‘With pesto?’
‘Probably. I think there’s half a jar in the fridge. Should still be okay.’
‘And black olives?’
‘If there are any. Think I put some in a bowl somewhere.’
‘You could heat up that French bread, maybe. Sprinkle some water on it first, wrap it in foil. Press some garlic.’
‘Suppose I could do that,’ she said, not reminding him she knew very well how to freshen stale bread. ‘Aren’t you watching the news?’
‘There’s a bottle of red left, I think.’
‘Oh yes, there is. Thanks, Jack, but you can watch the news now, I’m fine.’ In her prim, cold voice. ‘I’m still getting another dog, Jack. I mean it. I’m thinking maybe a spaniel this time.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Another male.’
‘Huh?’
She boiled the water, pressed garlic, sliced some chorizo from a few days ago. It was pleasing, this using up of old things. It made her happy – to watch a nutritious meal emerge from what could easily have ended up in the garbage. It harked back to their more frugal days, the best days. Food really had tasted better then, when she’d make the best of what she found lurking in corners.
Marriage could be like that, she thought. Taking what was, and rather than tossing it all away in a fit of temper, finding a use for it. Economy, that was the answer. When the water boiled, she automatically put in enough pasta for two. Out of my way, she said to all the forces and temptations of divorce. I want to be with him when he dies.
THE ADVENT OF THE BIG-NOSED MAN
FOUR YEARS EARLIER
November 28th 1978
College of Marin, Kentfield, 10:21am
Milly kept coming back to the image of those American mothers in that small settlement on the north coast of South America. Jonestown. Last week, those women gave toxic Kool-Aid to their children. Put it in their baby bottles and plastic cups, and then what…put them to bed? Read them stories, sang last lullabies? Then those mothers drank their own Kool-Aid and curled up with their children. She kept thinking of the people who entered Jonestown afterwards. They must have thought everyone was asleep at first. Almost a thousand people in a very still, deep sleep. And before she could get used to that idea, just yesterday, councillor Harvey Milk was gunned down in the middle of a normal working day in his office in San Francisco. The two disasters were connected in her mind.
The world!
The world!
Life seemed to knot into messy disasters, in between trundling through spells of routine bad news. 1968, for instance. She hadn’t thought about it at the time, but that had been a messy knot of a year too. Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy – both killed. Then losing Louise and gaining her boys, with their good manners and wan faces. All within seven weeks. She looked back now, and saw that it took a decade to properly appreciate the size of that catastrophe. World leaders being gunned down; hard to get the right perspective on her sister’s departure. And now, Harvey Milk and Jonestown. Mayor Moscone too, she reminded herself guiltily. It worried her that no one seemed to think his death was as tragic.
It all put her in a certain mood. Anything at all might happen now. She felt a little raw, a little ragged. Not quite herself. And it had to be said: she felt a little more alive than she had last week, when life had been less frightening.
She noticed things more. Different things.
For instance, she noticed Harold’s wheelchair. She made an effort to open the door for him when he came to class, and immediately felt less disabled and therefore less depressed. As if he was obese, and she’d been worrying about her little paunch. (Aha! Not so fat after all!) Her left leg visibly dragged all the time now – she was a lopsided ship, always trying to correct the list. There was no pain if she let her right leg take her weight when walking, but excruciating pain if she forgot. And twice now she had fallen. She’d been angry and not wanted any help getting up. Unsuspected depths of stubbornness had risen up, without her summoning them. She was surprised by her own determination. Apparently, Milly MacAlister would not be crippled. She would not.
The second thing Milly noticed was that Harold had an extremely large nose. A beak, leaning over his Roman mouth. Olive skin, high intelligent forehead, lazy-lidded dark eyes, and that nose – enormous. Fascinating. And strangely attractive, the more she looked at it. She was sitting to the left of him, one row back, so she could gaze at his profile anytime she liked. A curiously compulsive habit.
The teacher was talking about the symbolism in The Heart of Darkness, and possible influences on Conrad at the time, particularly related to the political upheaval in…Poland? Maybe Milly was not listening carefully enough. Her pen slid over the notebook, making doodles of daisies. Outside, blue jays were yammering away in the acacia trees as if they knew the winter blossoms were weeks away. There was no heating and the room was chilly. Despite her new fisherman’s sweater, she was cold. Not being able to move quickly affected her circulation, and she often felt cold. The teacher had moved on to Conrad’s family history and his publishers. The public’s reaction. Milly tried for a full ten minutes to focus, and made a page of neat notes. Rewarded herself with a glance at Harold’s nose. But he turned just then and their eyes snagged. She was too slow to look away, and blushed.
‘Did you manage to make notes?’ he asked when she opened the door for him later.
‘Oh! I tried, but I could hardly concentrate. Too cold. And I need this class to get my degree.’
‘Is it your last one? Me too.’
‘Really? That’s amazing!’ she gushed.
‘Yeah.’
‘How long have you been going?’
‘Three years.’ He held up three fingers.
‘That’s amazing.’
‘Three years for you, too?’
‘Yes! Well, ten, actually,’ she admitted. ‘One class a semester.’
‘Excuse me,’ said the teacher, trying to squeeze around them and leave the classroom. Then he turned and said: ‘Have you two entered the short-story competition? Deadline is tomorrow, you know.’
‘Yeah,’ said Harold. Then in a low voice to Milly: ‘Got to admit, I think it has a chance. Best thing I’ve ever done.’
‘Me too,’ said Milly, and laughed. ‘Actually mine’s pretty awful, but who knows. Thought I’d give it a whirl.’
Then Harold and Milly found themselves in the hall. Light poured through the glass doors at the end, white and hard. Classroom doors opened and shut, and students chattered around them. About Jonestown, about Harvey Milk, about the Huichol Indian exhibit at the de Young museum, guitar practice times, dates for the movies, sales at the Gap, bands playing at the Fillmore this weekend. Two ponytailed boys shouted to each other down the hall:
‘Dude! Free concert tomorrow at Golden Gate Park, want a ride?’
