Period Piece

Abstract

Period Piece Robley Wilson (bio) When I came into the lounge, she was sitting at the far end of the bar, looking straight ahead, not seeming to notice me. It was day nine of the crossing. The evening before, the ship had left Ponta Delgada, and now we were on our way to Ireland. We would dock in Cobh early in the morning of day eleven. Two days after that, the ship would arrive in Southampton, but I was leaving it at Cobh. I sat nearby, one barstool between us, and ordered a Scotch. She waited until I'd signed the tab. The clock over the bar read 1433. "I wondered if you'd recognize me," she said. "It's been a while." "I didn't at first," I said. "I had a funny feeling I must have seen you somewhere before—some show in New York or L.A.—but it wasn't until your solo number in the second act that I realized." "And?" She was fishing—I supposed for a compliment, or possibly a criticism. In our day we'd both gone in heavily for criticism. "I was surprised you were still dancing," I said. "And then, when you took your bows, I was pleased you were still dancing." She smiled, not at me, but at the mirror behind the bar and its reflected array of bottles. "I once danced for you. A private performance." "I remember." My dormitory room, senior year, the last week of spring-semester exams. My roommate had already gone home to Indiana. A lot of people were on the lawn under my windows, drinking and laughing. Someone had a guitar, so there was accompaniment. [End Page 508] In those days you had to sneak the girlfriends in—in through the back entrance and up the service stairs—and it was just as risky getting them out. It went on your record if you got caught, and they put you on probation, which meant no class cuts and compulsory chapel for six weeks. She'd danced barefoot in a pale blue slip, lace swirling at her knees, and improvised steps around whatever rhythms the guitar floated through my windows. She stayed the night; it was the last time we slept together. "It hadn't occurred to me that when college was finished, we'd be finished too," she said. "Had it occurred to you?" "I guess I'd never thought about it." "Just took life as it came," she said. She made a wry face. "I'd somehow thought I could steer it." She was quiet then, looking down into a glass I noticed was empty. "What are you drinking?" I said. I was reaching for my keycard, but she raised a hand to stop me. "It's only Perrier," she said. "It isn't wise to drink on the job. Anyway, I don't enjoy it." I was studying her—I imagine a little too obviously. You know how when you haven't seen a person in a long time—years, decades—you have to fit your last view of them into time's latest disguise. "What is it?" she said. "Trying to read my mind?" "Where was it—the last place I saw you? Was that Toronto?" "You chose the right city," she said. "I'd have been crushed if you hadn't." "The rehearsal hall at the O'Keefe." It came back to me with unexpected force: a mirror wall, voices and the scuffle of feet, a repetitive piano tune—all of those sounds echoing in the huge room. "Right again," she said. "The theater was trying to impress an Ontario lumber baron out of some endowment money. We were cobbling together an arty and artful pitch." [End Page 509] "You were terrific the next night." "What was it?" She was frowning at her memory. "Was it 'Sweet Charity'? Yes, it was. How appropriate." "I lost track of you after that," I said. "You seemed to disappear." "Ah, yes." She hugged herself, rocked toward me and rocked away. "Totally a bolt from the blue. One minute I was sane, the next I was a basket case and people in white...