Every Body has a Story

by Beverly Gologorsky

  “I’ll go, but I’m not done with this conversation.”

  Dory swings her legs off the bed. “How about meeting at that dirty little bar near my work, tonight at five? Just the two of us? A few drinks before dinner? It could open up some secret spaces.”

  The last rays of evening sun light her way through a neighborhood of half-standing buildings and gutted shops. The few functioning stores look less than inviting. Finding Dory’s dirty little bar for which she has neither a name nor an address is proving more difficult than she expected.

  She doesn’t want Dory to pick up the tab, so it’s one drink for her. She’s parceling out money from the car fund for train and bus fare and essentials like replacing Casey’s rotting sneakers. She’s actually darning his ratty socks, and hasn’t bought him new underwear in she doesn’t want to think how long. Once upon a time, people could apply for welfare, but where to go now? She even takes off her black “interview” dress as soon as she gets home, to save it from having to be cleaned. She’s been job-hunting all afternoon.

  The first two possibilities were already filled by the time she arrived. The last was for a bookkeeper at a shabby midtown hotel called Wonderland, the kind of place that sells rooms by the hour. The guy who interviewed her was pretty seedy himself, though quite polite. He told her he used to do the books on his own, but the IRS pointed out it was a bad idea and suggested he hire a part-time bookkeeper. He was offering three four-hour days at eleven dollars an hour, no benefits. She assured him she could do the work. He showed her a tiny room, called it the “office,” though except for a desk and a window, it could have been a prison cell. He still had a few applicants to see, but promised that as soon as he made a decision, he’d phone her either way.

  Finally she recognizes the frayed beer posters in the window and pushes the door open. He’s there, the same bartender whose name escapes her, though she remembers Arthur well enough. Decent man. Came through for her. Three young women occupy the rearmost table, their heads bizarrely close together, whispering as if the world were a secret. They look no older than Rosie, who left the house before she did and went god knows where.

  She sits at the same table, and out the window spots Dory slowly cross the street.

  “Hey, where’s your drink?” Dory asks, coming in.

  “Waiting for you.”

  Dory orders two scotches, neat, and places them on the table. Then seats herself carefully as if her body might miss the chair. “To us, of course,” Dory raises her glass.

  “Indeed.” She takes a tiny sip. “What’s his name?” She indicates the bartender with her chin.

  “Mikel?”

  “Yes, that’s it. I was really drunk that night, can’t do that again.”

  “Why not? It’s good for the spirits.”

  “You’re so peppy!” With her face thinning, Dory’s penetrating cat eyes look larger than ever.

  “Am I supposed to be hunched over in agony?”

  “Of course not, but I can’t stop thinking about the tumor.”

  “You and Stu can console each other.”

  A shiver of fear runs through her.

  “He’s truly freaked out.” Dory reaches across the narrow space and sets the empty glass on the bar. “Another, please.”

  Stu must not become the subject of their conversation. “Is it okay for you to drink?”

  “You hear the one about the dying guy who begs for more morphine? The doc won’t comply, worried he’ll become an addict. Here’s the thing, Lena. I refuse to dwell on what’s to come when there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “Have you explored surgery or other options, or are you just running with the first crap they hand you?”

  “The doctor was crystal clear,” Dory now sounds annoyed. “It’s there, a tumor large enough and too close to the brain stem to guarantee successful treatment. That message is not going to change, issued by a second mouth. With or without surgery, the comforts of my life will no longer be mine, so why go through the mess and pain of invasive treatment for that chance in a million, that so-called miracle that ends up in Ripley’s? I can’t see it. What I do see is the way some of my charges suffer after they become ill, particularly the ones whose families want to keep them alive no matter what. Bedridden, overly drugged, weeks of nightmare hallucinations, food tubes, mouth sores, loss of vision, diapers, and worse. There isn’t much of them left to die. Who does that serve?”

  “But you’re such a fighter, that’s always been you.”

  “What difference does it make, what I do, Lena? Nothing will change the outcome. My gait’s already slowing and my balance is tricky at times. I’m having some trouble hearing my charges, especially the ones who speak low, and I’m nauseous a lot. Food doesn’t taste that good anymore, but I make myself eat, even if it’s only ice cream, which, thank the lord, tastes the same.”

  Dory’s words overwhelm her. How had she missed all these signs? Worse, she can’t think of a reply that will mean anything.

  “I want to remain who I am and enjoy what I can as long as I can, even while I’m losing ever more of myself. In other words, being treated like an invalid before I am one is exactly what I don’t want.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Then why are you badgering me?”

  “Because I’m scared … I can’t bear the thought of you not being able.”

  “Let’s not suffer the pain that isn’t here yet. Okay?”

  “You were always ridiculously brave no matter how dire the moment. It made me envious. It still does.”

  “You’re forever worried about next steps. What’s the point?”

  “Being prepared, I guess.”

  “There’s no such thing, Lena, unless you mean having enough food for guests.” Then Dory adds, out of nowhere, “Stu’s brave, too. We’re a brave pair. Remember when he punched that guy in the bar who slapped a woman?”

  She nods, but doesn’t say it was Matt who punched the guy.

  “Heroic, actually.”

  A garbage truck rolls noisily past the window, stopping nowhere she can see.

  “Remember City Island, that guy’s boat? How Stu managed to wrangle us an hour for free? He’s so good at sweet-talking people into doing what he wants, what they might not otherwise do.”

  What is Dory telling her?

  “And you, my friend, have been acting weird. Why?”

  “It’s Rosie,” she says quickly.

  “You need to give the girl time.”

  “She won’t talk to me. She’s lost all respect for me.”

  “Believe me on this, it won’t go on forever.”

  “And why is my son glued to a computer like nothing else in the world exists? Is it shyness? Preadolescent something? Or have I failed him, too?” Her eyes well up and she blinks a few times. And Dory catches it. She always does. It frightens her what else Dory might see.

  “Is there something more troubling you?”

  “Zack, too.” It’s true, but also another way of justifying whatever strangeness Dory’s noted. “After you announced the diagnosis, he came into the room and angrily accused me of many faults, chief among them that I refused to sleep with him. Then he told me he had paid a whore for a five-minute fuck and blamed me for that, too.” Dear lord, she’s rolling out her woes to gain Dory’s sympathy when it’s her forgiveness she needs.

  “You must have exploded.” Dory says, strangely unconcerned.

  “He begged me for mercy, explained his torment, vowed his love, admiration, devotion, and so on. Somehow it touched me.” She can’t seem to stop blabbering. “He promises to take more responsibility for whatever. Do I believe him? Maybe. Can he do it? I have no idea.”

  “You’re wearing the interview dress. Any luck?” Thank god Dory’s changing the subject.

  “A little side street hotel called Wonderland with water-stained ceilings and a musty smell. I can’t help but think it’s come to this, any job for a buck. What’s the difference between me and the wome
n sidling through hallways with their johns?”

  “The hotel doesn’t sound appealing.”

  “I can’t bear even one more day of job hunting. So, dear god, let it be Wonderland. If it is, there’ll be two of us with salaries and we can look for a place of our own. With Rosie back, we need to make a home again.”

  “Stu will miss you.”

  “Why? I mean, it surprises me.”

  “He enjoys the extended family.”

  “Won’t you miss me?”

  “Oh, I’ll see you a bunch, wherever you are.”

  “Of course you will. You must,” her tone too needy by far.

  Dory studies her but says nothing.

  Suddenly, the usual ease between them feels endangered.

  She stares out at the half-darkness and can hear her mother intone, “Too tight, too tight.”

  As they enter the house, her phone rings. It’s Wonderland. She listens, thanks the manager for letting her know. Clicks off.

  “Bummer,” Dory says, seeing her expression.

  “What does it matter?” She laughs. It’s more of a bark, actually. Sitting cross-legged on the couch, Casey glances up at her, then back at his laptop.

  “I’ll prepare dinner,” Dory announces.

  She walks down the hallway, just as Dory asks Casey where Rosie is, but she misses his answer. To blot out the world she ratchets up the bedroom A/C to high and switches on the fan as well, then slips out of her shoes, and, still dressed, climbs into bed.

  She pulls the duvet up to her ears while the last hour replays in her head. Does Dory know something? Who would tell her? They were careful, but is anything fail-safe? Guilt is making her paranoid. She knows it. The sooner she finds a way to move out the better it will be for Dory and for her, but how to do that when getting a job feels as impossible as winning the lottery?

  “Mom?” Casey tiptoes to the bedside. “I can bring in a tray of food. Do you want that?”

  “Honey, no, please just let me be.”

  “Will you be okay tomorrow?”

  “Absolutely. Go eat with everyone.” Her sweet boy obeys and gently shuts the door.

  She pulls the pillow close to her chest, wanting the kind of sleep that’s deep and dreamless. Her mind refuses to comply. Wonderland was about as low as she could go, and they didn’t want her either. What if they cancel her food stamps because Zack’s working? She’s scared, furious, and everyone’s to blame, including her, and there’s nothing she can do about it.

  She remembers her father on payday, placing the envelope on the kitchen table. Neither she nor her mother was allowed to ask how much was inside, only to see it as proof that he was on the job. There were weeks and months when nothing was placed on the table, and they weren’t allowed to mention that either. Did it drive her mother crazy, not knowing from one week to the next how, or if, they could pay for necessities? Will that happen to her, too? She closes her eyes; cloud-like gray and white shapes begin to float past her lids with no promise of sleep.

  She’s still awake when Zack comes in but keeps her eyes shut while he undresses. He switches off the fan, lowers the A/C, and gets into bed. A short time later he’s snoring lightly. Before he can reach for her in his sleep, she slips out of bed and leaves the room. A glass of something strong may help quiet her mind.

  The house is silent, but a pool of dim lamplight reveals Stu in the club chair with a bottle of wine. He lifts it toward her.

  “I need something stronger,” she whispers, and gets the Johnnie Walker from the side bar, fills a glass, then turns to face him. “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Me, too.” His face is in shadow. Only the white T-shirt interrupts the darkness.

  “Stu …”

  “I know.” They’re each whispering, urgently, gently.

  “We’ll always be friends and I don’t regret …”

  “Me neither,” he says. “Lena, I’m sorry. I’m …”

  “No, please, don’t say sorry, that makes it worse. Let’s file it away, leave it as a good memory.”

  “In Casablanca, they always had Paris. We’ll always have Motel Cozy Nook.”

  She smiles. “Okay. But, still, it wasn’t good. What I mean is it was good but it wasn’t …” she can’t find the right words.

  “I know what you mean. I’m in the same place … confused, worried, sad, actually terrified about Dory … it’s all so…”

  “Me, too, but Stu, we have to be with each other as if nothing…”

  “Of course.”

  “The thing is … it’s not smart for me to be living here much longer.”

  “Where will you go?”

  He didn’t say stay, she notes. “I’m not sure. But I want Dory to have all of you all the time.”

  “She does, she will. I’m going to take her on vacation in a month or so, someplace special. Don’t say anything. I want to surprise her. I’ll take care of the whole deal. Just the two of us elsewhere feels right.”

  “It does.” And there it is, the bond between him and Dory, the one that’s always been there. Of course it has. “I’ll take this with me,” she lifts the scotch bottle and tiptoes back to the bedroom.

  He watches her disappear down the hallway. Replays her stepping out of the dark, still lovely to behold even in shadow. She seemed calm but sad. Of course she is. Dory’s her best friend, his too. It’s a shame they can no longer be relaxed with each other. It’s strange, when he thinks about it, that each of them is an only child, which makes their bond sibling-like, which makes what happened between him and Lena either inevitable or incest. Just add it to his list of fuck-ups. For some reason, maybe because he’s drunk, he remembers the animal game the four of them used to play after a few tokes. Who would be what animal in another incarnation? Zack was either a Collie or a St. Bernard. He, too, was a dog; no, maybe a tiger. Lena, they all agreed, was a lion, and Dory he dubbed a hummingbird, her movements so quick and sharp that she could move through space without disturbing matter. Yet for weeks now, he’s caught her steadying herself using the walls or any furniture handy. He’s noted how she’s begun to perch on the edge of the bed for a minute before standing. He could’ve asked why. Was he so without curiosity? Or was he afraid to know? Yes to both, damn him. He gets it now, of course, her balance, the dizziness. But all this time he could’ve offered something, a hand, a word of concern, anything, and he didn’t. He’s doomed to live with these regrets forever. And why shouldn’t he? He deserves no peace of mind given the time he squandered trying to figure a way out, not back into his marriage. Stupid. Stupid. Does it always take some tragedy to make sense of what could have been or even of what was?

  And now another thought rises to plague him. Is it sinful to let her die loving him so much it hurts her to leave him? Wouldn’t it be helpful to break through her illusions? Of course, she’ll hate him. But he’s earned the hatred, pursuing his desires at her expense. First, he’d tell her about his oh-so-brief tryst with Lena, then admit how wrong he’d been not to work on the marriage. That he’s a fool and a bastard not to have seen what was right in front of his face, that it took learning about her illness to make him realize how crucial she is to his life. Will he sound like those sniveling middle-aged men who mess up, then get down on their knees to ask their wives’ forgiveness? The thing is, he doesn’t want her forgiveness. That would kill him. Maybe he should just shoot himself.

  He drinks the last of the wine straight from the bottle. Then hoists himself out of the chair, tosses the empty bottle in the trash, places the glass in the sink.

  In the bedroom he undresses, slides in behind Dory, and wraps his arm around her waist. When she inches closer, her body so warm and alive, his need for her is sudden, urgent, nearly violent.

  47.

  The kitchen is bright with morning sunlight. Rosie sips her juice. What an amazing day yesterday. Siri was somehow taller, his hair longer, darker, thicker. The shadow of a mustache grew beneath his nose. His skin seemed more coppery, his eyes as large
and luminous as ever. They hugged shyly, then took a subway down to the restored Ground Zero, and walked around holding hands. Being there, they agreed, was both sad and beautiful. Later, behind a church near the river he kissed her long and lovingly, then held her hand again.

  More talkative than she remembers, he told her there’d been a girlfriend for a few weeks. But it was Rosie he missed, Rosie he wanted the whole time. Did she understand? She nodded, praying he wasn’t still a virgin. She didn’t tell him about Sonny, though she shared Dory’s situation plus that of her family, including her mother’s lack of trust in her. He agreed that it was difficult to live in an unsupportive environment. His sympathy and understanding were just the medicine she needed.

  What she didn’t need to hear about was his plan to join the Marines as the quickest way to become a citizen. It’s the quickest way to become a dead citizen, she responded. Even if he isn’t killed, he sure as shit could come back wounded or brain-damaged. Hasn’t he been watching the news? And what if the Marines are sent to fight in Pakistan? What then? Could he do that? Aren’t they his people, his family of sorts?

  He’s not thickheaded, he pointed out, but how else can he get a decent job, apply for college scholarships, all those sorts of things? Okay, he has a point, but she’s not about to sit at home worrying about him for endless months. If he wants her devotion, which seemed evident, he’d better become a citizen the slow way like other immigrants.

  Her eyes flit to the time. She’s due to meet Mirabelle at eleven. It’s nearly ten. Strange, her mother, an early riser, is still in bed. No one wanted to wake her. But they should have. The night before when she wasn’t at dinner, her dad told them that their house remains empty, unwatched. He saw it, even went back twice to make sure. It’s off the bank’s radar. He’s certain of that. They should move back in. He swears no one will throw them out for a good long while, enough time to make some money, and—who knows—maybe buy it back. Though how could he be sure of that? Her dad doesn’t think things through like her mother does. Still, he spoke with a kind of passion that she’s never heard from him before. Stu offered to loan them his generator and promised to figure out how to get the water turned on. Dory mostly listened. Casey was really into the move. He asked if the paint was still on the house. Yes, and dad loved it. Wouldn’t erase it for anything.