Peter moved across the aisle, so he could see her more directly. “I’m not his friend — I’m his doctor.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“It must be serious if it caused Alistair to fly out.”
The bus’s shadow stretched so far ahead Peter couldn’t tell where it ended, but in another hour the sun would rise high enough that things would again resemble what they were.
“So, this is Ohio?”
“It better be.”
47
I will say a few things about women of a certain age and their breakfasts.
They can function all day on a single hard-boiled egg speckled with cracked pepper, but they prefer Greek yogurt and granola. They like blueberries. They will eat half a grapefruit, but they would never eat a whole grapefruit. When they eat a banana in front of a stranger, they use a knife and fork. A package of toaster waffles might last them a month.
They drink coffee from oversized earthenware mugs.
If there is a glass of water in the sink, it’s to aid them in swallowing their Fosamax pill — I’ve learned to recognize the stylized bone embossed on each white tablet.
Patricia, my ex, is one of these women. I’ve met a few more over the years. These women of a certain age are the same whether they live in Tokyo (despite Aunt Liddy’s largesse, I couldn’t bear to pay $500 a night for a room) or Seattle or Lyon (in Europe, the toaster waffle is replaced with a croissant or sweet roll; they tear the bread to pieces before brushing the crumbs into the sink — these women of a certain age have meager appetites and unyielding wills).
On their kitchen table, the local paper occupies a place of honor — when these women die they will take newspapers with them, meaning newspapers have no hope beyond these women. If their husbands are gone, to death, to younger women, they may pass the Sports section to the man sharing their breakfast, but if they are living in the same town where they raised children they will check the high school scores first.
These women appreciate it when you to carry your dishes to the sink, but do not try to load their dishwashers. Never load their dishwashers.
When breakfast is done, they will look at your empty plate and say, “I should have given you more” or “I guess you liked it” or (if they don’t trust their English) “Good. Good.” They will ask where you have to be — and they will generate enthusiasm for your answer (“Dearborn is very nice” or “Lucky you”). It is time to go. They have no patience for dawdling. They will watch you carry your bags out to your car, or a cab, or the subway, T, Metro, Tube, BART, Transit Authority, etc.
Do I think I understand these women of a certain age? I have never understood women of any age, and these women have had their entire lives to make themselves unfathomable.
Take Rosalyn: last night she seemed on the verge of sleeping with me, a complete stranger, but when I find her this morning she has already dressed in slacks, a modest blouse, and a cardigan. She is arranged so neatly that any fantasy I might have nurtured goes right out the window.
She says, “I said I would feed you,” making it sound like the fine print of a contract.
I tell her it’s no trouble, that I’m happy to get out of her hair.
She leads me to her breakfast bar. Side by side: two plates with half-moons of cantaloupe, currant scones. She lifts a thermal carafe and spills coffee into thick, homely mugs.
Shoulders nearly touching, we sip our coffees.
Her right leg jiggles like a sewing machine. Is she nervous? Impatient? Ashamed?
I say, “I’m sure you have to be somewhere.”
I receive a demure smile. No, I read it as demure, but it is guarded.
“Are you familiar with The Holy Screw?”
For a moment I wonder if she’s not trying to stump me with an obscure lyric.
“It’s a book.”
I tell her I can’t keep up with the publishing world.36
“It’s about a woman’s midlife crisis.”
I say I wasn’t aware that women had midlife crises.
“We do. We do, Arthur. In the book the woman goes on an adventure in search of the divine inside her. She doesn’t necessarily believe there is anything divine inside her, but she remembers feeling there was when she was a girl. The book is about returning to her girlhood. She embarks on a trip to a place she’s never visited and, on the way, she meets her soul mate. The book is about how the journey is more important than the destination. It’s an incredibly powerful book. They’re adapting it for Broadway because the only way to convey that sort of emotion to an audience is with music — even though there’s almost no music in the book because she spends so much of her time in silent meditation.”
Rosalyn has my attention.
She continues, “Music emanates from our bodies and it also passes through our bodies. If you look at a great painting you experience it in your eyes and in your brain. Your body is cut off at the neck. The ancient peoples who taught us to locate the soul in the chest weren’t being naïve. Our bodies are important. The book is about that, our sacred bodies.
“I’m not trying to be provocative, Arthur. I thought about you a lot last night. You may not have read The Holy Screw, but you manage to live your life in harmony with its principles. The writer had to go halfway around the world to discover what you know. We can’t waste opportunities, and we can’t be frightened when opportunities present themselves. That’s what the book is about.”
I watch her slice the orange-pink fruit from the rind.
“You’re very passionate.” I’m sober now, so I feel I see her with clear eyes.
She leans over so our shoulders kiss. “Please don’t tease me.”
The scone tastes of baking soda, turns to dust in my mouth. I sip more coffee. I tell her I’m not teasing.
“Last night helped me realize that I need music in my life. It also reminded me to do new things.” She centers her cup in its saucer. “I have a proposition for you, Arthur.”
What does it mean that my chest feels tight? That I have to bite my lip and that, while I feel her eyes on the side of my face, I won’t turn to her.
“After you went to bed I reread the scene in The Holy Screw where the author first meets her spiritual guide and lover, Ruben. Something stood out to me: Ruben is Spanish, but she meets him in Venice. Do you know where I’m going with this?”
It seems that maybe I don’t.
“I looked at Jimmy Cross’s tour schedule and saw he’s playing in Columbus, Ohio, tonight. Columbus, which takes its name from Christopher Columbus, an Italian explorer who sailed under the Spanish flag.”
Rosalyn turns and faces me head-on. “I know it’s a big favor, Arthur, but I want you to take me with you.”
48
Aisha tapped Peter on the shoulder. “This is your stop.”
They were pulled up to a curb. On the sidewalk a pair of fluffy dogs towed a man in an overcoat, pajama pants, and fleece slippers. A greenway bordered the sidewalk, then the land fell away, hiding something, a highway, a hole.
“Meaning: get out,” Aisha said, clarifying.
Peter stood up, checked to make sure he wasn’t leaving anything behind.
Aisha returned to her seat, pressing a button that caused the bus to kneel. She opened the door.
“Where am I supposed to go?”
She directed his attention across the street, to the glass façade of a hotel. “I’m not sure you have the temperament for bus travel. A person can rise above a crisis, but you can’t rise above a bus.”
Peter paused at the top of the stairs. He searched for something to say. Whatever that might be, a response or a counter, it eluded him. Instead he made his face into a smile, descending to the street.