I open the book. The first page has nothing on it. The next one has the title, the authors’ names — Betsy R. Cego and Malcolm R. Clinton. I wonder if the R. stands for the same middle name in both and if that is why they wrote the book together. Then blank space, and at the bottom a company name and date. I guess that is the book company. R. Scott Landsdown Co. Publishers. Another R. On the back of that page is some information in small print. Then another page with the title and authors. The next page says “Preface.” I start reading.
“You can skip that and the introduction,” Lucia says. “I want to see if you’re okay with the level of instruction in the chapters.”
Why would the authors put in something that people weren’t going to read? What is the preface for? The introduction? I do not want to argue with Lucia, but it seems to me that I should read that part first because it is first. If I am supposed to skip over it for now, why is it first? For now, though, I page through until I find chapter 1.
It is not hard to read, and I understand it. When I look up, after ten pages or so, Tom and Lucia are both watching me. I feel my face getting hot. I forgot about them while I was reading. It is not polite to forget about people.
“Is it okay, Lou?” Lucia asks.
“I like it,” I say.
“Good. Take it home and keep it as long as you like. I’ll e-mail you some other references that I know are on-line. How’s that?”
“Fine,” I say. I want to go on reading, but I hear a car door slam outside and know it is time to do fencing instead.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The others arrive in a bunch, within just a couple of minutes. We move to the backyard, then stretch and put on our gear and start fencing. Marjory sits with me between bouts. I am happy when she sits next to me. I would like to touch her hair, but I do not.
We do not talk much. I do not know what to say. She asks if I got the windshield fixed, and I say yes. I watch her fence with Lucia; she is taller than Lucia, but Lucia is the better fencer. Marjory’s brown hair bounces when she moves; Lucia wears her light hair in a ponytail. They both wear white fencing jackets tonight; soon Marjory’s has little brown smudges where Lucia has scored hits.
I am still thinking about Marjory when I fence with Tom. I am seeing Marjory’s pattern, and not Tom’s, and he kills me quickly twice.
“You’re not paying attention,” he says to me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. My eyes slide to Marjory.
Tom sighs. “I know you’ve got a lot on your mind, Lou, but one reason to do this is to get a break from it.”
“Yes… I’m sorry.” I drag my eyes back and focus on Tom and his blade. When I concentrate, I can see his pattern — a long and complicated one — and now I can parry his attacks. Low, high, high, low, reverse, low, high, low, low, reverse… he’s throwing a reverse shot every fifth and varying the setup to it. Now I can prepare for the reverse, pivoting and then making a quick diagonal step: attack obliquely, one of the old masters says, never directly. It is like chess in that way, with the knight and bishop attacking at an angle. At last I set up the series I like best and get a solid hit.
“Wow!” Tom says. “I thought I’d managed real randomness—”
“Every fifth is a reverse,” I say.
“Damn,” Tom said. “Let’s try that again—”
This time he doesn’t reverse for nine shots, the next time seven — I notice he’s always using a reverse attack on the odd numbers. I test that through longer series, just waiting. Sure enough… nine, seven, five, then back to seven. That’s when I step past on the diagonal and get him again.
“That wasn’t five,” he says. He sounds breathless.
“No… but it was an odd number,” I say.
“I can’t think fast enough,” Tom says. “I can’t fence and think. How do you do it?”
“You move, but the pattern doesn’t,” I say. “The pattern — when I see it — is still. So it is easier to hold in mind because it doesn’t wiggle around.”
“I never thought of it that way,” Tom says. “So — how do you plan your own attacks? So they aren’t patterned?”
“They are,” I say. “But I can shift from one pattern to another…” I can tell this is not getting across to him and try to think of another way of saying it. “When you drive somewhere, there are many possible routes… many patterns you might choose. If you start off on one and a road you would use for that pattern is blocked, you take another and get onto one of your other patterns, don’t you?”
“You see routes as patterns?” Lucia says. “I see them as strings — and I have real trouble shifting from one to another unless the connection is within a block.”
“I get completely lost,” Susan says. “Mass transit’s a real boon to me — I just read the sign and get on. In the old days, if I’d had to drive everywhere, I’d have been late all the time.”
“So, you can hold different fencing patterns in your head and just… jump or something… from one to another?”
“But mostly I’m reacting to the opponent’s attacks while I analyze the pattern,” I say.
“That would explain a lot about your learning style when you started fencing,” Lucia says. She looks happy. I do not understand why that would make her happy. “Those first bouts, you did not have time to learn the pattern — and you were not skilled enough to think and fence both, right?”
“I… it’s hard to remember,” I say. I am uncomfortable with this, with other people picking apart how my brain works. Or doesn’t work.
“It doesn’t matter — you’re a good fencer now — but people do learn differently.”
The rest of the evening goes by quickly. I fence with several of the others; in between I sit beside Marjory if she is not fencing. I listen for noise from the street but hear nothing. Sometimes cars drive by, but they sound normal, at least from the backyard. When I go out to my car, the windshield is not broken and the tires are not flat. The absence of damage was there before the damage occurred — if someone came to damage my car, the damage would be subsequent… very much like dark and light. The dark is there first, and then comes light.
“Did the police ever get back to you about the windshield?” Tom asks. We are all out in the front yard together.
“No,” I say. I do not want to think about the police tonight. Marjory is next to me and I can smell her hair.
“Did you think who might have done it?” he asks.
“No,” I say. I do not want to think about that, either, not with Marjory beside me.
“Lou—” He scratches his head. “You need to think about it. How likely is it that your car was vandalized twice in a row, on fencing night, by strangers?”
“It was not anyone in our group,” I say. “You are my friends.”
Tom looks down, then back at my face. “Lou, I think you need to consider—” My ears do not want to hear what he will say next.
“Here you are,” Lucia says, interrupting. Interrupting is rude, but I am glad she interrupts. She has brought the book with her. She hands it to me when I have put my duffel back in the trunk. “Let me know how you get on with it.”
In the light from the street lamp on the corner the book’s cover is a dull gray. It feels pebbly under my fingers.
“What are you reading, Lou?” Marjory asks. My stomach tightens. I do not want to talk about the research with Marjory. I do not want to find out that she already knows about it.
“Cego and Clinton,” Lucia says, as if that is a title.
“Wow,” Marjory says. “Good for you, Lou.”
I do not understand. Does she know the book just from its authors? Did they write only one book? And why does she say the book is good for me? Or did she mean “good for you” as praise? I do not understand that meaning, either. I feel trapped in this whirlpool of questions, not-knowing swirling around me, drowning me.