Gilda

  *

  The third time I saw Gilda, she surprised me.

  The following Wednesday, I was playing lacrosse. The ball was at the other end, so I had time to glance around. To my surprise, I spotted Gilda watching from the sideline. I hadn’t recognized her at first, because I had not expected to see her again and certainly not here or now. She stood near—not with—the usual mix of families and girlfriends. Her hair sparked the recognition, and she wore a sun dress: spectators always sported jeans, shorts, or sweat pants. I wondered if she had stumbled upon the game or was on her way to the river or somewhere else…or come on purpose. I could not imagine her being interested in a bunch of guys playing lacrosse, although she had claimed to like the game.

  I soon realized that her presence had added a spring to my step and caused an unwanted desire to show off, which I had not felt since college. I was forced to chastise myself for acting like my students, when trying to impress the opposite sex. She must be here to meet someone else, so I should slow down before I hurt myself.

  As the game progressed, I could not resist glancing to where she stood to see if she was still there. I stifled the urge to wave. The longer she remained, the more I hoped that she had come to see me. But, I told myself, this could be nothing more than a fantasy. I was sixteen years older than her. Anyone as intelligent as Gilda Rubin would not be dumb enough to fall for someone so old and certainly not as intelligent.

  After the game, I strolled to my car and she joined me. Up close, the cut and material of her dress, both perfect for the summer heat and humidity, revealed most of what I needed to know about her body. Cheap flip flops confirmed her desire for comfort over style. I could detect no make-up, but the heat had caused a slight flush, which added to her allure.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi,” she said. “You’re not bad for an old guy.”

  “I don’t know how to take that,” I replied, grinning.

  “It’s a compliment.”

  “You come to watch the sunset?”

  She smiled and shook her head.

  “No, lacrosse. I wanted to see if you’re any good.”

  My eyes widened involuntarily.

  “And?”

  Her smile turned into an impish grin.

  “Like I said: not bad.”

  “You mean for an old guy?”

  “Everyone had a helmet, so I didn’t notice differences…only in talent.”

  I chuckled. I wondered if she was teasing me. I knew one way to find out.

  “Let me buy you dinner?”

  Her smile brightened. She nodded. That smile again, I thought, and felt a tingle in my gut.

  “The choice is McDrive or—if you give me time to shower and change—there’s a new Italian place on Charles Street.”

  “So, no memories?”

  I frowned and shook my head. She touched my arm and pursed her lips.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I love Italian, but I’m used to spaghetti from a can.”

  “You’re gonna have to ride with me to my place and wait while I change. You can watch television. Where’s your bike?”

  “I rode the bus and walked.”

  I turned to load my bag, my mind spinning. I guessed that she had planned this outcome, otherwise she would not have come on foot and not dressed up. I did not know what to conclude, and then decided that it was best to assume nothing and see what happened. We would have a nice dinner and pleasant conversation. I liked conversing with intelligent people.

  Gilda climbed in and fastened her seat belt. I could not resist a glance at her legs, when her dress rode up. She did not seem to notice, busy inspecting the interior.

  “I don’t ride in cars much,” she said. “This is nice.”

  “It’s an Audi. What’s called a Q8.”

  “Okay,” she said, suggesting a lack of interest in cars. “I didn’t ask what you do.”

  “I teach math and physics to rich kids at a private secondary school. And, I coach soccer and lacrosse. Nothing world-shaking, but I like my job.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “At the harbor.”

  “Isn’t that a long way?”

  “There’s not much traffic at this time. We’ll need 10 or 15 minutes.”

  Traffic was light, so I had not lied. Because I took back streets and entered the parking garage at the rear of the building, Gilda did not see the façade or the location. I pushed an elevator button and 33 lit up.

  “So high?” she said.

  “You should like the view.”

  I opened the door and let her proceed into the living room.

  “Wow!”

  She marched to the floor-to-ceiling windows, which provided a view of the harbor and outlying islands.

  “Wow, again.”

  When she turned, I spotted concern on her face.

  “You sell drugs?”

  “What? No. What makes you ask that?”

  She glanced around.

  “A teacher can’t afford a place like this.”

  “Oh, sorry,” I said, realizing her concern. “This belonged to my wife. She inherited money and had a good salary as an investment banker.”

  “So, it’ll be yours?”

  “It already is,” I replied. “She transferred everything to me, once she realized that her situation was hopeless. She didn’t want me to have to deal with probate.”

  “She must have been really nice.”

  “She was.”

  “And, just so you won’t accuse me of lying…I also have some money of my own. I was a fund manager for ten years, before I quit the rat race to teach.”

  “A place like this must cost a bundle. How big is it?”

  “About 2500 square feet.”

  She whistled.

  “I share three small rooms with three other girls,” she said. “You must feel like you won the lottery.”

  I shook my head.

  “I’d rather have Karen than her money.”

  “Sorry,” Gilda said, chagrinned. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “The choice was not mine. As I tell my science students: in a disagreement with nature, humans always lose.”

  She pursed her lips and nodded, and then turned back to admire the view.

  “I can see airplanes,” she said, her face brightening.

  “That’s Logan Airport.”

  “Cool.”

  Even a future brain surgeon can display child-like innocence. I liked that.

  After showering and dressing, I returned to the living room and found Gilda holding a photo of Karen. She turned, and I noticed her moist eyes.

  “I knew her only at the very end,” she said. “She was gorgeous.”

  I nodded, feeling a lump in my throat.

  “Even in suffering, I found her gracious. That’s rare.”

  I swallowed and returned to the bedroom, pretending to have forgotten something.

  The restaurant was cozy and sparsely filled: bad for the owner, but good for us. We could talk freely and ignore other guests. The food was good and the service good enough.

  Gilda told me about growing up on Long Island, about Radcliffe, and about her divorced parents. Her father, who she rarely saw, lived in London; she avoided seeing her mother. I mentioned briefly my time with Karen and then focused on my life before and after marriage. The most-interesting discussions were about the vision of her future and the conflict in humans between nature and nurture.

  “I snuck into lectures on neuroscience and was fascinated,” Gilda explained. “All human activity is mechanical, driven by electronic charges. That goes against everything taught by society, whether in schools or churches. Of course, philosophers will never agree that neuroscience can explain human behavior. That would be like taking religious belief away from the pope and put them out of work.”

  “Can they co-exist?” I wondered out loud.

  “Can Jews and Palestinians co-exist on the same real estate?”

  “Ooh, I’m n
ot gonna touch that one. Let’s stick with academics.”

  A waiter interrupted the conversation to take our dessert order. I noticed that Gilda seemed to be lost in thought.

  “Humanity has evolved,” she said. “But, all the great philosophers are long dead, and no new ones have come along. Ideas are less interesting than trying to figure out where they come from and how the brain works. That’s what I want to do: figure out how the brain forms ideas, how thinking and memory work.”

  I did not know whether to be impressed or incredulous. But, now aware of her intelligence and ambition, sarcasm would be misplaced and surely spoil the evening. I did not want to hurt her.

  “Becoming a brain surgeon will do that?”

  “That will give me access to the latest knowledge and the best research methods.”

  “Uh—”

  “I haven’t figured out if I can pay for it, but I’ll keep begging for scholarships, work at the hospital, and put myself deeper in debt. The time in med school has proved to me that I was right to leave tired and worn-out theories behind. Thought is so important—so endemic to human life—but we do not understand how thinking works. The ensuing thought becomes more important than the act of thinking.”

  Gilda was losing me, but I could not admit such inadequacy. After all, I was a science teacher, so I should be able to keep up.

  “Humans become so hung up on words, because they cannot understand how they are conceived—thus the importance of philosophers. Because we speak and write and read, we believe that only we among all living creatures think and that makes us superior. Once we understand how the brain really works, we will be able to prove or disprove that conceit.”

  The waiter arrived with dessert and coffee, giving my brain a chance to cool down. Gilda beamed, either because of the dish in front of her or, perhaps, happy to have someone to talk with about her passion. I doubted that her nurse colleagues or hospital