Buy Me Love

by Martha Cooley

  More liquid, more tinkling, then a slurping sound.

  I’m not hiring an accountant. I don’t want any money from you. My music’s all that matters to me. Either I make a go of it, or I’m not gonna be taken care of, by anybody—including you.

  Shielding her phone, she took another step back as water splashed her feet. The fountain was dancing hard now.

  For God’s sake, Win, I’m not your keeper. I’m just going to buy you some time.

  Uh-uh, he said. Time can’t be bought. It has to be made. If you were still writing poems, you’d understand.

  Why’re you banging on me? I’ve barely got my head around this whole thing.

  What whole thing? You mean, whether to take the money as a lump sum or in installments? Just do what your financial advisors tell you to do.

  I really can’t deal with this now . . .

  He clucked scornfully.

  Know what Mel told me once? She said, your sister’s carburetor needs adjusting.

  Look, if you’re so het up about it, why not tell me what you think I should do with the money?

  I’ve got nothing to say. It’s none of my business.

  But when you realized I’d won, you expected I’d offer you some cash, right, even if you’d already decided you wouldn’t take any?

  I don’t want your money. As I’ve just said.

  Whatever. But you do have ideas about how I should deal with it. It’s not possible for you not to have ideas.

  What I think is this, El: you need to hire some help and make decisions. Quit stalling.

  What I think is this . . . could she herself utter those words, then finish the sentence?

  I’m freaked out, Win. It’s not stalling. I’ve got no idea what to do with the money. Or with myself. I mean, a ton of ideas and feelings come and go, but I can’t decide anything. I need time to sort things out.

  He snorted.

  Take a couple of Xanax, he said. And now I gotta go.

  Wait—did you have dinner with Maria yesterday? She’s here, right?

  Yeah, she’s here, and yes, I did. Now go back to work. It’s Friday, take it easy, go home early. Who cares if they fire you for it? We’ll talk later. ’Bye.

  3

  So he’d seen Maria. And had probably subjected the poor woman to the third degree.

  Like, had Mel been killed instantly? Had she spoken before dying? Tell me, he’d probably said after they’d gone through a bottle of wine. Tell me what the air sounded like when it happened.

  And Maria had probably stared at him like he was crazy.

  Then again, maybe he hadn’t asked her a single thing about that day. Maybe he’d just asked about the best bars in Madrid. Maybe they’d simply hung out at his place and gotten drunk and yakked about how New York City had changed since Maria was last there. Maybe neither of them took note of the siren of a police car as it passed Win’s building. Or the “if you see something, say something” sign by the entrance to the subway at Thirty-Sixth Street. Maybe they’d each decided not to talk about Mel, or even mention her name. Maybe they’d exchanged banalities for an hour, then parted.

  Maybe Win wept himself to sleep after Maria left.

  4

  The Balcony was empty.

  Eight o’clock on a Sunday morning, and scarcely a gym-rat in sight. Cardio area completely vacant. Only a few guys in the weight room.

  Silence, such a gift.

  Happy, was she happy to be a multi-millionaire?

  Yes. No. Neither happy nor unhappy. Each word was way off the mark. Some sort of marvel was about to occur, and there were no marvels without mayhem, were there? A super-expensive haircut, her favorite perfume, a new pair of Armani flats, all that stuff was easy. Easy as well to imagine a vacation for all the nearest-and-dearest and herself—wherever they all felt like going, forget about the cost. And a housewarming present for Dale: his mortgage fully paid off, just like that.

  As for Win, whatever it’d take to get him off the edge of the cliff.

  But then what? Should she buy a bookstore, fund a poetry center, get every stray cat in the city neutered and fed? Should she come up with a bunch of projects—political, artistic—and spend her days meeting-and-greeting, consulting and being consulted? Or should she hire a bunch of go-getters—makers and doers—and step into the wings, not responsible in any way for getting things done, for look at what all my money has wrought, instead relying on others to come up with projects, plans, solutions? And in the wings, what should she do? Indulge her invisibility, sit around eating bonbons and reading poems? Accomplish zilch and be proud of it? And with whom should or could she spend her time? Why would anyone who knew her—very well, somewhat well, casually, not at all, whatever—want to spend time with her? To help or be helped by her? To give, take? Advise, consent? Could anyone ever feel at ease hanging out with a nouveau riche in a constant state of inner turmoil?

  It all came down to one thing. What would the winner of the Pick Seven jackpot have to do to avoid launching a colossal farce—her new life?

  At the Balcony’s railing, she mimed the action of tearing a small piece of paper into pieces.

  It’d feel great, it really would, to rip up the ticket. To destroy it right then and there in the Lottery Commission’s offices. To walk in and say okay, here I am, and here’s the ticket—just let me sign the paperwork, so I can destroy the evidence.

  Tossing something overboard there, captain?

  She wheeled around. Roy stood before her.

  Good lord, you scared me!

  Good lord, he repeated. Now there’s an expression I haven’t heard in ages.

  Smiling, he mimicked the movements of her fingers.

  You fake-disposed of whatever it was very nicely, he said. Your fingers . . . Like a princess washing her fingertips.

  She pointed at the court below. You teaching today?

  Nope. I just like working out on Sundays. It’s quiet.

  Walking over to a nook, he sat cross-legged on a mat and pointed to the adjacent one.

  Have a stretch, he said.

  His arms rose over his head, fingers scrunching air.

  I already stretched out, she said.

  No you didn’t.

  I did!

  Smiling, he shook his head.

  People who’re warmed up look it. I can tell you’re not. Show me your routine—we’ll make some adjustments.

  The lesson bore no resemblance to childhood gym classes. No repetitive bobbing up and down or flailing of arms; instead, a half-dozen simple stretches.

  Know what? she said. You’re right, I really wasn’t stretched out.

  See? Now you know. And now you can do your run.

  Yes boss, she said.

  And when you’re finished, go home and write a poem. Since your body will be loosened up, I’m sure you’ll write more easily.

  Aye-aye.

  And while I’m giving orders: meet me tonight at seven, at the entrance to the Eighty-Sixth Street station in Bay Ridge, so I can take you to dinner. There’s a nice little place . . . well, you’ll see. Assuming you’re available, that is.

  Well . . . I am, in fact. But this time, I take you to dinner.

  We’ll argue over that later. Can I have your phone number, please, in case you get lost trekking from the Slope to the Ridge?

  Ah, so you’re one of those people who’s never without his phone.

  Only because of Ennio. Otherwise I’d toss the thing out the window.

  5

  Quarter to six. What to wear?

  Not the usual uniform of jeans and linen shirt, for God’s sake. Spiff it up at least a little. How about diamonds—just call Tiffany’s, order something, have a messenger deliver it within the hour . . .

  Vertigo.

  A skirt, then. Nice sandals, the ones with the low heels and ankle-straps. And a linen shirt—okay, but it had to be new. That sleeveless, cream-colored blouse with the wood buttons and notched collar. Another great vintage-shop purchase,
with the original tags from Bergdorf’s, no less. Awaiting a special occasion.

  She sat on the bed til the dizziness passed.

  A special occasion. Also known as a date, this time with an unmarried man. Why not wear some jewelry? A necklace . . . the jade one with a gold clasp shaped like a bumblebee—the only item la mamma hadn’t tossed out after Walter left. Purchased in Hong Kong for Nola’s thirtieth birthday. That must’ve been before things started going totally downhill, sex- and drink-wise. Amazing that Nola hadn’t pawned the necklace for gin.

  Next to the jewelry box lay her mailbox key. Picking it up, she headed to the front door. Boy-Cat and Girl-Cat followed, nipping at her heels.

  Easy, kittenettes, stay inside now, guard the fort. I’ll be right back.

  In the box downstairs were a lightweight blue envelope, an oversized BAM flyer, and the usual monthly bills: gas, electricity, phone.

  Lightweight, blue? An old-fashioned airmail envelope.

  Back upstairs, she sat at the kitchen table and stared at the envelope. It was postmarked Cremona, Italy, ten days earlier.

  Her name and address had been typed on an old-fashioned manual typewriter. Inside were three sheets of paper: a photocopy of an official Italian document, its translation into English, and a neatly handwritten letter, also in English, on good-quality stationary.

  The document was a death certificate, Walter’s. Three weeks ago, in Cremona, of natural causes, age eighty-five, according to the translation. The letter, written in English, was from Bruno.

  Dear Ellen,

  I am hoping this reaches you. A friend with access to the internet helped me locate you; I do not own a computer.

  As you can see, your father departed last Friday. In his sleep. An easy death, though unexpected. He was not in ill health, just a little tired. It seems his heart gave out—I believe that is that how it is said.

  He was buried in the main cemetery in Cremona. I have not yet informed any English-language newspapers, but will do so shortly.

  Italian bureaucracy requires effort to navigate, so I will go directly to the point. Your father has left you some money, and to receive it, you will need to come to Cremona as soon as possible. Not later than the middle of next month, when I leave the city for a month of rest in the mountains. You will have to sign several documents in person, and I must accompany you. Please bring, in addition to your passport, a phone number for someone at your bank in New York. You will have to pay a small fee for moving the money across the ocean.

  I can be reached at this phone number: 0372.338.9491. Call me when you reach Cremona. I will be here, awaiting you. I am keen—is that right, in English?—to make your acquaintance.

  Bruno

  Slogans

  1

  Ninth Street, 2:00 a.m.: quiet, though of course more active than the park. Intermittent traffic. Mostly car-service vehicles and delivery vans.

  Two people passed on the opposite side of the street. A truck, a minute later. Then silence.

  Blair hopped onto a low wall at the back of a parking lot midway up Tenth Street. Her knapsack was cumbersome, but staying balanced wasn’t difficult. Everything was a matter of not getting distracted.

  A makeshift ladder led to the roof of one of the garages. Someone had already pushed aside the barbed wire blocking access to the ladder. She shimmied up another low wall sloping upward behind the garage. It led to the subway tunnel linking the elevated station at Fourth Avenue with the underground one at Seventh. On her belly, she snaked her way up til she reached a stretch of wire fence. It, too, had been breached; a lightweight patch covered the four-by-four hole.

  Her wire cutters, lifted from Home Depot on a slow weekday morning, bit easily into the patch. Slicing it wide open, she climbed through the hole and pushed the torn pieces back together.

  Over the apex of the tunnel was a concrete path.

  Stay low. Standing or even crouching, she’d be spotted from the platform. On her belly again, she squirmed to the middle of the path. Thirty feet down, the Fourth Avenue platform began. It was lit, though not brightly. No one stood on the southbound side; on a bench near the end of the northbound side sat a man, elbows resting on his knees.

  Half-asleep and exhausted. Not noticing a thing.

  From her pack she pulled out a can of spray paint, then the stencils: four rectangles, each framed in lightweight pine and measuring three feet square. Next she took out the pieces of balsa wood that would back each rectangle. They weighed little but required careful handling, as they’d splinter easily. The pine frames were sturdier. She’d had to disassemble them in the back of the store, then reassemble them at home so the hinges could be popped. That way she could carry the frames and then hook them up again. Both the frames and the hinges would be noted as missing, but the store manager would assume a customer had lifted them.

  The X-Acto knife had been the trickiest theft. All the knives were kept behind a counter, and customers had to ask for the locked case to be opened. She didn’t have access to the keys. She’d asked the cashier if he’d make a coffee run during a slow spell, offering to watch the register while he was gone. A minute was all it’d taken to get the key, open the case, and slip a knife into the pocket of her work-apron.

  The sans-serif font she’d picked was easy to read, similar to what the MTA used.

  After sizing each letter on paper, she’d mounted the paper mockups on her living room wall so she could see how the whole thing would look. Then came the task of incising the letters into the balsa wood. Once the frames were hinged together, each stencil had two words in each of its four rectangles: You Suckers / You’re Being / Taken For / A Ride.

  Color of the paint? Her trademark red, to keep things consistent.

  2

  She inched her shoulders and chest over the edge of the overpass wall.

  Its surface felt crumbly and unstable. She pulled back a little, but that wouldn’t work; to do the spraying, she’d need full range of movement. That meant maintaining her balance while levering her torso as far over the edge as possible.

  She moved forward again, scanning below. Two sets of train-tracks entered the tunnel; a bright light illumined the entrance. The stretch of wall just below her ribcage—between the top of the overpass and the roof of the tunnel—was perhaps eight feet high. Its surface had been frequently tagged. The usual swirly bright shapes were outlined in white, the sort of graffiti found all over the city. A few days earlier, this stretch of wall had been repainted during the MTA’s monthly cleanup. The surface was now a uniform light gray—a good backdrop. Against the gray, her red lettering would look just right.

  A train was approaching from Seventh Avenue.

  She felt the overpass shudder lightly as the train emerged from the tunnel, the tops of its cars almost touchable. The train whined to a halt at the platform. At the far end, the man seated on a bench stumbled to his feet and boarded the first car. It’d be twenty minutes til the next northbound train; the southbound would arrive in roughly two minutes. Late at night, the trains tended to run pretty much as planned.

  Wiggling away from the edge of the wall, Blair got onto her knees and shook the can of paint, readying it.

  Now for the measurements. Crouching, she fast-walked the length of the path: about forty feet. Then paced backward twenty feet, to the middle. Then leftward ten feet or so.

  A southbound train was advancing, right on schedule.

  She dropped flat, turning her head away so her face wouldn’t be visible. The doors’ chimes sounded; the train pulled away from the platform. A quick rumble and then it was gone. The platform below was empty.

  Slipping on a face-mask made from an oversized ski cap, she inched forward again. Almost half her body was cantilevered over the edge of the overpass. She inhaled deeply, the can of paint in one hand and the first stencil in the other. Lowering the stencil carefully, she pressed it flat against the overpass.

  Hold the can in front. Push its button firmly; not too much
paint. Keep it steady, hold the button down hard.

  The smell was noxious. She held her breath.

  Now to the next frame. Then the next. Then the final. There: all eight words.

  She pulled herself away from the wall’s edge and sat up.

  A little dizzy. No surprise, given the smell and the fact of having hung face-down for a while.

  She took off her mask; a breeze cooled the sweat on her face. Her torso felt fiery, her back muscles tense. It’d taken a lot of effort to stay in place while spraying, but the job was done.

  3

  They were soft, but she heard the footsteps behind her as she was placing the stencils in her pack.

  She put her mask back on, grabbed the can of paint, and spun around. A boy stood maybe five feet from her. Not too big or tall, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old. A round, stupid-looking face. Arms too long for his body.

  She pointed the can of paint at him and shook it before speaking.

  Come any closer and I’ll spray this shit right in your eyes.

  He gazed at her, smiling a little.

  What are you doin’, he said.

  None of your fucking business.

  A girl taggin’ . . .

  Beat it, she said. Go away.

  Hey, the kid said. Lots of us come up here. But no girls.

  I told you—get lost.

  Listen up, he snarled. You think you can—

  She made a move toward him. He turned just before the spray hit him; it reddened the entire side of his body.

  Bitch! he yelped. Stupid cunt!

  He looked as if someone had shot him. She could hear him swearing softly as he went down the incline.

  She finished packing up and made the descent. Nobody else was around; it was almost 4:00 a.m., very quiet. Back on Tenth Street, she trotted downhill to Fourth Avenue and entered the station, jumping the turnstile. Ascending the steps to the Manhattan-bound side, she walked several yards down the platform and turned to gaze up at her work.