Another roaring, longer this time, seems to be approaching us, silencing Harrys meditation on my wording, and when the storm sound starts to reverberate throughout the mall, like the echo in a bowling alley, my customers hear it, and they all look up, and at this point the lights blink, and the Oscar Peterson CD falls silent inside Jitters, and Mozart leaves the podium in the mall, and thats when I hear the shard-crack sound of shattering glass.
My God, Harry Ginsberg says. He takes his espresso-to-go and walks out into the atrium.
At that point the power fails in Briardale. The emergency lighting flickers on, battery-operated evacuation spots, and all but one of my customers get up and leave. Why should they leave? Theyre safe here. One woman near the entrance is drinking her cup of espresso and reading the New York Times, and she doesnt so much as budge while everyone else scurries out. The light inside Jitters becomes emergency light: frosty and cold and glaring. But she just goes on reading, her head down, deep in concentration.
You can hear the wind shaking the Masonic emblem skylight, then hail assaulting it, and you can hear the gusts shaking the exterior doors, but otherwise its gone very quiet in the mall. Windtunnel, looking imperturbably smug, saunters over from Heppelworths and says, Power failure, huh?
Yup, I guess so.
Itll be back on, no time flat, he says, gazing at the ceiling. He has trained himself to be an optimist, a professional optimist, a success maniac, despite conditions. Look at his tie today! It has yachts on it!
Hope so, I tell him. You want anything?
Naw, Windtunnel says, breathing in my direction, his breath so heavy with wintergreen he could stun an ox with it. Maybe in a little while. And he saunters back toward his darkened motivation market, all of whose customers have fled. His protective gate lowers until it is halfway down.
Chloé joins me near the counter. This is freakazoidal, she says. Quel rush.
Chloé joins me near the counter. This is freakazoidal, she says. Quel rush.
Yeah, I agree. Come on.
We walk out toward the mall. You can hear the wind futilely attacking the malls exterior, but you would need a full-scale level-five tornado to blow this place apart, and so far we dont have that. From here we can see into the depths of the mall. These cold emergency lights are giving all the merchandise a shakedown, and when you gaze into Motherhood, all the maternity-ware has turned ghastly. The clerks have their elbows on the cash counter, including Marilyn, a sweet babe, pure honeydew. I should talk to her. The orphaned shoes in the neighboring shoe store are like artifacts or clues to a crime. Its uniformly gray inside the mall now. What few customers there are seem to be distressed or disheartened. Theyre limping along, without purpose. Its as if, when you turn the power off, the merchandise somehow becomes nothing but a ruin. People lose the desire to buy. Their hearts go out of it.
Why is the light given? you think. Why is the light taken away?
Down at the center of the mall, the fountain has stopped surging into the de-ionized air, and the water sits there, gathering dust. Here and there in the far recesses of the mall, the customers move around, totally unmotivated, confused and abandoned, quite conclusively Monday-morning, and everything weve got here for sale loses its allure. Nothing but wallflower commodities, spinster products. Two old people, arm in arm, help each other walk toward the exit.
Across the acres of merchandise a vast silence prevails.
Wow. This is amazing, Chloé says, and I nod in agreement. You know what this makes me think of? she asks.
What?
Well, uh, your candles going out. She smiles at me, and one of her blond eyebrows lifts, as she thinks of what to say next. But she doesnt say anything, eloquently sexy in her silence.
Hmm, I say, pretending to think this over. But actually I am thinking it over.
Chloé and I go back into Jitters. She ambles toward the back, taking off her apron, swaying as she goes, her hips alive to their possibilities. She sits down in a sort of wing chair back near the rest room, and seems to doze off. Oscar keeps her busy at night. Ill wake her up when the customers return. Im a demanding boss but a fair one.
Then two things happen. I go up to the woman whos been sitting at a small table near the front, reading the New York Times. I say to her, How can you read in this light? Its so dim.
Im used to dim bulbs, she says, not looking up.
In that case, youd be right at home here.
She seems startled by my witticism, and smiles at me, and in the dim light I can see that her eyes are blue. We introduce ourselves eventually, and I find out that her name is Diana.
Not to get ahead of myself here, but she becomes my second wife.
The other thing that happens is that before the lights go back on in the mall, a strange little man with greasy hair appears outside what I guess youd call our doorway. He stands there and stands there, shifting from one foot to the other. Hes not large, but he looks strong and wiry, and when I first see him I get the impression that hes not really looking over the brioche, hes searching for someone, and then he finds what hes searching for, which is Chloé. Even though shes at the back, taking a catnap, hes staring at her.
May I help you? I ask him, to fill the time.
He shakes his head. From where Im standing, I can smell the whiskey on his breath. I can even tell that its cheap whiskey, a Canadian blend, the worst of all possible whiskies. The next time I look over in his direction, hes vanished.
When I tell Chloé about him, and I describe him to her, all she says is, Yuck. Its the Bat. Señor Creep-o-rama. Then she looks at her watch. Wheres Oscar? He should be here by now? Wheres Oscar, Mr. S?
I tell her I dont know. But right at one oclock, on the dot, Oscar swaggers into Jitters. After soul-kissing him, Chloé tells Oscar about the Bats mysterious apparitional appearance. All Oscar says is, Dumb old man. Then he puts his apron on.
But I am not really thinking about them because I am thinking about Diana, having already obtained her phone number. I took courage because she hadnt been demeaned as yet with someone elses engagement or wedding ring, I had taken care to notice. Before the lights came back on in the mall, I was thinking of eat-ing supper with this woman, Diana, whose blue eyes and stay-puttedness in the midst of storm and wrack had banished from my mind all thought of eulogies and votive candles and little white crosses accompanied by plastic flowers that poked up through the dirt and unfolded their zombie blossoms on a cheerless Monday morning.
MIDDLES
TEN
LISTEN, UH, what did you say your name was? Diana asks.
Charlie.
Listen, Charlie. I mean, I suppose this is all very interesting and everything, but it gives me the willies. First of all my story is not a story. Second of all, its not yours. Its mine, isnt it? I thought my life was mine and not yours. Third of all, I I just lost my train of thought. Oh, I know: its all private. My life is not in the public domain. All right? Please dont write about me.
Oh, I wont. Not exactly. But Ill invent a replica of you.
I wish you wouldnt. I dont really have time to argue. Im a busy woman. Im an osteopath, you know.
Oh, thats fascinating, I say without irony, because I mean it. An osteopath? What do osteopaths do? Do you mind my asking? Ive always been confused about osteopaths.
No, sorry, I dont have time to explain. You can look it up.
Okay. Maybe Ill make you into a lawyer.
A lawyer? How can you do that? Incidentally, what did you say this project of yours is called?
The Feast of Love.
Ah-huh. Just like Bradleys painting. I got that, didnt I?
Yes. Just like Bradleys painting.
Its the best thing he ever did, she says.
There you go, I tell her. See, you have opinions to contribute, too.
That wasnt an opinion, she says. I didnt say anything. And Im not going to say anything, believe me.
Okay, I tell her. But youll wish you had talked to me.
What does that mean? she asks. Are you threatening me? I should give you a piece of advice. As a favor. Free. Here it is. Dont threaten me. Her voice somehow manages to rise and to stay calm simultaneously. Dont threaten people, especially lawyers. Dont threaten your own characters. Its for your own good. Youll wind up in a mess of litigation and subplots. She pauses. Then she seems to laugh. At least I think its a laugh. Youre probably an intelligent man. Lets not beat this shit to death. You get the point.
ELEVEN
THE POINT WAS, I didnt need a lover. I already had one of those, a married man who sometimes came over and who brought bunches of beautiful cut flowers, or soup he had made at home the night before.
ELEVEN
THE POINT WAS, I didnt need a lover. I already had one of those, a married man who sometimes came over and who brought bunches of beautiful cut flowers, or soup he had made at home the night before.
Hed sneak the soup, carrot-leek being my favorite, out of his house in Tupperware containers, pretending he would serve it to himself for lunch. How he snuck the containers back was not my concern. He favored white shirts with French cuffs, lightly starched, though he sometimes wore a leather jacket and sunglasses to my place for his beautys sake. The last time he tried that I said, You look like one of the Village People, sweetie, kidding him, and he never wore those clothes again. As a back-door man he was devoted to me, and reliable. He wasnt a lawyer, thank God. He worked for a pharmaceutical company, and his hours were flexible. I wasnt in love with him so far as I could tell, but I liked him, sometimes to bursting, and I enjoyed talking to him, going to bed with him, and cooking meals with him, anything you could do inside four walls and away from public view.
He was athletic and fierce, funny when he wanted to be, and affectionate. As a lover, he was so companionable and enthusiastic, and he was clean as a knife. He had a thick head of hair, absolutely gorgeous features, and kiss-curls at the neck. I only saw him sweat hard when we were physically locked together, and his sweat had no odor, none, though his body did, a wonderful breadlike smell. We could have sex all day. He could make me come over and over again, but he didnt bring me to a boil. How can I put this accurately? As follows: I didnt have to sit up any further than normal for him and take more than the usual notice. Maybe I should have.