“A relationship is more than a list of problems.”
“Companion, lover, hand-holding in the dark? How much of that is real, Dina?”
“How cynical,” she says.
“It’s experience.”
“You’ve closed down, is what.”
“With all due love and respect, my past isn’t written on my face.”
“There are truths in life,” she insists.
“The trouble is they keep changing.” Rosalyn slips off the shoes.
“You always have a quip.”
“Sorry, but I can’t sympathize with looking to a man to change life for the better. It’s never that simple.”
Rosalyn’s words resonate, but something in her won’t give in. “Of course not. One has to work at it, together.” Is that what she did? Filling the few short hectic years of her marriage with all she wanted to accomplish: a new house, furniture, child. Then Howie dies, just like that, and she, too stunned to grieve.
“Dina. You’ve been a widow how long? Aren’t you lonely? Why didn’t you join Parents Without Partners like so many people around here? Have you slept with anyone since?”
She did have a brief affair with a kind man who sold medical supplies, but it was complicated. Having to build a relationship, meet Tim’s needs, work a high-powered job. It was too much. She ended up wanting simplicity more than companionship. “My true love died,” is all she says.
“I see.” Rosalyn lines up four pairs of shoes.
“You don’t see a thing.”
“Are we arguing?”
“Of course not. We’re just two women talking.”
“I’m sharing, you’re talking.” Rosalyn gazes at the shoes.
“You’re goading me.”
“If you say so. Listen, Nick’s a sweet, respectable guy who’s done well as a single dad in these last years, even if he is too quiet.”
“Ava talks to you about the relationship? She hasn’t said a word to me.” Last year she would’ve been too busy to notice.
“Well, you know. We share different things with different friends.”
“How very kind of you to explain,” she mumbles, with no attempt to hide the sarcasm.
Rosalyn glances at her. “I need your help. Please tell me which of these shoes I should buy.”
She points to the suede pumps.
• • •
The sun has ducked behind a cloud revealing the grimy glass dome overhead. The first time Tim went missing, she covered every inch of the mall looking for him. The police were sure he’d return once he saw how miserable the streets could be. He did, but not for a month, a month in which she barely slept, traipsing the neighborhood peering into boys’ faces. She blamed herself for his absence. But he didn’t come home to stay. Money, he needed as much as she could offer. He cajoled, cried, swore he’d go to rehab. Now when he comes he always wants something from her. She began to pray he’d stay away. What kind of mother would do that?
“Dina, it’s nearly twelve. Let’s have a drink.”
“And forfeit my free lunch at the diner?”
“Ava’s not there. She’s on full night shift now, though Murray feels no shame in shifting her hours whenever he wants. If I were Ava—”
“You’re not. But it’s weird, no one gives me a check anymore. I’ve become a fixture of sorts.”
“Murray can afford to be generous. Sylvie’s gone back to work, you know. Mila told me gleefully that Murray’s not happy. Smart move, I say. A woman needs to have her own money. I said as much to Murray. He looked at me like it was my fault. Anyway, he’s fond of Ava and knows what you do to help her.“
“That’s not the reason for the free meal.”
“What then?”
“Older woman, invisible or stand-in for Mom. It’s revolting.”
“No one sees you that way.”
“Not yet,” she murmurs. “A drink it is. Where?”
Rosalyn turns her dazzling eyes in her direction. “I know a café.” They cross the main floor of the mall, a buzz in the air like dying neon lights.
• • •
The café is blessedly quiet. They sit at a small round table near the window. As usual she takes in the ketchup in its easy-squeeze dispenser. Tim added butter and ketchup to everything he ate. It nauseated her. Sometimes he’d make a sandwich of the two ingredients. And she’d have to leave the room to contain her disgust. She wonders now if it indicated some chemical imbalance, perhaps a lack of potassium or sodium? Even as a nurse she’d never thought of it before. It was simply a stupid, even outrageous combination, the way children can pick out clothes that don’t match.
The waiter slogs toward them. He seems exhausted, bloodshot eyes, swollen fingers, pasty skin—either a hangover or untreated diabetes. They order two glasses of wine, a grilled cheese sandwich for her, warm apple pie with ice cream for Rosalyn.
“Strange being served . . . I leave huge tips. Ruined by my profession.” Rosalyn glances out the window.
“What did you do before being a waitress?”
“You don’t want the list.”
“I bet it’s colorful.” She’s fond of this woman’s spunky refusal to conform; fond, too, of their talks about anything and everything.
The waiter brings their wine, setting each glass down carefully. She notices the slight tremor in his hand, decides his symptoms are alcohol-related.
“To the good life,” Rosalyn says, and takes a long drink.
“So?” she persists.
“File clerk for Revlon, very young . . . free makeup, boring, boring. Go-go dancer . . . had its moments, definitely more lucrative. Affiliated escort service and travel agency.”
“Who did you escort?”
“Foreign visitors. Men.” Rosalyn takes another big swallow, nearly emptying the glass.
“Exotic?”
Rosalyn gives her a half-smile. “Depends how you define the word. And you, always a nurse,” but it’s not a question.
“Yes, interesting but no spontaneity. The job was about order and control. The right dose, not just of medicine, but of time with patients. Everything doled out with the next task in mind.”
“And grateful people? And the god-docs, they were a trip, I bet.”
“True.” So many years carrying out duties without making any major mistake. She wonders now whether that counts as success.
• • •
Her house sits between two identical small white clapboard structures with black trim, one belongs to Ava, the other to a family newly arrived from India. She sees a light in her upstairs room. Bobby has a key. Why did he lock the door? “Bobby?” She walks past the orderly kitchen to the living room. Why would he be upstairs? “Bobby,” she calls again, and climbs the well-worn steps. Before reaching the top, Tim appears.
“I thought I heard you.” His voice is deeper than she remembers.
“Oh my.” Her hand presses her chest.
“Didn’t mean to scare you. I have a key.” But the smirk on his face doesn’t reassure her. He looks awful, just awful: skinny as a pole, pale, too, shabby clothes, torn sneakers. Has he been sleeping in the streets?
“I put my gear in my room.”
“Yes, good,” and she turns to go back down because a sudden dizziness threatens her balance.
He follows her to the living room, drops into the club chair, his feet up on the chipped leather ottoman. “I’m in trouble, I need to hang out here. My partner’s picking me up tomorrow.”
“What kind of trouble?” Her jaw so tense a pain shoots up the side of her cheek.
“You’d be an accomplice if I told you.”
“An accomplice? Tim, what have you done?” She’s not shouting, but her voice echoes in her head, the way it sometimes does when she’s at the beach treading water.
&nb
sp; “Don’t get wormy. Stay calm.”
“Where have you been since I last saw you?” He seems tired, his eyes red-rimmed. But he’s not high, which is something.
“Around. You’re looking good, Ma. How’s the job?” He reaches up, switches on the floor lamp. In the circle of light, his skin pulled tight over delicate bones has a bluish tinge. There’s red in his dirty-blonde hair. Has he been in a sunny climate?
“I retired.” That’s a word she rarely uses. Left, finished, no more nursing, is her usual description.
“What do you do for money?”
“I have a pension. I get along. You needn’t worry.” His question, though, is self-serving, and a spark of anger ignites inside her.
He gazes at her with opaque eyes.
“What is it, Tim?”
“Remembering living here.”
“Not as long as you could have.” Does she want to rake up old ashes? Will there be anything new beneath? A difficult child who slept little, wouldn’t play by himself, clung to her with such tenacity she froze.
“I was in your way,” he says simply.
The boy knew. The boy felt her impatience. Be honest. Own up to it. But she can’t. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Yeah, right, ridiculous, that’s me.”
“Are you hungry? I have chicken. I can order Chinese. Whatever you want.”
“Any beer?”
“No.”
“Call Ava, ask if she has any?”
“I’d rather not.”
“That too much trouble?” A slow grin spreads across his face.
“I’m glad to see you. I’ll cook something. I’ll wash what you’re wearing. What else can I do?”
“Nothing, Ma, nothing at all.” But she doesn’t believe him.
• • •
In the kitchen, taking the defrosted chicken from the fridge, she knows as if it’s written on the wall that this time she’s not to be spared. Well, okay, what more can happen? He’ll want money. She’ll go to the bank, take out a few hundred. He’s her son, who else can she give it to? And she remembers that winter morning returning from Ava’s, rushing him so she wouldn’t be late for work. He became recalcitrant, moving ever more slowly. Finally, she told him she was leaving. He could get himself to school. “But I’ll be late if I have to walk there.” “Not my fault,” she said, striding toward the door. “Ma,” he called over and over, but she wouldn’t turn around. That afternoon he disappeared. “I’d sure like a beer.” He pokes his head in the kitchen.
“Go to the market.”
“I’m hiding.” His sullen words a cold fist in her belly.
She searches his face, the dark blue eyes with their long lashes, the beauty of them wasted like the rest of him. How could he be so stupid? “I’ll go. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
• • •
Once again she finds herself in the car heading toward the mall. Was it a bank? A robbery gone wrong, a teller wounded, blood on her son’s hands, on his soul? Stop it, she tells herself. Until he shares what happened, she can’t know. Years ago she made herself quit planning for his future, which hurt more than his demanding visits.
In the brightly lit market she hopes not to bump into Shelly, who works here. Any other time would be fine. Only two days ago they stood beside the colorful produce stands chatting. Shelly’s a talker, said her youngest is in Iraq, which gives her nightmares. Poor Shelly.
She strides down the aisle, picks up a six-pack of Beck’s and hurries to the cashier, no time to waste. Around her, people fill their carts as if today is just another day. She envies their indifference. Then consoles herself—no one really knows what goes on in another person’s life.
• • •
The double-locked front door upsets her, makes her feel sneaky in her own house. He’s right there waiting for a beer and follows her to the kitchen. She hands him one, puts the remaining bottles in the fridge. “Why not take a shower while I prepare dinner? Some of your clothes are in the dresser.”
He twists off the cap, flips it in the sink. “Yeah. Good idea.”
His narrow frame lopes easily out of the room. When he was little he’d curl up on her lap. The gentle weight of him against her breast, the grassy smell of his hair, imprints that never disappear. She begins breading the chicken the way he likes it.
Hearing the shower loud and certain, she switches on the small counter TV as she often does while preparing food. She surfs for news of robberies, murders, whatever. Nothing. Tomorrow’s papers may enlighten her. Is that what she wants? Isn’t it better not to know? A moment of uncertainty stills her: cook dinner, serve it, pretend everything’s normal, then retreat to her bedroom. Or she could confront him. She takes a bottle of Beck’s from the fridge and twists off the cap, the cold beer bitter in her throat.
• • •
He bounces down the stairs in a too-big pair of khakis and a faded black T-shirt she could’ve sworn she’d thrown away ages ago. His bare feet leave damp prints on the wood-slatted floor. A fringe of wet hair drips past his forehead.
“I bet the shower felt good.” Some neutral ground has to be found.
“I forgot to close the curtain for a minute and got a little bit of water on the tiles. I threw down a towel.” His voice matter-of-fact, but a challenge in his eyes, as if daring her to run up and fix the damage. The spilt juice, loose jar tops, left-out food, unlocked doors, half-open drawers. She tried to teach him, believed she could, but his habits never changed, and neither did her frustration.
“The floor will dry,” she says crisply, and returns to the kitchen. Through the window she sees Bobby walking up the front steps carrying some boxes. Damn. She strides to the door to head him off.
“Hey sweetie, what’s that you’ve got?”
He walks past her.
Tim salutes him. “Bobby, my man. You’re a big guy now.”
“Oh wow, I had no idea you were home.”
Bobby deposits two boxes on the table. “One is a Scrabble game. My mom has two. The other is blueberry pie she brought home from the diner. Did your mother tell you she gave me your baseball mitt?”
“That’s cool,” Tim says.
“Want to play catch?”
“Not tonight. How’s your mom?”
“She’s out with Nick, her boyfriend.”
“You like him?” Tim’s voice deadpan.
“He’s okay. His daughter’s hilarious. She has a million funny stories. She won at Scrabble the other night and no one beats Mom. We have a marathon planned. The winner gets twenty dollars. I thought I’d practice with Dina.”
“We can all play.” Tim goes in the kitchen and returns with a beer. “Still too young for one of these, I guess.”
“When is your mother expected home?” she asks.
He shrugs.
“Eat with us,” Tim offers.
“I’m sure his mother has dinner for him.”
“She can save it.” Again Tim’s voice gives nothing away. Why does he need Bobby here? She doesn’t like the feel of it.
“She can save it,” Bobby echoes Tim.
“Does she know you’re here?”
“Where else would I be?” Bobby looks at her as if trying to figure out something.
She returns to the kitchen, dumps frozen broccoli in a saucepan of water, and waits for it to boil. A watched pot, Howie would’ve quipped. A man who liked his homilies, kitchen towels that read home sweet home, welcome mats, his-and-hers towels. She thought it a waste. They rarely had guests, not with her hospital shifts, but she saw no reason to squabble. Tim, however, wanted her to struggle, tried to engage her on a daily basis. She refused, had neither time nor energy. Sick people awaited her attention. Now she wonders if Tim needed her to fight. Children want to know they’re important enough to stir up a ruckus. The water begi
ns boiling. Early dinner, she thinks, then send Bobby home. An evening alone with her son, that’s what she’ll aim for, what she’ll tell them both. She puts the ketchup bottle on the table.
• • •
As soon as they finish the game of Scrabble she suggests Bobby go home.
“Stay over. Why not? We’re having fun, right, kiddo?” Tim speaks directly to Bobby.
“I’ll call Mom.”
“Where will he sleep?” she mumbles, confusion muddying her thinking.
“He’ll share my room,” Tim says.
Bobby looks at her, waiting for approval. The boy’s not stupid.
“Sweetie, do me a favor, take the Scrabble up to Tim’s room.” She watches him run up the steps, then whispers, “What do you want with him?”
“Insurance policy. Don’t worry, nothing will happen to him.”
“I am worried.” She stares at the hollows and planes of Tim’s face, a replica of hers. “Why involve anybody else?”
“Bobby’s a member of the family. He’s the good boy.” And Tim looks at her, mockingly.
“Tim, I’ll have none of it. He’s a neighbor’s boy and should be sent home.”
“In case of trouble?” An edge to his voice.
“Will there be any?”
“Depends.” Is he toying with her?
“Let him go home, Tim. We can work out things without him.”
“What things, Ma?”
“I don’t know yet, but if you need to take someone, take me.”
“That’s a joke, right? You wouldn’t know how to leave this place.” She flashes on the times he begged her to take him somewhere, away, and always she had a reason—a good one, she believed—not to do so.
“Whatever happens, I’ll help you. It’ll be easier if it’s just us.”
“You may regret what you’re saying.” His eyes steady on her.
“I won’t.” The room seems darker though the lights are on.
“Okay. Listen . . . if my ride doesn’t show, it could mean one of two things: He took the money and ran. Or he was picked up and gave me away. There’ll be no way to know which.” Tim speaks quickly and quietly.
If his ride doesn’t show she’ll have a felon under her roof. Still, he can’t hang out here forever. It’s the first place the police will look. She can’t say so, can’t have him believe she wants him to go even if she does. “We’ll have to wait and see,” her tone reasonable, even reassuring, though his face has gone a little blurry.
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