Lorrie Moore: A Gate at the Stairs

By mid-December I’d registered for my spring semester classes, had found a part-time job as a barista in Starbucks, and was getting ready to go home for Christmas and then move back here more completely in January. It had not been that hard to find work, as reservists had been called up in preparation for war; shops and restaurants and computer stores were suddenly short-staffed. On the bulletin board inside the Starbucks door I saw a handwritten sign that read BASS PLAYER NEEDED FOR BAND, and I tore off one of the phone number flaps that were cut into the bottom like fringe and stuck it in my pocket.

Meanwhile, I liked the whirring of hot milk into cups, the pumping of syrups, the listening to international music I’d never heard before. I learned to make art — peace signs, ferns, space alien heads resembling Munch’s The Scream —in the cappuccino foam. It was our job to be friendly, and people were friendly back. My hours were not boring. There were random spells of this and that, cast as if by a merciful clown-god. One morning, a woman in line paid for the coffee of the guy behind her, and then he turned around and paid for the customer behind him. And then that guy paid for the woman behind him, and it went on for about forty-five minutes until there was a lull and no one was in line at all. A quiet period of no customers broke the chain — but still: it was a piece of magic while it lasted.

Outside the window of the shop, students had begun the protesting of Bush’s military buildup, his plot hatched with neocon intellectuals who, like aging former members of a high school chess club, wanted a tournament they could win. They would sweep up pawns and swoop in with rooks. DON’T BOMB IRAQ read the student placards. “War is not the answer,” the protesters chanted, and “Not in our name,” whatever that one meant. On my breaks I went out and marched with them, decrying the juiced intelligence, or were we hailing the juste intelligence? My hearing may have dimmed from the espresso grinders and the hiss and gurgle of the steamer wands, and I wasn’t a hundred percent sure on the chants. Whichever. I was on the side of dissent and despair. On their breaks people came in and ordered holiday lattes. Anxiety, cold, and political disbelief we offset with gingerbread and common cause. Or so we imagined. I gave people free dirty chais and red-eyes, so-named for their extra shots of espresso. Or black-eyes — coffees with two shots, a drink we privately called a “dickwheeler,” not only because we imagined this is what such a drink could do, but because someone named Richard Wheeler had come in once and charged three of them on his credit card.

Where would all of Bush’s soldiers come from? We wondered about this aloud. “Deployed means to have all your ploys removed,” we said. The former Starbucks manager, herself a National Guard weekend warrior, had already been taken. “I hear they’re looking at the middle schools,” joked one man bleakly. “Hey — eighth-graders are spry, and they like to win!” Afghanistan was already thought of as the good war, and I was told even by some who were marching for peace, when they learned, that my dead brother was a hero.

“Really?” I asked.

“Well,” I was warned, while people threw back their caffeine and put on their gloves, “no hero can bear up under too many really s.”

One evening the phone rang and Amanda said, “It’s for you.” Almost tenderly she handed me the receiver.

I pulled the phone with its long cord into my bedroom and closed the door only partway, so as not to seem to have secrets that might disturb. “Hello?”

“Hey, Tassie Keltjin, it’s Ed Thornwood!”

“Oh!” I was too startled even to say hi.

“I know this probably comes as a surprise to you. A little blast from the past.”

“Yes,” I said.

“But the not-too-distant past.”

“No, not too.” Blasts from the past were like the rooms one entered and re-entered in dreams: they would not stay nailed down. When you returned to them, they had changed — they suddenly had more space or a tilt or a door that had not been there before. New people were milling around, the floors undulated, and the sun shone newly, strangely in the windows, or through the now blasted-open ceiling, or else it shone not at all, as if having fled the sky.

“How are you?” he asked.

I would never really again know the answer to that question. I believed my life would never again be set up to know. “OK, I guess.”

“Well, good. I’m OK myself, I guess.” I hadn’t asked. I hadn’t known to or how to. There was a long pause. “This is not the reason I’m calling, but I do think you should know that Sarah and I have split up.”

A little later in life, when this time seemed distant and shrunken, and every friendship from it had dwindled, I would encounter many women with lives sadder than Sarah’s. Still, without much concentration, I could always get her weird story back — though it was stored dreamlike on my brain’s highest shelf — and I could make it seem the saddest of them all. It was like Madama Butterfly , except Sarah was also Pinkerton and Kate. The difference between opera and life, I’d noticed, was that in life one person played all the parts. Still, it wasn’t, strictly speaking, Sarah’s story. In the end I felt it belonged as much or more to Mary-Emma, whom, I realized, I had never stopped unconsciously to seek, riveted by little girls who would be her age in stores and malls and parks. I would do a double-take every time I saw some dark, lively girl of three or four or five or six — the years piled on. I would get close and look close, which is what I realized Sarah somewhere must surely be doing. And Bonnie. If she was alive. And even Lynette McKowen. Emmie! A little girl with four women wondering after her, looking for her, sort of, without her even knowing. That was love of the most useless kind, unless you believed in love’s power to waft in from a burning sky to the unseen grass it had designated as its beloved, unless you believed in the prayers of faraway nuns, unless you believed in miracles and magic, rapture and dice and Sufic chants and charms behind curtains and skillful clouds at smoky, unfathomable distances. Love and virtue — their self-conviction was an astonishing thing: a pantomime of wishes, a sham dream that made actual, detectable, dreamable dreams as real as rock. When I imagined all of these women with their hearts seeking and beaming their futile, worthless love through the air toward Mary-Emma, I pictured them all in a line, part search party, part refugee camp, and in my mind I set them on a path that went over hill and over dale and even on into meadows and trees. Of course I was with them. And because I was, and because it was all in my head anyway, to the parade I added Helen the pig, just to be picturesque. Plus Lucy, our nanny goat, as there should be some real kind of nanny. And just because I wanted to, I added Robert. To be with him a little, since I missed him and in my mind I could do as I pleased.

“I’m terribly sorry,” I said. Sarah had once made me a mixed CD, full of songs she’d listened to when she was young, with lyrics about the wonder of the slowly perfecting world. A new day is dawning. My friends, we are changing. Ain’t it powerful … sunrise of a nation. The words seemed to have come from the medieval period of another planet.

Love is the answer, said the songs, and that’s OK. It was OK, I supposed, as an answer. But no more than that. It was not a solution; it wasn’t really even an answer, just a reply.

“An inevitable thing, I guess,” said Edward. I could not think of him as Ed. “And really probably all for the best. She has gone back east — to New York this time.”