Buy Me Love

by Martha Cooley

  She pointed at a painting.

  Yep, he said, taking a seat beside her on the sofa. That’s Buy Me Love.

  The canvas was perhaps thirty inches wide and half that high. It depicted a ten-dollar bill in mottled shades of green. Across the bottom of the bill, a diamond ring was scrawled in yellow. In the central oval of the bill was a bird with a long, white-tipped tail and a creamy belly. Its gray wings were flecked with white.

  I’m going to loan the painting to a gallery in Park Slope, he said. A friend from the gym told me about it. They’re looking for local work for a show they’re doing, so I sent them a photo and told them they couldn’t sell the painting, but if they wanted to display it, okay. It’s my way of helping Nadine after the fact. I’d like to imagine her getting past her . . . what’s the word for it? Modesty?

  Reticence?

  Or just plain insecurity. I still don’t know which.

  What sort of bird is that?

  A diamond dove. See the sparkly bits on the wings? When they’re paired, diamond doves peck each other around the neck while they fluffle their wings. Nadine and I watched a video about them.

  Fluffle?

  You know—they shake out their wings . . .

  He mimed the movement, shoulders undulating. Then he pried off his boots and removed his socks.

  Make yourself comfortable, he said.

  5

  She took off her sandals. He tapped her bare ankle a few times with the side of his foot.

  Humans fluffle, too, he said.

  She made herself return his gaze.

  I imagine they do, she said. In their own way.

  His gaze held.

  I figure at some point you did something along those lines yourself? Some fluffling, here and there?

  A while back, she answered. Then I went into hibernation.

  Silly—birds don’t hibernate, they roost! Didn’t you learn the correct use of verbs in poetry class?

  Taking one of her hands, he spread it open and, using a forefinger, traced the number three on her palm.

  Three words, he commanded softly. Give me three for who you are.

  Who I am?

  Yeah. Describe yourself in three words.

  Closing her eyes, she saw the sugar jar on her kitchen counter, a pale-blue envelope lying next to it.

  Rich, rich, rich.

  Uh . . . wary, she said.

  And? Two more words.

  She shook her head. That’s the only one I can come up with right now, she said. But don’t take it personally—it’s just that I’m not used to describing myself. I feel . . . kind of rusty.

  Wary and rusty. That’s two. I figure there’s got to be a more positive word for your third . . . but I’ll give you time to think of it.

  He turned and put his arms around her. His heartbeat steady, unrushed.

  Then he stood, pulling her to her feet, and led the way to his bed. Lay his hands on her shoulders and pushed her very gently downward til she sat. Rolled her onto her side. Lay on his side, facing her, then rolled her onto her back. Carefully removed her shirt, skirt, underwear. Gazed at her body. Turned her slowly onto her stomach and straddled her. Spent time (how much?—she’d lost track) expertly massaging her back, pressing and kneading.

  Then took off his own clothing, unhurriedly. Knelt naked at her feet, sliding a hand beneath each of her knees. Pulled them apart very slowly, his gaze never breaking from hers. Saying nothing. Then went on his stomach, inched downward, and put his face between her thighs, slowly tonguing forth an orgasm, then another. Then entered her mouth with his cock and moved there languidly, hips rocking lightly. And came at last with what sounded like a little gasp of disbelief.

  Throughout, not a word exchanged.

  6

  Dawn, pale-gray and velvety. His hand squeezing hers.

  Awake? he asked softly.

  Awake, she answered.

  Sleep okay?

  Mmm, yes . . . the bed’s very comfy. So’re you.

  You, too.

  He turned on his side to face her.

  May I ask you something? she said.

  Sure. Ah—but if it’s about sexual health, I’m clean and tested. As I assume you are. Else we’d have spoken about it.

  No, it’s not that—I figured the same thing. But there’s something else, and I’d just like to understand . . . Gina’s not your girlfriend, is she?

  He threw a startled glance but didn’t pull his hand away.

  No, Gina’s my sister. My half-sister, actually. What makes you ask?

  Something’s not adding up for me. I know that must sound absurdly suspicious. And I’m not normally like this, not that you’d have any reason to believe me . . .

  It’s okay.

  He rolled onto his back for a moment, then returned to his side, facing her once more.

  I’ve known Gina since I was a kid, he said. Our families lived on the same street, not far from here. My mother died when I was two, and Gina’s father died in a work accident—he did construction jobs—when she was three. My father began dating Gina’s mother when I was in junior high; he married her when I was eighteen. She died four years later, when Gina was fourteen and I’d just finished college. She got cancer, like my mom.

  Whoa. That’s a lot of deaths.

  Our families have had bad luck.

  Was there no one else to help raise you after your mother died?

  Before my dad started dating Gina’s mom, he hired babysitters for me. And my grandmother—my mother’s mom—used to take care of me too, sometimes, but she died when I was ten. Then Gina’s mom became my stepmother. She wasn’t the most stable person, she popped a lot of pills, but at least she was there for Gina. And for me, too, for a few years. She meant well. But I didn’t spend much time at home; I was into sports in high school, so I often stayed over at my friends’ houses after practice or games. Anyway, that’s how Gina and I know each other. She’s my half-sister.

  And Ennio is your boy now?

  I’m his uncle.

  Yeah, but you feel he’s yours now . . .

  Roy said nothing.

  I’m sorry, I must be picking up on something that’s not there.

  No, it’s all right. Let’s just say the situation’s complicated . . . it has to do with Renzo.

  Nine hopped up on the bed and moved to Roy’s side, flopping against him. Sitting up, Roy thumped the dog’s ribcage lightly with the flat of his hand.

  You want the whole story? he asked.

  Sure.

  Okay. So Renzo and Gina were involved a long time ago, in high school. They were in the same class, seven years behind me. Gina broke up with him when they went to college, and by the time he showed up again, she’d ended her first marriage, which was short and not happy. So she started seeing Renzo again.

  Where were you at that time?

  I’d finished college, got my master’s in phys ed, then returned to Bay Ridge. I managed to buy this apartment cheap, with some help from my father. And I was involved with a woman who Renzo had also been with, several years earlier, only I didn’t know that. Neither of them ever mentioned to me that they knew each other.

  Speaking of coincidences, you’re swimming in them!

  Yeah, I know. But we’re all from the same neighborhood and school district, and Bay Ridge isn’t that big.

  So what happened?

  Well, Renzo wanted a kid, and Gina did, too. So they got married, but Gina wasn’t completely on board. She knew Renzo’s track record—I mean, he’d had a fair number of women over the years. She had reason to be suspicious, because after a while Renzo started hooking up with my girlfriend.

  How’d you find out?

  I sensed something was up, so I confronted her. She admitted she was seeing somebody, and when I pressed her, she told me it was Renzo.

  Did Gina know?

  Not from me. She definitely suspected Renzo was cheating on her, but I didn’t want to be the one to tell her what was going on. I don�
�t know if she ever figured it out; we’ve never discussed it. Gina’s not much of a talker. She takes after my father that way.

  7

  Kay climbed onto the bed and began licking their legs.

  Stop that, Kay, Roy ordered. My legs, all right, but not Ellen’s!

  It’s fine, I don’t mind. I really do like dogs, almost as much as cats.

  And I like cats almost as much as dogs, so we’re even. But Kay, no, you can’t stay here—get down!

  Back to your tale . . .

  Okay. So, after discovering what was going on, I broke up with my girlfriend. Right around that time, Gina found out she was pregnant. Renzo was thrilled, but for Gina, the pregnancy pretty much uncorked everything. She was constantly angry with Renzo. I think she’d guessed what had happened, and felt trapped.

  How did Renzo react?

  Roy shrugged.

  He didn’t fight with her, didn’t get nasty, never said anything. Maybe he just wanted the whole situation to go away.

  So you and he never spoke about it?

  God, no. There wasn’t any point. My relationship with my girlfriend was over; I wasn’t trying to get her back. There was nothing to salvage. She’d always been a loner, no friends to speak of. There was a sister, but they were rarely in contact.

  How long were you with her?

  About two years. She was . . . I guess I’d say she was someone with no way of expressing herself except sexually. At the beginning, I didn’t mind her silence. It was seductive for a while.

  What about Renzo, was she in love with him?

  I still can’t figure out her deal with Renzo. Dunno if she felt strongly about him, or if it was purely physical.

  And Renzo, any idea how he felt?

  Well, after Ennio was born, Renzo spent as much time as possible with Gina and the kid, even though he was often on the road for his job. Renzo was a good father, actually. Whatever his other faults, he was great with Ennio.

  He paused to stroke Kay’s muzzle.

  In any case, he added, something was busted in my sister’s marriage. That’s how things were, when Renzo died.

  He closed his eyes for a moment.

  So you can imagine how floored I was when I found out Renzo and my ex-girlfriend were together at the time of his death.

  Wait—you’re kidding.

  I know, the whole thing sounds like a dumb melodrama. But it’s true. After Renzo’s death, I handled all the legal and financial paperwork for Gina. I got a copy of the bill from the hotel in London where Renzo’d been staying; it’d been sent to his office, which forwarded it to me. My ex-girlfriend’s name was on the invoice, along with his, of course. She’d been with him in London, and stayed there while he took the train to Manchester to attend a trade show for a few days. I guess they planned it so he’d get his business done, then return to London to be with her. If he’d been on a different train, or if he hadn’t been planning to spend time with her . . .

  My God. And where’s she now?

  No idea. A while back, I heard she’d moved abroad. For all I know she’s still in London.

  He rolled up to a sitting position, then levered himself to his feet.

  It was a big mess, he said. And then it ended, though not for Ennio. Like I said, the situation’s complicated.

  He stood and reached out a hand.

  Okay, up you go. Now you know the whole back-story. Change of subject: want some breakfast?

  Sure.

  In the kitchen, the dogs danced expectantly as Roy picked up their leashes.

  Hey, how about taking a quick spin with the canines before we all eat?

  If I had a tail, I’d be wagging it.

  8

  A brisk walk, then a shower, then toast and tea. Shortly before eight, they headed for the subway.

  Near the Eighty-Sixth Street entrance was a deli; in its window hung a bright poster: Play Mega-Millions Here! Ellen wiped her forehead. A week—had it really been just a week since she’d found out?

  Lemme get us each a bottle of water, said Roy, gesturing at the deli. Today’s gonna be a scorcher.

  He returned with two cold bottles. She rolled hers along the insides of her forearms and across her forehead, eyes closed.

  Smart, he said. Never thought of that!

  She drank, then nodded at the poster in the deli’s window.

  Here’s a question for you. What would you do if you won?

  The jackpot? Of that lottery?

  Yeah. Let’s say you won . . . a hundred million bucks.

  He shrugged. Never thought about it, he said. Of course I’d be totally shocked.

  Do you know what you’d do with all that money?

  Give a lot of it away.

  To whom?

  At this he turned to stare at her, smiling a little.

  Why’re you asking me all these questions?

  Just curious.

  She reached into her bag and made a play of searching for something, then pulled out a tube of lipstick.

  May I? Roy asked.

  He uncapped the lipstick and stroked it across her lips. Nice, he said. Normally I don’t care for this stuff, but on you it looks great. Anyway, to answer your question, I think lotteries are a waste.

  But people do hit the jackpot sometimes.

  Yeah, but how often? The system’s made for losers.

  I know. But just pretend you’ve won, big-time. Say, a hundred million bucks. What would you change?

  Change?

  In your life. I mean, shouldn’t winning that much money be a chance to change something? I don’t mean your apartment or car. Like, you know, how you actually live.

  My guess is, you’d be in no position to change much of anything.

  Why not?

  Because that kind of money would change you.

  They were approaching the stairs to the subway.

  But you’d redeem the ticket and claim the money, right? she asked.

  Well, of course.

  Would it maybe be more . . . interesting, to give the ticket to someone else? Let that person make all the decisions about how to deal with it?

  Give the ticket to someone in your family, you mean? Or a friend?

  Not a friend, exactly. A trusted person.

  Like, a financial manager?

  Not necessarily. It could be an acquaintance, someone you may not even know very well but sense you can trust. You give the money to him or her, and keep whatever amount you’d need to live on, and let the other person handle the rest.

  Scaredy-cat—you afraid of managing a fortune on your own? Have you ever played a lottery?

  Yeah . . . only once.

  Same with me. Last year, Ennio bugged me to buy a ticket, so I said I’d get us each one, and if I was a winner he could have whatever I won. But we’d have to use his money to pay for the tickets. We lost, of course. At which point Ennio decided there were better ways to spend his allowance.

  Placing a hand on her hip, he shook it lightly.

  Speaking of Ennio, I gotta get him now. It’s my turn to walk him to day camp. So, thanks—for our, our . . .

  Searching her face now, smiling.

  Give me a word, poet. Or is it poetess?

  How about . . . our tryst?

  Yeah! I’d never have thought of that. We’ll see each other soon, okay?

  A light warm kiss, then he turned and walked off.

  9

  A packed R train wheezed into the station. The only way to get to the pole in the middle of the car was to crab-walk.

  Ellen joined several other passengers clinging to the pole as the train lurched forward. They all gyrated a little before regaining balance.

  She closed her eyes. Only here, only now. There was nothing to conclude or decide; not about Roy, not about the news from Cremona, not about Win, not even about the jackpot. Nothing more to do than hang on to a pole.

  Stepping off the train onto the platform at Ninth Street, she inhaled the usual scent of urine and ammoni
a. A forlorn pigeon flitted by. If that pigeon were handed a hundred million dollars, would it make a nest with the banknotes and seek a mate? Or would it flap around in such bewilderment that all the hundred-dollar bills would swirl out the end of the tunnel?

  The cats . . . they’d be truly nervous by now. She’d been away much longer than they were used to. Food bowl empty, full, empty, full: to them, that was all that mattered. The beauty of repetition, of knowing what would happen next.

  Everything in her apartment seemed exactly the same.

  The usual midmorning light fell on the bookshelves. The three volumes of Shakespeare on the lower shelves were as sun-faded as ever; the spine of Kafka’s The Castle was still yellowed; next to it sat the essays of James Baldwin. And Leaves of Grass. And a volume of Borges stories, cracked by wear-and-tear.

  How’d it go, that Leonard Cohen song? Something about the light getting in through the cracks?

  For now, the ticket was simply a piece of paper with seven numbers printed on it.

  Was it real, truly madly deeply real?

  Of course it was. Of course it wasn’t.

  Boy-Cat circled hungrily; Girl-Cat wanted to be stroked.

  The beauty of repetition.

  For God’s sake, little oafs, stop whining and tell me to do!

  The message light was blinking on her landline phone.

  Ellen dear, do please call your friend Dale one of these days. Remember him—Dale whom you’ve known for, oh, forever? I am fine, thanks, not that you’ve been wondering. Did you get my message on your cell phone, about rescheduling? Are you checking your messages once in a blue moon?

  She examined her kitchen calendar. Still three weeks to go. First things first: make a reservation for a flight to Milan. Then call Dale. What to tell him? Say that in a few days everything would be clear, but right now life was . . . sort of a mess. Yes, she was fine, not to worry. Just too much to recount on the phone. Everything going okay with the apartment? And what about Teresa? Glad to hear it. See you soon.

  Shortness of breath. Sweat all over, in every crease and hollow. More than a hot-flash, this—her solar plexus felt locked.

  She lay on the floor and slapped her diaphragm with both palms, gulping air. What the fuck did she want? How could she not know what she wanted? What sort of person came into a hundred million bucks and had zero idea where the goddamn seat of happiness was?