Social Science
by David Wong Louie

F rom the second story of the house, Henry watches Mrs. Steiner climb from the backseat of a hired '67 Eldorado, and before its tail fins completely slip from view, a second car pulls up to take its place alongside the curb. A tall, bare-legged woman in white pops out of the cherry-red Porsche and shakes Mrs. Steiner's hand. They turn as one and face the house. The old woman points at the date palm on the front lawn, diverting the other's attention away from the house and its flaking coats of paint. More than once he has overheard Mrs. Steiner rave about the exquisite sweetness of the palm's sad inedible fruit.

The women go through the first floor, discussing square footage, carpeting, plumbing, and interest rates. They open every door they pass. On the second floor it's more of the same. When they discover Henry lying shirtless in his hot study, Mrs. Steiner apologizes to her well-tanned companion: "Henry's my tenant. His wife used to live here with him, but she's gone. Henry doesn't need all this space now, so there's no need to be sorry for him."

After the Porsche drives off, Mrs. Steiner returns to Henry, still half-naked in his study, and says, "I wouldn't sell the holes in the walls to that one. Belongs to one of those cults, I bet. Got more things hanging from her ears than decorations on a Christmas trees; Mrs. Steiner shakes her head, and her bluish hair bobs and weaves.

She takes her leave and goes outside to wait for her cab. Henry eyes her tidying the patch of grass that surrounds the F O R S A L E sign. She picks up broken palm fronds and plucks weeds, working with the fastidious devotion of one on a visit to the family plot. Henry feels a twinge in his stomach. This happens whenever the
FOR SALE

By Owner
No Appointment Necessary
sign crosses his line of vision. It's as ifhis body were trying to tell him something's wrong, the way a toothache calls attention to invisible decay. When Mrs. Steiner first put the house on the market, she and Henry struck a deal. In exchange for a reduction in rent, he has agreed to show the house to anyone who wishes to see it. But doing so leaves him feeling like a condemned man advising his executioner on the best way to do him in. He hates the thought of moving, hates equally living in renter's limbo, never knowing, from day to day, if he'll have a home. At times, he wonders whether Mrs. Steiner is deliberately delaying the sale just to torment him. She has certainly fielded several credible bids, but in every instance she has invented excuses for prolonging the process. She turned away one guy because ofhis turquoise ostrich-skin cowboy boots, another because he wanted to put a hot tub in the yard; there was the couple with the McGovern sticker on their car, and the black man she suspected was a professional athlete of some kind.

Henry relaxes a little the instant he hears Mrs. Steiner's cab pull away. He is lying on the maroon couch by his desk where, prior to the interruption, he had just finished grading a composition by his favorite student, Agnes. Trained in grad school to penetrate the surface of literary texts, Henry rereads the paper, analyzing the pellucid sym- bolism and the quivering tropes that riddle the paper she calls "How to Make Melon Balls." The subtext is obvious, her message to Henry clear -- she has a crush on him -- but the problem of making the proper response is, from a professional standpoint, a tricky one. He imagines comb- ing the essay for grammatical fiaws -- this isn't as simple as it sounds, since she's an exceptional writer -- or, failing that, fabricating a few; next he might invite her to his oEice to discuss, let's say, dangling modifiers; the minutes fly by, and he awes her with his mastery of the rules of gram- mar, she's swooning as he fleshes out subordination; and just as this scene, playing in his head, swiftly moves to its inevitable and well-deserved climax, Henry hears a strange voice out in the hallway, putting an end to the private lesson. Someone knocks. The door swings open. "I'm Dave Brinkley," says the man stepping into the study. "Nice place you have here."

With his head pillowed comfortably on his arms, Henry tells the stranger that he's too busy to show the house. He can go look for himself. Henry closes his eyes, hoping to find Agnes there under his lids. But Dave Brinkley, awash in cologne, steps deeper into the study, apologizing for the intrusion. He explains how he had seen the sign and thought the place deserted. He's standing within an arm's reach of Henry and sees the stack of essays on the desk. He says that he too is an "educator," an assistant professor of psychology at the state college across town. Having established this professional bond between them, Dave Brinkley pulls the chair away from the desk and parks it at the end of the couch where Henry's resting his head. He sits down and they engage in faculty-lounge chitchat, covering comparative salaries, course loads, and the quality of the student body at their respective schools. Dave Brinkley then starts to describe his impression of what Henry's mental state must be at that precise moment. "You see me coming between you and this house. To you, I am an interloper, a sexual rival of sorts. If I bought this house, you would feel emasculated, and we might not be friends anymore. That is why we need to talk."

When Dave Brinkley finally leaves, the sun in the smog is the color of iodine. By then Henry has long forgotten Agnes and split infinitives. Dave Brinkley occupies his thoughts. He had come to California to find his estranged wife when he heard she was "doing time in Hollywood." He wanted to buy the house and try to salvage their marriage. "I can see why she loves the West Coast. The sun, the surf -- and the air is not all that bad when it is the right color. This is her world. I can never hope to take her away from paradise." He unscrewed the wedding band from his finger, and said, as he handed it to Henry, "I was a fool to think I could keep a girl like her in Ohio." When Henry had some diEiculty deciphering the engraved name, Dave Brinkley started to spell it, enunciating each letter with the phony suspense of an emcee reading the winning digits of a lottery number. "C-H-R-I-S-T --"

"You're married -- to the modelP"

"Good, you are familiar with her work then. How about that cover-girl complexion?"

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