Chapter 9 – Winter in the North
Morning comes late in winter in the north. It's close to eight o'clock when Katrina wakes up next to Charlie and slips out of bed quietly. She throws on some jeans and a sweater, puts on big snow boots, picks up a book bag and puts in a few papers. She dons a big down-filled coat and pulls on her gloves. Carefully she pulls the door closed behind her and sets off for campus without waking her partner.
She expects the library to be open by the time she gets there. She likes mornings because her concentration is at its best. Taking energetic strides, she covers the snow-covered ground quickly, breathing deeply as she walks. The air is crisp, cold and clean. The almost clear sky is the color of blue topaz crystal. Fresh snow on every surface magnifies the early sunlight into a diffuse white glow. In this light, the night before seems like something out of a movie or a bad dream. She feels almost like dancing, the morning seems so perfect in comparison.
But without Charlie, it can't be perfect, she realizes. As a scientist she doesn't use words like love, but as a woman she knows that he has a special place in her heart that no one else can fill. She knows that not all women have such feelings. Some go from one man to another as casually as they change shoes. She knows that the depth of feeling she has is unfashionable, unliberated. She also knows that she is emotionally bound to Charlie with an unbreakable bond.
There must be some way to approach this problem scientifically, she imagines, though she can't immediately think of a way. If it were a scientific problem, she'd go to an adviser at the college. Well, she reasons, there are advisers in life too. Her uncle Zeph might have some ideas, or at least another perspective. As a scientist himself, and as a man with experience, maybe he might provide some insights.
She spends an hour or so looking through scientific journals in the big research library on campus, making notes, cross-referencing, finding out all she can for her project. Though she can't forget about Charlie, she relegates thoughts of him to the back of her mind. Then she puts down her papers and pushes herself away from the table. It's late enough now to call Uncle Zeph. He'll be awake.
She puts her papers back into the book bag and walks the short distance to the lobby of the big library, where cell phones are permitted. It's quieter here than outside. Scrolling down through her address list, she finds Uncle Zeph, under U for Uncle. She realizes she should re-edit it as Z for Zeph, then access it by scrolling backwards with the up arrow rather than scrolling down. She hits the dial button, and the phone rings at the other end. His message tells her to call back between 11:00 and 2:00.
Someone less determined and committed might break for food, but it doesn't cross her mind. She is as interested in her research as she is committed to it, and she goes straight back into the library. She looks up a few more articles, double checks a few questionable points, reads over what she has, strays off on a tangent reading something mentioned in a bibliography that isn't strictly related to the immediate topic. Eleven o'clock comes quickly. The lobby isn't as empty as it was earlier. She goes outside. The sun seems amazingly bright.
The campus is like a park. With the icicle covered trees, the people in brightly colored scarves and jackets, it looks like something out of a movie about Christmas or a Winter Wonderland. If only there were an ice skating rink in the middle of campus, she thinks, the image would be complete. Finding an unoccupied bench, she sits down to call her uncle.
"It's me, Katrina, remember, your niece?" she starts. "Your sister's daughter? Yeah, that Katrina. So how are the Paradise Islands? Spending all your time on the beach now?"
They chat happily and with energy, as if it had been months since they'd talked. He tells her about his girlfriend and his job. Then she confides in him about her problem.
Zeph doesn't really believe Charlie is going insane, but then again he doesn't really disbelieve it. It's strange, he has to admit. There seems to be a lot of insanity going around lately.
"Has he been around animals recently?" Zeph asks. "In the last 4 to 6 months? Cats or rodents especially? Cat boxes maybe?"
She doesn't think so.
"Don't suppose you can get me a blood sample?" he inquires perfunctorily. He can't imagine how she would.
"Blood, probably not," she answers. "Other bodily fluids yes. Hair and skin even, in his sleep. Oh, he forgets to flush the toilet sometimes, so stool samples I could even manage. Okay, wait, maybe I could get a very tiny blood sample, enough for one glass microscope slide, but it wouldn't be enough for you to do anything with it."
They talk a while longer, discussing the situation and possible methods for getting samples.
"I miss you, Uncle Zeph," she concludes her side of the conversation.
"We'll see each other. Maybe you'll visit next Christmas," he reassures her, and adds, "Bye, Katrina."
She presses the button that clicks off the call, and is again filled with haunting solitary despair. She sits looking silently out over the icy winter scene that surrounds her. The fountain is frozen into stillness until spring. Amber incandescent lights shine out from behind closed windows like translucent gold. Highlights sparkle on the icicles that cling like Christmas decorations to the barren branches of oak and maple trees. Occasional snowflakes begin to fall, large perfect snowflakes that drift down slowly in the still air. She catches one on a gloved hand and looks closely at its tiny ice crystal structure, turning it this way and that to catch the light. Even with all this beauty, her eyes begin to fill again with tears.
"Hey, girl, have you had lunch yet?" she hears the sound of a friend's voice.
"Shelley," she says and turns, trying to sound cheerful, or at least not as bleakly miserable as she feels. "I, uh," she starts to decline, then changes to "No, I haven't. What did you have in mind?"
"The Mexican restaurant of course," her friend answers. "They have spinach enchiladas. And they're within my budget too," she adds happily.
"Free gazpacho too," Katrina jokes, referring to the bowl of hot salsa on every table. Her friend consumes at least one entire bowl with every meal, no matter how small the meal might be. "That salsa is supposed to be a condiment, you know," she adds.
"So, are you coming? I think it's Friday. They have Happy Hour starting at lunch," her friend Shelley cajoles.
"Happy Hour?" Katrina asks.
"You don't know what Happy Hour is?" Shelley says unbelievingly.
Katrina shakes her head.
"You're not much of a drinker I guess," the other girl observes. "Happy Hour is a designated time period when beverages, especially alcoholic beverages, are marked down to a lower price. It's supposed to encourage people to come in and socialize. Most places that have Happy Hour have it around five o'clock I think, when people are getting off work. Happy Hours are often accompanied by free peanuts. In the case of a Mexican restaurant, probably free tortilla chips. Sometimes other food might be discounted too. It's the bar and restaurant equivalent of a matinee discount at the movies."
"They won't have a Mariachi band, will they?" Katrina demands of her friend. "That would give me more of an Unhappy Hour."
Shelley laughs. "You and half the campus. How can the same culture produce such spectacularly good food and such abysmal music?"
"One wonders. Maybe they don't really have Mariachi bands in Mexico," Katrina hypothesizes. "Maybe they exported all the Mariachis to get rid of them, and they're keeping the good music for themselves."
"A secret stash of Aztec gold, in the form of music?" Shelley asks. "Gold albums maybe?"
"Could be," Katrina answers. Trying to add some humor she suggests, "Or maybe the Mariachis are an advance force for a diabolical attempt to take over all of North America, maybe the world! Undercover agents for a heretofore unsuspected elaborate plan for an Aztec resurgence. Those gourds they shake conceal a secret weapon that destroys the brain of anybody who listens. They lure you in with
the delicious smell of Mexican cooking, and then -- GOTCHA! The Mariachis activate their mind destroying equipment and you're a goner." Smiling, she looks at her friend to see what kind of response the joke has gotten.
"Sounds diabolical all right," Shelley laughs, going along with the joke. "You want to come in and investigate the sinister plot, then?" she reiterates the invitation.
"Yeah, why not," Katrina says, yielding to the temptation of Mexican food. "You can't be too careful these days. Let's see what insidious scheme they're up to." So saying, she rises from the bench and shoulders her book bag.
The two head off for the Cantina Biblioteca just off campus, conveniently located not far from the library.
The Cantina is neither authentic Mexican nor Disneyland reinterpretation. It lies in a happy middle space. The proprietors have avoided the familiar imitation Mexican theme of exaggerated brightly painted designs on every surface. The interior is dim, but not dark. The decor is subdued, but with an obvious Hispanic influence. Heavy dark wood surfaces abound. Patrons, mostly students, sit at rough hewn solid wooden tables on nondescript mismatched chairs. A few brightly colored Mexican items hang from the ceiling and on the walls. They are not too many, and not too gaudy. On the main wall a black velvet painting of a matador, red cape whirling, hangs adjacent to a black velvet painting of a bull, head down, pawing the invisible ground. The mixed smells of beans, corn, onions and cumin waft through the warm room.
The girls seat themselves at an empty place. Menus are already on the tables. The waitress brings them a basket of fresh tortilla corn chips and a bowl of hot salsa. She wears a Mexican influenced dress in a plain pale color with only a little bit of elaborate embroidery and lace. "You want something to drink while you wait?" she asks, and pauses, then adds, "Are you ready to order?"
"Bring us some water," Katrina requests, looking at the menu. She doesn't see a single item she wants to eat. It smells really good, but there isn't any specific item listed that meets her rather restrictive criteria for being considered edible.
"Spinach enchiladas for me," Shelley orders without hesitation, "con arroz y lechuga."
"Si," the waitress answers, writing down the order. "You want water too? Maybe a pitcher of cerveza? Only $5 right now. Unless maybe you have to study in the afternoon," she adds, suggesting the usual reason the students give her whenever they decline to order beer.