Read Online Mendocino and Other Stories by Ann Packer - Free Book Online

in your bathroom (it will). On the fellows who sweep you off your feet for three weeks, then inform you sheepishly that the wife and kids will return from the Caribbean on Sunday afternoon. On the one-night-standers whose failure to call leaves you slightly insulted and vastly relieved. On the lovers from your past who telephone in the middle of the night and, after forty minutes of idle conversation, ask if they can come over.
    I want to have a baby, but I can't think of having a husband.
    JENNIFER IS STANDING in my doorway. She wants to see what I've done so far on Kanine Krunch. The problem is, my notes would make no sense to her. I've figured out the people but not the setting. There will be a semiglamorous young woman with a little terrier on a leash, and a regular guy with a golden retriever running around in the background. And the guy will have an angelic little toddler sitting on his shoulders. I'm not sure what they'll say, though.
    “Can you show me an outline?” Jennifer asks.
    “I would,” I say, “but I don't really work in outlines.”
    “There isn't much time left, Virginia.”
    In fact, there are five weeks. But Jennifer's leave starts soon and she's getting nervous. “I'll have something to show you next Monday,” I say. “First thing in the morning.”
    She groans, and just as I am about to say, OK, Friday, she comes over to my desk, leans against it, takes my hand, and puts it on her stomach. “It's kicking,” she says.
    This is awkward, looking up at her huge round belly, so I stand up, leaving my hand where she's placed it.
    “Wait,” she whispers.
    At first there is nothing, then I feel her take a quick, deep breath. “See?” she says.
    “That was it?” I was expecting a real kick, aimed outward, fierce, sudden.
    “That was it.”
    It was like a wave rolling across her stomach. It had a wonderful, mysterious feel, as if it were a tiny manifestation of some grand, universal movement. Her face is flushed, and I realize that this is due only partly to exertion. The rest is pride.
    I smile at her. “I'll have the outline for you on Friday,” I say.
    I HAVE A blind date tonight. My brother called me from Charlottesville, the location of his current school, and told me that a friend of his from the microbiology lab was coming to New York for a conference. He said the guy, whose name was Hank, didn't know a soul here, that it would be great if I could take him out, show him the town. That's how my brother talks: “Show him the town.” It's as if he only arrived in this country a few years ago, and his studies have prevented him from learning the language.
    Dating, I often think, is like applying for a job. You go all out in the interview, proving your intelligence, your reliability, your suitability for this particular position, and then when—if—you are offered the job, you realize that the actual work would be tedious beyond measure.
    Promptly at eight, the buzzer rings. The intercom is broken, but I go ahead and hit the button that releases the door downstairs. Up here on the fifth floor, I figure no one will bother with the climb unless his purpose is legitimate.
    I wait a minute or two, then start listening for his footsteps. Nothing. I unlock my locks, poke my head out the door, and listen. No one is on the stairs; I can tell. The buzzer rings again, and again I push the button for the downstairs door. I stick my head out my open door and listen. Nothing.
    After a few minutes the buzzer rings again, and now I realize that what I've always feared has happened. The wiring that enables me to open the downstairs door from inside my apartment has worn out, or whatever happens to wiring.
    I fly down the stairs, composing apologies in my head. When I reach the door, there is Hank; it can only be Hank. He has a distinctly microbiology look about him: tall and thin, with overly large hands and a quizzical expression on his face.
    “I'm sorry,” I say, out of breath. “The thing must be