Gifts

"It has to be perfect," Rachel says, rush-walking down the cool autumn street in Old Town. "A handbag, or a makeup case, something feminine."

We pass Old Town Emporium, the kitsch as tchotchkes stare out at us through the dull neon blue that illuminates the window and dimming afternoon with an anemic cool glow. We pass Gunderson Leather, soft and brown and sepia, with the distinct scent of tanned and rubbed leather wafting out into the street, already smoldering with late autumn leaf smoke. Old Town smells like a campfire.

"A leather purse?" I ask, nodding at Gunderson's. Rachel makes a face, one that says: you are worthless for even suggesting something like that, are you insane, you have no sense of style, why do you even try?

"No," she says simply, letting her expression speak for her.

Margret, Rachel's mother, the domineering influence on her life, has a birthday approaching, a milestone birthday, though Rachel won't tell me what milestone it is. I suspect it's sixty. It could be the third anniversary of her divorce, or nine years since losing her favorite cat. Margret is more of a force than a person.

We pause at Tate's, looking in on the expensive dresses and accessories. I can't read the tags from the windows, but the store reeks of affluence. Lavender and patchouli, mixed with the campfire autumn evoke high society slumming with the college bonfire crowd. Rachel pauses, evaluates, considers, ultimately, she buzzes at the storefront, waving her hand dismissively. "Gucci. Margret wouldn't be caught dead carrying Gucci."

High society slumming with the college bonfire crowd summarized our first meeting. I was no longer in college, but only just. There's a honeymoon between graduation and life when you can go back to college without being in college. Six months feels about right. I was going on a year. It felt like I was overstaying my welcome. Mitchell dragged me to the party, told me I was his good luck charm, but I knew he felt sorry for me. I lived in a little apartment above Donnelly's Convenience on State, on the outskirts of Old Town. It wasn't close enough to campus to be part of that community. It wasn't in Old Town to be part of that scene.

"You're the accountant," Rachel had said, walking straight up to me at the bonfire, all five feet of her, a disciplinarian charged with a particularly unruly subject. I was not unruly. I was quite the opposite. I was ruley by nature.

"Actuary," I corrected. We've been together for nine months.

"What about a painting?" I ask, looking in at the student coop that sells paintings and photography from the art school. Most of the art is impressionistic. I gravitate to the nighttime still life black and whites that depict the emptiness of downtown in the early morning before sunrise.

"Shoes," Rachel says quietly, ignoring me, marching on in her quest. I lope along behind.

I don't pretend to understand why Rachel needs to find the perfect gift for Margret. I don't pretend to understand much about Rachel's life. When you're a young man just out of college, not quite settled into your own life yet, ejected from the life you've known through education, any sense of stability is addictive. That was Rachel, stable, addictive. It's not a healthy relationship, and I know that, but for now I'm satisfied to be an accessory.

"Does Margret hike?" I ask. I know it will spin her up, irritate her. I lay on my best 'earnest Midwesterner', picking at Rachel's New Jersey prickliness.

"No," she deadpans.

There's a shoe place a block and a half over, closer to Farnam street. Was it just shoes? Shoes and accessories. Rachel redirects our march, her heals clacking on the cobblestones, their staccato marking time as the early evening street murmurs with restaurants and bars waking up from their afternoon nap. How she doesn't break an ankle on their uneven brick street defies logic. She's Rachel, defying logic is her superpower.