says, CHECK HAND .
Sometimes they arrive at larger differences, but weather these with a tacit understanding that there are borders on disagreement, that no argument will explode into something truly threatening. At the center of the love Nora holds for Jeanne is a sense of safety—from terrible craziness rising between them, and from the rough side of life. Also from women like this one here at the reception, from her attraction to these women. Which has already come into play—warm liquid flooding her joints, an intransitive sense of urgency. (Something must be done, but about
what?)
Nora sees that this collection of old, familiar symptoms is probably what has inspired her interior pause to mark the merits of her relationship with Jeanne.
She has to be on guard against herself because even after all the years away from women like this, Nora can still hear their soft, deliberate footfalls as they pace the perimeter of her desire. She can still, given about two seconds, come up with a fairly detailed scenario—something fast and wordless in a gas station rest room along some deserted highway. Or something in a motel room backing onto railroad tracks. Sheets still wafting up sex recently transacted as well as the promise of more to come soon. The scene also includes drinking Cokes from small, icicle-cold bottles from a red 1950s cooler outside the door. Drinking Cokes and smoking Camels.
She gathers herself up, readies her handshake, and tries to get down to the business of greeting students. Her radar is still on, though, and so there is no surprise at all, not so much as an instant of wondering whose fingers have dropped lightly on her forearm.
She turns around.
“Someone...” the woman, Pam, says, “I hate to bug you, but someone told me you were the person to talk to about getting a parking permit for the semester.”
“Oh. Right.” Nora loses her sure footing for a moment. Pam waits patiently while Nora pulls a couple of sentences together. “Come by my office before your first class. My assistant handles the passes.” She immediately regrets having used the words “handles” and “passes.”
Pam nods, shyly. This shyness throws Nora off-balance; she was expecting swashbuckling. Shy is trickier.
“Actually,” Nora says, “come by if you have any questions or problems at all. That’s what we’re there for.” She feels good about having come up with this bureaucratic plural. As though her office is hopping with peppy, uniformed staffers, ready to give efficient, impersonal service.
“Oh, I’m not expecting a problem,” Pam says. “I’m only taking pottery.” She looks down at the floor again.
Nora feels an old power flood through her like a narcotic. She has had so much training in this part, is so adept at its extremely small moves. Simply continuing to stand here looking at this woman who can’t look back, not letting her gaze fall or drift is, in itself, a move. The trick is to keep whatever is said or done hovering over the blurry line between something and nothing. These are skills she learned during the women before Jeanne. Surprisingly, they don’t feel at all creaky or withered from lack of use. Rather, they seem greased up and at the ready, as though she has been working out in some secret gym, at night.
“With all your responsibilities,” Pam is saying, “I suppose you need to introduce yourself to some of the others, the other...” “Students,” Nora says. “Yes, I suppose I should.”
While Pam heads off toward the refreshment table, Nora searches for a familiar face, any colleague will do. Instead she finds herself being nodded at by Mrs. Rathko, who was apparently on her way over anyway to say “Disappointing turnout. If only you’d gotten those flyers to me a little earlier.” She goes on in this rueful vein for a while (what a pity they’ve been sabotaged by the weather, and she’s already gotten so many withdrawals for the semester ahead). When Nora
Sometimes they arrive at larger differences, but weather these with a tacit understanding that there are borders on disagreement, that no argument will explode into something truly threatening. At the center of the love Nora holds for Jeanne is a sense of safety—from terrible craziness rising between them, and from the rough side of life. Also from women like this one here at the reception, from her attraction to these women. Which has already come into play—warm liquid flooding her joints, an intransitive sense of urgency. (Something must be done, but about
what?)
Nora sees that this collection of old, familiar symptoms is probably what has inspired her interior pause to mark the merits of her relationship with Jeanne.
She has to be on guard against herself because even after all the years away from women like this, Nora can still hear their soft, deliberate footfalls as they pace the perimeter of her desire. She can still, given about two seconds, come up with a fairly detailed scenario—something fast and wordless in a gas station rest room along some deserted highway. Or something in a motel room backing onto railroad tracks. Sheets still wafting up sex recently transacted as well as the promise of more to come soon. The scene also includes drinking Cokes from small, icicle-cold bottles from a red 1950s cooler outside the door. Drinking Cokes and smoking Camels.
She gathers herself up, readies her handshake, and tries to get down to the business of greeting students. Her radar is still on, though, and so there is no surprise at all, not so much as an instant of wondering whose fingers have dropped lightly on her forearm.
She turns around.
“Someone...” the woman, Pam, says, “I hate to bug you, but someone told me you were the person to talk to about getting a parking permit for the semester.”
“Oh. Right.” Nora loses her sure footing for a moment. Pam waits patiently while Nora pulls a couple of sentences together. “Come by my office before your first class. My assistant handles the passes.” She immediately regrets having used the words “handles” and “passes.”
Pam nods, shyly. This shyness throws Nora off-balance; she was expecting swashbuckling. Shy is trickier.
“Actually,” Nora says, “come by if you have any questions or problems at all. That’s what we’re there for.” She feels good about having come up with this bureaucratic plural. As though her office is hopping with peppy, uniformed staffers, ready to give efficient, impersonal service.
“Oh, I’m not expecting a problem,” Pam says. “I’m only taking pottery.” She looks down at the floor again.
Nora feels an old power flood through her like a narcotic. She has had so much training in this part, is so adept at its extremely small moves. Simply continuing to stand here looking at this woman who can’t look back, not letting her gaze fall or drift is, in itself, a move. The trick is to keep whatever is said or done hovering over the blurry line between something and nothing. These are skills she learned during the women before Jeanne. Surprisingly, they don’t feel at all creaky or withered from lack of use. Rather, they seem greased up and at the ready, as though she has been working out in some secret gym, at night.
“With all your responsibilities,” Pam is saying, “I suppose you need to introduce yourself to some of the others, the other...” “Students,” Nora says. “Yes, I suppose I should.”
While Pam heads off toward the refreshment table, Nora searches for a familiar face, any colleague will do. Instead she finds herself being nodded at by Mrs. Rathko, who was apparently on her way over anyway to say “Disappointing turnout. If only you’d gotten those flyers to me a little earlier.” She goes on in this rueful vein for a while (what a pity they’ve been sabotaged by the weather, and she’s already gotten so many withdrawals for the semester ahead). When Nora
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