honey, help
. It wanted comfort. It wanted to comfort me. We were in trouble together, the two of us: the honey-throated saw, the saw-voiced girl.
Help, help, we’re still alive
, the saw sang, though mostly its songs were just pronouns all stuck together:
I, we, mine, you, you, we, mine
.
Yes, that’s right. I was going to tell you about the saw.
Gabe touched my shoulder and said, “Marya, let’s go.”
Marco said, “In a minute. Miss Porth, let’s have a drink.”
“Marya,” said Gabe.
“I’d love one,” I said.
Maxie’s was a popular place—no sign on the front door, a private joke. There was a crowd. Gabe punched me. He punched me in the breast. The right breast. A very strange place to take a punch. Not the worst place. I thought thatas it happened:
not the worst place to take a punch
. The chairs at Maxie’s had backs carved like bamboo. He punched me. I’d never been punched before. He said, “See how it feels, when someone breaks your heart?” and I thought,
Yes, as it happens, I think I do
.
I was on my back. Marco had his arms around Gabe’s arms and was whispering things in his ear. A crowd had formed. People were touching me. I wished they wouldn’t.
Here is what I want to tell you: I knew something was ending, and I was grateful, and I missed it.
8.
About five years ago in a restaurant near my apartment someone recognized me. “You’re—are you Miss Porth?” he said. “You’re Miss Porth.” Man about my own age, tweed blazer, bald with a crinkly snub-nosed puppyish face, the kind that always looks like it’s about to sneeze. “I used to see you at Maxie’s,” he said. “All the time. Well, lots. I was in grad school at Penn. Miss Porth! Good God! I always wondered what happened to you!”
I was sitting at the bar, waiting for a friend, and I wanted to end the conversation before the friend arrived. The man took a bar stool next to me. We talked for a while about Philadelphia. He still lived there, he was just in town for a conference. He shook the ice from his emptied drink into his mouth, and I knew he was back there—not listening to me, exactly, just remembering who was at his elbow, and did she want another drink, and did he have enough moneyfor another drink for both of them. All the good things he believed about himself then: by now he’d know whether he’d been right, and right or wrong, knowing was dull. I didn’t like being his occasion for nostalgia.
“I have your album,” he said. “I’m a fan. Seriously. It’s my field, music. I—Some guy hit you,” he said suddenly. His puppy face looked over-sneezeish. “I can’t remember. Was he a drunk? Some guy in love with you? That’s right. A crazy.”
“Random thing,” I said. “What were you studying?”
“Folklore,” he said absentmindedly. “I always wondered something about you. Can I ask? Do you mind?”
Oh
, I thought,
slide down that rabbit hole if you have to, just let go of my hem, don’t take me with you
.
“I loved to hear you,” he said. Puppy tilt to his head, too. “You were like nothing else. But I always wondered—I mean, you seem like an intelligent woman. I never spoke to you back then.” One piece of ice clung to the bottom of his glass and he fished it out with his fingers. “Did you realize that people were laughing at you?”
Then he said, “Oh, my God.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Not me,” he said. “I swear, you were wonderful.”
I turned to him. “Of course I knew,” I said. “How could I miss it?”
The line between pride and a lack of it is thin and brittle and thrilling as new ice. Only when you’re young are you able to skate out onto it, to not care which side you end up on. That was me. I was innocent. Later, when you’re old,when you know things, well, it takes all sorts of effort, and ropes, and pulleys, and all kinds of tricks, to keep you from crashing through, if you’re even willing to risk it.
Though maybe I did know back then
. It wanted comfort. It wanted to comfort me. We were in trouble together, the two of us: the honey-throated saw, the saw-voiced girl.
Help, help, we’re still alive
, the saw sang, though mostly its songs were just pronouns all stuck together:
I, we, mine, you, you, we, mine
.
Yes, that’s right. I was going to tell you about the saw.
Gabe touched my shoulder and said, “Marya, let’s go.”
Marco said, “In a minute. Miss Porth, let’s have a drink.”
“Marya,” said Gabe.
“I’d love one,” I said.
Maxie’s was a popular place—no sign on the front door, a private joke. There was a crowd. Gabe punched me. He punched me in the breast. The right breast. A very strange place to take a punch. Not the worst place. I thought thatas it happened:
not the worst place to take a punch
. The chairs at Maxie’s had backs carved like bamboo. He punched me. I’d never been punched before. He said, “See how it feels, when someone breaks your heart?” and I thought,
Yes, as it happens, I think I do
.
I was on my back. Marco had his arms around Gabe’s arms and was whispering things in his ear. A crowd had formed. People were touching me. I wished they wouldn’t.
Here is what I want to tell you: I knew something was ending, and I was grateful, and I missed it.
8.
About five years ago in a restaurant near my apartment someone recognized me. “You’re—are you Miss Porth?” he said. “You’re Miss Porth.” Man about my own age, tweed blazer, bald with a crinkly snub-nosed puppyish face, the kind that always looks like it’s about to sneeze. “I used to see you at Maxie’s,” he said. “All the time. Well, lots. I was in grad school at Penn. Miss Porth! Good God! I always wondered what happened to you!”
I was sitting at the bar, waiting for a friend, and I wanted to end the conversation before the friend arrived. The man took a bar stool next to me. We talked for a while about Philadelphia. He still lived there, he was just in town for a conference. He shook the ice from his emptied drink into his mouth, and I knew he was back there—not listening to me, exactly, just remembering who was at his elbow, and did she want another drink, and did he have enough moneyfor another drink for both of them. All the good things he believed about himself then: by now he’d know whether he’d been right, and right or wrong, knowing was dull. I didn’t like being his occasion for nostalgia.
“I have your album,” he said. “I’m a fan. Seriously. It’s my field, music. I—Some guy hit you,” he said suddenly. His puppy face looked over-sneezeish. “I can’t remember. Was he a drunk? Some guy in love with you? That’s right. A crazy.”
“Random thing,” I said. “What were you studying?”
“Folklore,” he said absentmindedly. “I always wondered something about you. Can I ask? Do you mind?”
Oh
, I thought,
slide down that rabbit hole if you have to, just let go of my hem, don’t take me with you
.
“I loved to hear you,” he said. Puppy tilt to his head, too. “You were like nothing else. But I always wondered—I mean, you seem like an intelligent woman. I never spoke to you back then.” One piece of ice clung to the bottom of his glass and he fished it out with his fingers. “Did you realize that people were laughing at you?”
Then he said, “Oh, my God.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Not me,” he said. “I swear, you were wonderful.”
I turned to him. “Of course I knew,” I said. “How could I miss it?”
The line between pride and a lack of it is thin and brittle and thrilling as new ice. Only when you’re young are you able to skate out onto it, to not care which side you end up on. That was me. I was innocent. Later, when you’re old,when you know things, well, it takes all sorts of effort, and ropes, and pulleys, and all kinds of tricks, to keep you from crashing through, if you’re even willing to risk it.
Though maybe I did know back then
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