Page 71 of Life Out of Order

“I would tell you to focus on the process, to stop manufacturing a product that was no longer meaningful. I would ask you what you really wanted to make, and why you were afraid to make it?”

“Well?” Beck asks, when I don’t continue.

“I don’t know.” Beck looks slightly disappointed. “I am—waiting.” I try again. “Since my husband died—I know this is silly—it’s like the advice we give children when they’re lost: stay where you are, don’t wander in circles and get more lost—I feel as though I should keep everything as it was when Henry died, just in case—”

“He comes back?” Charisse sounds alarmed.

Beck says, “But he isn’t—” and Charisse and I both say, “Well, not—” and then stop, each unsure, how to explain?

“Are you afraid?” Charisse asks gently.

“No,” I say. “Not afraid, just reluctant. I can feel myself moving away from my old ideas and my old life but I don’t want it to be over yet, and so I keep on making the same thing but there’s no life in it now. I can see that.”

“So. Time to let go?” Beck asks.

“Maybe,” I say. “It might be time.” I smile at her and she returns the smile.

Beck has to teach a class, so we gather our things and leave the cafeteria. She heads off toward the school entrance, and Charisse and I leave the museum and walk down Monroe Street toward the El.

Charisse says, “I should be used to it by now, but it always amazes me how everyone falls in love with you at first sight.”

“What?”

“I’ve never seen Beck so animated—she was like a different person. She’s usually very reserved; she kind of hangs back and watches people.”

“I’ve seen her around, in the museum.” I feel funny mentioning this, as though I’m admitting a tryst.

“I don’t think she’s met too many people since she’s been here. She’s going through a messy divorce. She is living in a studio apartment in the South Loop and most of her stuff is still in Detroit. Her place is very minimal, like a hotel room, almost.”

“Oh.” I have a pang of apprehension; what if Beck doesn’t like it here, what if she leaves?

“She says she has a huge book collection, but I only saw a few books at her apartment, mostly they’re about Chicago history and architecture, and coding. She’s been taking a lot of walking tours of the city. But I think she spends most of her time on her project.”

“Is she dating anyone?” I blurt it out and then regret it.

Charisse shoots me an appraising look. “No, not since she’s been here, I think. You interested?”

I blush. Charisse waits, but I can’t say bring myself to say yes out loud. She stops in a doorway and takes out her phone. “Here,” she says, thumb-typing much faster than I ever could. “I’m sending you Beck’s number. You should text her. She’ll never text first, so if you want to hang out with her you’ll have to ask. Okay?”

“Yeah. Um, thanks, Charisse.”

“I know you’re used to things snapping into place without you having to lift a finger. But Henry is gone, you have to proceed with intention now. Make stuff happen, Clare. She’s lonely. You’re lonely. Two solitudes that greet each other, and have coffee, and all that.”

I smile at the almost-Rilke quote. “Okay. I’ll text her.”

“Good,” Charisse says briskly. We enter the flow of sidewalk traffic again, climb the steps to the El platform. We talk about other things on the way home, but my mind is on Beck, wondering if I’ll have the nerve to text her. Charisse gets off at Belmont, saying, “She’s a really nice person, Clare. Don’t wait too long.”

The next morning I type, Hey, it’s Clare. How are you? I press Send and sit staring glumly at my phone, feeling stupid and clumsy. Three minutes later a reply appears: Not too bad. I have an almond croissant and an espresso and it’s a pretty day. Relief floods me. I type, I’m eating oatmeal, I’m envious . . .

The world seems suddenly kinder and full of possibility.

Russian Tea

Friday, April 2, 2010 (Clare is 38, Beck is 34, Alba is 36)

Clare: I am nervous about meeting Rebecka again, and I spend so much time dithering about what to wear that I end up being late. I couldn’t decide whether to dress up, as though this were a date, or to wear my usual all-black uniform, a turtleneck and jeans, as if I were meeting Charisse or Celia. I finally opted for safety with a black dress and minimal jewelry. Fortunately Beck is even later than I am, so I stand under the awning by the Russian restaurant’s revolving door, watching rush-hour crowds making their way through the needle-sharp rain toward the Adams El stop. I check my phone: No one has communicated. Ten minutes go by and I wonder if she won’t come . . . if it was Henry I was waiting for I would be panicking by now, sure that he was stranded in some other time . . . but here is Beck, apologizing about a meeting that ran late. We are shown to a four-top at the front of the restaurant, by the big windows. We peel off our wet layers of scarves, gloves, coats and pile them on one of the extra chairs. I am pleased to see that she is also wearing a black dress. She has her hair pulled back and is wearing giant silver hoop earrings and shiny magenta lipstick. We sit down, and for a long moment neither of us seems to know what to say.

“Well. Hello,” Beck says. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I hate being late.”