Alice LaPlante - Turn of Mind

Lane, in Germantown, in Philadelphia, with your beloved mother and father. You are eighteen years old and have just started classes at the University of Pennsylvania. A biology major. Your life stretches out in front of you, a clear path, no encumbrances to speak of. There is a cold beer in front of you. Your first in a restaurant! You have never ordered a beer on your own before. You have every reason to be lighthearted. Suddenly you are.

You notice another glass at your elbow. This one is smaller, not cold. Filled with a rich amber-colored liquid. You pick it up and swallow. It burns going down, but it is not distasteful. You drink again, and it is gone.

Another? asks the man. You are startled. You did not realize he was still there, still watching. You nod. You test out your voice again.

Certainly, you say.

He gives a short laugh and again you catch that look. He places another small glass on the counter, pours, pushes it in your direction. You leave it there, turn your attention to the tall cold glass, and take a sip. This goes down easier. Beer, yes.

Your father always pours a small amount into a teacup for you whenever he opens one for himself. This one quenches your thirst in a way the other one didn’t. You drink deeply. You are starting to feel good—you hadn’t noticed how on edge you had been. That edge is dissipating. Slow, pleasurable warmth. A heaviness of limbs. Colors are brighter, the noise subdued. You have traveled into a private space within the organism, a private pocket of comfort. You love it here. You will come back every night. You will bring your mother and father and let them work their considerable magic on these delightful people, your comrades.

The bartender puts a napkin and some silverware in front of you. You pick up the knife. There is something about this. Something that is familiar yet strange. You have a sense of anticipation. You press the sharp edge of the knife against the wooden counter, press and pull it toward you. A white line appears in the wood, straight and true.

If you could press harder, split open this dark matter, what would come out? What would be revealed? O the excitement of exploration! You pick up your beer again and drink some more. Good. You had not realized how tight your shoulders were, the tension in your neck.

Waiting for someone?

The voice is from a girl to your left. She is about your age, you estimate. Perhaps a little older. Twenty. Twenty-two perhaps. Very pretty. Her hair cut so that it hangs longer on one side of her face than the other, and fringed unevenly at the edges. It is not unattractive. She has a nice smile. Her eyes are ringed with blue, mascaraed to bring out their size and brilliance.

Am I? You consider this. You want to answer, but you do not yet trust that the words will match your intent. You try.

No, you say. I’m alone.

You are heartened that she is not disconcerted. You try again. I was hungry, you say. This looked nice.

Oh, it’s a great little place. We love it. She gestures to a young man on the other side of her. He watches the television. And Ron takes good care of everyone. She smiles at the man behind the counter. He leans forward to you and speaks confidentially.

If this young lady gives you any trouble, just let me know. I’ll take care of her, he says. The pretty girl laughs.

A plate of noodles covered with thick red sauce appears in front of you. It smells fabulous. You are ravenous. You pick up the fork and begin eating.

So, let me guess. You’re a professor. This is the young man to the girl’s left. He has forsaken the television, the beautiful girls, and now seems to be addressing you.

Excuse me? You wipe your mouth. The food is as good as it looks. The noodles al dente, the sauce rich and aromatic with spices. So much better than what you could do. James is the real cook, the children’s faces fall when they come into the kitchen and find you there.

The girl interrupts. Oh, it’s just a game we play in bars. Guessing who people are, what they do. He thinks you look like a college professor. I can see that. But I need to think about it before I guess. There’s a lot at stake! Winner has to buy everyone a round of drinks. She puts her hand to her forehead, acts as if she is thinking hard. Definitely someone professional, she says. You weren’t just a housewife.

The young man hits her playfully on the arm.

Okay, okay, I shouldn’t say that. It’s just that you look like you’ve been out in the world more.

The young man hits her again.

Oh, did I say something else stupid?

No, you say. The words come out smoothly. You are saying what you mean to say. Relief. The path between your brain and your tongue is open.

And, yes, I am most definitely not a housewife, you tell her.

You realize your voice sounds contemptuous. James always warns you about this. You wrap another length of pasta around your fork. You take another bite. You have not been this hungry in a long time. There were only five women in my program, you explain.

What type of program was that? No, let me guess. The young man is enthusiastic. I’m good at this. You’ll see. My guess is . . . English literature. Medieval poetry.

The girl rolls her eyes. How sexist can you be? A woman, she must be an English major, must be poetry.

Well, what would you guess, Einstein?

The man behind the bar breaks in. Given the way she throws back her drink, I’d say something a little tougher. Engineering. You built bridges, right?

No, no. You are laughing. It has been so long since you have enjoyed yourself so much. These fresh young faces, their ease, no trepidation around you. You realize, suddenly, that you have been frightening people. That thing you see in their eyes, it is fear. But what have they to fear from you?

What’s your guess, Annette? The young woman pretends to think hard. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say lawyer, she says. I bet you defend the poor and defenseless of the world against unfair prosecution.

No, no, you say. Never a lawyer. Words have never been my forte. That’s my husband.

See? I was close!

Well, I wouldn’t exactly call him a friend of the underprivileged, you say. The thought makes you smile.

Then what would you call him? asks the girl.

The last resort of the rich and powerful. And he’s very good at what he does. He always gets them off. He’s worth every one of the considerable pennies he charges.

Something closes down in the girl’s face. And you? she asks.

You realize that you have erred. That you have forgotten the hypersensitivity of the young. Fiona and Mark were inured to it early. The cynical joking about it around the dinner table. During Mark’s teenage years, he insisted on opening up every meal with a particularly egregious lawyer joke. He was hoping to get to James, but that wasn’t the way. He’d bring his own to the table.

How can you tell the difference between a dead skunk and a dead attorney on the road? Then, after a pause, he’d triumphantly bring out the punch line: The vultures aren’t gagging over the skunk.

The girl is still waiting for your answer.

I’m a doctor, you tell her. An orthopedic surgeon.

That’s bones, right? the young man asks.

Yes. It’s more than just the bones. It’s everything to do with injuries, degenerative diseases, birth defects. I specialize in hands.

Annette does hands, too.

The girl laughs. He means I read palms. I took a Learning Annex class in psychic skills. Most of us were there as postmodern cynics. But I learned some things.