Apart From Love

by Uvi Poznansky

  Before I know it my hand cuts into the water; it comes out dripping, with the fish lying there, helpless, between my fingers.

  It seems to be gulping for air. Maybe it forgot how to breathe. I know I can fix it. First I rub the mouth, delicately, with my finger. Then I try to massage the entire body. I am doing my best, my very best to be gentle—but in the end, some scales tear off the body, and a tiny fin flakes away.

  At this point, I must do something, and fast. Just like dad: he did what he could for grandma, and blew his breath into her; and his breath was magical, because it lasted in her, somehow, for the next two weeks. I can do better than that for this little body, even with a few scales or a fin missing. So, I take a deep breath, put my lips to the fish—but then the smell, the touch... It makes me pause for a minute.

  Still, I cannot give up: I must be brave, just like dad—or else, the spell may be broken. So again I gasp, and with frantic hope, I give a full-blown puff. The red eyes seem to be looking at me, and the tail is hanging over my finger, and it looks limp, and a bit crumpled.

  I cannot allow myself to weep. No, not now. So I wipe the corner of my eye. Now if you watch closely, right here, you can see that the tail is still crinkling. I gasp, and blow again. I blow and blow, and with a last-gasp effort I go on blowing until all is lost, until I don’t care anymore, I mean it, I don’t care but the tears, the tears come, they are starting to flow, and there is nothing, nothing more I can do—

  Then I feel mom, the smell of her skin. Here she is, wrapping her arms around mine. Softly, gently, she releases the fish, and takes me to their bed, and dad says nothing but makes room for me, and I curl myself in the dent between them, and it feels so warm here and so sweet that at last, I can lose myself, and I cry myself to sleep.

  Lighter and faster than anything here I come, soaring again through the air as if there is no gravity. From time to time you can see a school of fish flying dreamily overhead, rising to reach the little specks up there at the surface. Something with muddy, vertical marks comes ruffling towards me in the stream of things. At first I cannot tell what it is.

  It scrambles over my foot, spreading fine, transparent ripples all around me. And it is at the very last moment—a heartbeat before it flutters away—that I can see it was nothing, only an empty dress.

  Chapter 25 The Naked Bulb

  As Told by Anita

  Since the bleeding began, I’ve been missing my ma more and more. If she was here I could ask her, like, How come I feel so alone. How come I can see, all of a sudden I can now see how my youth is wasting away in this place. Like, I have no air, I’m wilting here. And Lenny, he don’t even pay no attention, ‘cause he’s back to his usual thing, which is: comb his thinning, gray hair—sleek it back, real slow and careful—and then work all day, write all night, either out or away.

  Me, I thought getting married was meant to change things—but then, if things are changing it’s not for the better.

  It’s funny how now—when she’s out of my reach forever—I feel so close, so terribly close to her. At least now, ma don’t push me back no more. She can’t say, like, Enough, girl! Snap out of it! And she don’t get in the way, I mean, in the way of me doing what I’ve been wishing for so long I could do, which is just cling, cling real close to her. I so miss the smell of her face: a mix of sweat, cheap eau de cologne and cigarette smoke. I try to dream up that smell, which gags me, and stings my eyes, and brings me close to tears.

  If she was here I could ask her, like, when did she have the hunch, the first clear hunch that pa was gonna leave us, and how long after that did it happen.

  At this point I don’t know how much longer I can go on relying on Lenny, ‘cause even when he’s here, even when he fixes his eyes on me, there’s something in them lately, something hard, even furious, which I swear, I don’t really get.

  Last night I was so worried—worried to the point of getting mad—because for some reason, Lenny didn’t come home at all, even though I got all ready for him, all prettied up with my little black dress, which for the first time I had trouble zipping up, ‘cause my belly had just started to grow, and to get rounder than it used to be.

  He wasn’t there—but to me, it felt like he could watch me through them walls. I felt choked. I even cussed him in my heart. I told myself it was just a dumb, crazy feeling, and to stop fighting for a breath. Still, it felt like Lenny could spot, somehow, the sudden blush that—in spite of myself—started flaming on my skin, the moment I passed by kitchen and laid eyes on his son.

  In a blink, the air felt steaming hot all around me.

  This was something new to me, ‘cause up to this moment I didn’t exactly care for Ben—even though from this angle, the slant of his shoulders looked just the same as his pa’s. Suddenly my heart went pit-a-pat, which—I swear—didn’t happen never before. If my husband was here tonight, if he hadn’t left me, it won’t have happened now. No matter how much I tried to cool it, here I was, blushing, on account of the fact that I’ve just blushed.

  And Ben, he was leaning back, lost in his dreams in the corner. His pale face and his mussed up hair fell just outside the light, the dim, fuzzy light which had no border, no clear border anywhere on the kitchen table, ‘cause there wasn’t no lampshade over the bulb, on account of the fact it had been broken and removed, like, ages ago, and never replaced.

  I bet you would have me turn away, which was the right thing to do—but it was already too late, so I didn’t. Anyway, I could already tell that Ben could tell, by the swish of my hair, that there I was, just about to cross the threshold. His nostrils flared up, like, to breathe in the scent, the faint scent of my shampoo, mingled with a dab of perfume.

  I could’ve walked past that door—but then, this I knew: whatever happened, in your eyes it would always be my fault. The boy wants me. He wants me real bad, and for that, I pity him. He would soon kill himself if he can’t have me—but any which way, you would blame it on me. In your eyes, the boy can’t be nothing else than naive. So of course, it must’ve been me, me who seduced him.

  You would call me a bad girl—so then, why shouldn’t I be?

  For ten years I tried, as best I could, to be squeaky clean. It’s too damn hard, and you don’t never trust me anyway. So instead I could really go wild, and take my revenge on my husband, by giving him a reason—a real reason this time—to be jealous, so he don’t need to go searching for one.

  I beg you, Lenny, I whispered. Come back to me, or else... From this point on, things won’t be the same, never again. I swear, I’m gonna do something bad, gonna hurt you, dear, so you won’t never leave me like this, without even saying one word.

  After a while I dried my eyes. Hell, what’s the point praying, or hoping, or threatening, when anyhow, you ain’t even here to listen.

  So I came in, hips swaying, and looked down at the boy, saying, “Help me, Ben.”

  Which startled him. The features of his face contorted, like he couldn’t make up his mind weather to be troubled by me surprising him, or not.

  Either way, he sprang to his feet and with a shaky voice, said, “Sure, what—”

  And I turned my back on him, and tugged at the zipper of my black dress, pulled it as high as it would go, so now it reached the level of my waist, and then I just stood there, waiting for him to make his move. And with trembling fingers Ben brought the two edges of fabric together—barely touching the back of my neck—and managed, somehow, to pull the thing all the way up.

  “There,” he said, with a catch in his voice. “It is done.”

  And then he stepped back, away from me. I reckon he was thinking about the late hour, and about his pa, who should’ve been here already, and about not being able to face him, ‘cause like, how can you try to rob the old man of his woman, and how can you win any fight—let alone dare to stay in it—while having to carry, somehow, the terrible handicap of being young.

  I licked my lips, so they would be real red and shiny, and smiled at him. In
side I was praying that the light in the bulb would blaze so bright, so fiery it would burst. And them walls, pressing awful tight all around us, would just melt away. And the pane of glass would sizzle, and the window frame, it would turn to ashes—poof!—like dust into thin air, so anyone out there in the street could watch us, as if there wasn’t no walls, and we didn’t have no shelter. Then there would be no secrets no more. Nothing left to hide.

  Here, Lenny, I cried inside, take a good look! Here I am—not only for your eyes, but for all eyes to see!

  And for the first time in our ten years together I thought, he’s old. He’s the old man passing out there, somewhere in the dark, limping stiffly on his way to some other woman, some fake blond, I bet. At the sound of my voice he would shiver, and look up. He would be unable to take his eyes off the boy. And the boy, he would just freeze there, in his seat, unable to take his eyes off me.

  I hoped, with every bit of bitterness, that Lenny won’t miss the look, the shy look his son flashed at me, when I slid into my chair and—real slow and naughty—began crossing my legs.

  Which at once, made Ben tense up. I met his eyes, and could feel my look shooting through him, like it was a poisoned arrow. Now my legs was crossed knee on knee, and my lips was wet and parted, ever so slightly, and I began lowering my eyelids. Slowly his face dimmed, like, it fell into a black nothing, and then, I went back to thinking about Lenny:

  As a husband, he may lose his temper with me, from time to time—but as a writer, he totally gets what I need. He lets me talk, talk, talk for hours on end, keeping himself out of the way, like, real nice and discreet, so as not to stop me from pouring my heart out in front of his tape recorder.

  Me, I put my faith in him, knowing that Lenny would keep his word, he won’t listen to nothing I say, ‘cause some words, they rattle in your head, and their sound, it can be jolting to anyone, I mean, anyone but you, because they’re yours. So you should hide them real good, keep them hushed up, like, under a blanket. Them words, they shouldn’t be heard by no one—especially not those you hold dear.

  Which makes me trust the distance between us. It keeps me safe—but at the same time, it holds us apart.

  So at this moment—when I started punishing him by raising my eyes, and giving Ben that which he craved, a cruel little smile—the best thing that could happen would be this: Lenny would come bursting in.

  I can just see it in my head. He would be breathing hot fume straight into my eyes, making me step back and blink. His forehead would be, like, swollen with rage. And that pleat in its middle, which used to remind me of my pa, would grow deeper than ever. And the vein by the side of his neck would seem to be knotted. With an awful screech Lenny would shove the table off to the side, and flick the naked bulb hanging over its place, till it swung violently to and fro, to and fro.

  To his son I bet he would say nothing, ‘cause if he did—if he said, like, Stop! Stop staring at her, she’s fucking mine!—things could soon come to blows. Instead, he would just fix his eyes on Ben, scaring him right out of the kitchen. Then, not being able to hold himself back no longer, Lenny would like, explode. He would rip my dress in two and shout at me, and I would shout back, even cry. And then, then it would be all over.

  The air would be cleared between us, and we could start fresh, almost.

  I should be so lucky—but no; sadly, that didn’t happen. Instead I raised my hand—like I was him—and pushed the table, and flicked the naked bulb. Under it—right there between the boy and me—stood Lenny’s chair. It looked so empty, so bare that it glowed, like, real bright against the shadows.

  There was a splotch of light that danced over the seat, like a dance of triumph, almost. It darted wildly from one edge of the seat to the other, and after a while it started slowing down, swinging only a bit, then only a tiny bit, till at last it stopped right there, right in the center. At which time I felt a little something, a little pang in my heart. Perhaps, remorse.

  All the while, Ben went on sitting there, in his chair, pretty stiff and silent. He lowered his head, like, to study his own hands, so as not to stare at me. Nothing else stirred. Me, I glanced out the window: nothing stirred out there, either. You couldn’t spot no one in the twilight—but in my head I pictured the old man turning away from me, and in that second I sensed his heart turning, turning against me.

  Which is when I snapped my fingers, right there in front of my face, and told myself in a sharp voice, a voice that wasn’t even mine, Enough already! Snap out of it, girl!

  What’s the matter with you, anyway? So, your man hasn’t come home? Too bad, really! Who knows where the hell he is. Who cares with whom he’s sleeping tonight. Jealousy is a tough thing, Anita. It’s taken a bite out of you. It hurts. Yes, I can see the pain. So now, he hasn’t come home—and the thing you worry about is what, exactly? Crossing your legs? Really? You out of your mind?

  I slapped my own cheek thinking, I so wish ma was here.

  Chapter 26 She Deserves Better

  As Told by Anita

  It’s awful nippy here, inside and out, even though this is only mid-fall. Shut tight in front of me is the glass door, which I can’t hardly open, on account of being tired, and a bit wobbly on my feet. Even so I can hear a sound, a muffled sound from the other side, out there on the balcony. From this angle I can spot him, kinda: at least his outline, bent over the desk, and the slant of the shoulders.

  And I can’t barely see a face, but somehow I can tell it’s a familiar voice out there, saying, like, Here is one thing I hope she knows: she deserves better.

  Which makes me shiver, even in my coat. The man, he’s tapping his fingers tensely on the edge of the record player, pressing one key, then another, which brings up the voice saying, louder now, She deserves better, and again, deserves better, then, better.

  That voice, it’s Ben’s voice—but them fingers, they’re the old man’s fingers. The instant he hits Pause is when my doubts go away, and like, I know who it is.

  So I don’t even need him to turn around, and I don’t even want to ask him, like, Where was you, ‘cause I don’t want to hear no lies, and no long stories either, and above all, I tell him in my heart, I don’t want to admit how lonely I am here, in this place, which isn’t my home, Lenny, without you.

  Still absorbed in his work with his back to me, he tries to slide open a drawer, a drawer which I haven’t noticed in his desk before—not even the other day, when I went through the jumble of his papers, looking for clues, any clues of where Lenny had gone, or with whom he might be staying, or how he expected me to pay all them bills, because, like ma used to say, money don’t come cheap.

  I hope he finds things in place now, still in the right state of disorder. I hope I didn’t mess up no pages of his writing—or else, his stories will make even less sense than they already do.

  The drawer is damn clunky. It rattles a bit under his hand, like, the slides under it must have gotten rusty. Then it comes to a full stop, hanging in midair. He leans in to put his hand right there, inside the mouth of it, and his fingers are swallowed up by a deep shadow, which kinda scares me, like I’ve seen all this before, in a dream or a movie or something.

  So in distress I gulp for air, just about to cry out to him, Stop! Pull out, Lenny! Your hand—no, don’t talk, don’t even breathe a word—it’s about to be bitten off, like, if you don’t hold your tongue, right now, hold it from telling me a lie.

  Which is the moment he freezes, like he’s just caught a sound, the light sound of my footfall. There’s a chill in the air, which I can see right here, in front of my nose, ‘cause like, the vapor of my breath starts rising, curling in the air and clouding the partition between us.

  Lenny turns over his shoulder, and even before he can sense who’s standing here, watching him, you can tell he’s jolted, real shaken even, on account of not expecting no one here, at this time. He screws up his eyes, so I bet he’s looking for his own self, mirrored back to him—only to catch sight of me.
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br />   In a flash he spots my outline, like, through them spots on the murky glass.

  Lenny gets up from the chair, awful stiff, and in one limp he comes to a stand right there, opposite me. My God, he looks strange today, and not only because he looks kinda naked, I mean, without them glasses. His gray hair isn’t even combed, like he’s awakened right this minute, after a fierce fight with a pillow or something—or else, he hasn’t slept a wink last night, just like me.

  Only in his case it happened who knows where.

  Me, I look straight at him. His eyes, they have something wild in them: tender one second, mad the next, with wrinkled skin under them, sagging like squashed, hollow bags. He leans into the glass, laying his hands left and right of me, but I can’t be sure what’s in his head, like, if he wishes to plead with me, knowing I’m soon gonna forgive him—or else, he wishes to wring the life out of my throat.

  But he don’t try to do neither one nor the other. Instead he says, “Anita,” kinda gruff, “where is my son? You must know where he is, don’t you?”