Steven Rowley - The Editor

“It certainly does.”

Jackie looks like she’s about to say something and then stops. She thinks again before picking up the book. “I’ve marked the page. I don’t have my glasses. Would you do the honors?” She opens the book and hands it to me. It takes a moment for it to sink in that she’s asking me to read.

“Happy to.”

“Just the last few lines.”

I fumble with the book, almost losing her place, until I manage to get a good grip. I scan down the text of the poem, looking for just the right place to jump in. “Ithaka has given you the beautiful journey.” Already I feel a lump forming in my throat so I read quietly until I get to the very end. “And if you find her threadbare, Ithaka has not deceived you. Wise as you have become, with so much experience, you must have always understood what Ithakas mean.” I glance up at Jackie and she’s looking just past me, as if considering the meaning again for the very first time. “That’s … wow ,” I say. I left my apartment early to walk here, gathering courage along the way in the invigorating March air, desperately dreaming up intelligent phrases and casual topics of conversation to use as filler, should our dialogue sputter. And yet, all I can come up with is “wow.”

But it is remarkable, especially if Ithaca is not a town or a place or a state of being, but a person, a mother, a soul. Indeed, she has not deceived me; somehow, I must have always understood that.

Once again Jackie opens her mouth to speak, then stops. But this time she plows forward without any further hesitation. “I have a thought.”

“Oh?”

A grin spreads across her face, hinting at the woman one always suspected lay just beneath the decorum. She opens her desk drawer, pulls out an expensive-looking bottle of rum, and plunks it on her desk. The alcohol sloshes, creating a rippling meniscus.

“This was a recent gift from one of my authors after a trip he took to Barbados.”

I’m not sure I’m following. “Rum was your thought?”

“Close,” Jackie says. She stands, lifting the rum to inspect it. She pulls her shoulders back as if not to let the heavy bottle topple her forward. Allen was right—she is indeed tall. “Daiquiris.”

David Letterman recently aired a Top Ten List of Least Popular New York City Street Vendors and the number-one entry served “Stunned Mouse in a Dixie Cup.” I don’t know why that comes to mind now, except that it became a punchline between Daniel and me (What would you like for dinner tonight? How about stunned mouse in a Dixie cup! ) and—talk about stunned—even I wish I could see the look on my face right now. “Daiquiris.” I scramble out of my chair; when a woman like Jacqueline Onassis stands, a gentleman does too.

She reaches back in her drawer and pulls out what miraculously appears to be simple syrup. I’m beginning to think this particular drawer is a magician’s hat. “Don’t tell me you’re a teetotaler,” she says.

I struggle to remember if teetotaler means someone who is on, or off, the wagon. “No. Far from it. I just don’t usually drink daiquiris.”

“That’s because you don’t usually drink with me.” She notices me standing. “Sit, sit. I’m going to collect some ice.”

Jackie places her hand on my shoulder as she squeezes past me and out the door. Alone in her office, I lean forward and grab the rum. It’s hard not to think she’s putting me on. I hold it up to my nose, and not only does it contain alcohol, it may be one hundred and fifty proof. Do I know her to drink? Are there photos of her drinking? Magazine profiles that mention the habit? If I were her, there’s no way I could not drink. Should I put a stop to this? Is this a bad idea? I have just enough time to place the bottle back on her desk before she returns carrying a little silver platter with several limes, a knife, club soda, and two glasses with ice.

“What else do you have in that desk? A coconut tree?”

“Don’t ever underestimate me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, and that’s the God’s-honest truth.

“I think you will like this. It’s distilled from molasses instead of sugarcane.” She adds a healthy pour of rum to each glass and a more conservative amount of simple syrup. Whatever it is that she’s doing, she’s quite adept at doing it. Then she slices several limes and squeezes as much juice as she can into each glass; I can see the tendons in her sinewy arms. “I had to borrow these earlier from the cafeteria ladies.”

Good God, she’s been planning this all day. “I hope they didn’t mind.” Should I point out they won’t be getting them back?

“Oh, they like me.” She repeats the process with another lime, then tops each glass with a splash of soda. “On my first day here—this goes back a while now …”

“Fourteen years?” I try to recall her résumé from our first meeting. Jackie pulls a silver letter opener from a pencil cup and gives each cocktail a good stir.

“That’s right,” she says. “Back then, no one—and I mean no one —knew how they were supposed to behave in my presence. If I got into the elevator, people would get out. If I walked down the hallway, people would turn around and scramble in the opposite direction. If I went to the breakroom to pour a cup of coffee, people would panic and hand me theirs.”

“That sounds …” I grasp for the right word. “Lonely.”

Satisfied that each cocktail is well mixed, Jackie gently taps the letter opener on the rim of one glass and it makes the most perfect chime. She picks up the tray and holds it out for me as if she’s the most overqualified spokesmodel ever to be hired on a game show.

“Thank you,” I say, accepting a drink. I hold it firmly in both hands by my lap, even though the ice makes it uncomfortably cold to the touch.

“It was. Devastatingly lonely. It was like I had the plague. After several weeks of this nonsense, I decided to head down to the cafeteria for lunch. Of course, everyone put their trays down and got out of line in front of me and disappeared from sight. It was horribly embarrassing, because the last thing I wanted was anyone thinking that I felt entitled to go to the front of the line. But it’s not like I could tell them to hop back in line—they had evaporated! Anyhow, this one lunch lady, a rather robust woman, urged me to the counter with an exaggerated wave and bellowed, ‘WHAT’LL IT BE, JACKIE?’”

My easy laughter catches me off guard. “So, what was it?”

“Tuna fish salad, if I recall.” We both laugh. “I don’t suppose everyone was fond of my being here. But after that, things were different. Better.” Jackie leans in to the memory, taking a full beat before coming back. “In case that story didn’t do it for you, consider this your lunch lady.”

I hold up my drink and we clink glasses with good cheer, this long story a toast of sorts to our new relationship and the work we hope to accomplish together. “To Ithaca.”

“To Ithaca,” she echoes.

I take a sip, and the drink is … tart, citrusy. Only a little pulpy. A few of these would be downright dangerous.

“How does it taste?”

“It’s … sly.”

“You’re lucky you’re here this week. Last week I was keen on acquiring a book of cold blended soups. Lila and I tried a few of the recipes. As it turns out, after gazpacho there aren’t many cold soups worth a damn. Have you ever had cream-of-cashew soup? Cold?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Believe me, there’s no pleasure to be had. Unless you like wallpaper glue.”

I grimace, then gesture toward the Cavafy book, and she gives me permission to take it. I open to the marked page. “Ithaka referred to in the feminine, like she is mother herself. You must have always known what Ithakas mean.”