Praise for Every Body Has a Story
“What a book! Gologorsky is at her best, weaving a tapestry of the lives of very real people, people whose lives deserve her care, her unsparing eye, and her compassion. Here is a story that cuts to the core of the way things are, and the way they can—all of a sudden—become. Your heart might be ripped out by this book, but it will get placed back inside with a larger capacity to love and beat on—what a book, indeed.”
—Elizabeth Strout, author of My Name Is Lucy Barton and the Pulitzer Prize-winning novel Olive Kitteridge
“Gologorsky plumbs the lives of working people in America. Economic crisis can strike suddenly. Families can fall apart and mend again. Love is deep—both powerful and fragile—but never simple. Every body does have a story, and Gologorsky’s compassion and knowledge of the human heart reveal the unspoken emotional layers in marriage, parenthood, friendship, and in unexpected love. In beautiful and lucid prose, the story of two families caught in some of the most difficult contemporary crosscurrents builds to a crescendo with memorable characters that remain with the reader. A deep and gripping novel until the very last words.”
—Jane Lazarre, author of Beyond the Whiteness of Whiteness: Memoir of a White Mother of Black Sons
“In prose as tender and historically detailed as Alice McDermott’s, Beverly Gologorsky weaves a tale of two hard-working and endearing couples sent head over heels by the sudden economic reversals to which the non-rich are so subject. As much a story about marital and parental love as it is about the precariousness of working-class life, this novel makes us fall for each of its characters, even as they make their deeply human mistakes. Timeless and essential, Every Body Has a Story is utterly spellbinding.”
—Helen Benedict, author of Wolf Season and Sand Queen
“Every Body Has a Story is a compelling story of the shattering and rebuilding of home and heart. Gologorsky tells a tale of today’s impaired Americana, where the unthinkable, inescapable, and raw pressures of economically and emotionally strapped life can irrevocably alter relationships, identities, and any semblance of stability. With gripping prose, she provides us a front-row seat in the lives of two families, headed by couples that evolve from carefree to burdened at the hands of fate and high finance.”
—Nomi Prins, author of All the Presidents’ Bankers and Collusion
“Far from the headlines of the Ponzi schemes and the bailouts of banks engaged in unethical home mortgage practices, Beverly Gologorsky’s novel, Every Body Has a Story, takes an impassioned and unflinching look at two couples who have willed themselves out of the dire circumstances of their childhoods, only to become adults facing the realization that the promises and commitments made in their youth have not played out in the lives they’ve actually lived. In prose that is pitch perfect in every detail that matters, Gologorsky gives us characters who are unpredictably truthful and achingly alive, as the bonds of marriage, friendship, and between parents and children are tested nearly to the point of breaking. Every Body Has a Story gives voice to the unheralded predicaments and triumphs of Americans living in the real time of here and now.”
—Wesley Brown, author of Darktown Strutters and Dance of the Infidels
EVERY BODY HAS A STORY
A novel
Beverly Gologorsky
© 2018 Beverly Gologorsky
Published in 2018 by
Haymarket Books
P.O. Box 180165
Chicago, IL 60618
773-583-7884
www.haymarketbooks.org
[email protected]
ISBN: 978-1-60846-908-6
An earlier version of an excerpt from Every Body Has a Story appeared in Hamilton Stone Review, April 2016. Excerpt from The Niagara River, copyright © 2005 by Kay Ryan. Used by permission of Grove/Atlantic, Inc. Any third party use of this material, outside of this publication, is prohibited.
Trade distribution:
In the US, Consortium Book Sales and Distribution, www.cbsd.com
In Canada, Publishers Group Canada, www.pgcbooks.ca
In the UK, Turnaround Publisher Services, www.turnaround-uk.com
All other countries, Ingram Publisher Services International, [email protected]
This book was published with the generous support of Lannan Foundation and Wallace Action Fund.
Cover design by Mimi Bark, mimibark.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available.
Things Shouldn’t Be So Hard
Kay Ryan
A life should leave
deep tracks:
ruts where she
went out and back
to get the mail
or move the hose
around the yard;
where she used to
stand before the sink,
a worn-out place;
beneath her hand
the china knobs
rubbed down to
white pastilles;
the switch she
used to feel for
in the dark
almost erased.
Her things should
keep her marks.
The passage
of a life should show;
it should abrade.
And when life stops,
a certain space—
however small—
should be left scarred
by the grand and
damaging parade.
Things shouldn’t
be so hard.
As always, for: Georgina, Dònal, and especially Maya
for
Tom Engelhardt, with deep appreciation
and
In Memory of
Charlie Wiggins
Table of Contents
Things Shouldn’t Be So Hard
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
PART TWO
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
PART THREE
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Acknowledgments
About the Author
PART ONE
1.
Lena stands, as always, at the window in the train door gazing at the old East Bronx apartment buildings, the elevation not high enough to avoid glimpses into a grayness that can’t be altered by light bulbs. She knows this grayness, grew up within its grip like a pigeon on a windowsill
. Never a smooth ride, the elevated train bounces along the track, shaking awake a few of the sleepy rush-hour passengers. Suddenly a woman’s gaunt face peers out at her from an open window, her expression fierce, certain, frightening. She turns away, refusing to remember.
2.
Lifting her head from the dizzying columns of numbers on the screen, she checks the clock on the wall, nearly six, and shuts down the computer. The head bookkeeper left at the stroke of five. It’s Friday. The weekend begins and not a minute too soon. She needs to hurry yet finds herself staring up at the porthole window, out of which nothing whole can be viewed. A few drinks, she hopes, will revive her. The gaiety of the next hours will demand that. On the phone yesterday, she asked Dory if this was really how she wanted to celebrate her birthday. Stu planned the whole evening, Dory responded. Subject closed.
She slips out of flats into suede pumps, stuffs her reading glasses and phone in her purse, locks the office door, and crosses the small lobby with its worn carpet and faded flowery couch. The hotel is on the edge of seedy, though the head bookkeeper swears it was once quite fancy.
Belting her coat, she joins the midtown crowd. Despite the heels she’ll walk from Lexington to Seventh Avenue where, like a hooker, she’ll wait on the corner for the car to pick her up. It’s a cold, blue dusk, a cloudless sky, no sign of snow. Zack pays serious attention to weather forecasts. Snow means construction work stops. A man whose admitted ambition is to get home each evening, he craves bad weather like a prisoner his freedom. Since they bought the house he’s even more domestic, or maybe it’s difficult for him to believe it exists unless he’s in it. Well, she doesn’t adore her job either. Who does? Except Dory, who loves her work.
Fur-coated women trailing perfume jostle past her, swinging their brand-name bags. Such an easy life. What would it feel like?
There’s always the daily lotto ticket. Her father bought one, no matter what. And if he didn’t have the two bucks, the guy trusted him to pay, which he eventually did. He never won a thing. Of course he didn’t. Anyway, it’s not in her nature to pin her hopes on games.
In the amber-lit club, waiters weave between the tables, balancing trays. Statues of the Buddha lounge in corners, their enigmatic smiles eternal. Silver and gold sparkling balls flash lights on the ceiling, revealing half a face here, a glint of teeth there, the sudden gleam of jewelry on an invisible ear, the dance floor as disorienting as an accident scene. Stu will pull her there to gyrate to music her fifteen-year-old daughter would love. He likes dancing with her, always has. Once upon a time, the four of them were an item, went everywhere together.
They follow a hostess to a small round table. She drops off four menus and disappears.
“She didn’t give us a chance to order drinks,” Stu complains, barely changed from the slim, handsome youth all the girls trailed—to Dory’s consternation. His mischievous green eyes and slightly lifted brows remain ready for play, though the loose boyish smile never quite breaks through anymore. Unlike Zack, who grins a lot.
“Birthdays have memories.”
“Dory, you’re going on forty, not eighty,” she says.
“It was when they were living in the projects …”
“Years to forget.”
“Lena, let the girl finish her story,” Zack says amiably.
“It was your birthday, Lena, sixteen. The four of us went out drinking at the Café something or other on Simpson Street, got shit-faced, and ended up on Orchard Beach, remember?”
“Yes, so?”
“What a great night that was.”
But it wasn’t. Barely a breeze off Long Island Sound. Lots of people on blankets, laughing, drinking, making noises of every sort. Zack and Stu wanted a little loving and tented a blanket on the sand. She became weirdly self-conscious and asked to go home. Stu tried to make her stay, whispering that it would be no fun to break up the gang. She insisted on leaving, and Zack stood up, ready to oblige. Stu called her a prude, accused her of ruining the night. Dory’s memories have a way of cleansing scenes where Stu is concerned.
“I’m more attached to Lena’s eighteenth birthday,” Stu says. “The girl goes to the ladies’ room and doesn’t come back. Dory finds her asleep on the toilet. Soused, of course.”
“Actually, I had the flu … Of course, the drinking didn’t help.” They laugh.
“Stu, what about the night I had to lug you off the bus singing the national anthem?” Zack says.
“I wasn’t drunk. I was high.”
“Lord, it does sound like we spent our youth stoned,” Dory says. “Now, we’re upright, sober, whatever, except for occasions like this. I mean, how many nights do we go out clubbing?”
“Not enough,” Stu responds sourly.
“Does it really bother you?” Zack asks.
“Yeah, it does. It’s a giving up … a loss of … I don’t know … fun, and for what?”
“We have fun, don’t we?” Dory searches Stu’s face, her small, delicate chin uplifted.
“Depends.” He’s searching the room for a waiter to lasso.
“Fun changes as we take on responsibilities,” Zack says.
She and Dory exchange looks.
The waiter arrives. “Drinks?”
“A bottle of Asti Spumante champagne,” says Stu, and the waiter heads for the bar.
“A bit pricey, no?” she ventures, annoyed.
“Hey, it’s a birthday, isn’t it?”
“It’s okay, Stu,” Dory begins, “we don’t need to spend …”
“No, not okay. We have to toast.”
No one says anything.
“How is Miss Z.?” Lena asks.
“Who is Miss Z.?” Zack wants to know.
“One of Dory’s charges at the nursing home.”
“She still waits at the door for a sister who will never appear, but hope springs ….”
“I’d shoot myself before ending up like that,” Stu says.
“Miss Z. is not demented,” Dory responds. “It’s how she chooses to spend her time.”
“Who knows, Stu, maybe you’d be happier without reality,” she quips.
“Reality?”
The waiter reappears, uncorks the sparkling wine, fills the glasses, then deftly opens a menu in front of each of them before vanishing.
“To Dory, who deserves only the best.” Stu lifts his glass.
“To my forever best friend, many happy years to come.”
“To our everlasting friendship,” Zack chimes in.
“This stuff tastes good,” Stu says. “Waiter, another!” he calls out, pointing to his almost empty glass and ignoring the partially filled bottle on the table.
“Did you win on a number?” Zack jokes.
Stu gazes at the dancers. “I’m taking the new floor position at the plant.”
“I thought you weren’t going to abandon your work team,” Dory says, careful not to show surprise. “What happened?” It’s clear, though, that she’s hearing the news for the first time.
Stu shrugs. “Drink up, mates. Another bottle is on the way, and we need to get to the dancing.”
After dropping off Dory and Stu, they head for home, as her mind wanders through the last few hours. She tried to enjoy herself. She really did. She even danced, but it felt like a performance. Stu was working too hard at celebrating and Dory was clearly upset, though she tried her best to hide it. Why hadn’t he told her about the job change? Zack’s staring at the road, his youthful face not the least bit tired-looking.
“Do you think Stu’s fucking around?”
“He’s not,” Zack states.
“How do you know?”
He shrugs.
“You mean it’s a guy thing, recognizing cheating?”
“He tells me stuff.”
“Then how come you didn’t know about the job change?”
“I did. He asked me to say nothing until he made up his mind. They’re only keeping one member of each welding team, so he kissed ass to be that on
e.”
“That’s awful.”
“Would you rather he be let go?”
“Of course not, but why didn’t he share the news with Dory?”
“Dory’s very high-minded. She’d be disappointed in him for selling out his crew, which is what it amounts to.”
“Well, they were unusually quiet in the car.”
“Quiet is good.”
She settles deeper into the seat.
“At the construction site, quiet isn’t allowed. The noise is constant. I think I’m losing my hearing. The guys socialize by ribbing, joking, griping, pushing, and poking each other—no fun when you’re up that high. Maybe the others don’t mind, but I can’t finish the day fast enough.”
None of this is news to her. Again and again she listens to similar complaints, and they never lead anywhere.
“You remember the Stubbs story. The fool jumped from one beam to another and didn’t make it. Wouldn’t that stop anyone else from doing the same? No. They need to prove it can be done. I take the elevator down and then up to the other top floor beam. They call me lady. Lady, do this. Lady, do that. It’s what I deal with every day.”
“I’m sorry you have to live through that.” She speaks softly, almost sensually, to stop him from going any further. It would take him forever to find another job, and what would that be if not construction?
He grins. “The universe is selfish. No man can have both the best job and the best woman. Anyway, angel, for you I’ll keep balancing on those cold fucking beams.”
He waits for a response. He always does. She’s done this so many times, every which way. And truth to tell, she’s too tired of the subject to do it now.
Except for the streetlight on the corner, the road leading to the house is dark. It’s a newly renovated area in a once downtrodden part of the East Bronx. The houses were built and sold quickly at a manageable price. Aluminum-sided Cape Cods, apart from different colors and trims, look alike, each with a small backyard and an even smaller front lawn. Hers, however, sports a maple tree that flames gorgeous in autumn. Several of the men who live on the road also work in construction. She wonders if they, too, complain to their wives about their jobs.
Upstairs, Rosie, barefoot, in cutoff pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, comes out of her room.
“Hi. What’s up?” Zack says.
Every Body has a Story Page 1
