Tiny Ladies

by Adam Klein

  ‘Robert,’ he says. It’s hard to understand him at first.

  ‘You seem cold,’ I say. ‘Do you have a warm coat?’ This is ridiculous, I remind myself. Stick to case management. This is embarrassing. ‘Are you cold?’

  ‘It’s cold,’ he says. ‘I’m waiting for the store to open.’ He’s rubbing his arms. His rocking has slowed, as though his body were a vehicle slowing up, allowing me to get inside.

  ‘You have another hour before it opens. Are you going to the drugstore?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m going to the drugstore,’ he says, his answer offered seemingly independent of my question.

  ‘I’m Carrie,’ I say. ‘Can I sit next to you?’

  The boy’s face is thin and long; a sparse black mustache and individual, coarse black hairs pepper his cheek and chin. His nose is leaking. His eyelashes are soft and long; he looks like an El Greco saint, a kind of modesty to his abstracted expression. I want to push my arm through his, to warm the poor child. I push the snow off the bench and sit close enough to him to see the flakes of dandruff in his black, wavy hair, the pattern of sleep flattened in the hair above his ear.

  ‘I’ve seen you delivering newspapers,’ I say to him.

  He turns his head in my direction but avoids looking at me. ‘I carry newspapers,’ he says. ‘To downtown stores.’ His speech is difficult, his tongue softening every word. I allow myself to feel a tenderness for him I’ve only sometimes expressed with King. Acceptable pity. Pity for animals is all right but one learns that it’s condescension to feel pity for the retarded, the poor, the elderly. It undercuts their integrity, their potential, their resolve. Pity is no rescuer; it’s selfish. And of course I can’t hug him the way I do King. I feel a sudden ache, as though he were some part of me I’d abandoned, something I hadn’t learned to love until now.

  It gets increasingly cold sitting still beside him, and I ask him if he wants to walk to the Mennonite store. I’ve already determined that I will return with a coat whether he goes with me or not. If he’s no longer here when I return, I’ll simply ask someone at The Deadwood to hold it in the back, and the next time I see him delivering papers there, I’ll get it for him.

  ‘What is the Mennonite store?’ he asks, a little agitated. ‘I deliver papers to downtown stores.’

  ‘The Mennonite store sells coats. It’s not downtown, but it’s only a twenty-minute walk from here. We can walk together.’

  He nods his head.

  ‘Do you want to walk with me?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Mennonite store.’

  I practically have to pull him from the bench; he seems almost frozen in place. He takes his first steps laboriously, then loses some of the stiffness in his gait except for the heaviness in his right foot which I’ve noticed before when I’ve seen him delivering papers with his canvas bag. He holds onto my arm, not saying anything at first but looking over his shoulder at the bench.

  I wonder whose child this is, and how often he’s alone. I feel strangely insulated walking with him, as though the two of us were figures in a snow dome, the environment shifting around us while we remain still. He holds steadfastly to my arm, repeating the name of the Mennonite store and laughing each time he says it. I imagine him thrilled with the excitement of another store, one he’s unfamiliar with. Someplace where he might deliver papers, find a connection or routine.

  His delight does not keep me from my own disturbing voices, urging me to see in my gesture an attraction to doomed and stunted things. Victor and even Hannah are drawn into this circle. They all have a damaged beauty about them; I’m drawn to them sexually, even this boy whose trust momentarily shames me. Perhaps it was Jim who’d set this pattern into existence. He came to me wounded, and I’d brought a girl’s fantasy to the war he’d witnessed. I thought my loving him could make him whole. But I was attracted to people I couldn’t save long before him, long before the Poison Girl grew up in me, unable to resist the colorful things that could kill her.

  The chimes on the door of the store fascinate Robert. He pulls it open and closes it again. I take his hand, nodding quietly to the Mennonite woman behind the old-fashioned cash register.

  ‘Hello,’ she says, more to Robert than myself. ‘Is there anything I can help you with?’

  Robert is pulling me along now, past the crowded racks of dresses.

  ‘I’m just here to get him a coat. I know they’re in the back.’

  She nods, and goes back to reading through a large magnifying glass. I wonder if she thinks I’m his mother. I would be proud of this beautiful boy. I’d discover the things he loves and make sure he had them. I’d find a way to bury the bones of my past, to put my failures behind me. I’d let him teach me; abandon all my lessons of life and its limits.

  The whole store smells like a winter trunk. In the back of the store the racks run at waist and eye level completely around the walls. They’re jammed with coats. I reach up and grab a blue down jacket. I help Robert on with it. His eyes are wide and expectant. When I pull up the zipper of the coat, he falls toward me, pushing his face into my breasts. I allow myself to pat his head, then take him by the shoulders and hold him away from me, looking at the fit of the coat. A little small, I think. I find an orange one with a hood. It looks larger, and I begin to help him with it when he pushes himself to my breasts and grabs at them.

  ‘No,’ I say, holding him away from me.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. I can see in his eyes a gentle, beatified confusion. The jacket fits him perfectly. When I zip him up this time, he looks away as though his interest has alighted on something else in the other room.

  ‘Do you like it?’ I ask him.

  He nods his head. I pull the tag from the sleeve and leave him wearing the coat. By the register I notice some shelves with frames of varying sizes. I pick up a couple of small frames. One is made of wood and painted pale blue; the other is covered in brown leather. I decide on the wood frame and pay for it and the jacket. I call Robert out of the store. We walk back to town with him holding my hand. I banish my doubts about my motivations. The bright, orange coat will not only keep him warm, I think, but safe too. You can see him from a block away.

  In San Francisco I passed a black man almost every morning on my way to work handing out the homeless paper for donations. He stood in front of the coffee shop not far from the Employment Development Department. I liked the way he spoke to me, his consistency. One day I asked him what kind of work he’d do if someone offered him a job. He didn’t have to think about it.

  ‘I’d go back to plumbing,’ he said. ‘I’m a trained plumber. I had a drug problem. I went to jail. I served my time. I just haven’t had an employer willing to give me a chance since.’

  I handed him my card. I thought this was an improvement. In the past I might have urged him to come to work with me. I left it to his discretion. If he wanted help finding work, I’d assist him. We weren’t supposed to recruit, but our services weren’t advertised either. Other social service groups referred us clients. He seemed startled by the offer and took my hand in both of his. I worried he might kiss it, but he just shook it gratefully.

  The next morning I didn’t see him hawking the Street Sheet. I bought my coffee and walked into the office. He was sitting in the waiting room and stood up when I entered. He had a maroon tie on and a dress shirt. I led him to my desk, though it wasn’t yet 8 A.M. I started to take his narrative. He lived two buildings away from me with his girlfriend, who was an unemployed legal secretary.

  ‘I haven’t used since I got out of prison a year ago.’

  ‘How long were you in?’

  ‘Four years.’

  I knew it would be tough; he was at least five years out of work. But I thought I could pitch him, vouch for him. He’d worked for some major plumbing outfits. I called and got confirmations, even a recommendation. I was ambitious. I hadn’t met Victor. I was clean, transitioning back into the world of whole people. I opened a Yellow Pages and looked up plumbing
companies, tried to find someone smaller, independent. There were tax incentives I could offer. We could arrange to match the employers’ salary for the first three months.

  I cold called and found someone willing to listen to my pitch. I set up an interview. I created a résumé for Cal. He sat at my desk, stunned. I made the world seem easy to navigate. Incentive was everything.

  ‘Remember,’ I advised him, ‘you deserve this. You can do this. This is your field. These are your skills.’

  He came in two days later, after his interview. ‘I start this weekend,’ he said, beaming. I had to follow up with the employer every three weeks.

  ‘Cal’s working out great,’ he said. ‘He’s my right-hand man.’ He was making more money than he ever had, working sometimes sixty hours a week. Sometimes he slept on a cot at the shop. He called to ask me if I’d see his girlfriend, Dianne. She needed work too.

  Dianne was a tall, thin, red-haired woman. Her bangs fell into her eyes, the rest fell almost to her waist. She looked Irish. She had freckles, and deep crow’s-feet around her eyes. She used Cal’s last name.

  ‘I guess you haven’t worked in a while,’ I said, thinking her hair was a problem. It was red but going gray. It was clean but functioned like a ratty frame. Her face was washed out, revealing a hard, grooved shell.

  ‘Cal’s gone all the time,’ she said, ‘We barely have any time together.’ She talked to me like I was responsible for this and could put an end to it.

  I put my pen down, looked at her. ‘It’s good that he’s working, isn’t it?’

  ‘I miss him,’ she said. She thought for a moment of how this must sound. ‘I just need to get back to work. I used to work as a legal secretary.’ Her lips played nervously over bad teeth. I thought the hair and the snaggletooth were going to work against her in a law office.

  ‘When was your last job?’ I asked her.

  ‘Over ten years ago.’ I heard in her voice that she didn’t believe I could help her. Her presence suddenly exhausted me. I didn’t even want to begin a case for her. Her hair fell slack like my mother’s. Her eyes showed a dull, obligatory attentiveness. She’d been sleeping for the past ten years; now she’s suddenly bored by sleep.

  ‘What happened to you?’ I asked. No need for me to be gentle in my inquiry. Something was wrong with her; she couldn’t pretend otherwise. Ten years of unemployment is never just bad luck.

  ‘I drink sometimes,’ she said. ‘I have a problem with it. But since Cal came back, neither of us have used anything.’

  She answered no to the other questions I asked her:

  Do you know any computer applications?

  Do you have any references we can contact?

  Any paralegal skills?

  Lawyers don’t want their new hires to be tax exemptions from the state. They don’t build offices in enterprise zones. I couldn’t imagine how to pitch her. I felt helpless, enervated looking at her. I’d heard of people who used helplessness as a defense mechanism. They forced people to give up on them.

  ‘I can call around,’ I said. ‘But I’m not really sure if I can place you. You may want to start at a community college, get some computer skills.’

  She only said, ‘I hope you’ll ask Cal to come home more often, when you speak to him.’

  About nine months later, everything had changed. I’d met Victor. I was using, and I was under scrutiny at the job. It was almost Christmas. I arrived late one morning to find Cal standing in the lobby, a particularly battered chrysanthemum in his hands.

  ‘Hi, Carrie,’ he said. ‘I wanted to wish you a good holiday, and to give you this. I thought maybe I could talk to you if you have a minute.’ He held the potted flower out to me.

  ‘Thank you, Call.’ I was flustered. There were other clients in the lobby, clients I was late for. We weren’t supposed to take gifts either. ‘I have just a couple of minutes,’ I informed him, speaking loud enough for the other two clients to hear.

  I brought him back to my desk, hoping he wouldn’t notice my pinned eyes, raspy voice.

  ‘This is quite a surprise,’ I commented, shuffling some papers, looking down.

  He said suddenly, ‘Dianne’s dead.’

  ‘What?’ I was shaken. She’d called about a month before to see if anything looked promising. I’d never done anything on her behalf. Nothing looked promising.

  ‘I tried to stop her. I was holding her wrist, but she got free and jumped out of our window. I tried to hold her back.’ He was weeping, both hands spread over his face.

  ‘Oh, Cal. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I loved her so much,’ he sobbed. He brought his face low to his knees. ‘She was depressed and drinking. I tried to hold her back, but she jumped.’

  ‘When did this happen, Cal?’

  ‘Three weeks ago,’ he said. ‘I’ve lost everything.’

  He straightened up and looked at me. I saw his eyes then.

  ‘You used over it,’ I said to him. I wasn’t condemning. I was in no position.

  ‘There’s no point to anything without her,’ he said. ‘I lost my job and my apartment. I couldn’t hold on to her, and I lost everything.’

  I saw in his reduced pupils the full horror of resignation, the pulverizing force of life on the weak. We weren’t allowed to work with active users. But I was using. I’d break the rules for him.

  ‘Cal, we’ve got to get you working,’ I said. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘No, Carrie,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I don’t want anything anymore. I’m through trying. It’s over now. I came to tell you about Dianne, and to thank you for being there for me. I’ll never forget it.’ He stood up and left abruptly.

  Over the next two years I saw him about three times on the street. The first time he was arguing with a white woman, standing at a bus shelter in the rain. The last time, I’d lost my job and was out copping dope. ‘Carrie,’ he called. I turned and saw him on the corner where I’d sometimes bought syringes.

  ‘Cal,’ I said, glad to see him and walking over to him.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

  ‘The same thing you are,’ I answered, and we looked at each other knowingly, smiling as though it were good fortune that brought us together.

  I leave Robert downtown, eyeing the orange coat as I make my way across the street from him. He continues waving for a long time after I say good-bye. I stop turning around, prolonging my departure. I feel good knowing he’ll be warm, but my sadness for him is more acute. It doesn’t make a difference if that sadness is appropriate. Caring about people is wounding. That’s why so many people are reluctant to care. It hurts.

  I go for lunch and return to The Deadwood for coffee. I think maybe I’ll run into Gina here, or Hannah. It’s central. We all come here. I like the buzz of the students; a few of them seem genuinely interesting. I sit close to a boy who seems to hold court here. His hair is a recently dyed, blue-black mop top. He has a thin, expressive face and abnormally long fingers, always moving at the sides of his head when he’s reading or talking, as though he were constructing a cat’s cradle. He carries a mailbag filled with books, magazines, and records. He puts these items out on the table as though he were setting up an exhibit. He engages for hours while friends come and go, maintaining an astonishing ability to keep them laughing and interested.

  I find myself staring at him. He’s sitting alone, completely confident in his aloneness, as though he’s certain that people will seek him out. He appears not to wait on them, doesn’t look up to consult a clock or check the door. I imagine the luxury of his downtime, untroubled by his own thoughts and unafraid of who might visit him.

  I stir my coffee, my eyes jumping from him to the window of The Deadwood. Unconscious jumping, scanning. My anger, it occurs to me, never rises up with menace the way it should. My anger doesn’t protect me. But here it is, a kind of paralyzing hyper-observation. I’d just begun to put fear in its box, and now I see the box torched, a paper house. I managed to live h
ere in Iowa City without asking myself if I liked living here. I gathered slipcases, a duvet, throw rugs, unmatched pieces of china to create something that’s mine, and now that it’s threatened I can see how hollow it is. Other people can create with certainty; they don’t work within ever-shortening parameters. I see how Victor’s made these choices for me, and before him it was all the others. A choice of tragedies.

  By four in the afternoon it’s dark outside, and by 6 P.M. I feel myself growing roots. The energy changes, shifting focus to the crowd at the bar. They respond to a small mounted television set. I don’t even bother to trace the source of their excitement. Some kind of game, no doubt. People want to be excited. I like to imagine a permanent frozen silence, a block of ice holding the earth still while the sun recedes like a rock thrown in reverse.

  The boy beside me begins packing his traveling show into his mailbag. I pay my bill, leaving a large tip. We both recognize the change in the bar; it’s suddenly a hostile environment, a dangerous sporting event. I want to speak to him as we make our way to the door, but I’ve had my share of strangers today. Talking to another person would tip the balance somehow. I might have to ask myself if I weren’t looking for allies, last-minute circumstances that might change my fate.

  We part ways at the door. I’m at first reluctant to walk alone to my car. There’s no choice. I remember this condition; people without choices take the next step. I take it quickly, as though I’m late for something. I berate myself for leaving The Deadwood after the sun has gone down; I should be home already with the doors bolted and a knife in my hand. I can’t even laugh at the thought. And when a street lamp flashes on, I find myself stalled beneath it. It seems to illuminate my dread, catching me almost running.

  7

  The plane touches down. Men with flags move hurriedly over the hot asphalt, and I can imagine the humidity already, watching one of them wipe his brow with the short sleeve of his shirt. I gather up the music I’ve taken along with me, and put the tapes and the Walkman into my purse. Gina’s pared me down to only carry-on bags, and as I pass the line of people at the baggage claim, I’m grateful she’s done it. I quickly step aside a family, all of them squat and seemingly missing the same teeth, staring down at an unmoving carousel. I’ll glide through the whole experience, I tell myself. I’ve come to finalize a separation I made when I was sixteen. No need to make myself too comfortable here, or bring back souvenirs.