Slowly the line moved, but steadily. The men ahead of her never spoke again; the man behind her continued his song and the interspersed “Yeah’s.” Since she didn’t turn around, she knew nothing of the deposed prince. Dempsey did not plan to stay for lunch. She had no idea why she’d placed herself in the line to begin with, except that it seemed right. She just had the feeling she belonged there rather than among the volunteers. But to accept food seemed unfair and not far from theft.
Once inside, however, she stayed in line, accepted the buttered bread, the bowl of what looked like a barley soup with huge chunks of meaty sausage and fresh vegetables—red cabbage, carrots, and celery. She accepted the sliced peaches and the coffee. As she had dutifully waited on line, it seemed the proper thing to do. And then it came to her, that perhaps the reason why she felt drawn to wait on the line was she still didn’t quite believe that she was being allowed to live.
Most of the long tables were full but she saw an empty place facing the wall in a far corner. A man with a scraggly beard brushed past her, almost knocking the tray from her hand. She brought up her other hand, the one carrying the tote bag, and reinforced her hold. The tote swung back and forth against her stomach, the bottom corner hitting her repeatedly in the crotch. She moved toward the empty chair. An older man in a brown overcoat rushed by and Dempsey was certain he was headed for the same place, but he swerved to the right and sat down in front of an empty tray on a table near the middle of the room.
The overhead fluorescent strips made the room over-bright, without shadow, and Dempsey felt she was moving through air made brittle by the light. A wrong or hasty move and the air might shatter, leaving it in shards, pieces scattered at her feet. On she moved, slowly, carefully, not just to avoid disrupting the fragile air but because she hoped some mental process would catch up with her, bringing some understanding of why she was doing what she was doing. But her mind was in no hurry to go anywhere, and Dempsey herself felt no eagerness for goads and prods. She had only to keep moving, to do what she was doing, and not require anything beyond the event itself. By the time she reached the chair, she no longer cared that the corner of her tote bag had been poking her in the crotch and that she had slopped some of the soup onto the tray.
The soup was hot and the vegetables firm. Dempsey knew that a fat man who made noises when he ate was sitting across from her, a woman and a child were seated down the table, and next to her was someone who clutched his spoon in his fist and whose elbow showed through the sleeve of an unbuttoned sweater. Dutifully she ate the soup and the bread, generously buttered. As if at a signal, she lifted her coffee to her lips and drank.
Now music could be heard, far away. Someone was playing the organ in the church above. No complete measure came through the basement ceiling, only occasional phrases, as if the waves of sound were advancing, then receding, trying to draw her closer, away from where she was. The music was coming from the church where she was going to marry Johnny. The idea seemed a strange one. She knew she loved him and had said she’d marry him. She had wanted to marry him. But that now seemed so long ago and Johnny himself seemed so remote, so distant, a man from another life for whom she was desperately trying but as yet still could find no place in the life she was living now. He was the finest man she had ever known. He was probably the only man she had ever loved. He was kind, he was brave; he was beautiful and gentle; he was passionate and had rust-colored pubic hair, which seemed to her highly erotic. Johnny had taken care of her when she was sick; he would stay with her until she died. But she was no longer dying. Johnny had prayed for a cure and his prayer had been answered. She could live on and on and on. But Johnny had no purpose now.
Why, she berated herself. Why? If in dying, she had loved him, why in living did she barely know him, much less feel the depth of what she’d felt before? Why had he become undefined? Why did her need for him no longer exist? The diminishing of her feeling for him was even more of a mystery than the fact that her own death was now in the distance, as undefined as Johnny was now undefined—even up close.
It was time for another few sips of coffee, but Dempsey felt no inclination to drink. She would wait. The moment would make itself known when it arrived. She would then raise the cup, put it to her lips and take a good healthy gulp. She waited. The moment did not seem to be coming any closer. She waited longer. Maybe, if she took in a few more spoonfuls of the soup or took a bite of the bread—but no, it would be inappropriate. Dempsey continued to wait for the moment when she would drink her coffee. It seemed unfair that the signal was being withheld. Then she decided she would leave. She would submit no longer.
She stood up, took her tray in her hand, and reached down for her tote. It wasn’t there. She looked under the table to see if it had slipped away from the side of her chair. It wasn’t under the table. She looked around the leg of the chair occupied by the man with the unbuttoned sweater. He was young with mussed-up hair. The tote bag was nowhere to be seen. She looked behind her and in front of her and to both sides of her. No one paid her the least attention. She was about to ask if anyone knew anything about the disappearance, but she knew it would do no good. No one knew anything. The tote bag was gone. It had been intended that it should be gone. She must ask for no explanations, she must demand no knowledge. And most of all, she must not expect it back.
A rage began to rise in her. She had been robbed. Something had been taken from her. The injustice, the violence against her must not pass without protest. She would cry out; she would denounce and demand; she would accuse and condemn. But then the rage subsided before she could give it utterance. It ended as if by some abrupt command. Like the tote bag, it was nowhere to be found. She had come to this place to quietly surrender the bag, to have it taken from her and never returned. She had come among these people because they were her own. From each, something had been taken and would never be found again. The search had been long abandoned and completely forgotten. It remained for Dempsey to leave quietly, to make as little noise and move with as little motion as possible. The time had come to resume her ordinary life, her usual living. She must phone Johnny. The painting of Lazarus resurrected must be started. And finished.
Carefully she slid her empty chair back into place at the table. Her untouched peach slices she left for anyone who might want them. Looking neither to the left nor to the right, she brought her tray to the stacking area and performed the required protocols: the leftover soup, less than half a bowl, the unsipped coffee, the last morsel of bread thrown into the garbage; the bowl, the spoon, the tray deposited on the stainless-steel counter, a murmured thanks. A huge man with a great shining bald head, bent over the sinks, called back, “You’re welcome. Come again,” without turning around.
Dempsey walked toward the door. People were still arriving. These were the ones she should thank: these and the man with the black plastic bag, these and the man with the unbuttoned sweater, these and the woman and the child. They had allowed her to be with them. They had accepted her as one of their own, the robbed, the pillaged, the violated. As she walked through the door she murmured the words, “Thank you… thank you,” to the new arrivals. No one seemed to find this anything but ordinary and perfectly acceptable.