Leslie Woolf Hedley
DRAINED
Approaching the Golden Gate bridge to San Francisco, the man driving asked, "I wonder which lane to take?"
It was early dusk and only a few lights were on. Gauze of daylight clung to the landscape.
Sitting beside him his wife gingerly caressed her impeccably lacquered hair. "Lane 3's almost empty. I think you--"
"No," he said immediately. "I'll take lane 4." Their Audi swiftly changed lanes, then slowed as they entered the toll area.
His wife sighed but her facial expression remained the same.
"Lane 3 did seem to be empty," he explained. His voice was as thin as his physical appearance. "But this car in front was creeping along. I didn't want to get stuck behind a slow mover on the bridge." He then glanced at his wife.
Saying nothing, she crossed her legs and smoothed out her unwrinkled white summer dress.
"At what restaurant would you like to have dinner, darling?"
She reflected. "I don't know," she replied, looking straight ahead.
"How about Pompom?"
"If you want to."
"It's really your choice, darling."
"Well, perhaps Swifts?"
"Say, I've got a great idea," he said. "How about La Paris?"
She recrossed her legs. "You've asked me and I've told you. But if you prefer a French restaurant--"
"Not at all," he smiled. "Whatever gave you that peculiar idea?"
"Because when I suggested Swifts you promptly came back with another French restaurant. It's obvious." She spoke quickly and again recrossed her legs.
"Don't be angry," her husband said. His words came out tightly. "You know, I can always detect when you're angry from the way you continue crossing and recrossing your legs."
She felt her voice go up a notch. "I'm not angry."
"Yes you certainly are, dear," he firmly insisted. "You're positively hostile! Don't pretend with me. After all, I'm the psychiatrist in the family." He smiled and with his right hand patted her knee.
Above them a seagull screamed.
She jerked away and pressed closer to the car door. "Let's go to La Mama's."
He reflected a moment. "Three blocks off the Marina there's a new Italian place. Maybe you'd like that?"
"Is that where you want to eat?'
"I didn't say that."
"You just suggested it."
"No, I didn't. I merely asked."
"You've heard my suggestion: La Mama's. But you ignored it. Then you suggested some other place. No matter what I suggest, you offer a counter suggestion. Isn't that true?" She stared at his angular profile and heard a clamping of his jaws.
"You may be a lawyer, darling," he archly replied, "but I don't like being cross-examined." Busily, he put on dark glasses.
Both remained silent. A red light blinked on and he stopped the car.
His wife opened her purse, looked inside, then snapped it shut. "Le Paris is your favorite, dear, and it's only a few minutes away. Let's go there."
"No," his voice cracked. "I've never claimed it was my favorite." He began to hum tunelessly. The traffic light changed and he resumed driving. "How about Berlin?"
"I don't care for German food," she replied, clearing her throat.
He hummed. "I forgot. You once had a German step-father whom you detested."
She massaged the back of her neck. "Food has nothing what-so-ever to do with my step-father."
"Sure it does, but you refuse to admit it. You hated him, yet you loved your mother, your aunts, your sisters. You always revealed a preference for the female side of your family. Isn't that right, darling?"
A rushing tide of blood prickled her scalp. Without thinking she uncrossed her legs, opened her purse and took out some kleenex which she crumpled in her right hand. She crawled into silence.
They slowly drove along the Marina, boats to their left, passing homes dressed in luxurious mourning for a private funeral. He resumed his flat humming and drove one block away from La Mama's.
She pointed ahead of them. "Fisherman's Wharf is in that direction. We could go there."
"If you want to," he gently agreed. "I was never enthused by fish."
"That's so true," she smiled at him. "You never could catch any fish. You always was a lousy fisherman." She laughed. "You can't even play table tennis!"
Bile twisted within his body. "I never had time for trivia," he muttered.
His wife once again crossed her legs.
At a red signal he stopped and another car pulled up behind them. He looked at the rear view mirror. "That's the same car that was creeping along lane 3," he announced, squeezing words through his teeth. "Now you know why I refused to take your suggestion. See, I was right."
She barely glanced. "If you make a right turn here we can get to Old Joe's or Berlin's."
He continued driving and humming. "You know, darling, we could easily go to Chinatown."
"I don't want to."
"Why not?"
"I'm not in the mood for Chinese food this evening."
"I thought you liked Chinese cooking. At least you always pretended to like it."
"I do like Chinese food, dear, but not tonight."
"My, you're moody."
"Why? Because I don't want to eat Chinese food tonight? That's silly."
"Silly? Hmm. That's hardly a professional term," he pursed narrow lips. "But if you insist, we won't have Chinese, dear." He hummed, stopped. "Try to re-examine your feelings toward the Chinese, dear. You often make snide remarks concerning them. It could be a form of prejudice."
She coughed, again fished within her purse, finding nothing she wanted. She turned the window down a fraction of an inch.
"That blows directly into my face," he said.
"It's a warm evening," she explained. "It won't hurt you."
He attempted a light whistle, but them hummed. He made a right turn. "I've an excellent idea--"
"Of course you do."
"Do I detect a note of sarcasm?"
"Oh, never!"
Silence. "I just thought of a small new pizza place nearby. You'll love it," he said.
"Not for me," she shook her head. "I tell you what: why don't we compromise on a hamburger? I've got a heavy morning in court tomorrow and--"
"I've got a deliver a lecture at the hospital tomorrow," he told her. "They're depending on me being early."
"You take this car and I'll use my car."
"I thought you said your car was being repaired?" He seemed puzzled. "You said it had a strange squeak and I--"
"It did have a squeak as I--"
"But I couldn't find anything wrong," he went on. "It's just your nerves."
"--took it to be checked this afternoon. I told the mechanic you couldn't find anything wrong. He found it right away. It was the rear seat sliding back and forth." She smiled. "It was simple to fix. He just bolted it."
"My morning lectures draw quite a crowd," he said. "Even the nurses attend."
"The longer you drive looking for a restaurant, the longer it'll take us to get back home," she said.
"Have you finally decided where you want to eat?"
"Yes. Several times, in fact."
He hummed mixed with a groan. "There's a famous pancake place," he indicated with his chin.
"Fine," she straightened her legs. "Let's go there."
"My dear," he corrected her. "I didn't say I wanted to go there. All I said was that there's a famous pancake house. For a lawyer you've a bad habit of jumping to conclusions."
She felt noxious moisture in her armpits. "Your mother made abominable pancakes. Or so you told me."
"My mother is a problem I'm trying to resolve. Pancakes are hardly the issue." His fingers played furiously on the shift.
"Darling," she said dragging out her words, "you fondle that shift as though playing with your penis." She giggled.
The car skidded to an abrupt halt. A whistle piped from the pale tissue of his lips. He arranged a short smile. "As a psychiatrist you'd make a rotted lawyer, my dear." He started the car, drove two blocks then quickly pulled to the curb. "There's an excellent pizza palace. We'll eat there. I know you'll like it," he told her as he opened the door.
She followed him, walking slowly, calmly. He entered letting the door slam back at her. Her purse managed to stop the swinging door. Then she followed him to a table.
He looked at her as she sat down. "Do you want a drink?"
"No," she answered. "I want the rest room."
Inside the ladies room she sat down, examining her watch. Then she leisurely washed her hands. With a small cotton pad she removed makeup from her chin, nose, and cheeks. With fanatical correctness she slowly applied fresh makeup. Finished, she studied her face. She didn't smile or frown and was surprised how expressionless she seemed. From her purse she took two anti-acid tablets and chewed them. Her eyes counted seconds ticking away with punishing beats. She readjusted her spotless dress, peering at hersef sideways in the mirror. She visualized herself as prim, poised, almost courtly. Again she stared at her watch, noting it had been twelve minutes since leaving the table. She delayed a few more minutes by scrutinizing every fingernail before returning to her waiting husband.
He glanced up at her while he hummed monotonously. Two drinks sat on their table. "Here," he slid one toward her. "I knew you wanted Scotch and soda."
She studied him for an instant. "Have you read the menu?"
Suspiciously, he watched her over his drink. "Yes. I've ordered two small pizzas, everything on them. Also a half-bottle of Pinot Noir."
Raising her right arm high above her neat head she motioned the waiter. "Would you please change one of those orders to a baked cheese cannelloni. And I'll have a half-bottle of cold Chenin Blanc. By the way, return this Scotch. I don't drink Scotch." Saying this she felt utterly drained.
Her husband had increased the tempo of his listless humming and was now staring intently at the wall decorations. "Italians have bad taste," he said, fingers tapping against a fork. From a corner of one eye he noticed that his wife was icily smiling into space." "This doesn't have the ambiance of the pizza place near home," he observed with a sour face. "I think you'll be disappointed. We should have gone to Chinatown. Oh well."
She continued to smile at a sinistral area several inches beyond his head.
He decided that he was extremely tired. He felt tight and empty, wondering why his wife was silently smiling.