A journal of narrative writing.
The Tasting Room
Page 3

Georgia shrugged her eyebrows. "If I have to pick…I pick…I guess…this one." Her hand seemed to hover over Syrup — Zooey nodded vigorously — then tilted away — Zooey shook her head and waved her hand warningly — then came to rest above Fizz. Zooey raised her foot to stamp it but, as if receiving another command from the back of Georgia's head, she sat and folded her hands in her lap.

"So you prefer this one?" Harriet asked Georgia.

"Yeah." Through her blankness Walter saw a rueful smile. "Least of evils."

 

* * *

 

When they left the room, Wilva said: "That girl's a character." Walter broke into a cough, which saved him from having to say anything. The next pair came in, father and son, black. From the posture of his chin, the father looked ex-military; his son said, "Thank you, ma'am," when Harriet told him where to sit. Walter stood and mumbled to Wilva, "Phone call."

The protocol stipulated that study subjects remain on premises for half an hour, to ensure there were no adverse events from either liquid. When Walter entered the still-crowded waiting area, Zooey ran past him after some kids tossing a nerf ball; but Georgia saw him first. She was sitting between two women on the bench nearest the far wall, but she saw him right away. For a moment she seemed naked in her surprise, and pleasure, that he had come out to talk to her. Then he was distracted by Zooey jumping in front of him: "Hey Walt! Can't talk to you now, I'm busy."

"That's OK, honey. Just wanted to ask your Momma something." His voice twangy again. When he looked back at Georgia the film of blankness had returned, the green eyes bright and dead. "Hey there." He walked up to her; not knowing what to do with his hands, he stuck them in his pockets.

"You're not from here," she said.

"No. It's rubbing off, I guess."

"Tell me about it. Every day of my life I fight it."

"Oh, you have no accent."

"Thanks." She actually smiled with both sides of her mouth. "Nicest thing I've heard all week." Her voice was plain, no irony, no sarcasm.

"Um…I meant it, before. I've been a huge Salinger fan since I was 12. I'm guessing from your daughter's name that you are, too."

The woman on Georgia's right, a hippo in black leggings, rose on her hind legs and walked away. Walter couldn't tell if she was going to the bathroom or deliberately giving him her seat. Georgia said: "I was."

"Was?" 
   "Oh, still am. He's just…sad. What happened to him."

"That he went underground?" Slowly, he sat down. "Or that he stopped writing…publishing?"

"Everything," Georgia said. She shifted, bringing her other side toward him, revealing something he hadn't noticed during the test: she was left-handed. "He just never grew up." Her smile became one-cornered again. (Left-mouthed too.) "Can't be too hard on him for that. I never did either."

"Oh, now…"

"I was 18 when I first discovered his writing, and I loved it. I was a literature major in college — at least I was going to be — and he got to me in a way that nobody else did. His radar for everything cynical, false. His unrequited love for the truly innocent. His love-hate for people…he recoils from them and then misses them."

"Well, that's Holden — "

"I read every single thing he ever published," she said. "There's a Web site, I'm sure you know, with all his uncollected stories on it. Anyway, I was sad, when I realized he had written so little. And had gone silent. Stupid" — this directed at herself, not Salinger — "stupid. I should have expected it."

Walter had read some, not all, of the stories on the Web site; he agreed with much, but not all, of what she said. This wasn't the conversation he expected. He wanted to tell her about his Salinger collection, the perfect first editions of all four books, the pristine copy of the New Yorker that included "Hapworth 16, 1924." He expected to compare notes on E-bay, Alibris, and traditional book dealers. Now he was embarrassed, for both of them.

"You still married?" he asked.

"Technically. My divorce becomes official in a few months. You?"

"No," he grinned. "I never tied the knot."

"Lifelong bachelor."

"Well…I don't know," he said, a lie that tasted true. "Haven't lived my whole life yet!" Zooey and the other girls swooped past without looking at them. "She misses him, doesn't she?"

"Her father? So do I. Still." Was her blankness simply too many expressions, almost but not quite canceling each other out? "He's a perfect example of how an awful book can have a beautiful cover. A real phony — Holden didn't say that, Holly Golightly did. But he was good with Zooey. I'll give him that."

Her left hand moved downward, and Walter thought she was going to touch his knee. She did not; but her hand came so close he felt flattered. "Enough. I can't blame him for my life. You may not believe this, but I enjoy a lot of my life."

"Why would I — "

"Please. You're from New York. I'm a single mother from Red Cedar. I'm a proofreader, and I bring my daughter here to make extra money. But still. I read, all the time. I'm a connoisseur of international beers. I cook, because I love to eat. I…"

"Appreciate," he said. "You know how to appreciate things."

"Exactly." She looked naked again in her pleasure at what he had said.

"I'm with you," he said. Did that sound weird? "Really. I know what you mean."

"OK, Walter." Georgia shifted her left shoulder closer as if to speak from her true side. "What brings you to Red Cedar? Work, I know, but why?"

He laughed, looking past her. "This is one of the best areas of the country for doing pediatric research. I guess a lot of people here need extra money."

"Sorry. Not what I mean." Her eyes never moved, and yet he suddenly felt assessed, as a man. "I just don't see you doing…research. You look like you should be…a restaurant critic, I don't know, or somebody who writes about the theatre."

"You're good. I love restaurants and I love plays. Opera even more. But, like you, I need money. So I can afford to love those things. And live in New York."

"You must be having a great time down here."

"I'm at the Marriott." This non sequitur made them giggle.

"Where did you eat last night?" He told her. "Oh, God, poor you. I could cook you a better meal just using the top of my stove."

"Why don't you?"

A screech. Though her gaze never left him, Georgia called out: "Zooey! Give it back to him!"

Walter looked over as Zooey, with a shrug, passed back a smashed-looking doughnut to a boy with a red splotch above his left eyebrow. If he had a mother, she didn't speak up. Zooey saw Walter looking and waved and did another shrug for him, like a dance step. Walter waved back. He felt lightheaded. He gripped the edge of the bench, breathed slowly in and out, and turned back to Georgia, who remained staring at him.

"If you really mean that," she said, "I'd be glad to cook for you tonight. I haven't cooked for a man in a while. I'll even use my whole stove. You like Greek?"

"Greek food? I love it."

"Well, tonight it's Greek salad with tomatoes and olives and feta. Best moussaka ever made by a woman from Akron. And that milk pudding, I can never pronounce it."

"Me neither, but I love it. I adore moussaka." She watched him with an especially fierce lack of expression. "Please," he said. "Save me. Cook for me. I'd be grateful. Really."

Georgia put her shapeless pocketbook on her lap and poked till she found a pen and a scrap of paper. She wrote her name, address, and phone number, and extended the scrap toward him. "It's easy. A left out of here, three lights, take a right at the third light and keep going. Twenty minutes."

"Would 6:30 be OK?"

"Fine."

"What about Zooey? Will she eat with us?"

"I doubt it. Cracker Barrel mac and cheese, as usual. But she'll still be up. So. I'll see you at 6:30?" She pressed the paper into his hand. "I've got to get going — to pick up my next proofing job. Zooey!" She had let her hand linger in his, but now she withdrew it.

"'Scuse me."

As she went to the front desk for her check, Zooey came running, careened into her and past her, right at Walter, right into his lap. "Hi Mister Tasty!"

It had started, must have started when Georgia pressed her hand into his. A warmth shooting all through him but especially between his legs. With Zooey on his lap, the feeling swelled, he was swelling, a full-blown thrusting erection, his first spontaneous one in years, the girl's skinny squirming buttocks and the elbow she jammed into his belly only making him more –

Walter stood so abruptly that Zooey tumbled to the floor. She screeched delightedly, as if he had made an excellent countermove in their private game, and she was ready to jump on him again, to keep playing. He averted his face and walked away from her, walked past her mother without a word or glance. Black spots flashed before his eyes, but he kept going, down the hall, opening the door to the tasting room.

Four pairs of eyes greeted him: Harriet, a girl older and much cuter than Zooey, her nothing mother, and Wilva. "'Scuse me." He realized he'd said it just like Georgia, and the dots danced again, black and gold.

He made it to the couch. He could still feel it, pressed and hot against his thigh. He still didn't know if it was for Georgia or Zooey, or, somehow, both. It didn't matter. He didn't want to know, and he didn't want to go anyplace where he might find out.

He managed to sit there until this pair both tasted and voted for Fizz. Wilva declared a break. Harriet stood and escorted the mother and daughter out.

"Saved me, Walt," Wilva said, covering him with her benign smile. "They're all going for Fizz now. How was your call?"

"My conference call is cancelled," he said. "You still free for dinner?" His voice was all right, but his eyes swam, his cheeks felt wet; he brought his handkerchief across his face as if wiping away perspiration.

"Course I'm free, Walt honey," Wilva said, her voice grateful but really a mercy, her smile assuring him he looked just fine. "We can have that sushi."

"We can still sit at the sushi bar, if you like. It's a fun way to do the meal." And they wouldn't be facing each other. "Hey. Would you laugh at me if I asked you for a cigarette?"

"'Course not, Walt," Wilva said gently. "Come on — I'm having one too."

Walter followed her out. It would be all right. They would have left by now, and he just wouldn't show up tonight, and of course he'd never see either of them again. And even if Wilva had known his tears for tears, he could count on her to never say a word about it.

 

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