Hidden Hearts

by Ann Roberts

  He’d just laughed and said, “It’ll happen. Just wait.”

  The day turned dark and he still wasn’t home. He worked long hours and sometimes we ate without him. My stomach rumbled and I stole down the stairs to see what she was doing. I’d given up on my homework after only completing a few problems. Hopefully I could copy off someone when I got to school.

  I sat at the base of the stairs in the shadows of the dark living room and faced the kitchen. Dinner was on the table but Mama sat alone, smoking a cigarette and drinking her water, which was what she called vodka. She didn’t know I’d read the bottle one time before she put it away. She stared at nothing in particular, and the smoke twisted around her as if she were surrounded by a dream.

  I wondered what she thought about. Did she think about us? Him? Was she worried he wouldn’t like his dinner? Whatever it was I knew it didn’t make her happy. She never looked happy.

  I went back upstairs guessing that if he didn’t show up in a little while we’d eat the dinner cold as usual. I’d learned not to say anything about the condition of the food, then, which tasted as if it had been sitting out all afternoon at a picnic.

  I stared at my unfinished math homework, meaning to finish, but soon I was doodling and copying the picture I’d seen in Dr. Steele’s office. I closed my eyes trying to remember the exact details, the light and dark as Mrs. Curry would say. With only a lead pencil it was impossible to re-create Norman Rockwell’s colorful painting but I did my best.

  “Get down here, Vivian!” my father’s voice boomed.

  I dropped the pencil and hustled down the stairs. He stood in the living room, his arms crossed. He was lanky and tall, with wavy hair that rarely looked as if it needed to be combed. It just sort of sat on his head naturally. He was tanned from living outdoors every day, and I thought he looked like a movie star, although Will always said Mama was the good-looking one. But whenever we tagged along on one of his errands to the store, he’d smile and laugh with the pretty cashiers, more so than he ever did with us or Mama.

  He stood over me, his angry face a million miles away. He reached for my arm and studied my cast.

  “Bend over,” he commanded.

  At least he hadn’t brought out the paddle he kept on the bathroom doorknob, but the three swats still hurt and it was hard to sit down at the table. Will grinned, and I stuck out my tongue when Mama and Pops weren’t looking.

  “Meat’s dry,” he said, scowling at his pork chop.

  Dinnertime was the main event, and Mama’s cooking was usually the topic that started a fight. Even though we’d moved out of the Midwest, she still cooked as if she were there. I can’t imagine why he would’ve thought that could change. She cooked what she knew and that meant meat at one o’clock on the plate, potatoes at six and vegetable at ten. There wasn’t a lot of love in the meals but she tried.

  The only thing he never complained about was her sweet potato pie. She made the best I’d ever tasted, and we always fought over the last piece but that fight was good-natured. The rest of the arguments weren’t. He wanted to be proud of her for certain things—the ones he chose.

  “Perhaps if we could afford something more substantial it would taste better,” she remarked as she went to the cabinet for the vodka.

  Ever since we’d moved to Phoenix, I noticed she’d taken to drinking at the table, which by our midwestern standards was bad manners, but he didn’t seem to care.

  “You need to keep your comments to yourself, Lois,” he said sharply. “And I don’t appreciate your fancy words. Substantial. What the hell kind of word is that? Maybe if you’d keep our children in line, we’d have some more money for food,” he said, throwing a glare in my direction.

  I hung my head.

  “So how much did that little trip to Dr. Steele’s office set us back?” he asked.

  “Fifteen,” she said quietly.

  He harrumphed but never asked where she got the money. That’s how it always was. Conversation between my parents was like Will and me playing catch. He’d throw the ball and I’d always miss it, since I wasn’t very coordinated. Them talking was just like that—a lot of dropped balls.

  “Well it won’t be long until we can pay for everything up front. We’re having a visitor tonight,” he said, “a man named Rubenstein.” He looked up and offered a little smile. “I think he wants to buy our land.”

  Will and I glanced at each other. Maybe if Pops sold the land they’d be fine.

  “Now, when he gets here, I don’t want any fightin’ between the two of you, ya’ hear?” He was holding out his fork like a weapon and we nodded. “You say your hellos and then you get upstairs.”

  We nodded again for salvation’s sake. While we were scared of Mama, we were terrified of him, not just because he swung the paddle, but because we didn’t know him. He was always in the orchard or at the bar with his friends. Once in a while he’d take Mama out for special occasions, but when he was home, he ignored us mostly.

  “How did you meet Mr. Rubenstein?” she asked.

  “He bought the grove next door. Came by the other day and said he wanted to talk.”

  I glanced at Mama, who opened her mouth to say something but decided to swirl her drink instead. He was the only one who could keep her quiet. When she was angry with me, her mouth was like a motorboat on a full tank of gas. She only stopped when she ran out.

  He hated talking to her about anything that he thought was his business, like finances or major decisions. He thought she ran the kitchen and the kids but nothing else. She didn’t think so. Their fights were so loud that Will and I heard everything.

  We ate in silence until she excused herself and began the cleanup that Will and I would finish. In my entire life I’d never seen Pops pick up a single dish or cup to help. He entered the kitchen to eat and left when he was done.

  Uncomfortable sitting at the table with him alone, Will and I gobbled the rest of our dinner, and I took over the washing from Mama while Will dried. She disappeared upstairs to change and fix her hair before Mr. Rubenstein arrived.

  “Do you think he’ll buy it?” I asked quietly, unsure if Pops was listening in the front room where he read the paper.

  He shrugged. “I dunno. He already owns the land next to ours. It could be economically advantageous,” he said. He liked using big words and sounding smart like Mama. I knew he wanted me to ask him what it meant, but I just kept washing since I was pretty sure I understood.

  “Where will we go?”

  He stopped drying the skillet and stared at me like he hadn’t thought about that part. We’d waited so long for anyone to take an interest in the land that we’d forgotten what it might mean to our family.

  The doorbell rang, and we finished just as Mr. Rubenstein shook Mama’s hand. She looked like Rita Hayworth at a movie premiere. She’d put her hair up in a style called a chignon and reapplied her makeup. And like every other man who met her, he was laughing and patting her hand as if they’d known each other for years.

  She waved at us and we were immediately at her side, wearing our own smiles of hope.

  “These are our children, Will and Vivian.” She’d said our names like she was proud of us.

  He bent down and offered a firm handshake. I was surprised because his fingers were soft and his palm was warm, nothing like Pops’ hands, which were like tree bark. He had a long face and his nose was like a beak. I tried not to stare, but it was hard because it took up a lot of his face. Pops said all Jews had a big nose—even the women—and that’s how you could tell you were in the presence of one. His hair was slicked back, and he wore a dark blue suit with a red tie. He smelled like spice, and I resisted the urge to hug him just to be closer to his smell.

  “Get on up to your homework,” Pops said firmly, and we quickly charged up the stairs, only to tiptoe back down to the landing where we could watch and listen.

  Pops led him to the dining room table while Mama went to the kitchen and retrieved some refreshmen
ts. They made small talk as Mr. Rubenstein opened his briefcase and looked around the dining room. He asked several questions like how many rooms our house had and what was the square footage, and I realized if he bought our land he’d probably live here.

  When Mama returned with a tray of coffee and three slices of sweet potato pie, Pops scowled at her. I knew he wanted her to drop the refreshments and go away, but she planted herself across from the two of them, not really in the conversation but not gone.

  Mr. Rubenstein complimented her on the pie and told them he loved the area and the orange groves. But like adults usually do, he rambled into a bunch of boring things I didn’t understand, using words like fair market value, equity and water rights. I plunked my head against the wall feeling like I was stuck at school. I woke up when Will poked me in the ribs.

  “They’re talking about whether we get to stay,” he whispered.

  I’d been asleep for a while because the pie was gone, there were papers scattered over the table and Mama was sitting next to Mr. Rubenstein. Pops was studying something while she laughed at one of Mr. Rubenstein’s stories. She touched his arm and played with her hair just like she’d done in Dr. Steele’s office.

  When she stopped laughing, she said, “You know, Jacob, I love this house. I’d really like to keep it. Would you ever consider purchasing the groves but not the house?”

  She still held his arm, a look of pleading on her face.

  “I don’t know, Lois. This farmhouse is one of the reasons I considered buying the property.”

  “But to a woman a house is really a home. I’m sure your wife has explained that to you.”

  He coughed and said, “Um, I’m not married, Lois. Haven’t met the right woman.”

  She gasped. “I’m shocked. A handsome man like you with your strong business sense?” She patted his arm again. “It will happen, and then you’ll understand why a woman loves her home so much—”

  Pops set down the papers and picked up a pen. “Don’t listen to her jibber-jabber, Mr. Rubenstein. We’ll be just fine in another place. Where do I sign?”

  “Chet, now hold on a minute. You hate the idea of living in a ranch-style house.” She quickly turned her gaze to Mr. Rubenstein. “No offense to you, Jacob. I’m sure the houses you’ll build will be grand, but we loved this place the moment we saw it.”

  “No offense taken,” he said.

  I knew she’d hate leaving this place, especially the formal dining room where they were sitting. It would kill her to give up the chandelier and the white crown molding that bordered the ceiling. It was fancy, and there wasn’t much in her life that fit that description.

  “This is our home,” she continued. “If we—”

  “Lois, shut up,” Pops said gruffly. “This decision doesn’t concern you.”

  She turned red and started to rise, but Mr. Rubenstein shot him a hard glare and caught her arm. He whispered to her and she nodded. When they both looked at Pops, I knew it was two against one.

  “Mr. Battle, I’m no longer interested in purchasing this house as part of the agreement.”

  He smacked the table and stabbed a finger at one of the papers. “This is what you’re costing us, Lois. This is what we’re losing by keeping this place.”

  “Actually, Mr. Battle,” he interrupted, “your wife’s charming personality has saved you money.” He turned to her and added, “I’ll be happy to buy the groves, but you’ll retain the house and two acres beyond, so the children have a yard. Initially, though, I’ll need to borrow that property for some temporary worker housing, but I’ll be happy to pay rent to you for its usage.”

  He looked like he was holding her hand, almost like he was her husband. I suddenly wondered if Jews were any different than us.

  “Will that be acceptable, Mrs. Battle?” he asked, totally ignoring Pops.

  She sighed and touched her chest. “That would be perfect.”

  PhoenixConnect.Com (Women Seeking Women)

  Re: Definitely Friends First! – 27 (Central Phoenix)

  Date: 2010-06-06, 1:07AM MST

  I just read your post. U can see from the time that I’m a night howl(er), if you get my meaning. I also don’t like games except the ones we play together. I’m a fantasy kind of girl and I’d love to be your friend—your bestest friend. When I’m done with you, you won’t want any other friends. Give me a try.

  Posted by: Nighthowler

  Reply

  Re: Definitely Friends First! – 27 (Central Phoenix)

  Date: 2010-06-06 8:16 AM MST

  DFF, I loved your post! I think we could make a real connection. I’m also a professional woman who relishes a good debate, a good bottle of wine and fine art. Why don’t we meet? But I do have one question: are you totally inflexible about the threesome? My husband loved your post too!

  Posted by: LesBIan291

  Reply

  Re: Definitely Friends First! – 27 (Central Phoenix)

  Date: 2010-06-06, 2:13 PM MST

  Hi DFF! I just read yur pst. U sound just like the gal I want to meet. I’m the girl u want to meet! I got rid of my issus long ago thanks to my incarceration. How do you feel about long distance relatunshps?

  Posted by: 15GoesFast

  Reply

  Chapter Two

  June 10, 2010

  Ding!

  CC’s gaze flicked from the red traffic light to her Droid screen. She had another reply to her personal ad. She dismissed the alert and punched in the rest of her text to her paralegal just as the light changed. She knew it was illegal to text and drive in Arizona, but as a new junior associate every minute of the day was a chance to impress her boss, even if it meant breaking a few minor laws in the process.

  The computer reminded her to take SR-51, but a red Miata refused to let her merge.

  “Son of a bitch,” she cursed as the exit flew by.

  She pulled into a gas station and immediately cranked the window down to counter the stifling heat. It was only the tenth of June and already the temperature had hit one hundred and five. She couldn’t imagine how she’d survive August without air conditioning. The ancient Honda’s compressor had died somewhere near Albuquerque during the move.

  Curiosity demanded she check the latest reply to her ad, which she’d decided was a mistake. She calculated that of the nearly one hundred responses she’d received, half were bizarre or scary, and another twenty-five percent were from men. A fourth seemed to be authored by sane and competent women, but she couldn’t bring herself to take the next step—actually setting up a meeting. She’d said she wanted friends and she did. So why was responding so hard?

  She quickly deleted the reply, which listed twelve ways she could be “disciplined” for her own enjoyment, and reentered her route on the Droid’s Navigator. As she was about to leave, an alert popped up. Alicia had sent a message.

  I need my Melissa Ferrick CD back.

  She gritted her teeth. It wasn’t Alicia’s, although she remembered when she’d shown it to her, the first night they slept together, and Alicia had coveted it since. They’d made a joke of it during their two-year relationship, Alicia always claiming it belonged to her.

  “But it doesn’t,” she said out loud.

  This was the third time since their breakup six weeks ago that she’d called demanding something back or asking how an electronic worked. Each conversation was like sunburn, and CC didn’t feel the pain until hours later when she was sitting alone in the apartment and suddenly burst into tears.

  Determined to win at least one argument, she called her while her hackles were still raised. Surprisingly, Alicia answered, and she felt herself sink in her bucket seat. She’d been praying for voice mail.

  “Did you find my CD?” she asked evenly.

  CC could hear the noise of the law office where she worked. “It isn’t yours, Lish. It never was.”

  She laughed into the phone. “Of course it is. You gave it to me as a present for our anniversary.”

&nb
sp; “What?”

  “Yeah, we’d just come home from that great dinner at Anthony’s, remember? We were both a little drunk, and you wanted to give me something special. You knew how much I wanted it.”

  She shook her head. Most likely she was making up this story, probably as the words fell out of her mouth. She had learned from experience how well Alicia created instant fiction. Still, she did remember the night at Anthony’s but she just didn’t think…

  “Look, if you didn’t give it to me for our anniversary, what did you give me? I gave you the locket, remember?”

  She fingered the tiny heart around her neck. She couldn’t bring herself to take it off, and she didn’t want to fight over a CD.

  “Maybe I did give it to you. I don’t think so,” she quickly added, “but I really don’t remember.”

  She chuckled. “You weren’t one for details, but I’m sure that’ll change with your new job.” She paused and changed subjects. “So I guess congratulations are in order. Pretty big deal landing a junior associate position at Hartford and Burns.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed, glancing at the new briefcase on her passenger seat.

  “I saw that posting online and thought about going for it myself.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You already have a job.”

  “But it’s not like the big leagues. I’ll never get anywhere if I stay here.”

  She glanced at her watch. “I need to go, Lish. Do you want me to mail it to Nadia’s apartment?”

  “No, um, what time do you get off work?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I should stay at least until seven thirty to make a good impression.”

  “Well, if you still have it in your car because you play it all the time, then why don’t we meet at Kinkaid’s around eight?”

  Yes, automatically jumped from her throat but she caught it, and Alicia only received a garbled sound of indecision.

  “Was that a yes?” she asked confidently.

  “I don’t know, Lish.” Her heart was still in pieces, and she’d only begun to move on, beginning with her month-old job at Hartford and Burns.