The Cubicle Next Door (20 page)

“You can’t just stop in the middle of the road like that! What were you doing?” I was pushing at him, trying to get him to move.

He leaned to the side and tried to climb over my leg, but our skis got tangled.

I scooted back until my skis were clear of him. I crouched above them, getting ready to stand up.

But then he reached a hand back and took hold of one of mine. He slid me forward until I was sitting next to him. “Looking at the stars. Have you ever seen so many?” He ducked his head as if he thought he were obscuring my view.

I let go of his hand and planted it behind me in the snow. Leaning back, I tilted my head at the sky. The veneer of sunset had disappeared and abandoned the sky to the stars. Hundreds of them were glittering in the chill of the night.

Joe leaned back too, and when our arms became tired of propping us up, we lay back in the snow. Stars were zinging through the night air. Falling stars. Shooting stars. Dancing stars. And from that position, it felt as if the show were just for me.

For us.

We lay that way for a long while, on our backs in the snow, with our skis pointed up toward the sky.

In fact, we lay that way so long I fell asleep.

And woke myself up snoring.

Stayed absolutely still, trying to figure out if there is any way a snore can sound like something else. A bear? A rabbit? Some other sort of small furry animal? “Have I been snoring for a long time?”

“Not that long.” I could sense a smile in Joe’s voice, but at least he wasn’t laughing.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“Because I figured if you had fallen asleep, you were probably tired.”

“Well…I was. And now I’m hungry.”

“I have an energy bar.”

“So do I.”

“Mine’s Dutch chocolate.”

“And you really truly believe that’s healthy for you?”

“There’s a picture of a dancing chocolate chip on the wrapper.”

He sat up and gave me a hand to help me sit up too. We each ate a bar as we sat there watching the stars. And then we turned ourselves around and started for the car.

The hill hadn’t seemed very big when we’d come down it, but it was steep going back up. I finally gave up on trying to jog it.

Joe did too.

We paused, gasping for air, slumped over our poles.

“See…the thing about downhill skiing is that it’s only one way. They have lifts to take you back up the mountains.”

“Because downhillers are lazy.”

“Well, then your lazy is my smart.”

“You never get to see shooting stars when you downhill.”

“That’s true.”

We herringboned up the rest of the hill and then skated to where we’d broken out of the forest. Once we got to the SUV, we hopped out of the skis, fastened them to the ski rack, and then threw everything else in the back.

We stopped at Wines of Colorado, near the Pikes Peak Highway, for dinner. Dined in a room that perched above Fountain Creek.

As we gave our order, Joe glanced over at me. “We’re not going to be kissing later or anything, are we?”

“I don’t do—”

“Just checking. That’s what I kind of figured.” He looked back at the waiter. “I’ll have the Whole Smoked Garlic to start and a Ribeye Steak Sandwich with…the red potatoes.”

I ordered their Colorado Wine Burger with beans.

“Do you feel obligated to order potatoes? Since you’re from Idaho and everything?”

Joe’s dimples flickered. “I just don’t particularly like coleslaw or beans.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“Pocatello. Dad’s a professor at Idaho State.”

“What does he teach?”

“History. American history.”

I began to smile.

“What?”

“Is that why you chose Russian history?”

I read amusement in Joe’s smile. “Maybe.”

“You don’t get along with him?”

“We get along fine. I just didn’t want to go to ISU. So we made a deal when I was in high school. I could go somewhere else, anywhere else I wanted, as long as I figured out how to fund it.”

“What does your mom do?”

“She used to teach first grade. She retired last year. Now she knits. She’s making sweaters for everyone in the family.”

“And hats? Striped, with pom-poms?”

Joe laughed. “She’s really into it. It drives my sisters crazy. When they go over to visit Mom and Dad, they have to keep their kids from unraveling her projects and playing with all those balls of string.”

“Yarn.”

“Whatever.”

“How many sisters do you have?”

“Two. And one brother. How about you?”

“None.”

“I always wished I didn’t have any. Especially at Thanksgiving. I only got to do the wishbone every other year.”

“Poor you.”

“I know!”

The waiter came with Joe’s garlic and set it on the table between us.

Joe picked up a cracker from the plate and offered it to me.

“No, thanks.” It smelled good, but garlic and I weren’t the best of friends. “Are you doing anything for Thanksgiving? You could come over. All the poker night ladies will be there.”

“Will you be?”

I nodded.

“Then I’d love to come. Thanks for asking.”

I couldn’t stunt the pleasure that bloomed inside of me, so I concentrated on drinking my water instead.

THE CUBICLE NEXT DOOR BLOG

How do you do that?

Half the time you make me want to scream. But the other half?

The other half of the time you’re kind of…nice to be around. It’s sort of…fun. More than fun. It’s comfortable. Comforting.

How can you make me want to scream and make me feel like I’ve been wrapped in a big warm blanket? All at the same time?

Posted on November 17 in
The Cubicle Next Door | Permalink

Comments

Blankets can very symbolic. Especially those woven by indigenous peoples. Choices of colors, designs, and patterns convey deliberate messages about the weaver and his or her place in the world.

Posted by:
NozAll | November 17 at 11:05 PM

She’s not talking about blankets. She’s talking about John Smith and the way he makes her feel. Our reactions to others reflect not their emotions, but ours.

Posted by:
philosophie | November 18 at 08:14 AM

He’s probably just trying to suck up to you. Are there any big projects due he’d want your help on?

Posted by:
justluvmyjob | November 18 at 08:49 AM

As long as you have a blanket, you can live almost anywhere. I should know. I have.

Posted by:
survivor | November 18 at 9:01 AM

He might be bipolar.

Posted by:
theshrink | November 18 at 09:37 AM

Twenty

T
he following week, my thoughts turned toward Thanksgiving.

We usually had Adele, Betty, and Thelma join us for the day. They’d come over early for coffee and the Macy’s parade. And then, afterward, they’d start working on the food. We had the same thing every year: a tray of jumbo olives, carrots, celery, and pickles; cranberries; Adele’s homemade rolls; Thelma’s rutabaga casserole; Grandmother’s Log Cabin Jell-O salad; Betty’s green bean casserole and pecan pie; my turkey and stuffing. Not because nobody else could make them, but because I didn’t like my stuffing cooked inside the bird. Too many risks of food poisoning.

Everything seemed to be going as planned until Grandmother mentioned Oliver over dinner one night.

“Oliver?”

“I thought it might be a good idea.”

“To invite him over? For Thanksgiving? Why?”

“He doesn’t have anyone else to celebrate with.”

“But he doesn’t
have
anything to celebrate. He’s English.”

“He has things to be thankful for too.”

“But—”

“I already asked him and he already agreed to come.”

Fine.

Thanksgiving with an Englishman. I supposed it would be okay. I mean, we hadn’t yet declared war on England when the Pilgrims came over.

I wondered how eager he’d be to help us celebrate the Fourth of July.

If Oliver had been the end of it, Thanksgiving would have been okay. But it wasn’t just Oliver who was coming. I had begun to regret asking Joe to come. I liked the idea of Joe, of having him around, but celebrating holidays with him was just too familiar. Too personal. As if he was becoming a permanent part of my life. It just seemed…intimate…as if it was making too much out of our relationship. But I’d already asked him. He’d already accepted. I was stuck.

I’d just finished hanging Oliver’s coat in the closet on Thanksgiving morning when the doorbell rang again.

It was Joe. He’d brought a box of donuts with him. And he was just in time for the parade.

“Hi.”

“Joe? Is that you?” Grandmother was calling out from the living room.

Joe craned to see around me. “Yes, ma’am!”

“Aren’t you coming in?”

“Just as soon as Jackie lets me in the door.”

I stood aside to let him through.

He handed me the box and went to hang his coat in the closet. By the time I made it into the living room with a stack of napkins and the donuts, he was sitting on the couch in between Betty and Adele.

After I put the turkey in the oven, I dragged a chair in from the dining room and sat near the hall.

They all traded stories of past Thanksgiving Day parades for the next few hours. Recounted the story of Thanksgiving to Oliver. In detail. Down to the rationing of grains of corn that first cruel winter in the New World.

By the time the parade was over, the football games had started. Someone gave Joe the remote and he surfed the channels fast enough to make me dizzy. I went into the kitchen and started chopping onions and celery for the stuffing.

The ladies soon joined me, filling the kitchen with laughter and even more stories, taking over the counter space. In five minutes, I had been nudged out. I found myself exiled to the kitchen table.

I slid all the onions and celery into a stockpot and sprinkled them with seasoning salt, pepper, and sage. I took it, along with five loaves of white bread, out into the living room. Sat down at the end of the couch and starting tearing slices of bread, letting the pieces fall into the stockpot below.

The football game broke to a commercial.

Both Joe and Oliver stirred, looked away from the TV, and realized I was sitting there with them.

“Do you need help?”

I eyed Joe. Calculated how long it would take me to shred five loaves of bread. “Please.”

He slid down the couch next to me. Put three of the loaves on the floor and kept one for himself.

I used my foot to position the pot between us.

He got through one loaf before the game came back on. After that, he was useless. He didn’t even realize he’d stopped helping until the next commercial break. “Where’s…you already finished?”

I nodded.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

I picked up the pot and set it on the edge of the couch between my legs. I plunged my hands into the fluffy drift of bread, reached to the bottom, and slid my hands under the onions and celery. I brought them up to the top and started mixing the ingredients together. The sage-laced smell of Thanksgiving rose from the mixture.

Joe stuck his head over the pot and inhaled. “
This
is what women’s perfume should be made of. Don’t you think so, Oliver?”

“Either that or the scent of a summer’s breeze.”

Joe inhaled again. “Sage and celery?”

I nodded.

He took another big whiff. “The way to a man’s heart. Although the perfume you wear isn’t so bad, either.”

“I don’t wear any.”

“You wear something.”

The conversation was heading into dangerous territory. It was one thing to go to church with Joe or sit beside him on the couch. I went to church. I sat on couches. It wasn’t personal unless I let it be. But the way I smelled? That was different.

I used soap. Apricot-scented organic soap that came wrapped in tree-free or recycled paper. And a shampoo I made myself from soap-wort and lemon verbena. “Are you done?”

“Hmm?” He looked up at me with a blank stare and then turned toward the television. The football game had come back on.

I collected the bags from the loaves of bread, put them in the pot on top of the stuffing mix, and went into the kitchen. I had to elbow a place for myself at the stove, but I was able to set some previously frozen chicken stock in a saucepan to melt.

I helped Adele roll out her dough. Mixed up the bean casserole for Betty. Checked on my bird. Mixed the stuffing with chicken stock and put it in line for the oven. Wandered out into the entry hall. I considered going upstairs and seeing who was online, but I thought it might be rude with so many visitors in the house.

Joe saw me vacillating and waved me over.

I sat on the couch and tried to remember what he’d taught me about football. Ended up instead wondering how apricot and lemon verbena smelled together.

Eventually, Grandmother’s voice intruded on my thoughts, calling us into the dining room.

We all sat down, Oliver waiting until the rest of us were seated before he seated himself.

But then Grandmother pushed her chair away from the table, muttering about the turkey. That caused Oliver to stand once more. “Could one of you men do the carving? It’s still out in the kitchen. Jackie usually does it, but I’m sure she could use a break.”

I could?

“Oliver can do it. My dad hasn’t initiated me yet into the Brotherhood of the Carving Knife.”

Oliver cleared his throat. “Well, come along then. We can both pay a visit to Old Tom. Have you got an apron, Helen?”

Apparently she did. Because when he walked into the dining room carrying the turkey, he had a pink-and-yellow floral apron draped around his neck, tied off neatly at the waist. Joe had one on too.

Oliver placed the turkey at Grandmother’s end of the table while she hovered at his elbow. There was much quiet conversation between the two men. Much pointing with the knife and stabbing with the meat fork. But when it was done, there was an ample mound of meat stacked on the platter.