You. Up. Yours. But if a writer wanted to convey that a character paused while saying “O.K.,” he’d have to do so explicitly because of that word’s peculiarities. It calmed me to think of orthography instead of the fact that Helen was looking at me intently, waiting for me to speak. Her irises were bright green. Her eyelids drooped close to the nose. Her spirit animal was the gecko.
“Holiday decorations go up earlier and earlier every year!” I said.
“They don’t, though. Thanksgiving week. Always.”
“I’m pretty sure —”
“Always.”
I stirred my tea, silently conceding the point.
“All the stuff in here, what is it?” I asked, trying a different tack. “The leather and the glue?”
“It’s my work. I’m an antiquarian and a bookbinder.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“Does it? I have to think about old books all day.”
“So do I. I study English.”
Helen scrunched her nose, either because she didn’t like English or because her tea was too bitter.
“At Collegiate, I guess.”
Usual reactions included feigned indifference (“Nice place, I hear”), eager networking (“Do you know …”), harsh oneupmanship (“Princeton said no?”), and classist disdain (“State school was good enough for my kids”).
“I’m not surprised. You have that look,” she said, indifferently disdainful. “Anyway, your relationship with old books is not like mine. Academics care about the ideas inside a book. Antiquarians care about dustcovers and bindings.”
“Don’t the contents matter at all?”
“Reputation matters. Famous books cost more than forgotten ones. Basically, though, we’re materialists, or fetishists.” Helen grinned as if she’d said something adorably naughty. “Our clients are fetishists too. They don’t buy books they want to read. They buy books they consider physically special because they’re rare or unusual: first printings, books signed by the author, books once owned by a notable politician. If they really cared about the contents, they’d just find a used two-dollar paperback.”
Helen’s delivery was fluid and monotone, almost as if she’d given her speech many times before. Perhaps she had. Perhaps she often had to explain how antiquarians were different from scholars. I was struck by her dismissive characterization of her chosen profession and by the pleasure she took in making it seem unintellectual. She was proud of her fetishistic materialism in the way a certain sort of American was proud of never having traveled to a foreign country.
“Maybe you know my uncle,” she said.
“Is he in the English department?”
“In a manner of speaking. He was a writer. Freddy Langley. Frederick, in print.”
I would never have guessed. Langley was a common name and Helen seemed, to me, unartistic: the sloppy scene at the supermarket, the orange trench coat, her line of work. This woman? That man?
Once the initial shock passed, I felt titillated by the connection, even a little flushed, and then, immediately, ashamed by my reaction. I looked down on people who texted their friends if they happened to sit next to a celebrity at a restaurant. Yet I felt something like self-importance because I was sitting across from the niece of a well-known author. Physical proximity to genetic proximity to fame.
After sunset we were left with only the light from a standing lamp. In the dimness, the den felt cozily antique. And I felt fine. I’d moved from anxiety to acceptance and now something resembling enjoyment in the strangeness of the situation. One day it would make a good story: The evening I drank tea with Frederick Langley’s niece. On December 25.
“I should tell you something,” I said, blushing. “I didn’t realize, when I rang your doorbell, that it was Christmas.”
Helen laughed. She looked away from me and out the window. It was too dark to discern the street or the neighboring houses. Still, I aped her. If someone had walked by he might have noticed two women staring straight in his direction, into the night, one face past life’s midpoint, the other past youth, in a cluttered room protected from the winter cold. We would have made for a nice painting, a portrait of what I supposed, in my ignorance, was the last time we would ever see each other.
There were no Pop-Tarts left in my kitchen cabinet, presenting me with a choice: Skip breakfast or get dressed and walk to the store. Theoretically, there were other options available to me. I could, for instance, have resorted to the organic steel-cut oatmeal that I’d purchased in a fit of attempted self-improvement. But I’d gone too far by selecting the non-instant variety, and the thought of struggling at the stovetop was grossly unappealing — particularly since my reward for that labor would be … oats. Organic oats.
On the one hand, it was cold out. On the other hand, I was hungry. I stood in my kitchen, paralyzed by the prospect of making a decision. Again I rifled through the cabinet, hoping for a different result. Winston Churchill said a fanatic is someone who can’t change his mind and won’t change the subject. Maybe I’d get lucky. Maybe I’d surprise an old box of Pop-Tarts hiding behind worthier items.
My meeting with my doctoral adviser was at four p.m., in four hours. Factoring in time to shower, dress, and walk to the English department, I had three hours and fifteen minutes to prepare. It was time to move on from the Pop-Tarts problem. It was time to act decisively. Was it possible, though, to work well on an empty stomach? Innumerable listicles suggested otherwise. The kitchen smelled like chemical lemon zest, the cleaning company’s signature scent. The stone tile felt chilly on my bare feet. I could skip breakfast or get dressed and walk to the store. Either way, I would eventually have to get dressed. Moreover, I would eventually have to shower. Or would I? Perhaps showering wasn’t strictly necessary. On second thought, it was not. Getting dressed, however, obviously was.
I matched a pair of jeans from my hamper with thick socks from a pile of clothes and old running shoes from the depths of my closet. And then I wrapped myself in a winter cocoon. And then I paused at the door, feeling cold air seep from the hallway into my apartment. And then I slipped off my running shoes and removed my hat. And then I put both articles back on and launched myself past the threshold.
One spends much of one’s life saying, or thinking, And then. And then I’ll graduate. And then I’ll get a job. And then I’ll get married. And then I’ll have a kid. And then the kid will go to school. And then I’ll get divorced. And then the kid will get married, and then divorced.
Or just: And then I’ll review my notes. And then I’ll see my adviser. And then I’ll go home. And then I’ll order dinner. And then I’ll watch television. And then I’ll fall asleep.
Seeing as I was no longer a teenager, I limited myself to unfrosted Pop-Tarts at breakfast. These came in five different flavors: strawberry, brown-sugar cinnamon, wild berry, apple, and blueberry. The middle three were revolting. The first and last were equally good. By 12:45 I had one strawberry and one blueberry spooning in my toaster. By 12:50
