Every Body has a Story

by Beverly Gologorsky

  Lena pours Chablis in a glass and downs it in more or less one gulp.

  “I’m going to bed, too,” Zack says.

  “No, please, Zack, we need to deal with this together.”

  “But not right now,” he announces, and heads for the bedroom.

  “Maybe Zack’s right,” Dory suggests. “Let’s call it a night.”

  “I need to decompress. You go to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  She kisses Lena’s cheek and whispers, “Truly, it’s not the end of the world.”

  “That’s such a cliché,” Lena responds, which makes her smile for the first time in hours.

  Stu pours his third glass of wine. He plans to sip it slowly. He’ll empty the dishwasher, put away the dinner dishes, be active, though the couch is where he wants to be, where he shouldn’t be, where Lena is sitting. Alone with her he wants no slippery words, though he has no idea what he even means by that. Is he drunk already?

  “Need any help?” she calls.

  “Hey, I’m capable. How about another drink?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He pours wine into her glass, then sits in the chair beside her, near enough to touch. He eyes his full glass, the third, the one he deliberately left on the table, except without it he’s as nervous as a teen on his first job interview.

  “Rosie, now Casey. What’s happening?”

  He can sense her weariness, even so, her lovely arms, that neck … not allowed there, man, focus. The woman is appealing to him. Give her words.

  “Casey’s feeling the need to grow up fast. That’s not criminal. And Rosie? She’s like you, smart, resourceful, knows how to take care of herself the way you did. Not many could’ve lived the hand you were dealt and turned out so great.”

  “That’s sweet.” She says softly and smiles.

  Should he smile back? Can he touch her arm?

  “Listen, I know I’m offering you advice from a secure seat since both Dory and I are working. But Lena, you, me, Dory, Zack, people like us, we make our lives day by fucking day, with nothing ever secure, not even the houses we live in. Radio, TV, they drone on about the potential loss of the safety net. There never was one, not for people like us, not in times like these. But you’re someone who’s taken charge of her life, and nothing will stop you from continuing to do so.” He didn’t expect to say any of this. Thing is, it’s true.

  “Tell me, what do you think is going on with Zack? He’s never been this detached.”

  “In what way?” he asks. He knows he’s just buying time. Does he say Zack is going through a bad moment that will end, which is what he believes? Or does he say, Zack’s lost it, never seen him this messed up. Could he live with himself saying that?

  “He’s so unreachable,” she continues.

  “I don’t know, Lena. Losing a house can upend the best of us.” What a chicken shit he is!

  “Should I leave him be or keep pestering him? I’m at a loss.”

  He wants to smooth the frown line on her forehead, remove the mist of misery from her eyes. Just thinking about it stirs him. “It’s probably wise not to push Zack for a bit.” It’s the best he can do for now. He didn’t expect conversations with her to be so tricky, not after all these years. “One more glass?”

  “Why the hell not.”

  He’s so relieved that he practically sprints to the table, picks up his drink. Brings back the bottle, and pours more wine into her glass.

  “Thanks. This will help me relax. Mind if I take it with me to the bedroom?”

  “Of course not.” Don’t leave, he thinks, as he watches her disappear into the hallway. Then he drains his own glass and pours another.

  29.

  Zack stands at the bedroom window, staring at his own reflection. It’s too dark to see anything else out there. Did he say good night to everyone? He did in his head. Lately, he finds himself saying things first in his head to check how they’ll sound to others. Then he forgets to repeat them aloud. It’s as if speaking them silently is enough, and he loses interest in going further. Not having to deal with responses feels good, even refreshing. Some things he’s forbidden himself to say out loud: I will never do construction work again. No more repetitive pounding, no more drilling noises echoing through the hard hat until he wants to scream. He can’t climb another fucking beam without wanting to jump off. He’s scared. Terrified. And Lena won’t hold him in her arms to make him feel better.

  He lies down on the bed, still dressed. Why undress only to dress again in the morning? One routine expectation after another controls his life and saps his strength. He’s so tired of the same words repeated so many times—bathe, eat, crap, find work, do this, do that—and to what end? Nothing changes, nothing at all. Casey tried to do something about the way things work even if it was only with paint. His son didn’t want to make it easy for them—whoever the fuck they are—to take away what belongs to his family. He closes his eyes and waits for the blackness.

  Zack’s asleep when she enters. She sits in the rocking chair, the darkness a shawl around her, and sips at the wine. As her eyes adjust, she notes that he’s still dressed. Maybe Stu’s right, leave him be. But what if he doesn’t look for work? What then? Lord knows. Stu’s words were sweet. He’s been unaccountably considerate and not at all his usual combative self with her. Why’s that, she wonders? His reassurance that she would get through the turmoil brought to mind the words of one of her teachers. After her mother jumped out the window, everyone—family, friends, neighbors, and strangers—expressed sympathy for her loss, but in their eyes she also saw awe, because such an act inspires awe. Only her high school teacher, Ms. O’Farrell, skipped the sympathy and said words that really mattered. She was young enough, Ms. O’Farrell told her, to get over the tragedy. It was her duty now to mother herself and to create the person she wanted to be, that it could be done, and Lena could do it. She didn’t hold her hand or place an arm around her shoulders. Her tone was stern, commanding, and without noticeable compassion. And it sounded like truth.

  30.

  Sonny unlocks the three-latch door and leaves her inside while he goes down to park the car. The place is so tiny! It must once have been someone’s walk-in closet. She faces an old couch with wide wooden arms and short stubby legs, a lopsided black director’s chair, a crushed brown vinyl beanbag seat, and two small windows overlooking an alley. Along one wall, what passes for a kitchen—a two-burner stove next to a small metal sink. Where does he eat? There’s no table. She won’t check out the bedroom till he returns.

  Sonny’s friend’s uncle has agreed to hire her. Cashier, stock person, he didn’t say what, and pay her in cash. It’s not exactly the job of her future, but it’s a start. She’ll save some money, then look for better. She’ll apply for her GED, maybe even enroll in some college courses. For now, though, she needs more clothes. No doubt her mother packed them and took them to Dory’s. The question is how to get them? Sonny would gladly retrieve her stuff, but that’s not possible, and he wouldn’t understand her family. He’s an only son, close to his mom, who lives alone and manages some Ukrainian bakery near where he grew up. He won’t talk about his father except to say that he met him a few times too many.

  It feels weird being alone in his digs. Under other circumstances she’d call Mirabelle, but her friend’s formal good-bye rankles her. No hugs, no kisses, no see-you-soons, not even a wave, though she did stand out front till the car sped away. She can envision Mirabelle’s disdain on entering Sonny’s apartment. Well, the snobby side of that girl needs to be combated. She’ll phone her tomorrow. Tonight, though, it’s not about Mirabelle. It’s about her and Sonny, alone together. They’ve talked about making love in their own bed, night or day, free to do whatever they want, and what that might be she can’t wait to find out.

  Where the hell is he? How long does it take to locate a parking space? Did he forget she’s alone up here with a triple-latched door?

  She checks out what seems to be a fridge, a half-
size cooler of sorts, and finds three cans of Bud in it. She doesn’t want a beer. She’s hungry. Maybe he went to the supermarket. That thought momentarily stems the fingers of anxiety creeping up her spine. But she didn’t see anything open nearby. She hates waiting. He’d better not be one of those inconsiderate jerk-offs. She won’t stand for it. Even as she thinks this, she knows it isn’t true, which in a way is more alarming. Because, really, if something did happen to him, what would she do? Who would she call? Would it be safe to stay here alone overnight? No one would want to rob this place. What in heaven’s name would they steal?

  She hears footsteps before the rat-tat-a-tat on the door. She unlatches the locks, releases the chain, and stands there, arms akimbo. “What the hell took you so long?”

  “My fairy dust guy wasn’t where he usually is. I had to go uptown. We don’t want to be without, do we?”

  “Sonny, you left me alone in a strange place. What would I have done if something had happened to you?”

  “Nothing did, nothing would, nothing could, pretty girl. This is my town, so unscrew that frown. Please? So baby, baby, here’s my pad, does it satisfy, gratify, or make you sad?”

  “Sonny, you promised …”

  He shrugs.

  “I can’t say it’s gorgeous, but I do like being alone with you.”

  “Girl is honest.” He takes her hand, leads her to the bedroom, where there’s a twin-sized mattress on the floor. Posters of rappers paper the walls. The one small window is covered with a red cloth.

  31.

  On coffee break in the small staff office, she stares at the desktop computer. This morning she felt herself slur words a few times, not like a drunk might, but more like she just couldn’t hold the letters together. Some of them kept slipping back down her throat. Can a benign brain tumor cause slurring? she asks Google. Yes, it tells her, via way too many medical sites, it can, it does, and it will, though most of the sites indicate when it comes the slurring is usually continuous, which in her case it’s not. That’s a good sign, yes? Bodies are notoriously random in their assaults. One day a person wakes with an aching hip, the next day it’s not even a memory. Okay, the headaches persist, but aspirin works.

  For a moment, she considers phoning Stu to tell him about the MRI, her headaches, the slurring, but would it make a difference? She’d still have the same symptoms, and he doesn’t do well with illness. She’s lonely for him, that’s all. She used to phone him during breaks and whisper seductive words about the night before, then listen to him chuckle softly. Now there aren’t many nights before. It isn’t as if they never have sex, but it feels dutiful on his part. Well, he’s going through his thing, too, isn’t he? Work, money, worry, more worry. Why add to it?

  On the positive side, lately he’s arriving home directly from work without getting lost in a bar. Could be he’s developed a heightened sense of responsibility … man of the house should be present. Or maybe he enjoys being part of an extended family.

  She checks her watch. It’s nearly eleven. And hurries down the hallway to Mr. Todd’s room. He turns off the TV and they proceed to the cafeteria for coffee. She brings two cups to an empty table and sits across from him. “Were you watching anything interesting?”

  “Daytime programming is for morons.”

  “No argument from me. Would you prefer reading a book?”

  “I can’t.” He looks at her as if she ought to know why.

  She does, but asks anyway. “How come?”

  “Cataracts, and before you say it, no, I haven’t changed my mind. I don’t want them removed.”

  “It’s a very routine procedure, you know.”

  “There’s no such thing.”

  His words chill her. Would she have a cataract removed? She believes she would. A cataract isn’t a tumor. “It’s not a big deal. It’s outpatient, no hospital.”

  “I’m eighty-six. Everything’s a big deal.” His hands shoo away her words.

  “There are audio books.”

  “I have a hearing aid in each ear. I take them out and I won’t hear a word.”

  “There are solutions in this world, Mr. Todd.”

  “I’m all ears, ha.” He stirs sugar into his coffee.

  “There are ear …” but she can’t find the word she wants and feels nauseous. She takes a deep breath. “Anyway, we can try to order the device.”

  “Who buys them?”

  “I can find out if Medicaid will pay.”

  “A waste of time. The comfort of old people means nothing in this society. Done with us when we stop working, stop paying taxes. Simple as that. But rich or poor, every living body gets old. I take my satisfaction from that.”

  “Mr. Todd, you’re bright, perceptive, but awfully bitter.”

  “And you’re young and hopeful, that’s the way it is.”

  “Well, I’m going to order you ear …” Again she can’t find the word.

  “We’ll see.”

  “Can I leave you here and tend to others?”

  “Won’t be the first time.”

  Phones … earphones, she remembers on her way out.

  32.

  She can smell his aftershave, a citrusy mixture—lemon and lime. His strong hands grasp the steering wheel. When he phoned the other day, it surprised her. How did he get her number? Of course, he’s a detective. He moved some barrels and bricks, he told her: the kid, her son, is off the illegal track, out of the system. No record. No arraignment. But this can only be done once. He did it for the kid, yes, but for her, too. Lunch, perhaps? He never said she owed him, but she does. She glances at his profile. The Roman nose, wide cheeks, square chin. She’s never seen a real square chin except in cartoons. His maleness is all in his face, she decides. His short, somewhat squat body, not so much.

  So far, the conversation’s easy but uninteresting—about old Bronx neighborhoods where he used to patrol. She asks where they’re going. He says it’s a surprise. Streets of gray stone buildings rush by. She takes note of them as they cross the Willis Avenue Bridge out of the Bronx into Manhattan. She takes note, too, of his fingers, free of a gold band, not that that means anything. Takes note as well of no revealing objects in the car—kids’ toys, wife’s scarf. He’s vacuumed it free of personal items. It’s something she wouldn’t think to do. Maybe he expects her to be as inquisitive and observant as he would be. The thing is, though she’s here, she’s not.

  For some reason she remembers the website Rosie showed her, “virtual twins”—avatars of real singers—their real but make-believe features, their real but doll-like movements. They make a travesty of girls Rosie’s age. Not that she could say so to her daughter, who saw in them not a gimmick but some kind of fun-magic. Right now, it’s exactly what she feels like, a virtual woman in a virtual car with a virtual man, which doesn’t feel bad. Yet even as she thinks this, reality, never far from her brain, seeps in as easily as wind through a crack. Is Arthur really taking her to a restaurant? She reminds herself that he’s been a gentleman on every count. Still, what would Rosie say about her in a car with this handsome man who’s interested in treating her to some promising hours? Rosie would be horrified. Of course she would. Real mothers don’t act like their teenage children. Real mothers have jobs and houses and take care of their kids’ needs. Rosie’s voice in her head whispers, What the fuck are you doing? And why isn’t it Zack’s voice? She did tell Zack that Casey’s arrest was thrown out, no record, but nothing more. And he didn’t ask.

  They’re driving through Times Square. The din muted by the closed windows. She stares at the multitudes of people, the huge flashing billboards, sunlit sky, dizzying traffic. Suddenly, the scene isn’t containable, and she feels miles from home.

  She touches his arm, startling him. “Arthur, this isn’t a good idea. I mean, of course we should have lunch, and of course I’m eternally grateful for what you did for Casey. But it stops after lunch, the-you-and-me part of it. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Hey, lunch is all I
asked for? Right?” He glances at her long enough to give her a warm smile. And she knows he’s planning to feed and charm her into changing her mind. He has that much confidence in his handsome self.

  “It was an old steakhouse way down near South Street Seaport,” she tells Dory, who, thankfully, is alone at her dressing table, messing about with creams and whatever. “You know the kind. With sawdust, real sawdust, on the floor and waiters ninety years old if a day. The windows were covered with chintz curtains, really. Anyway, Arthur ordered some fancy wine … this is for lunch, mind you … and urged me to try their steak, which I couldn’t imagine eating at that time of day, but I knew after coming all that way, I couldn’t order a simple salad. So I had some cold shrimp dish. Delicious, I tell you. But the amazing thing was how everyone recognized and respected him, waiters and clientele alike, patting his shoulder, whispering in his ear, bringing out unasked-for desserts, and I swear I never saw a check. That’s why he brought me there, you see, so I could revel in his notoriety, which I did. I said the things he seemed to want to hear, like, wow, they sure like you here.”

  “Goodness, Lena, take a breath. You sound like someone who never ate in a steakhouse.”

  “The restaurant’s not the point. The point was the way he needed, wanted to impress me.”

  “Obviously, he did.”

  “No, not that way …”

  “What way?”

  “Where suddenly I would become smitten with him. Just the opposite. It was a laugh. I mean it was all so lacking in subtlety I could barely keep from grinning. It brought to mind those sweet blind dates when we were younger than Rosie, the boys all shiny and clean but mainly nervous, not knowing how to have a date, trying to impress us.”

  “And then there was Zack.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “As I recall, after Zack I couldn’t get you to go out with anyone.”

  “You didn’t try. You met Stu around the same time and started going steady.”