Black Glass (24 page)

Yes? No, this is a good question. Of course you have not heard of Redwood City. No one important has ever lived in Redwood City and no one important ever will. The mystery is not that anyone would deny having placed phone calls to such an area; the mystery is that anyone could find someone there to call in the first place.

We are going to skip the fourth and fifth Encounters. They are brief and concern themselves only with a discussion of possible professors and classes. You will remember them, once absorbed. And I'm going to time our approach so that we pick up another critical memory of the period that has lapsed. Are you ready? Stay with me now.

•   •   •

THE BOYS IN
apartment 201 had decided to give a party. Kenneth had come in the evening to extend the invitation. It was to be a small affair, limited to people who lived in the building and a few who could be persuaded to spend the night, since the city of Berkeley was under curfew.

“We'll just sit out on the terrace and yell ‘Fascist pigs' at the passing police cars,” Kenneth said. “It'll give us a chance to meet our neighbors in a relaxed social setting.”

Two days later he invited the entire Cal ROTC on an impulse. Linda hears him arguing with Dave about it as she rises slowly toward the second floor in the sticky elevator. “It's going to be fine, Dave,” Kenneth is saying. “You worry too much. Getting arrested for violating curfew will radicalize them.” Linda gets out of the elevator and Kenneth catches the door with his hand, batting it back so that he can get in. “Later,” he says cheerfully as the door closes, making him disappear from the left to the right.

Dave looks at Linda sourly. “Did you hear?” he asks. “Can you imagine what our apartment is going to look like after a bunch of cadets have partied there? What if they just don't go home? What if they pass out all over the place? They're all going to be physical as hell.” They hear Kenneth's feet below them, pounding the sidewalk. He has an eleven o'clock class. Linda can see, reading Dave's watch sideways, that it is 11:02. Dave moves his arm suddenly to brush his hair back with his hand. The watch face flashes by Linda. She likes Dave's hands, which are large and rather prominently veined. She tries to find something not to like about Dave. “Come on in,” Dave offers. “I'll make you a cup of hot chocolate.”

“I hate chocolate,” says Linda.

“Of course you do. I knew that. Come in anyway. I've got a problem, and I'm surrounded by Zukinis. Did Kenneth tell you that Frank registered Peace and Freedom last Monday? Yesterday he switched to Republican. I don't even pretend to understand the intricate workings of his mind.”

Linda follows Dave into apartment 201. Her palms are sticky with sweat, which strikes her as adolescent. The whole world is wondering when she is going to grow up, and she is certainly no exception. Linda has hardly seen Dave since the night he went up to Suzette's. She wishes she could think of an artful way to find out how that evening ended. Or when it ended.

Dave puts a yellow teapot on the stove. Not a stray dish, not a fork left out anywhere. The avocado Formica gleams. Before, Linda believed they were neat. Now she is beginning to feel there may be something unhealthy about it. The neatness seems excessive.

Fred Zukini is sitting at the kitchen table. The wastebasket is beside his chair; every few moments he crumples a piece of paper and drops it in. There is a stack of library books by his left elbow. His arm is bent to support his head. “Please don't make a lot of noise,” he requests.

Dave lowers his voice. “You want to know his class load? This is the absolute truth. He's got music for teachers, math for teachers, and volleyball.”

“Is he going to be a teacher?” Linda asks.

“God help us. We spent all yesterday listening to him learn to sing ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star' by numbers. I don't know if it was music or math. Today, at breakfast, he demonstrates the theory of the conservation of milk.”

“The what?”

“How you can pour one large glass of milk into two small ones with no resulting loss of volume. Then he asks me to correct a paper he's working on. The assignment is for two pages; he's done ten. I can't say I was enthusiastic, but I wouldn't want it said that I discourage initiative. So I look at it. He's hovering by my elbow, all nervous, because it's his first college paper and I'm a seasoned junior. Eight pages are a direct quote. Out of one book. I tell him, ‘You can't do that,' but he says it's exactly what he wants to say.”

“How are your own classes?” Linda asks. “Did you get into MacPherson's?”

“I did, but I had to lie about my major. And you didn't tell me he threw chalk.”

“Only when he's provoked. It's no fun if you're not surprised. Did he throw it at
you?
”

“No, but I jumped about a foot out of my chair anyway.” Dr. MacPherson teaches Economic History and is one of Linda's favorite professors. He can tell you about the Black Plague so that you feel you're actually there. If you are momentarily overcome, however, and he thinks your attention is wandering, he sends a piece of chalk singing past your ear.

The teapot whistles asthmatically. Dave gets out the instant coffee, makes himself a cup in a green enamel mug, and puts the coffee jar away. They tiptoe past Fred, who groans for their benefit and crumples another piece of paper. They sit on the living room couch at a respectable distance apart. No one's leg touches anyone else's. “You said you had a problem,” Linda hints. Please, please don't let it be Suzette.

“Yeah,” says Dave. He blows on his steaming cup. “I do. It's Mrs. Kirk up in the penthouse. She hates me. She started hating me Tuesday morning and she refuses to stop. It's because of the sign I had in our window. Maybe you saw it?” Linda shakes her head. “Well, I'd spent a bad night because a number of our neighborhood cats were out looking for each other. And I made this small and tasteful sign for our window. It said
THE ONLY GOOD CAT IS A DEAD CAT
.”

Dave blows on his coffee again and takes a quick sip. Linda remembers how silly she always thought it was, as a child, the habit grown-ups had of making drinks so hot they couldn't drink them and then having to wait until they cooled. Sometimes they waited too long and had to heat the drink all over again. A bad system.

“How can you drink that?” she asks. “Thirty seconds ago it was boiling.”

“You blow right next to the side,” Dave says, “and then you only drink the part you've blown on. I could teach you, but when would you use it? Tea? Do you drink tea?” Linda shakes her head. “No, you hate tea. Am I right?”

Linda smiles and watches Dave blow and take another sip. It's a larger sip. She thinks he's showing off.

“It was a small and tasteful sign,” Dave repeats. “A very restrained response considering the night I'd just been through. You probably heard them, too?”

Linda shakes her head again.

“Well, I can't explain that,” Dave says. “You must be a very sound sleeper. So Mrs. Kirk thinks my sign was aimed at her particular cats who are, apparently, too well-bred to yowl all night. She's called the manager and she's threatening to call the SPCA. The manager asked me to go and smooth it over with her, since she's an old and valued tenant, in contrast to myself. And I did try. I'm not proud. She won't even open the door to me. She thinks I'm only pretending to be sorry in order to gain access to her apartment and bludgeon her cats. She told me she just wished we lived in England where they know how to deal with people like me, whatever the hell that means.”

“So what do you want from me?”

Dave smiles ingenuously. “You're very popular, Linda. Did you know that? I can't find a single person who doesn't like you. I bet even Mrs. Kirk likes you. Couldn't you go up and tell her you and I were having this casual conversation about cats and I just happened to mention what models of catdom her cats are? Invite her to the party. Invite her cats.”

Linda doesn't respond. She is too surprised by the assertion that she is popular. She is liked by other women; she always has been. In high school she had seen clearly that girls who were popular were almost always those not liked by other girls; this was, in fact, the most reliable indication of popularity, the dislike others of your own sex had for you. It was believed to be the price a woman paid for being beautiful, although Linda knew beautiful women who were not popular and Linda knew also of women who were not so beautiful, but insisted other women hated them in an attempt to fool men into thinking they were. Men were instantly sympathetic to this. Sometimes Linda had even seen this work. Surely being popular has nothing to do with Mrs. Kirk's opinion.

“Please,” says Dave. “It's a small favor.”

“No, it's not,” Linda informs him. Mrs. Kirk is the ex-wife of a state senator. He has been married twice since and although he is now free as a bird again, his interest in sending her alimony checks on schedule has dwindled. Six months ago, shortly after the dissolution of his last marriage, he was picked up for drunk driving. A small newspaper article reported the event. Page 29. Mrs. Kirk cut it out and posted it in the elevator in case anyone had missed it. She added her own caption:
Would you vote for this man?
But Mrs. Kirk is a bit of a drinker herself. Any visit to the penthouse is an occasion for Bloody Marys and long discussions on the inadvisability of giving your heart and the best years of your life to swine. It is not the conversation Linda wishes to avoid, however. It is the drinks. Linda can hardly face tomato juice alone; add liquor and it becomes a nightmare. And there is no way to refuse a drink from Mrs. Kirk. Linda looks at Dave's hands. “But I'll do it anyway,” she says.

Fred slams a book closed. “Could you be a little quieter?” he calls from the kitchen. “I really have to concentrate.”

“Don't respond,” Dave warns her. “Don't say anything. He's fishing for help. He's dying to tell you what his assignment is.”

They sit quietly for a moment. The sun has moved down the wall to Linda's face; on the opposite wall the painted sun illuminates the knight's helmet in the Rembrandt and never moves. Dave shifts closer to Linda on the couch but still does not touch her.

Linda focuses on the painting. She feels very warm, but she tells herself it is the sun. “We'll make a deal,” says Dave. He has lowered his voice, but his tone is nothing more than friendly. “You go talk to Mrs. Kirk for me and I'll get Dudley's fingerprints for you at the party. Then we'll be even. Are your roommates coming?”

“Yes,” says Linda. But she is lying. They have no intention of attending and they all told her so last night.

She goes home and tries to persuade them again. “I don't think I can lose fifteen pounds by Friday,” says Julie. “I can't have fun at a party if I'm fat.”

“Sorry. Bill and I are going to a movie,” says Lauren. “If we can agree on something.
Dutchman
is on campus, but he wants to see the new Joey Heatherton epic in the city.”

“It's about Vietnam,” says Julie. “Give the man a break. I'm sure his interests are political.”

“Listen to this,” says Gretchen. She is holding the
Chronicle,
folded open to the women's section, in two white fists. The strain in her voice tells Linda she is about to read from Count Marco's column.

“I don't want to hear it,” says Linda. “Why read it? Why torture yourself?”

There is no stopping Gretchen. “He's complaining about the unattractiveness of women you see in hospital emergency rooms,” she says. “‘Set aside a flattering outfit, loose, no buttons, of course, and a pair of fetching slippers. Think ahead a little.' He's concerned that, in the case of an emergency, we may become eyesores. God! I'm going to write the
Chronicle
another letter.”

“Any attention to a columnist, they consider good attention. The more letters he provokes, the more secure his job. He's ridiculous. Just don't read him.”

“It's not trivial,” says Gretchen. “You think it is, but it's not. They pay this flaming misogynist to write antifemale poison, and then they put it in the women's section. Can't they just move his column? Is it too much to ask? Put it in the goddamn sports section.” Her voice has risen steadily in volume and pitch until she hits its limits.

Linda reaches out and brushes Gretchen's bangs back with one hand. They won't stay; they fall back into Gretchen's outraged eyes.

“It's important,” Gretchen says.

“About this party—”

“I don't want to go.” The newspaper crackles in Gretchen's hands. “I told you that.”

“Why not?”

“I just don't like them. They look like fraternity escapees. Jock city. Fifties time warp. Have you ever tried to have a conversation with Fred Zukini? He thinks Bernadette Devlin is a French saint. He told me he saw the movie about her.”

“Dave and Kenneth are nice.”

“Shall I tell you about this party?” Gretchen asks. She takes a deep breath; she is talking more slowly and has regained control of her voice. “I know about this party. We're talking party games. We're talking people passing oranges around using only their chins and everyone maneuvering to be the lucky guy who gets his orange from the woman in the low-cut blouse with the Mae West body. We're talking beer cans that people have crushed with their hands, collecting like flies on the windowsills.”

“They've ordered a keg,” says Linda.

“Excuse the pun, but I rest my case.”

Lauren is standing behind Linda. She clears her throat in a way that makes Linda turn to look at her. She is combing her hair higher and wider. “Julie says you've got a thing for Dave. But Gretchen says you don't.” Her voice is quiet. “Who's right?”