The Broken Teaglass (17 page)

“I see,” Mr. Phillips said thoughtfully. “That’s not an Orpah book.”

“Orpah?”

“You know. Oprah. I like to call her Orpah. I indulge myself. A little prescriptivism. I admit it.” He chuckled.

“Oh. Well. No. I’m afraid it’s not an Oprah book,
The Mosquito Coast.”

“You ever read Orpah books?”

“Not that I know of,” I answered. “You? You follow that?”

“Ah. Not exactly. I get a lot of my books at the Salvation Army. It’s senior half-price day on Wednesdays, and I always check to see if there are new books. Someone keeps coming in every so often and dropping off brand-new Orpah selections. I suppose they just buy them new as soon as she picks them, read them, and get rid of them. So just out of curiosity a few months ago, I gave a couple of them a read.”

“What did you think?”

“Could be worse. I wanted to see what the fuss was about. And that Toni Morrison’s an elegant lady, don’t you think?”

“Sure,” I agreed.

“Not as elegant as Nina Simone, though. I like Nina Simone.”

“Uhh,” I said. I imagined something embarrassing being said on the near horizon, perhaps the word
Negress
being used, unless I did something to steer the conversation elsewhere.

“So are you still reading the Oprahs?” I asked.

“On occasion. It’s useful to read what everyone’s reading, I think. It’s like eavesdropping on the bus. Keeps one … in touch. You can work at an academic, isolated place like Samuelson, but that doesn’t mean you have to keep
yourself
isolated. Right?”

Mr. Phillips waited for my answer. The eagerness of his expression made me a little sad. Sure, my attempts at manipulating the conversation had failed completely. But the ulterior motive behind my invitation now seemed absurd. Wrongheaded, even. I liked this old guy. I’d determined that much. And I wasn’t going to be able to determine much else unless I resolved to be a little more direct.

“Right,” I said. “Are you sure you don’t want another cup of coffee?”

The cappuccino maker behind us started whirring, and the short white stubble on Mr. Phillips’s left jowl began to quiver again. I had to look over his shoulder to keep from laughing. A big-haired woman in a snug pantsuit was leaning on the coffee bar, dialing a cell phone. I focused my eyes on her as I tried to force my smile down.

“Positive.” Mr. Phillips pushed his empty coffee mug into the center of the table and folded his arms. “Now, Billy. Let’s get down to business. You never said how you knew my nickname. And I’m not letting you off the hook. No one’s called me that in at least twenty years.”

“It’s a long story—”

“I’m in no hurry, Homer. I’m sure you’ve figured that out by now.”

“I learned about it in the cit file,” I said, watching his face.

He chewed his lip. “Did I sign an editorial comment slip ‘Red’?”

“Nope,” I said.

“Then how the hell did you learn about it in the cit file?”

“You really don’t know?”

“You’re being very cryptic, champ. It doesn’t really suit you.”

“I found some weird cits that seem to have been written in-house. And they mention someone named Red.”

“I don’t follow. They were written in-house, but they’re not editors’ comment slips?”

“No. It’s strange. They’re written like a book. It’s called
The Broken Teaglass
. Somebody seems to have snuck a story into the cit file, and you’re, like, a character in it.”

I studied his face. It remained perplexed.

“Maybe I should just show them to you,” I said.

Mr. Phillips raised his eyebrows. “All right. That sounds like a good idea.”

“Maybe we should come here again?”

“All right, Billy. When?”

“How about right after the Thanksgiving weekend?”

“Now you’re talkin’,” Mr. Phillips said. “Sounds juicy. I can’t wait.”

When I got to Mona’s cubicle
, she was putting on her coat.

“I’ve got something to tell you,” I whispered.

“Unless it’s something about an Orange Alert, I don’t want to hear it right now.”

“Huh?”

“Good thing you stopped by. I was about to buzz by your desk to say goodbye, but I’m kinda in a hurry here. I’ve got only about twenty minutes to get to my apartment for my bag and on the road to the airport. I meant to put my bag in my car this morning, but I forgot. Dan was nice enough to let me go early today and—”

“I forgot you were flying out this afternoon.”

“I have to stop by the newsstand and get some crosswords too. I can’t really do anything besides crosswords on the plane. Crosswords and catalogues and mantras. Most reading just makes me nervous. Almost everything I read on a plane seems to have some thread in it that leads me pretty naturally to thinking about terrorists. Like, once, there was this airline catalogue and one of the things you could buy were these soft imported towels made of Turkish cotton, and I started thinking—”

“Shhhh,” I hissed, wondering how many editors had heard her. “Are you okay? Lemme walk you to the door.”

“I hate flying,” Mona confessed, once we were in the stairwell.

“Look,” I said, “I just wanted you to know. Mr. Phillips is Red.”

Mona grimaced and adjusted the strap of her leather bag. “That doesn’t sound quite right to me. How do you figure that one?”

“There was this thing Red said in the cits that reminded me of something Mr. Phillips says sometimes. Have you ever noticed that sometimes he says ‘Now you’re talkin’?”

“Umm … this sounds like more than I have time for. Talk to me about it if my plane doesn’t explode, okay?”

“All right,” I said. As she turned her face toward the front glass door, I saw there were weary circles under her eyes. “Wait. Just one thing.”

“What?”

I started to reach for her shoulder but stopped myself. Probably Sheila, the front desk secretary, was watching us. “I can’t tell you that your plane won’t explode. But—”

“Christ.
What?”

“But when you’re up there just remember that this is one of those rare moments in your life”—Mona’s mouth began to open so I talked faster,—“when everything else goes away and all you have to remember is just
survive this
.”

Mona frowned. She drew a long breath into her nostrils.

“Good Lord,” she said. “You philosophy majors.”

“It’s not philosophy, actually. It has nothing to do with philosophy.”

“What is it, then?” She was examining the contents of the front pocket of her bag. Her movements became frantic for
a moment, and then relaxed as she produced a folded square of paper, presumably her itinerary.

She scanned its contents. When she looked at me again, I could tell that she didn’t quite remember what I’d just said, and didn’t quite care. Her face showed the familiar strain of someone pretending to be there.

“It was just advice,” I said, opening the door for her. “And therefore pretty much useless. Good luck, all right?”

The morning before Thanksgiving, I found
an email waiting for me.

Subject: Alive, Drunk

Billy—

Sorry if my behavior was disturbing yesterday. The flight to Cleveland was awful, of course, but all is well now. I’m pretty sure we hit a very small air pocket, but the pilot didn’t say anything about it, so I’m not sure. My mother and I had Mexican tonight, and some giant margaritas. We just got home, and she’s trying to get me to watch some terrible chick movie with her, so I’m trying to look busy at the computer. Anyway, I just wanted you to know I’m interested in your Phillips theory. Nothing’s turned up in the microfiches yet, but I plan on giving it another go as soon as I get home. I’m halfway through October 1985.

Have a great Thanksgiving.

—Mona

I closed the email and sat back in my chair. I pictured Mona and her mother with a margarita pitcher between
them. Mona dwarfed by her giant salted glass, sitting by a taller, more streamlined version of herself. A version that sipped instead of gulped. Both with their hair up. Both laughing.

There were no margaritas at my
family’s Thanksgiving, but I probably could have used one.

It started out well. My mother didn’t make us all talk about what we were thankful for—for which I was, paradoxically, thankful. She was a little frazzled after burning a batch of rolls, and seemed to forget the whole gratitude bit. Nobody reminded her, and we spent the better part of the meal talking about movies. Later, as we picked at the last morsels on our plates, my mother and my sister Jen were full of questions about Samuelson—about what words I’d defined, and which of my definitions would likely “make it” into a real dictionary. I relished their squawks of disapproval when I confessed that I’d drafted a definition for
feminazi
.

“You should have rejected it on principle,” my mother insisted.

“I’m not allowed to do that,” I said. “There was too much evidence for it. I didn’t say I
liked
defining it. But I’m afraid the word’s here to stay.”

Jen shook her head. “I’m not so sure. Are people still going to use that word ten or twenty years from now?”

“Looks that way.”

“No thanks to you. By putting that in, you guys are legitimizing it, and
encouraging
people to use it.”

“We don’t see it that way. It’s not Samuelson’s fault that some people treat a dictionary definition as a permission slip. We can’t pretend that words we don’t like don’t exist.”

Funny that of all the things I’d said in this conversation, it
was my use of the word “we” for Samuelson Company that my father seemed to pick up on. And then he asked the inevitable question: “Do you think you’ll stay at Samuelson long?”

“It’s hard to say. It’s a decent job.”

“Do you enjoy being there?” he wanted to know.

“It has its moments. And I’m lucky to be there for now. That’s how I’ve been thinking of it.”

“Well, long term—can you see yourself there in, say, five years?” my mother asked.

“Five years.” I laughed. “Don’t scare me.”

“So, maybe not, then?”

“You’ve said it’s awfully quiet there at the Samuelson office,” my mother reminded me. “Do you think eventually you’ll want something a little more … social?”

“Sure. Maybe eventually,”

“I’ve always thought you’d be a good salesman, actually,” Jen offered.

“Gee, thanks.” I ran the tines of my fork through the remains of my mashed potatoes.

“I don’t mean like a sleazy salesman,” Jen explained. “I mean, a salesman who sells something important.”

My mother shot her a forbidding look.

“What?” Jen said. “I mean it as a compliment. People seem to trust you, Billy. I mean, sometimes I’m not quite sure
why
—”

“Yeah, well,” I interrupted. “Okay. Maybe I can sell dictionaries door to door. Better yet—how about Bibles?”

I shouldn’t have said that. It was supposed to be sarcasm, but no one was amused. My parents had tolerated my philosophy study, but were always vaguely spooked by my occasional accompanying interest in religion.

“I think that Jen’s saying you’ve got a knack for making
people feel comfortable,” my mother explained. “And it might be a waste for you to just sit at a desk by yourself all day—”

“Have you ever thought of teaching, William?” my father wanted to know. “I’ve actually pictured you in a classroom many times. With, say, seventh graders.”

“Seventh
graders?” Suddenly my stomach was feeling very heavy. “I’d rather sell used cars.”

“I was just remembering when you did that Buddies program with your football team. Those younger boys really took to you.”

“Yeah. Well. Tossing a ball around with a couple of twelve-year-olds is one thing. Being in a classroom with thirty of them all day is quite another.”

“True,” my father said reluctantly. “Maybe seventh grade is a little scary. But teaching
something
. Just an idea. I think you’d be great at it.”

“Well.” I stood to help my mother clear the dishes. “Food for thought, huh?”

That night, Jen went out for
coffee with an old friend and I caught up on my television. I’d forgotten what it was like to have a hundred or so cable channels. When I was halfway through my second
Seinfeld
, my father came into the room and handed me a square red envelope.

“We still get a lot of your mail,” he said. “I keep an eye out for important pieces, but you might want to fill out a forwarding form at the post office, just in case.”

I examined the envelope. It was from my high school’s alumni committee.

“Junk mail,” I said, but opened it anyway. “A reminder for my five-year reunion. It’s Saturday night.”

“This Saturday night?” My father sat next to me, wedging a throw pillow behind his back. “That’s lucky. You can just stay here an extra night or two. You won’t have to make a special trip.”

“Umm … yeah. It’s not exactly a lucky coincidence. They always do it over Thanksgiving weekend. The idea is that people just happen to be home with their families this weekend. Nobody really
wants
to go to the five-year. People just get bored, so they give in and drag themselves over there out of morbid curiosity. That’s what Jen said it was like when she went. It didn’t sound like she had a very good time.”

“You know, I think Jen was actually glad she went. Your sister’s not the sort to admit she’d like something so—I don’t know—
conventional
as a high school reunion.”

“She said nobody’s changed enough for it to be worth it yet. Everybody’s still trying to act cool.”

“And that’s not interesting?”

“Sure,” I conceded. “Probably it’s interesting. If you want to make a psychological study of it.”

“I’ll bet your old friend Mark would be there. Don’t you think? Might be nice to catch up with him. I always liked Mark. Now, where did he end up going to school? Somewhere down south?”

“UNC Chapel Hill.” I slipped the invitation back into its envelope. My dad’s canned “Gee whiz, son” tone was almost comical. I wondered if my mother had put him up to this conversation.

“So you think you might go?” he asked.