Read Another Perfect Catastrophe for Free Online Page B

mumbled the details, his face darkening as he spoke, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose. Everyone looked away, some laugh. Mr. Levine sat on the edge of his desk with his legs crossed, watching Joseph and thoughtfully stroking his chin. Joseph knew all the words associated with his illness, and spoke about his dura and brain stem, about the tools they had used on him. He said these words the way a parrot might, with no apparent understanding of them. When he finished, Mr. Levine asked if we had any questions, then produced and passed around a plate of iron he said was the approximate size and shape of Joseph’s. From this he segued into a discussion of magnetics and the properties of stainless steel. Joseph seemed unaffected by this, though after we left in the spring for Easter vacation he never came back. I didn’t understand why I felt so bad for him. What I wanted all those years, I thought, was for people to stop ignoring Joseph for his steel plate, to accept it the way we accepted and joked about our own crossed eyes or glasses or out-of-style clothes. But when Mr. Levine had tried to do just that, it seemed like the worst thing I’d ever watched. I thought then, and think now, that the worst of our anguish we carry in our bowels, part of the rhythm of daily life, but hidden, not discussed or shown—not to our classmates, our science teachers, our husbands or wives.
    Saturday night we went back to the dance. Things that week had seemed better, and on Wednesday I did not fight with Dr. Goodwin. We were able to go shopping together again at Food-4-Less, as we had always done before, making a game of our chores, but had not done since Sarah died. The shopping cart with the bolted-on baby seat was now just another useless device. Rhonda pushed past it without looking, but once we were inside, I fell back into old jokes—sneaking grapes out of the bag, sacking up and weighing one peanut—and soon had her smiling. These were old roles we were playing; the memorized lines came easily.
    We are late this time and miss most of the lessons. Phil is finishing up, wiping his face with a bandanna while the band retunes. We start to practice our balance and swing.
    â€œNo, no, Rhonda,” I say. “Both at the same time: balance and swing, not balance or swing.” She laughs out loud.
    â€œLet’s make a pact not to step on each other,” she says.
    I shake her hand. “Deal.”
    â€œRemember everything Phil taught us.”
    â€œPhil who?” She laughs again, and I pull close and kiss the side of her face.
    There is a strong grip on my shoulder and I turn to face Robert Olander, who was manager of Kmart the year I started the cleaning contracting business. He’d been transferred only a month before Sarah died.
    â€œCurt, good as hell to see you,” he says, pumping my hand. His voice is low, and I can barely hear him over the noise of the band, of people talking and laughing. “This is Rhonda, then. Good to see you out.”
    I’m surprised to hear him call Rhonda by name, as they have never met. But worse is his tone of conciliation, of pity. I feel my stomach clench up.
    â€œI was sorry to hear of…about your losing the baby,” he says. He looks at me. “Mr. Comensoli told me at a manager’s meeting.”
    â€œThank you for thinking of us,” Rhonda says, practiced at saying the right things.
    â€œYes, Robert,” I say, “but we didn’t lose her.” Rhonda squeezes my hand, her nails in my palm.
    Robert snaps to attention. “I understood … I mean … I was given to believe—”
    â€œShe died,” I say. “God, if only we had just lost her, right? Then we could go out and find her. We could put an ad in the paper.”
    â€œCurt,” Rhonda says.
    â€œMisplaced,” I say. “There’s a diagnosis I could live with.”
    â€œCurt, I understand this is difficult…”