ODD NUMBERS

by M. Grace Bernardin

  “Vicky! I was just thinking about you,” Allison said upon opening the door. The look on Vicky’s face instantly alerted her that something was wrong.

  “My God, you look horrible. Come in.” She quickly closed the door behind them and embraced Vicky who broke into sobs. “You and Frank broke up, didn’t you?” Vicky sobbed out a muffled cry in the affirmative. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I can’t stay long,” Vicky said, backing away from Allison as she tried to compose herself with one gigantic sigh. She blotted her damp face with a handkerchief. “I have to finish packing.”

  “Packing!? Where are you going?”

  “I’m leaving Camelot.”

  “For good?”

  Vicky nodded. “I move out tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow! Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Don’t you think this is a little hasty? Don’t you think you ought to wait until after the holidays?”

  “When it’s time to move on, it’s time to move on. No sense delaying it.”

  “Sit down and tell me what happened,” Allison pleaded.

  And so Vicky did.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t hear from Sally about my little faux pas, as they say, at the Christmas party. She and Tim were there you know,” Vicky said after relating the story.

  “I haven’t seen much of Sally lately. This is such a shock!”

  “I have to leave Camelot and I have to leave as soon as possible. Please understand.”

  “I’ll try, but what about Frank? How are you going to break the news to him?”

  “I wrote him a letter and stuck it under his door. I know it’s the coward’s way out, and I reckon I’m a little ashamed ‘cause I never was one to take the coward’s way out, but I just can’t tell him face to face.”

  “Afraid you’ll change your mind if you have to look at him?”

  “No, I’m afraid he won’t do anything to try to change my mind. He won’t fight for me. He’ll just accept it like the perfect gentleman he is. And I can’t handle that, Allison. I just can’t handle it.”

  “How do you know he won’t fight for you? Give him a chance. You can’t give up so easily. It’s not like you. So you had a disagreement. So what? That’s just part of being in a relationship. You can’t just go throw in the towel like this. Talk to him about it. You can work it out.”

  “No, you don’t understand. It was over before it even began. I knew it too but still I let myself walk into it like a damn fool. And you know what’s weird about it? It was the new Vicky who walked in blindly. It’s like something the old Vicky would’ve done; just jump right in and live for the moment, not worry about the future. But the new Vicky, she’s got a head on her shoulders, she thinks and plans. She looks before she leaps. So why did I do it?”

  “Because there is no thinking and planning with love,” Allison offered the only explanation she could come up.

  “You said a mouthful there, girl. I’ll tell you why I did it. Because I started to believe. And do you know why I let myself believe? Because he believed. That is he used to believe until he let doubt creep in. See, it didn’t happen overnight, Allison, and it’s not on account of just one fight. It’s been building. I felt it coming for well over a month now. I saw doubt poking at him like a tag or a pin that you get stuck in your clothes somewhere and you just can’t find the exact location. He didn’t say anything, but I saw it. Everyday he grew a little colder, a little farther away, a little more irritated and impatient with my ways. But being a gentleman he feels obligated. He figures he’s gotta make it work. Sure it’s noble of him, but the thing is deep down I’m not what he really wants. He feels trapped. He’s thinking the only way he can make it work and still hold his head up is to change me into someone I can never be.

  “It was great at first, for a time, for a season. Call it a fling, a part time love, a romance, whatever. But for keeps?” Vicky just shook her head. Allison began to understand what she was saying. If anyone was being noble, it was Vicky.

  “The fact is I ain’t ever gonna be… excuse me,” Vicky said catching herself, stopping herself, and then proceeding to reiterate in a slow, succinct manner in which she carefully enunciated every word. “The fact is I will never be what he wants or needs. We both know there’s no future for us but he won’t end it so I have to. I have to save face for both of us.

  “I hate what love does. It makes you believe the impossible. Ah hell, I said enough on the topic,” Vicky concluded with a dismissive wave of her hand, a gesture that Allison observed time and again when Vicky was ready to move on to another subject.

  “Your mind’s made up, isn’t it?” Allison said and Vicky nodded.

  “But I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to you. You’ve been a real friend to me. Like a sister. You’re the only one I really trust here at Camelot.”

  Allison was moved by Vicky’s words and touched by the realization that here was the only real friend she’d known since she moved back to Lamasco. Her eyes welled up with tears and a familiar melancholia settled upon her. It was like the feeling she had when her parents divorced. It was the death of a dream; the breaking up of a family.

  All of Camelot was in on the making over of Vicky and it had bonded them in some strange way. What a true Cinderella story it would have been if things had worked out for Vicky and Frank. But the two lovers weren’t the only ones who believed. Allison believed. They’d all been seduced into believing. But, of course it wasn’t meant to be, just like her parents ever loving one another was never meant to be. And so dreams died and fairy tales weren’t real, and again, it was time to grow up.

  “I feel so old,” Allison said.

  “What’s that?” Vicky asked, seeming only mildly curious as to the cryptic meaning of Allison’s statement.

  “Nothing,” Allison said snapping herself out of her fairy tale world and back into reality where people survive heartbreak and go on with forced smiles on their faces, replying ‘fine’ when asked the question ‘how are you?’ But that was never who she was around Vicky. She was always authentic with her.

  “God, I’m going to miss you,” Allison said then throwing her arms around Vicky, the two women wept. But like always with Vicky, tears somehow metamorphosed into laughter when they each simultaneously broke to blow their noses at the same time, and Vicky made a comment about not getting snot in one another’s hair despite rumors that it made a good conditioner.

  “That’s right! I forgot you’re not the handkerchief type. You’re the sleeve type,” Allison said and they laughed.

  “Well, can I at least help you pack?” Allison asked.

  “I really don’t have that much more to pack. But I do need to get my tree down and my Christmas stuff put away. You could help with that.”

  “Sure. It may be the only time in my life I get to take a tree down before Christmas. Only you, Vicky, Only you!”

  “It was about this time last year that I helped you put your tree up,” Vicky said with a dreamy, far away look in her eyes, as if she was remembering twenty years back and not just one.

  “I remember. We drank White Russians and listened to the Carpenters’ Christmas.”

  “Wanna do it again. I can make the White Russians.”

  “I’ll get my Carpenters’ Christmas album.”

  Allison had three White Russians, which she requested very white, heavy on the cream, virtually albino. Still the heavy cream hadn’t wiped out the effects of the alcohol entirely; and at the first sensation of lightheadedness and limp limbs, Allison put a stop to the drinking, informing Vicky that she would be of no use to her if she continued. Vicky drank Black Russians, one right after another, until finally she was just pouring straight vodka into a glass and downing it. Other than a slight slur of speech she seemed unaffected by the alcohol. Allison had seen her drink heavily before but never with such urgency, as if she was desperately trying to satiate some unquenchable thirst. She thought about saying something to her but decided against it. After all, Allison
reasoned, Vicky’s heart was broken. Didn’t she have the right to get stone cold drunk if she wanted?

  After they got the decorations down, Allison decided to stay and help Vicky finish packing. At last she understood how Vicky could move from one home to another (as had been her pattern) so quickly. Allison watched in horror as she indiscriminately turned drawers upside down and scraped every item out of cabinets into boxes without wrapping things or going through them first. She felt compelled to help her organize so she introduced her to the three pile method–the give away pile, the throw away pile, and the keep pile. She soon realized, however, why this concept of moving was so radically new for Vicky.

  She got teary eyed over nearly every memoir (as Vicky called them) that Allison attempted to sort through. It was like going through a trash heap as Allison rifled through old worn out socks with holes, disposable lighters long run out of fluid, expired coupons, ancient to-do lists, empty matchbooks with unknown phone numbers written in them, and seemingly endless stacks of junk mail. Each worthless item had a story and she simply couldn’t part with her memoirs. Allison realized just how drunk Vicky was somewhere between the slurred words, uttered in mawkishly tremulous tones, and the hillbilly vernacular which she automatically reverted back to. Finally Allison gave up. The three pile method would never work for Vicky. It’s just who she was, Allison figured, as she resigned herself to helping Vicky with her method of haphazardly piling whatever she could into unmarked boxes.

  Their parting that evening was bittersweet. Allison left Vicky at the door waving and calling out a slurred and weepy farewell over and over again until she turned the corner and made her way back up the stairs to her apartment. She wondered how many so called memoirs from Camelot Vicky would drag into her new life and if she would take them out of drawers in future drunken states and weep over them. Allison paused at the top of the stairs and thought of Vicky with all her peculiarities–her tee shirts proclaiming the names of every event she’d ever attended, every place she’d ever been, every icon she’d ever believed in; some of these shirts over sized and some far too tight; her blue jean shorts with the legs cut off unevenly; her beaded Indian moccasins or cowboy boots and the way you could always hear her coming down the hall with those distinct heavy footsteps; her twangy, nasaly, scratchy voice singing some popular song and always making whatever it was sound country; and her dangling silver jewelry that clinked with every movement. Allison smiled, already beginning to miss her. They vowed to keep in touch but Allison knew it would never be the same.

  Vicky left Camelot the same way she came, with her biker buddies in loud and noisy droves hustling in and out with boxes, piling them as haphazardly as Vicky had packed them onto her pick up truck. And then she was gone. For once Vicky’s timing was right though. She left just before Christmas so Camelot didn’t have a chance to feel the vacuity which her absence left behind until after the New Year. The residents settled into post holiday normalcy that first week of 1985 with a deep pall falling over building 3300, as if someone had just died. They moved slower, more quietly and spoke in hushed tones, as if out of respect for the dead. There was something else too. They were all waiting in anxious anticipation for Frank’s return.

  Frank returned to Camelot the same way he left, quietly without notice or fanfare. No one could say for sure just when he arrived back except that they knew he was back because his car returned to the same parking space on the side of the building where he always parked. It was as if he sneaked back in. Maybe he knew, Allison thought. She listened carefully for signs of life. After all this was her self imposed assignment; to gather information and report back to Sally. But there was more to it than that.

  The thought that Allison kept pushing away since Vicky left was becoming more persistent. Frank was free now and so was she. She told herself it was wrong to think that. Vicky was her friend. It was against her code of ethics to move in on another man before the corpse was entirely cold, particularly a friend’s ex. There was an unspoken statute of limitation among honorable women, but for just how long was never clear. How long did he need?

  This was the thought which she tried to keep captive in the recesses of her mind. But it continually broke free from its chains like a frightful monster, barging its way into her consciousness. She would scold it and whip it and take it back to its dungeon, but she could never tame it nor could she keep it constrained for long.

  “We’re just friends. We’re just friends,” she told herself that day she finally couldn’t take it anymore and knocked on his door. She knew he was home because of the usual signs of life; his music, the trace of a light escaping from the crack under his door, the sound of water running. She had seen and heard these signs of life for weeks, but she hadn’t seen Frank. He seemed to know just when to slip in and out of the apartment without being seen. He even managed to elude Sally. It was obvious he didn’t want to be seen. Too bad for him, Allison thought, because the excuse she needed to knock upon his door had finally presented itself.

  She held on tightly to the stack of old albums, bracing them under her chin, trying not to think about the fact that the cardboard corners were cutting into her forearms leaving indentation marks in her skin. She was relieved she only had to walk across the hall with this heavy, cumbersome cargo. She told herself to be careful lest she drop or damage any of the valuable musical memorabilia. She commanded her arm muscles to keep a firm and secure grasp on the precious loot; for this stack which she bore was her long sought after treasure, her redemption, her second chance.

  Realizing there was no way to be free of the burdensome load long enough to knock, Allison maneuvered slightly to the side and bumped her hip three times against Frank’s door. She would try her foot or perhaps her elbow next if he didn’t hear her. She thought she detected the sound of him moving ever so slowly. She heard him cough, or clear his throat. It seemed that it was the cough of someone disinterested, like the coughs one hears in audiences when the performance has gone on too long. She tried her foot this time, kicking the door with the side of her padded running shoe, hard enough to get his attention but not so hard to cause damage to either door or foot. He called out an irritated “just a moment” and it seemed his movements slowed down even more, signaling her that he was in no great hurry to see who was on the other side of that door.

  Allison rearranged the stack in her arms, getting a better grip on them and bracing them once again under her chin. Frank finally opened the door. There he stood before her so different looking that she quickly had to conceal her shock. His face was gaunt and his clothes hung on him. His skin had an ashen tone and dark etchings encircled his eyes. Those eyes seemed duller, more grey than the deep blue she remembered. He appeared to be clean and his hair was groomed though he had about a two days growth of beard.

  “Happy New Year,” Allison chirped wondering why she’d said such an idiotically cheerful thing to a man in the throes of depression.

  “Hello Allison, how are you?” Frank replied in a bland voice, forcing a sort of half smile.

  If she didn’t know any better she would have thought he was sick and she couldn’t help blurting out, “I’m fine, but how are you. You don’t look so good.”

  “Thank you for your candor,” he said in the same bland tone.

  “I, uh, have something for you,” she said presenting the stack of albums. Frank looked at the stack and said nothing. “They’re heavy. May I come in?”

  “Oh, of course, I apologize. Here let me take those,” he said snapping out of his trance-like state and going automatically into gentleman mode as he carefully lifted the stack from Allison’s arms.

  “Those are for you,” she said.

  “You’re giving these to me?” Frank said, baffled as he began to flip through the stack. “Where did you get them?”

  “At a yard sale. They belonged to this lady’s father who passed away. He was a big classical music buff. I think she said he taught music or something. Anyway, I thought of you whe
n I saw them. She sold me the entire collection for three dollars.”

  “You’re kidding? You got these for me?”

  “It was only three dollars,” Allison said, though the truth was she would have paid much more, seeing in this musty smelling old stack a priceless opportunity to edge her way into Frank’s life. “I realize you probably have some of them already, but I…”

  “Look at this,” he said flipping through the records. “Dvorak’s New World Symphony, Respighi’s Pines of Rome...” A spark of life returned to his eyes and for a moment he looked like himself again. “Ah, here’s Gershwin–Rhapsody in Blue and An American in Paris. You’re a big Gershwin fan. You should have this,” he said holding the album out and raising his eyes to look at her. There they were those eyes of his again with some of their former color and luster temporarily restored; the same eyes which looked straight at Allison this very moment, seemingly seeing her for the first time since she’d arrived at his door. He remembered she liked Gershwin. He actually remembered, Allison thought. She was moved by his glance and it took her by surprise.

  “No, I couldn’t really,” Allison stammered in reply to his offer to take the album.

  “Why? Do you have it already?”

  “No, but…”

  “No buts about it. Go on take it. I already have it.”

  “That’s right. I remember you played it for me once.”

  “I did?” Frank said.

  Allison remembered with what might have seemed to others to be a nostalgic smile; the smile of the old, wise and sad. It was only a year and a half ago when he played Gershwin for her yet so much had happened in that span of time it felt like she was an old woman remembering decades back.