Good on Paper

by Rachel Cantor

  I couldn’t go to him. He put his face in his hands and wept. I left him there.

  He hadn’t tried to defend himself. He’d absorbed my anger, he’d looked at me and listened. He hadn’t been ruined by my anger, then or before. He held out his hands, he told me he loved me.

  Strange.

  I circled the Den, went back to my room.

  I want to show you something, I said. He followed, naked, wiping his eyes, into Ahmad’s studio, where the Flying Girl hung above the drawing table.

  That’s me, I said.

  I know, he said, taking my hand.

  You recognize the drawing from that story I wrote?

  From you, he said. I recognize you.

  I took that in.

  When I realized Ahmad had taken Andi, I wanted to come in here and destroy this. It’s his favorite thing in the world. I wanted to smash the glass and smear the picture with my blood.

  But you didn’t, Benny said.

  You know why?

  Tell me.

  Because it means something to me, the Flying Girl. Remembering myself as someone who once knew how to fly. Do you understand?

  That’s how I see you every day.

  You see me as the Flying Girl? I whispered.

  He nodded.

  You can hold me now, I said, shivering, and then the front door opened.

  •

  I ran to the living room, as Andi, bleary in ragged braids, trudged through the door, wearing pajamas and her Pretty Princess backpack. She was guiding her bike with her good hand, Tamika upside-down in the bike’s flowered basket, her long brown legs forming a V for victory. I ignored Ahmad and flung my arms around my girl. She let go of the bike as I grabbed her, and it crashed to the floor. Numb with fatigue, she didn’t notice. Ahmad picked up the bike, leaned it gently against the wall.

  Put some clothes on, Mom! she mumbled. Ovidio doesn’t want to see you in the nude.

  Ovidio? If Ovidio, or Ahmad for that matter, saw my backside under Benny’s shirt, I could hardly give a damn.

  I’m sorry, Shira, Ahmad said softly. I don’t know what I was thinking.

  His face was desolate with the knowledge of what he’d done. I said nothing, stared at him over Andi’s shoulder, held my daughter closer, if such a thing were possible. Exhaustion, not affection, caused her to lean into me; I felt complete with her, whole and ferocious.

  Will you ever forgive me? he asked.

  Never, I said. Get out of here. You will never see either of us ever again.

  Ahmad’s hand floated to his heart, his mouth opened, he stared at me, tears maybe welled in his eyes, and with small, shocked steps he backed out the door.

  •

  Andi wanted Ahmad to tuck her in, but he was gone. In any case, I insisted.

  I’m glad you’re home, I said, but she was sleeping.

  Ovidio wants eggs Benedict for breakfast, she mumbled, turning onto Tinky Winky. Room service comes on a rolling table.

  It was only after I’d watched her a while, the movement of her ribcage as she breathed, the way she curled in on herself bringing Tink to her cheek, that I remembered Benny, alone in Ahmad’s studio. I found him sleeping on the daybed, covered by a kilim he’d pulled from the floor. I could have let him sleep, but I didn’t want him there when Andi awoke. There would be no more surprises for my baby; from now on, she could rely on me absolutely.

  Sorry, I said, pushing his bony shoulder gently with my palm.

  His eyelids fluttered, he reached for me, as if by reflex. I fell gratefully into his arms.

  •

  You should have been able to do what I couldn’t, he whispered. A minute had passed, or maybe an hour. He was unbuttoning my shirt, kissing my collarbone, each of my ribs. You have a chance to make things right. You have the opportunity I never had. It would be good: I know her, I know them, I know you.

  You don’t know me, I said, dropping back my head.

  I know you, he said, kissing the nape of my neck, under my ear, smoothing his hands from my waist to my shoulders.

  You don’t know me, I said, arching my back. You know nothing about me.

  I know you, he said. You’re my flying girl.

  •

  Andi woke me with a poke on the shoulder. The sun hadn’t yet risen.

  Ovidio wants waffles, she said, her braids even more of a wildness. Who’s that?

  I looked over, adjusted the kilim.

  That’s Benny. You know Benny.

  Of course I know Benny. Why is he here?

  He kept Mommy company last night. I missed you.

  He was keeping you company in the nude?

  Come on, sweetie, I whispered, grabbing Benny’s shirt from the floor, astonished that he hadn’t awakened. Let me make you some breakfast.

  Ovidio, too, she said, twisting to get a last look as I led her out of the studio.

  Of course. How many waffles does he want?

  He’ll share with me, she said, hitching up her pajama bottoms. He wants to know when we’re going back to the Plaza.

  Hmm, I said. Someday.

  Today?

  Not today.

  He might run away, you know.

  I looked down at my daughter. Did she know what she was saying?

  Why would he do that? I asked, as gently as I could.

  If Ahmad stays at the hotel, he might go there to live with him.

  You think Ovidio might do that? and lifted her up onto the kitchen counter, my heart pounding.

  He’s a silly boy, he might do anything.

  Try to convince him to stay, will you?

  I’ll try, Andi said, nodding her head solemnly.

  I reached for eggs, flour, sugar.

  But Ahmad isn’t staying at the hotel, right? she said, almost as if it weren’t a question.

  At that moment, Benny tiptoed past the kitchen doorway toward my bedroom, hunched into his kilim.

  Why doesn’t anyone wear any clothes in this house! my daughter sighed, and I was off the hook. For the moment.

  51

  THE HERO DEFEATED

  Ahmad moved out—temporarily, as a “gesture of friendship,” or so he said in an email I read before blocking his address. He’d give me till Y2K to decide, three and a half months: reconcile or find other accommodation. No, he wasn’t trying to extort forgiveness by threatening to throw us onto the street, Benny said. No one was going to be out on the street.

  Ahmad had cornered Benny in People of the Book, he wanted someone to understand: Mirabella’s plan had failed. It was Hassan, Ahmad’s eldest: he wasn’t interested in Ahmad, he wouldn’t leave Karachi for the demon West. Faced with what Ahmad perceived to be my, uh, fast-developing relationship with Benny, he convinced himself that Andi would also fall from his life. He wouldn’t lose another child. He’d been talking with lawyers about custody when we’d fought.

  This is supposed to make me feel sympathetic? I asked.

  He’s trying to apologize, Benny said.

  Confession, contrition, reparation, change—it didn’t seem enough anymore.

  You tell him he comes anywhere near Andi, I’ll have him thrown in jail.

  I don’t want to be your intermediary, Shira. You need to talk to him.

  Never, I said.

  When I explained to Andi that Ahmad wouldn’t be living with us any more, she pounded me with her good fist.

  You shouldn’t have hit him! she wailed. He’d be here still if you hadn’t hit him!

  I tried to hold her, but she kicked my shins.

  It’s not fair! she cried. You can see him anytime you want!

  When I told Andi that Ahmad wasn’t her real father, that her real father lived in India, she screamed at me: Liar! Ahmad’s my real father!

  At her birthday party, she picked at the cake. At night, she cried. When I asked what was wrong, she said, Nothing, her face smothered in tears. You’re waking me up, you know that?

  I thought I heard … something, I’d say, helplessly.
Right, I’d say then to her silence. If you need me, I’m just down the hall.

  I know that, she’d mutter. I’m not stupid.

  I crept into her room when she was at school, to smell her Andi pillow, and stare at her Observations Notebook (Do Not Tuch!!), which she kept, though its edges were frayed, the koala on the front smudged. I picked it up once, opened the front cover, went no farther. Did she know I’d done this? I was sure she did, I was sure my guilt followed me, left tracks wherever I went.

  She came home with a note: Her school was doing Career Days. Could one of Andi’s parents attend?

  I want Ahmad, she said. Everyone’s doing a dad. Except Martina. Martina’s dad’s in jail. She doesn’t have anyone else to ask.

  What about her mom? I asked.

  She doesn’t do anything. Not like Ahmad. Ahmad knows the forty-first president! He was nominated for a Noble Prize.

  Nobel.

  Pammy’s dad’s got a bald spot, Andi said. And he was a Good Humor Man.

  Almost as good as knowing a thief conman president, I said. And not quite winning a prize. I’ll go. I’ll be happy to.

  Forget it, Andi said. Forget I said anything.

  I tried to seduce her with stories, metamorphoses plucked from her wall. To convince her change was good. (No change, thanks. I’m fine the way I am.) Never mind that for Ovid, metamorphosis is at best a consolation prize, meager compensation for what’s been lost.

  Go away, she’d say, I’m trying to sleep.

  Not till I tell you a story.

  I’m too tired for stories. I hate your stories. Your stories are stupid!

  I absorbed her anger, breathed in her rage, allowed it to settle inside me, accepting it as her gift to me, and holding it there, as my gift to her; I’d learned this from Benny. Someday, I hoped, her anger would spend itself. If not, I’d still be there—I hoped.

  I skipped the story of Niobe, her fourteen children sacrificed, and Phaethon, who flew his father’s flaming chariot into the ground; I talked instead about Perseus, his flying sandals, the hero Heracles, whose bravery earned him a spot in the gods’ Greek heaven.

  With Aunt Emma? my baby asked.

  What?

  In heaven with Emma. Emma’s in heaven, right?

  Who said Emma’s in heaven? Emma’s not dead.

  You told my Enrichment Facilitator she was.

  Shit.

  She told you that?

  We sat in a Healing Circle. I had to Share Memories. Only I didn’t have any.

  What did you do? I asked.

  I made something up. I said she took me to the park. And bought me things.

  Your Aunt Emma isn’t dead. I told your teacher a fib. It was wrong of me to do that.

  If she’s not dead, can I see her?

  I don’t know. (Maybe I made a face.)

  Of course, Andi said, rolling away. Forget I asked.

  What I mean is, she lives far away, but why don’t we invite her for a visit?

  Why don’t you finish your stupid story?

  •

  My translation lay in medias res, preserved in the study like a crime scene, the pages in fact piling up: I wouldn’t go in there but I could hear the fax machine churning. I imagined pages spilling like so much wasted seed, Romei’s love’s labor lost. Did he know I wouldn’t read what he sent? He couldn’t: Benny promised he wouldn’t talk with him about me, but wasn’t I curious?

  I am in no way curious, I said.

  I did wonder when Romei would tire. Maybe when Esther died, but I couldn’t think about that, I couldn’t think about Esther—her small, ailing body. My anger, once pure and unsparing, had been diluted by moments of compassion, interest, affection, back when I thought her merely a character in Romei’s peculiar drama.

  It wasn’t her idea, Benny said. It was all him.

  He lied to me, he used me, he made a fool out of me.

  He had to try, what choice did he have?

  I put my fingers over his mouth, told him never to mention Romei’s name. And called Durlene from SuperTemps.

  What are you looking for? she asked. The usual, I thought: love, companionship, the American Dream. The usual, I said, so she found me more of the same. Jobs stuffing envelopes, sitting in empty rooms waiting for the phone to ring, being paid by middle managers, always men, to listen to their fantasies of new life—as wildlife photographers, authors of best-selling novels drawn from the thinly disguised stories of their lives—I could tell you stories, they said, and invariably they did.

  I temped in the Village. At lunch, I found myself walking to T.’s townhouse. The stunted tree I’d stood under in grad school had grown, but it was late-autumn bare and offered no protection. Still I stood under it, looking for T. through the blinds, arms crossed against my chest, shivering, waiting for light, movement, anything that might help me understand where I’d gone wrong. I’d spent years loving a man who didn’t love me back, I’d squeezed everything out of myself so I could love him—and why? Why had I done that to myself? Was it easier, loving someone I never saw and couldn’t have? I then spent years imagining love with someone I didn’t know, someone who was dead, for heaven’s sake, and wondering what if? What if I’d been different? What if instead of saving myself for T., I’d noticed Jonah, what if we’d become friends, what if I’d been open to loving him? It was too late for Jonah—was it too late for me?

  The figures silhouetted against the blinds told me nothing I needed to know. A woman left the house once, holding a bicycle. She stood on the sidewalk a moment, tall and willowy—she could have been looking at me—then she was joined by a laughing child. They climbed onto their bikes and glided away. T.’s happy family, his happy life.

  My child was not happy. Mornings, I tried to get her ready for school, Andi struggling all the while—I don’t want to wear that, it’s too tight, too ugly, too green, too stupid—I losing patience sometimes, saying things I didn’t mean. Andi would look at me, then, scowling and victorious—see, she seemed to say, see, this is who you really are!

  After school, she read at People of the Book till I got home. Then I’d bring her to Joe’s or Nice Cream, get her anything she wanted; I didn’t worry about ruining her appetite, since she had none. When she asked, I lied and said Nate the panhandler had gone to the East Side where people were richer; when she asked if we could visit, I said, Sure, some day, and she rolled her eyes. When we got home, I cooked, and washed dishes, and tried to help her with her homework, though she said I knew nothing, what did I know about Eskimos, the hibernation of bears? She whispered with Ovidio, laughed at his jokes, jokes she wouldn’t translate but which caused her to laugh uproariously and look at me out of the corner of her eye.

  Her cast was removed; her shrunken arm grew plump again and brown.

  •

  Benny visited only when Andi was asleep or at school—she’d been through enough, I said. From now on, she could count on me. Saturday nights, Dotty sat and Benny made me a vegan dinner. I’d push tofu around on my plate, try not to share my worries.

  Take the money, he’d say. Quit your awful job!

  I’d returned Romei’s retainer, left five dollars in my account for good luck. He rewired the full sum of my “fee”; he said I’d earned it. I wired it back, gave instructions to my bank.

  When Benny pressed me, I told him to shut up or I’d leave the room.

  Only there was no place for me to go.

  I don’t want any connection with that man! Can’t you understand?

  Benny would shrug, impatient, as if there it was, the solution to my problems.

  You need a plan, he said. It’s October. If you’re not willing to settle things with Ahmad, you need to figure out what to do.

  He’s not going to throw us out. He’ll lose the apartment if he does. I’ll make sure he does. The university only gives apartments like that to families.

  He had the apartment before he had a family, Shira.

  I don’t care, I said.

&
nbsp; He can’t stay at his friend’s forever.

  Yes, he can.

  You’re in denial.

  I deny that.

  But Benny didn’t laugh. He was tiring of me, I could tell.

  This is no relationship! he’d say.

  I’d said no sex. He knew what Romei was doing, he’d played his part, how could I trust him? Besides, didn’t he really want Sandrine, his new salesgirl, the candle artist from Spain: she wore an eye patch for no reason and spoke in tongues. She was organizing his books by color, it was muy bonita that way, much better for the store’s feng shui. Benny thought she was spiritual; I thought, well, it’s no secret what I thought. After a revival, she’d lay in bed for days while I called in sick and reshelved books in alphabetical order.

  He wanted me to read Shir haShirim with him, said it would be good for us. I read Dante instead, Vita Nuova, as if it might tell me something about who I was and what would happen next.

  It wasn’t encouraging: after death destroys Dante’s world, he writes poems of grief, then stops writing, stops living. On the anniversary of Beatrice’s death, he sits idly, doodling and dreaming of her, when mysterious men stand suddenly before him. They observe his drawing, say nothing, and dissolve back into the text, their sole purpose having been to recall him to himself, to jolt him out of unconsciousness.

  He writes again, but it doesn’t go well. He resurrects his aesthetic-of-praise and it collapses—after just four lines! How to praise someone who’s perfect and perfectly absent? He tries another version of that poem—finishing it, we suspect, because this time it’s about him, his grief and lamentations—making it an artistic throwback. Hyperalert, he raises his eyes and sees a woman watching him, her eyes full of pity—what could be wrong with that? Plenty, because she isn’t Beatrice; his interest in her is a sign of emotional and spiritual backslide.

  The whole section is about backtracking, Dante’s artistic, emotional, and spiritual regressions when he is unable to assimilate Beatrice’s death.

  This is the Dante I loved best: so human, so lost! Forgetful of his purpose, paddling without direction, sketching idly, visited by angels he doesn’t recognize as such, seeking comfort in used ideas, infatuated by a pale imitation of Beatrice, rationalizing a love he must eventually reject, which comes unbidden when he must have despaired of ever loving again. He faces his greatest test here: how to survive the harrowing, the death of the woman whose life gave his meaning. By any measure, he fails, at least at first, for he is overcome by his greatest weaknesses—passivity, self-pity, desire, sophistry, a longing for emotional comfort, a narcissistic need to be seen, admired, and understood. I don’t know that any of us could do better.