Page 141 of Life Out of Order

“That’s helpful,” Zach says. “I’ve been feeling bleak.” He looks up, and says to someone behind me, “Caralora, there you are.” I swivel in my chair to see a tall, blonde woman ducking between tables and dodging sunburned legs. She’s wearing a floppy hat with an enormous brim, and a dress that reminds me of Dorothy Lamour, another favorite of Madeline’s. Sometimes I think I am slowly taking on Madeline’s personality: we are like two old ladies with our cats, our music, our antique taste in movies and alcohol. Madeline just turned eighty, but she’s quite spry.

Caralora sits down, removes her gigantic hat and asks Zach, “Who’s your friend?”

I have an urge to flee—I’m quite unprepared to talk with Caralora Lamont. Alba has never warned me I’d meet her, but she’s told me a lot about Caralora, so I know more than I should. It’s difficult to take on the role of bland stranger with someone so beloved of one’s beloved. I scrutinize her face, wondering who Caralora and Alba are to each other now. I realize that the three of us at this table represent Alba’s entire erotic life and that neither Zach nor Caralora are aware of this and they wouldn’t like it one bit if they knew. “Hello, I’m Oliver,” I say to Caralora. “Nice to meet you.”

She squints at me, gives me the once-over. “You look familiar.”

Zach says, “Oliver’s the one who saved me from the drone.”

“Oh. Really?” Her tone implies that I don’t look very heroic. That’s fair. “I don’t remember seeing you there.”

“I got away as soon as I could,” I reply. This conversation is unnerving. I try not to think about the shooting: I got out of there quickly so I wouldn’t leave a telltale pile of clothing behind when I traveled back to my own time. I made sure Zach was safe and then ran.

“Well,” Caralora says more easily, “thank you for saving Zach. I don’t know what we’d do without him.”

“More or less the same things you’d do anyway,” Zach says, and Caralora smiles. They are like siblings, these two. The waiter appears, and Caralora indicates my nearly empty glass and says, “I’ll have what he’s having.” Zach orders another beer. I put my hand over my glass, no thanks. “How do you two know each other?” Caralora asks.

Zach says, “We met in a bar. I dumped a pint of beer over Oliver’s head, and he was so nice about it that we got to talking, and here we are.”

“I remember you mentioning that.” Caralora turns to me. “We’re having a Labor Day party at the ward office tonight, you should come by. It’s going to be very small this year, but Charisse wanted to do something, and they’re going to present the new scholarships Gomez’s constituents funded in his memory.”

“Thank you,” I reply, touched, “but I’m afraid I already promised my wife I’d go to a cookout.” I hope she won’t ask about my wife, or the fictional cookout; I’ve never been to a cookout in my life. I gather my shopping bags. “I’m sorry, but I ought to get going. I’m supposed to be doing the shopping. If I don’t hurry, we’ll have to show up empty-handed.”

“What are you bringing?” she asks, to be polite.

“Coleslaw,” I reply, a bit wildly. I have no idea what coleslaw is, but I’m confident that Americans eat it at cookouts. I feel lightheaded, and I wonder if I’m about to vanish. I extract myself with promises to see Zach soon, so glad to have met you, Caralora, and manage to walk away at a normal pace, but as soon as I am out of their sight I begin to run. I arrive at the grocery store panting and panicked, and spend a long time in the frozen food aisle staring at cleverly packaged ice cream before I feel solid enough to carry on with my day.

Zach: As soon as Oliver is out of earshot, Caralora says, “That was weird.”

“What was weird? Oliver?”

“Yeah. When I arrived, and he had his back to me, I thought you’d brought Alba along. The long black hair. But then he turned around, and I realized it was someone else. But, he has a lot of Alba’s mannerisms, don’t you think? It’s uncanny. They’re like identical twins.”

“Oliver and Alba? I’ve never noticed.” I’m not sure what Caralora is getting at. “You think Alba has a Chinese male identical twin?”

“Yeah, no. Maybe I’m just suggesting that you have a type.” Our drinks arrive. Caralora says, “Want a strawberry?”

“Sure, thanks.” She spears it with her fork and offers it to me. It tastes exactly like the strawberry Oliver gave me half an hour ago. I wonder if duplication means anything. Not déjà vu, just randomness. “Do you ever wonder if everything is meaningless?”