Look Down, This is Where It Must Have Happened

by Hal Niedzviecki

  Paul thinks he might want to be alone in his last moments on earth. After that, he doesn’t really care. If there are more or less flowers. Maybe he shouldn’t have a service at all? Sarah crying, inconsolable. He wouldn’t want that.

  Not on the Internet.

  By evening, he’s hungry. Can’t believe how hungry he is. Didn’t eat today, he reminds himself. Sarah coming home tomorrow, he reminds himself.

  Last trip to the deli.

  As he’s leaving the house, the phone rings. He’s already wearing his dirty boots. I can’t get the phone. I’m already wearing my boots.

  Regardless, he strides into the kitchen, reaches for the phone. He gets there just as the machine kicks in.

  Paul? Are you there? I’m really starting to worry. I called the office. They said you weren’t at work today. But you didn’t answer at home. Or last night. Paul? If you’re there, pick up. . . .

  Locking the front door, Paul drops the keys. He has to crouch in the dark on the front stoop to find them.

  He drives to the deli over blanketed streets. The snow is steady in the arc of his headlights. Sounds are distant, muffled. Paul feels his eyelids slumping. He needs a rest. A getaway. An escape. Paul wants to go somewhere too. Where does he want to go? He pictures himself on the highway, just driving. Sarah beside him in the passenger seat. On the way back from visiting Joanie at her parents’ house, after they stopped at the superstore, they didn’t talk. Paul held Sarah’s hand. He kept a steady speed just below the limit. Sarah hates it when he speeds.

  Paul looks down at his hands. His knuckles are frigid white where he’s gripping the steering wheel. He forgot his gloves. Turn on the heat, he tells himself. But why bother? It’s such a short drive. See? You’re here.

  He parks in front of the restaurant. He’s so — tired. The snow descending in dizzy spirals. Bright and hypnotic. Just need to — rest my eyes. Streetlight shadows. No cars go by. The city. A funereal gloom, an emptiness, everyone together, alone.

  He shuts his eyes.

  Paul stands in the entranceway next to the cash register waiting for his glasses to defog.

  It’s long past closing.

  Paul takes off his glasses. He rubs them on his sweater. Puts them back on. Refocused blur. There’s only one other customer. Double pastrami on her plate. All the trimmings. Pickles, coleslaw, a kasha knish, fries, a bright red hot pepper oozing vinegar.

  Paul goes over to her table.

  She looks up. Her eyes are pale blue tinged with red. Her face is soft, white, smooth.

  She’s younger than Paul thought she should be. Bigger, too.

  Widowed wife of “Steiner, Maury.”

  Excuse me, Paul says. I was wondering . . . would it be all right if I . . . joined you?

  She gives Paul the once-over. Paul smiles reassuringly. He imagines himself as she sees him: slightly rumpled regular guy in brown corduroys, green sweater.

  Why not? Paul says.

  Sure, why not? she finally says.

  Paul sits down.

  Here, she says, pushing her plate toward Paul. Have a fry.

  She flushes, suddenly embarrassed.

  Thanks, Paul says.

  Holiday

  I ring the bell and wait. I ring the bell again. There are things that happen that don’t have to happen. The intersection of people, the way one life collides with another. It all seems so simple, so obvious; we can’t ever come out and say what we want to say. I wiggle my toes, sweaty and trapped in a pair of thin gray socks.

  Who is it?

  Meals On Wheels.

  Rose opens the door a bit. I push my way in. Blink into the old woman translucence, shadows on dust. It’s just the way I would have imagined it, if I had imagined it.

  You’re not Meals On Wheels, she says.

  I shrug, heft my wicker basket. Oh yeah, I say. What am I then?

  She steps back into the gloom. Her mouth an oval. I savor the moment, lick my lips, taste sediment and hallway knickknacks. She jerks her head backwards, calculates the distance to the phone, a distance she’s forced to measure in her own tottering steps.

  You’re Rose Dimano, I say, taking her arm. Special lunch today. Once-a-year treat. Fall equinox. Late-summer harvest. And it’s your birthday, lucky lady.

  I pull a card out of my pocket, thrust it at her. She flinches, then grabs it. She works at the envelope with skeletal fingers. Happy Birthday. Love, everyone at Meals On Wheels. A clown holding a bouquet of — what else? — roses. She shakes a bit, holds on to wallpaper, blinks back tears.

  Oh, she says, it’s so lovely. But I wish —

  Yes? I say.

  She looks up at me, surprised, annoyed. I’m ruining the moment. I’m rushing her big day.

  I wish Truman could be here, she says.

  Who’s Truman?

  Once a month I watch her creak out of the house and into a waiting cab. When I see her inching down the front steps in voluminous folds of funereal black I can’t help but think of crows circling one of their expired brood. They eat their own.

  I wish he could too, I whisper diplomatically.

  Well then, young man, she snaps. Let’s see what you’ve got in that basket.

  Caviar. Foie gras. Pickled quail eggs. Crusty baguette. Poached salmon in lemon-dill sauce. A bottle of something sparkling white.

  Oh my, she says, leading the way to the kitchen. I couldn’t eat all that.

  A young lady like you?

  It’s my birthday, she says, getting used to the idea.

  I spread a cracker. Help her into the seat with the view.

  Imagine my wife as sweet, calm, still. Think of her as night’s descent, as a gossamer veil of distance, possibility, ocean horizons,

  sunset memories, vacations. She wants me to wash my feet before getting into the bed.

  I’m already in the bed.

  She stands in the bathroom yanking unwanted bits of eyebrow from the no-man’s-land above her nose. She uses the tweezers from my Swiss Army knife.

  Outside, a truck clears its throat.

  Wash your feet, she yells from the bathroom. Wash your feet or I’m sleeping on the couch. Have you looked at your feet?

  I try not to make a big deal out of things. But sure, I’ve got a temper.

  Little invisible hairs rooted in unwanted places.

  Why can’t it be enough for us to climb into bed, our arms around each other, our breath in hot, cheek-tickling wafts? People want it perfect. They think it’s going to be perfect.

  Finally, she comes into the bedroom. Crosses her arms, looks at me.

  I’m not washing my fucking feet, I say.

  Okay, she says. I’m sleeping on the couch.

  Don’t even try it, I say. I grab her leg and hold on.

  She pulls free.

  I hate you, she says.

  She has soft, smooth skin. She has long legs.

  Two minutes later I’m standing in the tub with the soap in my hands. In the bathroom there’s a picture in a frame, sand and seashells in some sort of pattern, a gift to her from a cousin who died before we met. I’m not sure of the protocol. Do I run the bar of soap against the soles, or do I rub the soap on my hand then use my hand to lather up the foot bottom?

  I close my eyes, exhale.

  Wet foam shoots between my fingers.

  Sometimes she calls during the day. She almost always calls me during the day. On her lunch break.

  I go out on the deck and stare across at Rose sitting in her kitchen. She sits there for hours, looking down at her garden. Minutes and seconds slip by. She doesn’t move, barely breathes. What’s she waiting for? C’mon, old gal, do something. She could go down there if she wanted to. I’ve seen her in the garden, a cape wrapped around her shoulders, a pair of old pruning gloves twisted onto her gnarled hands purely for effect — she’s too old to weed, and, anyway, what’s left to grow?

  It’s not the garden she wants. She’ll get down there and stand next to the drooping bushes and wond
er how she ever mustered the energy. She’ll pull her wrap tight around her stooped shoulders and eye the back door — the steep steps up — as if she’s assessing the bother: Is it worth it? Is anything?

  I’ve been spending a lot of time with Rose.

  I’m in her mind, I’m occupying the stale strictures of her brittle bones. What is it to grow old? My elderly neighbor longingly descends, and I watch her with keen interest because where she wants to go is the last place she wants to go.

  Finally, the phone rings. It’s her, of course, my wife calling me from work. She wants to know what I’m doing.

  Nothing, I say. I can hear her swallow. Rose drinks a cup of tea, sits with her back to me. I see the quaking of her shoulders, I feel the agony of impending departure, I’m sure she’s crying.

  Looking in the want ads, I say.

  She says: Why don’t you walk over to the store and get some pasta or something for dinner?

  It’s raining, I say.

  It’s clearing up, she says.

  Thank you for watching. Stay tuned. Be right back after this.

  The couch is hard and dark. Rose is happy, laughing. Guilty! she says. She’s in on the game, knows the rules for one last glorious moment. We get a little carried away, giggling at daytime TV. Who can blame us? It’s the judge shows, mostly; acts of petty recrimination, smoldering ambitions, dreams that never take root. I take the liberty of switching channels. Judge Judy. Judge Mills Lane. People’s Court. To save you the trouble, I explain. You’re so kind, she says. She dunks a chocolate cheroot in a mug of strong tea.

  Suddenly, it’s the six o’clock news. I rush out to the car.

  She’s waiting on the curb in front of her office. She gets in, frowns. She isn’t talking to me. I stab buttons on the radio. Rose’s laugh, a murmur cackle, knowing, not knowing.

  She orders the taco salad.

  I say: How can you eat that?

  We have to be on guard against conformity, against theme parks and plastic palm trees and cellular phones and deep-fried artificially breaded frozen snacks. You pay $5.99 for six but they get two hundred for twenty bucks. The waiter says: And for you, sir?

  While we wait for the food I suggest we get rid of the car. I announce plans for a holiday. Cross country drive through. And then, at the end, a symbolic good riddance, a shedding. Over a cliff, we jump out on my count, laughing, free, synchronous. There’s a picture on the wall behind her head, blue water and white beach and giant hotels — looming vultures — Acapulco.

  What are you talking about? she says. She blinks her limpid brown eyes, wants to say something other than what she said, wants to get right to the heart of the matter, and so do I, believe me, so do I. Her leg, her hand, her cheek. I suppress the urge to touch, run my fingers through my bangs instead. Regret it immediately. Feel my hair poof up like a threatened porcupine.

  Shall I come over? I ask Rose.

  I can see her soft mouth open in a wrinkle. From the patio, the phone pressed to my ear, I can see everything.

  I’m in the area, I persist.

  Rose, breathing. Hesitates.

  What is it? I snap. Another engagement?

  The light shifts, the kitchen in shadows.

  Yes? I prompt.

  It — she manages. It wasn’t my birthday.

  I’ll be right there, I soothe.

  The police arrive with a complaint. They make quite a scene, with their handcuffs and their pompous questions and their red flashing lights.

  Seems that Truman, regular Meals On Wheels fellow for going on five years, put two-and-two together.

  I think about how making love is like watching something on the screen. It’s entirely two dimensional. There’s the groaning and all of that, the sound track to some movie, simultaneous moans dubbed over the image, the wrong voices not quite in time with the action.

  Be strong, I tell myself. They don’t understand. But Rose needs you.

  I want to be inside. I want to be alive all the time.

  I say: Am I under arrest, Officer?

  You went to her house? she asks.

  A treat, I explain. An act of compassion. I just wanted to —

  Oh my god. That poor woman. Oh my god. You told her you’re from Meals On Wheels?

  Well, not exactly from, but with. Part of, that is. I didn’t want to scare her, you see.

  You didn’t want to scare her? Oh my god.

  She turns away from me, looks up at the framed poster we have on the wall of the kitchen. Sunset in black and white. Gray beach, bleached gold sky.

  I’ve got an idiot for a husband, she says, throwing up her arms. I follow the curve of her back to the place where she swells out. She isn’t the kind of woman who appears beautiful to total strangers. You have to get used to the flaws that make up what’s perfect about her. They say it’s wrong to stare, but doesn’t it depend on what you’re looking at?

  It was perfect, I say. I know that if she could just picture it, if I could have taken a snapshot of Rose’s lopsided smile, of the way the dust kicked up as we moved together up the carpeted stairs. You see, I say, I just wanted to — you have to understand: I held her hand. I peeled her a kiwi. It was her first kiwi.

  Goddamn you, she screams, covering her ears with her hands. What’s wrong with you?

  She doesn’t even try to think about the magnitude of each passing temporal circumstance. This way or that way.

  It matters, of course, but maybe not as much as we think it does. What’s in a name? To get answers you have to listen. You have to climb into someone else’s skull. You have to be willing to visit.

  I don’t understand, she says. What’s happening? she says.

  At the funeral I keep a low profile.

  After, I go into a dingy diner, order a cup of coffee and a slice of cherry pie. In the back, I use the pay phone. I dial her cell and listen to it ring.

  I think of the way her thighs stretch on pale beaches. I think of the little dance she sometimes does when she gets out of the shower.

  I’m not one of those people who is afraid to admit they were wrong about certain things.

  Rose is dead, I say. I’ll call back.

  I hang up the phone. The poster on the wall ripples. Sunset, tan beach, teal ocean.

  Real Estate

  My hand working it. Other hand clicking. Clicking.

  Screen shimmers then blanks. I hit the space bar. The mouse. Nothing.

  I’m protected. Pop-ups, scanners, scripts, cookies, worms. I’m covered. There’s always something new, though. It’s all the same, but there’s always something new.

  My softening organ, greasy with lotion and spit. Alien in the brackish glow. My clean hand tapping: space bar, mouse, space bar.

  Nothing.

  Hard drive whirring. Finally, the movie player opens. I’m expecting the clip I clicked on just before the system went down.

  Thirty seconds of salvation. My crotch twinges. Ready to finish.

  It’s the way they look just before it happens. On their knees, mouths open, eyes nothing but slits. It’s the way they jerk back from that first splash, can’t stop themselves.

  The clip loads.

  I’m almost hard again. Only, it’s not what I’m expecting. A girl in bra and panties. Staring at the camera. Skinny. Not terrified, but maybe afraid. Afraid the way you get when you know what’s coming. There’s no audio. Her gaze. Darting. Who’s she looking for? Leans in. No sound. My hand. Working.

  Please, she mouths.

  I explode.

  Marie Justins is a big lady, nurse in the geriatric ward, has some difficulties regarding her financing as a result of a recent divorce. I’m a mortgage broker who works from his basement home office. I can find a lender suitable to your needs. A lot of people go to the bank. Don’t go to the bank.

  Late afternoon. We sit in her living room. Marie outlines the pertinent details. I take notes, nod encouragingly. Marie’s voice quavers. Clients can become emotional.

  Since my
husband left us — she is saying.

  Can you, I say, tell me again your average monthly take-home after taxes?

  Marie pulls herself together.

  Let me put these numbers in the office computer, I say. Your situation is not unusual, though of course all clients have their unique needs. But I’m sure, I say, standing up, that we can find a resolution that will be more than satisfactory.

  Really? Marie approaches. Her eyes glisten. Her blouse, bursting out. What’s under it, quivering.

  We both hear the front door open.

  Then a girl’s voice: I’m hoooome, followed by her arrival in the living room.

  Marie seems flustered. Hi, she says, louder than necessary.

  This is Mr. Zikowitz. He’s going to help us renegotiate our mortgage.

  I’ll bet, the girl says.

  I must be going, I say.

  We shake hands, palms mutually moist.

  Byyyye, Marie’s daughter croons.

  I slip out of bed and pad into the basement. I close the door to my office. Lock it.

  I search.

  With my wife I perform diligently. Weeks pass. I do her from behind. It is not a case of her being unable to satisfy. It is not that she lacks sex appeal or adventurousness. What is it? You tell me.

  Weeks pass.

  We work. Earn. Speak of what there is to speak of.

  I wake up. It is 2 am.

  Again, the search.

  A physical hardness, which I take care of, catching the mess in tissue.

  Something else remains. Some desire unfulfilled. That girl. Not what she said — please — but the way she said it.

  The way she looked when she said it.

  I monitor certain chat rooms, online forums.

  People talk of things.

  Just words.

  My wife says: Are you all right?

  I shrug, sip coffee.

  Maybe you should see someone?

  About what? I smile.

  You haven’t really been sleeping, she says.

  Am I waking you up?

  The phone ringing in the basement.

  This isn’t about me, she says.

  Duty calls, I say, hoisting my mug.

  Stuart is a fellow mortgage broker I met at a conference. He lives not far from me in a similar home and works in a similar basement office. He has two children, young ones, a boy and a girl. We occasionally socialize, ostensibly to keep each other up to date in regards to the latest developments in our trade. There are always schemes, offers, loopholes to be explored and exploited. We talk shop, do something compatible we both enjoy. This weekend, his wife has taken the kids to their grandmother’s, and we have arranged to meet at the auto show downtown.