I look out the window. She has left her bike fallen on the Shubbys’ property. The streetlight is still on. I start to turn away, back to my oatmeal, when I see her, the woman with the bathrobe out in the middle of the street again, with two children and a dog, and they are waving, though the dog sees something and runs after it and the children say something to each other, take each other’s hands and walk off in another direction, and the woman is left standing alone, still waving, dauntless, happy to see me.
November twenty-ninth is my birthday. I have an ache in my wisdom tooth. Darrel is supposed to be back from his parents’ house in New Jersey and is supposed to take me out to dinner.
I count too heavily on birthdays, though I know I shouldn’t. Inevitably I begin to assess my life by them, figure out how I’m doing by how many people remember; it’s like the old fantasy of attending your own funeraclass="underline" You get to see who your friends are, get to see who shows up.
Eleanor has to be away for the day but she drops by early in the morning to give me a beautiful piece of pottery with zigzags. It seems expensive, as solid solitary objects often do, though I know nothing about pottery. Georgianne has smiled at me, kissed me, made me a card. It has three construction paper panels: The first has a flower in a flower pot; the second has the same flower in a flower pot, only this time the flower has grown; in the final panel the flower has grown so much you can’t even see it — only the stem and the pot. At the bottom she has scrawled in crayon: “My love just grows and grows and grows for you. Happy Birthday. Your Daughter, Georgianne Michelle Carpenter.” It’s the exact same card design she used last year — an idea filched from a children’s magazine. Apparently she thinks I would have forgotten that she gave it to me, assumes adults don’t really take that much notice of children and that therefore she can get away with this theft and redundancy. I kiss her. I thank her. We are friends again, funny friends. I nibble on her head and say, “I chews you.” She giggles, brings her shoulders up to her ears in a lovely shrug-hunch.
In the kitchen we eat ice cream. I can’t get it together to make a cake.
· · ·
Darrel gives me a kiss with much rump-rubbing and torso-pressing. I haven’t seen him since before Thanksgiving; this feels nice; and though he could have phoned at least once this feels like love what do I know.
“I missed you,” he says in what I deem a heartfelt way.
We are in the car, driving. Darrel’s driving.
“Where are we going for dinner?” I ask. It’s getting darker earlier these days. “You’re not losing an hour, you’re gaining a sun,” I always tell my classes in the spring when the clocks get set ahead again.
“A little place out past the mall. We just keep going straight.”
“I hope it’s not that cynical Chinese place.”
“What cynical Chinese place?”
“That place with the ferns and all that cheap French wine.”
“No, this is a new place. I’ll tell you: It’s called Fig’s.”
“Oh, Gerard’s been there,” I say. “He says it’s nice,” and then suddenly I know what this is: a surprise party. I know it. I’m sure of it.
“Is this a surprise party?” Now I will watch Darrel lie. When he says no, I will study him, watch how he does it; from here on in I will know what he does when he lies, how he sets his face, how he moves his mouth, I will know his lie look, his lie voice, his lie words, though he won’t know I’m gathering this intelligence; nonetheless, I must gather.
“No,” says Darrel, and because we’re stopped for a light I can turn and see his face fall into a configuration of mature concern, of heartfeltedness. He reaches over and attempts to squeeze my left buttock, though mostly the car seat’s in the way.
“I just want to take you to a place you’ve never been to before.”
“Did you sleep with someone over Thanksgiving?” It’s a long light, and I watch his face.
“Benna,” he scolds. And then smiles, slightly self-conscious, shakes his mature, concerned, heartfelt head, and pinches me gently in the hip.
“Surprise!” shouts everyone. There is Gerard and Maple and some people I don’t know, some friends of Gerard, why does Gerard always have friends I don’t know. They wanted to go to a party; I’m only the excuse; I feel bashful and hide my face in Darrel’s sleeve as if I were Georgianne, then lift it out again. There are a few affectionate laughs and “Aw’s.” I look along their faces, and suddenly I see Verrie. She looks beautiful and stands and we hug tight.
“God, you look great,” I gasp.
“It’s California,” she says. “I hate it. Hate brings out my youthful glow.”
“Not me,” I say. “Hate makes weight,” and I puff out my cheeks and laugh but I have indeed gained weight should I care.
Fig’s is orange and square with several cigarette machines. It looks like the FVCC faculty lounge. My eyes feel scrappy and splotched. Verrie’s in town for a day, she says.
Gerard kisses me, brings me a chair. “Happy Birthday, Benna. Were you surprised?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say.
Gerard gives Darrel a friendly tap. “Good work,” he says.
“It was nothing,” says Darrel, all male conspiracy. I feel manipulated, described in the third person. Regardless of how you try to love them, men always return to one another in the end.
Eight people around a table. Introductions. Names like Pooky and Cappy. (No Merrilee.) Drinks like scotch. Presents like books. Food like steaks and chops. Why was Joan of Arc luckier than Mary Queen of Scots? Because Joan got a hot stake and Mary only got a cold chop. Cappy howls, spills a drink. Jokes like that.
There is a birthday cake. Candles like spikes in a large 34. Now being in my thirties is getting serious. Now the second number is larger than the first. Someone gives me a card that says, “You’re not getting older, you’re getting bitter.” Darrel leans over and kisses me.
Gerard also leans over and kisses me, apologizes for the birthday card, reminds me not to drink too much I have to teach tomorrow, says, jokingly, “You’re almost as drunk as I am,” and soon Gerard and I are up and doing Motown Shakespeare. Verrie has requested it. “As you from crimes would pardoned be / Let your indulgence set me free why don’t you babe.” We do footwork and spins like the Temptations.
All the world’s a stage we’re going through.
The ants are fewer, sluggish and wintry, perhaps swacked with schnapps. Some of their bodies are tinged with gray. They stumble under worm husks, still scale the stucco. The crack has reached the rear kitchen window, and the sky spits snow. Madame Charpentier has a new black tangle at her throat. Her children have mustaches.
Eleanor is back with Newton and has changed her mind about Italy. I tell her again about going to the Caribbean with George. “Wanna come?” I ask. “It might be fun.”
“Not me,” she says. “I’ll throw the going-away party.” She toasts me with her coffee cup. “Happy going away.”
“Please, I’m not going away yet.” I nibble at my cuticle.
“Sorry,” says Eleanor, proposing a new toast. “Happy will be going away.”
We sip our coffee. We smack our lips. “Yes,” I say. “That is probably true.”
Gerard says he bombed out at the Met auditions. He says he doesn’t want to talk about it. I oblige him but then wonder what sort of complicity with his demons and my own weak, ignoble ease that entails. Tomorrow night is his big debut in the Free Verdi Company’s Carmen. Some directors of various opera company apprenticeship programs are supposed to be there. Perhaps they’ll come backstage afterward and give him their cards.