Strangers

Delicatessen. Yes, of course. It was Tuesday, and she had been at Bernstein's when… when something happened.
        What? What had happened at Bernstein's?
        And where was the deli bag?
        She let go of the iron railing, raised her hands, and blotted her eyes on her blue knit gloves.
        Gloves. Not hers, not these gloves. The myopic man in the Russian hat. His black leather gloves. That was what had frightened her.
        But why had she been gripped by hysteria, overwhelmed by dread at the sight of them? What was so frightening about black gloves?
        Across the street, an elderly couple watched her intently, and she wondered what she had done to draw their attention. Though she strained to remember, she could not summon the faintest recollection of her journey up the hill. The past three minutes - perhaps longer? - were utterly blank. She must have run up Mount Vernon Street in a panic. Evidently, judging by the expressions on the faces of those observing her, she had made quite a spectacle of herself.
        Embarrassed, she turned away from them and started hesitantly down Mount Vernon Street, back the way she had come. At the bottom, just around the corner, she found her bag of groceries lying on its side on the pavement. She stood over it for long seconds, staring at the crumpled brown bundle, trying to recall the moment when she had dropped it. But where that moment should have been, her memory contained only grayness, nothingness.
        What's wrong with me?
        A few items had spilled from the fallen parcel, but none was torn open, so she put them back in the paper sack.
        Unsettled by her baffling loss of control, weak in the knees, she headed home, her breath pluming in the frosty air. After a few steps she halted. Hesitated. Finally she turned back toward Bernstein's.
        She stopped just outside the deli and had to wait only a minute or two before the man in the Russian hat and the tortoiseshell glasses came out with a grocery bag of his own.
        "Oh." He blinked in surprise. "Uh… listen, did I say I'm sorry? The way you stormed out of there, I thought maybe I'd only meant to say it, you know -"
        She stared at his leather-sheathed right hand where it gripped the brown paper bag. He gestured with his other hand as he spoke, and she followed it as it described a brief, small pattern in the chilly air. The gloves did not frighten her now. She could not imagine why the sight of them had thrown her into a panic.
        "It's all right. I was here waiting to apologize. I was startled and… and it's been an unusual morning," she said, quickly turning away from him. Over her shoulder, she called out, "Have a nice day."
        Although her apartment was not far away, the walk home seemed like an epic journey over vast expanses of gray pavement.
        What's wrong with me?
        She felt colder than the November day could explain.
        She lived on Beacon Hill, on the second floor of a four story house that had once been the home of a nineteenth-century banker. She'd chosen the place because she liked the carefully preserved period detail: elaborate ceiling moldings, medallions above the doorways, mahogany doors, bay windows with French panes, two fireplaces (living room, bedroom) with ornately carved and highly polished marble mantels. The rooms had a feeling of permanence, continuity, stability.
        Ginger prized constancy and stability more than anything, perhaps as a reaction to having lost her mother when she was only twelve.
        Still shivering even though the apartment was warm, she put away the groceries in the breadbox and refrigerator, then went into the bathroom to look closely at herself in the mirror. She was very pale. She did not like the hunted, haunted look in her eyes.
        To her reflection, she said, "What happened out there, shnook? You were a real meshuggene, let me tell you. Totally farfufket. But why? Huh? You're the big-shot doctor, so tell me. Why?"
        Listening to her voice as it echoed off the high ceiling of the bathroom, she knew she was in serious trouble. Jacob, her father, had been a Jew by virtue of his genes and heritage, and proud of it, but he had not been a Jew by virtue of his religious practices. He seldom went to synagogue and observed holidays in the same secular spirit with which many fallen-away Christians celebrated Easter and Christmas. And Ginger was one step farther