The sweet scent of weed and another more acrid smell she doesn’t recognize fill the air. Three couples are slow-dancing to African drumbeats. Two of the women have royal-blue hair, the third is bald, with a flower decal on the back of her scalp. All three women seem to be in their early twenties. Their partners, dressed in jeans and polo shirts, are around Sonny’s age, twenty-five. She told him she’s seventeen, out of high school, and looking for a job, which may turn out to be true.
Mona drops on the couch near Sonny’s friend from the train. He waves to her as if she’s known him awhile. Actually, everyone waves or nods in a friendly, mellow but indifferent way. The train mate gives Sonny a joint, which he inhales twice and hands to her. She takes two hits before Sonny passes it to one of the dancing men. She’s smoked dope with Mirabelle, but this stuff tastes different. It’s already making her head spacey.
“What’s in the joint?” she asks, as matter-of-factly as she can.
“Good, isn’t it? It’s fairy dust, a mixture of pure Moroccan hash with grass. It’s not easy to find, believe me. Mind if I do a line?”
“Do a line?” she repeats, and feels like a jerk.
“Maybe you want to do one too?”
“No, I’m good.”
He takes a baggie out of his pocket, lays a line on the bar counter, holds one nostril, and snorts it. She knows what it is, cocaine. She wasn’t born yesterday.
Mona glides over and hands her what’s left of the joint. She inhales deeply, tells herself she can use some relaxation after this day. The hits wipe away anxiety she didn’t know she had. She refuses to worry anymore. Sonny won’t let her come to harm.
He tugs her gently onto the dance floor, his liquid eyes steady on her, the African drums thumping. She finds herself gyrating slowly toward him, smiling widely.
19.
Dory takes the elevator to in the hospital’s sub-basement and gives her name to the receptionist of the nuclear/radiology department, who couldn’t care less that it’s taken her all these months to make an appointment. She’s hopeful, though. Sometimes viruses last ridiculously long. At work, a strain of stomach flu puts some of her charges out of commission for weeks, then just when they seemed well they were suddenly back on the potty. It isn’t exactly the runs that sent her here, though, but the nausea and the stabbing headaches she can just about dim with aspirin.
In the waiting room are comfy leather chairs, an oak coffee table with neatly arranged magazines, a water cooler, hot water for tea, even a coffee-urn for godsakes. The room couldn’t have been pleasanter. But given her mood she would’ve preferred a dark space without frills.
She’s told no one about this morning’s MRI, doesn’t want anyone praying or fretting her outcome. Some journeys must be taken alone, and this is one of them, though neither Stu nor Lena would agree. Alone provides opportunity to treat event and outcome on her terms without seeing either reflected in the eyes of others. She’s susceptible, she is, to what people believe or fear, and above all doesn’t want to be treated in that sweet syrupy way that brings death to mind. It’s what she does at work, chooses cheery phrases for people who know this is the last place they’ll ever inhabit.
A young woman with a stunned expression sits nearby, her fingers raking obsessively through her long hair. No more than twenty, with large gray eyes fastened on some vision beyond anyone’s grasp. Her presence feels sad, hopeless, but Dory refuses to take it as an omen. She considers saying something to distract her, but a technician arrives and leads the woman out.
As she picks up a magazine, which is what people do in places like this to avoid speculating, the breakfast at Lena’s comes to mind. The tension around the table was palpable. Of course Zack’s plan is ridiculous. Even if he recruits ten men plus Stu, who’s suddenly gung-ho to participate, they’ll end up staring down the cops, no more, no less. They’re not about to get violent; cop cars won’t burn. So how exactly does Zack expect to stop the foreclosure? Questions Lena should have voiced instead of acting as if she were having an out-of-body experience. When she said as much to Stu in bed that night, he mumbled something about letting them go through the motions, then held the pillow close to his chest in his I’m-ready-to sleep, don’t-bother-me position. The things wives learn about their husbands.
Before she can flip more than a few pages, her name is called. She follows the technician’s white-clad back to a tiny, cave-like room, where a machine that brings to her mind pictures of an ancient iron lung sits, ready to televise slices of her brain. Above it, on an adjacent wall, is a small glass enclosure where the radiologist watches the procedure. The technician warns her that the MRI makes a lot of noise. She hands her two waxy earplugs, and a ball to squeeze if it gets too much for her.
She has no intention of squeezing that ball. When did she ever cry uncle? She stuffs the plugs in her ears, climbs in the tunnel, and, as the rattling and banging begins, like her old radiator trying to send up heat, suddenly decides she’s claustrophobic.
Okay, best not to focus on the narrow space or noise, better to go over her mental checklist, the one she’s added to and subtracted from since the initial episode. As of this morning she still enjoys eating and drinking. There’s been no drop in her energy, no trouble sleeping, and she’d enjoy sex if Stu ever offered. She knows that her cardio and respiratory systems are good to go. So the test will most likely be negative, though she knows better than to count on it. Because MRIs, CAT scans, and the like find abnormalities that may never affect a person adversely yet once discovered are hard to ignore. Most bodies contain some congenital fuckup. This she believes. Before machines provided 3-D pictures of bodily spaces, people lived with their imperfections. So why is she here?
Her mind wanders to Stu, as it often does these days. Last night he went out for the newspaper. She assumed he’d stop at a bar for a few. But he was back in minutes, antsy, irritable, almost testy, making her wish he’d taken his usual detour. She’s read about dry drunks. Is he really a drunk? His drinking has increased in the last year, yes, but the man wouldn’t touch a drop during work. She knows it’s been difficult at the plant, and that for him holding on to his job is proof not of success but of the avoidance of failure. Early in their marriage he confessed that he’d be devastated if he were fired from any job. He’s been at the plant since he was a kid and worked his ass off.
“Don’t move, ma’am,” the voice echoes eerily inside the chamber. She doesn’t think she’s moved a muscle. Is she supposed to stop breathing? Is this a significant moment, the final take, the part of the brain where problems reside? Closing her eyes tight, her cold palms flat against the thin mat, she concentrates on her charge Miss Z., who never gives up hope.
20.
Driving home, the sun sparkling on the Hudson River, she considers the dumb questions she’s been asked. Have you cleaned house before? Can you work with children around? Are you allergic to any detergent? What about dust? Will you work weekends? On and on, to which she replied yes, yes, no, no, I will. Never mind that the outer corridor of the agency was filled with women waiting to apply for the same work. And who’s to say they didn’t need a job as much or more than she did? Not that she’d give up a job to any of them. Running on empty makes her selfish in ways she never would’ve imagined.
Pulling up in front of her house, she takes out her cell phone and tries Dory for the third time. She answers.
“I’ve been calling you all day!”
“I forgot to turn it on.” Dory sounds impatient, which makes her wonder. Have they changed their minds?
“We’ve decided to accept your generous offer to move in.” She waits for some reaction but hears only breathing. “Do you still want us there?”
“Of course.”
“You don’t sound like your usual enthusiastic self.”
“Lena, I’m at work. I got in late. Old people are wandering around, trying to get my attention or take away the phone to talk to you.”
“Okay, I get it. Zack wants to
go ahead with the perimeter crap. So I have to let him do his thing and when it fails, which it will, we move in with you guys.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“I won’t keep you. Just want to say that I lost it, slapped Rosie’s face last night for sassing me. I’ll hang up now.”
“You slapped Rosie?”
“I already feel terrible, don’t make it worse.”
“She probably deserved it.”
“That feels worse.”
“A drink after I finish work?”
“No. I’ve got to get Casey out of his room. I can’t confiscate his computer. He’ll hate me too much. I need one of my children to love me.”
“Take him to buy something. It’ll get him out, perk him up.”
“Want to hear something funny?” she asks, seeing Zack through the window, pacing the living room.
“Only if it’s less than three words.”
“Arthur.”
“Arthur?”
“I was fishing in my purse for coins and found Arthur’s card. The detective we met months ago? He wrote his number on the other side. It gave me a weird jolt seeing it. I thought I’d call to ask if they hire civilian personnel at the precinct.”
“Do not, I caution you, call the man with the white scarf.”
“So you do remember?”
“Like an elephant.” Dory clicks off.
She sits there a moment, revisiting Arthur. Could it really hurt to ask him a simple question about a job? He did flirt with her, the white scarf around her neck and all. Okay, that was dangerous, but she was drunk then. Now she’s cold sober. Maybe she could do clerical work or work in the cafeteria? That precinct has no cafeteria, she’ll bet on that piece of her memory. She’s too old to join the civil service, isn’t she? That’s another question she might ask.
With the phone at his ear, Zack’s asking someone called Jimmy to join the perimeter posse. Well, that’s it, then. The hardhats are coming. Not waiting to hear more, she goes upstairs, but Casey’s not in his room. Well, good, maybe he’s out biking.
She knocks at Rosie’s door. “Can I come in? I need to talk to you.”
“No, you need me to forgive you.”
“Yes, I do. I lost it, I’m sorry.” She’s speaking to the closed door, which feels ridiculous.
No response.
“We can have the conversation through the door, if you want.”
Her daughter opens the door, her hair pulled back with a ribbon. She looks a bit ill. She did get in late. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I forgive you. Okay? Now, please go. I’m trying to take a nap.”
Then why is she dressed in jeans and T-shirt? “Rosie, you know I’ve never raised a hand …”
“I said I forgive you,” and just as Rosie’s about to close the door, she steps inside, noting that the bed’s unmade and strewn with clothes.
“Where were you last night?”
“Out with Mirabelle.”
“Where to?”
“Movie and late-night snack.”
Her answers are too quick, but the last thing they need is another argument. “Listen, Dad’s trying to round up his friends to stop the foreclosure. He’s on the phone now.”
“Am I supposed to do something?”
“Ask him how you can help. You wanted the perimeter to happen.”
“Mom at my age, life changes at a startling pace. I already told you I’d rather move in with a friend. You guys should just go ahead to Dory’s.”
“Whoa, you cannot, I repeat, cannot live at Mirabelle’s. If need be I’ll phone her parents to make sure it doesn’t happen.”
“You would do that?”
Why is her daughter surprised? “I would do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Whatever.”
“What do you mean safe? What’s unsafe?”
“To be without your family.”
“Oh, god, never mind. Please go. I have a stomachache. I need a nap before tonight.”
“You’re going out again?”
“This is my vacation, remember?”
Before she can ask where to and with whom, Rosie says, “To a summer beach party, lots of kids. Can I take my nap now?”
She’s on the phone with Dory when she hears Rosie come down the stairs. “How’s the stomach?” she calls from the kitchen. Rosie mumbles something she can’t make out, then the screen door bangs shut. “I’ll call you later,” she says, then glances out the window at the summer dusk. The sky’s still streaked with fading pink and silver from the sunset. She made the right decision not to curtain this window. Sometimes, early in the morning, while everyone’s still asleep, she sneaks into the kitchen to watch winter’s night sky lightening or summer’s brightening. The silence, indoors and out, shifts her mood and often for the better. Someone once told her there was grace in getting away from oneself.
Her eyes flit to the scattering of foreclosure documents on the table, the ones she can never quite read to the end without zoning out. The print is small, the language inaccessible, and besides she can’t bear to know much more than she already does about the odious process. One lackey after another, signing off on the foreclosure, and not one of them taking any responsibility for the outcome. They’re like drone pilots she reads about in the paper who sit in some air-conditioned facility thousands of miles from the lands they’re bombing. They don’t have to view the damage or even hear the noise of it. Isn’t that just like the banks? Maybe Zack’s right. Why make it easy? Why accept their crap? Why not at least fight back? The anger inside her offers no answers, only the start of a headache, which sends her upstairs for an aspirin.
Rosie’s door is ajar. She sees the note at once, taped to Rosie’s pillow. Her limbs go soft. She sits on Rosie’s bed. She knows before knowing. It’s not just the slap. It’s everything the girl expects and is entitled to that she can’t count on anymore. Oh, Jesus, Mary, and … she reaches over, pulling the note free.
Mom, Dad, Casey,
I’m not running away. I’m simply going to live with a friend, someone you don’t know, who is pretty wonderful and has made lots of room for me. I’m going to be fine. I will stay in touch. I do have my phone. You can call me. But I can’t leave you the address because, Mom, you would be here in a nanosecond giving me grief, trying to get me home, and I truly don’t want to deal with that. I’m not a baby. I will be in a safe situation. Just trust me, I beg you. Leaving home isn’t impulsive even if it seems that way to you. I think it’s for the best. Dad, I hope your perimeter works, but it probably won’t. So the move to Dory’s seems set. Casey, the room at Dory’s is yours.
Rosie.
Fear and sadness collide inside her, along with a sliver of envy. Her daughter’s getting away.
21.
Zack hikes down to the basement with Rosie’s note. He’s read it, and the contents leave him unsurprised. Rosie knows what she’s doing and wants to be trusted. So be it. He chooses not to worry about her, though Lena wants him to be concerned about everything, as if tormenting himself would somehow help or make a difference. His mother did that, even worried about whether she’d find what she wanted at the store. She was constantly planning for disaster. It was tiring just knowing her. Lena’s a bit like her but much prettier.
He puts Rosie’s note in his pocket, pushes yesterday’s newspaper off the cot, and lies down. Lately, he comes here a lot. The room is cozy, quiet. A cocoon is what it is. Being under the house allows him to be outside of everything, which is good. Unlike Lena, who wants to be in the center of it all, he prefers the vacant edges.
He stares at the perfectly plastered white ceiling, his work, and it still looks brand-new. What’ll happen to it if his house is sold? Will the new people rip it out? Redo the paint job? Change everything? Well, none of that’s going to happen because he’s counting on stopping the foreclosure. Stu will participate, so will Jimmy and Jimmy’s brother. He couldn’t get any of the others to commit, but that’s okay. The few who are comi
ng will do the job. When the cops arrive, he wonders, will the scene become violent? The last time he was involved in a fight he was eighteen. Some worker on a construction site kept riding him—you need glasses, that beam’s not straight, are you a moron? Pay attention. It was his first high-up job; what did the man expect? He was using a hand drill the guy tried to take away without saying please. It was the final insult. He let the man have it on the nose, which cost him the job. That was many moons ago, and no doubt left him with a reputation he doesn’t deserve. At the union hall, which he hates going to, some of the big shots treat him like he’s a novice, a peon. It’s humiliating. Lena tells him to speak up, but she doesn’t have to work with them on a thin beam a million miles high. In fact, what she doesn’t know about his work sites would shock her. But he doesn’t have a site now, and just when he needs her body to refresh him, when he needs the ecstasy of abandonment, she isn’t having or giving any of it. He ends up jerking off. The lack of a little warmth is not healthy for any living thing. As a kid there was never enough heat in the apartment. His mom wore gloves to sweep the floor if she got around to it after her two jobs. His dad, who was brought up in New Hampshire, wouldn’t buy a heater, told him to outgrow his baby skin. Then again, his dad was a Teamster, used to working on the docks until a hand injury put him on disability. As a teen, the few times he went to work with his dad he suffered mightily. His job might’ve been to tag some crates. Maybe he did it wrong or they didn’t explain it right, but the men wouldn’t stop harassing him. Hey Zack, didn’t your father teach you anything? Didn’t he show you right from left? No Wheaties this morning? And sure, they were teasing him, but he doesn’t tease well.
Every Body has a Story Page 10
