White Jade. V. J. Banis

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СКАЧАТЬ the worn, thin flooring and the old cabinets, some of them dating back before my birth. The big old fans at the ceiling spun lazily during the summer, little more than rippling the warm air.

      The soda fountain with its black marble top and dilapidated fixtures had always been crowded in the hour or so after school let out. The pharmacy counter, with its apothecary jars of colored water had so fascinated me as a child.

      Behind the prescription counter stairs went up to our apartment above, small and ordinary, but comfortable. A little balcony opened off the living room. I could look up from the taxi window and see the railing still. I had kept potted geraniums on it. It was here that Jeff had proposed to me, standing in the blending light of moon and neon. He had slipped the white jade about my neck and told me he loved me.

      No geraniums graced the balcony now. A wet rug hung over the wrought iron to dry.

      “Drive on,” I said, leaning back against the seat again.

      How had I come to have the past so suddenly thrust upon me again? I had worked hard to rid myself of it—moving into a place of my own, breaking all the old ties, losing myself first in school and then in work.

      At first it had seemed hopeless, as if I would never be relieved of that weight of unhappiness, losing first Jeff and then my father so soon after. Gradually, however, the wounds healed, as they must. I had begun to feel like and less like misery’s child and more and more my own servant.

      I had rediscovered the great joy to be found in little things—the laughter of a child, the scent of a rose, the sound of distant singing as someone passed beneath my window. I had learned to laugh, and to laugh at myself, and even to sing as I passed under windows.

      One day I had awakened to discover to my surprise that I was happy, that I loved life, that I was one with the world again. The past was dead and buried—or so I had thought.

      Now that dead past had risen from the grave to haunt me. I would have liked to turn my back on it, ignore it, let it die again, but in my purse I felt the weight of that jar I carried. It might have been all the tea ever brewed, it weighed so heavily.

      * * * *

      In the morning I took the bottle to have the tea analyzed. I did not go to the shop that had been my father’s, although of course that kindly old man who had it now could have done what I needed.

      That was another of the ties from the past that I had severed, and when I had need of a pharmacy I went to a little one near my apartment where the pharmacist, only a year or two out of school, flirted a bit half-heartedly. This shop was all chrome and glass and sparkle. It had no soda fountain. It had no romance, but at least it inspired a certain confidence.

      “Hello,” Jerry, the young pharmacist, greeted me when I came in. “How’d the job interview go?”

      “Still undecided.” I gave him a wan smile. I had slept poorly.

      I took my ominous burden from my purse and set it atop the counter. “I want to have this analyzed,” I said. “Can you take care of that sort of thing for me?”

      He picked up the jar and looked at it. “What’s in it?”

      “That is why I want to have it analyzed.”

      He unscrewed the lid and sniffed. “Smells like tea.” At my impatient sigh, he said, quickly, “Okay, okay, it’s not really up my alley, you understand, but I know a man.... Got any ideas yourself what to look for?”

      I hesitated for a moment before shaking my head. It was no use making guesses. For all I knew—and I hoped it would be so—it was nothing but tea with a dash of lemon and maybe some sugar.

      “Fine, be mysterious,” he said, grinning as he replaced the lid. “I’ll give you a call when I find out, unless you’re in some sort of hurry.”

      “I am, a little, actually.” I might be, or I might not, depending entirely upon what he found in that brownish liquid, but there was no use trying to explain that.

      He gave a mock grimace and a shrug of resignation. “I’ll see if I can find out anything today. That suit you better?”

      I managed a grateful smile. “Yes.” Then, growing sober, I added, “There is one more thing. I don’t know how this works, but if you could exercise a little discretion....”

      “Sure,” he said, too quickly. I saw the guarded look that came into his eyes and I knew this was becoming a bit suspicious looking. Why should I want to have something whose properties were completely unknown to me analyzed so quickly and so quietly? I searched my mind for some excuse.

      “Someone recommended it to me as a home remedy.” That story sounded lame even to my own ears. “I thought better safe than sorry.”

      He looked unconvinced but for the moment he accepted my story.

      “How about dinner somewhere tonight?” I asked with false brightness.

      Which successfully changed the subject. His easy grin returned. “Sure. How about Mamma’s? At eight?”

      “Fine. I’ll meet you there.” A customer waited behind me and I could step aside with a last friendly smile and a nod, and make my escape while he temporarily forgot my mysterious bottle.

      I had only to endure a day of anxious waiting and wondering, trying to convince myself that the passing minutes were not grating upon my nerves as if they were hours.

      He was already there when I arrived at the restaurant. He looked happy and unconcerned and I tried to match my mood to his. I did not want to seem too anxious by asking what, if anything, he had learned and since he did not volunteer any information, I vowed to spend a quiet, pleasant evening in his company as if there was nothing of importance on my mind.

      Mamma herself greeted us as we left the bar for the dining room, her shy, sweet smile making us welcome at once and dispelling the chill from the cold winds outside.

      “Winter is here, no,” she said, leading us to one of the romantic little nooks in the rear.

      ‘It’s close,” Jerry said. I found myself thinking of Elsinore, where yesterday it had been snowing. “What’ll it be?” he asked me when we were seated.

      “You order for me.” I didn’t say that I could not concentrate my attention long enough to decide on food.

      For all of that, though, the food did help. I took strength from the Barolo wine he ordered and I ate with gusto the steaming soup, tender leaves of spinach simmered in a rich chicken broth.

      “The secret of good pasta,” Jerry said when that was being served, “is the right degree of doneness. I had a friend who tested it by throwing strands against the wall. It was his theory that when the pasta was at just the right state, it would stick to the wall.”

      “And did it?” I asked, amused. Jerry fancied himself something of a food expert. At least he managed to make meals more interesting with his stories.

      “Never did when I was around. We threw a lot of spaghetti at the wall one night and ended up with very little to eat. He thought maybe something was wrong with the plaster.”

      We were having tagliatelle, the pale, noodle-like СКАЧАТЬ