She turned away and walked to the door, then paused. The guy had already jumped on the machine and was doing leg-presses, his back toward her. The trainer was nowhere to be seen.
She picked up her sweatshirt on the ledge by the door. Then reached into the pocket of the guy’s sweat-jacket.
A couple of bills, folded in half.
Slipping her closed fist into the pouch of her sweatshirt, she left the weight-room.
2
In an adjacent workout space, the hum of a dozen treadmills drowned out all voices.
She scanned the room, then headed toward the back. A short staircase led to a landing and another door, which gave onto a jogging track. The track was strange—suspended along the perimeter of the basketball court below, like a deck on a boat. And nobody was using it.
Opening her fist, she inspected the money: two C-notes. As far as that guy in the weight-room was concerned, she didn’t exist. He’d figure some guy had ripped him off—someone he’d recognize as male. To him she’d be invisible.
A gym class was happening on the court below. Bunch of junior high girls. In any case, the running track was empty. Some leg stretches and a half-hour jog would be enough.
And then? A subway ride to Bay Ridge.
She lay on a mat and pulled her knees to her chest.
If the owner of Buy Me Love were home, how to explain showing up there? Just say the art gallery had provided the address. Ask if it was okay to take a couple of quick photos of the canvas.
The painting had stayed in mind. As had the initial meeting with the artist in the park. And of course the hour or so in her apartment. Most of all that moment when the sensations turned weird, the woman on top motionless and silent, a literal dead weight. All of it had resisted erasure from memory. And now there seemed to be a reason why.
The painting would launch a new project, “Intervention.” Its context: an unknown artist makes a series of paintings, then dies unexpectedly during sex with a stranger. After the artist’s death, all but one of the paintings disappear. The stranger with whom the artist had sex creates the next work in the series. Not another painting, though; something else, connected to the series yet altering it.
The absurd creator—that was Camus’s designation for a person such as this stranger. A particular sort of interventionist. An artist whose job, Camus stated, is to project himself as deeply as possible into lives that are not his own.
One of the girls on the court down below let out a yelp; the others clapped.
On the mat, Blair rolled onto her stomach and raised herself up on her elbows, listening. The instructor called out a name. You’re next, kiddo, step lively . . . The girls whooped and yelled. C’mon—go go go!—you can do it! The stomping of their feet echoed around the track. They sounded happy.
Had Keith ever been happy? How to be a boy like him, a perpetual outsider. How to be such a boy, and be happy? The word seemed inert, meaningless.
A noise: the door to the track was opening. Someone entered, pulling the door shut.
Blair sat up.
Nonetheless
1
No workplace. No necessary tasks. Nothing that had to be done, or else.And this moment, right now? In this instant, the cats were batting a toy mouse across the kitchen floor while she sat and watched, fingertips tapping her kneecaps. She stopped and slid her hands, palms up, under her thighs. Christ, was she now literally sitting on her hands? While a hundred million dollars flashed in front of her like a strobe light at some surreal discotheque, the brightest of warning signals?
Eyes closed, she felt it coursing through her: something like a hot flash, though it wasn’t.
Fear. Not of the fortune but what it would expose. No dodging the fact of failure: despite a few good endorsements, her chapbook of poems had come and gone, mostly unnoticed. After which she’d used a chronic lack of money as an excuse for staying in a rut. Sure, there’d always been freelance work to be searched for, the constant pressure of earning. But so what? She could’ve pushed herself to keep writing poems; there’d always been some time left over, even after freelancing took its share. Maybe not a lot, yet shouldn’t she have treated each extra minute like the gold it was?
Failure of the chapbook, failure in its aftermath.
No reimbursement for remorse. No paying oneself back for lost time.
2
An email from Dale topped her inbox, a one-liner with none of his usual xxoo’s at the end. Hope you’re up to something interesting, my dear.
Irked by her silence, evidently. And Dale wasn’t alone; the inbox held messages from Anne and from Sophie as well.
The night before, in Roy’s bed: languid sex, sucking each other into arrival. Roy waiting, entering only when she was ready. Even then she’d winced, her body making her pay for pleasure, fiery with pain. It’s just the goddamn menopause, she’d said. I’m hurting you, Roy’d said, I’m so sorry, let’s stop . . . there’s always plenty else we can do. I don’t want any of this to hurt you.
He’d withdrawn, but only physically. Then they’d played—a little of this and that, fingers and mouths, then more til they each came, eagerly. Afterward his breath on her shoulder was a wave lapping her, gently. When her usual 4:00 a.m. flop-sweat woke her, he’d woken too, pushing the top sheet aside and sliding a hand between her breasts, wiping off the slick. Then he’d brought his fingertips to rest on her earlobes, massaging them softly. They’d fallen back asleep til his alarm went off. In the shower, he’d kissed her as though they had all the time in the world, which they didn’t—Roy had to teach all day. To earn his daily bread.
And you, dove, he’d asked. What’s on your schedule?
I’ve just lined up something, not sure how it’ll pan out . . . we’ll see.
Where is it?
Nowhere in particular. I mean, I’ll do it from home.
Well, that’s good—no commuting. You can get to the gym more often, too. Lucky woman!
She’d boarded the R and gone home. What else to do? Having been—ah, there had to be words for it . . . having been where?
Somewhere i have never travelled . . . those lines from e. e. cummings, one of his weird love poems. Gladly beyond any experience. Having felt freed . . . though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself.
Having been unresistant, curious, not wary.
Which was harder to believe: the jackpot or this thing with Roy?
3
Ellen, something’s happened. It’s Ennio, he fell . . .
Roy’s tone was urgent, agitated.
Off the Balcony, at the gym. He’s broken a wrist, maybe an ankle. Might have a ruptured spleen. He went up there by himself, I didn’t realize—I thought he was behind the pile of mats in the corner, you know, where he usually hides out. But suddenly he was calling my name, and I looked up and there he was, dangling . . .
Off the railing?
No, off the track itself. He’d gone under the lower rail. His back was toward me. I yelled at him to wait, but someone slammed the Balcony door, the sound must’ve scared him . . . That’s when he let go. I watched him drop—it was awful . . . they’re checking his spleen now. Not sure about his ankles.
Is he talking?
He’s pretty drugged.
Where are you, Roy, which hospital—Methodist?
Yeah.
In the background were voices, a phone ringing.
Ennio, my poor little guy . . .
Roy was weeping now.
4
It wasn’t ruptured, the spleen. Nor was either ankle broken, though one was lightly sprained. Only the left wrist was broken, and they’d already put a cast on it. The doctors said it’d heal fine. Ennio was bruised all over, but it could’ve been much worse.
In the blue-ish light of the hospital hallway, Roy looked exhausted.
Let me get you something to eat or drink, Ellen said.
Thanks, I’m not hungry, I’m just waiting . . .
You’ve
seen him?
Only for a few minutes. I’m staying here til they let me talk to him. But I don’t think they’ll let me into the room again til around five.
Want me to stay here with you til you can see him? Or is there anything you need me to buy? Meds, anything else?
He looked at her. What was in his gaze—confusion about what she’d just asked, or uncertainty about how to answer?
No, he responded after a moment. Gina’ll be back soon, she went to fill some prescriptions. There’s no need for you to stay.
Okay, but please let me know how Ennio’s doing. And let me help. I can cover his medical expenses, okay?
Again that look, as though she’d said something that wasn’t making full sense.
Yeah, he said. Thanks.
A nurse called his name, beckoning.
I’ll phone when I know more, he said.
The kitchen counter needed wiping, the litter box emptying. How long had it been since she’d cleaned the apartment?
Or thought about Walter. Full fathom five thy father lies . . . a fathom was what, six feet or so? Christ, had Ennio actually dropped five fathoms?
Roy’s expression . . . What he’d really needed was to be reassured, to be told the kid’s gonna be okay. Not to be offered money.
How to get close to someone. Had she ever had the slightest idea? No, not like this; nor had she wanted to, really, til now. Which itself was worth . . . a great deal, unquantifiable.
Her linen shirt was soggy. Peeling it off, she rolled back and forth across the bed to mop herself off.
5
Win wasn’t answering his cellphone. There was no voicemail on his landline.
And it was already six o’clock. So Roy and Gina had probably taken Ennio home by now.
Get up, then. Shower, get dressed. Put on fresh clothes.
If Win was out and Maria was in his apartment, would she simply let the phone ring? Not that it mattered. Nor was there any sense in telling Win what’d happened to Ennio—he wouldn’t give a shit about the kid’s accident.
At any rate, he was probably making a vodka run right now. Or Maria wasn’t answering. Or he and Maria weren’t answering.
Try Dale instead. Text him about Ennio, say there was lots more to recount.
No, take it a step further—write a group email to all the nearest-and-dearest. Tell them about Roy. Say I’m seeing someone. Explain the situation. So guys, here’s the thing: Roy’s got a kid. Actually it’s his half-sister’s son, but he adopted the kid a few years ago, and I’m gonna help the boy get the therapy he needs since his biological father died in a train wreck and the kid’s been acting out, sometimes he hides or he throws stuff—
—wait a sec, the nearest-and-dearest would say. The kid’s father died how? The mother is Roy’s half-sister? Roy is the kid’s half-uncle and legal father at the same time? Why on earth are you paying for therapy for the kid?
There were only two options.
The first: let it all out—about the ticket, and about Roy. Beg the nearest-and-dearest to forget practicalities and listen, really listen, to what she was trying to tell them. It was new, this thing with Roy, really new, somewhere i have never travelled, and she’d have to take a risk, love is a place and yes is a world, and wasn’t it high time she tried going there?
You’re infatuated, Sophie’d say. Which is lovely, but you gotta be realistic. Ah, Anne would say, your situation sure sounds complicated, do things really have to be this messy? Just deal with the money now. Cherie, Giselle would say, remember that the child of a lover can be a very big challenge. Hey, Hank would say, how come this guy’s a gym teacher, can’t he do better than that?
As always, Dale would make the sharpest comment in the gentlest way. I wonder, he’d ask, how Roy imagines his own future. Have you talked with him about it?
The second option: stay mum about the whole shebang until the ticket was turned in.
If the beans got spilled now, the nearest-and-dearest would argue she was moving too fast with Roy and not fast enough with the money. They’d push her to deal with practical matters first. They’d tell her to get a team of lawyers, figure out the money stuff, don’t even try to deal with Roy at the moment.
This thing with Roy. How did it feel, right here and now?
I were but little happy, if I could say how much.
Thank you, Shakespeare, you’ve nailed it.
Stay mum, then.
6
Dared him? How do you mean?
I mean, said Roy, that the woman got Ennio to go under the railing by taunting him. She actually dared him to try. Okay, Boy-Cat, off my lap now . . .
Roy put the cat on the floor, then slumped back on the sofa.
Man, I’m tired . . .
Of course you are. You’ve been through the mill.
He’d been up most of the night with Ennio. Though boy’s spleen wasn’t ruptured, the bruising had caused some internal bleeding. He’d need another day of monitoring.
How’s Gina doing?
She’s exhausted. I need to go relieve her soon, so she can get some rest.
Is Ennio in pain?
Not too much, thank God. He’s sore and uncomfortable, and he says his body doesn’t feel right to him. Which of course it doesn’t. He got pretty banged around.
Can you take some time off?
I cancelled my classes today, but tomorrow I need to go to work. I can’t risk losing my job. Plus I want to get to the gym at a decent hour tomorrow, so I can talk to a few people. Maybe someone will know who was on the Balcony with Ennio. Know what that person told him? She said he shouldn’t be hanging out up there.
They had an actual conversation?
Yeah. She asked him if he knew any tumbling moves. When he said yes, she said he probably couldn’t do this one thing—she called it a side roll, something like that, he wasn’t sure. She showed him how to do it. She rolled over to the edge, went under the rail and grabbed it, wrapped her ankles around it. She said she could swing back and forth like a monkey. Of course that got Ennio’s attention.
She swung herself away from the track? Like, out into the air?
Yep. Away from the track, then back under the rail, then away again. I didn’t see it, but that’s how Ennio described it. I bet you can’t do this, she kept saying. Isn’t that a dare? Ennio took hold of the rail and started swinging.
My God . . .
It was the noise that made him fall, just like I thought—the sound of the door closing. When he heard it, he let go of the rail. He said the noise scared him. If he hadn’t managed to grab the edge of the track before dropping, he probably would’ve landed on his back.
What did the woman do when he fell?
She’d left—already banged the door behind her. My class was at the other end of the court; nobody in my group saw anything. And nobody at the front desk remembers seeing anyone rush out. She just disappeared.
How could someone walk away from a kid who’s swinging off the Balcony?
Roy shook his head.
Can Ennio describe her?
Dark short hair. Not too tall. That’s about it.
Did she seem to know him?
Nope. But that doesn’t meant she didn’t.
7
Frowning, distracted now. In some space of his own. Picturing something, seeing it in his mind.
I have a question for you, Ellen, and I don’t like asking, but I need to. Have you been in touch with Maria lately?
Maria?
Yeah. Have you seen her, talked to her?
No. Why do you ask?
Is it possible the woman in the gym was her?
What makes you think . . . ?
Well, you’ve been trying to pull her away from your brother. Maybe she resents you for it. Maybe she wanted to get back at you.
Get back at me?
Yeah, using me—my son—as a kind of weapon.
Look, Roy . . . my God, even if Maria is upset with me for whatever reason, would she rea
lly put somebody else’s child in danger in order to make a point? That’s pretty crazy.
You’re right, I’m sure . . . it’s just a bad feeling I have.
Is there still some connection in your mind between Maria and your ex? What it is about Maria that keeps reminding you of her?
He exhaled slowly.
There’s no physical resemblance between the two of them, he said. It’s a subtle thing. Something about how withheld Maria seems . . . As for Gina—my ex—I can’t help but feel it was her fault Renzo died.
Do you also feel she’s the reason Ennio’s your son now?
In a sense, yeah. It’s like I’m blaming her for my family’s bad luck and owing her for my good fortune at the same time.
Well, it’s Ennio’s good fortune, too.
I doubt he’ll ever be truly glad about that. Not glad like I am, anyway. How could he be? He’s lost the chance to grow up with his real father. Ennio will always believe the train accident was a fluke—which it was, of course, at one level. But my ex was the reason Renzo took that train back to London.
Actually, both Ginas were involved, weren’t they? I mean, it seems Renzo was with your ex because he and your sister didn’t get along well.
Yeah. But to me it felt—still feels—like my ex showed up out of nowhere to complicate things. I thought she was out of the picture, but she wasn’t. Sort of like with Maria—she’s shown up out of the blue, and now Ennio has an accident . . .
Okay, Roy, but listen, the woman on the Balcony had to be somebody else. It’s way too much of a stretch.
You’re right, dove. Of course you’re right. I’m tired, let’s stop talking about this. You know, I’m hungry, too. Haven’t eaten much today. Can we grab a bite somewhere near the hospital?
Sure.
He reached for his jacket and pulled out his billfold.
Ah, crap, I’ve only got twenty bucks. I need to get to an ATM first, I forgot to stop off at the bank—
—don’t worry, I’ll cover it.
He put his wallet away.
Buy Me Love Page 20
