Chapter Four #2
Eventually the man introduced himself. His name was William Lauder, but he was the sort of William who insisted that people call him Bill.
Bill was interested in Joan—he asked about Taiwan and how she had come to California, what her life was like now, all questions she answered while omitting the more complicated details (estranged parents, Milton).
In turn, Joan asked Bill about himself: what he did (business), what he was doing on the bench (he’d gone to Stanford; it was his habit to walk his dog on campus, but then his dog had died, and Bill kept walking).
It was only years later that Joan would realize she’d happened to meet Bill at a very specific time, when he was both single and feeling open and generous toward the world.
Later, reflecting upon the situation, Bill’s family would characterize this as an “optimum” period; they would not intend the word “optimum” positively.
When he met Joan, Bill Lauder had been divorced three times.
Only a certain sort of man is still wealthy after three divorces; Bill was quite wealthy.
He’d had children only with his first wife; his second marriage, which took place in Vegas, had been quickly annulled.
His third lasted five years, and now he was single again.
He was still working, though not very much, and with more free time on his hands, he was beginning to feel restless, although restlessness for the wealthy is an altogether different proposition than it is for the poor—it was a relaxed sort of restless.
Joan did not know any of this when they met.
She knew only that Bill was an older man who wore a beautiful coat and shoes—and clothes can say a lot about someone, but not everything.
She didn’t know Bill’s age (fifty-one) or his lineage (Irish and German); she had no idea where he lived or if he had a bad temper.
She did, however, sense one thing about Bill: he was the sort of man who did not like to be alone.
He’d been the first to broach conversation, and after he learned she came to the grove each Sunday, he did too, and made it clear he was doing so to meet her.
On their sixth encounter, he brought her a potted orchid and asked her to dinner.
Their tenth meeting, Bill asked her to spend the weekend with him.
Right away Joan understood this as a request to sleep together.
Earlier, she might have been insulted, but thanks to Milton she no longer regarded sex as a singular milestone (and certainly Milton had not thought it so precious!).
But while she enjoyed Bill’s company, Joan felt that to be intimate so quickly after her divorce would be a dangerous acceleration.
Bill was different—not just from Milton but from any other man she’d ever considered.
It wasn’t only his age. Bill was white, a big distinction, and had adult children (another big one).
Joan had never imagined she’d encounter even one of these complications, and thus to be dating someone with both made her feel not only reckless but unbalanced, as if she’d lost her inner equilibrium.
Bill mentioned family holidays and school vacations as past lived experience; he referenced summers in Maine and spoke of Europe as if the continent contained the whole world.
“Why not?” Bill asked when she said no.
“I have work on Saturday.” She hadn’t told Bill where she worked, only that it was a Chinese restaurant. He had asked if it was Lucky Lin’s, the restaurant most Caucasians knew of in the area. She’d said no, and he hadn’t inquired further.
“You can ask for a day off, can’t you? If you give enough warning.”
“Saturdays are very busy.”
“Well, all right.” Bill laced his fingers behind his head. In the sun, she could see his freckles; his tortoiseshell glasses looked almost clear. “I’ll come to you, then. I can pick up dessert and then swing by your place Saturday evening. You’ve got Sunday off, haven’t you?”
“I don’t live alone,” Joan said quietly. “I rent a room in a house. The landlord is older, and conservative.” Thankfully Mrs. Mahoney was older than Bill. Joan would have found dating him difficult had they been the same age.
“Oh?” Bill sounded amused. “I didn’t mean to stay at your place. Though I would like to see it. I intended for us to go over to mine, just to be clear.”
Joan didn’t know if she wanted to go to Bill’s house.
She knew it would be large, and likely grand; by now she had discerned that Bill was successful in a manner unfathomable to her.
Her own existence was similarly foreign to Bill, though she knew he was ignorant of the gulf between them; that whatever he might claim, he could not comprehend the rough low ceilings of Mrs. Mahoney’s attic, nor her work at the restaurant.
The oily chaos of the kitchen, the unsanitary presentation of condiments; the thick, sticky odor that she felt clung to her clothes and hair even after she’d showered.
She wedged her hands underneath her thighs. “How old are you, anyway?” They had never spoken of their ages. There was the brilliant sweep of a hummingbird in her periphery, and she raised a hand as if to tempt it to her. It flew off.
“I’m fifty-one.” When she didn’t say anything, he added: “In my circles, that’s not too bad. Some might say it’s pretty young.”
“Oh.” Joan didn’t think fifty-one was young. She was twenty-five—the difference between her age and Bill’s was longer than she’d been alive.