The Future Tense of Joy by Jessica Teich

Author:Jessica Teich
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781580055703
Publisher: Seal Press
Published: 2016-08-26T04:00:00+00:00

Our next stop was Ireland, where neither of us had ever been. We had the typical difficulty driving on the “wrong” side of the road. The task was made more challenging by my insistence on stopping every time we saw an animal wander into traffic. By the end of the day, I was shepherding whole flocks of sheep across the sinuous lanes.

The next day, we drove up to a lovely Georgian house, and I knocked on the door. “Are we too late for tea?” I inquired as politely as I could. “I’ve already had my tea,” said the elderly woman who answered the door, looking at me quizzically. It turns out the actual tea shop was located in the next town.

But the most misguided moment took place in our hotel in County Cork when, in the midst of a terrible fight, I removed my wedding ring and threw it across the room. The next day, we glowered at each other over the much-vaunted Irish breakfast, complete with sheep brain sausage and a tomato from the Pleistocene age. Each table was reserved for a visiting couple, their name on a card tucked into a little vase of sweet peas. Ours said “Gender 2.” “Gender” was a misspelling of “Gendler,” Michael’s last name. But in a way, that little sign encapsulated our problems. Not that we were two different genders. We were too different, in every possible way.

In Oxford, I took Michael to the Wyckham tea shop, where Liam had lifted me, our reflection caught in the storefront’s watery glass. Michael was so tall, and the tea shop so tiny, that he kept knocking over the decorative cups and saucers, while I kept retrieving them. I had loved Oxford, and I couldn’t wait to share the medieval city with him. But both of us seemed out of place: He, so absurdly tall; and me, seemingly daffy. He was Gulliver. I was Lucille Ball.

Over cucumber sandwiches, I told him about the day I met the Queen, at the end of my time at Oxford, when the Rhodes Trust held a party to celebrate its first 80 years. She was resplendent—“gorgeous,” Shelagh would say—in a blinding yellow suit and gloves and hat. She looked like a giant tennis ball. “You mustn’t look at her unless she looks at you first,” we were instructed. “You mustn’t extend your hand. If she speaks to you, you may respond, but only then.” The young Rhodes women were encouraged to wear gloves. We talked at length about whether we should curtsey—we were, after all, dissidents, colonists. Was the bended knee a gesture of obeisance or respect? And what would we talk about if she spoke to us?

“Begin by calling her ‘Your Majesty,’” the Rhodes secretary said. “In any follow-up, you must refer to her as ‘Ma’am.’” I couldn’t imagine speaking to her at all, let alone engaging in a conversation that involved a follow-up. What would I ask her? “Why, Your Majesty, are you always clutching a purse?”

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