Bundle of Joy?

by Ariella Papa

  My dad was sitting at the kitchen table drinking strong Greek coffee out of a tiny cup. My mother, crying, had searched Helen’s room again, this time uncovering notes to her boyfriend, Andre. If anything, my parents had returned momentarily to the people they were before Cristina died. My mother asked me to translate certain words—usually slang or curses—that she didn’t understand from the notes spread before her. Even though I created benign definitions, it didn’t matter. I worried that my parents would be upset with me for some reason, but they weren’t. My father didn’t say a word, which wasn’t unusual for him, but something about the set of his lips and the look in his eyes made me more afraid than I had ever been.

  “It’s the Puerto Rican,” my mother said over and over again.

  Each time she said it, I looked at my dad and became more and more convinced that they were going to kill my sister when she came home.

  That night when I finally went to bed around midnight, I realized that not even my bed felt safe anymore. Cristina was dead, and now who knew what was going to happen to Helen. There was nowhere for me to be at peace. Everything could be taken at any second.

  I stared into the blackness of my room, my heart pumping fast, for what seemed like forever. Eventually, I must have dozed, because when I woke up it was as if the house were alive. I could see all the lights on outside our door. I could hear thumps, screams, crying and cursing. Cristina would have taken the beating quietly, crying just enough to satisfy my parents, to show them that she was sorry, but not defying, not yelling at them. Helen was much tougher.

  She ran into our room and my father followed with the belt, my mother shrieking and wailing, all three of them playing out some kind of crazy scene. My sister jumped back and forth across our beds. I don’t think either of my parents even saw me. It was all about my sister. Then she said her damning words.

  “Leave me alone, I’m pregnant.”

  Time stood still. We were all frozen, waiting to see what one statement could do. Then my father was pulling my sister out of my room, my mother screaming louder than ever, and the sounds I heard coming out of my sister didn’t seem real. It was worse than the usual punishment.

  After that, our world changed again. The police came and got my dad, my sister went to the hospital and my mother seemed even more empty than she had been before.

  We didn’t visit my sister in the hospital. I didn’t even know where she was. My father spent the rest of the night in jail, but was out in the morning thanks to Georgia’s dad. When Helen came home a few days later she brought her boyfriend. They cleared out only the stuff that she’d bought with her own money. My mother yelled about things she was and wasn’t allowed to take. It was awful. I have to admit, I’m ashamed about the way I handled it. I didn’t know what to say to Helen. I couldn’t quite comprehend that she was leaving for good. My father left the apartment cursing in Greek about Puerto Ricans.

  I went to sit outside on the stoop.

  Finally my sister came out, gave a plastic bag of belongings to her boyfriend and asked him to wait in the car.

  “Voula,” she said, but I didn’t look up. “Okay. I just want you to know that you saved my life. Two lives, actually. So, thanks, and I guess I’ll see you around.”

  Then my sister was gone. What she meant and why I didn’t run after her and hug her I don’t know. I think I was just too scared.

  But I didn’t see her around—not for almost fifteen years.

  I never caught a beating like that. I never did anything to deserve one. And my father moved to Cyprus that summer….

  When I finished my burger, I tried Jamie’s apartment again but got the machine. I almost left a pathetic pick-up-if-your-listening message, but I didn’t. I walked up 8th Avenue back to my apartment.

  I heard laughing as I put the key in the door. It was starting already.

  Kelly and Armando were standing in the kitchen holding glasses of red wine and smiling at each other. I so couldn’t deal with this.

  “Ciao, bella,” Armando said.

  “Hey,” Kelly said, reaching out and grabbing my hand to shake. “It’s nice to see you again, Voula.”

  The way she said my name was a little too slick, like I should be impressed that she remembered the name of the person she was living with. Raj was a TV person—I knew how slick they could be.

  “Hi, how was the move?”

  She sighed and kind of smiled at Armando. “Well, getting movers was the best money I ever spent, but moving is still a pain in the ass.”

  I smiled. She was wearing an obscenely short skirt, but from the looks of it, she had a bra on this time.

  “Yeah,” I said. I kind of wished they would just skip the wine and cut to the sex scene. I wanted them to go into Armando’s room and leave me alone. Maybe they could get all the drama out of the way quick, so Kelly wouldn’t have to unpack her boxes.

  “Do you want some wine?” Kelly asked. “It’s great. Armando has fantastic taste in wine.”

  “No thanks,” I said, ignoring Armando’s smirk. “I have some work to do.”

  “On a Saturday?” Kelly said.

  “Yeah,” I said quietly, and went into my office.

  I closed the door behind me and turned on my laptop. The cursor blinked at me, mocking me. It said, “auntie, auntie.” I was an aunt to two kids somewhere.

  I was also still a sister.

  I put my iPod on shuffle and swiveled once in my chair. Then I focused and wrote, “There is no greater sense of accomplishment than getting the free cup of coffee at the end of the coffee card.”

  Okay, I was in. For the next hour or so I wrote. I stopped to check whether a song was Audioslave or Sound Garden, but other than that, I was in the perfect zone. I came up with a halfway decent rough draft that accurately portrayed something that everyone could relate to, with enough inside New York references to make commuters on subways smile as they sipped the coffee that might have been free or at least leading them to a free cup.

  I always hoped articles like this made life seem better, even if just for a minute. I knew they were fluff, but I could also picture the readers smiling in recognition. Obviously it wasn’t going to change their lives, but it could take their minds off the fight they had with their boyfriend, the fabulous or dumb job they were headed to, or the stinky-breathed guy on the subway reading over their shoulder.

  I used to work as an administrator for a nonprofit agency that raised money for international sculptors, but I had always wanted to be a writer. Since I was a girl I dreamed of leading a writer’s life in New York City, working from home in my pajamas, waking up whenever I wanted, and writing exposés about injustice in the world. I was a long way from exposing war atrocities, but everything else came pretty close.

  I started writing reviews online for various Web sites to get clips, and then I got my first assignment for NY BY NIGHT. It was four paragraphs about the etiquette for running into an acquaintance on the subway in the morning, but it paid. I made a dollar a word, I popped my cherry, I was a paid writer. And after that I got assignments here and there. I kept working at my day job because I was scared I wouldn’t be able to support myself (and truth be told, I got a lot of writing done during my downtime).

  Then My Big Fat Greek Wedding came out and I wrote a scathing review. It was hard not to. I mean, I guess it could be argued that it was a good movie if you like innocent extended sitcoms, but what bothered me was that it really glossed over the Greekness of it. I mean, Toula’s family could have been Jewish or Italian or any safe ethnicity, but they weren’t—they were Greek. And where were all the Greek traditions? And who has Greek parents that wind up being that accepting at the end? I just felt diminished, and I wrote my most emotional review ever. On the Verge magazine published it and I started getting steady gigs.

  Sometimes I had to travel or do research, which made it harder and harder to keep my day job. So I did the riskiest thing I’d ever done—probably will ever do—I trusted my talent and
quit my job. My mother couldn’t believe it, and maybe that made it sweeter. I believed. I had to. And it worked. I made a living—not a fabulous one, but a decent one.

  The one place in my life where I seem to have done all right is my job.

  There was a knock at the door of my office. I pulled the door open expecting Armando, but it was Kelly. She smiled and inched her way in. The office was tiny. I had garbage-picked a desk off the street and it took up most of the room.

  “It’s so cool in here,” she said brightly. “I didn’t get to see this the last time.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I felt myself growing protective of my space. It was one thing to move into my apartment, but another to come into my work area.

  “I was wondering if you wanted to go get a drink.”

  “Oh, um, thanks, but I really have to do some work.” To her credit, she actually looked disappointed. She could drop the act. “I’m sure Armando will go.”

  “Actually, he went in to cover a shift at the restaurant. So I guess I’m not going to get to know my new roommates tonight.” She smiled, her tone was even a little self-deprecating. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

  She closed the door, and I turned back to my draft and spell-checked it. It wasn’t due for another couple of days. And honestly, it was one of those pieces they could run at any time. I had a good enough relationship with the editor to know my deadline on that story wasn’t hard. I felt a little bad about being so curt with Kelly. I mean, she was reaching out. But she was too cute and perky, too up, plus I knew she was going to screw Armando, and then it would be more agita for me.

  I tried Jamie again—still no answer. I started to read over my article. I knew I had lost the thread. I kept imagining my mother’s face when she found out that people in her family were talking to Helen.

  I got up and knocked on Kelly’s door. She was playing Joni Mitchell—at least I think that’s who it was. It sounded folky. She opened the door and smiled a toothy smile.

  “Come on in.”

  I entered cautiously. She seemed the type of person who is always at ease. How did she do it? Why couldn’t I ever muster this kind of calm?

  “Sorry about the mess,” she said. “I decided to get a jump on unpacking. Since you dissed me for drinks.”

  I waited for her to say “just kidding,” one of my pet peeves. The secret to good humor is knowing your joke may not go over and not really caring if it doesn’t. I may not have been comfortable in my own skin, but I was comfortable with my sarcasm. She smiled at me, but didn’t qualify her statement.

  “I’m just a working girl,” I said.

  “You do it all for the cheese.”

  “I do.” I smiled and felt my shoulders drop a little. “But the booze helps. Do you still want to grab that drink?”

  “And not spend a Saturday evening unpacking…”

  I laughed. Something about her didn’t seem so bad. I liked her even more when she said, “I’ll just put jeans on.”

  We went to a bar near Penn Station called Tier Na Nog. It was my first time there. I guess I had always assumed anything that close to the train station was off-limits, as in serious commuter haven.

  “This place is super crowded during the week,” she said. “My sound guy and I come here before he catches his train. Although, sometimes I make him miss it.”

  I looked up from my Guinness.

  Kelly’s eyes sparkled and she winked. “Probably not the healthiest thing I’ve ever done, but definitely one of the most fun.”

  “What shows do you work on?” I asked.

  She named a few and a couple of indie films—one I had just watched last month. It was a vanity project of an Oscar-winning actress who had a soft spot for animal rights. Kelly told me how the woman had this thing about always having brown M&M’s somewhere on the set, but never in her line of vision.

  “Did she ever eat them?”

  “I never saw her eat them, but they had to be available. And she’d check. She’d make them get the bowl between takes, just to show her.”

  “Wow! I wonder what would push her over the edge, and need to eat them.”

  “I don’t know.” Kelly laughed. “But I kind of wish I’d seen it, and then, I’m kind of glad I didn’t.”

  “I wish I could write about it for Who? magazine.”

  “You can’t,” Kelly said, grabbing my hand and looking mock horrified. “It could be my career.”

  “Okay, I’ll take it to the grave.” I took another sip of beer. “Man, brown M&M’s.”

  “Peanut,” Kelly said.

  I nodded. I, too, preferred peanut.

  “I think if I could get a rider on my contract…”

  “Oh, God!”

  “It would be for Marie’s blue cheese dressing and brown rice chips.”

  I nodded again, impressed.

  “What about you? What would you put in your rider?”

  “It’s a great question,” I said. “Feels like one of those games people play in college, but a good question.”

  Kelly giggled and signaled for another round.

  “Okay, original Baby Belles.”

  “The laughing cow,” she said, smiling. “Is that what you’re talking about?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool.” She nodded.

  I have to admit, I was glad to elicit her approval. I told her about Raj and some of the funny shows he worked on. His latest reality thing was called “Mr. Right…Now.” It involved lots of fornication and catty women.

  “I think I’ve heard he has a great deal of integrity, which in this business—and by ‘the business’ I mean the industry—” she joked, “means a lot.”

  “Yeah, he’s a nice guy.”

  “Don’t we all need a nice guy?”

  I shrugged. I certainly did. I needed something.

  Kelly cocked her head and then leaned into the table a little. “Are you and uh…Armando hitting it?”

  “No,” I said, looking down at my beer. I wondered if this whole get-to-know-you outing had been to feel me out about him.

  “You never did?”

  “No,” I said, looking her in the eyes. “And I’m glad, because all the other roommates that slept with him couldn’t hack it.”

  “Is he that irresistible?” Kelly asked, and it was clear that she couldn’t see why. I was surprised. I thought Armando’s appeal was a given. I thought no mortal woman could refuse him.

  “You don’t think he’s attractive?”

  “I guess he kind of is, if you like that sort of thing. He’s definitely handsome, but he seems cheesy to me, you know. Kind of like Antonio Banderas.”

  “I like Antonio Banderas,” I protested. “Have you seen Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down?”

  “Have you seen Original Sin?”

  “What about Zorro?”

  “Spy Kids?”

  “C’mon, he was trying to be campy in that. How about Mambo Kings? He learned to speak English phonetically. Do the words ‘beautiful Maria of my soul’ mean anything to you?”

  Kelly laughed. “Yeah, what about Femme Fatale? Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Oh.” I groaned. “I did see that. I wish I hadn’t. You got me.”

  She nodded. “So, Voula, do you think we should get one more?”

  It was after midnight, but I felt a great sense of relief that Kelly was not into Armando and might actually last as a roommate. I believed her.

  “Okay,” I said. “Just one more beer.”

  6

  When Armando covered Saturday nights at the restaurant, he generally slept through Sunday. I got up early, put some coffee on and went to the corner bodega for fried egg with bacon on a roll, and the Sunday Times. I bumped into Kelly coming back in. She had her own Sunday Times.

  “Maybe we should start planning this better,” she said.

  “Well,” I said, feeling like I could joke with her. “That depends on what your order is for reading.”

  “I go front to bac
k,” she laughed.

  “Really,” I gasped. I figured everyone would start with Sunday Styles, move to City and then see what struck their fancy. “It just might work.”

  Sundays were the only days I really hung out in the living room. Sure I spent nights there watching DVDs, but weekdays I forced myself into my office at all costs. Well, most weekdays. I wondered how a Sunday would be with Kelly, but she followed my lead and plopped on the couch when I sat in the easy chair.

  We had been reading our papers for a while when the phone rang. It was closer to Kelly, so she looked at the caller ID and read Jamie’s number.

  “I’ll take it,” I said, and she tossed it to me.

  “Hey, J. You pregnant yet?”

  There was a pause on the line. I saw Kelly smile and then look a bit disturbed. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to joke about this, but there had never really been a limit on what we could and couldn’t joke about. Jamie could give as good as she got.

  “No, but your number came up on the caller ID a zillion times. Were you drunk-dialing me?”

  She was back to her old self, but I decided to be more careful about making pregnancy jokes.

  “Where were you guys?”

  “Well, it was so nice out and Raj has been so busy that we decided to take a drive. We went to the Delaware Water Gap, did some hiking.”

  “Tossed his salad?”

  Jamie laughed, but across the room Kelly raised her eyebrows. Then she got up and went into the bathroom.

  “Something like that. How’s the roommate? A slut? Did she and Armando keep you up all night with their squeals of delight?”

  “Like you and Raj last night? Actually, the situation is better than I thought.” I kept my voice low in case Kelly could hear me.

  “Wow! Are you making a new friend, Voula?”

  I giggled.

  “Are you gonna get like best-friend charms or something?”

  “No, shirts.” Jamie was one to talk. There was a time when the two of us had both.

  “Wow. Do you feel like going to Togi tonight for some chow?”