Then he thought of his hands on her skin, neck, and back, and his whole body burst into flame. He had to let her know how he felt. It was time. She wasn’t his student anymore. She was fair game.
“Welcome to astrogut, astronomy for non-science majors, an easy A,” he told Tessa in a hoarse voice.
She straightened, and wasn’t that a hopeful smile on her face? “Are you teaching this class?”
“Nope,” Brian said, looking at her mouth. “I’m stuck in calculus again this semester.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“Auditing the class.”
“Right,” Tessa said. She leaned toward him, a slight motion, but it spoke a near infinite amount to Brian, who had a good grasp on quantification.
“I think you’re just glad you’re not my teacher anymore, and you’re here to see me.”
“That’s true,” Brian said. He realized he was barely breathing and forced himself to inhale. “Listen, I have to know: how many kids do you want?”
Tessa’s lips curved, and she shifted around in her seat. “Look, Prof, you’re cute and all, but I have a longtime boyfriend from home. You and I can only be friends.”
Brian tried to think of something quippy and clever to say, something über-Yalish and ironic that would impress her. He just didn’t have it in him.
This was always the problem with language; at crucial moments, it failed. But that’s what physics was for. And Brian got physics, understood it all the way from his scalp to his toenails as he had since he was seven years old and picked up his cousin’s tenth-grade physics textbook.
There was but one physical response to Tessa’s words. Brian went for it. He grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her, quickly and sweetly. When he released her, the music had fallen off her lap. And he knew what those calluses felt like on his skin.
They were much smoother than they looked.
* * *
* * *
9
Lumpy asses and husbands
I was standing in front of Mrs. Leibowitz’s door, knocking and knocking. No one was answering.
Then the door swung open by itself. It hadn’t actually been closed.
This wasn’t good.
I stepped into the foyer, a small but well-furnished affair with a Persian rug, an old-fashioned crystal teardrop chandelier, and a mahogany case that displayed ceramic figurines. “Hello?” I called.
“Mrs. Leibowitz? Hello?”
Still no answer.
I walked through the foyer into the living room.
This room had good-quality but threadbare furniture, a couple of bookcases jammed full of old books, a grand piano, and another of those elegant Persian rugs. The air was so still I could see motes of dust swirling in the sunlight pouring in through the window. The stillness made me uneasy. “Mrs. L, are you here? It’s Tessa.”
Silence.
I made a circuit of the apartment, ending up in her bedroom. I called her name and paced around the room. I paused in front of her credenza to look at the photos: graduations, weddings, babies, family vacations. My fingers slid over a bridge trophy, bronzed baby shoes, and a plaque reading: PTA CHAIR – WITH OUR THANKS. A silver frame engraved with HAPPY 50th ANNIVERSARY showed Mrs. Leibowitz and her smiling husband leaning toward each other.
I picked up the anniversary picture. “Poor Yorick, indeed. Why would anyone pay so much for a resin skull that doesn’t reveal any truth about the human condition?” I felt a wispy nostalgia for something I didn’t have, and would I ever have it? I had lost a husband and nearly my own soul, and didn’t know if it was possible to replace either; there was no guy in my life under the age of seventy-five, and what about children? But I told myself I was just sad about the state of the art market.
It was the way to become an accomplished liar: spend a lifetime practicing on yourself.
With a sigh, I replaced the photo on the credenza, with all the other mementos of a life plentifully lived. I walked back to the kitchen. A small tub of whitefish salad from Zabar’s sat out on the counter, opened. A tarnished silver salad fork lay beside it. Why would she leave it that way and go out? She wouldn’t. What had happened to her? I felt a flicker of fear.
That’s when I noticed the back door was cracked open.
I threw open the back door and peered into a shadowy stairwell. “Mrs. Leibowitz? Are you down there?”
Very faintly, a thready voice answered, “Tessa?
Is that you?”
● ● ●
Fortunately, Mrs. Leibowitz wasn’t injured. She’d taken out the trash to the back hallway where her doormen collected it. She thought she saw her neighbor’s cat perched precariously on the windowsill, so she climbed down to the landing between floors—
whereupon the cat leapt to the stairs and scrambled away. Just watching it made her so tired that she sat down to rest. Then she discovered she couldn’t move. She figured someone would come along, so she just waited and hummed and watched the cat watch her from the windowsill of a higher landing.
I mostly carried her back up into her apartment.
I wanted to call her doctor, but she argued with me and begged to be taken outside to enjoy the fine spring air. She pleaded so piteously that I acquiesced, eased her into her wheelchair, and took her down in the elevator. I arranged the lacy shawl over her shoulders and thought how marvelous she was, elderly but beautiful in her bones, her white hair fluffing out around her face.
“I hope you take care of yourself as well as you do me, Tessa,” Mrs. Leibowitz said, patting my hand.
“I don’t think much about myself, I just want to help, Mrs. L,” I told her. “Hey, here’s a question, what would you do with a million dollars?”
“People often ask a question of others because they’re asking it of themselves. So, Tessa, what would you do with a million dollars?”
“Give it to Reverend Pincek, so he can keep his programs going,” I said promptly. And wouldn’t he be happy? I could just see him with that big, sunny smile of thanks on his face as he realized that his worries were over and his programs would continue … .
“Nothing at all for yourself? Don’t you have needs?” Mrs. L asked gently.
“Oh, I almost forgot, I have something for you.”
I dug into my purse and pulled out the box of chocolates.
“Such fancy chocolates,” Mrs. Leibowitz cooed.
“I couldn’t.”
“You must,” I assured her. “Otherwise I’ll eat them all myself and get a big lumpy ass, and I’ll never find another husband. Even if I have a husband in another life, I won’t have one in this life.”
Mrs. Leibowitz giggled. “My dear, men like big asses. My Bernie certainly did. That’s why our oldest son came only six months after we were married. He was almost ten pounds at birth, too.”
I giggled with her at the innuendo. Then the elevator door opened, and I pushed the wheelchair out into hilly Riverside Park, which was green and breezy and full of New Yorkers out to enjoy spring after a cold, snowy winter. Mrs. Leibowitz smiled up into the sun and looked ten minutes younger, and I was suddenly glad that I’d yielded to her and brought her to the park instead of to the doctor. She looked so happy.
I wondered if I would feel that way when I was her age. I wondered if I would feel that way at my age. I wondered if I would ever feel that way again or if remorse and regret would follow me around forever, like a little dog begging to be fed. Which reminded me of all the baggage I was carrying.
I asked, “The real question is, what would you do to get a million dollars?”
“Marry rich,” Mrs. Leibowitz said promptly. “Actually, marry a good man who’ll grow rich with you.
That’s what I did. We weren’t rich, not the way your generation sees wealth, but we were comfortable.”
“Marry,” I said, and an unexpected surge of energy caused me to burst forward with the wheelchair. Mrs. Leibowitz exclaimed and stretched out her arms. I thought I heard someone
behind us and I craned around to see, but there was no one. Was I hearing things today?
My focus returned to Mrs. L. I said, “You were lucky. You had a wonderful marriage and a happy, fulfilling life with Bernie.”
“He wasn’t my only suitor. Other men liked my big ass.”
I had to agree. “It’s true. I’ve seen the pictures, Mrs. L. You were a bombshell. You’re still a knockout.”
“When I was young, I looked like Greta Garbo.
It drew men to me. I chose the one who made me laugh. Not that it was always easy, but we had that to come back to.”
“That is good for the long haul,” I agreed. I sighed. “I wish I could find a man. I think I’m almost ready. I’d choose a guy who gets it about art. Who makes me feel good.” We had reached the crest of a small hill in Riverside Park. I paused to gaze down toward the Hudson River. With the lemony light and the soft wind stirring pale green buds on gray-black tree branches, I immediately had a flash of a landscape painting: the river, its gleaming surface, the soft cerulean sky and rolling hills … .
“You’ll find someone, Tessa.” Mrs. Leibowitz’s soft, reedy voice broke my reverie. “A pretty girl like you, so kind, and you have a fine ass, too. You should be proud of it. You should wear tight skirts and show it off more. It’s empowering to feel frisky in your clothes and that will attract men.”
“After David, I’m, well, I don’t want to get my hopes up.”
“This isn’t about hopes,” Mrs. L said slyly. “This is about action. You have to troll for men. How long has it been since you got laid?”
“Mrs. L!” I protested, and dissolved into laughter.
There was a reason she was my favorite of all the people who came to the church. I sobered suddenly.
How long had it been since I got laid?
I couldn’t remember. Had to be David, of course.
But when? Those last few months before he left, I was a mess. There wasn’t a lot of conjugal nookie happening.
Then I saw something, some movement behind a tree trunk: a man trying not to be seen. Him!
It was Brian, still stalking me. I felt electric with indignation. Boy, was I going to let him have it. I bolted toward him and didn’t quite register it as I should have when my messenger bag whacked the wheelchair.
Brian saw me coming. He didn’t seem to know what to do, and he broke left, broke right, and then dove for cover.
I took a flying leap and tackled him. “Stop following me!”
“I came here to see you. Ow, that hurts!” Brian struggled in my grasp. “You left the art gallery without saying good-bye—ow!”
“Now do you think I have some bite?” I demanded.
“That expensive piece of art was gone,” Brian said. He got his leg around mine and executed some sort of wrestling move, flipping me off him. He sat up and gave me a hard look. “Did you take it, Tessa?”
“That skull is not art,” I spat and scrambled to my feet. “It is merchandise. It doesn’t do anything whatsoever to enrich humanity, it just lines the pockets of the corrupt dealer system that’s hijacked the production of art.” I shook my finger at him.
“But it doesn’t belong to you,” Brian said. He jumped to his feet and shook his finger back at me.
“Someone has to save Reverend Pincek’s social welfare programs. You were the one who said I stole it in another universe because it represented all that was good and true.”
“That’s not what I said, you’ve taken my words completely out of context—”
“Wheeeeeee!” sang Mrs. Leibowitz.
Brian and I turned. Her wheelchair had inched over the crest of the hill and was slowly, inexorably rolling down the other side, picking up speed until it was whizzing downhill. Mrs. Leibowitz was laughing. Her arms were extended and her shawl whipped around her.
“Oh my God,” I cried. Brian and I both charged after her.
For a homeless crazy dude, Brian was in very good shape. He reached the wheelchair first and grabbed it at a run, then slowly, adroitly, turning it away from the oncoming traffic of Riverside Drive, brought it to a stop.
“Nicely done, young man,” said Mrs. Leibowitz, whose cheeks looked a little pink. “I thought I’d go for a tumble.”
“Inertia, right?” Brian said. “Reminds me of my favorite Star Trek joke. Some physicists sent a letter to the show’s writers asking, ‘How do the inertial dampeners work?’”
“Mrs. Leibowitz, are you okay?” I asked, panting and kneeling down to examine her.
“And the writers wrote back, ‘Very well, thank you’!” Brian laughed uproariously.
“I’m fine, Tessa,” Mrs. L patted my arm. “Your friend was telling me a joke that I don’t get.”
“He’s not my friend. He’s a crazy street person who’s leaving,” I said. I trotted around behind the wheelchair, so I could discreetly bare my teeth at Brian.
“You seem like friends,” Mrs. L said. “You seem connected somehow.”
“We’re not,” I started.
“We really are.” Brian cut me off to pump Mrs. L’s hand and beam at her. “Dr. Brian Tennyson, nice to meet you, ma’am. You’re a great looking lady.
Beautiful eyes you have. Wow.”
If he hugged her, I’d deck him.
Mrs. Leibowitz giggled and leaned toward Brian, clinging to his hand. “Did you hear, Tessa? He’s cute, and he’s a doctor.”
“Not that kind of doctor,” I clarified, making shooing motions at Brian. “He’s a physics professor.
He claims.”
“Absotively posilutely!” Brian said, squeezing Mrs. L’s hand. “I specialize in macroscopic decoherence.”
“What’s that?” Mrs. L answered, and was she fluttering her lashes at him? Well, well, Mrs. L, you sly girl. Okay, he’s cute, but still.
“Imagine, if you will, the velvety—”
“We’d better get you home, Mrs. L. I want to call your doctor and see why you’ve been feeling so poorly,” I said. I grasped the wheelchair with one hand and slapped at Brian with the other. Then I grabbed his elbow and jerked him over close enough to me, so I could whisper in his ear. “Go away and leave me alone. I mean it.”
“Not until you give back the skull,” he whispered back.
“I’m taking care of Mrs. Leibowitz right now, I’m not thinking about the skull.”
“You have to take care of yourself before you take care of other people. That means giving back the skull, so you don’t go to jail,” Brian whispered furiously.
But Mrs. Leibowitz interrupted our bickering.
“I’m getting tired again, Tessa. Better take me home.
Brian, it was lovely to meet you.”
● ● ●
In the end, after speaking to Mrs. L’s doctor, over her objections, and passing on to her his stern advice to refill her prescriptions and take them as directed, I elected to leave her building by way of the service door in back. I poked my head out and didn’t see Brian, so I tiptoed out and peered around the corner to see him staring at the front entrance. I slithered back out of view and then headed off in the other direction.
* * *
* * *
10
The paradox of forgiveness
From Mrs. Leibowitz’s place, I went to the Collegiate Church. I had in mind that I’d talk to Reverend Pincek, maybe get a little perspective on things.
That kooky Brian was causing me some perturbations of the soul.
Blame him, sure; he was an easy target. It wasn’t like my life had been in the crapper for the last three years, and I was now at the point of having some decisions made for me.
The choir was practicing, the rev singing with them. His pink cheeks were shiny with good cheer.
Indeed, his whole being thrummed with the joy of music and worship. He was so perfectly settled into his right place, and so suited to be where and who he was, that the very air around him evened out into greater harmony. It was as if he radiated a note that brought everyth
ing around him into beautiful resonance.
I felt a little envious. Also, suddenly, lonely.
Three years ago I had made some terrible choices that resulted in my life breaking up around me, as if it were a behemoth ship hitting an underwater mountain of ice. My budding career as a painter was ruined. No gallery would touch me with a ten-foot pole. Then my husband left, and took with him some core part of me. I had been unable to paint until this week.
But was it really David’s fault that I had lived in a frozen psychic time conglomerate for the last three years? That all I had done for so many months was go to work, see Ofee and a few other friends, and then hide out in my apartment, watching reruns on Netflix?
The song ended and the rev swept over to me. “I love that hymn,” he said cheerfully. “It reminds me that I don’t have to mastermind things, that I can rest in God and trust.”
“Trust, what’s that?” I joked. I sank down in the pew. “I can’t rest when I have to make my life work. I have to take action. Sometimes, you know, you have to do something. Something you never expected to do, something bold and maybe even shocking. But then, how do you know if you did the right thing?”
Reverend Pincek beckoned for me to follow him.
He strode through the church.
I was on his heels, but sunbeams streamed through a stained glass window, throwing out rainbow prisms of light and I had a flash: a painting of the opalescent light. Very Turner, with a smidgen of the Hudson River Valley, but without the river.
“Did you hear, Tessa?” the rev was asking. He gave me a quizzical look. “It’s a paradox. Lao Tzu said, ‘Work without doing.’”
I was still a little dazzled by the light. “What if you do something iffy, but you’re taking care of someone, or else accomplishing great good? And anyway, it’s not what it appears to be on the surface because there are hidden elements at stake?”
The rev picked up a hymnal off his desk. “It’s not about accomplishment. It’s about a heartfelt vision of your life. You’re good at that, Tessa.”
The Love of My (Other) Life Page 4
