him act this way.
“It’s already seven o’clock, goodness,” she finally said, breathlessly checking her watch. In my hand she pressed a ten-dollar bill and one of those rain caps in a pink case that the banks give away, kissed me on the cheek, and left, waving at everyone else as she ran out the door to catch the train.
THE FIRES / 31
“That sounds familiar,” Cornell said, looking somewhere to the left of me. We each sipped at our drinks and put our glasses down on the table. My parents had often sat like this after dinner with their beers, even after they’d run out of things to say to one another. I didn’t want to leave. Outside, a car door slammed, children were squealing, and an ice-cream truck idled, its miniature music sounding rushed and nervous.
He told me about his life with Hanna, the dresses she bought at secondhand stores and the Polish restaurant where they ate every night and knew all the waiters, how she’d made friends with the old Chinese woman upstairs and had taken care of a seminary student’s children. It was an ordinary, pleasant life, and I understood why she’d had to leave it—she’d wanted to feel as if she’d chosen it or earned it, not as if she’d been destined to meet Cornell, the first person she happened to befriend when she ran away to Chicago. That was cheap chance, and there had been plenty of that for her in Porter. The breeze through the open window smelled of exhaust. I felt sorry for Cornell, because it seemed he had chosen her.
“I had a way of bringing her out,” he said. “Let me show you how a cheer-up song went.”
“All right.” He got up and went to the other room, then rolled in an upright piano. He put a chair in front of it and sat down.
When he looked hesitantly at his hands and wiggled his fingers, I was embarrassed for him and wanted to laugh until he hit the keys. It was a short and catchy song about Paris, the tune riding up and down a hill, and after he’d finished, it struck me that both my mother and Hanna had fallen in love with musicians, one a church organist, one a piano player, how music seemed the closest thing to a kind of love that came from a lot of discipline and practice.
“That’s nice,” I said. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”
32 / RENÉ STEINKE
“Me, too,” he said, his finger pounding a key. He showed me what his brother had brought back for him: an ashtray with a street scene from the Champs Élysées painted on it. “He was in the army,” Cornell said. “Hated it.” Later, as he smoked and we drank two more glasses of bourbon, he flicked his ashes like gray snow over striped awnings and women in extravagant hats.
It began to get dark outside. I felt the liquor wiggling in my arms and chest. “I wonder if it’s true what they say about Frenchwomen.”
“I don’t know.” He cocked his head. “But I’d like to see for myself.”
“Maybe we’ll go there someday,” I said. “You look like the stubborn type.”
He smiled. “Maybe. Hanna and I always said we’d go. But we made a lot of crazy plans.”
“What happened, anyway?” I said, taking another drink. “Why aren’t you still together?”
He leaned back and sighed. “Oh, well, she was in love with me, I guess, until she realized we were too much alike, and she said she couldn’t tell anymore what was hers and what was mine—she even got our clothes mixed up in the end, the stories about our childhoods.” It was a shock that he wanted to tell me so much. “She took it personally if I was unhappy for five minutes, because she thought she should be able to save me from that—even five fucking minutes of it.” He swung the leg crossed over his knees as if getting ready to kick something at the ceiling.
“And she left you then?”
“Oh, she ran off, with someone else I think, I still don’t know for sure. She left a note that said she felt like she was disappearing—what was it? that the ‘we’ was about to murder the
“It’s already seven o’clock, goodness,” she finally said, breathlessly checking her watch. In my hand she pressed a ten-dollar bill and one of those rain caps in a pink case that the banks give away, kissed me on the cheek, and left, waving at everyone else as she ran out the door to catch the train.
THE FIRES / 31
“That sounds familiar,” Cornell said, looking somewhere to the left of me. We each sipped at our drinks and put our glasses down on the table. My parents had often sat like this after dinner with their beers, even after they’d run out of things to say to one another. I didn’t want to leave. Outside, a car door slammed, children were squealing, and an ice-cream truck idled, its miniature music sounding rushed and nervous.
He told me about his life with Hanna, the dresses she bought at secondhand stores and the Polish restaurant where they ate every night and knew all the waiters, how she’d made friends with the old Chinese woman upstairs and had taken care of a seminary student’s children. It was an ordinary, pleasant life, and I understood why she’d had to leave it—she’d wanted to feel as if she’d chosen it or earned it, not as if she’d been destined to meet Cornell, the first person she happened to befriend when she ran away to Chicago. That was cheap chance, and there had been plenty of that for her in Porter. The breeze through the open window smelled of exhaust. I felt sorry for Cornell, because it seemed he had chosen her.
“I had a way of bringing her out,” he said. “Let me show you how a cheer-up song went.”
“All right.” He got up and went to the other room, then rolled in an upright piano. He put a chair in front of it and sat down.
When he looked hesitantly at his hands and wiggled his fingers, I was embarrassed for him and wanted to laugh until he hit the keys. It was a short and catchy song about Paris, the tune riding up and down a hill, and after he’d finished, it struck me that both my mother and Hanna had fallen in love with musicians, one a church organist, one a piano player, how music seemed the closest thing to a kind of love that came from a lot of discipline and practice.
“That’s nice,” I said. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”
32 / RENÉ STEINKE
“Me, too,” he said, his finger pounding a key. He showed me what his brother had brought back for him: an ashtray with a street scene from the Champs Élysées painted on it. “He was in the army,” Cornell said. “Hated it.” Later, as he smoked and we drank two more glasses of bourbon, he flicked his ashes like gray snow over striped awnings and women in extravagant hats.
It began to get dark outside. I felt the liquor wiggling in my arms and chest. “I wonder if it’s true what they say about Frenchwomen.”
“I don’t know.” He cocked his head. “But I’d like to see for myself.”
“Maybe we’ll go there someday,” I said. “You look like the stubborn type.”
He smiled. “Maybe. Hanna and I always said we’d go. But we made a lot of crazy plans.”
“What happened, anyway?” I said, taking another drink. “Why aren’t you still together?”
He leaned back and sighed. “Oh, well, she was in love with me, I guess, until she realized we were too much alike, and she said she couldn’t tell anymore what was hers and what was mine—she even got our clothes mixed up in the end, the stories about our childhoods.” It was a shock that he wanted to tell me so much. “She took it personally if I was unhappy for five minutes, because she thought she should be able to save me from that—even five fucking minutes of it.” He swung the leg crossed over his knees as if getting ready to kick something at the ceiling.
“And she left you then?”
“Oh, she ran off, with someone else I think, I still don’t know for sure. She left a note that said she felt like she was disappearing—what was it? that the ‘we’ was about to murder the
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