Every Body has a Story

by Beverly Gologorsky

  “Stu didn’t go steady. Stu reserved me for when he wanted to see me.”

  “True. And that makes me sad.”

  “Which part … the smitten with Zack or the unrequited Dory?”

  “Neither, really. Just how that youthful piece of it is gone, really gone, never to be reignited or felt in the same ways again. It’s probably why Arthur struck me as so ridiculous, trying to engage me in ways that we experienced as teenagers.”

  “Yes. Instant passion. Deep crush. That won’t happen again. True. And that is sad.”

  “Okay, so now it’s you being sad. About Stu?” she ventures.

  “Not really.”

  “Then what?”

  “Look at these crow’s feet,” Dory points to the corner of her eye in the mirror.

  “Oh no, that is definitely not what’s making you sad.”

  “I was just commiserating with your sense of loss of youthful abandon.”

  “Well, commiserate with this. Where does Zack go when he leaves each morning? If I ask, he shrugs, and if I press him, he mutters something about needing to find a job. But I don’t believe him. I think he walks around for hours. You have to get Stu to find out what’s going on. I can’t live like this much longer, Dory.”

  “I’ll tell Stu to take him out for a few beers. Stu likes any idea that includes drinks.”

  “Dory, I can’t figure out these days what the hell your acerbic remarks actually mean.”

  “Well, perhaps nothing wishes to be revealed. Did you call Mirabelle?” Dory’s changing the subject is about as subtle as Arthur’s wishing to impress her.

  “I’m going there after an interview tomorrow. I’m certain Rosie’s living there. Maybe she’s better off, nice house, own room … what would be the benefit of dragging her back here?”

  “Where’s the job?”

  “A diner opening in midtown.”

  Casey stands barefoot inside Dory’s doorway. “Mom? There’s a suitcase on your bed. Are we moving somewhere else?”

  “Oh, honey, no. I’m sure Rosie needs more clothes and I’m packing a few of her things. If she wants to stay at Mirabelle’s a while longer, we’ll let her. Casey, listen, I’m so sorry about everything that’s been disrupted in your life.”

  He shrugs as if to say not his business, any of it. She’s about to tell him his case has been dropped, but remembering that witch of a policewoman’s admonition about a night in jail not being the worst thing, decides to wait another day.

  “When you begin going to the new school, you’ll find friends around here to bike with.” His face, she notes, is pale from being indoors.

  “I guess.” His legs and arms so boyishly thin in cut-offs and an oversized shirt of Zack’s.

  “A few more minutes and we can drive to Orchard Beach, walk along the shore at twilight, have an ice cream cone. How does that sound?”

  “Mom, I’d rather not. It’s still too hot.” He looks at her with Zack’s blue eyes.

  Children have silent expectations of parents, but what his might be she hasn’t a clue. If she reaches out to enfold his slim body, it’ll alarm him, of that she’s certain. “Okay, later, honey.”

  “Bye, Casey. I love when you visit,” Dory says.

  As soon as Lena closes the door, Dory again peers at her face in the mirror. She sees a problem, even if Lena didn’t. With her left eye, a miniscule pulling, not quite a droop, but it will be with another half millimeter. A smidgen of medical knowledge can be a dangerous thing, though she’s learned a lot about bodies, caring for her charges: fingers that can’t button blouses, hands that can no longer maneuver feet into socks tell their own stories, as do the medical records she reads daily. When something worrisome appears in one of her charges, a little lump, a changed gait, she knows not to ignore it. Their bodies are what they have to warn them of the impending future. But at her age the body is often a conduit for the mind’s distress, which is why a tic in an eyelid can come and go with the tensions of life. Still, the short, stabbing jabs in her head, the slurring, and now the eye … are they the mind’s distress or the tumor? Oh, Christ, Lena is the one who focuses on disaster, not her.

  33.

  She parks the car a few streets down the road from what was once her house. She has no desire to see it, none at all. She doesn’t care or even wonder if Casey’s black paint is still there. It’s as if the house itself had turned on her and she’s ignoring it as punishment.

  Her journey to midtown was a waste of gas, the waitress job already filled. Do people get there in the middle of the night? With the bag of Rosie’s clothes in tow, she trudges toward Mirabelle’s. The air is thick. Listless leaves on thirsty trees hold on to the weeks of heat. Though she’s walked this path before, the houses she passes seem strangely untroubled.

  Mirabelle’s house is a stately Victorian with a white exterior and royal-blue trim. There’s no car in the driveway, but maybe it’s behind the elegant wooden garage door. She notices the stone birdbath and macramé feeders on the front lawn near well-tended shrubbery. They have landscapers; they must. The grass, the bushes, all so neat and velvety, not a weed in sight. She can’t see the backyard from here, but imagines it decked out with padded seats and tile-topped tables, and maybe a broken chair put outside to deal with later. She’s done that herself.

  She hopes Mirabelle’s parents are back from vacation. She’s spoken to Mirabelle’s mother a few times on the phone, but never met her. Using the brass knocker on the front door, she waits for what seems like an eternity before a barefoot, fiftyish woman opens the door. She’s wearing a silky, pale-blue caftan with a Mandarin collar. Her face appears worn, even ravaged, the eyes embedded in deep hollows. A drinker?

  “Hi, I’m Rosie’s mom. You must be …” and she steps in so the door can be closed. The onrush of air-conditioning a welcome relief.

  Mirabelle, also barefoot, appears behind her mother in shorts and a strapless spandex top. “Hi, Lena.”

  “Hi, sweetie. I’d like to know if it’s okay with your parents to have Rosie stay here awhile longer.”

  “But she’s not here any more,” Mirabelle’s mother says.

  “Please, I’m not going to make her come home. I promise. I just want to give her a kiss and her clothes, that’s it.”

  “She’s not here,” the mother repeats in a whispery voice. “Mirabelle, you need to deal with this.” And she promptly flees the scene.

  “Mirabelle, what’s going on?” Lena asks.

  “Well, Rosie was here, but not anymore. I don’t know where she is.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “No,” this said in a soft voice.

  “You two are fast friends. Rosie wouldn’t leave here without telling you where she’s going.”

  “She didn’t tell me.”

  “Mirabelle, don’t make me bring a cop to your door to get you to reveal where Rosie is. She’s underage, and I can do that. So please, tell me. I will let Rosie know I threatened the information out of you,” which is what she’s doing.

  “Rosie left a few days ago with a guy she’s seeing.” Mirabelle admits, reluctantly.

  “A guy? She’s seeing a guy?” Her insides cramp so hard she nearly keels over. “Who?”

  “His name is Sonny. I don’t know anything about him.”

  Of course she does. “Where did the two of them go?” She tries to keep an even tone but desperation gets in the way “Rosie wouldn’t leave here unless there was an apartment or whatever. Right?”

  “Yes, that’s true. But I don’t …”

  She’s tempted to grab the girl’s arms and shake her hard. “Mirabelle, you do know and you must tell me right now.”

  “Rosie left an address, but I don’t know if it’s real. I mean, I don’t know if that’s where they went.”

  “Okay. You need to get it for me. Now.”

  While waiting, she’s takes note of the plush living room, the thick green carpeting, the off-white couch that spans a wall, the ceiling light f
ixture that could’ve come from a ballroom. Not her style, any of it, but still … it took time and thought and money to pull it together. Does Mirabelle’s mother enjoy her home or pace back and forth in it like a trapped deer? Is that why she drinks? And why is she still dressed in a caftan at this time of day? Rosie did say the father works in the basement. Is that why mother and daughter walk around barefoot? Did Rosie have to take off her shoes as well in order to spare the father a footfall of noise? No one ever knows what really goes on in another’s home.

  Mirabelle returns with a small scrap of paper. Her eyes scan the address and her chest tightens. “This is in the South Bronx.”

  Mirabelle nods.

  “Jesus, fucking, Christ,” she mumbles to herself and heads back to the car.

  On the highway, her mind in turmoil, she drives in the fast lane. Can’t get there soon enough. Leave home, meet a guy who promises to care for her, then does god knows what else? Christ, it’s such an old story.

  She fleetingly thinks of phoning Dory to calm herself. Then again, the fear sucking the air out of her body can’t be calmed. Rosie is feisty, smart, and sure of herself, right? But who is Sonny? Maybe an artist who found the cheapest place he could, in which to practice his trade? Except she doesn’t believe it. Even if it were so, Rosie’s too young. She isn’t leaving her daughter there. No way.

  Exiting the highway, she drives through streets filled with open lots and boarded-up stores but not a parking spot anywhere. Isn’t the South Bronx being rehabilitated? From what she sees there’s no big change from years ago. Under the shadow of the elevated tracks, she drives past open bodegas, liquor stores, a mini-mart, a beauty salon, even a children’s clothing store. People are out shopping, milling around. Finally, she maneuvers the car into a tight spot in front of a ninety-nine-cent everything store. Leaving Rosie’s bag of clothing in the car, she strides toward the address on the scrap of paper.

  The narrow brick-and-wood-fronted walk-up is wedged like an afterthought between two apartment buildings that have seen better days. In the dim vestibule on a scratched brass plate, she makes out the bell for 4G and presses it. Nothing. She presses another bell. A thin, tinny, blip of sound and she enters quickly to begin the trek up to the fourth floor. Muffled voices, probably from TVs, accompany her, as do the pungent odors of garlic, fried food, and pine-scented detergent, which repel her with their familiarity.

  Four dark metal apartment doors face her. She can barely make out the “G” on one of them and rings the bell. It doesn’t work. She knocks. Waits. Knocks again. Presses her ear to the door. Nothing. She wills them to be home and knocks a third time, far more insistently with the side of her fist. She doesn’t care who it disturbs. Finally, the door opens on a chain and eyes peer out at her.

  “Hello, I’m Rosie’s mother, I …”

  The door closes. The decisive sound of the chain being unlocked, the click of one, two, three locks, and the door opens. The power of mothers, she thinks. This must be Sonny. Tall, skinny, blond, large eyes, small nose, an ear stud. Handsome in his way, she supposes. Is this Rosie’s taste? But he’s much too old for her daughter and doesn’t seem the least bit embarrassed in his gym shorts and naked chest. “Can I come in?” Her voice restrained, gentle, inquiring. She mustn’t threaten, or he could close the door on her.

  Her eyes slide across a dimly lit room of shabby furniture. “Can I talk to Rosie?” still in a gentle tone.

  “Yeah, the thing is … Do you want me to wake her?” He seems genuinely puzzled.

  “She’s sleeping? It’s almost two in the afternoon?”

  “Yeah, well, we didn’t get back till this morning and …”

  Already, this is too much information for her. “Yes, please, wake her.”

  “I’m Sonny,” he says guilelessly.

  “Please call me Lena.”

  They look at each other. Clearly, he’s not sure about waking Rosie.

  “Would it be all right if I woke her?” she asks.

  “No. I mean … that’d be too scary … I mean, shocking.”

  “Of course, you’re right. Please ask my daughter to come out to the living room. Thanks so much.”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  “I’ll wait right here.”

  He disappears through a doorway and she can hear him saying “Rosy-Posy, get up, get up, your mother’s here in the living room. You better get up.” Then silence. Then whispering. If someone doesn’t come out soon she’s going in. She looks at the couch and decides to remain standing. The room is beyond hot, though a floor fan churns the humid air. Only then does she realize the windows don’t open. God help them.

  She hears a rustling, a door creaking. A closet? Is her daughter naked in there? Oh lord … she begins to pace the length of the wall. Sonny returns. “She’ll be out in a minute. I have water. Do you want a glass?”

  She feels some pity for his discomfort. “No, but if you have a cold beer …” Beer might put him more at ease, her as well. She doesn’t need another nervous person in the room.

  “Shit. Sorry. We finished them yesterday.”

  “No problem.” She was young once, too, right? Wrong. She’s not Rosie’s age anymore. She’s her mother. Big difference.

  Rosie saunters out of the bedroom, barefoot, in shorts and a halter top, her hair tangled from sleep, her eyes a bit puffy. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?” Rosie’s make-believe calmness doesn’t fool her one bit. She knows her daughter, and Rosie isn’t ready for her mother’s appearance, that’s for sure.

  Rushing over to embrace her daughter won’t work. “Honey, it’s so good to see you. Everything’s fine.”

  “Fine? You’re working. Dad’s working?”

  “Well, no …” She won’t be put on the defensive by a fifteen-year-old. “But I’m here to take you back to Dory’s. School is starting. I’m sure Sonny will understand you need to be with your family.”

  “Mom, listen, I’m not going to Dory’s. I’m not going back to school. I have a job, so I no longer need to be a burden to you and dad.”

  “Burden? Don’t be ridiculous. You’re too young to be on your own, too young to make these kinds of decisions without family input.”

  “Mom, please, I don’t want to fight with you. This is my life, not yours. I can do with it what I want. So, please, just go. Now that you met Sonny, the two of us can visit now and then.”

  Sonny has plopped onto a beanbag chair as far from the scene as he can get. “Sonny,” she says, “You can’t live with my daughter. She’s underage.”

  “Mom, don’t pull that shit. My life doesn’t belong to you or to Sonny. It belongs to me. So forget about involving Sonny in this family spat.”

  “This isn’t a family spat. And you do belong to me. And you are underage. And if Sonny continues to cohabit with you, I will press charges, and he will go to jail. Is that what you want?” She tries to keep her tone even, but the truth of what she says blows back at her heavily. Rosie’s sleepy face redefines itself in anger, her lips stretch tight and her eyes squint.

  “You do that, Mom, and we’re finished. I will never talk to you again. I promise. I swear.”

  One knife, two knives, how many of these can the heart survive? “Look, I don’t want to cause trouble for Sonny, but how old does he think you are?”

  “My relationship with him is none of your business.” Rosie goes to stand next to Sonny.

  “You’re wrong. You are my business and don’t ever forget that.”

  “Sonny, say something,” Rosie orders. And Lena hears her own voice imploring Zack.

  “Listen, um … Lena … I’ll take good care of Rosie. You don’t need to worry. She’ll be fine.”

  “Fine doesn’t include quitting high school.”

  “High school?” For a moment he looks stunned, then he gets a hold on himself. “It has nothing to do with life. It’s a place to hang out until you’re ready to go for it. Rosie’s ready to go for it. So am I.”

  A place to hang out? She ta
kes a deep breath. “What do you do for a living? How do you support yourself?”

  “At the moment, I don’t get paid for my gigs but …”

  “Gigs?”

  “Mom, you wouldn’t understand. He’s building a resume, a reputation as a rapper/poet. He’s already made one album. And tonight …”

  “How do you pay the rent?” she insists. Actually, how this Sonny lives doesn’t interest her. What interests her is having Rosie recognize the instability of the situation.

  “My uncle owns a gas station. I work there and also at another of his places. I plan to take the exam to become a cop … maybe, but …”

  “Rosie needs to live with her family. You two can find ways to see each other, to date like other young people.”

  Rosie stares at her. In her daughter’s face she sees the old wiliness, how to tackle mother. “But we’ve already established a monogamous relationship. I know you know what that means. And going backward to dating would constitute a divorce of sorts, which neither of us would agree too, see?”

  She’s had enough of this back-and-forth crap. “Rosie, you’re coming with me. I don’t want to discuss this anymore.”

  “What, pull me out of here by my hair, shackle me, take me to Dory’s, tie me to the bed, lock windows and doors, send me to a juvenile detention center? There’s no way you can force me to go with you or to stay at Dory’s. Just what are you thinking?” Rosie glares at her, not a drop of give in her expression.

  Can she really force this child to do anything? How?

  “If you refuse to come home …”

  “Home? What home? You lost our home.”

  Her throat tightens. “I mean Dory’s. If you refuse to go there with me, I will, I promise, go to court, get a restraining order on Sonny …”

  “Mom, he hasn’t treated me badly, what are you talking about?”

  “I will press charges against him for cohabiting with a minor.”

  “You are being gross, you know that? For a mother who claims she wants to see me happy, you are truly doing your best to be a bitch.”

  But she detects uncertainty in Rosie’s eyes and decides the legal path is the one to pursue. “The two of you can talk it over today. I’ll return tomorrow to pick you up. If you disappear or refuse to leave with me, I will go to court the next day and press charges. Sonny, I hope you’re listening?” Her tone stern, even hostile. How else to make them understand that this isn’t a negotiation?