Stop Here

by Beverly Gologorsky

  • • •

  Mila glances out the car window. Leaves hang precariously from tree limbs. In another week they’ll fill the gutters. It’s been a summer hot enough to wilt anyone’s spirit. But now, a cool breeze ruffles her hair. The map’s open on the seat beside her. She’s terrible with directions, giving, taking, or following them. On long trips, her daughter was the guide. She’s avoiding the highway, going through small towns different from her own. Huge houses that don’t resemble each other remind her of the one Murray built. Her foot on the gas pedal is bare, though high-heeled shoes lie on the mat. Darla would get a chuckle seeing her in the sexy green dress she hasn’t worn in years.

  Darla’s last e-mail said she might get a leave after basic, but “Mom, don’t count on it.” God knows she counts on nothing, trying to adjust is all. Less shopping, less cooking, no checking the clock to wonder where her daughter is, but none of it gives her an ounce of comfort. Dread dogs her even at the diner where she hoped to be too busy to notice. Morning, noon, night, she tells herself, what’s done is done. No use. She can’t accept the danger. Iraq? Afghanistan? It’s where Darla’s headed. Friends try to help. Ava offers words of support, Shelly, who should know, assures her that all will be fine, that time passes quickly. Even Sylvie sent a message. But, really, it’s a crapshoot. The truth is no one has a clue what will happen, she least of all.

  And truth is what’s she’s after. It’s about time. He doesn’t know she’s coming. He’ll recognize her, though. She’s the best prize he ever won. He said so too many times to forget, his face lighting up whenever she came in view. She, too, always excited to see him, now as well. She’s nervous, yes, but not scared. Years get used up; she can’t fill them in for him, even if Jimmy does ask. Maybe he’ll bow his head, reveal graying hair, or offer her that grin so close to sadness. Maybe he’ll search for the girl in her that’s no longer there.

  9

  Happiness Exists Somewhere

  The news stuns her. Still seated on the exam table, legs dangling, she stares at the dove-gray suit hanging on the closed door as if it belonged to someone else, the person who walked in an hour ago. She can’t go back to the office. A dental appointment, she lied. Her purse is beside a tray of instruments and she takes out the cell phone. The receptionist’s voicemail picks up. “Hi, it’s Sylvie, I’ll be back a little later than expected. That is, if anyone asks. Thanks.”

  If she hadn’t called in sick a few days ago she’d take the rest of the afternoon off. That, too, was a lie. She went to Liam’s funeral. The entire service at the East Hampton church was bleak: a scattering of old people, the urn buried in an unmarked hole behind his house. Gone, all signs of him. Murray would’ve accompanied her, but she didn’t want him to see her cry, didn’t want to deal with the insistent questions that would follow.

  He’s already badgering her. In bed last night he wanted to know why she had to work? Why does she stay so late? Why can’t she be home for dinner? Reasonable questions. She feigned sleep. He won’t stop asking. She knows that. He’s not an easy man to live with. He dotes on her but that’s the problem. There’s nothing concrete to hang her discontent on, except who he is.

  Sliding off the table, she tears off the paper robe, stuffs it in the receptacle marked waste, and dresses. She needs to walk.

  • • •

  Fifth Avenue sometimes distracts her, even lifts her spirits. She allows herself to study the well-dressed people, stylish storefronts, soaring architecture, St. Patrick’s Cathedral. She peers into the FAO Schwarz window of toys, decorated for Christmas, though it’s weeks away. Grieving takes time, she reminds herself. Holidays don’t help. But it’s more than Liam. The sad eyes of a stuffed giraffe nearly as tall as the real thing stare at her. She turns away, surprised to see Shelly across the avenue, and finds herself striding toward her. Shelly’s a woman of endurance, what she needs right now.

  “Hi. What are you doing in the city?” Shelly’s black coat does no justice to the lovely combination of her dark hair and light eyes. The woman should wear greens and purples.

  “Hi to you. Bruce attends two days as an outpatient. I drive him in, walk around, then pick him up. I don’t mind.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Up and about. They found medicine he can tolerate. Until now, the stuff they fed him made him a maniac. What are you doing here?”

  “My office is nearby. A cup of coffee?”

  “I wouldn’t mind a glass of wine.”

  She leads them up a side street to an easy-to-miss Irish pub stuck between two restaurants. Inside there’s no hint of afternoon light. The coziness suits her. No one would look for her here. People stand two deep at the bar, office workers, unemployed, lunchtime trysts, who knows?

  They find a small table and a waitress appears dressed in slacks and a sweater. Maybe she’s just helping out. Shelly orders a glass of house red. She asks for club soda.

  “How’s your youngest son doing?” What she wants to ask is how to go on when things are beyond control.

  “In that horrible place.” Shelly sighs. “The kids face death at every turn, not that I would say so to Mila. I can’t pick up a newspaper or listen to the radio, forget TV. If Michael came home Bruce would recover faster. The doctor thinks Bruce has confused his own soldier past with Michael’s war, which I could’ve told him weeks ago if he ever asked. I worry because so many reservists are being made to stay longer than their terms. Two months ago, my middle guy wrote to the National Guard that Michael has to come home for a family emergency. No dice.”

  “It is frightening. I’m so sorry.” Shelly looks worn, her heart-shaped face thinner. “Have you eaten lunch?”

  “Food isn’t friendly lately. My oldest brings me takeout. Firstborns are worrywarts.”

  “You must’ve been a baby yourself when you had him.”

  “I swore I’d never go through the pain of it again, but the memory evaporates. It’s the way of the world. Are you thinking of . . . ?”

  Heat flames her cheeks. “Well . . . Murray’s in his fifties.”

  “Unless they’ve given up their favorite pastime, age isn’t a factor.”

  The waitress sets down their drinks. She’s glad for the interruption. “Your children sound devoted. It must be comforting.”

  “I don’t know. They have their own lives and a life takes time. If Bruce got sick like this with a bunch of youngsters in tow . . .” Shelly shakes her head.

  “I’m sure now that Bruce is on the right medication he’ll be on the mend shortly.”

  “He’d like to put in a few hours at the diner but full-time is still iffy.” Shelly looks past her, clearly embarrassed to be asking.

  Murray doesn’t want Bruce coming back but she’ll appeal to his sympathy bone. Bruce is a vet, son in Iraq. Murray likes feeling noble. He’s always announcing how much food he sends to the shelter. “I’ll talk to Murray about it. Nick’s overwhelmed, I’m sure.”

  “That would be great. I hear you did a fine renovation job in the house. It must be lovely.”

  “Seems so.” Is there nothing in her life greater than that damned house?

  Shelly searches her face. “Is everything all right?”

  “A dear friend died recently. It still grieves me.” It was Liam who encouraged her to return to work, who said her unused energy was festering. The photo of Liam’s dead son, what happened to it?

  “You need to find something uplifting to get it off your mind. While Bruce was in the hospital I bought a print of women dancing in a circle. I hung it in my kitchen. I look at it and think happiness exists somewhere. Sounds silly, I know.”

  “God, no, Shelly. It’s a wonderful thought. But . . .” she shrugs.

  “What? You can tell me.”

  She gazes at Shelly, whose features blur slightly in the ashy darkness. How can she say she’s pregnant with no idea what to
do? Shelly will think her foolish for throwing away everything for a bit of pleasure. Is that what she did? Is that what she wanted to do? “My house feels too big,” she says inanely.

  “I can’t say I know what that would be like.”

  Of course she wouldn’t. They probably live in one of those tiny . . .

  “I envy you,” she admits. “You have a family who cares about you.”

  “Sylvie, everyone at the diner can see Murray’s crazy about you. He’d do anything for you.”

  “Yes, he would,” she agrees, letting the truth of it sink in to no avail.

  • • •

  At her desk, the computer open on the columns of numbers and names on the sales screen, but her mind refuses to focus, is everywhere but here. Another woman would be excited, perhaps even relieved. Not her; she’s amazed, yes, but mostly scared and confused.

  When her cell phone rings, her eyes flit to his corner office, vice president stenciled large. “Dinner tonight?” Harry’s voice certain.

  “Well . . .” she hesitates. “Can I get back to you?”

  “Why?” he insists.

  “I had tentative plans.”

  “Cancel them.”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Buzz me.” He clicks off.

  There’s nothing spontaneous about Harry. Most likely his wife called to say she’ll be busy this evening. Across the wide expanse of desks separated by see-through walls of Plexiglas, salespeople talk into headphones while watching computer screens. Most here are starting careers. In the cafeteria and hallways they gab about ad agency profits and losses as if it were personal. The top echelon doesn’t care a whit about any of them, the indifference palpable in Harry’s anecdotes, which she counters. A spunky woman, he calls her.

  It’s no use, she can’t concentrate, presses a few buttons and the document disappears. Endless white flakes drift across the snow-filled screensaver. Why choose a winter scene? She didn’t; it was simply here, like Harry.

  • • •

  Harry waits at the cloakroom to check their coats. His elegant cocoa-brown suit fits smoothly across his broad shoulders. His stylishness first attracted her. They chatted a few times at the proverbial watercooler. He asked her to accompany him to account focus groups; wanted her input. She was flattered. In the chauffeured car maneuvering through crowded midtown, Harry didn’t talk about work. He discussed foreign cinema, Italian films were his favorite, art shows in unexpected places. A man interested in museum exhibits, who’d been to the theater too many times to remember. Her acting background enthralled him. After their second “work” day, Harry asked her to dinner. She accepted easily, which surprises her still.

  They’re ushered to a table near a window of mullioned glass. Except for the warm coral blush of streetlamps, it’s too dark to see much outside. Logs crackle in a nearby fireplace, the ambience seductive. People dine here late, usually after a cocktail party. They bustle in full of the cold outdoors, reluctant to give up their coats, impatient for whiskey to warm them. Most other nights, she frames the scene as if in a play, but she doesn’t know what her role is now.

  The menu is in his unblemished hands, manicured nails. She glances at his wedding band and hers.

  “Shall I choose for us?” he asks as he does most evenings they’re together.

  “Why not?” she replies as usual, though not a bit hungry.

  “I do like knowing you,” he says softly, studying her face, which isn’t as concentrated on his as he expects.

  “Why’s that?” she responds, also softly, while another scene plays in her head. I’m pregnant with your baby. Why didn’t you use contraception? Because I had unprotected sex with my husband for a year, and nothing happened. I thought my fertility was gone. Likely story, he’ll say. She glances at him. A man with four grown sons he’d never disappoint. He made that clear from date one.

  “Your attitude makes me think. It’s a challenge.” He’s trying to engage her. Who wants to bed down with a distant icy woman? Is that who she is tonight?

  “My repertoire is endless,” she offers through the fog of worry that threatens to dull her mind.

  He smiles. Lovely teeth, strong chin, dark eyes that glitter. In the theater, he’d be the matinee idol but never Sir Laurence, whose talent reined over appearance.

  “In my position, people tell me what I want to hear. You don’t. That’s what makes you refreshing.”

  “I try to be entertaining,” she says lightly. Conversing about nothing feels almost beyond her.

  “See, like that.”

  He can’t see and he isn’t curious either, not really. He’s killing time till they’re ready to leave for the corporate apartment, his to do with as he pleases. She suspects their encounters there are unlike anything he experiences at home.

  The waiter pours a finger of wine in each glass, waits for Harry’s nod of approval, then leaves. Harry is about to top hers but she places her hand over the rim. He glances at her but says nothing. She rarely has more than two drinks at any time, her mother’s vacant alcoholic eyes never far away.

  “There’s something I can’t figure out about you,” he says.

  “What could that be?” she asks, hoping miraculously he’ll force the truth out of her.

  “Are you ambitious?”

  “Meaning am I after your job?” she teases, though disappointed.

  “No, that would be stupid.” He laughs. It’s a nice sound, deep, warm.

  “Which I’m not.” She takes a sip of water. “Tell me,” she probes gently, “why are we here, together?”

  “Don’t you think it’s a little late in the day to be asking that?” His careful tone reminds her she’s not delivering the correct lines.

  “No, it’s never too late.” She shrugs, then fakes another smile.

  “The brutal truth is I’m bored at home. And I find you appealing. I have from the beginning.” He reaches across to stroke her hand. Two people married to others acting as if they’re engaged in some dramatic first experience when passion’s at its highest. Her interest in any of it tonight is less than nil.

  “That doesn’t sound so brutal,” she says.

  “Why the sudden curiosity?” He places the napkin on his lap. The man doesn’t want to know.

  “I’m interested in marriages. Why some go sour and some don’t.” No, Harry, I’m interested in how you’d react to my having a baby. I’m interested in knowing how disastrous your response would be. Interested, yes, but unable to put it to the test.

  “My wife and I have been together twenty-eight years. Relationships plateau. Some get past that, other’s teeter.” He’s reciting probably the same litany he gives all his women. Once she lied at an audition, said she was sixteen, and had to pretend for the duration of the play. But how long can she pretend not to be pregnant?

  “An amount of time not to be sniffed at,” she quips.

  “You don’t say much about your marriage . . .” He refills his wineglass.

  “A bit stultifying,” she offers. How to describe what she doesn’t understand. Even if she did, it would feel disloyal to discuss it.

  “You haven’t been married that long,” he reminds her.

  “You can pepper me with questions in the boardroom, not here,” she quips.

  “In the boardroom I’d already know the answers.”

  She laughs. “So I hear.” Rumor has it Harry’s a hard man, that he fires people for first offenses. If she hints at her predicament he’ll insist she deal with it immediately. She isn’t ready, has no clue what ready would feel like.

  Harry raises his hand and the waiter hurries over. He gives their order, pronouncing the French dishes with ease. He’s comfortable in his skin, doesn’t want to be anyone else. Onstage, she’s been a mother, a wife, a lover. It’s easy to play other people.

  • •
•

  Her car, a dark shape beneath a sputtering lamp, is one of a few still at the station. She beeps open the door and slides in. On the road, an occasional light shimmers in the distance, the sense of the ocean near. She ratchets up the heat. Dead winter’s on the way. Her refusal to go to the corporate apartment surprised him. She said dinner lasted longer than she expected. Harry didn’t press her. He walked her to Penn Station, chatting easily. He kissed her cheek, his aloofness apparent. She didn’t perform well tonight, didn’t provide the pleasure the world owes him. He doesn’t need her—she’s a whim, a toy like the ones in the store window. Yes, the first weeks with him were exciting. Even now it’s easy to imagine them in Bali, something they talked about. She sees them lying hand in hand on a sparkling white beach and she tells him she’s pregnant, her voice languid, reassuring.

  • • •

  The dogs bark as she nears the door. Inside, they wrap themselves around her legs. Stroking their sleek bodies, she murmurs, “Hush,” refusing to say their hateful names. Murray, in a thick terry cloth robe, watches like a pleased proprietor. He offers her a sip of his wine, which she declines. “Tired, I’m off to bed.”

  “I’ve been waiting up. I have something to say about us,” he declares.

  Is this the moment where everything changes? Has he had enough, wants out from this woman who fills so few of his needs. Oh she sleeps with him, but is she affectionate? Does she make him feel important? Or has someone told him about Harry? Is he about to send her away? She wants to say can’t this wait till the weekend, that she doesn’t like being blind sided, but Murray’s withheld fury can be frightening. She follows him to the living room.

  He sits too close on the ridiculously long sofa. She glances at the refurbished room, new chairs, lamps, and tables, paintings hung; the dogs are asleep in the corner; the silence broken by the sound of the surf, which pulses like an angry heart. Is now the time for truth? When he takes her hand, she feels only trepidation.