Real Life, by Carter Jefferson

Real Life

by Carter Jefferson

He leaned casually against the gray stone wall next to a shop in the rue Petit Champlain, lower town, Québec. It was early evening, the sky a darkening blue. From the great river a breeze blew, chilly, damp, as tourists wandered down one side of the ancient, narrow street, up the other, looking lazily at sparkling glass chargers, glittering dresses, cliches in oil on canvas. Inuit sculpture. Postcards. Lewd T-shirts. He waited patiently, tired of shops, for his wife, his friends.

She was perhaps ten feet away, moving toward him, when he first saw her. Her hair, short, blond, with darker strands, stirred in the wind. She wore a vacation dress, strap from under showing at her shoulder, her skin touched by the sun. Her eyes, golden brown, startling, bright, met his. The stroller she pushed moved along slowly. She looked to her left, then glanced at him again. He broke the momentary bond, saw the store across the street, looked back at her. No more than a foot separated them; her eyes joined his. Then she had passed. Wednesday night.

Sitting at a white-covered, convivial table by a window in the crowded Café du Monde, waiting for crême brulée, he laughed with a man and two women, his friends, his wife. Outside he saw passersby, some in colonial costumes, participants in the Fêtes de la Nouvelle France. Past them lay the street, then a cluttered asphalt pasture where cars stood, waiting poised in straight lines. At the docks passengers boarded small ships: an excursion boat, a schooner, the metronome ferry. The grand river passed, slow, powerful, intransigeant. Distant hills covered with buildings tried to hide behind a light fog.

On the sidewalk she pushed the stroller. Walking beside her, a man, one shoulder bearing a small backpack, spoke to her; she answered. Then she glanced at the window. Golden brown eyes, alive, once more locked on his. She started. A tiny smile. Then she had passed. Thursday noon.

"Back Boys," a small, dark, narrow Internet cafe. Friday morning. He read a message and paused, contemplating an answer, concentrating. Past the window people strode along the rue St. Jean, purposeful, not tourists. He saw them, but remained oblivious. He typed. Someone moved a chair nearby, sat down before a computer.

Minutes later he sent his mail, cased his reading glasses, pocketed them. He folded his notepaper and rose to leave. Turning, he saw her, frowning at a message blank. His chair scraped and she looked up. Golden brown eyes met his. Both were still.

"I'd like to buy you a cup of coffee."

"All right. Thank you." She returned good English for his poor French. Back at her computer she moved the mouse, clicked. She stood and they walked to the counter, where he paid for his time. The clerk said a few words in a patois the man could not understand; she answered, smiling, and gestured. Then he followed her through the door.

"Just across the side street," she said.

Four small, empty tables stood outside the little bar. They entered, and she nodded when he said, "Coffee? Black?" He ordered and waited for the barman to pour. Turning, carrying their tray, he followed her outside and they seated themselves. An umbrella fended off the sun.

"This doesn't happen," he said.

"Yes, yes, it does." She looked into his eyes, smiling gently. "Not often, but it happens."

"Then what happens next?"

She simply smiled again.

"You are from the States. I live in Montreal. We both are taking time off, stealing a few days of freedom." Then she looked down at her cup.

"How old is your child?"

"She will be a year old tomorrow. She is my treasure." The golden brown eyes sparkled, and he shivered in their warmth.

"My daughter is grown," he said. "Not as old as you, but grown up. She was my treasure, but now she belongs to herself. I think now that she's my friend, instead."

"And your wife?"

"She's my friend, too." He laughed quietly. "Your husband?"

"He's like you--he works very hard. But he is my friend."

"Being a mother is work, too."

"Oh, yes, but that's different. I am a person of business as well. That is work, but I love my work. I make some of the glass plates they sell to rich tourists, while my mother takes care of the baby. And you?"

"I teach in a university, but what I love is my writing."

"So you, too, have a life, as they say." She took three packets of sugar from a brass bowl, tore them open, shook the contents into her coffee, and stirred. He watched her hands, saw nails cut short, a scratch on one finger. She took a sip from her cup, her golden brown eyes on his. Then she put down the cup, reached out and took his hand. He felt a jolt of fear and pleasure.

"What happens now, of course, is that we finish our coffee. I go back to the computer for twenty minutes to assure my business partner that she will see me day after tomorrow, then I go to meet my husband and child. You take a taxi--to Sainte-Foy, where the big hotels are? Or to the lower town? There you find your wife and your friends." She loosed his hand, and settled back into her chair. "Pouf!" Then golden brown eyes glistened as she smiled once more.

"But we remember, no? A long time."

That sunny afternoon he stood on the boardwalk by the hotel with the fairy towers, gazing at the great river, and remembered.

-----The End-----

(This story was first published in LoveWords, December, 2000, and

re-published in The Painted Door, November 2007.)