The Feast of Love - Charles Baxter [64]
Inside the house, Esther slept on restlessly, poor old girl.
ENWOMBED WITHIN MY FORD CAR, not knowing where to go but recognizing for my own good that I should not go anywhere near the Amalgamated Education Corporation, I drove to my neighbor’s coffee shop in the mall. Bradley was not there in person. Instead, I found in front of me a young American girl whose tee-shirt was labeled RAGING HORMONES and who asked me for my order.
Coffee, young lady, please.
Any kind?
Any kind is fine.
Blend-of-the-day?
Fine, fine.
Comin’ right up.
Excuse me, I asked, but where is the manager? Where is Bradley?
In back somewheres, she said. Ordering stock. You know him?
He is my neighbor, I informed her. In fact he lives next door.
Wow. You’re Mr. S’s neighbor. No kidding. Hey, you want a Kleenex? she asked. Here. She held one out to me.
For what purpose?
You look like you need it, she said. She pointed at my face. Like, tears or something?
I hadn’t realized, I said. Thank you. Thank you very much. After paying her, I took the coffee and the Kleenex and found my way to a chair near the back. I dabbed at my eyes. My eyes were damp but not yet completely overflowing. I was the only customer. In desperation I glanced around for something to read. The newspapers, however, were in the front.
She came toward the back to clear the tables near mine.
So, she said, whattya do?
I teach philosophy, I said.
Oh jeez. I could use a philosopher, she said, like right this week. Right now. This minute. She stopped and put her hand on her hip. Like, I’m about to do something? Maybe you don’t mind my asking. And this thing I’m about to do, it’s bad? But it’s going to result in something good? So, in your opinion, should I do it?
What’s your name, young lady? I asked.
Chloé. Clow-ay.
Not Clow-ee?
Naw. I customized it. Everybody should customize their names.
The answer is no, Chloé. The ends never justify the means. Almost every ethical philosophy of consequence will tell you so. Kant’s categorical . . . well, bad actions make the result turn out bad.
I thought that was what you’d say. Thanks. Uh, she said, do I owe you anything?
What?
Like money? For your opinion. Because it’s your job as a philosopher to give advice, right? And besides, you live next door to Mr. S. Since it’s your job to think, I should pay you. Anyway, do I owe you anything?
No, Chloé, you don’t. But thank you for offering. I bowed my head. In silence, she went away. I drank my coffee. Never once had Aaron as an adult child asked me for advice. To my best recollection, never as an adult had he ever asked me so much as a single question.
Bradley returned. He stopped by my chair. He sat to make neighborly conversation. He asked me how I was. And I told him, the genial man, I told him everything, because I hardly knew him, and because Chloé was taking care of his customers, and because he had hung up The Feast of Love in the back, and because he was so vacant as a human being — I do not mean this as criticism — that I could fill him, that morning, with my difficulties, and not cause a flood condition. Toward the end, he put his hand on my shoulder. It was a consolation of sorts.
And how are you, Bradley? I asked.
I’m in love, he said. It’s recent. I’ve met this wonderful woman.
And who is the lucky lady?
Her name’s Diana, he said. We’re going to be married, I think.
Well, you must bring her over to meet Esther and me.
And with that, I rose to leave.
THIRTEEN
I CAN BE SO UNMOTIVATED. For example. You know the dust that can, like, float in the air? Me, I was totally