by Darcey Bell
Tears popped into my eyes.
One of the guys said, “I don’t eat this shit.” Another said, “I don’t eat this shit, either.” Then another. I packed the salad into plastic tubs and tossed it into the dumpster behind the building.
But at least I met Rocco. It doesn’t always happen that something good comes out of something bad. For once, I was lucky, though it wasn’t all luck. Planning played a part.
I’d seen Rocco around the Greenmarket. There was something about him I liked. He was handsome and dark and shy, and really nice to his workers. I began to look for him. Low-tech, old-school stalking. There were other stands that sold kale, but I chose his when my office green-lit my salad.
I asked if I could have a discount since I was buying in bulk. But I didn’t care about a discount. I wanted his attention. I never imagined that he would offer to help me carry everything back, or that we’d have a chance to talk, walking up Broadway. Well, maybe I did imagine it, but I didn’t believe it would happen. I gave him my phone number, and he called the next day.
ON OUR SECOND date, Rocco drove me up to his home in Claverack, in the Hudson Valley.
Signs of other women were layered in his house like the circles that mark the age of a tree. I wasn’t jealous. I didn’t care about the past. Rocco’s sheets were freshly washed. We laughed. We had fun.
On Monday I took the train from Hudson back to work in the city, and the next Friday morning, early, I met Rocco in the market. The park was lovely at that hour, with a bright mist rising from the wet pavement. I went up to Rocco, he turned, and we kissed. I still had my arms around him when I said, “This could ruin everything, but could I ask you a question?”
“Now I’m scared,” said Rocco.
“Don’t be scared. It’s just stupid. Can I take a picture of us?”
“Deal breaker. I can’t be kissing a woman who buys ten pounds of kale and takes selfies.”
“It’s not for Instagram or anything. It’s for me. My grandma says, ‘Everyone makes fun of you girls for taking selfies, but I think it’s brilliant. Someday you can look back and know that the person in the picture was you.’”
“Your grandmother said that?”
“She’s a prophet. A prophet and a saint.”
He was warming to my grandma. Everyone does. Especially men.
Rocco introduced me to his workers, Ravi and Tengbo.
I said, “Can I ask them to take a picture of us on my phone? Oops. I guess I mean your phone. I left mine at work.”
“Sure,” Rocco said. “But I just lost my hard-on.”
“You’ll get it back. I promise.”
“In that case, go ahead,” he said. “Tengbo can take it on my phone and I’ll send it to you.”
Our fake kiss for the camera had turned real by the time we stopped. We were both a little flushed. Tengbo and Ravi looked down. I was sorry that we embarrassed them. But apologizing would only have made it worse.
Rocco saw that I sympathized with his workers. That sort of thing was important to him, and it made me like him even more.
4
Charlotte
Charlotte has gotten so used to passersby stopping to stare at Alma’s window displays that she no longer notices. So she’s startled when Alma says, “That woman out there is looking at you like she knows you.”
It’s been a while—three weeks, maybe—since Rocco brought Ruth to dinner and she made them eat those sticky buns. Charlotte assumes her brother is still seeing her. He hasn’t been staying with them on his nights in the city. But he hasn’t said anything, and Charlotte hasn’t asked.
“That’s Rocco’s new girlfriend,” Charlotte says to Alma.
Ruth must see that Charlotte is elbow-deep in a bucket of delphiniums, but as she walks into the shop, she says, “Is this a bad time?”
“Not at all,” lies Charlotte.
“I was wondering. Could we go out for a quick coffee? I know you’re busy. You can say no.”
“It’s a perfect time,” says Charlotte. Lying again.
“This place is amazing. Half these flowers, I don’t even know what they are. And it smells like . . . heaven . . .”
Charlotte says, “Alma, this is my brother’s friend Ruth.”
Ruth holds out her hand to shake Alma’s, smiling so engagingly that Alma—who’s not in the best mood—can’t help smiling back.
Ruth says, “I’m playing hooky from work. Just for a little while.”
“Is that all right with them?” Charlotte can’t help turning into the anxious big sister, making sure that no one’s getting in trouble.
“They probably won’t notice.”
“Half an hour,” Charlotte says. “We can go somewhere close.” She looks at Alma, as if for permission.
“I’ll be fine,” says Alma.
THE TATTOOED BARISTA at Big Cool Bean hardly hears Charlotte’s order, he’s so enchanted by the wide-eyed vivacity with which Ruth asks for a skim milk latte.
Ruth waltzes her coffee to a table. Charlotte sticks a dollar in the tip jar and follows Ruth.
Ruth says, “I used to work at a place like this. What matters is who you’re working with. Believe me, what matters is not ‘Should I leave room for milk and sugar, sir?’”
Charlotte recalls the intensity with which Ruth talked to Daisy. Something childish and odd about her spoke to Daisy’s shyness. Charlotte would have been wary if a man glommed on to Daisy that way. But people like it when childless women are comfortable with kids. Teachers, librarians, aunts.
“Daisy’s a great girl,” says Ruth, as if she’s read Charlotte’s mind.
“She is. I know I worry about her too much. My therapist—”
“You’re in therapy!” Ruth says. “I would never have thought that!”
“Thanks,” Charlotte says uncertainly. “Ted helps me keep everything in balance.”
“Ted?” Ruth says. “This is weird. I once dated a therapist named Ted.”
“Ted Lewin,” Charlotte says. “It couldn’t have been the same guy. Ted’s an older man—”
“It wasn’t Ted Lewin,” Ruth says. “It was Ted . . . Franklin.”
“Not the same guy,” says Charlotte.
“What a coincidence that would have been! Sometimes I think that I should be in therapy. Seriously. I’m dealing with some unresolved bad-mom issues that surface when I least expect them.”
“Everybody is,” says Charlotte. “Everybody has some bad-mom issues. Daisy probably will too.” Charlotte regrets this the minute she says it. Why is she telling Ruth about the problems that her daughter may or may not have?
“I doubt it,” Ruth says. “You guys are so cool with her. I know Rocco had some problems with your mom. But he’s pretty closemouthed about it.”
It’s Rocco’s business to tell Ruth what he wants her to know. There’s a silence. Then Charlotte says, “Whom did you work with? At the coffee shop.”
Ruth laughs. “This guy Russ. We had this long vibey thing, and then this short hot something else. He had more tattoos than that guy, piercings everywhere. I thought, I’ve never made it with a guy like that, and I may never have another chance, so why not? Am I right?”
Charlotte nods uncertainly.
“The sex was . . . unusual. But good. Better than good. Maybe rougher than I would have liked. But consensual. So . . . one Saturday morning he picks me up in his Honda Civic. We drive to an empty lot under the George Washington Bridge and meet these other guys, all driving shitty cars. Someone shoots off a gun, and we’re racing down the West Side Highway, scaring the shit out of people. Whoever reaches Battery Park first without killing someone wins. The loser buys everybody drinks. Then they do the same thing uptown, only drunk.”
“What happened then?” Charlotte is a little shocked by how rapidly this conversation has progressed from a polite, friendly chat into something much more . . . intimate. She reminds herself of how quickly Rocco’s girlfriends have appeared on the scene and then vanished. Remi
nds herself: Watch out. This woman is not your friend.
“After that? I stopped taking his phone calls and texts. Do I look crazy to you?”
“No.” What else can Charlotte say? A little crazy, maybe. But not nearly as nutty as Rocco’s previous girlfriends. And there’s something appealing about Ruth, something innocent and open, a brave refusal to be defeated by whatever life has in store for her.
“So tell me something.” Ruth fiddles with her necklace, then smiles. “What was the strangest sex you ever had? Weirdest place. Kinkiest. Whatever. Come on. I won’t tell your brother.”
Charlotte squints into the mist. She still can’t believe how quickly this conversation has progressed. “Once, I went home with a guy who started howling like a coyote when we were having sex.”
Ruth burst out laughing. “No! And?”
“I laughed. The guy asked me to leave.”
Charlotte hasn’t told that story in a while. All her friends have heard it. And Eli, of course, early on. She likes it that Ruth laughs. Maybe Ruth and Rocco will work out. Maybe they can be happy.
“Poor guy,” Ruth says. “Trying to find a woman who won’t mind his . . . special thing. Seeing them all freak out. The disappointment!” No one has ever said that before. Not one person—including Charlotte—wondered what it was like for him.
“My boyfriend before Rocco was so kinky, I kind of forgot what halfway-normal sex was like. He was the all-time worst, really . . . He worked at a place like this. So, okay . . . can I talk to you about something?”
Here it comes. This won’t be the first time that one of Rocco’s girlfriends has cried on Charlotte’s shoulder. She’s heard all sorts of theories about why he’s such a frustrating boyfriend.
Ruth says, “I care about your brother. Maybe he’s a tough nut on the outside, but he’s thoughtful and decent and nice. But what I want to know is . . . what did your mom do that got her sent away? Rocco’s hinted at something, but when I press him, he goes radio silent.”
Charlotte’s half smile freezes on her face. “I think that’s Rocco’s call . . . what he wants to tell you . . . It’s something . . . he doesn’t like to talk about . . . Neither of us do . . .”
“Not even a hint?” says Ruth. “I want to be there for Rocco.”
Charlotte thinks, Don’t tell him we’ve had this conversation. She hesitates to say anything that Ruth might interpret as an offer of friendship. Who is Ruth . . . really? Charlotte has the strangest sensation of seeing a forest creature streak by, just past the edge of her vision. She thinks: I’ve already said too much. Ruth’s surprisingly easy to talk to. Under other circumstances, they might have become friends . . . or, anyway, friendly. But these aren’t “other circumstances.” Ruth is Rocco’s girlfriend. Charlotte knows better than to became even slightly attached.
She says, “I’m so happy to hear you feel that way. I love my brother. I want him to be happy.”
“I do too,” Ruth says. “And . . . just to clarify: I want him to be happy with me.”
5
April 19
Charlotte
Now Ruth has taken Daisy. Ruth has stolen Daisy from her school.
Charlotte is on her way to meet Rocco and then Eli at Ruth’s apartment. Maybe Ruth will be back already. Maybe she’ll be there with Daisy.
Charlotte doesn’t feel like she has the stamina to go up and down the subway steps, especially if there’s a crowd. She taps an app on her phone. The car will arrive in two minutes. She checks the app that finds Daisy’s inhaler. Once again she gets nothing—and panics all over again.
Erzilie, the Uber driver, is a middle-aged Haitian who handles her RAV4 confidently and well. She has a soothing presence, and it takes all of Charlotte’s willpower not to tell her that she is in terror.
Her daughter has been taken (she’ll avoid the word kidnapped, for now) by her brother’s girlfriend. It could turn out to be nothing. It could be a tragedy. At the moment she can’t tell. She’s in mortal fear. She can’t help it.
The driver will sympathize. She’ll shake her head and make soft, kind noises at Charlotte and maybe aim an angry growl at the brother’s rogue girlfriend. But will that mean she’ll drive faster?
Charlotte wants and doesn’t want that. She doesn’t know what she wants. She wants this not to be happening.
Waze’s bright, soothing electronic voice warns Erzilie (and Charlotte) in advance of what they are supposed to do, then reassures them that they haven’t made a mistake. The voice tries to make the long torturous drive seem like fun. Let’s take Nassau Avenue!
For a few seconds, Charlotte’s terror subsides. She wonders how often people remark on how the neighborhood’s changed. Then Charlotte remembers the pleasure of being in a car with Eli and Daisy, and a dentist drill of fear grinds at the back of her throat.
In their woolen caps pulled low and their big dark overcoats, the hipsters look like the old Polish people whose neighborhood they’ve overtaken. Camouflage, thinks Charlotte.
Charlotte calls Eli, but he doesn’t pick up. Maybe he’s talking to the police. More likely he’s waiting on hold, yet another thing he is better at than she is.
The weathered vinyl-sided houses are so identically grimy and dull that the driver passes the address and continues for an entire block before they realize she’s overshot their destination. She tells Charlotte she has a pinched nerve and doesn’t like to twist around and back up, but she can drive around the block and get it right on the next try.
Charlotte says no thanks, that’s fine, it’s only a block.
She can use the walk.
She gets out of the car and runs.
6
November, Five Months Earlier
Ruth
I’m not sure if Charlotte likes me, and when I’m uncertain, I babble. Later I can’t remember one word I said. She seemed friendly enough over coffee. If she hadn’t wanted to leave work, she could have said no. Her assistant seemed annoyed. Obviously, they were busy, and I tried not to keep Charlotte away too long.
She hugged me goodbye, an impersonal hug but better than a handshake. I decided to stop by my office; then I went back home to wait for Rocco.
Sometimes Rocco seems totally present, sometimes not so much. Sometimes he seems to like me; sometimes I drive him crazy. Already I worry that Rocco is bored and planning to leave me. I honestly don’t know what I’ll do when he tells me it’s over.
I don’t trust myself not to let things get out of hand.
I decide to ask Granny Edith. It’s surprising how well she understands modern guys. She always gives me good advice—usually: Dump him, Ruthie!
Watching her roll out the dough for a chicken potpie comforts me as I describe dinner at Charlotte’s house. I leave out the awkward moments. Why make Granny feel embarrassed on my behalf?
Granny says it might be helpful to understand Rocco’s history. I say he doesn’t understand it, so how can I? She says women can understand things men can’t.
I tell Granny Edith that Daisy is the only one who likes me. Her mom keeps insisting that she’s shy, but she isn’t shy with me. I keep having this weird feeling that I know Daisy better than her mom does. And Daisy looks so little like either of them—I sometimes wonder if she was adopted and they’re keeping it a secret.
Whenever I think about Charlotte and Daisy, I think about the poor young mother who got murdered in her own home, not far from Granny Edith’s.
“Is the door locked?” I ask.
“I think so,” she says. “Ruthie . . . leave the little girl alone, or you’ll make the mother hate you.”
“I like the little girl. I like her best of all.”
“Fine. But don’t let on. The mom will never trust you. Do you really want to know the way to these people’s hearts? Through their stomachs. They care about food.”
“Which is why I brought them your sticky buns.”
“That’s my girl,” she says.
7
Charlotte
Rocco calls Charlotte at work and says Ruth wants to take them all to dinner. There’s a spot in Flushing. The cuisine’s from a distant corner of China. Super funky, super cheap, super excellent. Ruth says it’s really special.
Charlotte’s so shocked to hear her brother use the words cuisine, really, and special that she says yes. He would never agree to go somewhere trendy or overpriced. But this place seems to say to him: Immigrants flinging themselves into the melting pot. Democracy in action. Ruth must have figured out Rocco.
Rocco says, “We should go before the food bloggers ruin it.”
Daisy’s thrilled by this break in her weeknight routine of the nutritious dinner with both parents at home. Pajamas, a story, bed. The happy domestic evening every kid is supposed to want. That’s why she’s so happy to escape.
Eli likes to drive. They garage their car, a 2017 Saab, on Avenue A, though they rarely use it.
It’s an unseasonably warm evening. Charlotte likes being in their little world on wheels heading for the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. She opens her window, but when they pass a cemetery where someone has made a bonfire of lopped-off branches, Daisy coughs. Maybe she’s just clearing her throat, but Charlotte rolls up the window.
The GPS coaxes them around cloverleafs and down quiet residential streets. On a block of one-family houses, the GPS voice insists they have arrived. They drive back and forth, annoyed. Getting lost isn’t something that Charlotte and Eli handle well. Each blames the other and blows up way too soon.
It’s Daisy who says, “Maybe it’s there.” She points down an alley lined with snarling stone lions. “Are they real, Mom?”
“No,” says Charlotte. “They’re made of rock.”
“Cement,” says Eli.
“I meant cement,” says Charlotte.
Eli says, “You knew they’re not real lions, Daisy. You’re just messing with Mom.”
Daisy giggles. “I know, Dad. I’m not a baby.”
Delicious smells—soy sauce, roasting meat, garlic, onions—drift in through Eli’s window.
