New Stories from the Midwest

Being and Nothingness (Not a Real Title)

16 Being and Nothingness (Not a realtitle) ■ Gregory Blake Smith In the next room Incunabula de la Luz (not her real name) is auditioning people to be her mother. Her real mother—at least she claims to be her real mother—wanted to come to the auditions, but Luz—Lucita—said no. So this is how come I’m on the phone doing the play-by-play. “Overcoats,” I’m saying. “Most of them have got these drab, 1940s-ish overcoats on.” “Wool or synthetic?” Lucita’s mother asks. “Wool,” I say, “definitely wool.” “Jewish?” I consider. “Maybe Jewish. Probably some Jewish.” Is that a clue? Am I living with a Jessica, a Rachel? Is it a Miriam I’m in love with? “And the Serpent’s Tooth,” Lucita’s mother says, “what’s she saying? What’s she asking them?” She calls her daughter the Serpent’s Tooth. This is a new piece of information. “I believe she’s asking them about her first period.” “Oh, God! Oh, mother of Jesus!” So maybe not Jessica. Maybe Maria, Teresa, Consuelo. “And do they know? Are they saying what happened?” Of course they aren’t. They can’t know, can they? They’re improvising, aren’t they? “Yes,” I answer. “I believe they are.” “They can’t be! They’re actors!” “It’s a mystery,” I agree. There’s about seven of them. Mothers, I mean. They’ve taken over the living room—my living room; I pay the rent—and I’m out in the hall standing in my stocking feet with the cordless. Through the half-open door I can just hear Lucita’s shy, quiet, downcast, sexy, drive-me-crazy voice. Tomorrow it’s her boyfriend she’s holding auditions for. Ha-ha. Like, get it? Being and Nothingness (Not a Real Title) ■ 17 “Oy!” Lucita’s mother says in my ear. “Mamma mia!” she says. But I’ve got my plans. I’ve got my ways and devices. And one of my ways is this: when we make love and Lucita’s on the point of coming I call her Diane—oh, Diane! I say. Or Dolores—oh, Dolores! I say. Next up is Elizabeth, Erica, Erin. Then Fanny, Franny, Geraldine, Gertrude, Grace: alphabetical, in case you didn’t notice. I keep a book on my nightstand, one of those choose-your-baby’s-name books. I figure I’ll hit with one of them. One of them will interrupt her train of thought, break her concentration . But it hasn’t happened so far. At least I haven’t seen any sign. But she’s sly, Lucita is. Capable of duplicity, misdirection. And even though I’m an edgy kind of guy myself—I mean I’ve got my own edge, even if I was a mechanical engineering major— still, with Lucita I’m aware I may be out of my league. In the meantime there’s a lot of names between now and Zelda. It could be worse. ■ The first time I saw her I was cutting across Copley Square on my way to lunch with my friend Siegfried. She was sitting in the middle of the square at this table with a white tablecloth across it, dressed like a nurse. There was an easel beside her, one of those boardroom presentation sort of easels, and a poster on it that said free casts. But Siegfried was on about his many suspicions and I’m his good friend and a good friend’s job is to listen, right? So I didn’t give the nurse a second look. But an hour later on my way back to work I’m alone, so now I give her a second look. This nurse’s outfit she’s got on, it’s some sort of World War I English job—you know, the starched white dress, the darling little cape about the shoulders, every button done up, hat pinned to hair. Cute. Sexy, if you go in for that sort of thing, and who doesn’t? She’s just sitting there. She’s got surgical scissors and plaster of Paris and a tub of water. Free casts. But there’re no takers. No one’s even giving her a hard time, though the square is littered with the usual derelicts. Taped to the front of her table there’s this Red Cross sign, but you can see it’s just construction paper. “So, like, what’s this?” I say...