Confucius Jane (13 page)

“It is,” she said. “In most cases, the lesions will flare up and then fall dormant for a while. That's called relapse-remitting MS, and that's what my mother has. She'll feel pretty well for weeks or even months, and then suddenly she'll have an attack.”

“And you're interested in seeing whether stem cells might be able to help her?”

Sutton met Jane's eyes but saw no censure—only curiosity. “I am. It's difficult to do that kind of research here, though, since stem cells are such a politically divisive issue. But I've applied to a few fellowships overseas.”

“Have you heard back from any of them yet?”

“Not yet. Probably next month.”

“And then you'll have to make a tough choice.”

“Yes.” Sutton smoothed two fingertips across the tablecloth. “Especially because my father doesn't know about the fellowships.”

“Oh? Why not?”

Sutton took a deep breath and wondered whether what she was about to say would scare Jane off. She hoped not. Panic fluttered in her chest at the realization, and she spoke as much to distract herself as to answer the question.

“My father is Reginald St. James.”

Comprehension dawned on Jane's face. “The former surgeon general.”

“Yes. And if you know anything about his politics, then you know he's come out strongly against stem-cell research.”

Jane didn't answer immediately, but when she finally spoke, her voice was soft and serious. “You have a lot of stressors in your life right now, Sutton.”

It was the first time Sutton had heard her own name on Jane's lips, and she liked how it sounded. Too much. “I can manage them,” she said, irritation at her own reaction making her defensive.

But Jane didn't rise to the bait. “I know,” she said, regarding her steadily. “But please be sure to take care of yourself, too.”

“I do. I will.” Feeling more appreciative of Jane's concern than she wanted to admit, Sutton tried to steer the conversation back to more neutral territory. “And now you know why I wouldn't mind some luck, even though I believe we make our own.”

Jane's gaze grew distant. “Maybe. But sometimes I'm not so sure. Sometimes I think there are bigger forces at work—that we're a part of something larger than ourselves.” Their eyes met again, and Sutton must have looked skeptical, because Jane hastened to explain. “I'm not talking about believing in demons or anything. More like … energy.” She shrugged self-consciously. “Maybe I've been spending a little too much time with Sue.”

“Sue needs to get laid.”

Sutton had forgotten all about Min. She couldn't help but laugh, though she immediately covered her mouth with one hand as Jane stammered Min's name in shock.

“What?” Min rolled her eyes. “It's true! She's way too wrapped up in that astrology stuff. She needs to come back down to earth.”

“But … but do you even know what that means?”

Sutton hid her grin behind her palm as she watched Jane fumble for the right words. Min gave her a withering look.

“Of course I know. And I think we should get her together with that Italian guy. Gian-whatever-his-name-is.”

“Giancarlo?” Sutton offered.

“Yes, him. He's totally into her. It was obvious at New Year's dinner.”

Jane gestured to a nearby waiter for the check and immediately handed him her credit card. “Minetta, when we get home, I am going to give you a book. It's called
Emma.
I want you to read it cover to cover before you try any matchmaking.”

Min exchanged an exasperated glance with Sutton, who shrugged. She'd never heard of it, either. “If Doctor Sutton hasn't read it, then I don't have to.”

“Whoa, now.” Sutton raised both hands. “Don't put me in the middle of this.”

“You two are the literary equivalent of unwashed masses,” Jane muttered as she signed the receipt.

Quickly, Sutton pulled out her wallet. “Let me chip in. Even though you just called me unwashed.”

Jane immediately shook her head. “My treat. I insist.”

“But—”

Jane got to her feet. “The bill was thirty dollars, including tip. Where else on this crazy island can three people stuff themselves silly during the Saturday brunch hour for only thirty dollars?”

Sutton was forced to admit she had a point. “All right. But I'm buying next time.”

Jane froze in the act of plucking Sutton's coat off the back of her chair. “Next time.” Her sudden smile was unguarded. “I like the sound of that.”

As Sutton slid her arms into the sleeves, Jane's warm breath puffed against her neck. Suddenly, she wanted to pull Jane's arms around her waist—to know how it felt to lean back against Jane's chest and feel sheltered by her embrace. How long had it been since she had allowed herself to be held that way? How long since she had craved a lover's simple, comforting touch?

The answer, she realized as they returned to the elevator, was never. Her one actual relationship had been with a colleague. They'd been exceedingly cautious about public displays of affection, and too busy to see each other intimately very often. And then, within just a few months, it had been over. Since then, Sutton had occasionally wished for closeness and touch, but only in an abstract way. Until now. Jane gave her a face to put to the longing, a focal point for her desire.

“Are you all right?” Jane asked as they exited onto the sidewalk. “You got kind of quiet back there.”

“I'm fine.” Sutton tried to offer an encouraging smile. “Thanks for brunch. It was delicious.”

“Except for the tripe.”

“At least I can say I tried it.” She fished in her coat pockets for her gloves and tried to think of the right thing to say. Better to leave it casual, she supposed. “I'm going to catch the train uptown to visit my family. See you sometime soon? At the restaurant?”

“Actually, I'm going up to Grand Central,” Jane said. “Mind if I tag along that far?” She turned to Min. “You're fine getting home, right?”

“Please.” Min sketched a wave in Sutton's direction, turned, and was gone.

The cold wind had picked up during their time inside, but mercifully, the station was only a few blocks away. Jane seemed content to walk beside her without speaking, for which Sutton was grateful. It was rare to find a person with whom silence didn't feel awkward.

“What takes you to Grand Central?” Sutton asked as they stepped onto the platform.

“Work,” Jane said, reaching into her pocket for the same notebook and pen she'd had with her on New Year's.

“Work?”

“Not fortune cookies,” Jane clarified. “Poetry.”

An express train rattled to a stop, suspending further conversation until they had settled into a pair of corner seats. “Tell me more about that,” Sutton said. “What kind of poetry do you write?”

“Well, I don't actually write very much, in the traditional sense.” Jane's knee bounced as she spoke. For the first time all morning, she looked nervous. “Mostly I arrange what I hear.”

Sutton might have let the subject drop if she hadn't sensed the opportunity to learn more about the real Jane. “What you hear?”

Jane gripped her knees with both hands and met Sutton's gaze with a clear effort. “I do found poetry. Ever heard of it?”

“I haven't. What is it?”

“The basic idea is that poetry already exists in the world. It just needs to be discovered. The way it works for me is that I listen. To everything.” She smoothed her palms along her thighs. “We tend to block out all the dialogue around us, but if you listen, there's real poetry in it. I write down what I hear, and then I arrange all the pieces together.”

“That's fascinating.” For some reason, it was difficult for Jane to talk about this, and Sutton couldn't resist the impulse to offer comfort. Over the faint protests of logic and reason, she leaned close enough for their shoulders to touch. “I can imagine that Grand Central is a perfect place to gather … what do you call them? Sound bites?”

“I suppose you could. I just tend to think of them as lines. And yes, it's a great place. I've almost finished a poem that's entirely collected there, which is why I'm going back today.” Suddenly, Jane sat up straighter. “You should come with me. Right now.”

Sutton glanced out the window. The train was just leaving the Thirty-third Street station. Grand Central would be next. She'd been planning to run a few errands before making her weekly parental visit, but she had no set schedule. If she spent another hour—or even two—with Jane, what would be the harm?

The train rolled to a stop. The doors opened. Jane stepped out and once again extended her hand. This time, she didn't let it fall. The intensity of her stare burned in Sutton's chest.

“I've never showed anyone else what I do, but I'd like to show you.”

Sutton stood. She wondered if she was crazy. She thought about regret. And then, in a burst of clarity, she realized she would only feel it if she let the doors close while she was still inside.

As the chime sounded, she touched Jane's palm with her fingers, feeling the wind at her back as the train roared away.

 

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

J
ANE DIDN'T LET GO
as they walked up the stairs leading out of the station. Their fingers laced together perfectly, and despite the noise and press of the crowd, Jane suddenly felt as though they were the only people awake in a city full of sleepwalkers. She still couldn't quite believe that Sutton had decided to join her. Were it not for their joined hands, she might have chalked Sutton's motivation up to simple curiosity.

As they emerged into the tangle of corridors leading to the main concourse, Jane's thoughts raced. What had happened to Sutton's resolve that their outing today would not be a date? Had she come to some sort of resolution within her own mind? Had Jane done or said something to change her thinking? And if so, what?

Realizing that she was overanalyzing, she took a deep breath and tried simply to enjoy the moment for what it was. Daring to stroke her thumb lightly over Sutton's knuckles, she was gratified to receive a gentle squeeze in response.

“So, how do you do this?”

Wrenching her focus back to the task at hand, Jane cleared her throat. “Well, the first order of business is to find a good place to sit somewhere in the station.”

“What counts as a good place?”

Jane thought about that for a moment. For some reason, conversations with Sutton always forced her to put words to abstract ideas she'd never had to fully explain before. “I guess … to me, found poetry is about movement. Either I sit in one spot and listen to the river of humanity passing by, or I move throughout the city and find sound bites wherever I go.”

“So ideally you'd find a spot right in the middle of the flow of traffic.”

“Exactly. Why don't you pick it out today?” When Sutton looked skeptical, Jane smoothed her thumb along the side of her index finger. “Don't worry. This is kind of like fishing. If it's not working, we can switch to another spot.”

“Fishing, huh?”

Jane shrugged. “My grandfather took me a few times, when I was a kid. I liked swimming in the lake and looking at the cloud shapes, but I wasn't too wild about the flopping fish that ended up in the bottom of the boat.”

A wistful expression crossed Sutton's face. “That sounds nice, flopping fish aside. My father's family are all germaphobes, so even when we went to their house on Long Island, I was only allowed to swim in the pool.”

If Jane had to bet, she'd put down money that Sutton's grandparents had one of those fancy houses in the Hamptons. Trying not to dwell on the economic disparity between them, she swung their joined hands lightly. “Well, my grandfather passed away a few years ago, but my grandmother is still in that house, up in western Massachusetts. So if you ever have the urge to try a lake, you just let me know.”

Sutton smiled but didn't reply, and Jane wondered whether her invitation—vague though it was—had pushed the bounds of what was acceptable on this quasi-date. Or maybe Sutton just wanted to change the subject. She was so self-possessed that it could be difficult to read her properly. Jane liked it better when her guard was down, as it had been earlier during their discussion of her career dilemma. Then again, they were still holding hands. Maybe Sutton felt too exposed right now to let any more cracks show in her armor.

“I'll probably be here for an hour or two,” Jane said, hoping to put her at ease. “Feel free to stay as long as you like, or to leave whenever if you're not having fun.”

“Okay.”

They turned a corner and the concourse was suddenly before them. Its lofty, vaulted arches never failed to fill Jane with amazement, and as always, she felt her gaze being drawn up to the blue plaster ceiling depicting the constellations of the northern sky. If the corridors of the terminal were like rivers, then this was the sea into which they emptied. Ticket windows and kiosks lined one wall, above which the massive boards listing departures and arrivals hummed and whirred as trains arrived and departed. High overhead, a massive American flag hung, stripes down, from the center of the ceiling. Beneath it, the iconic, four-way clock face atop the information center shimmered in the light streaming through the tall windows.

“I may be a jaded New Yorker,” Sutton said, “but this space always impresses me.”

“It's a feat, isn't it? I heard the clock is worth more than ten million dollars.”

“Are you serious?”

Jane nodded. “When I first got the idea to assemble a poem here, I did some research into the history of the terminal.”

“What's the clock made out of that makes it so precious?”

“Opal.”