It wasn't
until we had started on the onion soup that I spotted Uncle Louis. He was sitting by himself at a corner table. His hair was
combed somehow differently, and there was a colored scarf knotted around his neck. I watched, my soup with its foreign strings
of cheese forgotten, as he took out a pipe and a tobacco pouch. His fingers didn't quite know what to do, but he finally got
it lit.
By this
time Ellen had stopped talking and looked over her shoulder to see what I was watching. “Who's that?” she asked.
I couldn't
think of a plausible lie, so I just said, “That's my Uncle Louis,” hoping that would end it. It did. Ellen wasn’t
interested in my relatives. But midway through the Duck a l'Orange, Uncle Louis came over to the table.
“Allazoozoo,
kiddo,” he said, by way of introduction.
“Hi,
Uncle Louis,” I said, shaking his hand and standing up and putting down my fork. It all seemed very complicated.
“This
is Ellen Katzenbogen,” I said.
Uncle
Louis looked at her and wiggled his eyebrows. Ellen smiled, which seemed to cover the situation.
I decided
to plunge in. “You look different,” I said.
“I
am,” he said. I thought there might be more coming, but that seemed to be it. I sat down slowly, so he wouldn't think
I was being-rude.
“How
are things?” I asked.
He waved
his pipe back and forth. He didn't seem to have any more to say, but he didn't want to leave either. That at least was like
the old Uncle Louis.
“Your
pipe smells very nice,” Ellen volunteered.
“Thank
you,” he said. “It helps me,” he continued enigmatically.
I filed
that away for my mother. He continued to stand over us, popping his lips against the pipe stem, letting out short puffs of
smoke.
“We're
going to the Geary to see Plain and Fancy,” I said. I was concentrating on
keeping the duck and the sauce on the plate, and so missed his expression. But I heard him say, “Ah,” in a way
that seemed deep. He took Ellen's hand and said, “The theater.” Then he left abruptly.
Ellen
watched him go. “That was weird, the way he left,” she said.
“He
always leaves like that,” I said to Ellen. “That's not weird. The pipe is what's weird.”
from How'd It Go? published
in Confrontation Summer 2009
The porch light is on. There is autumn darkness
behind her, holding the shards of pale light: yellow, gold, cool amber. She can feel the color on her back.
She pulls her coat closer and takes a deliberate
breath before she opens the door. The knob feels as if it might not turn, as if the door might unaccountably be locked.
She pauses, hand on the knob, and asks herself how
she would feel if the door were locked. She wonders what it might be like if she
were to take out her key, try inserting it in the lock, and find that it didn’t fit. In the pause, her hand still on
the door, she cannot find the feeling that would accompany not opening the door. She thinks it might be relief, and imagines,
for a stray moment, that she might feel lighter, walking back down to the curb, her car keys in her hand. Then she thinks
of her daughter upstairs—at first just as a head on a pillow, an arm holding a doll; then the head becomes Emily, a
name, a daughter, her daughter.
