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Fiction Short Story

by Maria Robinson

Conversation

Jane phoned me.  Sitting in the center of my kitchen-of-an-apartment, I watched how the street changed colors, like a capricious woman choosing dresses, finally picking out the violet of the evening lights. A cup of dark, flat coffee had been warming my hands. The ticking of the wooden clock, hanging an arm's length above the divan, slowed its pace.  The life surrounding me appeared slightly more intricate and fragile. 

The ringing filled the room, overtaking the cancerous silence.  Reaching for the phone, I cleared my throat and grabbed the receiver.

"It's me." Jane spoke as if fighting off a shiver.  "I just got back from New York." She couldn't help stuttering, and repeating little, trivial phrases.  "New York. You remember. I was in New York. I - I feel like coffee.  Fresh, hot coffee."  I sensed her thoughts spilling over.  "You know that small café on the street corner?  I know it's a little cheap-looking from the outside, but inside it has a kind of charm.  I used to love going there when I was in college.  But now it'd seem kind of infantile to do, wouldn't it?"

My coffee stirred. 

"Of course, if you'd like to go," she continued, "It'd be nice to relive some moments again. I'd actually enjoy it right now. It's quite cold, and it's good for your health to have something warm. I read that somewhere..."

"I was actually..."

"Oh, you'll come, won't you?  It'd give you the chance to ask me some questions about New York. I know how you like the city...and coffee, and that lovely café."

I noticed that my phone was spotless, but that dust had gathered on the table.  When I ran my finger against the dirt it seemed to latch onto my skin. I had to bring it up real close to examine it.  Most of the dust in a house is skin.
          
As I thought about this I noticed that there was no one on the line.  She must have taken my silence as an agreement.  I'd go, but I'd have to remember to clean afterwards.  People tend to neglect the filth that piles up around them.  It's part of absent-mindedness, which is really a sign of weak character.  You can control your health, your happiness, even your destiny through your environment.  It's all a matter of having the will. 

When I rubbed my index finger and thumb, the filth just speckled down.  Huh.  I grabbed for my black European raincoat, and I remembered that I'd have to bolt the doors.  I forgot to do that last time.  When was the last time?  I really didn't want to go out now, but it seemed that as soon as I thought that, I had been looking at her. 

"Here you are!" Jane leaped onto my sleeve, and tugged.  "First thing I thought to do was call you." I pulled out a chair. "Because you know, you hear about these things happening on the news or in movies, but to me? During my first time in New York?" She shook her head and said, "Uum, two cups of coffee, one black and the other with cream?" I nodded.

"And you never believe these things," Jane flapped her collar.  "But, uh, I was just walking and you know, no matter what they say," she leaned close, to tell me in confidence, "New York is just lovely at night when the buildings are silhouetted and you can see the gorgeous skyline. But what was I saying? Oh, and so I was walking, for what couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes" —she ripped a sugar packet—"and this man, just like in the movies, appeared from out of nowhere, and with all those what must have been three-hundred pounds of him, and you won't believe this, he charged me right into a brick wall " She spoke loudly, high-pitched, and almost triumphantly.

The sugar dissolved as Jane continued.  "So there I am with my back pinned against this wall in complete shock and out-of-sorts, with no clue of what this giant had in mind.  I mean, you hear about those stories where men rape young women right then and there.  You know, take it out, stick and go." Even outraged she managed a giggle, and then a sip of her coffee. Her eyes shifted around the tables.  "But instead he whips out a knife and takes the blade right out. Like he's done it before. I could tell he'd done it before. Then he waves it around, right in my face   I remember the first thing he said; he said, 'Shut up'."

Real loud and manly, she mimicked it.

"Well, of course, I'm paralyzed by fear, so it's not like I'm about to start a conversation." She openly laughed at herself. "So, I don't say anything but he presses that knife right to my throat, right there." She got out of her chair and reached out a cold hand and pressed it against my gullet. "Right there," she repeated, "and I could feel the cold ridges of the blade and how hard they were against me. And all this time he's yelling something, he just kept yelling and yelling, and I, of course, just got more frightened. But each time I breathed in, the knife went up a little higher and pressed a little more against my skin.  And I knew—I knew if I were to breathe out and relax, I would put my whole throat onto that blade and it would"—she gathered all her breath—"rip open."  A big sigh heaved out of her, but she washed it all down with her coffee.

"I tried to control my breathing; I needed some hold on myself, and maybe I could try to talk this lunatic into letting me go." She inched closer to me. "So I started thinking. The first thing that jumped into my head was—and this is sort of funny"—for a moment a forced smile stretched her mouth—"I wondered if I left anything turned on back at home.  And then I wondered if Robert was cheating on me with that co-worker, and then I got sidetracked  thinking about my trip home and whether the train I was taking would be there on time or if I'd have to wait, like I always do, for thirty goddamn minutes, standing there looking like a fool with nothing to do." She took a breath. "And that's when I noticed" —Jane unexpectedly flushed—"that the man's breath smelled like pasta and something like mushroom sauce, and that being the heavy man that he was, he should probably be watching what he eats. And then cardiac arrest came into my head, and how when people grow old their skin is like an infant's only, only theirs means something final, irrevocable..."

Suddenly, she paused. The pause hung in the air maybe for a minute. And a crystal-like film covered her eyes, which meant she wasn't really in the café anymore.

From a listener I became an observer.  Her offbeat breathing started to tick me off.  The bead of sweat dripping off her chin down the rim of her collar was a sorry sight.  I sipped and met her eyes as she spoke to show her that I had been paying attention, and hoped my calm would settle her.

She shook her head as if awaking. "I threw out my wallet." Her arm retraced the parabola. I wondered how the cup of coffee wasn't caught by her sleeve. "And he took it and left.  That was it for the adventure."  She looked directly into my eyes and must have caught the expression I had no time to hide. "But you know, I can't remember very clearly.  Oh, it seems my headache has started.  My mother calls it a migraine, but what difference does it make—migraines or headaches?"  Nervously, she started going through her handbag.

Then the sounds changed and she was settled.  There was no more sappy breathing or hysterics.  Her eyes were on her coffee and she looked composed.  "Robert's cheating on me." 

She fingered the handle of her cup once, and that was it.  She couldn't remember what it was she wanted to tell me. Why she called.  "I'm sorry, oh God, I'm so sorry! I forgot my money somewhere."  Her dignity crumbled as she broke down, faltering and repeating nervous little phrases.

"That's fine. Don't worry." My hand slipped easily along the smooth exterior of the raincoat.  I placed a five-dollar bill under the cup, face up. With the chair slid back away from the table, I stood up and let my hand squeeze her shoulder.  From the table I noticed a gruesome painting.  Examining it, I could tell it had been done by a dilettante, that it smelt of something tactless, and was not as violent as it appeared from a distance. 

On my way out of the café, I thought about the kind of nourishing disappointment the painting gave me.


About the Author
Maria Robinson is eighteen years old and attends the University of Iowa.  She has been published in her high school magazine, PBW.  Currently she is interested in the various perspectives of egoism, and this short story was, in part, a way of exploring this particular theme.