Garlic and Sapphires Read Free Page B

Times ! You know you won’t be able to resist meeting with them at some point. Why not see them now and save yourself another trip?”
    â€œYou just want to get out of Los Angeles,” I said.
    â€œIt’s true,” he said. “But if you’d spent the last two years covering the riots, the Rodney King trial, the gang wars, and then another Rodney King trial, you’d want to get out too. This job isn’t much fun; all the news in L.A. is depressing and it’s not going to get better any time soon. There’s no political will for change. I look down the road and I see myself reporting on racism, gangs, and poverty, with the occasional earthquake thrown in for variety. I’d like to go somewhere, anywhere, with a different story. But that’s only part of it; I really think that this is an important opportunity for you. New York could change your life. I know you’re scared, but you can do this. I’ll be there for you in every way I can, but don’t walk away from this job.”
    Michael’s faith in me was so touching that it forced me to consider the consequences of talking to the editors of the Times. I realized that once I had gone for the interview and made a good impression, it would be difficult to refuse the job. By the same token, if I was certain that I had no interest in becoming the restaurant critic of the New York Times, all I had to do was make sure they didn’t want me. I had to make myself undesirable. Now, I decided, was the perfect time to begin the campaign.
    â€œFine,” said Carol Shaw when I called back. “I’m glad you’ve changed your mind.” She did not sound the least bit surprised. “Do you know how to get to New York Hospital?”
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    H ey girlie,” said the grizzled coot in the second bed. Monitors above his head flashed his pulse and heart rate; bells pinged, lights flashed. “You here to see Warren?” He eyed my legs.
    â€œYes,” I said, smoothing my black suit, wishing my skirt were a little longer. The two other men occupying beds in the room looked on with interest.
    â€œThey took him down for X-rays, sort of unexpected. He said for you to wait.”
    â€œHere?” I asked.
    â€œThat would be fine with me,” he said. “But Warren said something about the waiting room. It’s down there.” He jerked his head to show me.
    The waiting room looked like a graveyard for rejected flower arrangements. A couple of potted palms drooped in the corner, and vases filled with dying flowers were everywhere. The scent was funereal. I looked out the window at a sign that read, “New York Hospital is under construction. Please bear with us.” I suddenly remembered that this was where I was born.
    â€œYou must be Ruth.” I looked up. A tall man in a hospital gown was standing by my chair. He was carrying what looked like a plastic suitcase filled with liquid that seemed to be coming from a tube somewhere beneath his gown. I looked away, embarrassed.
    â€œWarren?” I asked. I had not expected him to be so handsome. I indicated the plastic suitcase. “How did that happen?”
    â€œI was coming out of a Russian restaurant in Brighton Beach,” he said. “I fell down two flights of stairs.”
    â€œWas it one of those places that gives you all the vodka you are foolish enough to drink?” I asked, wasting no time. He winced. I smiled inwardly; I had begun the onslaught of charm.
    But I found it hard to continue being rude to this extremely agreeable man. We talked about restaurants. We talked about food. We talked about movies. He was very amusing and the job never came up. After forty-five minutes of delightful conversation, Warren said that he was starting to get tired. I helped him down the hall and into his bed. “You’re going to meet all the assistant managing editors today,” he said as I turned to