Rivka Galchen - American Innovations: Stories

I was at home, not making spaghetti. I was trying to eat a little less often, its true. A yogurt in the morning, a yogurt at lunchtime, ginger candies in between, and a normal dinner. I dont think of myself as someone with a weight issue, but I had somehow put on a number of pounds just four months into my unemployment, and when I realized that this had happened I never weigh myself; my brother just said to me, on a visit, I dont recognize your legsI wasnt happy about it. Although maybe I was happy about it. Because at least I had something that I knew it wouldnt be a mistake to really dedicate myself to. I could be like those people who by trying to quit smoking or drinking manage to fit an accomplishment, or at least an attempt at an accomplishment, into every day. Just by aiming to not do something. This particular morning, there was no yogurt left for my breakfast. I could go get some? I could treat myself to maple. Although the maple yogurt was always full cream. But maybe full cream was fine, because it was just a tiny

My phone is ringing.

The caller ID reads Unavailable.

I tend not to answer calls identified as Unavailable. But sometimes Unavailable shows up because someone is calling from, say, the hospital.

One garlic chicken, a mans voice is saying. One side of salad, with the ginger-miso dressing. Also one white rice. White, not brown. This isnt for pickup, he says. Its for delivery.

He probably has the wrong number, I figure. I mean, of course he has the wrong

Not the lemon chicken, he is going on. I dont want the lemon. What I want

OK. I get it

Last time you delivered the wrong thing

Lemon chicken

Garlic chicken

OK

I know you, he says.

What?

Dont just say OK and then bring me the wrong order. OK, OK, OK. Dont just say OK. He starts dictating his address. I have no pencil in hand.

OK, I say. I mean, all right. Ive lost track of whether it was the lemon chicken or the garlic he wanted. Wanting and not wanting. Which tap is hot and which is cold. I still have trouble with left and right.

How long? he asks.

Thirty minutes?

He hangs up.

Ack. Why couldnt I admit that I wasnt going to be bringing him any chicken at all? Now Im wronging a hungry man. One tries not to do too many wrong things in life. But I cant call him back: hes Unavailable!

Just forget it.

* * *

Forgetting is work, though. I returned to not making spaghetti, a task to which I had added not setting out to buy yogurt. Then it struck me that getting dressed would be a good idea. It was 10:40 a.m. Early for chicken. Yes, I should and would get dressed. Unfortunately, on the issue of getting dressed I consistently find myself wishing that I were a man. I dont mean that in an ineluctable gender disturbance way, its not that; its that I think I would have an easier time choosing an outfit. Though having a body is problematic no matter what. Even for our dog. One summer we thought we would do her a favor by shaving her fur, but then afterward she hung her head and was inconsolable. Poor girl. The key is to not have time to think about your body, and dogs most dogs anyhow have a lot of free time. So do I, I guess. Although, I dont feel like I have a lot of time; I feel constantly pressed for time; even though when I had a job, I felt like I had plenty of time. But even then getting dressed was difficult. For a while it was my conviction that pairing tuxedo-like pants with any of several inexpensive white T-shirts would solve the getting-dressed problem for me for at least a decade, maybe for the rest of my life. I bought the tuxedo-like pants! Two pairs. And some mens undershirts. But it turned out that I looked even more sloppy than usual. And by sloppy I mostly just mean female, with curves, which can be OK, even great, in many circumstances, sure, but a tidy look for a female body, feminine or not feminine, is elusive and unstable. Dressing as a woman is like working with color instead of with black and white. Or like drawing a circle freehand. They say that Giotto got his job painting St. Peters based solely on the popes being shown a red circle hed painted with a single brushstroke. Thats how difficult circles are. In the seven hundred years since Giotto, probably still

I found myself back in the kitchen, still not making spaghetti, and wearing a T-shirt. Not the one I had woken up in, but still a T-shirt that would be best described as pajamas and that I wasnt feeling too good or masculine or flat-chested in, either. Giotto? It was 11:22 a.m. Making lemon chicken for that man would have been a better way to spend my time, I thought. Or garlic chicken. Whichever. I felt as if there were some important responsibility that I was neglecting so wholly that I couldnt even admit to myself that it was there. Was I really taking that mans delivery order so seriously?

At least I wasnt eating.

I decided to not surf the Internet.

Then to not watch a television show.

Hugging my favorite throw pillow, I lay down on the sofa, and thought, Just count backward from one hundred. This is something I do that calms me down. Whats weird is that I dont recall ever having made it to the number one. Sometimes I fall asleep before I reach one thats not so mysterious but more often I just get lost. I take some sort of turn away from counting, without realizing it, and only then, far away even from whatever the turn was, do I realize I am elsewhere.

The throw pillow has matryoshka dolls on it. I started counting down. Ninety-six, ninety-five, ninety-four

The phone is ringing.

Its Unavailable.

I hate my phone. I hate all phones.

Why should I have to deal with this hungry mans problems, these problems that stem from a past to which I dont belong? Not my fucking jurisdiction.

Although admittedly, the fact that our paths are now entangled that part kind of is my fault.

OK? I say, into the phone.

I think I know where it is, a familiar male voice says.

Its not even on its way yet, I confess. Im sorry.

Whats not on its way? Are you asleep?

I locate the voice more precisely. The voice belongs to my husband.

Sorry, sorry. Im here now.

Im saying I think I know where it is. I think I lost it when I was in the courtyard with Monkey, tossing tennis balls for her. Our dogs name is Monkey. One of the reasons I was lonelier than usual was that Monkey was on a kind of dog holiday in the country, with my in-laws. My hands were really cold. I had bought an icy water bottle.

OK, I say.

You know how it is, when your hand gets cold; your fingers shrink. So maybe thats when the ring fell off. Im almost sure of it. Its supposed to rain later today, and Im worried the rain will just wash the ring right into a gutter. Im sorry to put this on you, but would you mind taking a look around for it?

He is talking about: a couple of weeks earlier I had very briefly gone away, to my uncles funeral, and when I returned, my husband was no longer wearing his wedding ring. Its such an unimportant thing that to be honest, I didnt even notice he was no longer wearing it. And he hadnt noticed, either. Were not symbol people. We didnt realize that his ring was gone until we were at dinner with a friend visiting from Chicago and she asked to see both of our rings. Then my husband was a little weird about it. I guess he had simultaneously known and not known. Meaning he had known. A part of him had. And had worried enough about it to pretend that it hadnt happened. Poor guy.

Im not going to go look for it, I find myself saying into the phone. Its not really a decision, its more like a discovery. Im not going to be a woman hopelessly searching for a wedding ring in a public courtyard. Even if the situation does not in fact carry the metaphorical weight it misleadingly seems to carry. Still no. I had recently seen a photograph of Susan Sontag wearing a bear costume but with a serious expression on her face; you could see that she felt uneasy.