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Authors: Jeff Soloway
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romantic air of pensive sorrow that her co-workers had sought so hungrily and never found, so it was really too much to ask.
I tried to think of a good question about her parents, but nothing came immediately to mind. As I listened to the violent buzzing of the insects all around us, I felt more and more superfluous to the scene.
“Are you itchy?” she asked politely and pulled a bottle of insect repellent from the pocket of her cargo pants.
“Thanks,” I said. “Were you talking to them?”
She nodded. Her expression didn’t quite convince me that she didn’t mind that I knew. “Ilike to ask them questions,” she said. “Whenever I have a career decision to make. Sometimes even when a boy asks me out.”
There was no more room on her tree stump, so I eased myself down in the dirt below her. My pants were already saturated with mud from two days in the jungle; they couldn’t get any dirtier. I had to look up to see Pilar’s shiny face. At this point she and all the rest of the Guilford Girls, for the first time in my experience and possibly in their postpubescent lives, were eschewing foundation.
“Do they answer you?” I asked.
“Why should I tell you?” She was definitely off duty. “It’s just some crazy thing I do.”
My heart was pounding. I opened my mouth and almost told her that her mother was beautiful, but a bug flew in and ignited a fit of coughing and spitting. I was too worried about malaria to be squeamish about etiquette. Pilar didn’t seem to mind. My throat clear, I tried to recapture the moment by turning to stare reflectively at the lacy veil of mist over the river.
“It’s only crazy if you hear them talking back,” I said.
“I tell myself I can hear them, but I’m just lying. Why do I bother lying to myself? I’m not an idiot. I’m just pretending I still love them. They used to speak in my dreams, but not anymore. Not for years.”
The buzz of the insects and the gauzy mist rendered everything indistinct except my own thoughts and Pilar’s voice. The perfect thing to say flashed into my mind, and in this strange tropical world, there seemed no danger in letting it loose.
“My parents died almost five years ago,” I said. “Their car slid off the highway in the rain, late at night. For a while I talked to them, like you, but then I realized the only voice I was hearing was my own. I had lost their manner of speaking. I tried to remember their catchphrases, but all I had were the ones I still used myself. That’s when I knew they were gone.”
This was almost true, except that the reason I no longer heard my parents’ voices wasn’t that they were dead but that I’d been avoiding their phone calls.
Pilar and I compared perspectives on our losses, and then we relocated to the riverbank, where we sat heedlessly in the mud and slapped mosquitoes and continued the conversation. When the heat began to oppress us (or really, just a bit before), we agreed it was time to withdraw for a siesta, and since the boat with her colleagues and clients and boss wasn’t due back until early evening, we further concluded it would be safe and companionable to retire to my hut, which was nicer than hers and not so cluttered with Guilford Girl skin-protection products.
We sat on my cot. “You’re not like the other Guilford Girls,” I said, hoping flattery would get me over the last tricky climb to the peak.
She lay back on my cot and let her gaze lose itself in the thatched roof. I was half afraid she’d say, “You’re not like the other writers,” forgetting the new
Times
-quality hotshots, but I shouldn’t have worried. “I try
so hard
not to hate them,” she whispered instead.
“Spoiled Daddy’s girls,” I said. “Keeping themselves busy until they can land a rich-enough guy.”
She pulled her gaze back down to earth. “It’s not their fault. They just want enough money so they don’t have to worry. That’s what I want. Someday.”
“I don’t worry
I tried to think of a good question about her parents, but nothing came immediately to mind. As I listened to the violent buzzing of the insects all around us, I felt more and more superfluous to the scene.
“Are you itchy?” she asked politely and pulled a bottle of insect repellent from the pocket of her cargo pants.
“Thanks,” I said. “Were you talking to them?”
She nodded. Her expression didn’t quite convince me that she didn’t mind that I knew. “Ilike to ask them questions,” she said. “Whenever I have a career decision to make. Sometimes even when a boy asks me out.”
There was no more room on her tree stump, so I eased myself down in the dirt below her. My pants were already saturated with mud from two days in the jungle; they couldn’t get any dirtier. I had to look up to see Pilar’s shiny face. At this point she and all the rest of the Guilford Girls, for the first time in my experience and possibly in their postpubescent lives, were eschewing foundation.
“Do they answer you?” I asked.
“Why should I tell you?” She was definitely off duty. “It’s just some crazy thing I do.”
My heart was pounding. I opened my mouth and almost told her that her mother was beautiful, but a bug flew in and ignited a fit of coughing and spitting. I was too worried about malaria to be squeamish about etiquette. Pilar didn’t seem to mind. My throat clear, I tried to recapture the moment by turning to stare reflectively at the lacy veil of mist over the river.
“It’s only crazy if you hear them talking back,” I said.
“I tell myself I can hear them, but I’m just lying. Why do I bother lying to myself? I’m not an idiot. I’m just pretending I still love them. They used to speak in my dreams, but not anymore. Not for years.”
The buzz of the insects and the gauzy mist rendered everything indistinct except my own thoughts and Pilar’s voice. The perfect thing to say flashed into my mind, and in this strange tropical world, there seemed no danger in letting it loose.
“My parents died almost five years ago,” I said. “Their car slid off the highway in the rain, late at night. For a while I talked to them, like you, but then I realized the only voice I was hearing was my own. I had lost their manner of speaking. I tried to remember their catchphrases, but all I had were the ones I still used myself. That’s when I knew they were gone.”
This was almost true, except that the reason I no longer heard my parents’ voices wasn’t that they were dead but that I’d been avoiding their phone calls.
Pilar and I compared perspectives on our losses, and then we relocated to the riverbank, where we sat heedlessly in the mud and slapped mosquitoes and continued the conversation. When the heat began to oppress us (or really, just a bit before), we agreed it was time to withdraw for a siesta, and since the boat with her colleagues and clients and boss wasn’t due back until early evening, we further concluded it would be safe and companionable to retire to my hut, which was nicer than hers and not so cluttered with Guilford Girl skin-protection products.
We sat on my cot. “You’re not like the other Guilford Girls,” I said, hoping flattery would get me over the last tricky climb to the peak.
She lay back on my cot and let her gaze lose itself in the thatched roof. I was half afraid she’d say, “You’re not like the other writers,” forgetting the new
Times
-quality hotshots, but I shouldn’t have worried. “I try
so hard
not to hate them,” she whispered instead.
“Spoiled Daddy’s girls,” I said. “Keeping themselves busy until they can land a rich-enough guy.”
She pulled her gaze back down to earth. “It’s not their fault. They just want enough money so they don’t have to worry. That’s what I want. Someday.”
“I don’t worry
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