The Widow Waltz

by Sally Koslow

  “She won’t be bored and quit after a week?” Stephan asks.

  My brother’s eyes, which are my eyes—almond shaped, charcoal, deeply set—are sharp upon me. There it is, the rusty nail waiting for my bare foot. Is he going to remind me that Cola left her first job, in the fashion department at Elle, when she was asked to come in on a Saturday to pack eleven trunks? “You know my daughter,” I say. “She’s got her virtues, but if you don’t want to be disappointed, you better find someone else.”

  “I see you’re not suggesting Luey.”

  “I’ve only lost my husband, not my mind.”

  “All right, have Nicola call.” He finishes his martini. “How is Luey?”

  “Distant.”

  “Aha,” he says. “And you. Holding up?”

  I was able to confide in Daniel because I knew he wouldn’t suggest that I was responsible for getting screwed. But now I face a higher judge who may or may not have been informed by Daniel. I drain the last few drops of my cocktail, shifting in my seat.

  “You look like hell,” Stephan adds. At least he has noticed. I read this as a term of endearment.

  “Do you know anything about Ben cheating?” I ask, emboldened by the drink.

  His eyes hold me. “On you?”

  “That’s a good place to start.”

  Stephan brushes back a lock of his black hair, his temples distinguished by a feathering of silver. “Couples have their indiscretions,” he says. “Look at our parents.”

  “I’d rather not.” I’m bleeding enough without reliving the six months after my father packed his stalwart leather luggage, leaving us to minister to our mother cursing in a dark room, complaining of a migraine. Not that much changed when they reunited. More migraines, more moaning.

  “Why do you care about cheating now?” he asks. “The poor bastard’s buried.”

  “It matters because I may have been left with next to nothing.”

  He frowns. “Georgia, don’t play the thespian.”

  “You’re allowed showmanship and I’m not?”

  “Cut the accusations, too. You’re one exasperating, prevaricating woman. Just the facts, please.”

  “This is what you need to know.” Although I wish I didn’t have to repeat them, I tell him. “The worst-case scenario safety net Ben assured me was in place—well, there is no net. He’s sold stock, drained accounts, borrowed on his life insurance, and taken out second mortgages. We owe money everywhere. I’m not down to nothing, but I’m getting there fast.” I see my brother trying to decide where hyperbole seeps into truth. “I’ve been all over it six ways to Sunday with Wally Fleigelman—“

  “Fleigelman! What a clown. He’s your first mistake.”

  “Who says I’ve made a ‘mistake’?” I’ve allowed myself to stumble into what feels like a trap and I need to wriggle myself free, even if it means gnawing off a toe. “Wally may not be your style,” I say, pulling myself tall in my seat, “but he’s the attorney handling the estate and I happen to like and trust him. If there’s any money anywhere, he’ll find it.” I look at the sharp knife that the waiter puts down next to Stephan’s plate and picture myself sticking it into my brother’s hand. I am horrified by this image, yet grateful for the two cocktails that have helped me achieve it.

  “From what Ben reported of your finances,” Stephan says with an edge, fully intended, a trenchancy that implies bragging and lying, “it wasn’t an insignificant amount that’s missing. How’s Attorney Fleigelman doing?”

  “He’s investigating—and I’m tearing my place apart, actually, trying to find God knows what. I had Ben’s secretary send me all his canceled checks, cell phone records, the works. I’m going over them like Nora Charles.”

  The snapshot of myself that I am offering is not, I realize, flattering or dignified, and I am relieved to be rescued by my pasta. Steam rises from the bowl. I close my eyes and breathe in the savory aroma of the three herb kings: sage, oregano, and tarragon. When I look again at Stephan, I believe I see sympathy, that or the fear that I will beg him for money.

  “Shall I go with you to see Fleigelman?” he asks.

  Smart, competent brothers like Stephan produce two kinds of sisters: those who look up to their sibling, craving fatherly guidance and protection; and my kind, who run the other way, knowing that if they allow themselves to be in their brother’s debt, the interest will compound for eternity, bankrupting them of independence, of pride, of any wisdom gained from making their own decisions and mistakes.

  “That’s not necessary. I can handle it,” I say, though I doubt I can. This morning it was as hard for me to get out of bed as it would be to swan dive into an icy ocean. “But down the line, I may need your help in a different way.”

  Holding his steak knife and fork as if he had been raised by British aristocracy, not first-generation American suburbanites, Stephan cuts one small piece of filet, then another. Silence hangs between us. I stare at the gravy forming a fjord between his pureed peas and delicate mound of mashed potatoes.

  “I may ask you to sell my jewelry.” The fireplace blazes, but I feel chilled. To take this step would mean that my circumstances are real.

  “Not the pieces from Mother, I hope,” he says immediately.

  Except for the small ruby pin and a sly, amethyst-eyed lizard, the unworn lady-who-lunches collection would be the first to unload—elaborate brooches shaped like nosegays and starbursts, a diamond evening watch that stopped telling time at ten past midnight in another century, studded bangles suitable for a belly dancer, and a pink sapphire necklace shaped like a horseshoe. “Not Mother’s wedding jewelry,” I say, although I have never put on the dagger-shaped marquise solitaire or the thick matching band. “I always thought one of the girls might want them.”

  “I see.” I imagine Stephan compiling a list and wonder if he would charge me commission. “Maybe you should come and work with me, not Nicola.”

  I manage to laugh. “Within a day one of us would wind up in a maximum security prison.”

  “I take your point,” he says. “But have you thought about working again?”

  “Only day and night.”

  “Would you return to teaching?”

  My résumé is one paragraph long and twenty-four years stale, rendering me underqualified yet shopworn. Until we adopted Nicola, I taught English at a small girls’ high school. I loved my work, but felt that if another woman had sacrificed her child so I could have one, I needed to give up my job. As the years passed and the girls were in school all day, I considered returning to teaching, but by that time Ben’s law firm had prospered and I’d gotten the kind of rich-lady lazy that passes for busy, earnestly volunteering, often chairing committees. I wasn’t just a museum docent but one of the Central Park Conservancy’s star flowerbed weeders, and I have the T-shirt to prove it. But I never again worked for a salary, even when I was chloroformed by boredom.

  “I’ve sent out letters—nobody’s jumping,” I say. Stephan seems to expect more, so I go on, my hackles up and ego bruised. “I keep cycling through all the obvious choices for women my age who haven’t had a job since the Clinton administration. Does the city require another residential real estate broker or personal shopper? I don’t cook well enough to cater. I’d rather eat nuclear waste than be a wedding planner, choking on other people’s stress, and opening a store or going back to school to get another degree costs a fortune. I’ve put out feelers to tutor in English and”—heaven help me—“help kids write their college application essays.” I feel out of breath and pathetic from my speech.

  “So I guess you’ll have to be a high-priced escort.”

  “If only I hadn’t aged out of that one. Maybe a madam. I’m not creative enough for phone sex.”

  Stephan sits back in his chair and looks as if he were seeing me for the first time in a decade, maybe more. “You may truly be in a
pickle, yes?”

  Unwanted pity is embedded in that statement. “Don’t cry for me, Argentina,” I say. “Not yet. I have a little money, and in this town you shouldn’t underestimate the pressure of getting in to college. Plus, if you’ll turn my baubles into cash when I ask, I’d buy me time.”

  “I assume that includes your own treasure chest?”

  Over the years, Ben gave me gifts that I’d always imagined he had chosen with exquisite care. Each carried history, and when I put them on, I wore more than bracelets, rings, pins, necklaces, earrings, and watches. I wore the day when Nicola arrived, the morning when after thirty-eight hours of labor I gave birth to Luey, the time when Ben won his first big case. I wore every anniversary and exotic vacation, each year together, which I viewed as twelve more months of good fortune. Well-deserved good fortune, if I’m being honest, because who considers an accidental advantage undeserved? Find me a rich person and I’ll show you someone who in her heart feels she’s been exempted from pain and poverty because God has noticed and rewarded her unique goodness, vaccinating her against bad luck. Gratitude is often a forgotten postscript.

  Not only has the statute of limitations on my utopia expired, I feel itchy with guilt for having taken it for granted all these years. With a shadow cast on Ben, I also feel robbed of my past. I wish my glowing memories had come with warranties. This is why I say, “I’m not going to be sentimental. If I have to get rid of things, I will.”

  “I’ve never seen you wear much, anyway.” It is true that for the daughter and sister of jewelers, I am a heretic, a walking white cotton shirt.

  “Most of it doesn’t work with yoga pants.”

  “Your watch?”

  I love that watch, circled by diamonds, but I say, “I can give that up. My phone tells time just fine.” I shovel the last squiggle of fusilli into my mouth.

  “And that epic Art Deco ring with the emerald and diamonds I got a glimpse of? I thought I’d see it on your hand tonight.”

  The server approaches our table with a tray of desserts. Lemon tart is the centerpiece of the selection. I am tempted.

  “What ring?”

  “Your birthday present, I thought.”

  “My birthday present was a trip to Japan we were supposed to take in January. After I pleaded sympathy, the travel agent gave me a full refund.” Almost.

  “Georgia, are you daft?”

  “Did you just say ‘daft’? Are you?”

  He leans back and cocks his head. “I would suggest that you look very hard for a diamond and emerald ring, probably from the 1920s, a real showstopper. I’ve seen few like it. Ben brought it to me for appraisal—he was hoping I’d sell it for him—and led me to believe he was accepting it as collateral or payment from a client.”

  During our marriage Ben often repeated this practice, one I protested on the grounds that it was as sleazy as it was risky. Why couldn’t he be paid in money like every other decent lawyer? What would be next, sacks of grain?

  “Ben was told the ring would go for close to a million. In my opinion, your husband was taken. It’s a fine old piece but would fetch maybe half of that. This did not make my dear brother-in-law happy and he left with the ring, accusing me of low-balling him, ranting about how he’d take his business elsewhere. ‘Be my guest,’ I told him.” In the tone of a university provost my brother continues. “This was the last conversation I had with your husband.”

  With that, I lose my appetite for dessert.

  8.

  “Nicola, my sweet,” Stephan said over early morning croissants on Madison Avenue. “You appear to be nonplussed. I’d like your answer.”

  Nicola couldn’t decide if being employed by S. Waltz would be the beginning of the resplendent opportunity on which her mother was trying to sell her or plain and simple martyrdom. She pictured herself modeling pave diamond cuffs, fingering precious gems (or semiprecious, she wasn’t picky), and helping design shoulder-grazing opal and platinum filigree earrings like the ones she’d coveted in Paris. Then she remembered how imperious Uncle Stephan could be. Around him, she felt lumpy, boneheaded, and twelve.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence”—if the offer was that, or her uncle’s version of pity— “but I don’t have much office experience. I wouldn’t want to disappoint you,” Nicola said, though this was the one aspect of the job she felt she could fulfill.

  “What I need, mostly, is common sense,” Stephan said, not that he’d ever given Nicola the impression that he considered either her, Luey, or her mother, for that matter, to be endowed with that quality. “Beyond that, the primary qualification is trust.”

  “Oh, I am absolutely trustworthy,” Nicola replied with dead earnestness, though a few minutes earlier she’d exaggerated her office experience. She had none. The moment the statement sailed from her lips she knew, from the smile Uncle Stephan was failing to suppress, that the specious answer was wrong. Luey would have responded with something half clever. She took herself for Dorothy Parker, aiming for intellectual flirtation. Repartee was not Nicola’s strong suit, with her uncle least of all, and when he said something like, “A man’s face is his autobiography; a woman’s is her work of fiction,” Nicola suspected that he was testing or insulting her. To compound her irritation, in his case that particular quote wasn’t even true. She’d bet good money—if she had any—that Uncle Stephan had had surgery on his neck and eyes, which looked a lot tighter than before she left for Europe. And those silver sideburns? C’mon. He could thank the hair colorist who left in a bit of gray to add authenticity to his dye job.

  What, however, were her job options? Despite her culinary skills, she’d had only one brief job in a restaurant, in another country, at the bottom of the line—not experience she could leverage or for which she even obtained a reference letter when she walked away—and she could not see herself trying to sell cupcakes or organic baby food at the Brooklyn Flea or sweating in food trucks. She’d like to return to Paris, but at the moment she didn’t have enough saved even for a plane ticket. The best part of the job at S. Waltz would be that it would come with a salary—nothing major, but a step up from tying on an apron to become a barista, and she’d already been turned down for two bar-tending spots. As one employer plainly said when he reviewed her résumé, “Liking martinis and looking hot at a party don’t count as qualifications.”

  “If you apply yourself, I could teach you a great deal about our family business,” Stephan said, stirring his double espresso, which she noticed he drank unsweetened. “There’s a lot more to it than baubles and trinkets.”

  The word Nicola liked best in that sentence was family. For all his shortcomings, Uncle Stephan had never once suggested that Nicola was anything but a Waltz. That territory was exclusively inhabited by his mother. She looked up over her café au lait. The restaurant Uncle Stephan had chosen was small and winsome without being coy. He spoke to the waitress in French, and to Nicola’s ear his accent sounded authentic. This would have made Luey laugh, though Nicola took it as a sign. She needed a sign.

  “When would you like me to start?”

  9.

  Wally has found nothing—I check with him every other day—and I am running out of places in the apartment to look. In my waking hours, I’m blurry around the edges yet keeping it together, trying not to act as if I am subsisting on a diet of cottage cheese and opprobrium. I stumble through my routines, reminding myself to floss, to take Vitamin D, to stock up on dog food, and to care for my plants—the bromeliads, the flowering maple, the hopelessly retro Boston ferns that wick away the humidity of my bathrooms, and the mistletoe fig and prayer plants that line my kitchen window. Other people can get their cardio workout hauling mulch and fertilizer as they grow organic vegetables. Except for my sometime servitude in Central Park, I am an indolent gardener. In the country we employ a landscape service, and in the city I exploit the advantage of my apartment’s enormo
us west- and north-facing windows.

  Since I have neither strength nor inclination to lift a blow-dryer, my hair shambles around my face in an animated halo—frizzy in spots, strangely lank in others, a mirror of my soul. When my standing salon appointment came do, I canceled it, and with Nicola assisting, I have tried hair coloring at home. My shade now hovers between margarine and mustard.

  It’s after dark when Ben rolls in like fog, crowding me, teasing me. His night shift begins after I turn off whatever Turner Classic has dished out, the warm milk that puts me into a coma. Tonight, Clark Gable was in zany pursuit of Myrna Loy.

  “Ben!” I groan in my sleep, as he thrusts, hard and demanding. My mate knows the history lessons of my anatomy and places his hands confidently on my hips as he pushes deeper. “Ben! I love you, Ben. Love you, love you, Oh . . .” I arch to meet him, luxuriating in the warmth that runs its intimate course between my thighs.

  I call out his name again and jolt awake to find that there is no Ben. At the foot of the bed, Sadie rolls over, snorts, and kicks a back leg reflexively as she wrestles with her own dream. I freeze into stillness for minutes, or maybe an hour, ultimately forcing myself to open my eyes. On television Myrna has become Claudette Colbert, and Clark, a long-faced, soft-jawed boy-next-door type. The pair is raising chickens in some godforsaken bump on a log. An actor is muttering about eggs. I see that I am wearing a T-shirt from a charity walk, not one of my Jordan almond–hued wisps of lingerie nestled in a drawer I haven’t opened in weeks.

  I remember: Ben is gone, yet I feel him in the room as I do every night, embracing me with arms kept strong by endless push-ups—my husband, the invincible gladiator who expected to live past one hundred. Some nights I cry or curse or simply lie like a corpse myself, eyes open to the sooty darkness, and other nights are like this one—Ben and I make love, after which I pummel away his image with my fists.

  I kick off the duvet, which feels as heavy as a lead apron, and look at the clock. It is already tomorrow, three in the morning, that war zone infested by workaholics, parents of fretful infants, and, my own demographic, the freshly bereaved. I want to shout at Ben, but this might convince Cola and Luey to cart me off to some public snake pit of a mental institution, since the private, leafy variety is a luxury we can no longer afford. I keep my voice low, my whisper more plaintive than sneering, because I have not fully committed to anger or husband hatred.