“The Opera Singer was in rare form today —tuning her voice, running the scales. Then Hemingway arrived and thought he was in Pamplona. He was ordering drinks for everyone, saying the great DiMaggio would be coming soon, and then his eyes grew wide and he said the bulls were coming. He actually got out of his chair and put his ear to the floor and yelled that they were coming down the corridor and we needed to clear the dining room.”
Crenshaw imitated the man perfectly but Treha did not smile. She simply burrowed her head further behind her knees and watched.
“Did the bulls show up?” she said.
“Yes, the bulls in the white uniforms with the syringe. I suspect he’s off his medication again.” He looked at her in the fading sunlight and leaned forward, making something in his arm or his back pop. He frowned. “My bones sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies.”
“You should stretch more,” Treha said.
“No amount of stretching will stop the popping and snapping inside, my dear. I need an oil change. A transmission flush. A complete overhaul.” He took a deep breath. “Let’s not talk about me tonight. Let’s talk about you.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Au contraire. There’s much to learn. Much to know.”
“I could tell you what I did today, but it would bore you.”
“No, I don’t mean about today. I mean about your life. Where you’ve been. What you’ve done. What you’ve seen. You never talk about it.”
“I told you, I don’t remember much.”
“I don’t believe you. You remember everything. The things you read. The things told to you. How could you say you don’t remember?”
“Maybe I don’t want to remember.”
“Aha, now you’re getting closer to the truth, I think.”
She gripped her legs tighter and lowered her head where he couldn’t see her.
“Close your eyes and let me ask you some questions. If you don’t know the answer, say you don’t know. Or make something up. If you can ask me questions, it only seems fair that I should do the same with you.”
She closed her eyes but they still moved behind the eyelids. Her fingers were engaged now, typing on some unseenkeyboard. She bit her lip, tearing at a chapped area. Crenshaw got like this frequently, asking questions about her past. It almost seemed to her that he wanted to tell her something, reveal something hidden, but what could he know?
“Tell me about your parents. What do you remember?”
Her head moved slightly left and right. “I only remember my mother in the ice cream shop. The color of her dress. A little perfume. And her walking across the street.”
When he didn’t speak, she opened her eyes and found him staring at her with condescension. “That’s not nice, Treha. You can’t take another person’s story and make it your own.”
“You said to make something up.”
“You know what I mean.”
She sat all the way back. “All right. I remember my mother taking me into a jewelry store. Or maybe it was a watch repair shop. And she left and I never saw her again.”
“You’re hopeless, you know that?”
“Hopeless?”
“Go ahead. Give me synonyms for the word hopeless . Thirty seconds. Go.”
She closed her eyes again and rhythmically, without hesitation, spoke the words that passed across the synapses. “ Hopeless . Despairing . Miserable . Depressed . Downcast . Disconsolate . Dejected . Melancholic . Wretched . . .”
He interrupted. “What about this: ‘The wretched refuse’? Does that ring a bell?”
“‘The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!’”
“Emma Lazarus,” he said, beaming. “You are amazing,” he whispered. “Simply amazing.”
“Remembering the words is not amazing. The words are amazing.”
“True. But most people are not able to remember like you.” He looked at the floor, at the slippers beside his chair. At the bed and the television and desk
Crenshaw imitated the man perfectly but Treha did not smile. She simply burrowed her head further behind her knees and watched.
“Did the bulls show up?” she said.
“Yes, the bulls in the white uniforms with the syringe. I suspect he’s off his medication again.” He looked at her in the fading sunlight and leaned forward, making something in his arm or his back pop. He frowned. “My bones sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies.”
“You should stretch more,” Treha said.
“No amount of stretching will stop the popping and snapping inside, my dear. I need an oil change. A transmission flush. A complete overhaul.” He took a deep breath. “Let’s not talk about me tonight. Let’s talk about you.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Au contraire. There’s much to learn. Much to know.”
“I could tell you what I did today, but it would bore you.”
“No, I don’t mean about today. I mean about your life. Where you’ve been. What you’ve done. What you’ve seen. You never talk about it.”
“I told you, I don’t remember much.”
“I don’t believe you. You remember everything. The things you read. The things told to you. How could you say you don’t remember?”
“Maybe I don’t want to remember.”
“Aha, now you’re getting closer to the truth, I think.”
She gripped her legs tighter and lowered her head where he couldn’t see her.
“Close your eyes and let me ask you some questions. If you don’t know the answer, say you don’t know. Or make something up. If you can ask me questions, it only seems fair that I should do the same with you.”
She closed her eyes but they still moved behind the eyelids. Her fingers were engaged now, typing on some unseenkeyboard. She bit her lip, tearing at a chapped area. Crenshaw got like this frequently, asking questions about her past. It almost seemed to her that he wanted to tell her something, reveal something hidden, but what could he know?
“Tell me about your parents. What do you remember?”
Her head moved slightly left and right. “I only remember my mother in the ice cream shop. The color of her dress. A little perfume. And her walking across the street.”
When he didn’t speak, she opened her eyes and found him staring at her with condescension. “That’s not nice, Treha. You can’t take another person’s story and make it your own.”
“You said to make something up.”
“You know what I mean.”
She sat all the way back. “All right. I remember my mother taking me into a jewelry store. Or maybe it was a watch repair shop. And she left and I never saw her again.”
“You’re hopeless, you know that?”
“Hopeless?”
“Go ahead. Give me synonyms for the word hopeless . Thirty seconds. Go.”
She closed her eyes again and rhythmically, without hesitation, spoke the words that passed across the synapses. “ Hopeless . Despairing . Miserable . Depressed . Downcast . Disconsolate . Dejected . Melancholic . Wretched . . .”
He interrupted. “What about this: ‘The wretched refuse’? Does that ring a bell?”
“‘The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!’”
“Emma Lazarus,” he said, beaming. “You are amazing,” he whispered. “Simply amazing.”
“Remembering the words is not amazing. The words are amazing.”
“True. But most people are not able to remember like you.” He looked at the floor, at the slippers beside his chair. At the bed and the television and desk
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