The Chinese Jars by William Gordon Page A

would have been a defect in another woman. She was a tomboy and a fanatic about sports. An expert skier, she sometimes spent two or three months of the winter at Squaw Valley as a ski instructor. In the spring and summer, she was into swimming and long-distance running, when she wasn’t mountain climbing. In the fall, she found other invigorating activities to help her burn energy.
    Melba had lost hope that she would marry, like all the other girls her age, and give her grandchildren. Her daughter made fun of those television programs that portrayed perfect families of neatly groomed children, a hard-working father, and a mother who baked cakes and vacuumed wearing high heels and a string of pearls.
    In spite of their differences, mother and daughter were very close. Blanche worked for free as Melba’s bookkeeper while she was studying to be a certified public accountant. Even in winter, she came down from Tahoe once a month to straighten out the bar’s accounts, pay the Board of Equalization and payroll taxes and, of course, make out the employee checks.
    If Samuel learned she was going to be at the bar, he made sure to be there, too, even though she didn’t pay any attention to him. She was one of those few women who didn’t seem to care about the effect she had on men. Her indifference only aroused more passion in Samuel. He would wait patiently, nursing his Scotch on the rocks at the round table or watching her in the mirror behind the bar, while she pondered the business ledgers and chewed on the end of a pencil, periodically brushing aside a tuft of unruly hair. At times he would try to catch her attention with some banality because he could never come up with anything smart or sexy to say.
    That day he thought he’d struck it rich. “Hi, Blanche, haven’t seen you in awhile. How’re things?”
    â€œHi, Samuel, you’ve been sitting there for three hours and you didn’t see me?”
    â€œI’m thinking. I’ve got problems.”
    â€œDon’t tell me about them now, I’m really busy.” Then she stopped what she was doing and took a closer look at him. “You’re pale. You look like a worm. You need some exercise. How about running with me this weekend?”
    Surprised, Samuel weighed the horror of jogging against the possibility that he might never have another opportunity to be alone with her. “I’m not much good at that, but we could take a stroll in Golden Gate Park. How about that?” he stuttered.
    â€œOkay, I’ll meet you at the windmill down by the beach at eight this Saturday. I’ll run and you can walk. We’ll get a bite to eat at Betty’s in the Haight. You know, that place right near Kezar Stadium?”
    From the round table where she had installed herself with Excalibur, Melba observed the goings-on with curiosity. She had never said a word, but she was clearly amused by the mismatch and her daughter’s obliviousness to Samuel’s notso-disguised interest in her. As Blanche was leaving for the evening, Samuel followed her, trying to get another whiff of her pheromones. He’d heard on the radio that pheromones were responsible for sexual attraction, and he concluded, naturally, that Blanche’s were very powerful. He sighed, resigned to leave also, at the same time counting the hours before he would see her in the park on Saturday.
    When he went past the round table, Melba grabbed him by the arm. “What can I do for you?” he said, acting surprised.
    â€œRelax, Buster. Sit down and talk to us,” she said, smiling. “Excalibur was telling me that you two aren’t a bad couple,” she said as she motioned for Samuel to light her cigarette.
    Samuel plopped down in the empty chair next to her with such a sullen expression that Melba started to laugh.
    â€œWhy don’t you ask her to do something less physically demanding than running?”
    â€œI don’t know