gust of cold early-March air buffeted George, distracting him from his crossword puzzle. He looked up to see if Angela had arrived. She'd said to expect a short black woman with shoulder-length braids and a brown leather jacket, glasses, but not wearing make-up, no way, not at this time of night. The diner door swung shut behind a chunky young white guy with acne. George turned his attention back to his half-empty pint of Guinness and the smudged newsprint on the table in front of him.

George hated crossword puzzles and wouldn't have been working this one if he hadn't been in a hurry to get out of his apartment. Meeting Angela like this, in the middle of the night, had to be the most impulsive thing he'd done in recent memory. On the other hand, why not? It had been her idea, and what exactly did he have to lose? He was desperate for a change of scene, some fresh air, a different perspective. A conversation with someone who had no vested interest in talking him into anything or out of it, either. He'd been a little stir-crazy, and not quite ready to close his eyes. Now here he was. A previous someone had left a disheveled copy of today's Post on the table; George had read the articles that interested him while draining his first pint, waiting. That left him two choices: staring out the window like a lost soul in an Edward Hopper painting, or attempting the crossword puzzle.

Why did the puzzles he worked call for words like ennui and narthex and cedilla? Case in point: this one featured celebrity trivia. George knew a bit about literature and film, yes, but he tuned out the gossipy media as much as possible. Especially now, during Oscar season. Off the top of his head, he could name the actor who had played the reporter in Fellini's 8½, but could he name the seven-figure hunk who had played opposite Nicole Kidman in her last two films, and was there a reason why he should care?

The waitress stopped by.

"You want some chips or fries or a sandwich or somethin'?"

George shook his head.

"Just another one of these when I'm done," he said. "And a crossword puzzle dictionary if you've got one."

"Oh sure, no problem," the waitress, a cute but Q-tip skinny redhead named Elyce, said through her mouthful of gum. Her cinnamon-scented breath seemed to cling to him. "We keep two or three around for customers. They're by the cash register. I'll bring one right over."

"You're kidding," George said.

"Of course I am. This is a diner. I'll bring you some chips, though. You look like you could use a bowl of chips."

George shrugged. He clicked his fingernails on the tabletop, which was smeary from the moist bits of food and beverage splashes Elyce had no doubt been wiping away all day with an increasingly grimy hand towel: pale grey streaks over pink Formica gloss.

"I'm waiting for someone," he said.

"Who isn't?"

Elyce the waitress walked away and George studied the white squares on the crossword puzzle again, waiting for either Angela or some flash of verbal insight to arrive like a deus ex machina in an ancient Greek tragedy.

 

George: i don't really understand why you're online… you know, in a chat room. you don't sound like someone who does this all the time.
Angela: I'm not, this is my first time, my husband is away on business and I just turned on the computer and here I am
George: had to talk to someone? had to make a connection? =)
Angela: I'm not sure what I'm looking for, just to talk with somebody I suppose. What's that thing you did, with the equals sign?
George: this? =)? look at it sideways, it's a smiley face. see?
Angela: That's cute. You're cute. Thank you.

 

This is a bad idea. This whole thing has BAD IDEA written all over it in big red letters. I should pay for my beer and go home and just forget about Angela.

George's grip on the base of his beer mug would have strangled the glass if it had been alive. He twitched, from nerves he guessed, and his hand slipped on condensation. The glass pitched to one side and sloshed Guinness across the crossword puzzle. Affleck hometown (Boston, number 29 Across) and Fred and (Ginger, number 18 Down) and the empty stack of squares where Nicole Kidman's hot new romantic lead should have gone were all reduced to a Rorschach blotch of carbonated, alcoholic ink.

This did not make George entirely unhappy.

At least now I don't have to finish filling the goddamn thing out, not with two thirds of it soaked.

Another burst of cold air signaled the arrival of someone new, and when George looked up from the soggy mess of newspaper in front of him, he knew he'd lost his chance to slip away. A guilty blush warmed his face as Angela closed the distance between the door and his booth.

When she slid onto the bench opposite and extended a hand to shake, George's first thought was She's prettier than I expected.

George classified female attractiveness along three axes: Pretty, Cute, and Hot. Pretty women were the even-featured ones who had been the girls next door growing up, the ones his mother wanted him to take out on dates and marry and impregnate. They had clear skin and symmetrical faces and an air of steadiness about them. Cute women tended to be the shorter ones who seemed younger than they perhaps really were. The facial topology could be more varied but they smiled a lot and were easy to like. And the Hot women, well, they were the ones who smouldered like runway models with no panties on under their Prada. He would expect a Hot woman to snarl "Say my name, bitch!" in bed but not a Pretty one, for example.

Julia, George's ex-wife, had been a stunning amalgam of all three. She still was, he assumed. And she was gone now, wasn't she? George refused to let himself dwell on her. Enough damage had already been done.

And Angela? Pretty, yes, actually, somewhat to his surprise. Not for the first time, George suspected his rating system fell short when he tried to use it on non-white women. Black women, for example, could be Regal in a way that no white woman ever could. The towering cheekbones and the imperious bearing gave these women an air of being mistresses of all they surveyed. Angela had a dose of Regal and a significant amount of Pretty, but then, what had he been expecting? A panting model straight off a runway? A frowzy station-wagon mom from the suburbs, hair in curlers?

This was probably the worst idea of my life, agreeing to come out on a night like this, tonight of all nights.

She's going to think I'm a loser.

By any objective standard, she wouldn't be wrong.

"Firm handshake," George said.

"I'm in upper management," Angela said. "I didn't get there by batting my eyelashes at people."

"Break many bones with that grip?"

"More balls than bones," Angela said. "Is the coffee here any good or should I just order a beer?"

"I guess it depends on the outcome you want," George said. "Caffeine or alcohol. Do you want to wake up or go to sleep?"

"Yes," Angela said.

This took George a second. "Right," he said. "Yes. That would be why we're here, wouldn't it?"

Angela stared at him. "I know why I'm here," she said. She turned and looked around for the waitress, apparently saw her, raised her eyebrows, and nodded in a Come over here way. "Are you sure you do?"

A darkness smiled in the center of George, and he filled it with his remaining two inches of Guinness.

"I don't want you to talk me into or out of anything," he said. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'm clear on that much."

"Oh you sounded pretty clear on what you wanted," Angela said. "I guess that's the real reason I'm here."

"You wanted to see my clarity for yourself?"

"You could say that."

"First time anyone's ever wanted me for my clarity," George said.

Elyce returned to take their orders, two beers and a basket of fries to supplement the stale chips George hadn't touched, and left an oily kitchen smell lingering in her wake. George knew he and Angela would leave this diner reeking of grease. Soon enough, they'd bundle up in their coats and leave, with the waxy stink of the griddle in their hair, their clothes, their pores. Despite the cold temperature and the blustery wind, their noses would still pick up the odor. In the grand scheme of things, he supposed it mattered very little. George had other things on his mind, and Angela could go back to her family and her life smelling like an artery-hardening midnight snack.

Number Eighteen Across: lox. George hadn't filled that one in (smoked and orange) but an idle glance down at the dry half of the crossword brought the word to mind.

"What am I supposed to talk to you about, then?" asked Angela after a silence.

Their beers came.

"We should talk about normal things," George said. "Tell me the right way to eat a bagel. Do you toast yours and coat them with cream cheese? Do you like lox?"

"You're nervous," Angela said. "I don't think you're committed to seeing this through."

George knew his hands were shaking, and he couldn't warm up no matter how much beer he poured down his throat.

"I've come this far," he said, meeting her gaze.

She studied him a moment, then sipped her beer.

"I'm probably old enough to be your mother," Angela said.

"Don't say that," George said. "That's impossible."

Angela smiled and took another sip. Someone fed the jukebox, and an old Pink Floyd dirge filled the diner: Set the controls for the heart of the sun…

"OK, I won't say that. Maybe it's true and maybe it's not. Maybe I'm trying to shake you up a little. Is that such a bad thing?"

"I'm nervous." George looked down.

Angela reached across the table and took his hand.

"I hate lox," she said. "But garlic bagels are a weakness of mine. Lots of cream cheese. The kind with chives in it. We're going to be just fine, OK?"

 

Angela: I've never done this before. Is it OK for me to ask what you look like?
George: that's fine, you can ask me whatever you want
Angela: Oh no, anything? I don't think I want to go that far… besides, if you sent me a picture I wouldn't know what to do with it.
George: it's kind of funny
Angela: What's funny about it?
George: my expectations, maybe. i just didn't have this in mind when i signed on
Angela: So are you going to tell me what you look like? I want to know who I'm talking to.
George: late 20's. red hair. freckles. kind of handsome i guess, depending on what you're into
Angela: You know I'm married, don't you? With kids. And I'm an African American.
George: great, good, cool. i had a wife once, for a few minutes.
Angela: What happened?
George: i'm still trying to figure that out but i guess it doesn't matter anymore, she's still gone

 

"You loved your wife very much," Angela said, releasing George's hand.

He started.

"What makes you say that?"

"That lost look on your face. I think that's the real reason you wanted me to meet you here. I've been married a long time. Maybe you wanted my perspective as much as I wanted yours."

"Are you sure that's what this is about? Perspective?"

Angela nodded.

"All right then. Yes. I loved her."

"And that's why you're doing this?"

"No. I mean, maybe that's part of it, but there's so much…" George stopped to think. "It's not for just one reason. So my business failed and I'm bankrupt and my wife left me. For a woman, if you want to know."

Angela nodded again and sipped more beer. "Another woman. How about that. That's happened in my family too. Is she happier now?"

"She hasn't called to let me know. I'd like to know. I have to hope she is, after what she put me through."

"And where do I come in?" Angela asked.

"The door over there?" George smiled. "I think that's where you came in. Although I might have been hallucinating."

"Grief'll do that to you."

"I just want to feel better," George said. "That's not so much to ask for, is it? I mean, I haven't been expecting to be on top of the world, but better? It's not unreasonable. It keeps not happening."

"You're trying to talk yourself out of it," Angela said softly. "Would it make you feel any better if I said I understood?"

"How could you?"

"I have a husband and great kids and a nice home, so my life must be perfect," Angela said. "That's why I came out on a night like this. Didn't it occur to you to ask where my kids were?"

George had to admit the thought had never crossed his mind. He had wanted to start a family with Julia. Once upon a time. Perhaps this proved he had never been cut out for paternity, that he didn't think to ask about her kids straight away? Did that indicate some deficit in his priorities, some inherent unsuitability? Or were kids something you had to get used to? If it was such a complicated thing, having a family, why did so many people do it? And how?

"With their aunt. Who would have me locked up if she knew I was out in the middle of the night like this. With a white guy at least 15 years younger than me." She smiled at him as if she'd made a very small joke.

"So your life is not perfect," George said. "Forgive me for assuming it was."

"It's not perfect," Angela whispered.

They looked at each other. Elyce broke the spell by asking if they were OK, did they need anything else, some coffee, a sandwich, some chicken nuggets? More chips?

Strychnine, George thought. Something very old-fashioned like that. Arsenic.

"We're just great, honey," Angela said.

She turned her head to watch Elyce walked away.

"How do you want to do it?" Angela asked.

"What?"

"You know what I mean. I want you to tell me what you have in mind."

George opened his mouth and closed it. A sourness crept up the back of his throat.

"You really want me to tell you. Right now. You actually want me to describe it."

"Yes," Angela said. "I do."

"What if I just wanted you to have a normal conversation with me?" George asked. This felt like treading water in a whirlpool: dark currents dragged him down. His palms filmed, and he wiped them against his jeans. The stickiness lingered.

"I already told you how I like my bagels."

"What's your husband's name? Your kids? How old are they? What grades are they in?"

Angela shook her head. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't know the names of your husband and kids?"

"Of course I do. But this is the last conversation you're ever going to have with another living human being, and you want to talk about bagels and my kids?"

"Yes. No. I don't know," George said. He drained his glass. Might as well optimize his alcohol intake. Look at it as getting things underway.

"Tell me how you're going to do it."

"I can't."

"You're not going to go through with it, then?" Angela asked. "You're going to lose your nerve?"

George shook his head. Tears stung the corners of his eyes.

"I just wanted to talk to someone," he said. "Someone real. Julia's gone. My family… I can't do that to them, call in the middle of the night like this, knowing what it'll be like for them afterward."

Angela took a deep breath. "Maybe I came here to meet you for inspiration," she said. "Maybe I'm braver than I knew."

"What do you mean?"

"There's a reason I asked how you were going to do it," she said.

"What do you mean?" George asked. Then it hit him. "Oh. You?"

She nodded. She started to speak and seemed to get choked up, as if there were a word she couldn't force out of her mouth. She grabbed the pen and wrote something in the dry corner of the crossword puzzle, a terrible word that when he saw it, didn't fit with any of the clues he'd been given so far: CANCER.

 

Angela: So why is it such a surprise, you're talking to me?
George: i guess this makes it real
Angela: Makes what real?
George: last night on earth
Angela: I'm sorry?
Angela: Hello? Are you there?
Angela: George? Hey, be nice to me, I'm new at this, remember?
George: never mind, i'm being cryptic. i shouldn't have dragged you into this
George: look, this is the last conversation i'll ever have with anyone, as far as i know
Angela: Because?
George: think about it
George: you haven't typed anything for a few minutes, does that mean you're thinking?
Angela: I think I've figured it out. But why?
George: look, i shouldn't have dragged you into this. i should leave you alone. you have your own life. you don't need this
Angela: Well, now that you've done it, you can't back out now… We ought to talk.

 

"I got the idea from an old girlfriend," George said. He surveyed the beer left in his glass. "I've nicknamed it combo therapy. I bought a tank of carbon dioxide from a science supply store. When I get home, I'm going to seal up my bathroom to make it airtight, duct tape around the doorframe, and then I'm going to drink and take pills until I pass out. I won't wake up."

"Very elaborate," Angela said.

"How are you guys doing?" Elyce asked, from out of nowhere.

George jumped. Nerves, he supposed.

"Fine," Angela said.

"Another beer," George spoke up a bit as Elyce turned away. Then, to Angela, he asked, "You're going to?"

She looked down. Nodded.

"My church teaches that it's a sin. But what's right about putting my family through hell? There's no treatment for… what I have. The bills will ruin them. How is that the right thing to do?" Her voice hitched at the end. "Both choices are terrifying."

"I envy you in a way," George said.

Angela looked up sharply. "Why is that?"

"You have a family. You have the comfort of a church. Religion. I'm kind of flying solo, here."

"That's one way of looking at it," Angela said. "I'm not sure if that makes me feel better, but it's something to think about."

"I completely underestimated you," George said. He looked over Angela's shoulder at the people in the booth behind her: a shaggy blond head that could have belonged to a man or a woman, and a deeply tanned man's face profiled as he stared out the window. A delivery truck rumbled past, rattling the windows. Across the street, at the entrance to a dark alley, one of the city's homeless hordes seemed to be relieving himself, or perhaps masturbating. George looked back at Angela.

"It wouldn't be the first time I've been underestimated," Angela said.

Were there bags under her eyes or was it the light? George scrutinized her face for signs of illness. How impolite would it be to ask what kind of cancer she had, where it was, why it couldn't be treated? Was she in pain? Could she feel the diseased cells crowding out the healthy ones? Weren't they kind of off the edge of the world now, where most rules and conventions no longer applied? Of course he could ask those questions, he concluded after a moment's thought. Those and many others. The thing was, did he really want to know? He'd come here to have a conversation about nothing, after all, before going home to his pills and his gas tank.

"I read about a medieval form of torture," Angela said. "The victim would be immobilized, tied to a chair or something. A rat would be put in a metal urn, with the mouth of the urn against the victim's belly. They'd heat up the urn until the rat freaked out. It would be so desperate to escape it would burrow into the only soft surface it could find…"

"Oh God stop," George said. His gorge rose.

"Cancer took my mother," Angela said. "It seems to run in our family, this particular kind. I know what I'm in for, and it's a lot like what I just described to you. I'm…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "I'm not going through that. I'm not going to do that to my husband and my kids."

George stared out the window again. He couldn't meet her gaze. The corners of his eyes stung. Outside, the corona of mist around the streetlight was the color of a candle about to gutter out. A truck rumbled by.

"I have no idea what to say," George said. "This almost makes me feel selfish. Petty."

"Maybe you don't have to say a word," Angela said.

"I don't have cancer."

"I didn't come here to talk you out of it," she said. "Nobody holds the exclusive rights to pain. It's not an absolute. You make your choices."

"But…"

Angela looked away from him and shrugged her shoulders. A certain tension seemed to leave her face, a certain heaviness. George couldn't be sure. She underwent some subtle shift, as if she'd made a decision, satisfied herself somehow. He looked around the diner: two college students in sparkly club-wear were staring into mugs of coffee; several men around a table by the door were having a loud conversation with their mouths full; one girl who looked too young to be out at this time of night was eating a sandwich and picking her nose as if she were alone — a bruise purpled one side of her face.

"Maybe we've said everything we need to say to each other," Angela said.

She stood abruptly, murmured something that sounded like Good night, and strode toward the door. For a second or two, George watched her walk away, her braids bouncing, without the reality of her departure sinking in.

"Wait a minute," he said.

But Angela was already out of earshot.

"Wait a minute!"

Heads turned. The bruised girl withdrew the finger from her nose and stared at her nail as if she'd extracted a diamond instead of a moist crust of snot. The raucous discussion by the door stopped. George jumped to his feet, dashed across the diner, skidded in the slippery place by the front door.

"Hey!" He recognized Elyce's voice, calling after him.

"Just a minute," he said to her, flinging the door open.

Without his coat, the wind was a cold polar bear slap across the face. It had claws. A gust of wet rain stung his cheeks and forehead. His clothes were instantly soaked.

"Angela!"

She stood on the curb with her face in her hands, as if oblivious to the weather. Her shoulders were hunched up. She seemed to be crying.

"Angela!"

And, a second too late, he saw what she was about to do.

I didn't come here to talk you out of anything, Angela had said.

She stepped off the curb.

The words reverberated in George's head as a horn blared and screams erupted through the night. With a screech of brakes and an horrific thud, Angela disappeared beneath the speeding pickup truck. He had a split-second image of her body being dragged, of a tire crossing her chest, sinking into her as if it were no more substantial than a heap of newspaper, and then both the truck and the night were still.

Maybe I'm trying to shake you up a little, Angela had said. Maybe I came here to meet you for inspiration. Both choices are terrifying.

George ignored the screams and the cries of Sir! — he recognized the voice as Elyce's in some dim and unconcerned region of his brain — and set off at a brisk walk down the street in the direction of his apartment. He hunched forward to keep the drizzle out of his face.

Only a few hours left until sunrise. Better not to think about this too much.

Maybe I'm stronger than I knew, Angela had said.

"Maybe so, maybe not," George said to himself, mostly to drown out the terrible soundtrack in his head: truck colliding with body, horns, screams. He took a deep breath, thrust his hands into his jacket pockets, and walked a little faster. Don't think about it, George, he ordered himself. Just do it. If he wanted to be blue before the sky was, then he needed to hurry.

 

[END]

© Marshall Moore 2002