by Michael Kun
“Can I help you with something, sir?” he says.
“Maybe. Are you Italian?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you ever heard of a person by the name of Mario Lanza?”
“The singer?”
“Yes, that one.”
And he says, “Not only have I heard of him, but he ate here once.”
“Really?”
“Really. It was a long, long time ago, but he ate here. We used to have a picture of him on the wall.” He points to a painting of a gondola on the wall. “That’s where the picture was, right there.”
“Is he dead?”
“Oh, yes, he died a long time ago. A long time ago.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know how he died, would you?”
“I believe he had a heart attack. He put on a lot of weight, and his heart just couldn’t handle it. He ate and ate and ate, then he died.”
And I say, “Whatever you do, don’t tell my girlfriend that.”
And he says, “It’ll be our little secret, sir.” He twists his fingers in front of his mouth as if he’s turning a key in a lock.
And I say, “Thanks,” and he leaves just before Renée returns. She’s smiling and smiling and smiling.
We put on our jackets, and Renée picks up the styrofoam containers that have our leftovers in them: half an order of pasta and a little sliver of chicken. As we’re leaving, she says, “Ham, this has been perfect.”
I turn and say, “It’s just how I planned it.”
Just as we reach, the front door, someone entering swings it open too quickly. It bumps me on the forehead. It stings, and I rub it and say, “Darn it, darn it, darn it,” only I don’t say “darn.”
“Are you okay?” Renée says, and she touches my scalp with her fingertips.
I don’t want to ruin our night, so I try to make a joke. I say, “I think so. But suddenly I remembered that I’m married to Erica on As The World Turns.”
Renée laughs loudly, then puts her hand over her mouth for a moment. Then she says, “It’s worse than I thought. I watch that show, and Erica’s married to Chad. She’s not married to you.”
And I say, “No?”
And she says, “No.”
And I say, “So I shouldn’t feel guilty about being out with you tonight?”
And she says, “No. Not at all.”
x
The drive home is a quiet one, so quiet that I can hear the pieces of the car engine at work. One piece rubbing against another. Something ticking away, tick-tick-tick, tick-tick-tick. Some liquid flowing. Gas? Oil? Water?
I can feel a little bump rising on my forehead. I can feel the skin stretching there. Renée leans over and kisses it every time we stop at a traffic light. Renée and I just look at each other from time to time, and it’s all I can do not to pull over to the side of the road and start kissing her. It’s all I can do not to undress her right there in the car.
When we get home, she carries the styrofoam containers to the kitchen while I go to the bedroom and start getting changed. I look at my forehead. There’s a bump there, the size of a walnut; it’s turning purple; When Renée walks into the bedroom, her dress is already unzipped in the back, revealing her bra strap and delicate white skin.
“Are you still mad at me?” I ask, and she says, “Not at all.”
She flips her hair to one side and tips her head.
“Are you going to help me take this off?” she says, and I help her pull her dress off. She’s standing in front of me in her bra and slip. They’re white and lacy like the kind you order from a magazine. Her hair smells like oranges. I kiss her neck, and I whisper in her ear a poem my father used to say to Carl and me at bedtime:
I love you in blue
I love you in red
But most of all
I love you in blue.
“That’s your father’s poem,” Renée says. I’d forgotten I’d told her about that once before. She remembers EVERYTHING. She runs her fingers over my shoulder. She kisses the bump on my forehead.
And I say, “It’s my poem now. I bought it from him.”
And she says, “How much did you pay?”
And I say, “Ten dollars.”
And she says, “Well, you got ripped off.”
And I say, “Really?”
And she says, “Yes. My God, Ham, it doesn’t even rhyme.”
I start kissing her and plucking at her bra straps, and before you know it we’re in bed and happy.
x
In the morning you can hear delivery trucks outside our apartment, but it hardly ever wakes up Renée. I shower and shave and watch her sleep, her chest rising and falling, a smile on her face like she’s having a nice dream. You can’t wake someone up from a nice dream, so I let her sleep and I’m out of the apartment before she’s even gotten up.
In the middle of the morning, she calls me at work while I’m putting some darts in some slacks for a woman named Millhouse. If they’re done right, they’re straight and smooth. If they’re done wrong, they pucker at the ends. And if they’re not all the same length, they look terrible.
“That was great last night,” Renée says when I pick up the phone.
Palmeyer and Broom Hilda look at me and clench their jaws at the same time. They’re not even WORKING and they’re upset with ME for answering the telephone.
“I agree,” I say. “That was terrific.”
And Renée says, “You know, I love you, Ham.”
And I say, “Me, too.”
And she says, “Say it.”
And I say, “I can’t, I’m at work.”
And she says, “Embarrassed?”
And I say, “No.”
And she says, “Then say it.”
And I say, “Oh, listen, Palmeyer’s calling me.”
And she laughs and says, “Liar. Now say it.”
And I pretend that I’m talking with Palmeyer, “Yes, Palmeyer, I’ll be right there.”
And Renée laughs and says, “You are such a liar.”
And I say, “No, I’m serious. He sewed his tongue to a pair of pants. Can’t you hear him screaming?” Then I say, “I’m coming to save you, Palmeyer. I’m coming to save you.”
And Renée says, “You are such a liar.”
And I say, “I have to go save Palmeyer. I’ll see you tonight.”
I go back to work on the darts.
That night, on the way home, I think of stopping at the florist, but if I do I won’t have enough money left to take Renée out to dinner again. So, instead I stop at the grocery store. There’s a cooler along the far wall, filled with flowers wrapped in cellophane. Three other men are crouched like catchers and peering in when I arrive.
“Birthday, anniversary or argument?” one of the men asks. He’s speaking to me.
“Anniversary,” I answer, “sort of.”
“I’m a birthday,” he says. “It’s the same day every year, but the hell if I can remember.”
And I say, “You should get a calendar.”
And he says, “No kidding.”
I pull open the door, a fragrant wave hitting me, and pull out a bouquet of tulips, then walk to the front of the store to pay for them.
When I get home, though, Renée isn’t dressed for dinner. Instead, she’s in bed with a giant textbook propped up on her thighs. The book is the first thing I notice when I enter the room. Behind it, Renée looks small and young, and not different from my memories. She looks like she did when I first met her. What a gumdrop she was then. Small and young and happy to be wherever she was.
With the flowers behind my back, I say, “Hello.”
And she says, “You’re awful late.”
And I say, “I know. I had to stop on the way home.”
And she says, “Well, there’s some of that pot roast from the other night in the refrigerator if you’re hungry. And there’s still some pasta and chicken left over from Alfredo’s.”
And I say, “I thought we were goi
ng out for dinner again tonight. Remember, it’s your day.”
And she says, “There’s been a change of plans.”
I sit on the edge of the bed and pull the flowers from behind my back, doing it swiftly like a magician. Voila’!
“Here,” I say.
And Renée says, “What for?”
And I say, “No reason.”
And she smiles and takes the flowers in one hand. She puts her nose in them and says, “Thank you.”
“I love you, Sweet Potato,” I say.
And she says, “I love you, too,” like she really means it, not the way people sometimes do. Not like she felt obligated to say “I love you” back.
We look at each other the way lovers sometimes do. Finally, I gesture toward her book with a jerk of my head. “What are you reading?”
Renée holds the book up so I can see the cover, a picture of a gold-and-black sarcophagus, then says, “It’s called The Royal Treasure.” She pauses and adds, “Ham, it’s a textbook. I was talking to Walter today —”
And I say, “ Guitar Walter?”
And she says, “Yes. I was talking to Walter today, and I was thinking about that magazine article, and it just hit me that maybe I should take a few night classes, you know, to broaden my horizons. So Walter came and picked me up, and he took me over to the school and helped me pick out some classes and find everything at the bookstore.”
“Well, it sounds like a great idea,” I say, which I don’t mean at all. “You should definitely sign up.”
And she says, “Well, I already enrolled. I signed up for two classes. They’re two hundred fifty dollars a class, but before you say anything, I want you to know that I’ll pay for them myself. I don’t know how, but I will.”
She sounds exactly like me promising to pay money back to Carl, and I know how well that’s worked out. I haven’t paid him back ANYTHING yet.
So I say, “Renée, you don’t have to do that. If you want to take some classes, then take some classes. Just take the money out of the account.”
We don’t have any money in the account.
And she says, “I already did. I wrote a check. It’s just that I’m going to put the money back in.”
And I say, “Renée, please, don’t worry about it.” I take the book from her and thumb through the pages mindlessly, occasionally focusing on a piece of jewelry or something else bright and shiny. “So, tell me, what classes did you sign up for?”
And she says, “I signed up for a film class, where they show old movies and we analyze them. And I signed up for an archeology class because, well, I’m not sure why.”
And I say, “Because you’re planning on going to Egypt to hunt around for old pots and stuff?”
I run the back of my hand along her cheek. When I reach her lips, she kisses my fingers.
“They’re not old pots,” she says. “They’re relics of past civilizations. They’re treasures. I don’t know, I was just in the bookstore, and the books looked so interesting. Like that one.” She gestures to the book I’m holding. “Isn’t that interesting? And just the idea of digging and digging and digging and finally finding something valuable way down just sounds very interesting.”
“Great,” I say. “I think it’s a great idea. Just promise me that if you dig up anything dead, you won’t bring it in the house.”
Renée puts a hand over her heart and says, “Promise.”
And I say, “Now, I’ve got to get something to eat. I’m starving.”
I hand Renée her book and start toward the kitchen. Renée stops me.
“Honey,” she says, “would you take the flowers and put them in water?”
I take them from her and head toward the kitchen, then stop in the hallway and call out, “Renée?”
And she calls back, “Yes.”
I’m about to ask her why she’s taking night classes. Aren’t night classes for people who work during the day? Shellie took night classes, but she was working in a dentist’s office during the day. That was before she left me.
CHAPTER 10: MONKS IN THE KITCHEN
It’s a good idea for Renée to take some classes. It’ll be good for her. I keep telling myself that over and over.
Only now I never see her. During the day, I’m at work. “Do you remember this,” “Do you remember that,” and the big band songs all day. On weekends, Renée studies at the kitchen table. Sometimes I go to Carl’s house to play football with him and his boys or to watch television with them. At night, Renée’s at her classes and I end up eating dinner by myself, eating dinner and reading the newspaper or a sports magazine.
Sometimes I’ll make myself a sandwich. Sometimes I’ll go out to a restaurant, although I feel like people are looking at me when I eat by myself, looking at me and thinking, Look at that poor man. No one likes him. I wish I could say, “I have a girlfriend. It’s just that she has class tonight.” But it’s none of their business.
There’s a place where I like to eat called Fat Matt’s Rib Shack. It’s just around the corner from our apartment, and I’ve been eating there a lot while Renée’s at her classes. It’s across the street from the church Renée goes to, and it’s right next door to June’s, which is where we take our dry cleaning when we have dry cleaning, which isn’t very often.
There’s a big sign painted on the brick wall in front of the building. It says FAT MATT’S RIB SHACK in yellow letters on a green background, and there are paintings on the windows of the food they serve: barbequed ribs, and barbequed chicken, and chopped pork sandwiches. At night they have blues singers who sing while you’re eating your ribs or chicken or pork, and while you’re drinking your beer.
This time, the place is fairly crowded with people eating like Teamsters, leaning over their plates and shoveling their food in. Only there’s not a blues singer. Instead, there’s a band playing. A sign says they’re called Sidebar. They’re all white men, and some of them look like they’re older than me. The one playing the keyboards is bald. He keeps looking up from the keyboard and waving to a pretty, black-haired woman in the back. She smiles and waves back. She’s probably his wife, I bet.
I sit and listen to the band, and I eat some chicken, and I drink some beer, and when I start to get a little tired I walk home. Renée isn’t home yet, so I watch a little television and smoke. I fall asleep on the couch with the television still on. I never hear her coming in.
Sometimes Renée goes out after her night classes with her classmates and doesn’t come home until I’m already asleep. Sometimes a few of them will come by the apartment after class. I can hear them talking from the bedroom.
A couple weeks pass, and we hardly see each other.
Renée is changing.
Again.
x
One night after work, I’m in the bedroom when I hear a car pull into the parking lot, then I hear a car door slam. I hear the front door open and close. I get up from the bed so I can tell Renée about how Broom Hilda sewed the legs of a pair of pants together, which was VERY funny to see, but from the bedroom I hear two voices: Renée’s and another one that I don’t recognize. I walk into the hall. The light in the kitchen is on.
“Oh, Hamilton,” Renée says. “I thought you’d be asleep.”
Renée NEVER calls me “Hamilton.” It’s always “Hay-yum.”
What’s going on?
She introduces me to the woman sitting at the kitchen table, and I shake her hand and wish she’d leave.
Renée’s friend is a round-faced woman, with a mess of red hair that hangs down in front, a narrow forehead, a small nose, and the large, owl-eyed glasses that smart children wear. She’s very thin. Her figure doesn’t seem to be much, and a ring of her slip shows beneath the hem of her skirt. All in all, very plain looking, as plain as tap water, and already I’ve forgotten her name. It could be Cheryl. It could be something else. She has a Jewish last name, I remember that much. Cheryl Steinberg. Cheryl Schwartz. I can’t remember.
Whenever I meet
a woman with red hair, the first I do is try to see if she reminds me of Shellie. If they do, it makes me sad. If they don’t, that makes me sad, too. This one doesn’t remind me of Shellie at all.
“How was your night?” Renée says.
And I say, “Fine.”
There’s a pause, and both women stare at me. I excuse myself, saying, “I’ve got some work to do,” then return to the bedroom. They both nod. They hadn’t wanted me in there in the first place, I know. None of Renée’s new friends do. They come to the house and sit in the kitchen, quiet as monks whenever I enter the room. The conversation will die, and they’ll look at me blankly, as if I couldn’t possibly understand their thoughts. When I leave, they start up again with their talking.
“Hamilton moves around quite a bit, from room to room,” I hear Renée say. “He’s very transient that way.” Then she and Cheryl start talking again.
I sit on the bed and try to read one of Renée’s magazines, but I can’t. I can hear them talking in the kitchen, but it’s hard to make out their words. I just pick up the sensation of a conversation, the humming of two voices, then I hear Cheryl laughing. They all laugh in the kitchen, all of Renée’s new friends, and she has plenty of them. At first I tried to keep them all straight, which one was Guitar Walter and which one was Robert, which one was in her archeology class and which one was in her film class, but now I don’t even try. It was so much easier when we had the same friends. It was so much easier when we didn’t have any friends at all. Now, Renée brings people over to the house two or three nights a week, and they sit at the kitchen table and drink coffee and keep me awake. They talk about “digs” and “zooms” and other things like that, things I don’t know about and, until recently, Renée didn’t either. It’s strange to hear her saying these new words. It’s as if she’s still breaking them in, like they were new dress shoes.
Cheryl’s a new one. Walter’s a regular. Guitar Walter. He still comes by every Tuesday night, only now he doesn’t bring his guitar. Samantha and some thin boy are Thursdays. They might be married, I don’t know. There are more, and they come by so often that I can guess what class they’re in just by the way they look. The ones from the archeology class are all thin, thin people who don’t look like they enjoy their food. The ones from Renée’s film class are pale and messy, and they never smile as if blood doesn’t flow to their faces. The one in the kitchen is a Film, I bet. I thought it the second I saw her in the kitchen: she had “Film” written all over her pale, round face.
