Content, relieved, melted. That’s how she felt. With her hand still between her legs, she let her mind drift to Levi. What was it about him that had occupied her night after night, daydream after daydream? Why had her imagination latched on to him? She didn’t particularly want this obsession but had to admit the interest was somehow real. When she’d first gotten to know him, he was called the Regular by the other waitresses; although there were a couple of regulars, he somehow got to be the one. He came in nearly daily for lunch, and sometimes on the way home from work for a piece of pie or a crème brûlée.
He looked about her age, dressed nicely, was dark-eyed and -skinned, with a streak of gray that ran down a nicely kept beard, and he exuded a certain calm confidence. He was a little thick around the middle, which he teased himself about; she remembered him saying, “ ‘He was not portly yet’—that’s a line from Faulkner! What a great line! Not portly yet. As if we all get there. Ha!”
She knew the things he spoke of and those he did not. For example, she knew that his wife had had macular degeneration and though nearly blind, had still volunteered with the kindergartners doing crafts, loved listening to audiobooks and NPR, and had passed away a few years ago. These things he told her. But she also knew, just from body language or subtext or however people come to know such things, that he sometimes delayed going home. She knew things that were likely private, such as that he popped some sort of gummy when he left for the evening—weed, she assumed. She knew he worked as a professor of history. She knew that something about his past or his constitution made him prefer this good-but-informal diner as opposed to the fancier places nearby.
She knew that because he was Black, he likely had experienced all sorts of moments which she had not, and the privileges of being white often occurred to her while she watched him during quiet moments. Though he was unaware of it, he had been a teacher for her in that way—reminding her of her taken-for-granted experience. That she didn’t think much of anything when seeing a police officer, for instance. Or that when she turned on the TV, mostly white main characters filled the screen, and so she felt represented. She became aware of how the news often seemed to report on a situation differently depending on if the suspect was white or Black. She began to notice the articles in the paper about disparities in medical care according to race. Because of him, she began to notice. What she should have already noticed. But maybe that was one reason for the crush—he was a teacher of sorts, and surely nearly everyone fell a little in love with those who opened their worldview.
But also maybe it came down to this: He looked at her quietly, and with seeming admiration and interest. Maybe it was just the way he looked at her. Nothing more. Amazing, how much emotion could grow in a heart simply as a result of a gaze. How was it that humans were so swayed by nearly nothing?
Over the years, her brain conjured up ways that they would have to end up sleeping near each other. A horrible hailstorm where they couldn’t leave the restaurant! A blizzard! Her brain was like a Jane Austen novel. In her daydreams, they didn’t even kiss or have sex most of the time; it was just him holding her, warm and tender, and their having real conversation.
Honestly, she suspected that he felt something similar. Perhaps that’s why these daydreams had started. She’d noticed a spark. Yet, she should get him out of her brain. Mutual attraction left alone—well, that was the safest way to protect it.
Levi, Levi, Levi. Where was he? How was his job? Was he lonely? How was his teaching? Did he like it? She did have some tender and lusty feelings for him, and what to do about that exactly, she did not know. But at least she’d had an orgasm to start her day. She was coming alive again.
—
She looked outside the main office window to find three javelinas wandering by in a light dusting of snow that had arrived overnight, four ringtails in the trees, and what seemed like a million birds of such various size and color that her eyes felt confused—so much to track! She felt as she had at Bosque del Apache, that her relationship with birds was something that would grow, that it was a living thing.
Rita pulled up and the birds scattered with her bustling arrival. “Lady Shackleton is happy as can be,” she announced upon seeing Ammalie. “Although she chased all the chickens. We’re going to have to teach her to cut that out posthaste. But Rex loves her. L-o-v-e-s her.” Rita spelled it out and smiled sadly at Ammalie. “I knew he would. Reminds him of Froggy, a dog he had long ago. But don’t worry. We understand that she’s your dog.”
Ammalie was relieved; Lady deserved better than sitting in the car all day. Or whatever else would have been in store.
Without any preamble or pleasantries, Rita launched right in and explained that when her husband had died, Rex had come from his home in Mexico to help with the cabins—this while she showed Ammalie the laundry machines and cleaning supplies and explained which cabins would be turning over when. Then she did a little bit of role-playing, such as, when customers left happily, the response was to sincerely say you hoped they came back, and when a customer left with some complaint, the response was to say, We’ll take that into consideration, thank you, and safe journeys. “The thing about letting someone on your property,” Rita said, “is that you want them there. You want to feel good about having them there.”
“I understand.” Ammalie ducked her head, vaguely ashamed.
“We run a good place here,” Rita continued. “They are simple, rustic cabins, and we advertise them that way. And I won’t be much influenced by the privilege I see more and more of. Many people are spoiled brats, and that goes for all ages and political parties and ethnicities, et cetera, et cetera. Take it or leave it, I say.”
“Gotcha. It’s a beautiful place.”
“We have free speech in this country but not frank speech. I speak frankly, just so you know,” Rita said.
“I wouldn’t know what to complain about myself.” But at the same time, Ammalie felt a flush of shame—over the one or two times she had left a so-so review at one of the places she and Vincent had visited, her reason being that their trips were rare and so she wanted them to be special and so, yes, little things like a broken coffeemaker had, back then, in that other life, felt like a big deal.
This shift in perspective was perhaps what she loved most about this New Her. She was much more chill. Much more flexible. “I was listening to a radio show,” she ventured. “About a thought in Buddhism about there being three poisons—ignorance, aggression, and passion. And passion doesn’t really mean, you know, sex. It means a passion for getting what you want. Like, as they put it, you have an allegiance to comfort. You want things the way you want them, at a high cost. You want your coffeemaker to work. You need a pillow a certain way. I wonder if we have a little too much of that?”
Rita blinked. “Exactly. I like you. Allegiance to comfort. Get over it, people.”
“I’m on some sort of quest for…not heading in that direction as I age.”
Rita nodded, then added, “Don’t get me wrong. I love this place and most of the guests. I’m just a little frayed. My husband dying taught me one thing, which is, try not to live a life where you’re so frayed all the time.” She smiled at Ammalie. “That’s why I’m glad you’re here, for even a short time. What happened to your head?”
“My husband died too, about a year and a half ago,” Ammalie said quietly. “And my head? I was out hiking and I tripped and my head hit a branch and a rock.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Rita said, catching her eye sincerely. “Very sorry. About the death and the injury.”
Ammalie put on a brave smile. “His death taught me to go out and do things. Upset the routine. Live a little. Expand, while I can. That’s why I’m here.”
“Good for you. Works out for both of us. You a birder?”
“No.”
“Birders.” Rita said it twice and then said, “Woooo-ee,” without further explanation. She beckoned Ammalie outside and started filling the bird feeders from seed kept in enormous trash cans that were pinned shut, the obvious implication being that Ammalie should learn to do the same by watching.
“I like birds,” Ammalie offered tentatively. “I’m learning.”
“Well, don’t wear that jacket.” Rita raised an eyebrow. “As a novice birder, you will attract great disdain. From the others. For example, for wearing bright clothing, like your jacket, which is too red, they’ll think you’re scaring the birds away.”
“But you’re wearing coral!”
“Only around here. I wouldn’t if I was out birding. I, for one, am not birding. I am human-ing. I love watching the birders, and I’ll tell you, there’s quite a range. First, there are the life-listers that keep a meticulous list of every bird they’ve ever seen, and many of them overlook what the bird is doing; they just want the checkmark. It’s very competitive. The ‘List ’em and Leave ’em’ types. They are incredibly detail-oriented people, the OCD types of the world. I do not like them.”
Ammalie snorted with a genuine laugh. Oh, the joy of honest people!
“Then there are the birders who are life-listers and not obnoxious. They have no problem being kind. David Sibley—you know Sibley’s books, yes?—he’s in this category. A good guy. I met him once, in a field. He said to me, ‘Why, there’s an olive-sided flycatcher on a nest,’ and, like a magician, just set up a scope and invited us all to see. A good man, a generous man.”
“I love that,” Ammalie said, picking up a scoop to help fill the other feeders.
“Me, I like the casual birders. They want to figure it out, see what the bird is doing, and simply share that with another person. Half the time, they have the bird’s name wrong, or partially wrong, but they revel in birds, they feel joy. Dan is that sort. Lulu will be a better birder than Dan any day now. Then, of course, there’s the vast majority, who know very little about birds, nor do they care.”
Ammalie reached into the can and ran the birdseed through her fingers, the soft globes pouring through. “I might be in the very-beginner category, trying to move up. And the birds themselves, do you have a favorite?”
“Well, obviously, vermilion flycatchers and phainopepla are the best. I mean, just listen to those names.”
“Lulu likes house wrens. I like snow geese and ravens.”
Rita raised her eyebrows. “Interesting combo.”
“Also sandhill cranes.”
“Yes, cranes. And great blue herons. Four hundred,” Rita said, out of the blue, and without further explanation.
“Four hundred?” Ammalie prompted.
“There are four hundred species of birds here, residents and migrants—do you know how many that is? It’s a lot. Birders come from across the world. Bullock’s orioles are maybe the best, I forgot about them, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Those dangling sock nests!”
They walked inside and Rita showed her where linens were kept and where some emergency supplies were. “You’ll do just fine. Call me if there’s any problems, although I rarely pick up the phone if I don’t feel like it. I’m really not cut out for this job.”
Ammalie nodded her understanding, still delighted.
On her way out, Rita turned and added, “Just to warn you again, there will be some rude ones, and it has been my experience that these rude humans are especially rude to middle-age or older women. You want my two cents? I’ll give them to you anyway. Hold their gaze and stare. Make them speak to you the way they’d speak to a strapping, handsome man, or a gorgeous young woman. Don’t let them do that belittling thing. Don’t you let them get away with it. I try to be apolitical, being a host and all, but you’ll get it from all sides and from otherwise-seeming nice folk. Do. not. let. them. speak. down. to. you. Or worse yet, not see you.”
Ammalie startled. “Exactly! Rita, exactly! I’m so noticing this tendency. I’m newish to middle age…I’m just now seeing it. Back at the restaurant, people were mostly nice to me. And I wonder if it’s because, well…I was young and kinda…”
“Attractive.”
She shrugged.
