Apart From Love

by Uvi Poznansky

  Having a small chest is no good: men seem to like girls with boobs that bulge out. It seems to make an awful lot of difference, especially at first sight, which you can always tell by them customers, drooling.

  I straightened up real fast, and it didn’t take no time for him to come in. I was still serving another customer, some obnoxious woman with, like, three chins. She couldn’t make up her mind if she wanted hot fudge on top or just candy sprinkles, and what kind, what flavor would you say goes well with pistachio nut, and how about them slivered almonds, because they do seem to be such a healthy choice, now really, don’t they.

  He came in and stood in line, real patient, right behind her. So now I noted his eyes, which was brown, and his high forehead and the crease, the faint crease right there, in the middle of it, which reminded me all of a sudden of my pa, who left us for good when I was only five, and I never saw him again—but still, from time to time, I think about him and I miss him so.

  I could feel Lenny—whose name I didn’t know yet—like, staring at me. It made me hot all over. For a minute there, I could swear he was gonna to ask me how old I was—but he didn’t.

  And so, to avoid blushing, I turned to him and I said, boldly, “It’s a crime?”

  And he said, “What?”

  And I said, “To be sixteen. It’s a crime, you think?”

  And he said, “Back in the days when I was young and handsome, that was no crime.”

  And I countered with, “Handsome you still are!”

  He had no comeback for that, and me, I didn’t have nothing with which I could follow it up. So I asked, “So? What kind of cone for you?” but that woman cut in, ‘cause I was still holding her three-scoops tower of pistachio nut on a sugar cone. And she started to cry out, and like, demand some attention here, because hey, she was first in line and how about whipped cream? Or some of that shredded coconut?

  So I smiled at her, in my most cool and polite manner, and squeezed out a big dollop of whipped cream, which was awesome, ‘cause it calmed her down right away.

  And I scattered some of them coconut flakes all over—quite a heap—and went even further, adding a cherry on top. At last, I raised the thing to my lips, because at this point, it was starting to drip already.

  Then, winking at him, I passed my tongue over the top, and all around the ice cream at the rim of the cone, filling my whole mouth and, just to look sexy, also licking the tips of my fingers. Then I came around the counter, swaying my hips real pretty, and steadying myself over the wobbly high heels. I came right up to him, and before he could guess what kind of trouble I had cooked up in my head, I kissed him—so sweet and so long—on his lips, to the shouts and outcries of the offended customer.

  The manager was like, outraged, not only because of this incident—but also because pink shoes wasn’t allowed, no way no how, only black uniform shoes. She grabbed my ice cream hat, that thing made out of white paper, and pulled it right off my head, and threw it to the floor, smashing and crashing it. I was fired right there, on the spot.

  He came out right away after me. I bet he figured it was his fault, ‘cause it was over him that I’ve lost my job.

  So he said, “Hi. My name is Lenny.”

  “Anita,” I said, licking my lips, because they was still kinda sticky and tasted sweet, and because I think I look hot when my mouth has a shine.

  It was getting awful dark already. And he said, like, “So, where do you live?”

  And me, I figured that tonight, it would be good to hang out at home, ‘cause ma was gonna be working late again.

  We lived in the same one-bedroom place ever since I was five, when pa had paid the first month rent—but then he forgot, somehow, all about sending the second. Sometimes, things may fly right out of your mind. I totally get that.

  Because of Santa Monica’s rent control, the place was kinda cheap. Still, ma said that paying it was hard for her, ‘cause without a high school diploma—which she never got, on account of never going to no high school—without that, no one wants you, and there is no way nowhere to get a decent, well-paying job.

  For the last couple of years she worked as a cleaning lady by day and an unarmed security officer by night, both at the same place, a local clinic. Tonight, I figured, would be her night shift. So when Lenny asked, “Would you like me to take you home?” I said, “Yes, take me.”

  “But,” he said, “no more kissing, I mean it now. I do not want any trouble, and you are too young, you know, much too young for a man my age.”

  He had a fine way of talking, like no one else I knew. He talked, like, with such a clear cut enunciation. I’m awful proud of this word. It was from Lenny that I learned it. Enunciation. For my part, I could teach him a thing or two about trouble.

  So later, while sticking the key in the door, I turned to him and said, “Trouble, that’s my middle name,” which was a line I used sometimes, ‘cause it sounded so clever.

  “No, really?” he said.

  To which I replied by asking, “What, you think it’s a crime? Like, kissing me, I mean?” And he said, “It’s just... I do not want to start something which can lead nowhere, really.”

  What could I say to that, except, “There’s no one home. Stay a minute. Is that a crime, too?”

  I handed him an old record, something slow from the sixties, which years ago used to bring tears to ma’s eyes, because—in spite of looking so tough—she still had a soft spot somewhere in her, even if most of the time you can’t find it. She used to play it often—but now not so much no more.

  So I thought he might like it. Lenny put it on the record player, so in a second the mood was better, even though the thing squeaked from time to time.

  He turned to me the minute I untied my pony tail, and told me I reminded him of a girl he used to know, and would I like to dance.

  I stepped out of my shoes and into his arms, and before he could say anything I slipped out of my dress, too. I thought I looked, like, a little too slender in my panties, so I told him to close his eyes—but at this point, because of being so aroused, and trying so hard not to show it, I forgot all about them tissues at each side of my bra, which now and again, made a slight swoosh.

  Later I wondered if he wondered about that.

  I rose to the tips of my toes, feeling the touch of his shirt and the pleat of his pants, right against my bare skin. And I placed my hands on his shoulders, and felt his hands on my hips.

  And so he held me there, a long, long time in the dark. And me, I got to touch his lips, and that crease up there, on his forehead, and we swayed back and forth: I clinging to him, he—to that one girl, the girl he used to know.

  Then he moved away abruptly, saying that he was too old for me, and anyway, what was he doing, he had a child, a boy just a year older than me. So I took a step closer, like, to close the gap again. And feeling lost, like a stray kitten out in the cold, I said, “Just hold me, Lenny. Just hold me tight. I need you so bad.”

  And the minute I said it, I knew he needed to hear these words, needed to know that he was really needed.

  After a while I whispered, like, “Just say something to me. Anything.” And I thought, Any other word apart from love, ‘cause that word is diluted, and no one knows what it really means, anyway. Then he kissed me—even without the ice cream—and said my name, like, he tasted it in his mouth, and rolled it on his tongue, which made me awful happy. And we started our dance again:

  I came as he backed away, and then in reverse, I backed away as he came, and we came and went, went and came this way for a long while until, all of a sudden, the front door opened and there was ma, standing there with a new boyfriend this time, a guy whose name I didn’t even know.

  She opened her fist—I could hear the bong of the keychain as it dropped to the floor—and before she could slap me, I ran as fast and as far as my legs could take me, right out the door.

  Then, yelling Bitch at the top of her voice, ma picked up my dress, which had been left th
ere, in the middle of the floor, and threw it. She threw it flying down the staircase after me—but for some reason, them pink shoes stayed behind.

  They stayed until the next day, when Lenny went there for me, to get some of my stuff. Perhaps he figured he was in charge of me now, and so he paid for a motel room, and went on paying it, ‘cause it was on his account that I lost my job and the roof over my head, both on the same night.

  Who’s there? What was that, just now?

  I can feel, like, a slight breath behind me. I can hear the click of the knob, on the bedside lamp up there, over my shoulder. It’s made the light stronger, and the shadows—sharper. I need to know who it is—but at this point, I don’t barely feel like turning around.

  And I can’t decide if this is so because I’m still pretty dazed, or because lying here on my side feels better, so much better for the cramps. I bet I can figure who it is simply by spotting the reflections, right there in the mirror.

  It’s a freestanding mirror, tilted over its feet, set in an ornate oval frame, which is so classy, and like, fit for a queen, and which used to be hers. I mean, his ex-wife. But then, just the thought of it—I mean, the thought of catching sight of myself in her mirror—is like, strange. It gives me goosebumps.

  And it isn’t just old wives’ tales, or just my nerves. I’ve seen images of Natasha. Lenny keeps them old pictures stashed away in the drawer, next to his side of the bed, and—like, quite by chance—I found them one day. If not for the age spots spreading over the pictures, and if not for the yellowing, you could swear that face is mine.

  So whenever I find myself passing there, by that mirror, I close my eyes, or turn my head away. And I ask myself then, What on earth did he find in me—a simple girl, with no high school diploma, who at times can’t help but making him bored stiff?

  What did he need me for—me and my lousy enunciation—when he had already married this woman who, by everything I’ve learned about her, was so fine and so talented, and came from an awful long line of musicians?

  And why, why did he tell me, that first time we danced, that I reminded him of a girl he used to know?

  Lying here, in what used to be her side of the bed—a side which isn’t mine, at least not yet—I’m thinking about her, worrying, like, Is she gonna come back here, any time soon, to claim her place?

  The other day, standing there behind the kitchen door, I could hear Lenny. He lowered his voice when he told his son that yes, she’d been there, in the hospital, visiting him. And I think he said that he’d shut his eyes, just to be focused, to feel her; which is a bad sign for me.

  I’m wondering now how much time I’ve lost, and where Lenny might be, ‘cause if not for his injuries, and being stuck now in a wheelchair, I can picture him in my head real easy, pacing back and forth somewhere else right now.

  Chapter 5 It Is Not Too Late

  As Told by Anita

  I can hear a noise of some kind, clicking awful close to my ear, on the other side, I mean, Lenny’s side of the bed. I try to stay still, because of this dull pain, and because of wondering if, somewhere deep inside, my baby can feel it, too.

  Then I turn my head—just a little—and take a peak over my shoulder. I glance real quick at that standalone mirror, which is facing away from me. And what do I see reflected there, if not something that’s, like, so strange to my eyes, so unusual, that it makes me want to blink, or wipe them in awe.

  Three squares of fuzzy wool are being held there, suspended in midair. Directly behind them hang three shadows, under which you can see three chubby old women, crinkling their noses—long, longer, longest. They’re straining their crossed, beady eyes with great focus, under three pairs of glasses, and clinking, clinking, clinking three pairs of knitting needles, like, all together now!

  And there, on the floor, you can see three balls of thick yarn chasing each other, and from time to time, getting tied in knots, every which way across them fat ankles.

  Anyway, at first glance them old women look kinda similar, like a rough, wrinkled copy of each other, what with those high arched, strange eyebrows. I pinch myself, but they’re still there—in the mirror as well as outside of it—no matter how long I try blinking and wiping my eyes. It takes me a while to tell them apart:

  The one sitting to the left, she’s toothless. The one in the middle has a pimple on her veined temple. And the one to the right, well, her nose isn’t only the longest, but also the knobbiest of all three.

  Wrapped around her neck is a long tape measure, the edges of which roll all the way down and curl there, in her lap, next to a pair of scissors.

  All of a sudden, like something has clicked in my head, I know who she is: this is Hadassa Rosenblatt, known to all as aunt Hadassa—though nobody can tell me exactly whose aunt she is anyway—she was the one spreading nasty, awful rumors about me, saying I was dating some other boyfriend, like, behind Lenny’s back.

  At the time, I decided to make things real easy for her, and told her there’s no need for her to come to my wedding, and in fact it would be so much better if she’d stay as far as she could from me; which made her sisters, Frida and Fruma, stay home, too. Since then, my mind is kinda at ease—except for wondering, Why the gossip? Why did she try meddling in my affairs? And now, ain’t them three sisters gonna curse me, like witches do, in old children stories?

  And what on earth have they been doing here, in my bedroom, sitting behind me, watching me so quiet—so mute like, even—that for the last hour I didn’t hear no squeak out of them? Or else was it me, was I too sleepy, too dazed to notice them?

  In a blink of an eye I can tell that aunt Hadassa can tell, somehow, that I’m awake, and that I’ve been watching her for the last few minutes.

  So at once, she straightens her back and elbows aunt Frida, who in turn elbows aunt Fruma. And they all nod a slight nod to each other, and each sister in her turn pulls some yarn from her ball and then kicks it, so it goes into a whirl and then settles there, at their feet. All of which seems so smooth, so precise, so much like a chorus line; which reminds me what Lenny told me about their past.

  I remember, he said that one of these days, he’d like to finish his story about them, which goes something like this:

  Having fled from Poland during World War II, the three Rosenblatt sisters arrived in Paris, where they discovered glamor, or at least the chance for it.

  They bleached their hair super blond, so as to put the shtetl, and the horrors they must have suffered, right out of their mind, along with the old way of life.

  Around the same time, they changed their names to Brigitte, Monique, and Veronique. Along with their names, they threw out a few other things which had failed to serve them: their long, dark skirts, and their modesty.

  Wearing frilly underwear and black stockings, they auditioned for a show at a nightclub, a highly acclaimed nightclub called the Folies Bergère—only to be rejected, because sadly, their dance routine was too nice and conservative; which made them furious, and even more driven to make it.

  So with clenched teeth, they learned how to lift their skirts, and flap them about in a highly erotic, flirtatious manner. After several months of hard, painstaking work, the three sisters finally became an overnight sensation.

  They ended up joining a cheaply produced show in the nightclub district of Montmartre. Their fame spread. They became known for their fancy cancan costumes, which left them practically naked.

  Their earlier, orthodox upbringing didn’t seem to inhibit them in the least. Behind the curtains, they went from one scandal to the next, and had countless affairs.

  They never married, or had children. Later, in secret, they told Natasha that at one time Brigitte—also known as Hadassa—had gone through a difficult abortion. She couldn’t afford a real doctor, so who knows what instrument was used there.

  Soon after, she’d been kicked out from the show, because sadly, she couldn’t perform the required cartwheel any more, or even the high kicks.

&nb
sp; All this is, like, awesome! But me, I find it hard to believe that there was a time when aunt Hadassa could do any of that. To this day, she still wears the black stockings, as do her sisters, and she can keep a beat, an incredibly fast beat, which you can hear by the clicking of her needles. Anyway, she’s declined with age. Her flesh looks doughy, and she’s kinda heavy.

  Looking at her makes me decide one thing right away: I’m never gonna grow old! I simply refuse to do that.

  Lenny tells me that later, when they moved to the States and settled in Los Angeles, the Rosenblatt sisters became very close to his wife. They adore Natasha, perhaps because of having no kids of their own; which in the end, comes down to hating me.