by The Hearing
Dear Mom,
It’s four months today, exactly 120 days. I know you wanted to come down over Memorial Day, but I think it’s better if you don’t visit at all. In person, I’m still not who I want to be. In writing, I’m closer. But having you see me during the process, trying to survive, day to day, it wasn’t working. I’m sorry, but I’m more comfortable with this. I hope you are.
Anyway, I’m letting myself believe that it isn’t going to be too long. Mr. Hardy tells me that with the chronic overcrowding here, the average yearlong only lasts 184 days. They need the cell space. I shouldn’t get my hopes up, except they are. If I’ve only got sixty-four more days, that will be August 2.
Thanks for the offer, but whenever it is when I get out, I’ll be finding my own place. There are programs here—Mr. Hardy laughs at the word, but they’re not all bad—that will help get me work someplace when I get out. A lot of it’s physical, but that’s all right with me. Maybe a gym, something like that.
The point is, I’m clean now. I’m going to stay that way. Start over. Maybe take a class in something. It’s a day at a time, just like they say, but I don’t think having you there to lean on is going to be any help.
Jeff and Dorothy sent me a birthday card. The kids signed it, too. Maybe you know that. I owe them big-time. If it comes up, tell them how sorry I am for how I treated them. Still am.
I’m at 174 pounds. Today I broke two hundred push-ups.
They just rang for lockdown. Got to go.
Glitsky had gone through the whole administrative fandango and had finally been reinstated in his old job. He worked one floor above Treya in the same building, but they hadn’t seen each other in eleven days.
Their last discussion—about whether they should consider having a baby and starting a new family of their own together—had been a little tense. It ended with her walking out of his place well after midnight with no apparent plans to return.
Now, at just after seven on the first day of summer, he stood in the alcove stoop of her apartment house and rang the outside bell and waited. He pushed the button again, waited some more. No response.
“Perfect,” he said.
He turned and went back out onto the sidewalk, looked up and then back down the street. It was a glorious evening, the sky clear blue overhead, the sun casting long shadows—Glitsky was standing in the shade from the apartment buildings across the street. On the warm breeze, he picked up a scent of something delectable from one of the restaurants a few blocks down on Clement—garlic and ginger, pork.
He turned all the way round once, undecided. He could come back. Call. Make an appointment for later.
But no. He knew he had to stay here and wait. It was too important.
He went back and sat on the edge of the stoop. A half dozen physical-fitness types jogged or biked or power-walked by him in various stages of comfort or pain. A couple of guys in a serious discussion walked by with their dog. Four kids appeared from one of the doorways halfway down the block and—shades of Glitsky’s own childhood—started a game of stickball in the middle of the street. It wasn’t the season, but he caught a whiff of crab.
Finally, he stood up again and walked to the curb. The evening sky had perceptibly darkened—the high clouds shone in purples and pinks. Treya’s building was completely in shadow now, and over the rooftops across from him, Venus appeared.
He knew it was her before he could have truly recognized her. Still nearly two full blocks away, she was walking with someone—her daughter?—an arm around her shoulder. Drawing in a breath, Glitsky checked his resolve one last time.
All right. He was going to do this.
He began to walk toward them.
When she saw him, she stopped. Glitsky did, too. Half a block still yawned between them. She turned to Raney and said something. Her daughter responded briefly, reached out a hand and touched her shoulder, then started to move toward Glitsky.
When she came abreast of him, she slowed, met his gaze with a somber one of her own, nodded. “Please be sure,” she said, and then had passed before he could think of anything appropriate to say.
They both came forward. When they’d closed to a couple of yards, they stopped.
He found himself incredibly taken with her physical presence—her hair pulled back severely from the strong, angular face. She was wearing stonewashed jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt with a New York Yankees logo over the left breast. The shirt seemed to shimmer with her breathing, perhaps her heartbeat.
“I used to hate the Yankees,” he began, “until Derek Jeter.”
Her mouth was tight, but she nodded. “Me, too. But I like them now. Raney bought this for my last birthday. I don’t get to wear it too often.”
“No,” Glitsky said. “I don’t imagine so.” San Francisco was a sweater town—sleeveless wouldn’t be in unless goose bumps became all the rage. He stood impotently before her for another eternity. Finally, he said, “Orel’s moving out in two years. He’s the last one. I’m done. I’ve done this.”
“You’ve only done it with boys. It might be a girl. You haven’t done a girl.”
If things had been different. The reference to Elaine hit him powerfully, brought him up short. “I’m fifty-two years old,” he said at last.
“I know that.”
“I’ll be seventy-three, minimum, by the time any child we have is twenty. You realize that?”
“Of course. I’ll be fifty-four. So what?”
“So a lot of things . . .”
She stared at him expectantly, angrily. “We’ve already done this part, Abe.”
“I know, I know . . .”
“So if it’s the same answer, we don’t need to do it again.”
He nodded. Time had completely ceased to exist. He forced his voice to work. “I didn’t come here because I had the same answer.”
She waited.
“I came here to say yes if you still . . .” He stopped, tripped up in the words, in wanting to get them perfectly right. “Yes,” was all he could come out with.
Her eyes began to fill and they moved toward each other. His arms closed around her.
“It might be unbelievably hard,” he whispered. “I might not live that long. We might . . .”
She pulled back far enough to put a finger against the scar on his lips. Her eyes bored into his face and a smile tickled the corners of her mouth. “What’s your point?” she asked, and shut him up with a kiss.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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