assignment and the Wrigley’s wrapper? I had to find out who designed it? Which led me to—”
“You got a job? Here?”
As if she hadn’t understood a thing I just told her. Could she have forgotten? It wasn’t that long ago, was it? “It’s an advertising firm. Don’t you remember?”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t.” Another puff. “I can’t remember the last time I puked, either.”
So much for talking about the past. Here, in closer captivity, I could see that she had indeed aged. Worry lines began their slight yet unstoppable journey outward from her tired eyes. But it was more than just the years. Something about her was different. Something profound had happened to her. Not anything good.
“I never pegged you for the advertising type,” she remarked, not a little condescendingly.
“Well, what type did you—”
“Careful,” said the waitress, “it’s hot.”
The pie was presented in what appeared to be an aluminum cookie sheet, bubbling like lava. It was round, but sliced into small squares.
When I remarked on this, Himillsy explained: “I figured it out when I was little—they cut it this way so you’ll eat more of it.”
“And how does that work?”
“Geometry. It’s like writing an epic novel in little one-page chapters. Much easier to digest. Insidious.”
The only thing insidious about it was that I couldn’t get enough of it. Hims didn’t so much eat the pizza as inhale it, all the while grunting from the pain. “If it doesn’t burn off the roof of your mouth you’re just not enjoying it.”
I had to agree.
Not ten minutes later, with the pan picked clean, we ordered another round of suds.
“You settled here by yourself?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“What, still haven’t found the right girl?” It was more sinister accusation than question. Hims and I had never been romantic. Not even hinted at, though at the time I told myself I would have liked that. But not now, and she knew why. I think she always did. Which was why she was asking. Oh, Hims, there’s not a scab you won’t pick at, is there?
“Apparently not,” I said curtly, answering both our questions. “And you, what have you been up to, besides brains? How’s Garnett?” (Her boyfriend from college.)
She used the dying embers of her cigarette to inflame a fresh one. “Garnett? God, who knows, who cares?”
You did, at the time. “I don’t if you don’t.”
“I don’t.”
“Right.” I couldn’t help myself—memories bubbled to the surface like hungry goldfish. “God, do you remember that crazy Christmas party you two gave that time? You got so loaded you—”
“No.” Not as in “I don’t remember.” As in “that’s gone now.” The whites in her eyes: ice.
“Sorry.” Subject change needed. “So what’s all th
is about a rhinoceros head?” Knowing her, plans to turn it into a kinetic sculpture were not out of the question.
“What?” She glared at me, accusing. “That’s personal.”
“Sorry.”
“Really, can’t a simple country girl purchase one little rhinoceros head without it becoming a federal case? Is that what we’re paying our taxes for? You can bet this never happened to Margaret Mead. Oh, you can bet that.”
Simple. If there is anything you definitely are not, Hims, my kaleidoscopic goddess, it’s simple.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Perpetually.”
“Liar.”
“Oh, wrong.” Tell her: “You have no idea. I listen to you all the time. I always did.” Admit it: “Do you know what I used to do? I used to build you in my head. So I could still talk to you. I still do.”
“What?” she asked, incredulous. “WHY on earth would you do that?”
“Because you left.”
Oh no. Wrong thing to say and the wrong way to say it. Wrong wrong wrong. Dammit. It was as if I’d belted her with a baseball bat. “Look, I’m sorry, I—”
“Don’t.” She turned to the window, lowered her sunglasses, fumbled with her cig. “Just. Don’t.”
The waitress brought fresh bottles and cleared the table.
A dreadful limbo. Himillsy took a sip, slowly brought us out of it. “I went through…a rough patch. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you. And I wouldn’t anyway. Too boring. Too Zelda Fitzgerald.”
“But, you are through it.” I was half asking, half asserting.
“So they tell me.”
“They.”
“That’s…enough for now.” She said quietly, stubbing out the butt and waving for the check, “I’ve got this.” She laid down a ten spot on the bill, grateful for the diversion, shoving it to the edge of the table. Another slug from the bottle. That taken care of, she suddenly brightened, changing moods like a new pair of culottes. “Hey, it’s a whole new world, now, right? It’s the 1960s, for Chrissakes! For the first time in history there’s someone in the White House I’d actually like to blow.”
“You want to blow Jackie?”
Furious giggling. Fully herself again. “You’re obscene.” Standing, gathering her keys, “So, where are you hanging your hat? I’ll drop you.”
“What, no Skellar?” Back at school, especially on a Saturday afternoon, pizza would have been just the beginning—on to the Teke Sunset Luau, on to the Tri-Delt Try-more, on to Acacia’s Midnight Mixer, on to the Skeller, onto the floor.
“Not today, sport.”
“Oh. Cleaned up your act?”
“How dare you? My act was always immaculate. I was practically a nun.”
“None the wiser.”
“Bastard.”
I told her the address and cross street and in five minutes we slowed to a stop at my apartment house.
“Thanks for lunch. Can I—?” I didn’t want it to end. I wanted everything. I wanted her and Tip to meet. They would really get a kick out of each other. “It’s…been so great to see you, after all this time.”
She bristled, not comfortable.
“Can I see you again soon?”
A smirk. “Not if I see you first.”
“Really. I mean it.”
“I’m teasing,” she purred, putting it in first. “Give me a call next week. We’ll set something up.”
I got out of the car and leaned back into the window. “So…”
“So what?”
So much I wanted to say, how I’d missed her dreadfully, that the idea we could be friends again jump-started my heart. But I couldn’t—she’d only make fun. Turn anything into a joke so you don’t have to face it. But that was okay. Because now I’d never have to miss her again. I was asking for it, I didn’t care, wanted it with greedy desperation: “So, if I’m not the advertising type, what type did you have me pegged for?”
She lowered her eyelids, considered it, then, “Oh, you know. The decorative, serif type.”
Almost three weeks later, a Thursday afternoon. In the past twenty-one days I had tried to call Himillsy four times—the first two it was busy, the second two no one was home. Then things got really crazy at work. I’d meant to stay on it, set up a dinner date. I really had.
Ring, ring.
“Art department.”
“Hi, dear.”
Mom. I didn’t encourage it, but it was no secret she positively luxuriated in confirming, weekly, my gainful employment. What mother didn’t, I supposed. And yes, I didn’t entirely mind the confirmation myself. We ran through all the usual: When was I coming home, it’s been too long, Aunt Sophie is trying to run her life, Dad’s working too hard, the car port needs reshingling, the Riordans next door got a new Ford when they hadn’t even paid for the last one. And then.
“Honey…”
Oh. Something’s wrong. A sad switch had been thrown in her. Anyone’s guess: One of the dogs was sick. The Symphony Ladies had blackballed her. Something. “What. What is it?”
“That’s such a shame about your friend, the girl.”
What? “Girl? What girl?”
“The one who sent you the present that time.” Present? What did she think she was saying? “From Connecticut. Remember that Christmas?” No. Himillsy? How could she be talking about Himillsy? “I’m pretty sure it’s the same girl. The name is so memorable. Oh, hon, there was a story about it in your paper.”
My paper. The minute my parents heard that my first ad was running in the Register, Mom got a subscription. Which I thought was a little excessive—local news far from their locality. But she read it compulsively, as if it would somehow tell her what was going on in my life. Good God, maybe it did. “Did you see it?”
“Mom, see what?”
“Honey…she’s gone. She’s…”
Someone threw a shotput into my stomach…
“It was a traffic accident.”
…growing into a bowling ball. I choked out the words: “A traffic accident?”
“She couldn’t get out of her car.”
“Who, who are we talking about?”
“That girl. Him---Himsey?”
No. “Himillsy?” Impossible.
“That’s it. Himillsy. I always remembered the name—”
“It can’t…”
“Didn’t you know? Oh, I’m sorry, dear.”
She’s confused. She got the story wrong. She was always doing this, mangling messages—the plots of movies, thirdhand accounts of domestic disputes from relatives, recipe measurements, stories about me as a child. She was selectively allergic to details. That’s what this was. “What are you saying? What happened?”
“It was in the paper. Last Sunday. Wait, I saved it.” She left the phone, returned. She read.
Time stopped.
“Hello? Honey?”
I had yet to see it. Until I did I told myself there was hope. I would not believe it until I saw it, typeset, off-set printed onto newsprint. Kerned properly. Eight-point Century Schoolbook on 10 points leading. Until I saw this I would, not, believe it.
“I’m sorry, dear.”
So unacceptable was not just the thing itself, but that I was hearing it from my mother. That was wrong. An intrusion. This was private. She had no right. They’d never met, there was no connection between them, ever.
Except me.
Me: “I have. I have to go now. I need to find the story in the paper. I need to find it. Find it. I need, to read it.” I was babbling, a walleyed wretch walking away, without a scratch, from a head-on collision that should have killed me. “See it.”
She didn’t want to hang up, not while her child was like this. I made an effort to restore my voice to normal and said some other things to her, anything to get off the phone. I’M FINE, REALLY. I HAVE TO GO NOW. THERE ’S SOMEONE IN MY OFFICE. OKAY THEN. RIGHT. I HAVE A MEETING. YES, I’M SURE. WE’LL TALK SOON. THANKS. LOVE YOU,TOO.
At some point she acqu
iesced. Or I just hung up. (No, I didn’t.) And then I went to the Records Room, our file copies of the paper. To see. How, how on earth had I missed it? Answer, of course: Because it was probably on the Obits page, which Mom always read in our local paper at the breakfast table with uncharacteristic fascination. I hated the Obits page. Its form was completely divorced from its content—there was no compassion. If I had my way, the first thing I’d do is make the whole page black for starters, with white type. I mean, how hard is that to figure out? It only—oh. Oh God.
AREA WOMAN, 25, FOUND DEAD
Carbon Monoxide
Poisoning Suspected.
GUILFORD.—The body of a twenty-five-year-old female identified as Himillsy Dodd, daughter of Wesley and Sandra Dodd, was discovered unconscious at the wheel of her 1960 Corvair convertible in the garage of her parents’ home at 302 Cobblefield Lane Friday evening. Officials believe she started the engine at approximately six o’clock and was overcome by fumes before she could raise the garage’s door. Attempts to revive her proved unsuccessful. Miss Dodd was pronounced dead at New Haven Hospital at 8:41 pm. Services are to be held at Christ Episcopal Church, 11 am. Saturday.
No. No no no no no. A traffic accident. Jesus. She did get the story wrong.
Just not wrong enough.
This was impossible. There was no sign, none. I would have picked it up, I would have, I would have. I replayed our lunch together, over and over. There was melancholy, yes, but that was standard for her. She promised she would see me again. You don’t say you’re going to see someone again soon, you don’t promise it, and then do this. It’s not right it’s not right.
Not if I see you first.
The floor. It was slowly rising, taking up my legs, my body, my arms, my head. My useless brain. Take me up. Take it all. My unused ten percent.
I’d never been to a funeral before. Well, once. For Grandma, the only living grandparent I’d ever known—Dad’s mom, widowed for decades—a sweet and generous woman who looked like an older version of Dad in a wig. Died in her sleep at eighty-five. I was fourteen. The service was, naturally, a serious, head-bowed affair; but it wasn’t as if everyone was wailing like banshees. The talk was a veritable orgy of reassurance. She lived a good, long life. What a wonderful family she left. Gone to her reward. She’s with Iden again, God bless. Do you have a map to the reception? During the homily, my peripheral vision caught Dad’s eyes discreetly leaking, his hands slowly wrestling each other to a draw. I stared straight ahead at the cross of lilies. Afterward, at the Young Republican’s Club, there was punch and cookies. And stingers.
