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(单词翻译:双击或拖选)
Ira had been divorced six months and still couldn’t get his wedding ring off. His finger had swelled1 doughily around it—a combination of frustrated2 desire, unmitigated remorse3, and misdirected ambition, he said to friends. “I’m going to have to have my entire finger surgically4 removed.” The ring (supposedly gold, though now that everything he had ever received from Marilyn had been thrown into doubt, who knew) cinched the blousy fat of his finger, which had grown around it like a fucking happy vine. “Maybe I should cut off the whole hand. And send it to her,” he said on the phone to his friend Mike, with whom he worked at the State Historical Society. “She’ll understand the reference.” Ira had already ceremoniously set fire to his wedding tux—hanging it on a tall stick in his backyard, scarecrow-style, and igniting it with a Bic lighter5. “That sucker went up really fast,” he gasped6 apologetically to the fire marshal, after the hedge caught too, and before he was brought overnight to the local lockdown facility. “So fast. Maybe it was, I don’t know, like the residual7 dry-cleaning fluid.”
“You’ll remove that ring when you’re ready,” Mike said now. Mike’s job approving historical preservation8 projects on old houses left him time to take a lot of lenient9 parenting courses and to read all the lenient parenting books. “Here’s what you do for your depression. I’m not going to say lose yourself in charity work. I’m not going to say get some perspective by watching our country’s news each evening and by contemplating10 those worse off than yourself, those, say, who are about to be blown apart by bombs. I’m going to say this: Stop drinking, stop smoking. Eliminate coffee, sugar, dairy products. Do this for three days, then start everything back up again. Bam. I guarantee you, you will be so happy.”
“I’m afraid,” Ira said softly, “that the only thing that would make me happy right now is snipping11 the brake cables on Marilyn’s car.”
“Spring,” Mike said helplessly, though it was still only the end of winter. “It can really hang you up the most.”
“Hey. You should write songs. Just not too often.” Ira looked at his hands. Actually he had once gotten the ring off in a hot, soapy bath, but the sight of his denuded12 finger, naked as a child’s, had terrified him and he had shoved the ring back on.
On the other end of the phone Ira could hear Mike sighing and casting about. Cupboard doors closed loudly. The refrigerator puckered13 open, then whooshed14 shut. Ira knew that Mike and Kate had had their troubles—as the phrase went—but always their marriage had held. “I’d divorce Kate,” Mike had once confided15 to Ira, “but she’d kill me.” “Look,” Mike said now, “why don’t you come to our house Sunday for a little Lent dinner. We’re having some people by and who knows?”
“Who knows?” asked Ira.
“Yes—who knows?”
“What’s a Lent dinner?”
“We made it up. For Lent. We didn’t really want to do Mardi Gras. Too disrespectful, given the international situation.”
“So you’re doing Lent. I’m unclear on Lent. I mean, I know what Lent means to those of us in the Jewish faith. But we don’t usually commemorate16 these transactions with meals. Usually there’s just a lot of sighing.”
“It’s like a pre-Easter Prince of Peace dinner,” said Mike slowly.
There were no natural predators17 in this small, oblivious18, and tolerant community, and so strange creatures and creations abounded19. “Prince of Peace? Not—of Minneapolis?”
“You’re supposed to give things up for Lent. Last year we gave up our faith and reason; this year we are giving up our democratic voice, our hope.” Ira had already met most of Mike’s goyishe friends. Mike himself was low-key, tolerant, self-deprecating to a flaw. A self-described “ethnic Catholic,” he once complained dejectedly about not having been cute enough to have been molested20 by a priest. “They would just shake my hand very quickly,” he said. Mike’s friends, however, tended to be tense, intellectually earnest Protestants who drove new, metallic-hued cars and who within five minutes of light conversation could be counted on at least twice to use the phrase “strictly within the framework of.” “Kate has a divorcée friend she’s inviting,” Mike said. “I’m not trying to fix you up. I really hate that stuff. I’m just saying come. Eat some food. It’s the start of Eastertime and, well, hey: we could use a Jew over here.” Mike laughed heartily21.
“Yeah, I’ll reenact the whole thing for you,” said Ira. He looked at his swollen22 ring finger again. “Yessirree. I’ll come over and show you all how it’s done.”
Ira’s new house, though it was in what his realtor referred to as “a lovely, pedestrian neighborhood,” abutting23 the streets named after presidents, boasting, instead, streets named after fishing flies (Caddis, Hendrickson, Gold-Ribbed Hare’s Ear Road), was full of slow drains, leaky burners, stopped-up pipes, and excellent dust for scrawling24 curse words. Marilyn blows sailors. The draftiest windows he duct-taped up with sheets of plastic on the inside, as instructed by Homeland Security; cold air billowed the plastic inward like sails on a boat. On a windy day it was quite something. “Your whole house could fly away,” said Mike, looking around.
“Not really,” said Ira. “But it is spinning. It’s very interesting, actually.”
The yard had already grown muddy with March and the flower beds were greening with the tiniest sprigs of stinkweed and quack25 grass. By June the chemical weapons of terrorism aimed at the heartland might prove effective in weeding the garden. “This may be the sort of war I could really use!” Ira said out loud to a neighbor. Mike and Kate’s house, on the other hand, with its perfect lines and friendly fussiness26, reeking27, he supposed, of historical preservation tax credits, seemed an impossible dream to him, something plucked from a magazine article about childhood memories conjured28 on a deathbed. Something seen through the window by the Little Match Girl. Outside, the soffits were perfectly29 squared. The crocuses were like bells and the Siberian violets like grape candies scattered30 in the grass. Inside, the smell of warm food almost made him weep, and with his coat still on he rushed past Kate to throw his arms around Mike, kissing him on both cheeks. “All the beautiful men must be kissed!” Ira exclaimed.
After he got his coat off, and had wandered into the dining room, he toasted with the champagne31 he himself had brought. There were eight guests there, most of whom he knew to some degree, but really that was enough. That was enough for everyone. Still, they raised their glasses with him. “To Lent!” Ira cried. “To the final days!” And in case that was too grim, he added, “And to the coming Resurrection! May it happen a little closer to home this time! Jesus Christ!” Soon he wandered back into the kitchen and, as he felt was required of him, shrieked32 at the pork. Then he began milling around again, apologizing for the Crucifixion: “We really didn’t intend it,” he murmured, “not really, not the killing33 part? We just kind of got carried away? You know how spring can get a little crazy, but believe me, we’re all really, really sorry.” Kate’s divorced friend was named Zora, and was a pediatrician. Although no one else did, she howled with laughter, and when her face wasn’t blasted apart with it or her jaw34 snapping mutely open and shut like a scissors (in what Ira recognized was postdivorce hysteria; “How long have you been divorced?” he later asked her. “Eleven years,” she replied), Ira could see she was very beautiful: short black hair; eyes a clear, reddish hazel, like orange pekoe tea; a strong aquiline35 nose, probably a snorer; thick lashes36 that spiked37 out wrought38 and black as the tines of a fireplace fork. Her body was a mix of thin and plump, her skin lined and unlined, in that rounding-the-corner-to-fifty way. Age and youth, he chanted silently, youth and age, sing their songs on the very same stage. Ira was working on a modest little volume of doggerel39, its tentative title Women from Venus; Men from Penis. Either that, or Soccer Dad: The Musical.
Like everyone he knew, he could discern the hollowness in people’s charm only when it was directed at someone other than himself. When it was directed at him, the person just seemed so totally nice. And so Zora’s laughter, in conjunction with her beauty, doomed40 him a little, made him grateful beyond reason.
Immediately, he sent her a postcard, one of newlyweds dragging empty Spam cans from the bumper41 of their car. He wrote: Dear Zora, Had such fun meeting you at Mike’s. And then he wrote his phone number. He kept it simple. In courtship he had a history of mistakes, beginning at sixteen with his first girlfriend, for whom he had bought at the local head shop the coolest thing he had then ever seen in his life: a beautifully carved wooden hand with its middle finger sticking up. He himself had coveted42 it tremulously for a year. How could she not love it? Her contempt for it, and then for him, had left him feeling baffled and betrayed. With Marilyn he had taken the other approach and played hard to get, which had turned their relationship into a never-ending Sadie Hawkins Day, with subsequent marriage to Sadie an inevitably43 doomed thing—a humiliating and interminable Dutch date.
But this, the Spam postcard and the note, he felt contained the correct mix of offhandedness44 and intent. This elusive45 mix—the geometric halfway46 point between stalker and Rip van Winkle—was important to get right in the world of middle-aged47 dating, he suspected, though what did he really know of this world? It had been so long, the whole thing seemed a kind of distant civilization, a planet of the apings!—graying, human flotsam with scorched48 internal landscapes mimicking49 the young, picking up where they had left off decades ago, if only they could recall where the hell that was. Ira had been a married man for fifteen years, a father for eight (poor little Bekka, now rudely transported between houses in a speedy, ritualistic manner resembling a hostage drop-off), only to find himself punished for an idle little nothing, nothing, nothing flirtation50 with a colleague, punished with his wife’s actual affair and false business trips (Montessori conventions that never existed), and finally a petition for divorce mailed from a motel. Observing others go through them, he used to admire midlife crises, the courage and shamelessness and existential daring of them, but after he’d watched his own wife, a respectable nursery school teacher, produce and star in a full-blown one of her own, he found the sufferers of such crises not only self-indulgent but greedy and demented, and he wished them all weird51 unnatural52 deaths with various contraptions easily found in garages.
He received a postcard from Zora in return. It was of Van Gogh’s room in Arles. Beneath the clockface of the local postmark her handwriting was big but careful, some curlicuing in the g’s and f’s. It read, Had such fun meeting you at Mike’s. Wasn’t that precisely53, word for word, what he had written to her? There was no too, no emphasized you, just the exact same words thrown back at him like in some lunatic postal54 Ping-Pong. Either she was stupid or crazy or he was already being too hard on her. Not being hard on people—“You bark at them,” Marilyn used to say—was something he was trying to work on. When he pictured Zora’s lovely face, it helped his tenuous55 affections. She had written her phone number and signed off with a swashbuckling Z—as in Zorro. That was cute, he supposed. He guessed. Who knew. He had to lie down.
He had Bekka for the weekend. She sat in the living room, tuned56 to Cartoon Network. She liked Road Runner and Justice League. Ira would sometimes watch her mesmerized57 face, the cartoons flashing on the creamy screen of her skin, her eyes still and wide, bright with reflected shapes caught there like holograms in marbles. He felt inadequate58 as her father, but in general attempted his best: affection, wisdom, reliability59, plus not ordering pizza every night, though tonight he had again caved in. Last week Bekka had said to him, “When you and Mommy were married we always had mashed60 potatoes for supper. Now you’re divorced and we always have spaghetti.”
“Which do you like better?” he had asked.
“Neither!” she had shouted, summing up her distaste for everything. “I hate them both.”
Tonight he had ordered the pizza half plain cheese, and half with banana peppers and jalapeños. The two of them sat together in front of Justice League, with TV trays, eating slices from their respective sides. Chesty, narrow-waisted heroes in bright colors battled their enemies with righteous confidence and, of course, laser guns. Bekka finally turned to him. “Mommy says that if her boyfriend Daniel moves in I can have a dog. A dog and a bunny.”
“And a bunny?” Ira said. When the family was still together, unbroken, the four-year-old Bekka, new to numbers and the passage of time, used to exclaim triumphantly61 to her friends, “Mommy and Daddy say I can have a dog! When I turn eighteen!” There’d been no talk of bunnies. But perhaps the imminence62 of Easter had brought this on. He knew Bekka loved animals. She had once, in a bathtime reverie, named her five favorite people, four of whom were dogs. The fifth was her own blue bike.
“A dog and a bunny,” Bekka repeated, and Ira had to repress images of the dog with the rabbit’s bloody63 head in its mouth.
“So, what do you think about that?” he asked cautiously, wanting to get her opinion on the whole Daniel thing.
Bekka shrugged64 and chewed. “Whatever,” she said, her new word for “You’re welcome,” “Hello,” “Good-bye,” and “I’m only eight.” “I really just don’t want all his stuff there. Already his car blocks our car in the driveway.”
“Bummer,” said Ira, his new word for “I must remain as neutral as possible” and “Your mother’s a whore.”
“I don’t want a stepfather,” Bekka said.
“Maybe he could just live on the steps,” Ira said, and Bekka smirked65, her mouth full of mozzarella.
“Besides,” she said. “I like Larry better. He’s stronger.”
“Who’s Larry?” Ira said, instead of “Bummer.”
“He’s this other dude,” Bekka said. She sometimes referred to her mother as a “dudette.” “She’s a dudette, all right,” Ira would say.
“Bummer,” said Ira now. “Big, big bummer.”
He phoned Zora four days later, so as not to seem discouragingly eager. He summoned up his most confident acting66. “Hi, Zora? This is Ira,” and then waited—narcissistically perhaps, but what else was there to say?—for her response.
“Ira?”
“Yes. Ira Milkins.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know who you are.”
Ira gripped the phone and looked down at himself, suddenly finding nothing there. He seemed to have vanished from the neck down. “We met last Sunday at Mike and Kate’s?” His voice quavered. If he ever actually succeeded in going out with her, he was going to have to take one of those date-rape drugs and just pass out on her couch.
“Ira? Ohhhhhhhhh—Ira. Yeah. The Jewish guy.”
“Yeah, the Jew. That was me.” Should he hang up now? He did not feel he could go on. But he must go on. There was a man of theater for you.
“That was a nice dinner,” she said.
“Yes, it was.”
“I usually skip Lent completely.”
“Me, too,” said Ira. “It’s just simpler. Who needs the fuss?”
“But sometimes I forget how reassuring67 and conjoining a meal with friends can be, especially at a time like this.”
Ira had to think about the way she’d used conjoining. It sounded New Agey and Amish, both.
“But Mike and Kate run that kind of house. It’s all warmth and good-heartedness.”
Ira thought about this. What other kind of home was there to run, if you were going to bother? Hard, cold, and mean: that had been his own home with Marilyn, at the end. It was like those experimental monkeys with the wire-monkey moms. What did the baby monkeys know? The wire mother was all they had, all they knew in their hearts, and so they clung to it, as had he, even if it was only a coat hanger68. Mom. So much easier to carve the word into your arm. You were used to pain. You’d been imprinted69. As a child, for a fifth-grade science project, in the basement of his house, he’d once tried to reproduce Konrad Lorenz’s experiment with baby ducks. But he had screwed up with the incubation lights and had cooked the ducks right in their eggs, stinking70 up the basement so much that his mother had screamed at him for days. Which was a science lesson of some sort—the emotional limits of the Homo sapiens working Jewish mom—but it was soft science, so less impressive.
“What kind of home do you run?” he asked.
“Home? Oh, I mean to get to one of those. Right now, actually, I’m talking to you from a pup tent.”
Oh, she was a funny one. Perhaps they would laugh and laugh their way into the sunset. “I love pup tents,” he said. What was a pup tent exactly? He’d forgotten.
“Actually, I have a teenage son, so I have no idea what kind of home I have anymore. Once you have a teenager, everything changes.”
Now there was silence. He couldn’t imagine Bekka as a teenager. Or rather, he could, sort of, since she often acted like one already, full of rage at the incompetent71 waitstaff that life had hired to take and bring her order.
“Well, would you like to meet for a drink?” Zora asked finally, as if she had asked it many times before, her tone a mingling72 of both weariness and the cheery, pseudoprofessionalism of someone in the dully familiar and official position of being single and dating.
“Yes,” said Ira. “That’s exactly why I called.”
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1
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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surgically
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| adv. 外科手术上, 外科手术一般地 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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residual
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| adj.复播复映追加时间；存留下来的，剩余的 | |
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preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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snipping
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| n.碎片v.剪( snip的现在分词 ) | |
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12
denuded
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| adj.[医]变光的，裸露的v.使赤裸( denude的过去式和过去分词 )；剥光覆盖物 | |
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puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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whooshed
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| v.（使）飞快移动( whoosh的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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commemorate
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| vt.纪念，庆祝 | |
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predators
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| n.食肉动物( predator的名词复数 )；奴役他人者（尤指在财务或性关系方面） | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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molested
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| v.骚扰( molest的过去式和过去分词 )；干扰；调戏；猥亵 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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abutting
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| adj.邻接的v.（与…）邻接( abut的现在分词 )；（与…）毗连；接触；倚靠 | |
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scrawling
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的现在分词 ) | |
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quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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fussiness
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| [医]易激怒 | |
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reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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spiked
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| adj.有穗的；成锥形的；有尖顶的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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doggerel
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| n.拙劣的诗，打油诗 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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41
bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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42
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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43
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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offhandedness
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| Offhandedness's. | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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46
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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48
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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49
mimicking
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的现在分词 )；酷似 | |
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50
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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51
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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52
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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53
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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54
postal
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| adj.邮政的，邮局的 | |
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55
tenuous
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| adj.细薄的，稀薄的，空洞的 | |
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56
tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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57
mesmerized
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| v.使入迷( mesmerize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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59
reliability
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| n.可靠性，确实性 | |
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60
mashed
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| a.捣烂的 | |
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61
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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62
imminence
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| n.急迫，危急 | |
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63
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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64
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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65
smirked
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| v.傻笑( smirk的过去分词 ) | |
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66
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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67
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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68
hanger
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| n.吊架，吊轴承；挂钩 | |
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69
imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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70
stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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71
incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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72
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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