“Rolling peas?” I had the feeling that a joke was coming.
“Try it,” said Martha. She picked a pea from her plate with the tip of her spoon and let it roll onto the table between us. Margot did the same with one of hers.
“Now rest your finger on that pea,” said Margot. “Martha’s, too.”
I put my index fingers on the peas.
“This one,” said Martha, taking the middle finger of my hand and placing it on her pea. Margot made the same change on her side.
“Just rest your finger there lightly,” Margot cautioned. “Don’t squash the little thing.”
I did as she said.
“The same over here,” said Martha.
“Good,” said Margot. “Now let’s see you roll the peas around a little.”
Cautiously, I began to move my fingers on the peas.
“Close your eyes,” said Martha.
I closed my eyes, and I found that that helped. The peas seemed larger, more easily manipulated. I had a better sensation of the feeling of each pea against the finger pad that rested on it. I seemed to acquire a sense of the difference between the skin of the pea and the mush it contained, to understand the tensile limits of the skin, the edge of the danger of rupturing it, and the resistant resilience of the ball of mush within. I became a little bolder, rolling the peas a little farther, a little faster—and the right one got away from me.
“Don’t get cocky,” said Margot. “Just move them around a little. Don’t try to impress us.”
“You’ve got to walk before you can fly,” said Martha. “Try again.” Humbled, I moved the peas gingerly, maintaining control, moving them ever so slightly, just keeping each pea on the central ridge of my finger pad, never rolling so far that the pea would slip away.
“Now move them from side to side,” said Margot. She had seen how conservative I was being. Carefully, I moved my fingers from side to side, paying close attention to the contact of pea and finger. I wasn’t going to let the little devils get away from me.
“Now up and back.”
I had, extrapolating from my recent pat-your-head-and-rub-your-stomach experience without being aware of it, expected something like this, anticipated that the girls would suddenly, at unpredictable moments, throw challenges like this one at me, so I was, somewhere below or beyond thought, ready for them, and I was able to shift to an up-and-back stroke without getting flustered.
“Concentrate,” said Margot. “Pay attention to what you’re doing.”
“It’s going to get tricky,” said Martha.
“Okay.” I did concentrate, and I was intrigued to find how much I felt when I concentrated, how well and fully I could feel the pea against the pad of my finger, sense the topography of my finger, the gross shape, with the elongated ridge, the sloping sides, the quarter sphere at the tip—dangerous territory, where the pea was likely to skitter away from me—but even more, to feel the ridges and furrows of my fingerprints against the smooth skin of the pea.
“You know,” I said, “I can actually feel—”
“Faster over here,” said Margot.
“And slower over here,” said Martha, “but with longer strokes.”
“Okay, let me see. I—oops—I—”
“He squashed mine,” said Martha. There was in her voice a note that I wouldn’t have expected. I might have expected her to be annoyed with me, or I might have expected her to be amused, but she was—and this was unmistakable—disappointed.
“What do you think?” she asked Margot.
“He can do it if he concentrates,” she said. “I really think he can.”
“I’m not too well coordinated,” I said, by way of excusing myself. I remembered my attempts to roller-skate, to play the piano with two hands, to juggle.
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Margot, and I could tell from her tone that she actually meant it.
“Nor would I,” said Martha.
“You just need to work on it.”
“Practice at home.”
“Practice at home?” I asked.
“You have peas at home, don’t you?”
“Sure, but—” I had intended to say that I wasn’t allowed to play with my food, but when I looked into Margot’s doubting, inquisitive eyes, I saw that such an objection was inappropriate. I looked at Martha and saw the same thing in her eyes.
“But?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “Never mind. Sure. I’ll practice at home. But—”
“But what?”
“Well—why?”
They looked at each other. They looked at me.
“Just to please us,” said Martha.
[to be continued]
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🎧 799: “Rolling peas?”