Alice LaPlante - Turn of Mind

You said it. Give me the park at night anytime. Hey, where’s your stuff ? I can help you settle in.

I don’t know, you say. Home, I guess.

You have a home?

Of course. On Sheffield.

That’s a pretty nice street! Where on Sheffield?

Twenty-one Fifty-three Sheffield. Right down the block from St. Vincent’s.

I know that area. So you have a house there. So why are you out here, middle of the night, no shoes?

I guess I wanted some fresh air, you say. But now that he asks, you’re not sure. The man’s face has filled your mind, driving all other things out. His nose, his mouth. The grime in the considerable laugh lines around his eyes. A slight bruise on his cheekbone. The tufts of hair that stick out from under his cap. Not an unlikable face. A capable face, but capable of what?

What about your family?

They’re all dead, you say. My mother. My father. Everyone died.

Hey, that’s rough. Real rough. Mine all died too. I have a sister somewhere, but she doesn’t talk to me anymore.

He takes a deep drag on his cigarette, finishes it off, throws the butt on the ground, and grinds it in with his boot.

Hey, do you think we could go to your house? I sure would love to sleep in a bed for once. A bed with no rules.

We have a guest room, you say.

Well, that’s just perfect. I would love to be your guest. Just love it. He stands up, dusts off his trousers, and waits.

You get up too. Your feet are sore. A slight stinging on your ankle. Can you walk? You can. But you’re suddenly very tired.

Do you know how to get there? you ask.

I sure do. My old stomping grounds. And Antoine’s, too. Let me get Antoine. He’d sure appreciate a guest room himself.

I only have one guest room. But it’s a double bed.

Well, I could do worse than share a bed with old Andy. Let me find him. You just stay here. He runs off, glancing back at you every other step as if to make sure you don’t go away.

You do as he says. You are grateful that someone has taken charge. You never let James do that. You must be getting older. Old. The desire to abdicate responsibility. To let others act, decide, lead. Is this what aging is all about?

Suddenly the man is back. With him, another man, slightly built. Cleaner than the first, but a less open face.

You finally ask the taller one, Are you my husband?

Excuse me?

How long have we been married?

The small man laughs. If she really does have a house on Sheffield, you could have a real sweet deal.

Yeah, but what if she does have family after all?

You heard her. They’re dead.

Yeah, but she’s fucking nuts. We don’t really know what’s what.

James? you say.

The small man speaks up. Yes?

No, you say. Not you. James.

The other man hesitates. Yes?

James, I’m ready to go home.

Okay, my dear. The man looks at the small man and shrugs. What have I got to lose? he asks. Okay, he says to you, let’s go. Sheffield and Fullerton, here we come.

Seemingly hours later, you finally reach your house, unlatch the gate. The men stand aside, waiting for you to take the lead. A sign has been planted in the front garden. sold. Everything is dark. No curtains in the windows.

You walk up to the front door and turn the knob. Locked. You ring the doorbell. You ring it again. You pound on the door. James! You call. An arm grabs you from behind. Quiet. Do you want to wake the neighbors? You have forgotten. Right. The neighbors. You reach above the door and feel around the edge of the door frame. Nothing.

Doesn’t she have a key?

Apparently not. The taller man retreats down the stairs and tries one of the ground-floor windows. It doesn’t give. He tries the other. In the meantime you yourself have retreated to the front garden. You are turning over rocks. You know the spare key is here. You put it there yourself.

The ground is cold against your bare feet. You step on something that crunches. A snail. Then another. You always hated them. Marauders. Thieves. Robbers of beautiful things. Fiona loved them, however. She would paint them brilliant colors using Amanda’s fingernail polish, and set them loose. Living jewels among your petunias and impatiens.

You step on a sharp stone and let out a cry.

Shhh! says one of the men.

What’s that? the other one says. Short bursts of sound, a woop woop woop from down the street. Red and blue lights flash.

Fuck, says the short man, and he’s off like a flash, the other man after him. You go in the opposite direction, into the alley. Down three houses, one, two, three. Through the back gate and into the back garden. To the large white rock under the drain pipeline. The key is under it, just where it should be.

Peter would tease Amanda. Keys everywhere! he’d say. Scatter keys through the neighborhood! To every woman and every child! Amanda would just shrug. Better than being locked out in subzero weather , she said. Better than breaking a leg or having a stroke and no one able to come over and check on you.

You let yourself in. The house is silent, waiting. It smells stale, of mildew, a slight memory of gas. You flip the light switch but nothing happens. Still, it is Amanda’s kitchen. No flowers, no fruit, but her photographs, her furniture. She is not here. You know that somehow.

You wander down the hall. You know this house like your very own. Since you were pregnant with Mark. Amanda was the first person in the neighborhood to come to your door. Carrying not cookies, not a casserole, but a potted cactus. Ugly, with a small yellow star-shaped flower on the crest of one of its spiny arms.

I know you by reputation, although you don’t know me, she said. You treated one of my students who had an unfortunate accident with a firecracker. You repaired three of his fingers, and he still has use of two of them. Everyone says you are a genius. I admire genius.

Not a genius, you said. Just good at what I do.

You accepted the cactus. And promptly threw it in the garbage when Amanda left. You hate plants, and cacti most of all. You would have preferred cookies. But a few days later when you saw Amanda in the street, you stopped to say hello.

You remember it as clearly as if you were there now.

When are you due? she asked.

May 15. Just nine more weeks, you said.

You must be ready by now. How do you feel? Excited, I’d imagine.

No. My husband is. He’s the one that wants children.

You waited to see what effect your words would have on this woman. She was tall, with impressive posture. Her back was straight, her gold hair curved in a shiny helmet that just reached her shoulders—you knew it was her real color. There were faint streaks of white—not gray—at her temples. Her tailored clothes were crisply ironed. You were conscious of your baggy cotton pants, your extralarge T-shirt billowing over your round belly, your worn sneakers.

Amanda laughed. You’re what, thirty-five?

Thirty-five. It was time.

She smiled a little wryly. We’re still trying.

You didn’t even try to hide your surprise.

I don’t give up easily. She reached out and patted your stomach—a gesture that too many people felt free to make. You found that you didn’t mind. It wasn’t presumptuous, but something else: There was yearning in it and a bit of awe. This made you speak more gently than you otherwise would.