Delilah laughed low in her throat. A laugh that shook her whole body, but it was soft. I think she would have laughed louder if little James McKinley hadn't been sleeping. “Did you think that was a good answer?”
“Not really,” I said.
Then we both just sat there smiling, and it felt good to smile. Until I actually did it, I could've sworn I had no smile in me. Maybe it was Delilah. Maybe hers was contagious.
I'm not sure how much longer I sat there smiling before it hit me. I had to go running if I was ever going to.
“I have to go,” I said. “I have to run.”
“You could take one day off if you wanted to, you know.”
“Oh, no. I can't. I'll get sick. When I don't run, I get sick.”
She looked at me with one eyebrow raised. “I'm not sure I ever heard tell of such a phenomenon,” she said. Like she was pretty sure I was full of crap, but too nice to say so.
I tried to convince her. I told her all the stories about when I used to get sick. I'd need to go to the emergency room all the time. For all different things. Or the doctor's office. “And then finally this one doctor who saw me a bunch of times said I needed to get out more. Get out in the fresh air and get some exercise. So that's when my father let me go out running every day. And now I never get sick.”
There was something going on in Delilah's face, but I couldn't tell what it was. Something she knew, but I didn't. I felt uncomfortable to hear what she would say next.
“Did you ever stop to think,” she said, “that maybe you were getting sick because that was the only way to get out of the house?”
I didn't answer. But the honest answer was no. I had never stopped to think that. I had just never looked at it that way.
We sat quietly for a minute, and then she asked me if I'd like another glass of lemonade.
“I would love another glass,” I said. “Thank you.”
I never went running that day. And I felt fine.
THE SECOND TIME the train pulled into the Union Square station, I didn't get up. It was hard, but I didn't. The first time had been just like the night before. Only worse. Plus there were three other people in that car, and I felt like I would be making an idiot of myself. So I made myself stay down in that seat.
But then the minute the train pulled away, I couldn't live with the feeling that she might be in some other car. That she might have gotten on, and be somewhere right on this train with me, and I wouldn't know it.
There was only one more car at the front of the train, on my left. I got up and walked to the end of the car and looked through the windows, and there was no one up there except an old Hasidic man with a beard. Then I wandered to the other end of the car and looked through to the next car down and there she was. Sitting right there. I felt like someone had swung a baseball bat and hit me in the guts. She had that same gray hat on, but different shoes with big clunky heels, and a big oversized denim shirt that was almost as big as the shawl. She looked like she wanted to disappear into her clothes.
There was no reason for her to look up. I hadn't made a sound. I was on the other side of two doors separating the cars, and she couldn't possibly have heard me.
But she looked up, and looked right at me. And I was amazed by what I saw.
I'm not sure how to describe why I knew this so clearly. But I saw it in her eyes somehow. She was hit just as hard by seeing me again as I was by seeing her. I could tell. I could see it. Or maybe I could feel it. But whatever it was, I knew she'd just been hit in the guts with a baseball bat.
And I had no idea what to do.
I couldn't go in there. Could I? How could I?
I could hear my own ears ringing and I stood frozen, and I don't think I could have moved if I'd tried. She just kept looking at me and I just kept looking at her, but this time it was more about fear than anything else. That's mostly what it made me feel inside. Fear.
The whole thing felt so frightening and intense that I had to stop it. I had to get out of that moment somehow. I felt like in a minute I wouldn't be able to stand up anymore. So I did the only thing I could think to do. I went back to my seat and sat down.
My head was going so fast I couldn't possibly tell you what I was thinking. My thoughts were racing around in layers, three or four deep, overlapping each other. There was no way to separate anything out.
I kept looking at the door to the next car, and in about a minute it opened, and she came in. She looked at me once, very fast. Then she sat down across the car from me. Not right across, but across and maybe two seats down.
Then she looked up and smiled at me, and I tried to smile back, but I'm not sure what it came out looking like. That's the last time in my life I'd want to be forced to remember how to smile. I noticed that the dark shadow on her cheek had turned into more of a regular bruise. It had a little bit of a greenish-yellowish tinge.
There was not one part of my body or brain that I could work from memory. I couldn't remember where my legs used to go when I sat, or what I was supposed to do with my hands. I didn't know where to look or where not to look. My brain felt like a dog chasing its tail, and I didn't know how to get the cycle unlocked again.
How long we rode like that, I can't say. It felt like hours. No, it felt like days. And I was in pain. I mean, I was genuinely suffering. There's only one actual thought I can remember. I remember it struck me strange that I had looked forward to this and wanted it, because now that I had it, it was so incredibly painful. A big part of me wished I had never left home.
After what felt like another day or two of this torture, the train pulled into Hunts Point Avenue in the Bronx, and by then there was only one other person on the car with us, and he got off. And nobody got on. I think it was after one A.M., but I didn't look at my watch.
She looked up at me again and smiled, and this time I think I smiled something back that would probably do. This time I'd had more time to prepare.
“Hi,” she said.
Of course I said, “Hi,” but it sounded pathetic. Like my voice was still changing.
After that we just sat there and rode up and down under the city until nearly two o'clock. I had more or less remembered how to breathe by then, but I still had to do it consciously.
At about ten to two we pulled into Union Square again, and she got up, and looked at me one more time and smiled.
“Maybe I'll see you tomorrow,” she said, and then she walked off the train. But just before the doors closed, she looked back over her shoulder at me. This time she didn't smile. This time I looked into her eyes and saw in a little deeper. Almost like she took down a curtain and let me see into one of the rooms of her house.
She was sad, and in trouble. That's what I saw.
In the morning there was some trouble. Probably not for the reasons Carl said.
He said it was because I didn't wake him up when I got home, and tell him to go to bed. When I got home that night, Carl was asleep sitting up on the couch, with C.J. sleeping with his head on his pop's chest. And they just looked so sweet. I hated to even disturb them.
Plus, I never really know with Carl. Usually once he winds down from work it's okay, but I never like to press my luck.
Then in the morning when I was making coffee, and making bacon and poached eggs on toast, which is his favorite breakfast, he came into the kitchen, and he was in a bad mood. He was mad, I could tell. I can feel it on him. He doesn't have to say a word. It's pretty unusual for him. Actually. To wake up in a bad mood. Usually if he's rested things go okay.
“Why didn't you wake me up?” he asked right off. “Now I got a backache.”
“I'm sorry,” I said. “Just that you looked so comfortable.”
“Well, I wasn't comfortable. Obviously. Because now I have a backache. Now I got to go to work tonight with my back hurting. How can anyone be comfortable sleeping sitting up on the couch all night? Why would you even think that?”
“I'm sorry. I don't know. I'm sorry.”
&nb
sp; He came over and stood really close to me, which is not normally a good sign.
Something weird happened. I thought about that kid from the subway. I have no idea why. I had no intention of ever letting him into my mind at a time like that. I don't know why I did.
It was something that happened without my permission. Like my brain tried to slip back into that moment when the charge was flickering between us on the train. When we were looking at each other, or smiling. Like that would be a safer place to be than this. And just for a second my body remembered. How that felt.
“What's with you this morning?” Carl said.
I said, “I don't know what you mean.”
But I did. And I think he knew it.
“Something different about you.”
“No there isn't,” I said.
And then I made a very bad mistake. I cut my eyes away from him. I looked away like I wanted to be sure he didn't look in and see the wrong thing. Because I was afraid of exactly that.
There's no right thing to do at a moment like that. If I let him see in, that's bad. If I make sure he doesn't see, that's maybe even worse. Maybe what he's imagining is even worse.
I should never have talked to that kid. That was over the line. I don't know what I was thinking. What was I thinking, telling him I would see him again? Or even that maybe I would. I don't know why I do shit like that. Not that I ever did that before. But stuff like that. Starting something I know I can't afford to start.
Like I can just buy something and the bill will never come due.
And I can never keep anything secret from Carl. He knows everything.
Now, one thing I will say about Carl. He has never hit me. He has never, in the seven years I've been with him, just hauled off and smacked me.
He gets mad, but all he really does is grab me by my arms. Usually my upper arms. And he digs in too hard, but probably he doesn't know it's too hard, because he's busy being mad and not thinking about how tight he's holding on. My arms bruise really easy, but I guess I can't blame that on him. And it hurts, so I'll tell him to let me go, and then he will, but with a push.
He doesn't hit me, like I say. Just pushes. It's just his way of letting go. Only one time I hurt my back landing on my tailbone, so after that I always try to turn around, like to catch myself. And that's how I got that little bruise on my cheek, bumping into the cabinet. But I guess that's as much my fault as his. I just wasn't looking where I was headed.
Anyway, when I cut my eyes away, he grabbed hold of my arms.
“What happened at work last night?”
“Nothing. Same as always. I just did my shift and then came home.”
“You didn't see anybody? Or meet anybody?”
“No. I never do. I would never do that. You know me better than that.”
It was hurting the way he was holding my arms but I didn't say he should let me go. I didn't say a word about it.
“Look at me,” he said.
But I didn't.
That was when he did something really surprising. He hit me. For the first time in seven years. And I knew why, too. I knew what had changed. For the first time in seven years I was hiding something from him. And he knew it.
It was just a slap. Not like he punched me or anything. Just a backhand slap. It might not have even hurt that much, except for that big class ring he wears on his right hand. I guess at a time like that you don't stop to think that you're wearing a ring. But it caught me on the lower lip and made it bleed.
When he saw I was bleeding he let me go. Without pushing.
I sat down at the kitchen table and there was a dish towel. Sitting there on the table. So I used that, but it was too late, because I got some blood on the collar of my very favorite shirt ever.
He brought me some ice and said he was sorry.
“I know,” I said. “I know you didn't mean to. Never mind.”
“No, really,” he said. “Really. I'm sorry. I don't know why I did that.”
But I knew. I knew exactly what I had done to deserve it. And I knew if I was smart I would not complain much. Because for seven years he never smacked me, until I went out and felt something for somebody else, and did a little too much about it. So I knew who was at fault here.
By the time I smelled the bacon burning it was way too late to save it.
C.J. was watching some kind of violent cartoon show about the military or superheroes or something. Natalie was sucking her thumb in front of the TV. Holding that fur collar she loves so much. That snap-off fur collar from Carl's leather jacket. They didn't say a word or act like they knew anything was wrong.
Maybe they really don't hear when stuff happens like that. Or maybe they hear but they keep it to themselves. I never know which one.
MOST OF THE REST OF THAT DAY I just sat in front of the TV and watched my DVD of West Side Story. I watched it three times.
Normally I wouldn't do that when Carl was home. Because he will complain. He doesn't like repetition. It bugs him. I'm just the opposite. The more I'm upset, the more I like to go with things I know like the back of my hand. Things that are familiar to me.
Anyway, when Carl has gotten mad recently I can do just about anything. Because he's feeling guilty. I get lots of extra slack on days like this.
I had to keep tissues handy. And not because I was crying. I would never cry in front of Carl. Never in a million years. Or the kids, either. It was just the opposite. It was laughing. Some things in that movie are funny. Like a couple of the songs. You would think I would remember not to laugh, because of my lip. But then I would forget, and it would start to bleed again.
Something about that movie. I get lost in it. I forget I'm just sitting on the couch watching it. It gets to be more real than I am.
That's why I like it, I think.
The more bloody tissues I stacked up on the coffee table, the more Carl would probably cut me some slack.
He did say a couple of things.
He said, “I never could understand how you could sit there and just watch the same thing over and over and over like that. Over and over. What gives with that? I don't see how you can stand it.”
I didn't answer because I didn't need to. And there was nothing to say, anyway. He has told me that same thing probably fifty times. That he doesn't understand why I like to keep watching the same movie. It's funny how he says he hates repetition, but he will say that over and over. Sometimes I want to say, “God, Carl, do you think I'm deaf, or what? How many times are you going to repeat the same thing?” But of course I never do.
It's a bad habit with him. He likes to share his opinion. A lot.
“And it's so old-fashioned,” he said.
“I don't mind that.”
“We have movies from this century, you know.”
So, that was another one. Another thing he has told me probably fifty times. Maybe more.
Just for a minute I stood outside the whole thing, and I was stunned by how much he says and how much I don't say. It's like everything he thinks comes straight out of his mouth. Just like that. I think things, but they don't go any farther. I just think them, and there they stay. Just for a minute I stood outside both of us and watched it go around and around like that. Like an endless loop. Him talking and me not talking and him talking some more and me not talking some more. Until the end of time, which I guess is how it will be.
I wonder how two people can be so different like that.
I like that movie. That's all there is to it. My mother named me after Maria in West Side Story. It has history. And I like it.
And this was the first time I've watched it since that thing with the kid on the subway, so this was the first time I noticed that he reminds me a little bit of Tony. Just a little bit. Not even his face so much, but something about the way his face lights up. Something from the inside.
I don't even know that kid's name. Wouldn't it be funny if it was Tony?
But I guess that's asking too much.
All of a sudden I got this thought that if Carl was feeling guilty enough, maybe I could go out tomorrow night, too. Even though it's not a shift night of mine, tomorrow. I mean, it didn't used to be one. When I had a job.
Then a minute later I realized what a stupid thought it was. I couldn't do that. It would make him totally suspicious.
Why did I even think that?
Why did it suddenly matter whether I got to ride the subway with some tall young guy with a lot of hair? I didn't even know him. I didn't even know his name.
One thing I knew for sure: I had better be careful what I let get started here.
My mother had this thing she used to say. Before she died. “Nearly everything is easier to get into than it is to get out of.”
That's a very true thing. And I've always known it. You would think that, since I know it so well, I'd be more careful. More careful of what I let get started. But good advice has always been more or less wasted on me. I can't even say why that is. Just that I can tell you a hundred times which direction is the right way to go, but then damned if I don't go the other way, and half the time I can't even tell you why.
My father said I was always trouble. Born for it, he said. He wasn't right about anything else, but maybe he was right about that.
The rest of that night was a miserable thing. I never got to sleep, not even for a few minutes. I never even closed my eyes. My body felt like it had been electrocuted and I hadn't had time to recover. I kept replaying the same scenes over and over in my head.
Finally I got up, hoping I could beat my father to the breakfast table. It didn't work. He was there. The minute he put his glasses on and looked up at me, I knew we had trouble.
I tried desperately to look and act normal, but that never works. There's something wrong with the fabric of that system. Normal is when you're not trying, so anytime you try to act normal, you're going to fall on your ass. Pardon my language.
All I wanted was to be left alone until it was night again, and I could go back to that subway. I wanted to wrap myself in cotton or lock myself in a safe, where nothing could hurt me or challenge me until I could see her again. I didn't want to think about anything else. I didn't want to be distracted. And I definitely did not want to be attacked.
Chasing Windmills Page 3
