The Pursuit of Alice Thrift

“He’s been crooning Sinatra on the latest ones,” said Leo. “What’s that about?”

“Trying to get my attention.” I took a bite of my sandwich.

Leo said, “No lettuce, no ham, no tomato?”

I pointed out that I never knew how long lunch would languish in my pocket before consumption, so this was the safest thing to take away.

Leo paused to consult our list of women. Finally he said, “I see a few of my colleagues who would be very happy with a forty-five-year-old guy. And even more who would pounce on the widower part. How long ago did he lose his wife?”

“A year and a day.” I looked at my watch’s date. “As of now, a year and two weeks.”

“Call him. Tell him you and your roommate are putting together a soiree of hardworking primary-care nurses, who—studies have shown—sometimes go out on the town looking for a sexual payoff just like the males of the species.”

I said, “I wasn’t born yesterday. I know people have sexual relations on a casual basis.”

Leo studied me for a few seconds, as if there was a social/epidemiological question he wanted to ask.

I said, “I’ve had relations, if that’s what your retreat into deep thought is about.”

“I see,” said Leo.

“In college. Actually, the summer between my junior and senior years. I was a camp counselor and the boys’ camp was across the lake.”

“And was he a counselor, too?”

“An astronomy major at MIT, or so I believed. He knew all the constellations.”

“Sounds romantic,” said Leo.

I said, “Actually not. I had wondered what all the fuss was about, so I decided to experience it for myself.”

“And?”

I swallowed a sip of milk and blotted my mouth. “Not worth the discomfort or the embarrassment or the trip into town for the prophylactics. And to make it worse, he expected follow-up.”

“Meaning?”

“That we’d do it again.”

“What a cad,” said Leo.

“I found out later he wasn’t an astronomy major at all, but studying aerospace engineering. And in a fraternity.”

“Did you ever see him again?

I said no, never.

“So that would be … like five years ago?”

I shrugged. After a pause, I wrapped the remains of my sandwich in plastic and put it in my jacket pocket.

“Not that it’s any of my business,” said Leo.

I said I had to run. Would catch him later—I had the night off so I’d do some vacuuming.

“Alice?” he called when I was a few paces from him. I returned to the table.

“I want to say, just for the record, as a fellow clinician, that the fuss you’ve heard about? With respect to relations? The stuff that, according to movies and books, supposedly makes the earth move and the world go round? Well—and I say this as your friend—it does.”

I didn’t have an answer; wasn’t sure whether his statement was confessional or prescriptive.

“What I’m getting at,” he continued, “is that you might want to give it another shot someday.”

RAY BROUGHT HIS cousins George and Jerome, two men in leather jackets over sweaters knit in multicolored zigzags. “Missoni,” said Ray when he saw me studying them. He repeated in his introductions to everyone, “Cousins? Absolutely. But like brothers. No, better than brothers—best friends.” Or—whichever suited the race or ethnicity of the nurse he was addressing: “Paisans.” “Confrères.” “Homies.”

Not to say he was ignoring me. Quite the opposite. He helped in the manner of a boyfriend of the hostess. He stomped on trash, refilled glasses, wiped up spills, chatted with the friendless, who would have been me but for the refuge offered by a kitchen and hors d’oeuvres – related tasks. Ray may have watched too many situation comedies in which suburban husbands steal time from their guests to peck the cheek of their aproned hostess/wife. I had to say repeatedly, “Why are you doing that?” disengaging him in the exact manner that my mother swatted away my father. It hardly discouraged him; if anything he was inspired to discuss what he perceived as my discomfort with/suspicion of intimacy.

I said, “I know men have very strong drives, and I know you’ve been lonely, but I think you’re being overly familiar.”

Happily, guests were interrupting us. Leo poked his head in every so often to remind me that there was a party going on in the other rooms and that I should leave the dishes for the morning.

“Let’s go see how our guests are faring,” Ray said cheerfully.

Leo had indeed dipped into his supply of brothers for the occasion, which was of great genetic interest to all observers. One had black hair and the fairest, pinkest skin you’d ever see on a male old enough to have facial hair; another had Leo’s build and Leo’s ruddy complexion, but an angular face and brown eyes that seemed to come from another gene pool. The Frawleys were mixing warily with the Ray Russo contingent. One red-haired brother asked a cousin, “So, how do you know Leo?”

“My cousin’s going out with his roommate,” he answered. I corrected the misapprehension. Ray and I were acquaintances, I said.

The cousin grinned. “If you say so.”

I explained to the brother that Ray had lost his wife a year ago and only now was getting out socially.

Cousin George said, “He was really faithful to her memory. He didn’t do a thing until she was legally pronounced dead.”

I told him what Ray had told me: the accident, the head trauma, the coma, the life support, the horrible decision. I asked if any of her organs were donated and George said, “Um. You’d have to ask Ray.”

I asked if she’d been wearing a seat belt.

George said, “I doubt it.”

Leo was now doing what he had threatened to do during our planning phase if things didn’t coalesce on their own—dance. He was taking turns with a flock of nursing students, all undergraduates from the same baccalaureate nursing program, and all friends. They looked alike, too: Their hairdos were the ballerina knots, streaked with blond, that were popular with pretty teenagers. I didn’t think we should invite anyone under twenty-one because we were serving beer and wine, but Leo had prevailed. Now they were taking turns being twirled, and each one’s raised hand revealed a few inches of bare midriff and a pierced navel.

“Wanna dance, Doc?” Ray asked.

I shook my head resolutely.

“Would it make a difference if it was a slow dance? You must have learned a few steps of ballroom dancing for those teas at that fancy college.”

I didn’t remember telling him where I’d gone to college, but I must have mentioned it over dinner. I said, “Okay, a slow dance.”