Heft - By Liz Moore Page 0,87

what an odd pair we must make: me in my custom overcoat, the tie dangling; and the girl, almost forty years my junior, with a belly bigger than she was.

A family of four walked by us. They had bought nuts someplace, roasted in a cart, and the children—twelve and thirteen, maybe—were eating them out of white paper baggies. Their parents were stealing them from time to time. “Dad,” said the daughter, and swatted his hand from the bag. “Get your own next time.”

Here is what I have always thought: that people, when they eat, are very dear. The eager lips, the flapping jaws, the trembling release of control—the guilty glances at one’s companions or at strangers. The focus, the great focus of eating. The pleasure in it. I remember—when I went out more—I remember watching people in restaurants. People who ate alone, lost in the pleasure of it, O the pleasure of it. Digging for food in the bottoms of their bowls, guarding their fork, bringing the food to their mouths. Staring off into some middle distance while chewing. Thinking of things known only to them. To watch others eat is a thing of joy to me. & it is the only time I can forgive myself for what I have become.

We sat in silence until a big dog ran up to us, free from its leash, jawing a stick, and Yolanda shied away from it. “I’m so scared of dogs,” she said, and tho I’m not fond of them either I took the stick from its mouth and tossed it far away from us. The dog went running after it.

“There,” I said. “There.”

It was time to go back when there was only a bit of light in the sky. There was a nice purple sunset that we both noted.

Most of the families had gone home & I was thinking of the walk still ahead of me. I was thinking I could tell Yolanda, if things got really bad, that she could go ahead of me & I would meet her. I was also thinking of the steps up to my home, all twelve of them, looming in my imagination like the Empire State Building.

We started out as slowly as we’d left, stopping every so often to admire a bird or a tree. But I soon came to realize that the return trip was going to be much more difficult, for I believe my muscles had stiffened considerably after sitting for a while, and it had gotten colder too. My saving grace was that it was downhill for most of the way, & so I was able to use my own momentum to help me along.

It was fully dark by the time we reached the house. I paused for a moment, one hand on my railing, in preparation for my climb.

“What should we have for dinner?” Yolanda was asking me, & I was trying hard to formulate an answer, when all of a sudden I noticed that the family who lives next door to me was coming toward us on the block. The father was staring at us intently.

“Your neighbors!” said Yolanda, delighted.

I was afraid & shy. I remembered the father approaching my door one day this fall & I was afraid he had something nasty to say to me.

Their little boys were bouncing around like jumping beans, & saying Daddy Daddy. His wife was looking at him too.

He had his key in hand, as if he were about to walk up his stoop and open his front door, but instead he came toward me.

“Hank?” his wife said.

I was a mess. I had sweated on the walk back & had a damp film across my forehead. I was quite badly out of breath.

“Hi!” said Yolanda, as the man approached.

“Hello,” said the man, “sorry to bother you—”

“No bother!” said Yolanda, speaking for me, but in fact I felt it was a bother, talking to this man unexpectedly. I felt as if my knees were going to collapse. He had no idea what an ordeal I’d just been through.

“I’m—your neighbor there,” he said, gesturing to his brownstone, which was not quite as nice as mine but still very attractive and perhaps better kept. “I’m Henry Dale.”

“This is Arthur Opp,” said Yolanda.

“I actually know that,” said Henry Dale.

I assessed him. He was a young man, perhaps in his late thirties, but his hair was gray at the temples. He was as tall as I am but thin. He had a handsome face &