Chinese Restaurant

Rose slept, slept, and slept. Not Sleeping Beauty or Rip Van Winkle. She had never liked those stories. But she was tired and the days were dark. She walked to the bus stop. Thank God it was Friday. A man with no gloves talked to her about gloves. He was just like Dorrie. Should she have given him the gloves? On the bus she was sure she should have. As soon as she got off the bus and walked into her warm house--she had tenants, so she now kept the house reasonably warm--she slipped on pajamas, fell into bed, and curled up under the covers. She slept in a cloud of dreams. She had terrible dreams.

She was shrieking when Ben was about to remarry. Shrieking when a dragon showed up. Shrieking when a large dog, a little like Binkie, attacked her.

Five-thirty to eight. Not a hundred years. She got up, brushed her teeth, put on a sweater, and let Binkie out. She checked her messages. Ben. Ben. Ben. Juliette. And again Ben.

There was nothing for dinner. She stood in front of the refrigerator and ate an apple and looked for something to cook. There was nothing she wanted. Sandwiches? No. Frozen pizza? No. What then? She loved to cook, but not now. She didn’t want to make macaroni and cheese or stew. She cried, looking into the refrigerator and finding nothing. She could feel how hungry she was.

Finally she went out to a Chinese restaurant.

it was hot in the Chinese restaurant. She sat in a red vinyl booth and looked at the carved dragons. Dragons. She had dreamed of dragons. She studied the menu. Kung Bao Shrimp. Cashew Chicken. The little pancake things.

She ordered Cashew Chicken and then took out a book She was the only single person at the restaurant. Quiet couples sat at the other tables and didn’t look at her. She was invisible.

She imagined herself sitting in a Chinese restaurant, blond, 25 years old, attracting attention. That had happened. She had gone to restaurants with her books, sat reading while she ate. Men had sent her wine or asked if they could join her for dessert. It had made her laugh. She had never gotten attached to any of these men. She had been too particular. It had always been love, love, love for her. Her first husband, the artist, and Ben. How would she ever get over Ben? Perhaps people should be born young or old and stay that way. Certainly it was odd that one aged, that one could look back on one’s younger self and be amazed at what had only been ordinary beauty. Now she was.

She saw somebody she knew, tried to duck.

Rose! is that you?

She looked up and smiled. Is that Ginny?

Are you alone? Ginny looked as though she might cry. The word had spread. She obviously knew about Rose’s split with Ben.

Well, yes. But I’ve got my book. She waved The Oxford Book of Short Stories at Ginny and her husband.

Please join us.

Oh, I can’t. My food will be here any minute.

Rose, it’s Friday night. I’m not letting you eat alone.

And so she ate with Ginny and her husband, Buddy.

Ginny was an old, old friend. They had met in a Latin class. Ginny was the only African-American taking Latin, one of the few black students at Rose’s university. Rose told Ginny about a room for rent when she learned she was unhappy in her dorm. They both spent a couple of years living in rooms in the same two-story house, sharing a communal kitchen, saying hi on the stairs. Ginny wasn’t home a lot, but sometimes they hung out. In good weather they climbed out on the roof and did their homework and talked.

Ginny had taught in the inner city for years. She had won awards. She loved teaching. But the administration wants to buy me out, to give me early retirement. Then I can go teach in an independent school and draw my pension and a small salary, too, and they can hire someone cheaper. But I love my classes. I love my inner-city school. Not everybody can take it and I hate the paperwork, but I do know how to communicate to those students.

Ginny bought books for her students. Her classroom had multiple copies of Dickens, Frederick Douglass, Harriet Beecher Stowe, various slave narratives, Hardy, Wharton, Upton Sinclair, Ralph Ellison, and other classics. She had spent a fortune educating her students. The school spent no money on books. She ignored test scores and concentrated on getting them into college. One had gone to Harvard. Several had made it into the SUNY universities.

You can’t let them buy you out. You love it there, Rose said quietly.

Buddy said, She does love it there. I tell her the same thing.

Maybe it’s time to let someone else take it over, Ginny said. I’m getting old. My principal is only thirty.

The three of them burst out laughing. They certainly did not feel old.

Rose went home and read The Oxford Book of Short Stories. Every night she read a couple of stories before crying herself to sleep.

Finally she called Ben. Ben, it’s me. I’m returning your calls. I decided it must be important or you wouldn’t have called so many times. If you’re there, pick up.

He didn’t pick up. Rose sighed. She couldn’t imagine where he’d be. She went to bed and cried silently.