The Soul Thief_ A Novel - Charles Baxter [15]
“Of course we have mice.” He glances at the front window, where the toothless woman has dissolved into the noontime air of Buffalo. “And, yeah, I ought to put out some traps before the city shuts us down.”
“They’ll shut us down anyway. Any day now. Pronto. They hate us. Free food is a thumb in the eye of free enterprise, is what they think. People hate charity; they really do. It insults the worker. The city will come in with inspectors and cops and tear gas, and it’ll be curtains for us.” Jamie looks down at his crotch, hidden by his own apron. “You know, babycakes, you’re kinda cute, for a guy,” she says. “Listen. Don’t take this wrong. I’m serious. If you’re lonely and need a sleepmate,” she says quietly, almost in a whisper, “give me a call. I’m not kidding. I wouldn’t mind holding you all night. You have virtues, and virtues,” she says, slicing into another carrot, “should be rewarded, occasionally, with kindness.”
“You’re so romantic,” Nathaniel says.
“Romance is in my nature.” After a pause of chopping and seasoning, Jamie asks, “What was her name? Is her name?”
“Theresa. We were at a party.”
Jamie nods twice, frowning, and seems ready to speak up when the phone rings. Nathaniel wipes his hands before answering it. “Thank you,” the voice says without benefit of a greeting, “for taking me home.” For a moment, Nathaniel can’t place the voice as young or old, male or female, or even human, can’t place it at all until he realizes that it belongs, if that’s the word, to Coolberg.
“Ah. Jerome,” Nathaniel says, as the Vaughan Williams on the radio behind him embarks on its finale, a very British passacaglia with brave launching-into-the-void sentiments. “How’d you know I was here?”
“Don’t you remember last night?” Coolberg asks. “I told you: I know everything about you. You were a little drunk and got…I don’t know, confessional. You said you worked at the People’s Kitchen on Saturday mornings, preparing meals for the poor. Very admirable. That’s what you said. So I called. Don’t you remember? That was right after you told me about your sister and your father…”
“I did? I talked about them? I don’t think I said anything about them.”
“Well, I certainly thought you did.” A pause. “Your father’s death? From a stroke? Your sister’s muteness? How she slept on the floor beside your bed after your dad died? Your mother’s brief spell of unreason?”
Nathaniel waits. Someone in the world claims, on very little evidence, to know everything about him. Despite his doubts, he feels flattered. He notices that Jamie has turned around and is watching him, studying him as if he needs protection from something scratching through the wall.
“It’s just that I was thinking,” says Coolberg, “that we should do something together. I mentioned this to you. Possibly you forgot. We should go see the gods come out. At night. At Niagara Falls. Have you ever done that? Ever seen the gods come out? You should. They’re quite a sight, the gods.”
“No, I haven’t.” He waits. “What’s this about the gods? I never heard of any. Besides God, I mean.”
“Oh, skepticism is so easy, Nathaniel. And lazy. Lazily uninteresting. This excursion—we should do it. The pagan gods have a new boldness. They desire to be seen. The name of God is changing in our time. Really. Don’t you agree? Besides, you have a car. I don’t drive. I have never driven. With me, practice doesn’t make perfect. I have no sense of direction.”
“Okay. But we should bring Theresa along, you know? If I’m going to take an excursion, it should be the three of us.”
In the long silence that follows, Jamie has shrugged and returned to washing and chopping and tossing vegetables into the stewpot. “Yes,” Coolberg says at last. “What a good idea. You call her. When do you want to go?