Women Drinking Benedictine

by Sharon Dilworth

  The cafe was jammed with tourists and Steve was certain that most of them spoke or at least understood English.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” Steve said. His father had been dead six months and he was not ready to think about him. The cancer, which had started in his stomach, then spread to his lungs, had starved his father, leaving him unable to eat for the last three months of his life. “Let’s have fun,” Steve said. “There’s no sense worrying about the past. We can’t change anything that’s already happened.”

  “I forgot, I forgot. I’m sorry,” Max said. “Steve, Mr. Emotional Hologram, doesn’t like to talk about personal things.”

  “Excuse me?” Steve said. He sobered almost immediately at the criticism.

  “An emotional hologram,” Max said and hiccuped. “That’s what your father used to call you. Always best to stay a little bit shallow. Talk about the weather, books, some sports. But don’t dig too deep.”

  Steve leaned on the table and stared out at the ocean. The sudden shift in weight tilted the table, and their beer mugs slid across the slick surface. He tried to catch them, which didn’t help. Everything tipped at once. The glass smashed. The Americans across the way burst into applause—everyone else just stared. The waiter was there in a flash. He had already collected for their last round of beers. He offered Steve a police escort out of the cafe.

  “It’s not necessary,” Steve said. “In fact, we were just leaving.”

  “There’s just one thing I want to say.” Max was still under the impression that they were having a conversation.

  Steve pulled him down the boardwalk, where Max yelled his feelings to the ocean.

  “I loved your father,” Max said. “I really loved that man.”

  “Yes,” Steve said. “I loved him, too.” The sun had moved behind a cloud. The sea had changed color. He lifted his head, his hands stiff to keep himself from crying. He cleared his mind, deliberately not thinking of his father.

  Max did not cry anymore on the trip, though he did buy a number of postcards, saying each time, “I wish I could mail this one to your father.”

  They spent Steve’s last night in Paris.

  All in all Steve was happy. He could go back to Pittsburgh satisfied that he had made good on his father’s request. It had not been a perfect trip, but he had kept his promise to his father, and that was what was important.

  It was time to go home. In two months he would be married and would not have to worry about spending time with his father’s friend.

  In his Paris hotel room, he took a cold shower, then, not ready to dress for dinner, he found the cleanest pair of socks he had and tried on his new shoes.

  The only mirror in the room was over the bathroom sink. He had to stand on the toilet to see himself. The shoes were stylish. He would carry them on the plane and put them on before getting off. There was always the threat of his feet swelling, but he wanted to be wearing them when he first saw Kathleen.

  He looked up to see Max’s reflection in the mirror. “They look great,” Max said.

  “Jesus Christ,” Steve shouted and jumped off the toilet. His shoes slipped on the wet tiles and Max kept him from falling by holding his elbow. Steve pulled away. He picked a towel off the floor. It was damp from his shower and uncomfortable next to his dry clean skin.

  “Sorry,” Max said. “I knocked lightly, but thought you might be sleeping.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Steve yelled.

  “I’m sorry,” Max said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Steve was not scared, but his heart was racing.

  “Fuck it, Max,” Steve said. “Can’t a guy have a little privacy? I’ve been with you for fourteen fucking days. Give me some space.”

  “My fault. I didn’t mean to be too familiar. I just think of you as family. I didn’t realize it was necessary to knock. Excuse me.” Max bowed, as if humbling himself. He left the room as quickly as he had entered.

  “Wait,” Steve said. “Max?” He opened the door. “Are you there, Max?”

  The lights in the hall were on a timer, and they shut off, leaving the small space in darkness.

  “I’m sorry, Max,” Steve said and closed the door, certain that Max had heard his apology.

  They walked the streets of the Latin Quarter, where three or four men called to them in English. “Eat here. Good and Cheap. Get a Fine French Meal.”

  Max seemed oblivious to the obvious tourist trappings of the area. He took no time deciding on a restaurant, simply choosing the first one. He pulled out a chair and motioned for Steve to sit across from him. “This okay?”

  Steve did not want to argue.

  They ordered the night’s special and were served in a matter of minutes.

  “High turnover seems to be the goal of the night,” Steve said. “I’ve never seen waiters move so quickly.” He would rather have been eating in a better quality place, where the waiters were rude, the food and drink pricey but delicious.

  “Just as well,” Max said. “I’m tired.” It was the first time Steve had ever heard him complain. “I guess all this traveling has finally caught up with me.”

  “How about a walk along the Seine?” Steve said. He hadn’t meant to lash out at him. A fight was a fight and then it was best to forget it ever happened. He had apologized—at least three times.

  “You go,” Max said. “I’m beat.” He was planning to spend a week in Paris and then head into Italy. He would fly back to Detroit from Florence.

  Steve had thought they would meet for breakfast, but Max turned to face him when they got to the hotel.

  “You have a safe flight and call me to let me know when that wedding of yours is going to be.” He held out his hand.

  “I will,” Steve promised and shook Max’s hand a dozen times. “Listen. Thanks for everything. Everything. I mean it. It’s been great. Just great.”

  “See you soon,” Max said and disappeared into the dark entranceway of the hotel.

  Steve should have been elated that the trip was almost over. He had done what his father had asked, and yet he couldn’t help but feel that something was wrong.

  He walked across the river and sat on the steps of Notre Dame. The summer crowd was dense and slightly unruly. A few kids offered to sell him pot. No one was speaking French. Not used to being alone, he left.

  He was nervous and excited when he landed in Pittsburgh. He looked forward to seeing Kathleen. He was anxious to start planning their wedding. He did not want to think about Max. If Max was upset with him, that was his problem. Steve had done nothing wrong.

  Kathleen told him he looked like he had grown.

  “Grown?” he asked, hoping she was making a joke. He thought of all the beer he had been drinking, the late-night meals, the sugar and milk in the coffee. He didn’t feel heavy, but he put his hand over his belt and pressed in his stomach.

  “Taller,” Kathleen clarified. “You look like you’ve grown a foot.”

  With that, Steve wondered if she had been unfaithful. She was obviously comparing him to the shorter man she had been sleeping with while he was away. He began to panic, then deliberately pushed these thoughts aside. He was tired—he had watched both movies on the plane and had not slept at all. He cleared his head and asked about the weather. “Has it been brutally hot?”

  Kathleen grinned. “Is that what they’re talking about in Europe nowadays? The weather?”

  “Yes,” Steve said. He was at once awkward and self-conscious. Kathleen was not a sarcastic person, and he felt himself on unsteady ground.

  He knew what was coming.

  Kathleen had been moody and sharp before he left, and he had thought that the time apart would do them some good. He had been wrong. She was even more moody and more sharp than before he left.

  She was ruthless, breaking off their engagement on the highway. Steve, sitting in the passenger seat in her non-airconditioned car, was sick as he listened to her speak.

  Her reasons for the break
up were varied.

  “I love you, but my feelings have changed,” she explained. “I need some time. A wedding in October, come on. It’s already August.”

  It was August, Steve thought. Hot, dry, vapid August, and I’m in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His contacts were dry, his body dehydrated from the flight. Up ahead, he could see the flashing brake lights of the cars slowing down before they entered the Fort Pitt tunnels. The Pirates were playing at Three Rivers Sta-di um, and traffic came to a standstill just outside the city.

  His car had been broken into. Why it was parked on the street instead of in the garage was hard for Kathleen to explain. Something to do with a friend not having a Shadyside parking permit.

  “You could have cleaned up the glass,” Steve said.

  “I didn’t think about it,” Kathleen said with a shrug.

  “I guess there’s a lot you didn’t think about,” Steve snapped.

  “I knew you were going to be a shit about this,” Kathleen said. She had not even said a word about his tan, nothing at all about his new shoes—which were pinching his skin. He was sure to have blisters in the morning.

  He was tired of talking to her and wanted her to go home. “I want the ring back,” he said. He had been wrong about her. She was never going to make him happy.

  “You’re not supposed to ask for the ring back,” she scolded.

  “You broke off the engagement,” Steve said. “I have every right to ask for my ring back. Consult Miss Manners.”

  There was one bottle of Heineken in the refrigerator, a few dried carrots, and a crushed carton of baking powder in the back corner. “It’s mine and I want it back.”

  “Is that all you can say?” Kathleen asked. “What about your feelings? Aren’t you upset that this is over?”

  “The ring belonged to my mother. It’s the only thing I have of hers,” Steve lied. Kathleen was a tricky person. She was not above taking things that did not belong to her. He wanted it back.

  “You never told me it was your mother’s,” Kathleen said.

  His feet were numb, his skin unbelievably hot and prickly. He went to the bedroom, where she continued arguing.

  He heard her voice as if it came over the radio, distant, not directed to him.

  He flew back to Paris the next night. He saw no reason to be in Pittsburgh when news of his breakup got around—stupid questions, people trying to be nice. He would rather continue accompanying Max. A week in Italy would be nice. Using the frequent flier miles his father had willed him in his estate, the round-trip ticket cost him only $157.43. It was daring, and he felt cosmopolitan about crossing the ocean twice in two days.

  It was not quite seven in the morning when the taxi dropped him off in front of Max’s hotel.

  The desk clerk recognized him. He, at least, smiled at Steve. “Bonjour, monsieur,” he said.

  “Mon ami est ici?” Steve asked, straining his French vocabulary.

  “He is in room 513,” the man answered in English. The hotel smelled of vinegar, just as Steve had remembered it. He was excited and took the steps two at a time. He knocked with force, anxious to see Max’s face when he opened the door.

  “Well,” Max said. He was wearing nylon running shorts. They were neon green.

  “Going for a jog?” Steve asked.

  “What are you doing here?” Max asked.

  “Surprised?” Steve asked.

  “Very,” Max agreed. “What are you doing here?”

  It had been worth the long flight, Steve thought. They could drive to Italy, stop in some interesting places, and by the time he returned to Pittsburgh, he would have all but forgotten Kathleen. He could shrug off all questions about why their engagement had broken off.

  “Did you miss your plane?” Max asked.

  It was a stupid question and Steve smiled. “I reconsidered your offer for two weeks in Italy. It looks like I have the time after all.”

  Max did not say anything. He was not wearing shoes and his bare feet were pale in the harsh overhead light.

  Steve smiled. The trip to Pittsburgh had been a waste of time. He should have called Kathleen and saved himself the trouble and expense of flying home. “Isn’t it great? I can go with you to Italy.”

  Max looked at him carefully.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me in?” Steve asked.

  Max looked over his shoulder, hesitating. He pulled the door toward him, and in this moment Steve understood that Max was not alone.

  “I don’t believe it,” Steve said.

  “Oh, Steve,” Max said. He spoke with pity as if he felt sorry for Steve.

  “There’s someone in your room, isn’t there?” Steve did not have to ask, but he wanted to hear Max admit it. “My father’s been dead less than a year and you’re with someone else.”

  Max hushed him.

  “What about my father?” Steve said. “Does your new friend know about my father?”

  “Of course not,” Max said. “Lower your voice, please.”

  “You talk about me being an emotional hologram,” Steve said. “You’re an emotional zero.”

  “Let’s go outside,” Max suggested. “We can go for a walk.”

  “No,” Steve said. He was furious. Betrayed. He had been gone less than forty-eight hours and Max had already found someone else to be with. “You make me sick,” he yelled.

  “Steve,” Max said. There was no mistaking the condescension in his voice now. “We’re both adults here. This has nothing to do with your father.”

  “I thought you were having a good time with me. Obviously not. The minute I leave, you find someone new to lecture about evil and good. You’re a fine one to talk about evil. I just wonder what my father would feel about all this.”

  “Be quiet, Steve,” Max said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t you try to deny it,” Steve said. “Whatever you do, don’t lie to me.” People were always disappointing him. They never, never acted like he wanted them to.

  “Let me get dressed,” Max said. “Wait here while I put on some clothes. We can go down the street for coffee.”

  “Not with you,” Steve yelled. “Absolutely not. I don’t want to go anywhere with you ever again.”

  “Steve,” Max started.

  “Never,” Steve yelled, and he continued yelling, even after Max slammed the door in his face. Even after the light timer switched off and the hall fell into complete darkness, even when the desk clerk threatened to call the police, when the tall woman in the room next door screamed that he was a lunatic, Steve yelled. The world was not treating him fairly, and he had every right to be pissed. Life owed him something, and that’s all he wanted—just the things he should be getting, just the things he deserved.

  Leather Goods

  WINNIE MARTIN WORKED IN A leather goods shop in the Shady-side neighborhood of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She was an ill-informed retailer when it came to selling leather—fringed, spangled, painted, or tooled, it was all cowhide to her. Still, she was reliable, and when encouraged could be savvy, though not hip, about the merchandise she sold.

  The owner of the store, a longtime friend of Winnie’s, suggested Winnie describe the leather as “half Miami Beach—Jewish flea market—half Harley-biker-babe wear.” Winnie would rather have died than follow Suzanne’s advice. When people asked about the clothes, she simply said that most of the outfits did not flatter a woman her age. A fifty-three-year-old rear end did not look good tucked into skintight biker leather. Perhaps a tailored woolen skirt would be more appropriate. Talbots was right around the corner.

  The owner was too busy to notice or care what Winnie said about the clothes. She had gotten married in December to a man who was determined to bring riverfront gambling to Pittsburgh. He envisioned the city as the next Las Vegas or Atlantic City, and they spent most of their time touring different casinos around the country—leaving Winnie to mind the cowhide.

  “The Monongahela’s a dream spot compared to s
ome of the dismal places we’ve seen,” Suzanne told her. She was making a pit stop in the Steel City before traveling on to northern Michigan. Her enthusiasm did not convince Winnie that Pittsburgh could ever become a tourist attraction. “Indian reservations are the worst,” Suzanne continued as Winnie rearranged the pale leather bags in the front window. “Tacky, badly painted buildings. Cheap nickel slot machines. The weather is terrible. You end up spending half your time in tanning booths. And believe me, you don’t know boring until you gamble at one of those places.”

  But boring was just how Winnie would have described Pittsburgh—it was a strange city that seemed to exist in a state where the more things stayed the same, the more things had to stay the same. The only thing that did change was the rents. They kept rising, making it difficult for private businesses to prosper. The chain stores were moving in everywhere, even on Walnut Street. The once trendy, funky street now looked like a suburban shopping mall. Winnie was not without hope, though. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe gambling would make the city a glamorous place to live.

  Running the leather shop was dull. Of this, Winnie was certain. The heat was bad in the winter, the air conditioner stalled in the summer. Standing in the shop window, Winnie watched the seasons come and go. Whatever the weather, people went elsewhere to shop. The store seemed to reflect her own middle age: mostly alone, always dull.

  Winnie spent most of her days reading. The corner bookstore flooded when the Ann Taylor shop expanded to the second story. The bookstore owner threw out a box full of Penguin Classics. Winnie rescued them before the garbage men could get to them. The books were mildewed and smelled of bug spray, but they still were readable. Hardy, Fielding, Strindberg—these were names she recognized but had never read. Winnie dried the books out in the microwave, which unglued the binding. She read a page, and when it broke away from the spine, she tossed it into the trash.

  The bells above the door jingled against the glass—almost noon, the first customer of the day. Winnie wound a rubber band around Far from the Madding Crowd. She was not enjoying the book. Like in Tom Jones, the chapter titles gave away the plot. “Chapter VII—In Which the Lady Pays a Visit to Mr. Jones.” “Chapter III—The arrival of Mr. Jones, with his Lady, at the Inn, with a very full Description of the Battle of Upton.” “Chapter VI—From which it may be inferred, that the best Things are liable to be misunderstood and misinterpreted.” There was no reason to read when she already knew what was going to happen next.