Buy Me Love

by Martha Cooley

  Wow. Quite an image.

  Yeah. He even drew a picture of the sword. I’ve tried to get the city to fix that streetlamp, but no luck.

  Drawing a sword because it makes a sound—that reminds me of what my brother’s doing . . .

  6

  Roy rose to his feet and extended a hand.

  C’mon, let’s get something to eat. But we gotta do a quick stretch first.

  Oof, I’m so stiff!

  That’s only because you don’t stretch every day. Here, lie on my back for a minute.

  He stooped, hands on knees.

  Go ahead—turn around, lean backward and lie on me. Yeah, that’s right—back to back. Let your feet leave the ground. I’ve got you, you won’t fall off. Now I’m gonna jiggle you a little . . . feels nice, doesn’t it? Like a standing massage. Okay, down you go. Now stand up nice and straight. Ah, a bit of skin’s showing, what a great belly you have . . . you should always wear shirts that are slightly too short.

  Great as in great, or great as in large?

  What sort of poet are you, that you’d have to ask?

  They descended Ninth Street.

  Hey, said Roy. There’s another of those hundred-dollar bills on the sidewalk. Or is that the one we saw the other day, with Ennio?

  Same one, I think. Yeah, by the entrance to the F.

  Sometimes I think New York’s all about repetition. How often have you been on the subway and bumped into someone you haven’t laid eyes on forever, and then you see that same person a few days later? Ennio loves that kind of thing. Coincidences—he’s a magnet for them. We get on the train and there’s his old babysitter, or some kid’s mom he hasn’t seen in ages. Or he sees a kid wearing the same T-shirt he’s wearing. Or someone’s whistling one of his favorite songs. Whenever that kind of stuff happens, Ennio says queste cose mi rendono felice.

  My Italian’s rusty. Does that mean the people he runs into make him happy?

  No, it means the coincidences themselves make him happy. I hope he can hold onto that feeling. After all, positive coincidences happen a lot. Even if we don’t always register them.

  Yeah. But sometimes it can be hard to know what to make of something good that happens by chance.

  Usually we don’t have to make anything of it. Just be glad it’s happened.

  They crossed Eighth Avenue.

  I have an idea about Maria, he said. Why not tell her she’s got to leave Win’s apartment and find her own place?

  Well, I can’t just flat-out order her to go.

  Okay, but you could tell her she’s welcome to your money if she moves out soon, but otherwise, you’d like your money back.

  Sounds bossy. Win won’t like it. He’ll say I’m interfering.

  Well, since you’re providing the money . . . speaking of which, I talked with Gina, and we’d like to take you up on your offer to cover Ennio’s therapy. But not for more than six months. Is that okay by you?

  Of course. Whatever you’d like. Is five hundred okay for starters? I’ll withdraw it tomorrow.

  Ellen . . .

  Halting on the sidewalk, he pulled her to him.

  This help you’re giving us—I want you to understand how grateful I am. Gina is grateful, too. And I’m trusting you mean it when you say it’s not a problem.

  Absolutely. I just hope you can find the right therapist for Ennio.

  We’ve already got two appointments scheduled.

  Have you said anything to him about it?

  Just that the three of us are going to talk to a doctor who knows about what happened to Renzo.

  That sounds right. Not that I know anything about how to handle kids in such circumstances

  Who does? I’m crossing my fingers.

  They paused at the corner of Seventh Avenue.

  Any decent food around here? Roy asked.

  Let’s keep going, Fifth Avenue’s got more restaurants. D’you like sushi?

  He ran his thumb along her lower lip.

  Yes, I like sushi. Dove, please come back to Bay Ridge with me tonight . . . we’ll have to get up early, is that okay? Ennio’s coming with me to my Sunday morning class in Queens; I’ll need to pick him up first, at his mother’s. We’ll have to be out the door at seven. Can you deal?

  No problem. I’ve gotta feed the cats tomorrow morning, in any case.

  The dogs will be thrilled to see you again.

  Ah, the canines . . . oh, here, this place has good sushi. Dinner’s on me, okay?

  He hesitated, then put a hand on the small of her back, fingertips tap-dancing lightly.

  Accepted, he said.

  Needling

  1

  Not Win but Maria answering the door. Wearing a loose, pale-blue linen shift, her hair tousled, feet bare. Looking like the relaxed woman of the house.

  Come in, she said.

  Do you know where Win is? I need to speak with him.

  He stepped out for a moment. To the store.

  The liquor store, you mean? On a Sunday?

  There’s one that stays open til noon.

  I didn’t call, so Win’s not expecting me. I’ll wait for him. How are you, have you found an apartment?

  Not yet. Have a seat.

  She moved to the spot she’d occupied the last time, in the corner of the sofa. Her own place, already claimed.

  Are you looking around this neighborhood for a place to live?

  Yes, and elsewhere in Brooklyn as well.

  Know anyone in the city, other than Win?

  Maria draped an arm over the back of the sofa. Her expression was unreadable, her body quiet but not stiff. She waited a few beats before answering.

  I’ve got a few contacts. And I’ve already lined up several job interviews for next week.

  That’s good. What about friends, do you have any?

  Not really, not anymore, I’ve been away a long time . . . but I’m not worried about that.

  Silence; then Maria stood.

  Would you like anything to eat or drink?

  Is there anything to drink besides booze? Or to eat?

  A pause.

  Yes, there’s fresh food. I’ve been cooking.

  My brother isn’t well, Maria. As you may have noticed—or maybe not. So I’m telling you: he isn’t well. It’s not a good idea for you to stay here. You really should get your own place.

  You needn’t worry.

  Well, I do worry. About my brother.

  Maria shrugged.

  Win seems all right to me, she said. He drinks more than he should, but otherwise he seems okay.

  You don’t know what he used to be like.

  True. But he’s shown me some of his new work. He’s into it, and it’s good.

  New work?

  Yeah, new drawings—based on his tinnitus.

  Raising the lid of the piano bench, Maria extracted some paper.

  Here, she said, carrying a half-dozen sheets to the table and spreading them out. Take a look.

  Wiggling penciled lines, thick and thin, pushing and tugging at one another. Coiled like snakes or skeins of rope.

  I can hear what it sounds like, said Maria.

  You think so? You’re hearing what you want to hear. That’s what my brother doesn’t understand: no one can play this. It’s not a musical score—a composer can’t hand this to musicians.

  Maria shook her head.

  I disagree, she said. If you just look at it for a while, you can tell—

  —whatever. Win needs to realize if he keeps doing these drawings, he’s no longer a working composer. My brother hasn’t put a single note on paper in over two years, did you know that? He’s had no commissions for his music. He used to write advertising jingles on the side, too, to earn some money. But he’s stopped that as well. It’s very troubling.

  Maria gave a half-smile.

  He’s doing what he wants, she said. He says music isn’t dots and lines, he’s not writing code. He’s composing. Notating, too, in his own way.


  The point is, Maria, he’s totally broke. On a different subject . . . do you miss your sister?

  Maria shrugged.

  I didn’t know her well. As kids we weren’t close, and once I left for college, we fell out of touch. There wasn’t much for me to miss.

  Why were you out of touch?

  Mutual lack of interest, I suppose. We didn’t have a falling-out or anything. As I said, we weren’t ever close. Just very different people.

  Can I ask what you and Mel did when she was with you in Madrid?

  I was working, so she went on her own to the Prado and a few other museums. I think she enjoyed herself. She filled a notebook with sketches; I’ve given it to Win. He said the sketches will help him with his own compositions.

  Your parents died in a car crash, right? Mel mentioned it once.

  Yes. Quite a while ago.

  How’d it happen?

  They were driving to a marriage counseling session. The therapy was pointless, the marriage was over, but that’s another matter. The guy who hit them was stoned; he died, too.

  Have you talked about it with Win?

  At that, Maria stared for several moments before responding.

  You know, my parents—my family—it’s none of your business.

  You’re right. I shouldn’t be asking questions like this. But there’s something you need to understand: Win shouldn’t have to deal with stuff that’s not his business. He’s had a very rough time of it since Mel’s death. So think hard before you start using him as a sounding board. Don’t talk with him about stuff that’ll bring him down. Especially what happened in Madrid.

  Maria gathered up Win’s drawings and replaced them in the piano bench.

  You’ve got it backwards, Ellen. I’m the one doing the listening. Win needs someone to talk to, so I listen. It’s not my job to straighten him out. If he wants to talk with me about Mel or anything else, that’s fine.

  My brother hasn’t been working since Mel’s death. It’s a really bad situation.

  Doesn’t seem to bother him. Maybe it’s only a problem for you.

  Look, I’ve given you the money you need. I have to say, it seems to me you’re freeloading.

  Maria gave a short laugh.

  Are you kidding? Did you know I’m buying the food here? And cooking it. I’m actually getting Win to eat real food, not just cereal and sandwiches. Yeah, I’ve had some of your brother’s vodka. So? I don’t see anybody else bothering to sit down and listen to him.

  The door opened.

  El, said Win. What brings you here?

  He placed a bag on the table; its contents clinked.

  Some news I need to share with you. Can we step out for a walk?

  No, said Maria, you two stay here, I’ll go. I have some errands to run.

  Win frowned. Maria, you don’t have to—

  —it’s fine, really. I’ll be back in an hour or so.

  They looked at each other for a moment.

  Okay, Win said quietly. See you then.

  2

  The kitchen was tidier than normal. A clean wok sat on the range, cloves of garlic on the counter, fresh bread on the table. Maria hadn’t lied: none of this could possibly have been Win’s doing.

  Lemme make a drink, he said. Then you can tell me your news.

  He pulled two quarts of vodka from the bag and twisted the cap off one of the bottles.

  So what’s up? Did you land another hundred million bucks?

  No. It’s about Walter. He died a few weeks ago.

  Opening the freezer door, Win pulled out an ice-tray and cracked several cubes into a glass.

  I assume you don’t want any, he said, tilting the bottle of vodka in her direction.

  No thanks.

  He poured a drink and raised his glass in a toast.

  Cheers, he said. So the old man’s dead. Long live the old man’s Deutsche Grammophon recordings.

  He drank, then topped off his glass.

  How’d you find out, anyway? Internet?

  No. Bruno wrote to me.

  Win’s brows rose slightly.

  Bruno? You two been in touch?

  First time in my life I’ve heard from him. Apparently a friend of his helped him find my email address . . . Bruno said Walter died in his sleep, exactly one month ago today. I thought you should know.

  I don’t need to mark the date, thanks. Did you write Bruno back and tell him he ought to visit New York, maybe sell a few fiddles here?

  I didn’t write him, no.

  He gave a low chuckle.

  Ah, Walter . . . you know, it was Mel who got me to stop wasting my energy. She said, either get in touch with your father or quit thinking about him. Make him real, or recognize he doesn’t exist for you.

  He dragged his fingertips across his eyes, pressing for a moment on his eyeballs.

  So I stopped thinking about him. And you know what? It worked—Walter stopped existing for me. Hate to be rude, El, but I’d like to get back to work now.

  All right, I’m leaving. By the way, Maria showed me a few of your sketches.

  The ones in the piano bench?

  Yeah. She said they were based on your tinnitus.

  They’re new.

  Can you tell me something about them?

  He took his drink to the sofa.

  There’s a drummer in Queens who hooks up musicians to an electronic stethoscope. He’s got this computer program that analyzes the sound-patterns of their hearts. Every person’s heart makes sounds. Not just the usual thumping, but other sound-patterns, too, with different pitches and rhythms. It depends on the walls of the chambers. If the heart’s in good shape, the walls bend; if the heart’s unhealthy, they don’t. Stiffer walls produce higher-pitched tones, flexible walls make lower pitches. Anyway, when this drummer heard his own heartbeat for the first time, he said it sounded like free jazz, with rhythms he’d heard only in Cuban and Nigerian music. Slower, but the same rhythmic patterns.

  He drank, then rattled the ice.

  I didn’t want to bother with a stethoscope, he added. So I’m listening to my tinnitus.

  I thought you said you can hear just one sound. You said it was super-high and sharp.

  One part of it, yeah. But there are other sounds. The high needling is the obvious overtone. Then there are bass undertones. A kind of underwater whoosh.

  Like when your blood pumps in your ears?

  Sometimes, yeah. Other times it’s more like an engine room. And the whole thing, all the sounds together—it follows a rhythmic scheme that keeps changing. Like there’s an orchestra improvising in my head.

  3

  At least he was talking. Conducting an actual conversation.

  Those drawings of yours . . . they’re intense, Win. It must take a fair bit of energy to make them. I hope Maria finds an apartment soon, because you need your space for yourself. You need silence, privacy.

  He sat his glass of vodka on the coffee-table before speaking.

  Maria can stay here as long as she needs to. There’s no reason for her to leave.

  Look, I gave her money so she could find a place of her own. Not so she can camp out with you.

  Either give Maria the money with no strings, or don’t give it at all.

  I could have given it to somebody else in need. I haven’t forgotten the fact that Maria inherited forty thousand dollars when Mel died.

  So?

  So I have the right to ask if Maria’s spending the money I’ve given her on an apartment, or on other stuff. It isn’t my intention to pay for her food or clothes. Besides, doesn’t it complicate things for you, her staying here?

  I want Maria to stay as long as she needs to. She looks at my work and listens. And she helps me hear what it sounded like.

  What what sounded like?

  Mel’s death.

  Oh, Christ, Win.

  He was gazing into space now.

  I don’t want to talk about this anymore, he said at last. Leave Maria out of it,
and don’t mention money to me again. By the way, I gave away the cash you left here the other day. It was two grand, right?

  Gave it away?

  I didn’t give it to Maria, in case you’re wondering. Or to my local liquor store, in case you’re worried. I sent it to a nonprofit group that provides medical care for children injured in wartime bombings.

  You’re kidding.

  No. I told you, I don’t want your money. I’ll send you the information so you can write off the donation on your taxes.

  Jesus, Win.

  You’re about to enter your own private fairy-tale, El. Don’t try to drag me along for the ride. Go now, please, I’d like to get back to work.

  Gym Rat

  1

  The weight room at the gym was full. A few women were on the upper-body machines, but the leg machines were monopolized by guys. A few of them glanced at Blair as she walked in.

  One guy finished his workout and left the room. Blair reset the weights of the leg-press he’d vacated, then adjusted the height of its seat. Another guy entered the room and dropped his sweat-jacket next to hers, on a ledge by the door.

  Mind if I work in with you, he said as he sauntered over. I’ll set the weights for you when I’m done.

  He put his hand on the machine, keeping it there. Like he owned the machine. Had a right to go first.

  You probably don’t even weigh what I leg-press, he added, smirking. What’re you doing, thirty pounds or so?

  I’m on this machine now. Use that one over there—work in with that guy. Not with me.

  His brows rose. Yes ma’am, he said, giving a mock-salute. Whatever the little lady says.

  Up yours, gym rat.

  Whoa. You a member of this gym, sweetheart? I don’t recall seeing you here before.

  He waved a trainer over. Hey Jeff, is this girl a member? I don’t think so. She’s clogging up the works.

  I have a pass, she said. And I’m using this machine now.

  The trainer frowned. Look, he began, you two gotta work this out . . .

  There’d be other machines somewhere else. In another room, or another gym. Waste of time to get into it with this asshole.