lemonade, said, “Sorry about that,” and stopped coughing. “Thank you, thanks for rescuing me.”
I think I needed him at that moment as much as I’ve needed anyone: I still felt like the Outcast, the Idiot Who’d Wrecked the Show, so, impulsively, I offered to buy him lunch—and he surprised me by answering, “Great!”
I chose the Café Blasé, across Commercial Street from my apartment, where white metal tables with wide, fringed umbrellas stood beneath the twisting branches of an acanthus tree strung with fairy lights. Its porch was hung with Chinese lanterns made of loose, blistery-looking paper, and, enclosing all this was a white picket fence with flowerboxes brilliant with petunias and geraniums pink as prom gowns.
“We’ve both been virtuous, we’ve been to church,” I said, “so we can indulge.” I ordered a margarita, but Edward wanted nothing stronger than guava juice.
He borrowed a pen from our waiter, and then filled his placemat with sketches, with enough racing cars for an Indianapolis 500. “That Ian drinks like a fish,” he said, making me self-conscious about my great big blue cocktail.
“Margaritas aren’t my usual Sunday fare,” I said. “…Arthur was a bit soused the day of the party.”
“But since then, he hasn’t had a drop. I’ve been very strict, keeping him clean and sober. He looks awesome.” Edward paused. “That was such an awful thing—”
“To do to Arthur,” I said.
He stopped sketching. The pen was broken, leaking ink onto his fingers. “And to hurt that poor dog.” He put a surprising amount of emotion into his voice. “That was so cruel. I’m an animal lover. I believe living things have the right to live.”
That didn’t stop him from ordering a hamburger, heavy with bacon, with extra mushrooms. Considering his past, studying cooking, I thought he might choose something minimalist and broiled or full of sprouts and field greens, but I was wrong. I was midway through my grilled chicken sandwich and a second margarita before I had the courage enough to ask him the question I now realized was the reason for this luncheon. “How did you meet Arthur?”
Edward was eating his hamburger with a knife and fork, cutting it with quick, fastidious gestures that reflected his culinary background. “I’ll never forget the day I met Arthur. But not because of anything to do with Arthur.”
He had been hitchhiking to Provincetown. He’d gotten as far as the Orleans traffic circle without incident, receiving rides from traveling salesmen, a Seventh-Day Adventist minister, and a potter from Welfleet. “They were all very straight, very talkative, and very boring.”
Then, at Orleans, all of that changed. His next ride was in an old beige van. Edward would always remember the grubby fake fur on its steering wheel and the web of wooden beads slung over the driver’s seat. “For my sciatica,” the driver had said. The driver himself was somewhat generic. He wore a baseball cap and those silver reflecting sunglasses that make you feel like you’re talking to yourself. He had dark curly hair and a mustache graying at the edges. His skin was olive, gritty from years at a gas station or a marina; his fingernails were black.
He told Edward he could take him to Provincetown, but said little else. He played classical music, “lots of harpsichords,” very loud on his tapedeck; it made Edward’s ears throb. When Edward tried to make small talk, the driver shrugged and turned the music still louder.
By the time Provincetown came into view, the pond and sand on the right, Massachusetts Bay and that line of cabins on the left, Edward’s uneasiness was calcifying into fear. Something told him to bolt at the next traffic light. Unfortunately, it was green and the driver shot through, miles above the speed limit. Edward prayed for a police car to intercept them, but they seemed to have the road to themselves.
When they reached the exits for the East End of
I think I needed him at that moment as much as I’ve needed anyone: I still felt like the Outcast, the Idiot Who’d Wrecked the Show, so, impulsively, I offered to buy him lunch—and he surprised me by answering, “Great!”
I chose the Café Blasé, across Commercial Street from my apartment, where white metal tables with wide, fringed umbrellas stood beneath the twisting branches of an acanthus tree strung with fairy lights. Its porch was hung with Chinese lanterns made of loose, blistery-looking paper, and, enclosing all this was a white picket fence with flowerboxes brilliant with petunias and geraniums pink as prom gowns.
“We’ve both been virtuous, we’ve been to church,” I said, “so we can indulge.” I ordered a margarita, but Edward wanted nothing stronger than guava juice.
He borrowed a pen from our waiter, and then filled his placemat with sketches, with enough racing cars for an Indianapolis 500. “That Ian drinks like a fish,” he said, making me self-conscious about my great big blue cocktail.
“Margaritas aren’t my usual Sunday fare,” I said. “…Arthur was a bit soused the day of the party.”
“But since then, he hasn’t had a drop. I’ve been very strict, keeping him clean and sober. He looks awesome.” Edward paused. “That was such an awful thing—”
“To do to Arthur,” I said.
He stopped sketching. The pen was broken, leaking ink onto his fingers. “And to hurt that poor dog.” He put a surprising amount of emotion into his voice. “That was so cruel. I’m an animal lover. I believe living things have the right to live.”
That didn’t stop him from ordering a hamburger, heavy with bacon, with extra mushrooms. Considering his past, studying cooking, I thought he might choose something minimalist and broiled or full of sprouts and field greens, but I was wrong. I was midway through my grilled chicken sandwich and a second margarita before I had the courage enough to ask him the question I now realized was the reason for this luncheon. “How did you meet Arthur?”
Edward was eating his hamburger with a knife and fork, cutting it with quick, fastidious gestures that reflected his culinary background. “I’ll never forget the day I met Arthur. But not because of anything to do with Arthur.”
He had been hitchhiking to Provincetown. He’d gotten as far as the Orleans traffic circle without incident, receiving rides from traveling salesmen, a Seventh-Day Adventist minister, and a potter from Welfleet. “They were all very straight, very talkative, and very boring.”
Then, at Orleans, all of that changed. His next ride was in an old beige van. Edward would always remember the grubby fake fur on its steering wheel and the web of wooden beads slung over the driver’s seat. “For my sciatica,” the driver had said. The driver himself was somewhat generic. He wore a baseball cap and those silver reflecting sunglasses that make you feel like you’re talking to yourself. He had dark curly hair and a mustache graying at the edges. His skin was olive, gritty from years at a gas station or a marina; his fingernails were black.
He told Edward he could take him to Provincetown, but said little else. He played classical music, “lots of harpsichords,” very loud on his tapedeck; it made Edward’s ears throb. When Edward tried to make small talk, the driver shrugged and turned the music still louder.
By the time Provincetown came into view, the pond and sand on the right, Massachusetts Bay and that line of cabins on the left, Edward’s uneasiness was calcifying into fear. Something told him to bolt at the next traffic light. Unfortunately, it was green and the driver shot through, miles above the speed limit. Edward prayed for a police car to intercept them, but they seemed to have the road to themselves.
When they reached the exits for the East End of
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