Every Body has a Story

by Beverly Gologorsky

  “I hear you, and I don’t like what you’re saying. I’m not doing anything illegal,” Sonny says.

  “You most certainly are. Rosie isn’t sixteen yet and even then she’s not legal for another year. So think about that.”

  “Mom, I’ll just run away again, and this time you won’t find me. I mean it. You know I’m as good as my word.” Her hate-filled voice is too much to bear for even another minute.

  “And I, too, am as good as my word. So talk it over.” She walks out, her body trembling, her heart pumping as hard as the slam of the door behind her. She slowly descends the steps. Zack needs to come with her tomorrow. He’s the father, dammit. Even as she thinks this she doesn’t completely trust what he might do or say, and wonders, oddly, if she ought to bring Stu instead?

  “I told you she could be a bitch. She gloms onto an idea and you can’t move her. Either I find somewhere else to stay tomorrow where she can’t find me or …”

  “Hey, pretty girl. Don’t get all perturbed. Let’s smoke some fairy dust, helps to figure out problems. Is it true, you’re not even sixteen?”

  “So what? I’m older than my years, always have been.”

  “Just thinking … legally, she has a point.”

  “She’s not going to any court. It’s the last place she’d appear. She hates all that crap.”

  He looks at her without conviction.

  “Listen, Sonny, if you’re all worried, I’ll just leave. Just tell her I took off. I’m not staying where I’m not wanted …”

  “Baby, I want you …”

  “That’s not good enough. I want you to want me in a bigger, deeper way than any threat my mother tosses out.”

  “I want you in a big, deep way.” He grabs her arm, pulls her close. “As deep as I can get,” he teases.

  “Be serious.”

  “Always. Listen, I don’t want to hear about this now. Tonight’s my big gig and I need to feel all positive. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she says.

  34.

  Sonny’s quiet, his eyes fixed on the road. Unusual. He’s a rapper, a chatterer, a talker. He’s nervous. She gets that. Some agent is supposed to be at the gig in Queens, watching him in particular. Something big, Rosie, is what he keeps saying. He looks outstanding in his cobalt-blue shirt, open at the neck, sleeves rolled up, revealing sun-bronzed skin.

  “Why so quiet?”

  “Conserving energy, keeping it bottled inside so it’ll explode on stage like TNT. You’ve never seen me that way. The stuff I’ve done so far has been bullshit small.”

  “I thought maybe you were worried about my mother’s threats.”

  “Baby, no woman like that is going to put me up against the wall. What’s the matter with you?”

  “I don’t know, just thinking out loud.” But it wasn’t his attitude this afternoon. Feeling unexpectedly alone, she reaches over to squeeze his thin, muscled thigh, encased in tight black jeans. He gives her a too-quick smile.

  They pull off the Long Island Expressway, drive past Jamaica Hospital, then turn onto an avenue of shops and bars and people traffic, where he parks the car.

  He points to a restaurant; on its façade is painted a lopsided log cabin. “The room behind that bar is where it all happens.”

  She follows him through a crowded, noisy pub into an over-air-conditioned back room filled with young people. The wrap-around wallpaper features fake porthole windows. Ashy pink fluorescents cast a misty light. A four-piece band on a small platform sits across the room from another four-piece band. No one seems to mind the jumble of music; the sounds are evidently there to inhale, not decipher. After a few tokes of whatever, people hear what they need. She, too, could benefit from some fairy dust, and Sonny’s the keeper of the stuff.

  Already, girls are orbiting around him, touching his arms, shirt, belt, for godsakes. It’s revolting. He’s chattering away, enjoying the attention.

  “Sonny,” she calls, trying to break into the circle around him, wanting to establish that he’s hers. He doesn’t even answer though she’s sure he notices her small struggle.

  Again, she calls his name, this time loudly. He looks at her blankly, then waggles a few non-beckoning fingers. She could be anyone. Is this happening? Did her mother spook him with that restraint-order crap? She is underage, but if you love someone the way he constantly says he loves her, then you should be protective. Has she read him wrong? Is he just a wimp? Siri wouldn’t confront his aunt and uncle; her father won’t confront her mother. Now, Sonny’s behaving like a scared little boy. Does she want to be with someone like that? She does. She wants his body close. She wants his admiring words. They have fun together. She needs to be more tolerant, more patient. It is, after all, his night. Once they get home, everything will be the way it was.

  She stares at the groupies circling him. One girl has hold of his hand, another’s slung an arm over his shoulder. And Sonny? He’s yakking away, as happy as a pampered lap dog.

  She knows it now. She needs him to give her some sign of recognition. She shoulders her way into the circle, and touches him. “Sonny?”

  He looks at her for two seconds, no more. “Later,” he says dismissively.

  Disbelief chokes off speech, though her brain shouts, fuck you.

  She leaves before the tears begin to spill. How could he ditch her this way? The Rosie he can’t be away from for a minute, the Rosie whose body he wants to paint, whose breasts he wants to live between? They made love twice today, long and delicious, every inch of her alive to his touch. How could he forget? A bitter sadness fills her throat.

  One little threat and suddenly he’s indifferent? Dismissive? She hopes her mother does go to court and drags his bony ass to jail.

  What now? No way in hell will she appear at Dory’s door in the middle of the night, poor waif, and face her mother’s victorious silence or her father’s indifference. Not a chance. Mirabelle’s the only path left. Except it’s already well past midnight. Even phoning now will create a ruckus. Basically, she needs to kill a few hours till it gets light, and then call and ask if she can come back.

  Outside, the heat feels swampy against her air-cooled skin. People are still cruising the streets. She walks down the avenue, turns a corner, and promptly spots Jamaica Hospital atop a slight incline, below which are a parking lot and an emergency room entrance.

  She’ll sit there for a few hours. If anyone asks, she’ll claim a bad stomachache. You wait hours at a city emergency room if what you have isn’t life-threatening. Of course a thermometer to measure emotional distress would get her a room with a bed. She walks up a ramp, passing a garage housing ambulances, and two automatic doors open into an air-conditioned lobby. The guard asks if he can help. She’s ready. “I have this awful stomachache …” He points at the long hallway, tells her to check in at the first desk she comes to, then go through the next doors to the emergency room.

  She registers at the desk, provides Sonny’s name and address. No one questions the gender of names anymore. The woman looks her over with an expression that reads: another druggie. Why correct her?

  A second door glides open, and she’s in a crowded ER. A cacophony of voices hits her like so much static, so do the odors, medicinal and otherwise, that fill the room. Seventy or eighty seated bodies absorb the cool air. Her eyes slide past faces filled with fear, pain, sadness, and something more she can’t quite identify. She tries to ignore the bloody clothing and block out the low moans, though it’s difficult. Gray metal folding chairs are lined up in too many rows to count. She finds an empty seat in the middle of the last row and prays the ancient man half-asleep beside her won’t expire. On her other side is a young man with a two- or three-year-old on his lap. Now and then he croons, “You’re my little man.” The boy doesn’t respond, just rests his head against the man’s chest. “Is that your little brother?” she asks, wanting to push Sonny from her mind.

  “My son, Jamal. My little man here is sick. Waiting three hours now and nothing.
This system sucks royally. Why you here?” He aims beautiful, dark but tired eyes in her direction, and she wishes she had some glamorous ailment to share.

  “Stomachache,” she says. Heartache, she thinks.

  “Yeah, they can be bad, I know.” His voice close to a whisper, as if raising it might disturb Jamal.

  “Your boy has your eyes,” she tells him.

  “Like a big old moose.” He’s clearly teasing Jamal. “I’m Roland.”

  “I’m Rosie.”

  “Glad to meet you. Wish it was at a party instead.”

  She smiles. “Me, too, but I just came from one, and it sucked bad.” He’s younger than Sonny, she decides, but sounds older. “Do you think Jamal would sit on my lap, give you a break? Bathroom. Coffee, whatever?”

  “You are one nice lady. I don’t think so. I need to hold him. He’s scared, real scared, but he’s my boy, and he’ll be all right real soon. Right, son?” Jamal just looks at her with his big eyes.

  “What do you think is wrong?”

  “He stopped eating yesterday and wouldn’t play, either. I don’t know. He went to his grandmother’s and she called to say something was off. So we came here. Where else?”

  She could think of a few better places, but says nothing. Without insurance or money they’re at the mercy of the city.

  “Hey, Jamal,” she says softly. “You will be out playing soon.”

  “I told him the same, but, you know, he’s a wise one, knows he needs the man in the white coat to tell him he’ll be okay. Then you watch him perk up.”

  “Is that true, Jamal?” she asks.

  Jamal nods once.

  “So, Rosie, what happened at this party?”

  “My boyfriend ditched me.”

  “Did you fight?”

  “I wish.”

  “Maybe he was having an out-of-body moment?”

  “You mean drugs?”

  “You said it, not me.”

  She smiles. “No. It’s complicated.”

  “Well, what isn’t? Thing is … party shit like that, I mean it feels bad, but actually it’s just disappointment, which is kind of like a tropical downpour. Comes down hard, then before you know it the weather changes.”

  “Roland, that is a wise thing to say. Thank you.” Truth is, though, she isn’t ready to think about the night because, disappointment or not, once her anger subsides, the misery will set in. That’s a given. “Can I ask you a question?”

  Roland shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

  “Jamal’s mom?”

  Roland puts his finger to his lips and she gets the message. Something about the loving way Roland takes charge makes her sad about herself.

  A nurse with stethoscope around her neck appears up front, disappears into the examining rooms, then reappears.

  “Why don’t I go find out why no one is calling your name? Maybe there’s a glitch. What’s the last name?”

  “Yeah. Shakur. You try. I did an hour ago. Fat, ugly hag said, wait your turn.”

  She makes it into the aisle but the nurse is moving away fast. “Excuse me, excuse me …”

  The nurse turns to look at her.

  “The Shakur family has been waiting for hours. Why aren’t they being called? Can you make sure their name is on whatever list you have?”

  “Honey, we have lots of people to treat, some bleeding, some dying. Their turn will come. No one gets lost.” And she’s gone.

  Before returning, she checks her phone. It’s ten past two. No missed calls, no calls at all. Not that she was expecting any. Not really.

  She takes her seat beside Roland just as his name is called.

  “Thanks, Rosie,” he says, though she had nothing to do with it.

  “Good luck,” she tells him.

  “You, too.”

  She watches him stride down the aisle with Jamal in his arms and wonders if this night will change Jamal’s life. Or hers?

  35.

  The bed bounces and Rosie opens her eyes. Mirabelle, khaki shorts over her bathing suit, is perched there.

  “The day is passing. Move your carcass off the bed.”

  “God, Mirabelle, you’re heartless. I was up all night. I went through hell. Some pity here, please.” But it’s more than pity she wants. Its reassurance that the awful sadness—unlike anything she’s ever felt before—is temporary.

  “I want to feel sorry but I can’t.” Her friend’s face is aglow.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I’m glad. He was bad for you.”

  “And you were able to assess that by what … meeting him briefly as he came and went from here?”

  “I told you he wasn’t as reliable as you thought.” Mirabelle’s righteous tone annoys her.

  “I’m curious. I truly am. How did you come to that conclusion?”

  “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “Serious.” She wants someone to turn off the light, except it’s the sun streaming into the uncluttered space, so unlike the ER.

  “He was unstable. It was apparent in his ways and means.” Her friend looks at her as if to say, how could you not know?

  Sonny’s dumped her. She hates her mother. Her friend is glad for her misery. She’s not discussing this. Not one word more. “You’re right, drop it.”

  “This afternoon my mom called your mother to ask permission for you to stay here, so you needn’t hide.”

  “What did my mother say?”

  “She said fine, what else? Come on, let’s go to the beach.”

  “That is the last thing I want to do. How could he ditch me like that? The man was all over me for weeks.”

  “Callow youth. Look, he used you. Face it, men do that. Better to learn now.”

  “But I miss him.”

  “You’ll live.”

  “How do you know, you’ve never been loved like that.”

  “That’s not a friendly thing to say.” Mirabelle strides toward the door.

  “Wait, silly. I just want you to appreciate the state I’m in.”

  “I appreciate it. Do you want to go to the beach or not?”

  “I need a shower first.”

  “I’ll be out in back.”

  The hot, needlelike spray helps to soothe the limbs but not the hollowness inside. She’ll have to suffer, won’t she? She’s seen the films, read the novels; love lost hurts. She wants something in exchange for the pain. Sonny adored making love to her. He’ll regret losing that, won’t he? She hates herself for not being out-of-her-mind angry. Except she is, she’s pissed beyond words. So why does she still want him to call her? If he called right now, she’d hang up, she would, but it would give her satisfaction to know that he was pining. Oh, she’s pathetic.

  She wraps herself in a large, comfy towel. Whatever clothing she had with her is still at Sonny’s. Someone will have to get it, but not yet, not for a while.

  36.

  Stu, on his ten-minute break, stands outside the plant, which takes up an entire street. In the smoggy distance the Whitestone Bridge is barely visible. Despite the white sheet of sky, the sun’s rays bake the concrete. There’s nowhere to lean that wouldn’t burn skin. Nearby, two fire hydrants, stray grass vying for air through broken pavement, cigarette butts, empty soda cans, and candy wrappers. The guys outside having a smoke are quiet. Must be the heat. Those at the plant the longest still don’t open up with him the way they used to. He let down his team. He’s off their trust list, wouldn’t be the one they’d tell first about a mutiny. He doesn’t blame them.

  His phone vibrates. It’s Zack. A text. He says a little prayer before reading that Zack can’t meet him. Thank you Buddha, God, and Allah, he whispers silently. He does not want to be with, talk to, or hear about Zack. He does not want to help Zack. He only sent the invite to meet because Dory asked him to do it for Lena. And for Lena, any mountain would be scaled. But she doesn’t ask for mountains to be climbed. She doesn’t even ask him how he’s feeling. Isn’t that a message? Except, except … sh
e’s become gentler with him, even a little dependent, he’d say, which is what he wants. He needs her to need him, even if their needs are different. She needs him to explore Zack’s head. He texts the man, but he can’t make the man comply, can he? Lena needs cash. He finds someone in the plant to buy her car. He and she will drive their vehicles here on Saturday. The man will meet them. Take her car. They’ll return in his, alone together, and who knows what that might mean? The thrill of possibility renders him back into the funnel of high school excitement. He’s never been a smoker but suddenly wants a cigarette, something to drag on deeply, because the influx of unexpected energy has nowhere to go.

  Break over, a line of guys begins to trail back in. Christ and truly, he hates having to go inside right now. The plant gobbles up time along with fantasy. Hates, as well, having to cover his face like the man in the iron mask, hates what he’s supposed to do and what he’s not supposed to do, because they’re no different. But what he hates most is not being allowed the confidence of knowing that the job is his for as long as he wants it.

  Before he enters, he needs to calm down, think aside—that is, aside from Lena—and settle into the dead mindset in which he does his work. To lose concentration is to lose an eye or burn his partner. None of that has ever happened, not to him, but he’s seen it happen.

  He bends his head beneath the too-low beam of the narrow doorway, some short person’s bad idea of revenge. How many times has he wounded his forehead? But not today, today he’s alert, activated by the need to get through to the last bell and go home, where it’s all a different story now. And Saturday always comes.

  37.

  Leaning over the railing, watching the East River’s slow-moving current, Zack thinks: What is a man without a place he can call home? He never used to have such thoughts. Now they’re nonstop. Buying a house meant something. His grandparents rented; his parents rented; his uncles and aunts rented. He bought a house. Evidence of arriving somewhere, no matter the size of the lot. Owning it gave purpose to the miserable hours on the job. Coming home to Lena’s loving arms erased the need to think further. Both are gone; so is his value as a provider, a lover and a father, all of it stolen from him by a bank.