Every Body has a Story

by Beverly Gologorsky

  “Who do you think we are, the fucking Brady Bunch?”

  “I can’t talk more about Rosie. It’s too painful.”

  “Well, at least we’re talking.”

  “Oh. You mean you and the whore didn’t talk?”

  “It was a desperate five-minute fuck. I never saw her before or want to again. What did you expect me to do, jerk off?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I did that, too, but you know after awhile it felt stupid, depressing, while you lay there all comfy in your beauty sleep like I was nothing, just air you could easily ignore. Is that how you feel? Because with all you’ve said, I still have no clue what it is you want from me.”

  “To search for a job the way I did. Every night sitting at the computer, lining up places to go in the morning, rain or shine. But, no, you bedded down in our basement deciding it was more important to figure out how you felt about things. And now, what? You roam the streets doing the same? Well, lucky you, avoiding the mess.”

  “I did try for weeks to find work in construction, but I was glad I couldn’t. No, not glad, relieved. I hate the work and the weather. There were times I felt like jumping off one of those high beams. But I didn’t. I stayed because it brought in the bread for all of you. Did that ever cross your mind? Did you even have an inkling of my misery?” He wants to continue shouting, but a weird choking sound, close to a cry, clogs his throat.

  “I’m not into guessing, Zack. Like I wasn’t into guessing that you hadn’t paid the mortgage. How could you keep that from me all those months? How could you put us all in jeopardy?”

  “Okay, I made the wrong call.” His tone now sounds petulant, even to him, which is disappointing. He wants to retrieve the anger, the righteous feelings that somehow seem to have floated out of reach.

  “Wrong call? Is that how you define it? Wrong call? Neglecting responsibility is the wrong call? For shit’s sake, Zack, how could you simply believe everything would somehow, god knows how, take care of itself? How stupid is that?.”

  Her accusatory tone nearly undoes him, but he can’t stop now. “Listen, I agree. I did wrong. I get it. I do. But you never tried to forgive me. You stayed angry and distant.”

  “Distant? Never tried … Jesus! How many times did I ask you to consider taking meds for depression? How many times did I encourage you to believe in yourself and to believe you’d find work?”

  “You’re not blameless. You stopped sleeping with me.”

  “Do you think I’m some kind of robot? Do you think I want to make love with someone who looks at me as if I’m about to hand him another problem, someone who resents that I haven’t fallen apart like he did? What kind of man wants to make love with a woman he resents? What kind of man is that?”

  He wants to say that she has it all wrong, all of it. He doesn’t resent her. He’s never stopped loving her. Instead he hears himself say, “I was overlooked, neglected, made to feel beside the point.”

  “Well, you know what, Zack? I’m sorry you felt neglected. But so did I. Except it didn’t stop me from keeping on keeping on.”

  “Mom?” Casey opens the door a bit.

  “Yes, honey, come in,” she says.

  “Mom, are you okay? I heard Dad shouting.” Casey’s concern rips at her insides. She can’t lose him the way she has Rosie. He needs to be kept out of the disarray.

  “Of course, honey.”

  “Casey, I love your mother. No one can or will ever love her as much as I do. I would never, ever hurt her. Okay?” He slings an arm around Casey’s shoulder. “We’re just straightening out some crooked thoughts. When we’re done, everything will be fine. Right, Lena?”

  “Yes.”

  Casey searches her face. The boy knows her, knows, too, that everything is far from fine.

  “I left Rosie a message, told her Mom was crying and Dory was dying and you sounded odd,” Casey says, still looking directly at his mother.

  “That’s fine, Casey. Rosie needs to know. She loves Dory. Can I give you a hug?” She extends her arms.

  “Maybe later. See you.” He leaves the door ajar.

  “Baby, I meant every word I said to Casey,” Zack tells her. “Every word.”

  She says nothing.

  “I will be a more responsible husband and father, but you need to take responsibility for some of what went wrong between us. Losing that house may have meant even more to me than to you, but you never considered that. After all our years of marriage it should’ve occurred to you that I couldn’t face telling you because I was devastated. We have to fix this. I love you.” His tone rings strong, hopeful, different than usual. He can hear it, feel it. And from her expression, he thinks she can too.

  “Zack, right now … I’m numb.”

  “I’m patient. I won’t lose you. I won’t lose us.” He’d love to lift her out of the chair, press her against him, but it’s not the moment. “I’m going out for a while.”

  She watches him slip from the room. Zack’s tone, his attitude, especially his anger, was different, less adoring but more assertive. Is it possible he’s on a new path? He’s messed up royally, but he’s right. She did, too. Does that make them even? He did hand her a tiny gift. Those five minutes with his whore wiped out a fraction of her own shame. She believes him that the whore meant nothing. She can’t say the same about Stu. Truth is supposed to clear the air, and he’s a forgiving sort of guy, but he’d never get past the truth about her afternoon with Stu. The thing is … Stu happened … but he can’t be the reason for whatever decision she makes about her marriage. Perhaps people with lots of money can act rashly, but in her life, choices are determined by circumstance. And circumstance demands that Dory have all of Stu’s attention even if, god forbid, it means her family moves into a shelter.

  She wanders over to the window, her limbs as stiff as if she’d been lifting heavy boxes. Under the night sky, she barely makes out the patio, but knows it well. The flowers Dory planted along its edges, arranged by color, pink next to purple next to yellow, something musical in their array. She doesn’t know the names, never asked, but when they bought this house Dory phoned to say she’d been to a garden shop for the first time ever. In addition to bulbs and seeds, she bought a birdhouse and bird feed, which struck them both as funny. Who from the Bronx ever bought stuff like that? Dory said—and she remembers it well—that even if the landscape beyond the yard was gray and boring, her satisfaction changed the view.

  42.

  Zack walks quickly toward the bus stop, the last moments with Lena energizing. He has a mission and missions can’t wait. It’s still so goddamn hot out. He doesn’t do well in such weather. Delicate boy. No, he’s not, he’s determined. Lena will see that. She has to. What he said to her, and more importantly how he said it was all positive, every last thing, though unusual behavior on his part, but isn’t that the point—to scramble the picture, create a new design? What’s wrong with that?

  A woman waiting at the bus stop glances at his feet. Damn, he’s still wearing slippers. So what? This is New York. Anyone can wear anything. There are no rules except for nudity, though right now every piece of his clothing seems to weigh a ton. He wonders what time it is, but doesn’t want to ask her. If he hears how late it is, he’ll be forced to abort until tomorrow, and he can’t. He must do this now, for Lena.

  The bus shelter has a backless bench with three partitions. The woman’s encased in one of them. She’s in her sixties, he’d say, wearing a blue dress that reaches her swollen ankles. What’s she doing out alone so late? Maybe she works for one of the upscale houses and is on her way home, the bus her daily mode of transportation. On her lap a tote bag made of soft, flowered material, big enough to hide a baby. The woman glances at him again. Has he been staring at her bag? Is she worried that he wants to rob her? He looks away, but he feels too antsy to be sitting like this. It’s as if he’s channeling Stu, who often declares himself too antsy for his life. Poor Stu. How’s he going to survive Dory’s illness? I
f it were Lena with a brain tumor, he’d moan, cry, drink, take drugs, go into the grave with her, none of which he’ll share with Stu. He isn’t exactly sure what he can offer that would be helpful, except to reassure him that however he’s felt about his marriage—and the negatives have been commonplace these past months—it’s possible to turn a page, take a leap, rectify. It’s just what he’s doing in his relationship with Lena. He’s already promised himself to focus, pay attention, take responsibility for whatever, so help him god.

  He looks down the road. No bus. Damn, damn. If he continues to pace in these slippers, the woman will think he’s mental, and the slippers make him shuffle. Everyone knows people who shuffle are a bit off. So he sits, leaving the seat between them free. He’s glad not to be alone, glad not to concentrate on what he’ll say or do, because he has zero to no idea, only that he’s got to succeed.

  “These buses take a long time to come?”

  She eyes him hesitantly, clearly something about him seems best left alone. She nods. Smart woman. Acknowledge his presence, don’t insult him, but don’t engage either. He gets it and focuses on the pockmarked road.

  The bus drops him off near their old house. He walks over to inspect it. To his satisfaction, broad zigzag black lines still decorate the front of the house like so many bolts of lightning. The rooms are empty. These mortgage banks, fucking incompetents! They throw out his family and the house remains vacant, no payments coming in, nothing, and what exactly have they gained? Stupid assholes. His family should move back in. Who would know? Not the bank. They’re not about to follow up on foreclosure unless they have a buyer. Who’s going to buy a place on a road with three empty houses? It’ll be months, maybe years, before they resell it, by which time it will need rehab work. He sincerely doubts anyone from the world of finance or real estate checks up here or takes care of the space. He’d bet that the bank doesn’t even have these houses on its radar screen. They should retake the house. It’s theirs. Lena won’t agree, though he sure as shit thinks it’s a great idea. The neighbors would cheer one less empty house on the road. They could set an example for other foreclosed families. Who knows? Maybe they could start a movement? Squatters. How illegal is that?

  He continues his journey, his brain wrapped around the house with the cool black design.

  The tawny porch globe illuminates the lawn and front door. Do they expect visitors at this time of night? He walks around back to check out the rest of this imposing house. No welcoming rays of light from there, and—who knows? —a watchdog could be waiting to bite into flesh.

  Inside, no doubt everyone’s asleep. Sorry, folks … he rings the bell. To his dismay, it makes a tinkly sound no louder than a spoon-tap against a glass. He uses the wooden doorknocker next, thud, thud, thud, watching the windows for a light to come on inside. Again, he uses the knocker. Then peers through the glass side panel of the door. Somewhere inside, a light does finally come on. He hopes it’s not the man of the house. He knows nothing about the parents. A father should know, he can hear Lena say.

  Mirabelle opens the door. Her eyes widen. “Rosie’s dad!”

  “That’s me. I need to talk to Rosie,” he says in his friendliest voice. But adds, “Right now.”

  “Did something happen to someone?”

  “Please wake my daughter, tell her to come down. Right now.”

  “But what happened?”

  “Mirabelle, I’m not about to say anything to you that I haven’t said first to my daughter. So, please, let me in and go get Rosie. We’ll keep our voices down and not wake your parents.” Because that’s the last the last thing he wants.

  He takes a seat on a thick, velvety couch that grabs at the fabric of his pants and makes movement nearly impossible. His eyes fasten on a huge chandelier. Is it for light or show, he wonders?

  Rosie appears at the top of the staircase, barefoot, in pajama bottoms and shirt. “Mirabelle, I’ll fill you in later,” he hears her say. She slowly descends. “What’s up?” Her tone casual, careful.

  “Get your stuff. Your place is with your family and it’s where you’re going now.” He’s taking a chance. Ordering this girl to do anything usually backfires. Then again, he’s rarely been the one to issue demands.

  “What? Are you on crack or something?”

  “I’ll ignore that. I’m your father, and you need to pay attention to what I’m saying.”

  “My father? You didn’t even blink when I left. Or you couldn’t because you were one of the disappeared.” God, she sounds like her mother. He stands. He needs to be upright with Rosie.

  “I don’t care what you think or what you say …” he begins.

  “Well, that’s encouraging …”

  “Shut up, Rosie, and listen real closely. I’m not leaving here without you. If you don’t come home with me, I’ll wake Mirabelle’s parents and insist they throw you out. If you want that kind of scene, I’m up for it.”

  “I don’t think so.” Her tone remains calm, which is troubling. If she sassed him it would be more like her.

  He takes a few steps toward her.

  She puts up her hand. “Don’t come any closer. Who are you? Why are you really here? You never cared that I was gone. You didn’t phone once or leave a message. Mom’s a pain in the ass but she never stops trying to reach me. Why should I care about anything you say, father or no?” her voice suddenly shaky.

  The words stab at his gut. “I love you, Rosie. Don’t you know that?”

  “I don’t understand that kind of love. I can’t trust someone who fades out during trouble, who allows Mom to step all over him.”

  “This isn’t about my relationship with your mother. Get your things and come home with me.” He’s really messed up with this girl.

  “What? You’re going to strongarm me, drag me screaming through the streets to a bus? Mom already used that threat and you can see just how well it worked.”

  “I hope it doesn’t come to that, but you’re going home with me.” He stares at her hard. He wants her to understand that he means what he says.

  “Dory’s house is not home.”

  “Do you think any of us enjoy living as guests? Do you realize we did it for you and Casey? If we didn’t have kids, we’d be free to get in a car, and who knows travel somewhere, find work elsewhere.”

  “Good idea. Go for it.”

  She turns, ready to walk back up the steps. In one stride he’s behind her, his hand on her shoulder, holding her back.

  “Let go of me.”

  He hears the shock in her voice, and he can’t blame her. “Not until you hear me out. Come sit down and let me talk.” He backs off, drops onto the couch again. “Please, Rosie, give me a chance here.” He’s pleading now. He can hear it and so can she. After a fast second of thought she sits on the edge of a cushy chair. Fine, he doesn’t need her beside him though he’d like to hold her hand.

  “Look, I’m not ready to forget everything,” she announces, in her I’m-being-reasonable tone. “I’m mad at Mom. She fucked up my relationship with a guy I cared about. She doesn’t understand me. I can’t live in the same space as her.”

  “That’s ridiculous. She got you out of a bad situation and you’re too young and stupid to realize it. She risked you hating her in order to save you. You can’t imagine what that feels like because you’re not a parent.”

  Even as he says this, the truth of it hits him. “And your mother is right. If we don’t stay together as a family, we won’t be able to move forward. I’ve gotten a job. It means we won’t have to stay at Dory’s forever. Casey needs his sister. It’s not good for him to be the only light in the house. And, damn, I miss you so bad I can hardly talk about it. I’ve changed. I intend to seek out and take major responsibility … for whatever. Fickle father has disappeared. We’ll put up a partition in the basement, you’ll have privacy and …”

  “Just stop. I’m not going back with you.” Her determined chin rises combatively.

  “Don’t you ca
re that Dory’s going to die?” It’s a low blow, but he’s desperate.

  “Aren’t we all?” She won’t look at him.

  “I can’t believe you said that.”

  “Believe what you want. I am going to live my life the way I see fit, and neither you nor mom is going to determine how I do that.”

  “Rosie, that’s our role as parents, to guide, care for, be there …”

  “Spare me that song. I don’t want your guidance, your care, or your presence.”

  “You can’t mean that.”

  “Well … I do.”

  Rosie looks past him and mimes a yawn, her palm lightly hitting her lips. Suddenly his head begins to pound, his eyes mist, and he’s filled with helpless fury. “How can you be so hard-hearted? I guess we did fuck up with you, our daughter who seems about as sensitive as the wooden floor we stand on. If you distrust us that much, well then, go your own way, make your own life, good luck to you. Best wishes, and don’t bother letting us know about you.” His voice is low, intense.

  She stares at him.

  His fury spent as quickly as it rose, he’s stunned by his words. He knows he doesn’t mean them, can’t believe he said them. Lena would’ve been more careful. Shit. What’s the matter with him? He glances at her stony, unreadable face. If he tries to undo the damage now, she won’t hear him. They’ll continue to argue. It could get worse. He knows her well enough to predict that.

  With effort he hoists himself off the couch and heads for the door at a snail’s pace, praying with each step like he’s never prayed before that she’ll say something, anything, to stop him. He doesn’t dare turn to look at her. He might grab her or start weeping, and hasn’t he done enough damage for one day? He closes the door gently behind him.

  Dory’s house is padded with sleep when he returns. A nightlight in the kitchen casts an eerie green glow. The table is free of the dinner dishes he set out only hours ago. He considers a bottle of beer, but decides he’s too tired to drink it. Even too tired to think about what a mess he’s made of the situation. He drags himself into the bedroom. Moonlight leaks through the blinds. He undresses, trying not to make a sound. The A/C is going full blast. He thinks to lower it, but climbs into bed instead. Lena’s faint floral scent reaches him. She’s asleep, her back to him. Lena may not respond well to his visit with Rosie. In the morning he’ll tell her anyway, the good, bad, and the ugly. No more avoidance.