Chapter 17
The First Date
He gave her the record on her birthday, and told her it was not a present.
"It's an object," said Daniel. "I'd like that to be clear."
"It's a record."
"It's a thing I found. In a crate. It happened to have your, it's got a woman on it with a cat." He had gone red to the ears. It was the nineteenth of July, a Saturday, a hot blue morning, and they were standing on the sidewalk outside Ruth's with the dog at their feet and a flat square parcel in brown paper between them. He had wrapped it himself. The paper was crooked, and the tape had been put on twice. "It's not a, I mean it's not a gift gift. I didn't spend anything. It was three dollars."
"Daniel."
"It was very cheap."
"Can I open it?"
"I'd like it if you'd wait until I'm gone."
"I'm going to open it now."
"Oh, no."
She tore the paper.
He saw her face as she did it. He had been telling himself for a month that he would not look. He looked. It was the whole of the thing. He watched her fingers find the edge of the cardboard, and the paper fall away, and the soft faded blue and brown come out into the sun, and the woman in the sweater, on the window seat, with the cat, and her hair loose.
She did not say anything.
She held it in both hands, at arm's length, as one holds a very old photograph. She looked at it for a long time. A thin shake went through her fingers. The sun was on the back of her neck, and a bus went by, and a man with a stroller said excuse me, and she did not move.
"On the back," said Daniel. His throat was dry. "Somebody's written a name. In pen. It says Jean. I don't know who she is. I'm sorry, I thought it might, I can take it back."
"It's the same one."
"What?"
"It's the same, the cover. It's got the same, there's a little tear. In the corner. My mom's has it. She did it when I was five. She said it was a cat scratch."
"Is it a cat?"
"I don't know. I never saw a cat." She was laughing. She was laughing and crying, with the record held tight against her chest. "I don't have a player. I haven't got, my dad's is in the attic. I'd have to ask. I never." She stopped. She pressed her lips together. "I haven't heard it in two years."
"I know."
"I told you about it. In December. I said it once."
"You said it at about ten past five. You were doing a clue."
"You remembered."
"It's the kind of thing I remember," said Daniel.
She looked up.
It was a very clear look. It had no hurry in it. It was a long, soft, direct look, from a face that had gone still, and a pair of gray-green eyes that were wet and bright and wide open. He had seen her look at many things. He had never seen her look at him like that. It did not ask a question. It was not afraid of the answer.
"Happy birthday to me," said Sarah.
"Happy birthday."
"I'm twenty-eight."
"I know."
"You know?"
"It was on, you mentioned it. In April." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I wrote it on the calendar. In the kitchen. With a little cake."
"A cake."
"It was a bad drawing."
She laughed again. She bent, and gave Pickles a long hard rub behind the ears, and when she straightened her cheeks were pink. She tucked the record under one arm. "Thank you," she said. "It's the best thing anyone's given me in a very long time."
"It's a record."
"It's the best one."
"It was three dollars."
"I know," said Sarah. "That's what makes it good."
He asked her on the Tuesday.
He did not mean to do it in the middle of a sentence. He had been going to wait for a quiet moment, with a clear head, and a speech. He had written it out. He had a card. It was in his pocket, with a good many crossings-out. But they were at the corner table at Ruth's, and she was telling him a story about Ines and a kiln that had exploded, a small, hot, harmless explosion, which had thrown a tray of mugs across the studio like a flock of startled birds, and she was laughing so much that she could not get to the end. She had her hand flat against her chest. Her eyes were closed. A strand of hair stuck to her cheek.
He thought: now.
It was not a decision. It was only that the card in his pocket had become, suddenly, absurd.
"Sarah."
"Yes?"
"Would you like to go on a date with me?"
She stopped laughing.
It went out of her face like a candle flame. She sat there, in the warm brown light, with her hand on her chest. She did not look away. He saw her take it in. He saw it go all the way down.
"A real one," said Daniel. His voice shook. He made it stop. "I mean, not a Tuesday. Not a, there'd be a, I'd pick you up. I'd have a plan. It would be a, I think I'd wear a shirt. I'd like to take you somewhere, and be, I'd like to be on a date. With you." He swallowed. "You can say no. I want you to know. You can say no, and we'll go on being Waiting Room people. I'd be, nothing would change. I'd still bring you tea."
"Waiting Room people."
"It's, I just came up with it."
"It's good."
"Is it?"
"It's very good." She was smiling. It was a trembling smile. "It's what we are."
"It's one of the things."
She put her hand over her mouth. She sat there. He sat there. The whole café seemed to hold its breath. Behind the counter, Mia was holding a milk jug motionless, in midair, and a woman by the window had stopped stirring her tea.
"I'm nervous," said Sarah.
"I'm terrified."
"I haven't been on a first date in, I think it's, I think it was a charity run."
"That's a long time."
"I don't know what you do. Do you hold hands? Do you, is there a, do I have to pretend?"
"No."
"What if I'm bad at it?"
"You can't be bad at it. I'll be so much worse." He was nearly laughing. "I've had a mental breakdown over the shirt."
"Which shirt?"
"The blue. Or the green. I haven't decided."
"Wear the blue."
"Is that a yes?"
"I think," said Sarah, slowly, "that it's a yes to the shirt." She took her hand from her mouth. She laid it on the table, flat, a few inches from his. "And I think, probably, a yes to the rest."
"Probably?"
"Definitely."
"Okay."
"Don't say okay."
"What should I say?"
"Say what you want to say."
He took a breath.
"I'm really happy," said Daniel.
"There," said Sarah. "That wasn't hard."
He took her to a miniature golf course on Route Nine.
It had been a long argument with himself. He had considered a restaurant, and rejected it, because they would have to talk. He had considered a movie, and rejected it, because they would not. He had considered a concert, and a museum, and a boat, and a hike, and in a fit of despair, on the Thursday night, at two in the morning, with the dog staring at him, he had sat up in bed and said aloud, miniature golf.
It was perfect. It had a built-in activity. It had a ball and a stick. It was loud and bright and slightly ridiculous, and nobody who played it could possibly take themselves seriously.
It was called Putt-Putt Paradise. It stood behind a diner, in a field, under a giant fiberglass dinosaur with a wide smile and one chipped tooth. There were eighteen holes. There was a windmill, and a castle, and a small green pond with a waterwheel, and a bridge, and a pirate ship. A boy of sixteen sat in the ticket booth with his chin on his fist, reading a graphic novel. It was a hot, still, golden evening, the twenty-sixth of July, and the air smelled of cut grass and fried onions and chlorine.
"This is it?" said Sarah.
"I know."
"You've taken me to a dinosaur."
"He's called Gary."
"You've named him?"
"It's on the sign. Welcome to Gary's. He's the owner." He was clutching two putters like a man holding a pair of swords. He was wearing the blue shirt. He had washed his hair. A small flat card was sticking out of his pocket. "I don't, I could, if you hate it, we could go to a, I know a Thai place."
"I love it."
"You do?"
"I've never been to one," said Sarah.
"You've never played?"
"My father took Eli, once. I was at a thing. A recital." She took the putter. She weighed it in her hand. It was a short, light, yellow stick, with a rubber grip, and she looked up at him, over it, with a small, wicked, gleaming smile. "I think I'm going to be very good."
"You're not."
"I can feel it."
"Nobody's good at this."
"Watch me," said Sarah.
She was good.
That was the dreadful part. She was shockingly, outrageously, unreasonably good. She took the first hole in two strokes. She took the second, a ramp with a loop, in one. She did it with a kind of dreamy attention, her tongue between her teeth and her whole body tilted over the ball, as a child concentrates on a drawing. At the third, a small bridge, she hit it so cleanly that it ran the whole length, and rose, and dropped in with a small hard chock, and she straightened, and looked at him.
"Hole in one," she said.
"That's not possible."
"It's an extremely simple game."
"I've, it took me seven."
"You're doing it wrong. You've got your feet apart like you're getting out of a car."
"This is how I stand."
"It's awful."
"It's a stance."
"Move your left foot," said Sarah. She came round behind him. She did it without thinking. She put her hand on his elbow, and her other on his hip, lightly, to turn him. "Here. Like this. It's just, you want to be square. And you swing from the shoulder, not the, don't flick it. It's a pendulum."
He stood still.
He was aware of every inch of her hand. It was a warm, small, dry weight, on the point of his elbow, and he felt it through the cotton as if the sleeve were not there. She was standing very close. He could smell the faint clean smell of her hair, a thread of cinnamon, and the soap she used, and under it, faintly, a smell like clay. He did not breathe. He looked at the little yellow ball on the green felt.
"Okay," he said, hoarsely. "Pendulum."
"Now."
He swung.
It went wide. It struck the edge of the ramp, with a clack, and spun, and rolled backward, and settled in a small shallow dip about an inch from where it had begun. He stared at it.
She began to laugh.
She laughed so hard that she had to hold on to his arm. It was not a polite laugh, or a low one, or any sort that she had used in his company. It was a high, delighted, helpless shriek, and she bent over with her head against his shoulder, and her whole body shook, and he stood there with a putter in his hand and the ball an inch from the start, and felt it go through him like a bell.
"I'm so sorry," she gasped.
"It's fine."
"It's, you were so serious."
"I was concentrating."
"You were praying."
"It's a skill!"
"It's a, oh, God." She wiped her eyes. She did not move away. She was still leaning on his arm, with her forehead against his sleeve, and she was looking up at him from underneath. Her face was close. It was very pink. "I'm having such a good time."
"Me too."
"I didn't think I would."
"Why not?"
"I thought I'd be, I thought I'd think about the, that I'd feel like a person on a date." She laughed again, more quietly. "And instead I feel like I'm at a dinosaur."
"That's the best way to feel."
"It's the only way," said Sarah.
He lost the ball on the fourteenth hole.
It was the pond. It was a small round pond, with a waterwheel, and a fiberglass frog, and a sign that said DO NOT ENTER. His third shot hit the waterwheel, which was not meant to be there, and rebounded, with great ceremony, over the low wall and into the water. It disappeared. There was a small soft plop. A ring spread out, and a lily pad rocked.
"That's a penalty," said Sarah.
"It's not a penalty, I can get it."
"It's a pond."
"It's eight inches deep."
"There's a sign."
"It's a suggestion." He put down the putter. He took off his shoes, with great dignity. He rolled up his jeans. "I'm a science teacher. I can handle a pond."
"There might be a, Daniel. There might be a frog."
"It's fiberglass."
"The other frogs."
"There aren't any other frogs."
"You don't know that."
He stepped over the wall.
It was colder than he had expected, and deeper, and the bottom was soft with mud. He went in to the shins. He waded across, with his arms out for balance, and a lily pad wrapped round his ankle. The boy in the ticket booth had put down his book, and was watching, impassive, with one eyebrow raised. Somewhere behind him, he could hear her making a strange, stifled, shaking noise.
"Do you see it?"
"I'm looking."
"It's by the frog."
"I know where it is."
"It's by the green frog."
"There's only one frog!"
"I'm just saying. In case."
He bent, and groped, and found it, a small, cold, slimy sphere, and lifted it out in triumph, dripping, like a man hoisting a trophy. He turned. He held it up. She was standing at the wall with both hands over her mouth, and her whole body folded, and tears running down her face.
"Got it," said Daniel.
"I can't."
"It's a victory."
"I can't breathe."
"I'm coming back."
"There's, you've got a, there's a lily on your head."
He put up a hand. It was true. He had come out of the pond with a flat green leaf draped over his hair like a very small hat. He stood there, in the middle of a miniature golf course, in a good blue shirt, with his jeans rolled to the knee and a golf ball in his fist, and a lily pad on his head, and looked at her.
She looked back.
They both began to laugh.
It rained at eight.
It came without warning, from a perfectly clear sky. A single fat drop hit the green of the sixteenth hole, and then another, and then a roar, a big warm summer cloudburst, a curtain of water. They ran. They ran together, shrieking, with the putters over their heads, across the wet grass, past the windmill and the pirate ship, to a little wooden pavilion by the parking lot, with a tin roof and a vending machine and a picnic table.
They stood under it, panting, drenched, grinning.
"We didn't finish," said Sarah.
"I'm winning."
"You're not."
"I'm a hole behind."
"You're eleven strokes behind."
"I'm gaining."
She laughed. She wrung out her braid. Her yellow dress was stuck to her, and her sandals were full of water, and there was a streak of mud across her shin. She looked, he thought, perfectly happy. She was looking out at the rain, with her chin up, and her mouth half open, and her eyes shining. The roof drummed over them. Water ran off the edge in long silver ropes. In the roar of it was like standing inside a drum.
He had not meant to look at her so long.
He did it anyway. He stood with his back against a post, and his hands at his sides, and let himself. She was not aware of it. She was watching the rain. A single drop ran down her temple, and along her jaw, and fell from her chin to the collar of her dress.
I'm in love with her, he thought.
It was not a fresh thought. It was a very old one. It had been in him for so long, quietly, in the back room, that it had a deep patient worn quality, like a step. He did not need to say it. But he felt it come up in his chest, warm and heavy and wide, and he thought: I'm allowed to now.
She said yes to the shirt.
"What?" said Sarah.
She had turned her head.
"Nothing."
"You're looking at me."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." She was not smiling. She had gone still, and a little pale, and her eyes were large. She looked, for a moment, as she had in the staff room, in the gray of morning. "It's all right. I like it."
"Do you?"
"I think I've been, I don't think anybody's looked at me. Like that. Not as though they were, as though I was." She stopped. "I don't know how to say it."
"You don't have to."
"I'm so afraid I'll ruin it."
"You won't."
"I'm very good at it."
"I know." He kept his voice very low. "But I'm not going anywhere. I want you to hear that. Not tonight. Not, I'm not in a hurry. If it takes a year. I don't need, I'm not looking for a, I'm just glad to be here. In a pavilion. With a lily pad."
"You've still got it on."
"What?"
"The lily."
He put up a hand. It was still draped over his hair, a little limp, a little brown at the edge. He took it off, with great ceremony, and held it out to her, on his palm.
"It's yours," said Daniel. "A token."
She took it.
She held it. She looked at it, a small, flat, wet, green leaf in the palm of her hand, and the rain went on falling, and she began to smile again, a slow, deep, astonished smile. She folded it carefully, in half, and put it in the pocket of her dress.
"I'm going to keep it," she said.
"It'll go brown."
"I don't care."
"It's a weed."
"It's the first thing a man's ever given me out of a pond," said Sarah.
He drove her home at ten.
The storm had passed. The streets were steaming, and the lamps made long gold stripes on the wet road. Pickles lay across the back seat with his head on his paws, snoring, a small warm lump. The windows were down. The air smelled of wet earth and rain on hot tar. They did not talk much. They listened to a radio station that played old songs, low, and she sat with her bare feet drawn up on the seat, and her head against the headrest, and her face turned toward him.
At the corner of Pearl Street, he stopped the car.
He turned off the engine.
He did not get out. He sat there with both hands on the wheel, looking straight ahead, and listened to the engine tick as it cooled. She did not move. It was quiet. In the back, the dog gave a long wheezing sigh.
"I had a card," said Daniel.
"A card?"
"In my pocket. I meant to look at it, if I ran out of things to say." He felt for it. He took it out. It was damp, and soft, and the ink had run. "I never needed it. I'm sorry. I'd, it's a, I'd like to show you. It's very embarrassing."
He held it out.
She took it. She tilted it to the dashboard light. She read it aloud, in a low voice, squinting at the smudged capitals.
"One. Ask about the bread."
"You told me about the bread."
"Two. Do NOT mention Mark." She stopped. She bit her lip. "Three. Squirrels. (Backup.)"
"It was a very good plan."
"It's the best thing I've ever read."
"It's a bit, you know."
"It's, Daniel. You made notes."
"I'm a teacher."
"You made a lesson plan."
"I make one for everything," said Daniel. "It's the only way I can, it helps me not to say the wrong thing."
"Did it help?"
"I fell in a pond."
"That's not what I asked."
He looked at her.
She had turned in her seat, with one knee up, and was holding the card in both hands. The streetlight fell through the windshield, and lay across her face, gold and green and wet, and she was looking at him with an expression he could not read. It was very gentle. It was a little wondering. There was in it, he thought, a small bright core of something that he had waited for a very long time to see, and he sat still, and dared not name it.
"It did," he said. "It helped."
"Good."
"I didn't need it."
"I know." She laid the card on the dashboard. She smoothed it flat with the side of her hand, carefully, as if it were a letter. "I'd like to keep this, too."
"You can't keep everything."
"Watch me."
He laughed. It caught in his throat. She opened the car door, and the dome light came on, and she swung her feet down onto the wet pavement. She stood there with one hand on the frame, leaning in, and her hair fell round her face.
"Thank you," she said. "For the dinosaur."
"Thank you."
"I'd like to do it again."
"You would?"
"I'd like to do it a lot," said Sarah.
She said it plainly. She said it as one says a thing that has been settled a long time ago, in a back room, with the door shut. And she stood there a moment longer, in the yellow light, with her head bent and her mouth soft. She did not kiss him. He had not expected it. She only reached in, and put one hand, light as a leaf, on his sleeve, and left it there for a second, on the damp blue cotton.
Then she took it away, and shut the door, and went up the walk.
He watched her to the stairs. She did not look round. At the door of the building she paused, with the key in her hand, and he saw her shoulders rise and fall, once, in a long slow breath. Then she went in. The hall light came on.
He sat in the car with the engine off, in the warm wet dark.
Behind him, the dog shifted. A little wet nose came over the seat, and pushed against his ear, and the dog gave a small anxious whine. It was the sound that he made when he wanted to know whether the man was all right.
"I'm all right," said Daniel.
The dog sighed.
"I'm really all right," he said, in a voice that cracked and ran away from him, and put both hands over his face, and sat there laughing and crying in the front seat of a battered green Subaru, on a quiet street, at ten o'clock on a Saturday night, with a pond in his shoes.
Upstairs, in the yellow kitchen, a woman stood at the counter in the dark with a damp card in one hand and a folded lily pad in the other. She had not turned on the light. She was looking at them both. She was holding them against her chest, like two small birds, and smiling at the wall, and she did not know that she was crying, and did not care, and the radiator ticked, and the whole building held its breath around her, and something new had begun.