Lorrie Moore: Anagrams

“New York, eh?” said Eleanor.

“I’d be teaching yuppies,” I complained. Despite our various ways of resembling yuppies (Eleanor was a wine snob, and I owned too many pairs of sneakers), we hated yuppies. We hated the word yuppie , though we used it. Eleanor would walk down the street looking at people she passed and deciding whether or not they qualified for this ignominy. “Yup, yup, nope,” she would say out loud, as in a game of Duck, Duck, Goose. Yuppies, we knew, were greedy, shallow, and small. They made their own pasta. They would rather play racquetball than read Middlemarch . “Go home and read Middlemarch ,” Eleanor once shouted at a pastel jogger, who glanced sideways to see Eleanor and me zipping by in Eleanor’s car. We renamed the seven dwarves: Artsy, Fartsy, Cranky, Sleazy, Beasty, Dud, and Yuppie.

“Well,” said Eleanor, “if you’re in New York, it’s either yuppies or mimes. That’s all New York’s got. Yuppies or mimes.”

I loved Dido and Aeneas . It had electric guitars, electric pianos, Aeneas in leather and Dido in blue sequins, sexily metallic as a disco queen. The whole thing resembled MTV, replete with loud guitar solos. Aeneas shouldered his guitar and riffed and whined after Dido throughout the whole show: “Don’t you see why I have to go to Europe? / I must ignore the sentiment you stir up.” Actually it was awful. But nonetheless I sniffled at her suicide, and when she sang at Aeneas, “Just go then! Go if you must! / My heart will surely turn to dust,” and Aeneas indeed left, I sat in my seat, thinking, “You ass, Aeneas, you don’t have to be so literal.” Eleanor, sitting next to me, nudged me and whispered, “Shirley’s gonna turn her heart to dust.”

“I doubt it will be Shirley,” I said.

Gerard, as Aeneas and director, got a standing ovation and a long-stemmed rose. In my mind I gave Dido a handful of tiger lilies, a bouquet of floral gargoyles.

Afterward, Eleanor had to go home and nurse a headache, so I went backstage and shook hands with Susan Fitzbaum. She was out of her sparkles and crown. She was wearing a plaid skirt and loafers. She had a large head. “So nice to meet you,” she said in a low, tired voice.

I kissed Gerard. He seemed anxious to go. “I need a beer,” he said. “The cast party’s not until midnight. Let’s go and come back.”

In the car he said, “So what did you really think?” and I told him the show was terrific, but he didn’t necessarily have to leave someone just because they told him to, and he smiled and said, “Thanks,” and kissed my temple and then I told him I was pregnant and what did he think we should do.

We sat for a long time in a nearby bar with our fingers drawing grids and diagonals in the frost of the beer glasses. “I’m going back to the cast party,” Gerard eventually said. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.” He got up and put down cash for half the check.

“No, I’ll go,” I said. “If you want me to.”

“It’s not that I want you to or don’t want you to. It’s up to you.”

“Well, it would be nice if you wanted me to. I mean, I don’t want to go if you don’t want me to.”

“It’s up to you,” he said. His eyes were knobby, like knuckles.

“I get the feeling you don’t want me to go.”

“It’s up to you! Look, if you think you’ll have things to say at a party full of music-types, fine. I mean, I’m a musician, and sometimes even I have trouble.”

“You don’t want me to go. Okay, I won’t go.”

“Benna, it’s not that. Come along if you—”

“Never mind,” I said. “Never mind, Gerard.” I drove him to the cast party and then drove home, where I got into my pajamas and in my own apartment listened to the sound track from The Turning Point , an album, I realized, I had always loved.

There was one main reason I didn’t tell Eleanor I was pregnant, although once, when we both had gone into the ladies’ room together, a not unusual occurrence of synchronized plumbing which allowed chit-chat between the stalls, I almost told her anyway. I attempted it. I stared at the crotch of my underwear and said, “You know, I think I’m pregnant.” There was no response, so when I was finished, I stepped out, washed my hands slowly, and then just said to the feet in Eleanor’s stall, “Welp, see you out in the real world.” I looked in the mirror; the glare and precision of it startled me. I had that old look: that look where you look — old. When I got back to our table, Eleanor was already sitting there lighting one of my Winstons. “You took a long time,” she said.

“Oh, my god,” I laughed. “I just confessed my entire life story to someone in black boots.”

“I would never wear black boots,” said Eleanor.

Which was some residual thing, she said, having to do with Catholic school. Which was why I never finally told her about the pregnancy: She still had weird, unresolved strings to Catholicism. She was sentimental about it. She once told me about a frugal, lapsed Catholic aunt of hers who, when she died, left two large, mysterious boxes in her attic, one full of various marital and contraceptive devices, and one labeled “Strings Too Short to Use,” which was a huge collection of small pieces of string, multicolored and inexplicable, matted together in large coils and nests. That , I realized, was both Eleanor’s and her aunt’s relationship to Catholicism: ties too short to bind and therefore stowed away in a huge and secret box. But Eleanor clearly liked to lug her box around, display her ties like a traveling waresperson.

“You can’t really be a fallen Protestant,” she said. “How can there be any guilt?”

“There can be guilt,” I said. “It’s my piety, I can cry if I want to.”

“But being a fallen Catholic — that’s skydiving! Being a fallen Protestant — that’s like mugging an old lady, so easy why bother.”

“Yeah, but think how awful you’d feel after you’d mugged an old lady.”

Eleanor shrugged. She liked lapsed Catholics; I think the only reason she managed to like Gerard at all was that they both had been Catholics. Sometimes when Gerard got on the phone to ask her things about Virgil, they would end up talking about Dante and then about nuns they’d known in Catholic school. They’d both attended parochial schools called The Assumption School, where, they said, they had learned to assume many things. More than once I sat at Gerard’s kitchen table and listened while he talked on the phone with Eleanor, uproarious and slap-happy, exchanging priest stories. I had never known a priest. But it was curious and lovely to see Gerard so taken up by his own childhood, so communed via anecdotes with Eleanor, so pleased with his own escape into an adulthood that allowed him these survivor’s jokes, that I would sit there, floating and transfixed as a moon, laughing along with him, with them, even though I didn’t really know what the two of them were talking about.

“I’ve made an appointment,” I said to Gerard.

We were in my apartment. He thought he might have left his keys there.

“Christ, Benna,” he said. “You stare at me with those cow eyes of yours — what am I supposed to say? I’ve got to go off to a gig in a half hour and you say, ‘I’ve made an appointment.’ It’s like what you did the night of the cast party: cow eyes and then ‘I think I’m pregnant.’ ”

“I just thought you’d want to know.” I kept thinking of that horrible saying mothers tell you about getting the milk and buying the cow.

“You make me feel like I’m in a tiny store and all I want to do is relax, look, and enjoy, but because I’m the only potential customer there, you keep coming over and pressuring me.”