Buy Me Love

by Martha Cooley

The details could be figured out. The important thing for now was staying under the radar. Her new work would be for Keith and people like him: misfits, loners, people who didn’t care what others thought or did. And who paid for not caring.

  There’s a desert in everyone, claimed Camus. No one can survive in that desert without being impervious and stubborn—those were the adjectives he used.

  Keith knew how to survive in his desert; he’d figured it out. So she had to, as well. There was no other choice. He’d want her to.

  4

  How long had it been since she’d had a conversation?

  Since that evening at the art gallery in the Slope. Before that, several weeks of silence.

  Talking was a waste of energy. During sex, especially. Males tended to stay quiet. Females were talkier, though also better sexually most of the time. Sometimes they were hesitant, mistaking her for a girl. That’s when conversations became traps. Explanations were tedious, useless. Labels meant nothing.

  No one but Keith had ever gotten it about her being a boy. Or an artist. As for other street artists, they just wanted to be “discovered,” or to play silly hide-and-seek games. And most art critics considered street art a thing mainly for amateurs, in any case. Not a money-maker. The money they’d all make—the artists, critics, gallery owners, investors—was what they were interested in.

  She would sidestep all that, not get trapped by anyone’s wallet.

  The only useful dialogues were wordless, like those between artworks and their viewers. Actually, some visual art made sounds, though not many people could hear them. When the Russian composer Mussorgsky saw an exhibit of sketches by a dead friend of his, he insisted the sketches made music, and he said he could score them. Everyone thought that was ridiculous. His scores of the sketches weren’t published til after his death. That’s what happened to misfits.

  Keith had to be in hiding somewhere rural, without a cellphone or computer. In a cabin near the Canadian border, maybe? Doing odd jobs to stay afloat, and taking care of stray animals. He could write a letter, though. But maybe he was worried it’d get intercepted.

  The only thing to do was wait for him to make contact.

  When he disappeared after he got released from jail, the parents said it was time to move on. They kept repeating get closure. By that point, they’d made up their minds: Keith had brought all of it on himself. Their need for closure was his fault, too—that was how they wanted it, that was the story they told, so they could claim Keith was gone and their friends would feel sorry for them. Nobody would have to think about him again. He could be written off like a lousy investment.

  He’d gone to ground, as an animal would. But he wasn’t truly gone. They were—the parents. Dead to the world. Lost in fakeness.

  Keith would come back. He had to; his pup needed him to come back.

  We have art, said Camus, in order not to die of life.

  Queste Cose Mi Rendono Felice

  1

  Odd to be walking up Tenth Street instead of Ninth, her usual route. But Ninth was risky: Mr. Reyes might be outside his shop. Or might notice her outside his window.

  The phone, ringing. The museum, maybe? She was late for work, but so what? Today was her last day there.

  Ah, Dale, we speak at last! You okay, bud?

  I’m fine, fine.

  Don’t tell me there’s been another hitch with the closing . . .

  Nope, everything’s good. It’s been postponed to a week from Monday, but it’ll happen.

  The twenty-fourth?

  Yeah. I’ve made a reservation at Bouley afterward, for lunch. Since you’ve put up with me throughout this ordeal, we both deserve a great meal, don’t you think?

  For sure. I’ll be busy that Monday morning, but don’t worry, I’ll be at Bouley at the appointed hour.

  Busy, ten days from now? With what, or should I say with whom? You’ve been so secretive lately!

  No, just lots going on. I’ll be doing an errand that morning. Some paperwork.

  Paperwork? Never touch the stuff. Okay, see you at Bouley.

  At the museum, a quick scroll through the Times’s headlines.

  Ongoing mess in the Middle East and Central Asia. The death toll for civilian protesters killed last summer in Uzbekistan was estimated at one thousand five hundred. And a year after a collision of three express trains in Pakistan, victims’ families were still struggling to put their lives back together.

  Boom.

  Jesus, the emails were stacking up. One from Sophie and Hank asking if she’d gotten their recent messages. And from Anne saying she’d put off her departure date, since Giselle’s thyroid numbers weren’t where they ought to be.

  Oh shit. Poor Giselle.

  And now an email from her supervisor: the museum would pay for a car service to take her home. And a PS: thanks for everything, you’ve been great, we’ll be glad to provide a letter of recommendation.

  Into a cardboard box went a dozen books of poems, a shawl, and an umbrella. Right before the car arrived to take her home, a second brief email from Anne offered better news: Giselle now appeared not to be in any danger. A second test had been done, it was okay.

  Heading upstairs for the final time, Ellen glanced at the Egyptian Room.

  Goodbye, mummies! Goodbye, old life.

  2

  Can you stick around til my tumbling class is over?

  Roy’s shoulder propped open the door to the Balcony as he spoke.

  It’s a forty-minute class, right?

  Yeah. Can you wait that long? I can’t remember what you told me this morning . . . do you have errands to run now? Sorry, I’m a little tuckered out from last night—in a good way, I mean. A really good way.

  Yeah, me too . . . we didn’t get enough sleep, did we? Anyhow, yeah, I can stick around. I’ll do more stretching, it can’t hurt. Wait, doesn’t this class usually have another instructor?

  Yes, but she’s sick, so she asked if I could handle it. See you in a bit.

  Down below on the court, a quick slap of bodies landing on rubber mats as the girls practiced forward rolls.

  In the farthest nook of the Balcony, Ellen lay on her back and pulled her knees to her chest. Pull, stretch, again, again. Closing her eyes, she replayed the scene from the evening before. She’d arrived at Win’s and met Maria, who looked somewhat like Mel. Nose and cheekbones almost the same, hair a bit darker. Stylishly dressed in a skirt and sandals with heels. Sultry, was that the right word? Not lean, like Mel. A bit shorter, her shoulders rounder; attractive, yes, though her smile seemed tight. Maybe she was exhausted. Or hadn’t wanted to be at Win’s. Maybe he’d pushed her to stay there til she found her own place, and she’d agreed, reluctantly.

  Though it hadn’t seemed like that, given the way her hand brushed his shoulder as she walked past him, asking do you want another as she reached for his glass. Maria was a drinker, too, but not on the same order as Win. She seemed like the kind of drinker who’d make sure his glass was topped off while not overdoing it herself.

  They’d talked for a few minutes. Maria spoke of Madrid with what sounded like affection, yet she was moving back to New York for financial reasons, she said. Too much bureaucracy in Spain. And the salaries were low.

  Then the doorbell rang and Roy entered, introducing himself to Win. He took in the scene in the living room, including the woman on the sofa, her legs crossed, one sandaled foot nestled against the other. He stared at Maria for a moment. Like a cat, he was—motionless, tense. Then he inhaled and moved toward her, extending his hand.

  Hi, I’m Roy.

  Maria. Nice to meet you.

  Have a seat, said Win. Can I get you both a drink?

  I’ll pass, thanks, Roy said as he sat on the bench. A glass of water would be good, though.

  How about you, Ellen?

  Me too.

  Right, coming up. And you, Maria?

  Still working on mine, she said, tilting her near-full glass in Win’s direction.
<
br />   They’d sat in silence til Win returned to the room, highball glass in one hand and a pair of half-filled water glasses in the other. He handed them off, then turned to Roy.

  So, what’s your line of work?

  I teach phys ed classes at a couple of places, including a gym in Park Slope. That’s where I met your sister.

  I have no idea how to work out, said Maria. I walk a lot, that’s my exercise.

  I drink a lot, said Win, that’s mine.

  And your work? asked Roy.

  I’m a composer. I draw music.

  Don’t composers usually write?

  Had that been it, the moment when something shifted? Before that, there’d been a chance for a conversation, but with Roy’s question that chance had gone up in smoke.

  Most composers, Win answered. I don’t notate, I draw. I make sketches, black-and-white line drawings that capture my music.

  Can you sell your sketches, asked Roy. Like, as art?

  I doubt it, Win answered. In any case, what I’m doing isn’t for money. It’s for me, for my music. Ask my sister—she’ll explain it to you. Or not.

  At that, she’d stood and pulled two envelopes from her bag.

  Listen, Roy and I need to get going. We’ve got dinner plans. One of these envelopes is for you, Maria—this one, with your name on it. I wish you luck finding an apartment and a job. Hope you enjoy living here in New York. And Win, the other envelope . . . it’s cash, not a check.

  She put Win’s envelope on the end table by the sofa. He said nothing, turning toward the door.

  Thank you very much, said Maria, putting her envelope in her bag. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.

  No worries. Nice to meet you, Maria.

  Yes, nice to meet you both, said Roy.

  Win held the door open in silence.

  On the sidewalk outside Win’s building, Roy’d taken her hand.

  You always that rough on your brother?

  It’s how we deal. Win doesn’t respond to nuance—he drinks too much for it.

  That was a little . . . unnerving.

  Yeah, I know. You got a good look at how it is. My brother’s living in la-la land. Those drawings of his—I mean, he can barely make rent . . .

  And Maria?

  What about her?

  Is she staying at his place?

  Dunno. For now, maybe.

  You know, I was kind of startled when I first saw her. She reminded me of my ex.

  In what way?

  Physically, for starters. But also her way of holding back, stepping to one side.

  Seemed to me she was just watching.

  Perhaps. I have a funny feeling about her, though.

  Hey, let’s go eat. I’m tired of worrying about my brother. And I’ve been looking forward to this evening with you.

  Me too. How about back to Bay Ridge?

  Yeah—to the Italian place. I’d like to eat there again.

  Good. It’s our place now.

  3

  Roy’s skin was slick with sweat as he opened the Balcony door.

  Man, it’s hot in there, he said as he toweled off his face.

  Drink some water, said Ellen. You look pretty dehydrated.

  You’re right, I am. Thanks, dove.

  He squeezed her elbow, his thumb caressing it for a moment. Let’s go up the street, he said. I need to talk to you.

  In the park they sat beneath a tree. At the base of the grassy slope, a boy Ennio’s age was playing with a terrier. His parents stood nearby, smiling.

  I want to talk about last night, said Roy. At Win’s, I mean. The rest of it was great.

  Okay, but first I have a question for you. You said when you saw Maria at Win’s, you thought of your ex-girlfriend?

  Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk about.

  You haven’t seen your ex in something like five years, right?

  Longer than that. But when I saw Maria, it was as if she and my ex were the same person. There was some sort of resemblance; it was a little bit physical, but even more in their energy . . . it hit a nerve. Remember how you asked me once if I knew where my ex was living? And I told you I’d heard she went abroad?

  Yes.

  I’ve no idea where she ended up. She never said anything to me about going to Madrid. It doesn’t matter, in any case. The thing is, when I first walked into your brother’s apartment, I felt like I was being confronted with Renzo’s killer. I know that’s crazy; Maria isn’t Gina, and it wasn’t Gina’s fault that Renzo died.

  Gina?

  Yeah, that’s my ex’s name. Same as my sister’s. Her real name’s Virginia, but she was called Gina. Still is, I imagine.

  Good lord. Two Gina’s. Remind me how you met her?

  She grew up near me. Went to the same high school as my sister and me—and Renzo too, of course. After college, she came back to the ’hood; that’s where I met her. She was doing some dog walking to make money. We got to talking because of Kay and Nine. Anyway . . . your brother, how do you think he reacted to our visit?

  Win was focused on Maria. Having her there is like being with Mel again. That’s what I’m worried about.

  He’ll have to adjust. It’ll take time.

  Time’s one thing he’s got plenty of. And booze. But no money.

  4

  The dog ran around the boy, barking at the stick held out of reach.

  Happy frustration, said Roy, pointing.

  Yeah.

  Look, the dog just got his stick back. Now let’s see how the boy feels about it . . . that dog’s not gonna surrender easily! You know, the idea of Maria with your money, it’s like she’s taking advantage of you . . .

  I don’t care about the money. Maria can do what she likes with it. I care about my brother—about what he might be getting himself into.

  Did he and Mel hang out with her before she moved abroad?

  Win never met her while he was with Mel—Maria was already in Madrid by then. The two sisters had been out of touch for a while. They used to talk by phone now and then, but that was it. For Mel, the trip to Spain was a whim. She was working on a design for a wrought-iron gate and wanted some visual inspiration. So she figured, why not go there?

  So Win met Maria after Mel’s death?

  Nope—Maria didn’t come back for the funeral.

  Ah. What about the parents?

  Mel’s and Maria’s? They died a while ago. In a car accident, when Mel was twenty or so.

  You know anything else about Maria?

  Only that she teaches ESL. I gather she’s been doing it for a while. She’s lived abroad for at least a decade. She’s ten years older than Mel—around forty-five.

  So for Win, she’s basically a stranger?

  Yeah. And I hope things stay that way.

  5

  Late-day sunlight, angled low. The playing fields were empty now.

  Man, your hair’s a mess, Roy! Here . . .

  As she raked his hair, he caught her hand, spread its palm, kissed it.

  Your plate is full, dove. With your brother, I mean. I didn’t enjoy seeing the tension between the two of you. Your reactions to him seemed a bit harsh, but I’m starting to get why. I mean, it’s like you had to push back because he’s sabotaging himself.

  That’s just the right word for it. Thanks for putting up with what happened last night. And for talking about it now. Every time I visit my brother, I feel like hurling every bottle of vodka in his apartment out the window. It strangles my heart to watch Win drink like he does.

  It’s pretty intense. Though he does hold his liquor well . . . he’s not one of those falling-down drunks.

  No. But in a way, his type is worse. I’ll tell you what, though—I sure won’t be taking any other friends to meet Win and Maria. Way too much drama.

  Just for the record, I don’t have any other “friends” like you.

  Not sure what word to use . . .

  How about lover, or is that too old-fashioned?

  No,
it’s good, I like it.

  Glad you, uh, concur—is that the right word? Hanging around with a poet, I gotta be careful.

  Dusk was settling in. The dog and boy had already headed off; a few stragglers ambled toward the park’s exit. Sitting cross-legged, Roy placed his hands at the back of his head and swiveled from side to side.

  You’re so flexible, Roy. I envy you.

  You could be too, lazybones.

  Not like you. I bet your body’s always been that way.

  That’s the good part of my work, it keeps me loose. Your work keeps your tongue loose, right?

  Hah. Sometimes I’m afraid I’ll turn into a parrot and just spout whatever crap I’m writing or editing.

  You’re no parrot. You’re a dove.

  I wonder . . . a while ago I did a freelance project for a big client, a manufacturer of tiles for bathrooms. After several months, it felt like all I could talk about was grout—you know, that cement stuff between tiles. I became totally fluent in grout.

  Why didn’t you write a grout poem?

  Same reason I don’t write any other kind of poem, I guess. Too caught up in other people’s words.

  There’s more to it than that.

  I’ve lacked . . . belief, I guess you could say.

  In poetry? Or yourself?

  Poetry’s not the problem, I’ve always had faith in poems. Reading them has pretty much kept me alive. My own poems, though . . . that’s another story.

  What happened to your book?

  The publisher folded right after it came out, and it basically fell through the cracks. Since then I haven’t written much.

  But you read poetry all the time. So you must be thinking about poems constantly, even if you’re not writing them, right? You know, I’d really like to read something of yours.

  I could give you a heap of pages about grout.

  Seriously. Will you give me a copy of your book?

  Sometime.

  Sometime very soon, okay? Ah, this hour in the park, dusk . . . it’s calmer now. I like it. This is Ennio’s favorite time of day. He says dusk is when things get quiet and he can hear his father’s voice in his head. There’s a streetlamp that starts humming outside his bedroom window at dusk, and Ennio hates it. He says it’s like a sword attacking his father’s voice.