By

Troy Riser

I was going out to lunch with Dale Winters. I didn't particularly like Winters, who had always struck me as something of a phony--so immaculately, self-consciously well dressed, so arrogantly assured, but my wife Elaine insisted I try to get closer to the man no matter how slick and superficial I thought him to be. Winters was, after all, the new marketing director, boss of my bosses. Elaine had said, "Come on, Nathan. Think about your career for once. Think about us."

Career, I thought. Us.

Winters and I were headed to a new Mexican restaurant opening up a few blocks down, on 7th. Winters was telling me how much he liked real Mexican food.

"I'm talking incendiary," he said. "Like fire going down."

I followed Winters through the revolving doors and stepped outside, into the noon glare. I figured it was an easy ninety, ninety-five degrees, without a breeze, heat waves shimmering off the pavement, the air heavy and hard to breathe.

"You know what I mean," Winters went on, when we were outside. "The real thing, not like that bland, ersatz crap they sell in those Across The Border places."

I glanced at Dale Winters, a man I was coming to like less than a social disease, and thought, I am leading the wrong life. I am meeting the wrong people.

"...endorphins," Winters was saying.

"What?"

"Endorphins. When you eat something really hot, your body kicks in with these natural painkillers..."

“Endorphins,” I said, echoing Winters. The sidewalk was packed with summertime lunch crowd traffic so the going was slow, giving me a chance to look around, catch some of the more interesting faces--a habit I picked up in college, when I sketched everything in sight and thought William Blake was God. "Like runner's high," I said.

"Exactly," Winters said. "I knew you’d relate. You artsy types can appreciate the extremes."

The bus stop was no more than twenty-five feet away. A bus was pulling in, the 12 New York route. Passengers were lining up to board. As Winters and I passed by, I caught a glimpse of the woman standing next to last in a long line, in front of a bored-looking, off-duty security guard.

My God, I thought. Jane, Jane Gooding.

My step faltered. I stopped. I forgot to breathe until a tiny old lady bounced off my back and walked around, snorting air through her nose in a miffed, highbrow sort of way I would have found funny any other time. Ahead of me, Winters went on, still talking, unaware I was no longer there.

I walked forward a few steps, out of the busy stream of passersby, and leaned against a Wall Street Journal newspaper vending machine at the corner. I loosened my tie and unbuttoned the top button of my shirt. After a long moment, I sucked in a lungful of dirty, city air, gathered my nerve, and turned around.

Even from behind, with her back to me, the resemblance between this woman and Jane was uncanny--beyond uncanny: same height, same weight, same long, straight, reddish-brown hair pulled back in a sensible ponytail.

A close relative, I thought. A cousin, maybe.

The woman who looked exactly like Jane was turning around, shielding her eyes with one of her hands, curiously, tentatively. I must have called out, not knowing it, or she could feel my stare burning between her shoulder blades.
She saw me. Our eyes met. I was looking at her full on. She smiled in recognition. Her lips formed the shape of my name.
Jane beyond doubt, I thought.

It was then I nearly fainted. The blood left my head in a dizzying rush, leaving me lightheaded and weak, my knees wobbly and uncertain. I veered off the sidewalk and staggered a few feet into the grass and sat down. I spread my legs apart and bent over and put my head and arms between my knees and squeezed my eyes shut. My hands tugged blindly at the dry, dead grass.
Above me, to my right, the woman spoke, in a voice unmistakably, impossibly Jane's: "Nathan? Is that you? Are you okay?"
Keeping my head down, I opened my eyes. Her shadow fell across my legs. I noted absentmindedly that she was wearing black canvas and white rubber soled Converse All-Star sneakers.

I took another deep breath and looked up, half-expecting to find Jane gone, poof, hey presto, the whole thing a passing--if inexplicable--delusion. Dead girlfriends do not take the bus.

But there she was--not still nineteen, as I had expected, but my age, in her middle thirties. Tiny crowsfeet radiated from the corners of her eyes. Her lightly sunburned forehead was creased with faint worry lines. She was wearing blue jean shorts, brand new, bright blue, and a tan HARD ROCK CAFE teeshirt. Her hips were wider than I remembered. Her breasts were bigger.
I showed Jane my teeth in a monkey grimace of fear that might have passed for a smile. I wanted to say, You’re dead, Jane. I was there when you died. (Sitting next to you in the back seat of the car on our way home from the prom and the road was wet and my buddy Danny Baker was driving and his girlfriend Michelle was telling him you’re going too fast, Danny, you’re going way too fast, but telling him too late and soon we were sliding off the road, hitting a telephone pole, snapping it in two, the jagged butt of the thing driving through the roof of the car and onto and into and through the top of your head, blood and brains spewing everywhere, somebody screaming, it taking forever for me to realize that that somebody screaming was me, shamefully alive.) Instead, my voice hoarse and barely under control, I said, "You'll miss your bus, Jane. You don't want to miss your bus."

Jane smiled and shook her head. "Don't worry about that," she said. "I go this way every day. There'll be another one coming along in fifteen minutes or so."

She bent down and took me firmly by the arm, helped me to my feet. Her touch was substantial, real, and more frightening than anything that had happened up to that point. I dropped LSD and mushrooms in the late Seventies, early Eighties, and I saw things and I heard things but never had I hallucinated touch. For some reason I had thought tactile sensations were impossible in dreams and delusions.

"Come on," Jane said. "Let's get you in the shade."

Grasping me under the elbow, she walked me to the side of the office building where I worked. I reached out and put my hand against the limestone wall for support. It felt cool and rough, reassuringly real.

Jane said, "Should I get a doctor? Do you want me to call someone?"

And Then He Woke Up, I thought.

"Any time now," I said aloud.

"I'll get a doctor," she said.

I pushed away from the building, straightened to my full height. My eyes watered. Why were my eyes watering? Pull yourself together, I thought. I wiped my eyes. Cleared my throat.

"Not necessary," I said. I forced a smile, making it look as natural as I could. "I'm all right now," I said.

"The heat..."

I nodded. "Yeah, the heat. I've been inside an air-conditioned office all day . . ."

Jane looked confused, tilting her head to the side, narrowing her eyes. "Office?" she said. "What happened to your studio? The one on Euclid? You remember, you invited Tony and me up after we ran into you at the gallery--great stuff, by the way. Tony was impressed. Both of us were."

"Tony?"

"You know, Tony. Tony, my husband: big, tall, bearded, a little on the goofy side--you don't remember?"

Play it out, I thought. See where it goes.

"Tony, right. I remember now. Sorry."

She leaned forward and kissed me then, once, on the cheek. “I’m so proud of you, Nathan,” she said. "I knew you had it in you, Nathan. We all did."

Jane stepped back and smiled. I had forgotten how pretty her smile was, how welcoming. My vision blurred over again. Old grief and pain was coming back raw and fresh.

"Tony couldn't get it over it," she said, "me knowing a famous artist and all."

As casually as I could, I took a pen from my pocket, a scrap of paper from my wallet. Realizing my hand was shaking too much, I handed them over to Jane, or Jane's ghost, doppelganger, whatever.

"Your address and phone number," I said. "I want to stay in touch."

She took the pen and paper and knelt down so she could prop the scrap of paper on her knee. Looking over her shoulder as she wrote, I saw that Jane's last name was Camaretti, now. I also saw that she still dotted her i's with the same little curlicue circles I remembered from high school.

Jane stood up, brushed some grass from her leg, and handed me back the paper and the pen. She checked her wristwatch.
"Damn," she said. "I have to go. My bus'll be here any minute."

"Let me drive you," I said. "I'll take the afternoon off. Be your taxi."

"I'm tempted," Jane said, "but..." She trailed off, shrugging.

"Tony wouldn't like it," I said.

Jane smiled again, relieved I understood. "He's Italian," she said. "You know how Italians are."

"Jealous?"

Jane laughed, showing the beautiful, even, white teeth I remembered. "Very," she said.

She told me to give her and Tony a call some time. We'd get together. Do dinner somewhere. Take in a show. She turned to go.

No!

I put out my hand, letting it fall on Jane's shoulder. I could feel the play of muscles under the cloth of her shirt, imagined I could hear the beating of her heart.

"Are you sure you don't want me to call someone?" she said. "It's no trouble."

I took my hand away. Shook my head.

"You go on, Jane," I said. "I'll be fine."

"Stay in touch," she said. "You know where we live."

I tapped my breast pocket, where I had tucked her address and telephone number. I heard the squeal of brakes and the huff of hydraulics, looked up and saw another bus pulling in to the stop. Hurriedly, Jane took my hand and gave me another friendly peck on the cheek.

"Take care of yourself, Nathan. The world needs its artists." She laughed again. “And its accountants, I suppose. That’s what I do, you know.”

Jane turned and waved before she boarded the bus. I waved back. And she was gone.

I nearly jumped when Winters’ hand fell on my shoulder.

"What happened?" he said, screwing up his brow in a show of concern. "One minute you were there, the next minute--poof!" Winters clapped me on the back. "Next time," he went on, "let me know before you go running off. I was halfway to that Mexican place before I knew you were gone. I must’ve looked like the village idiot, talking to myself like that."

For a bright, brief, flashing moment, I was tempted to tell Winters everything--about Jane, about Jane’s ghost, but instead I apologized, told Winters I ran into an old high school friend and couldn’t get away.

"You should’ve invited him along," Winters said.

"Her," I said. "It was a she."

Winters brightened. "Good looking?"

You’re a married man, I thought. No wonder I don’t like you.

"Jane? She’s beautiful," I said, drawing an hourglass figure in the air to show Winters how beautiful she was. "Drop dead gorgeous. Like a model. Better."

"Damn," Winters said. "Sorry I missed out."

As soon I made it back to my office, I called the number Jane had given me, hoping for an answering machine message or the voice of a suspicious, big-sounding Italian American husband.

Some guy named Kevin answered. And no, no Jane lived there. Never heard of her.

I called every Camaretti listed in the telephone book. Lots of Tonys and Anthonys, but none who knew Jane Gooding. I called the city transit information office, asked about the 12 New York route. No line by that name, the guy said.

After work, I drove to a drugstore on the way home and bought a city street finder index. There is no Guthrie Avenue, not in the city, not in the suburbs, not in any of the towns around the city.

When I came home from work, I ushered Elaine into the kitchen. For some reason, we did our best talking in the kitchen. “I can’t do this anymore,” I said.

“Do what anymore, Nathan?” Elaine’s tone was apprehensive, even fearful. I think she thought I was talking about us, our marriage. She thought I was about to ask for a divorce. For my part, I was glad she didn’t seem relieved or resigned or even pleased at the prospect of splitting up.

I reached across the kitchen table and took her hands in both of mine, gave a reassuring squeeze. “Not us,” I said. “Things could be better between you and me, but if we try harder I think we can make it work. I’m talking about the job. I don’t belong there. It isn’t me.”

“What is you, Nathan? You want to go back to freelancing?” Elaine shook her head. “We’ll never be able to afford children.”

I shrugged. “From what I’ve heard, no one but the very rich can afford children, anyway. We’ll get by, even with a baby.”

“This is what you want,” she said, not as a question but as a simple statement of fact.

I nodded. “It’s what I want. I want you to want it, too. I can’t do it alone.”

So Elaine agreed. I gave notice to the agency the next day (Winters was overtly pleased at the news; I gather he didn’t care for me much, either) and found a part-time job working retail at an art supply place—the money is terrible, barely minimum wage, but the people I work with are nice and the customers have come to trust my expertise. The rest of the time I paint, mainly in oils. The work I do has been called surreal, dreamlike, fantastic (in the fantasy sense, mind you; critics are never that effusive). I've shown my work to several of the local galleries. A few have expressed some interest. One of the gallery owners said my work looked perfect for book covers some small press publisher friends of his might be needing. He said he knew some people. He said he’d make a few calls. It’s a living. It might be a living.

Things are better now between Elaine and me. And although some nights I lie awake and wonder, I try not to get tangled in the hows and whys of my vision, or experience, or whatever you want to call it. I think about the story I once read about a man shot with a poisoned arrow. Before he would let surgeons remove the arrow, he had to know: Who shot the arrow? Why? Was the arrow made of flint or steel? Reed or wood? And the poison, what kind was it? Of course, the man died before he could find out. So I live, and I work, and I wonder, but I don't wonder too much or too hard. I feel the comfortable, familiar heat of my wife’s body lying next to mine and think, Life matters, living matters, now matters. Get on with it, Jane would say, so I do. I get on with it.

END

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