Instant Love: Fiction

by Jami Attenberg

  Two tables over a man put his hand on the waitress’s hip. She slapped it away.

  “I pull out her boxes from the trunk, start walking them up the stairs, to the third floor, where her apartment is. She’s dragging a suitcase on the stairs behind me. I didn’t like her doing heavy lifting, but she swore it wasn’t that heavy. So we get to her place, she unlocks the door, and it’s one room. There’s nothing in it but a mattress, a television set on the floor, and a chair by the window. No table, no furniture, no telephone, no nothing. All the stuff I have, that I can’t live without? Turns out you can live without it.”

  “I already knew that,” said Maggie. Did she?

  “Yeah, well, I guess I didn’t. Or maybe I knew and forgot. Whatever. I walk her over to the chair, tell her to sit down. I go back down to the car, I get the rest of her stuff, takes me a couple of trips, but I’m in shape, right? I can handle it.” He smacked his stomach.

  He loves his stomach, thought Maggie.

  “I was sweating at the end, though, I’ll admit it. She sees this, so she gets me a glass of water. And while I’m standing in the kitchen, she finally says to me, ‘My grandson, he’s not a bad person. That was just as far as he could take me.’ Can you believe that bullshit?”

  “No,” said Maggie. “I cannot believe that bullshit.” Her self-righteousness felt briefly like sobriety. She picked up his glass of water and drank most of it, and when she looked up she realized that everything was suddenly slowing down for her. All the noise around her was so loud that it became quiet. She could now separate everything in her head. Him and her and the rest of them.

  “It’s not nice, I know that,” said Robert. “And I said to her, ‘Ann, if you were my grandmother, I wouldn’t leave you sitting in front of a 7-Eleven, no matter how busy I was. It’s not right, it’s not respectful, and you deserve better.’ And then I handed her all the money in my wallet and told her to buy some furniture. At least a table so she has something to eat off of. Jesus.”

  All of the noise and useless thoughts that had crowded her mind in her drunken haze of the past few hours, she had pushed through them all, they were all behind her now. She would have left that old woman sitting there; she probably wouldn’t even have seen her in the first place as she walked by, her head in the clouds.

  Here she was, staring at someone who had done something she would never do. Robert is the kind of man who takes care of business, a gentleman, a man who not only doesn’t abandon people, but also takes them to a better place. He can teach you the right way.

  Oh, my god, thought Maggie. He’s good.

  “And then what happened?” Maggie’s cheeks were flushed.

  “And then I left and went to work. I was almost two hours late. And my boss asked me where I was and I said, ‘I had to drive my grandmother to the doctor,’ and he said, ‘I thought your grandmother was dead,’ and I said, ‘No, the other grandmother,’ and that was that.”

  “I want you to take me home,” said Maggie. “Tonight. I mean, do you want to take me home tonight?”

  THERE WERE BOXES everywhere, one stacked on another, filling the living room and spilling into the kitchen. Diane sat on the couch and stared at them. It was her favorite time of day because it was quiet. Her husband was still asleep, he wouldn’t get up until just before the movers came; the kids were still nestled in bed, probably having conversations with themselves. It was just Diane and the sum of her material life right now, surrounding her in a sea of cardboard.

  There was a shuffle on the steps, heavy, so she knew it was her husband.

  “Is there coffee?”

  She shot her hand up in the air and wagged her fingers at him. “Five minutes. I just need five more minutes to sit.”

  “I’ll join you,” he said, and he sat on the opposite end of the couch. After a moment he said softly, “I liked this house.”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” she said. “We didn’t have a choice.”

  “I just wanted to say it out loud.”

  “Fine. You said it. Now drop it.” Diane dug her fingers into her hair and pulled until she could feel her hair tugging at the roots.

  “All of this used to be a lot more fun,” he said. “I’m exhausted, Di. I mean it.”

  “Oh, you’re exhausted.” If she weren’t so tired, she would have slapped him right then. And she would have made it hurt, too.

  He stood. She remained seated.

  “I’ll make the coffee,” he said.

  “Great,” she said.

  As he turned to walk toward the kitchen, one of the boxes began to rock, ever so slightly, but they both saw it. And then they heard a muffled cry. Then, a call for help from their youngest child.

  “Oh, my god, she’s in the box,” said Diane. “Jesus, get the scissors, get the scissors!”

  Soon after that morning Professor Stoner started spending more time around the office, and less time at home. Everyone noticed, but no one said a thing.

  “THERE’S SOMETHING I need to tell you,” said Maggie as they lay next to each other in bed, her leg strapped around his waist.

  “You’re married,” said Robert.

  “No.”

  “You’ve got a disease.”

  “No.”

  “You hate your father.”

  “Well, yes, that’s true, but shut up and listen.” She punched his shoulder. “I’m a sleepwalker. I have been since I was a little girl. You should know that. So if you wake up and I’m not around, it’s probably because I’m somewhere in the house. I’m much better now, but it still happens sometimes.”

  “What makes you do it?” he said.

  “I don’t know. I’ve been to a million doctors. The last one prescribed sleeping pills, so you can see how that’s going. I mean, like I’m going to take pills for the rest of my life?”

  Robert made a sad face—exaggerated frown, wrinkled forehead, eyes squeezed close—and she hated him briefly, then beat the feeling down. If this is going to be the one I love, I better learn to love the sad face.

  “But…I can tell you what I see when I do it. It’s kind of weird, though. I haven’t really told that many people.”

  “Tell me,” said Robert. He was way too enthusiastic, she thought. She hoped she wouldn’t regret it, any of it.

  Maggie took a deep breath. “I’m inside a long tunnel, and at the end is a door, and it’s sealed shut. Where I am isn’t so bad, but I know that on the other side is a wonderful place, the best place in the world. As I’ve gotten older, that place has changed, but I always have this feeling like, I have to get there. When I was a kid it was either heaven, the picture-book version of it with angels playing harps and clouds and blue skies, or a carnival, where all the rides were empty and I didn’t have to wait in any lines and there’s as much cotton candy as I want. Then as I got older it became an empty beach during the middle of a hot day, and there’s a cooler of everything I want, sandwiches and drinks and chips and, oddly, the most perfect apples in the world, red and juicy, and a beach towel and a radio and an umbrella, just like, the perfect setup for one person. Then it was a carnival again for a while, which was totally strange. I mean, my therapist loved that. And these days it’s a beautiful park, with kids playing soccer in a field nearby, and an ice-cream man, and a few dogs running around, and I would be walking to meet someone, though I don’t know who, if I could just get through that door. So I bang and pound on it, hoping someone will answer it, but no one ever does.” She sat up. “And then I wake up. And I’m somewhere in my house, usually the bathroom, but sometimes the kitchen.”

  “Is it scary?” he said.

  “No, it’s just frustrating. Because I can never get what I want even though I know it would be so good.”

  “Well, you won’t be sleepwalking on my watch.” He wrapped his arms around her. “I’m not letting you go anywhere.” He didn’t let her go for the entire night. It felt a little uncomfortable, but eventually Maggie got used to it. She did try to get out of bed once,
early in the morning, but Robert woke with her and said, “Wake up, Maggie. I’m right here,” while she struggled against him until finally they both closed their eyes again, and slept well into the afternoon.

  Years ago, Alan was telling me a story about his mother and father and how they fell in love.

  OH, ALAN! You of the warm, soft beard and gentle smile and ample cock. You who told me I had a great “tushie,” a word so foreign to a woman like me, who was raised by people who said they traded in God for academia. They were so cold, so cerebral, so not fun. Oh, Alan, I still burn with desire for you!

  ANYWAY. Alan was telling me a story about his mother and father and how they fell in love, that it was a rocky road, just like the ice cream, but not as sweet.

  “Ice cream,” I said. “That sounds good.”

  When I was dating Alan I would eat ice cream every night after dinner, until my hips and belly stretched out and over the top of my jeans. I didn’t care one bit. This was when I was in graduate school in Chicago. I had moved there after a few drunken, poverty-stricken years in New York. I’d had it with trying to find my way drunkenly from the front of a bar to the bathroom, only to return and find my drink gone, my wallet empty, and the guy I’d been flirting with all night out in front of the bar making out with someone else. Or worse yet, he would be waiting, the scent of cab fare home mixed with cigarette smoke and hormones wafting from his body. When a grope in the backseat of a taxi seems fair trade for a quick ride uptown at 3:00 AM, it’s time to leave town. I had decided I would only return with at least a master’s and some sort of future. So I worked long days in the lab, roasting my brain slowly over an open spit, and at night I wanted to treat myself. I liked Alan and I liked ice cream.

  I got up and went to the refrigerator, opened the freezer, and pulled out a pint of my favorite kind, mint–chocolate chip. I like my ice cream simple, not with cookie dough or M&Ms or hot sauce or sprinkles. Just cold and sweet with a bit of chocolate in it.

  “They met in high school,” he told me. “Walter and Naomi, the most unlikely couple in town. That’s what the senior class voted them—‘Least Likely Couple.’ And here they are, thirty-odd years later, still married. Goes to show you what the rest of those kids knew.”

  If I heard that today I’d probably reply, “Yeah, and I bet half of them are divorced now anyway. Or dead.”

  Instead I said: “They were jealous of their true love, that’s all.”

  “Mom was one of the prettiest girls in school. You should see pictures of her from then, Holly. Next time you come over, I’ll show you. Dark hair, red lips, a little zaftig but that was more desirable back then. I mean, it’s still desirable for me of course.” He reached toward me and pinched my rear. “But she was just gorgeous, my mom. Everyone said she looked like Elizabeth Taylor, but Jewish.”

  I had met his mother once. I didn’t see the Elizabeth Taylor resemblance, but I had to admit she was a remarkably manicured woman. Her hair, trimmed short, was dyed the color of a fresh cup of coffee with milk, and lay precisely in place. Her creamy linen suit was tailored and wrinkle-free, as if she had freshly pressed it moments before seeing me. And with an artist’s eye she had deeply and intensely outlined and colored her lips with a frosty mocha tint. I pictured her knowing the name of everyone who worked at her salon, whether they cut her hair or not.

  Me, I get haircuts so infrequently I can’t remember where I got it cut last. Though when I was dating Alan, I started making trips to salons more often. He bought me a gift certificate once for an upscale place near my apartment, which made me think he wanted me to be a more upscale girl.

  “Use it for anything you want, sweetheart. Hair color, manicure, waxing. Ask the girls there. They’ll help,” he said.

  I hadn’t known I needed help.

  I SAT DOWN at the table and spooned some ice cream in my mouth.

  “So Mom was a stunner,” Alan continued. “But Dad? Not so much. He was balding before his sixteenth birthday, plus he has that hawk-nose thing. You know what I’m talking about?” Alan outlined an awkward shape with his fingers.

  “And his family, they didn’t have much money. But Dad was a salesman then, just like now. Sometimes that’s all it takes. Talking ’em into it.”

  “Hey,” I said. I tried to muster up a snappy retort, but the ice cream was freezing my brain.

  “Not you, Miss Stoner. You’re a smart cookie. Plus I don’t have to talk you into a thing, you little tramp.”

  It was true. I was crazy for sex with him, the way he tossed me around so handily, as if I were still just a girl. I was planning on having sex with him as soon as he had finished his story, and I my ice cream. Calling me a tramp only amped up my arousal. Not a lot of people think to call Ph.D. candidates in biology “tramp,” but we like it just like everyone else. Not “hussy,” though. We hate that.

  “So Mom started dating the jeweler’s son, Jonathon Wolfowitz. ‘Great birthday presents,’ she said.”

  Alan winked at me. My birthday was two weeks away. He had been hinting at something special for a month.

  “It’s a huge chain now, actually,” he said. “You know Wolfowitz and Sons?”

  I had seen their ads in the paper since I had moved to Chicago, the most recent one depicting a bejeweled array of Mrs. Wolfowitzes, with their highlighted hair and perfectly lined lips, the younger ones displaying their propped-up cleavage, all beaming saucily at the camera. The tagline underneath the photo read, “It’s Either Half Now or Half Later.”

  “I found a condo for one of their cousins last year,” said Alan. “A two-bedroom, great light, an OK view of the lake. Some people, they don’t care about the view, they just care about the light.”

  Alan was a highly successful real-estate agent, and as far as I know, he still is. At the time, he represented a couple of Chicago Bulls, a handful of politicos, and was making headway with a bunch of United Airlines honchos, all seeking something special on Lake Shore Drive.

  That was Alan’s shtick. “I will find you something special,” he would say, in such a way as to make the clients feel that, because they were so special, they simply could not live in anything less than special—that it would be a crime! That’s what it’s like when you have a lot of money. You can pay people to make you feel good about yourself.

  “HE BROUGHT HER home to meet the family, took her to all the school dances, she wore his class ring. The whole nine. His folks even offered to take her to their winter cabin back east for the holidays.”

  He stopped talking for a moment, loosened the spoon from my hands, and took a bite of ice cream.

  “And I remember my mother made a point of saying—I guess it was a big deal—that her family and their family sat next to each other at shul over the high holidays.”

  “For the whole world to see,” I murmured.

  “Exactly. A public proclamation. Wolfowitz was a catch. My mother has told me that a million times.”

  “Why is she still talking about him after all these years?” I said. I meant to say it in my head, and was surprised to hear it come out of my mouth. The public questioning of any and all Naomi actions was a privilege extended solely to Handelman family members. All civilians were required to keep their mouths shut.

  “Because he’s part of the story, their story,” Alan snapped. And then he relented with, “But I know what you mean. I wouldn’t want to hear about my competition for the rest of my life.”

  I nodded. I looked down at my bowl. It was nearly empty. I thought about getting some more ice cream. I decided it could wait. “So let me hear the rest of the story,” I said.

  “I should have waited for her to tell you,” said Alan. “I don’t do it justice.”

  I was in no hurry to meet his parents again. I’m not going to say it was a total disaster, but there was no way I was going to win, looking like I do, which is to say: not Jewish, at least not enough to count anyway. I’ve got dark curly hair, but my clear blue eyes, Irish and smiling, betray my sh
iksa identity. That’s what his mother called me after she met me. “A very nice shiksa.”

  Alan thought that was a good thing, the “nice” part anyway.

  OH, ALAN, I would have been nice to your mother forever!

  “YOU’RE TELLING the story just fine,” I said. I patted his hand. “Please. Carry on. I’m interested.”

  “Do you want some more ice cream?” he said. “Go on, I’ll share it with you.”

  I rose and went to the refrigerator again. You didn’t need to tell me twice.

  “So the whole time she’s going out with Wolfowitz, Dad’s trying to steal her away. He always says he loved her from the minute he saw her, and he had no intention of taking no for an answer. He would walk with her down the hallway at school and tease her about, I don’t know—her hair, her clothes, general flirty high-school stuff. That was at first. Then he starts saying, ‘That Wolfowitz, he’s no good. He’s got a wandering eye. I saw him sitting with Judy Kanter at lunch, and you know what everyone says about Judy Kanter.’”

  Alan had slipped into an impression of his father, neck sunken in toward his shoulders, hands up in the air, torso tensed.

  “What did everyone say about Judy Kanter?” I said.

  “Dad said she was a real knockout. Big breasts, and this extremely sexy lisp. He knew a couple of guys that got with her senior year.”

  I mock-gasped, shocked and dainty. “Judy, Judy,” I said.

  “I know!” said Alan. “But she wasn’t that sharp, and say what you will about my mother, she’s sharp,” he said proudly. “Anyway, he was working on her, always talking, keeping Mom on her toes, like he still does today. ‘I was selling,’ he said to me. ‘I was selling her on me.’”