They haven’t seen each other since high school, but when their paths cross, they easily recognize in their adult faces the teenagers they remember. They’re running off in opposite directions—no time to talk!—but agree to meet for lunch the next day. Neither calls it a date, but as luck would have it, they’re both single.
They meet on the north side of Chicago, in Edgewater, at the Ann Sather’s on Broadway and Granville. Two tables are being cleared when they enter; they don’t have to wait long.
Coffees poured and orders given, they settle in to the business of catching up. Fifteen years since they’ve laid eyes on one another. What have they been up to?
He’s now a project manager for a pharmaceutical company. She’s an obstetrician, the doctor she’s always wanted to be. She’s back in town only for a few days to confer with a colleague at Northwestern with whom she is working on a book about women’s health.
“Such a go-getter,” he says. “Just as I remember. Nothing’s changed.”
She raises her voice to be heard above the scraping of chairs and clinking of flatware and says, “Nothing ever does.”
He fiddles with the sugar packets and opens two into his coffee. “You’re beautiful as ever, so that hasn’t changed.”
Her laughter, a sharp sweet stab, slices through him like the wind off Lake Michigan that comes in through his car windows when he is on Lake Shore Drive, whipping tears from his eyes, stinging him awake. Fifteen years ago, her features had foretold beauty. Jealous of the years he’d been deprived of the pleasure of her face, he now looks his fill.
The server brings their orders, a garden omelet for her and an open-faced hot turkey sandwich for him with mashed potatoes and gravy.
She regales him with stories of trips to Sub-Saharan Africa, Cameroon, and Somaliland to help prevent infant mortality. She rhapsodizes about combining work with volunteerism, of training midwives and birthing attendants. She describes assembling birthing kits—small biodegradable Baggies filled with disposable razors, twine, alcohol swabs, gloves, gauze—to ensure sanitary deliveries in the bush. He drinks his coffee and slices his turkey, running it through the gravy and mashed potatoes before forking it into his mouth, hoping she won’t ask for a donation.
She says, “Enough about me. What about you?”
“Can’t complain.” He winces at his paltry answer. He wishes he had more to say, wishes he were the owner of the pharmaceutical company rather than one of its many managers, or that he too had become the doctor he’d said he would. A dribble of gravy smears his tie and he dips his napkin into his water glass and dabs at the stain to catch it before it sets, puzzled by her cool reception. She’s in town through the weekend, but she hasn’t asked for his phone number or invited him over to her hotel. He’s used to women who make it easy. And why
shouldn’t they? He could be in jail; he could be a deadbeat dad; he could be dead. Instead, he has a degree, a job, a condo, and a car. Maybe he’s no Barack Obama, but he’s a good catch. He says, “Life has been good to me,” and settles back in his chair. He fans his tie to make the wet spot dry faster.
“So I see,” she says.
The good life is evident in his slight paunch and full face, his portrait of mediocrity. Self satisfaction wafts off him like the scent of someone just come from the gym. She remembers his old spiel that black men defied the odds simply by being alive. That had been his justification for not taking AP courses in biology and chemistry back in high school. Too easily was he contented; she knows others who have done far more with far, far less.
She finishes her omelet while he tells her about trips to Vegas, Brazil, and the Dominican Republic. He’s going to Jamaica next year. He hears it’s nice over there, a virtual paradise.
She says, “I was there last summer training doctors and NICU specialists.”
“All work and no play, or did you have any fun?”
“Some.” She bites into her cinnamon roll, licks the icing from her fingers
and asks what he does in his spare time.
He has tickets to all of the games. Blackhawks, Bulls, Cubs. “The Cubbies are going to win it this year,” he predicts.
“Do you tell yourself that every year?” she asks.
“This time it’s true.”
She is still a Sox fan, but she’ll take a Chicago win any way she can get it. A World Series win and the election of the country’s first woman president would make it a banner year indeed.
The server brings their check on a small lacquered tray and places it in front of him. When he doesn’t reach for it, she lays down enough cash to cover her half of the bill plus tip. He scoops up the cash and leaves his credit card.
“This was great, really great, but I’ve got to head up to Evanston,” she says, rising to leave. She’s going to catch the Red Line down the block and take it to Howard, where she’ll switch over to the Purple Line to get to the university. She still knows the way.
His car is parked outside at a meter, but he doesn’t offer her a ride. “It was good to see you,” he says.
“So good,” she agrees.
Neither mentions keeping in touch.
She leaves him at the table, waiting for the server to return his card. She’s glad to have seen him. She’s always wondered what could have been between them, what had become of him, what he had ultimately become.
She is glad to finally know.
Amina Gautier is the author of three short story collections: At-Risk, Now We Will Be Happy and The Loss of All Lost Things. At-Risk was awarded the Flannery O’Connor Award; Now We Will Be Happy was awarded the Prairie Schooner Book Prize in Fiction, and The Loss of All Lost Things was awarded the Elixir Press Award in Fiction. More than one hundred and fifteen of her stories have been published, appearing in Agni, Blackbird, Boston Review, Callaloo, Glimmer Train, Hong Kong Review, Kenyon Review, Latino Book Review, Mississippi Review, Passages North, Prairie Schooner, Quarterly West, and Southern Review among other places. For her body of work she has received the Chicago Public Library Foundation’s 21st Century Award and the PEN/MALAMUD Award for Excellence in the Short Story.