Gryphon_ New and Selected Stories - Charles Baxter [114]
“Happy enough,” she said.
He nodded and snorted. “ ‘Happy enough,’ ” he quoted back to her. Sounds of swallowing and digestion erupted from him. “I give you a wish and you ask for a radio. There you have it.” His accent was even more obscure and curious this morning.
“Where are you from?” Jodie asked. She had to angle her left leg away from his because his took up so much space under the counter. “You’re not from here.”
“No,” he said. “I’m not really from anywhere. I was imported from Venice. A beautiful city, Venice. You ever been there?”
“Yes,” she said, although she had not been. But she did love to read histories. “Lagoons, the Bridge of Sighs, and typhoid. Yeah, I’ve been there.” She put her money down on the counter, and when she stood up, she felt a faint throbbing, almost a soreness but not quite that, Walton’s desire, its trace, still inside her. “I have to go.”
He resumed eating. “You didn’t even thank me,” the fat man said. “You smell of love and you didn’t even thank me.”
“All right. Thank you.” She was hurrying out.
When she saw him in the mirror behind the cash register, he tipped an imaginary hat. She had seen something in his eyes: malice, she thought. As soon as she was out on the sidewalk, under the café’s faded orange awning, her thoughts returned to Walton. She wanted to see him immediately and touch him. She headed for the crosswalk, all thoughts of the fat man dispersing and vanishing like smoke.
On the way back, she saw a thimble in the gutter. She deposited it in her purse. A fountain pen on the brick ledge of a storefront income-tax service gleamed at her in the cottony hazy heat, and she took that, too. Walton had given her the habit of appreciating foundlings. When she walked onto the sleeping porch, she took off her shoes. She still felt ceremonial with him. She showed him the thimble and the fountain pen. Then they were making love, their bodies slippery with sweat, and this time she stopped him for a moment and said, “I saw that fat man again,” but he covered her mouth, and she sucked on his fingers. Afterward, she showered and dressed and caught the bus to work. Einstein groaned in her sleep as Jodie passed her in the hallway. The dog, Jodie thought, was probably jealous.
On the bus, Jodie hummed and smiled privately. She hadn’t known about all these resources of pleasure in the world. It was a great secret. She looked at the other passengers with politeness but no special interest. Her love was a power that could attract and charm. She was radiantly burning with it. Everyone could see it.
Through the window she spotted a flock of geese in a V pattern flying east and then veering south.
From time to time, at work—where she was bringing people rapidly into her orbit thanks to her aura of good fortune—she would think of her happiness and try to hide it. She remembered not to speak of it, good luck having a tendency to turn to its opposite when mentioned.
She called her sister and her mother, both of whom wanted to meet Walton as soon as possible. Jodie tried to be dryly objective about him, but she couldn’t keep it up for long; with her sister, she began giggling and weeping with happiness. Her best friend, Marge, came over one stormy afternoon in a visit of planned spontaneity and was so impressed by Walton that she took off her glasses and sang for him, thunder and lightning crashing outside and the electric lights flickering. She’d once been the vocalist in a band called Leaping Salmon, which had failed