A Matter of Love in da Bronx (13 page)

--Know what? Under those circumstances, I'd call you a jerk and a klutz, too. Lose your raincoat, and all that money! Do you know how much beer money you threw away!

--Fuck that! ...Jesus, I never swear, and listen to me. I mean, so what? I lost her. I can always get a coat, money. Lou, will you help me find her?

--Eyyyyyy! I always wanted to go around bareassed with a bow and arrow and be Cupid. But what if my Louisa isn't your Louisa?

--I'll go through that pane when I see it. You know sometimes you get the feeling, just the feeling; you've seen something before...

--
Deja vu
? Or, as the joke goes, it's happening all over again,
deja vu
!

--No, not that. But I knew Louisa Golczek before. I mean, I've seen her when I was younger. I mean, she reminds me of someone the family used to know a long time ago. I don't know, maybe it was high school.

--Can't be.

--Why not?

--Because...because Louisa Golczek was maybe a year or two ahead of me in high school. She's not your age.

--Oh! Lost to me? Is she? Walking along, excitedly, admiring the sky; suddenly stepping in a hole. I beseech you, Calamities! Unbeseige me! Not quite.

--Sam? Fuck. Yesterday...We were supposed to go out...celebrate? I forgot. It was your birthday. Some lousy friend I am.

I'll take you, lousy friend, over a loving relative.

THERE WAS A LYRICAL ESSENCE to the immutable rigidity of the time marking the following days. The modality as synchronous as the metronome, each beat precise, with reason; a playwright at his best unifying time, space, action. Downwardlooking, no doubt; doubtlessly pleased. Every beat of every moment considered, revised, considered again; and then written down; rehearsed, revised, redirected. Thrilling. The heat of the moment. The lights come down. Anticipation. Promises. Billing: Mortals! How Thee Do Agonize! Curtain up. Reality uncreated.

Eden Farms. Sam Scopia. Night. Bloated darkness. Humid. Touch of steam.

His figure fills a space, yet he's relatively unseen by otherpassersby--the inwardly concerned about getting done their doings. He's as disapparent as a formless shadow possessing neither malefic nor benign conscription. No thoughts exchanged from one to the other, save what preliminary, cursory identification is needed to adjudge the relative sanctity of or threat to one's sphere. Or, especially in Sam's case, to find what is sought. She's not here. Blessed optimism, add yet. Understand! She's nothere yet! Footsteps scouting a trail once and again and more. Round and round the Carrefour. Measured steps. Start and stop, for shorter for longer for quicker for slower for seeking for checking for finding! The enigma of purposefully wandering, Sam thought of it after Lou left that afternoon. No question he'd do it. He'd go search for her. In the meantime, more concentration to keep his mind on his work to preclude other thoughts. Every now and then, though, he'd betray himself to envision the re-meeting. He would say this and she would say that, and he'd reply this, and she'd reply that. Then, he'd stop and catch himself. Throttle that idea! Make it die aborning! Don't hitch yourself so far out on a limb because life will saw it off for you! Still running blood fresh weren't all the memories of all the other memories that just never worked out his way? Malediction! Don't you remember? And by what lost pale dare he dream even if he did see her again--crushing the odds--did he believe she'd so much as exchange a word with him? She sent him on his way with sterile hopes, what now could give rise to a change of heart? Enough! Enough! He'd be a fool to search her out against deathdefyingodds that she'd show up at Eden Farms again in the next fifty years! Impenetrable logic. He knew that. And so the day went. Working. Doing. Accepting materials delivery. Upholstering. Laboring. Several times when his mind turned to Lou a buoyant heart bobbed on waves of euphoria when he thought Lou would return to report that he had arranged that he and Louisa would meet. In the hour! Throttle that thought, Jackass! And now the machinations went to work.

Sam made a decision. He would start his amble to Eden Farms at precisely six o'clock. For luck.

Wearing his blue coach's jacket, bought at the Army Navy Store, and cap, he rounded the corner, stood near the curb to survey the expanse. A cursory review followed by scrutiny of every quarter. Bus, far to the left, leaving. Satisfied, he began his tour. Counterclockwise. He paused by the Sacred Wall where he started to light his cigar. Relived the scene, with revisions. Down past the porno house, the storefronts, apartment doors, alleys. Across the street far down the narrow end by the bridge where he watched kids dive for pennies thrown by Roman-arenaens intent on some watery thrill, even death, registering their disappointment when swimmers held up recovered loot then tucked it securely in their bulging squirrelycheeks. Back now toward the line of busses ingesting caterpillars of people. By more stores and such, including a photographer's studio, up further, cross another street, to check out the latest offering at the Bijou at the foot of the hill leading to Death Bronxvalley above and beyond in the East's modern version. Cross again, and again, cross more streets, including the one that held the deli and the Sanitary Upholstery Shop, back to the point of origination. Another extensive survey, one of the two-dozen stops, then, the same objective, the same outlook, the same goal, but this time clockwise. Only darker. And the shrine had been firmly established as the exact spot of their collision. The first time around, he stopped to light his cigar, thinking of the incident, not of hallowed ground. Subsequent times, he stopped at precisely the same spot to search hard for her in the faces about. He wasn't aware of it, but he lit a match, touching the flame to his stub of a cigar, every time, a reversion to religious ceremony. In the frenetic bleakness of the square he constantly scanned the spot. And, in the strangest of quirks of the human brain, he knew he possessed the thought but refused to acknowledge it: Was it not possible she would come there looking for him? Sure! And the Pope would take up residence in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, was his own unacknowledged reply. It was too unbearable to think about, not because it was possible; but because if he asked himself he would have to admit the opposite was true, as well. He'd have none of that. Soon, it grew too dark to see directly across from one side of the square to the other with any clarity, and he found himself stopping less, walking faster through the greater distances, and slowing up as he approached The Scene. Finally, at eleven-thirty, he left the square headed for home convinced that he should go only by the argument that no unescorted woman would be strolling at that hour. The fact that he made the tour for five-and-a-half hours, that he nothing to drink in that time, that having gone without supper left him some bit hungry, and that he had to go to the john didn't have a single thing to do with his decision. He would do exactly the same thing the next night if he wasn't expected at the restaurant

To her, Eden Farms looked strange in the daytime, rarely any call to find herself in the neighborhood except to meet Louisa. It was far enough away from home to make it somewhat safe from coincidental meetings with anyone who might know her and send word back to her father that she was there, alone, working the walk just like a common Bronx hookerina. There was no excuse to go out of the house on Thursday nights, or be home late from work. She was given no--repeat--no slack for a private life. At the verymost, she had a forty-minute leeway in checking in before a third degree, a tirade, a condemnation, or all three. She had established that amount of time by deliberately extending the time it took to get home from work, by shopping, reading, talking to Louisa. It was Mary's time, her veryown, and she treasured it.

Today she used the time to get off the subway at 174th Street. She hurried Louisa away from work, lucky to find seats on the train so they could continue the discussion started at the lunch break about Sol, the main thrust of which was the odds and procedure of trying to re-establish contact with him. When Mary left Louisa she was buoyed by the thought that even though she couldn't devote too much time to search for him this night, she would have the following evening when she'd cut classes and meet Louisa at Eden Farms late at night again, as well as the promise from Louisa that she'd try to locate the upholstery shop on Saturday when Mary would have to go housecleaning with her mother.

Walking, trying to seem intent on a goal as a defensive measure, she approached the porny flic. She kept her eyes downturned, focused on the sidewalk where they did it--crashed into each other. Carefully, she walked past the spot for two storefronts then stopped. First, she checked her reflection in the storewindow. --Have you no shame? No, not a bit. She turned to look back, scanning faces all about. In the rush of people she became less self-conscious, walking down a bit more before stopping, and confidently checking out the area. When she became uncomfortable, she walked back the way she'd come, and repeated the performance. She was able to do that three times before she knew she had to give up for that night. She crossed to the other side, and got on a bus. Waiting for the public conveyance to fill, she stared longingly toward the spot across the expanse scrutinizing forms, silhouettes. What? There! Standing; looking for something; looking for somebody; looking about. On the corner--could it be? The cap looks familiar, and perhaps, just perhaps he would be the type to wear a blue coach's jacket. So far to see. So short a time to really get a good look. To look. To look. To find!

Later, that night, both in their own rooms abed, let the bountiful fruits from the vineyard of their deepminds drift, scamper, and streak endlessly through their consciousness. Dissatisfaction, like a blackboard chalksqueak, halted their reveries of pleasant and marvelous things. There was an emptiness. Oh! No concern, no concern at all. Merely hunger. How easy, a mere snack'll do. A snack would do, Oh! No! Not that kind. More digestible, more filling than the solid they thought. It derived of emptiness, indeed, an empty place whereof fostered are unmysterious yearnings. Lights fade to come up again on the following sunrise.

In the larger aspect of the day which held the meagerest significance there would be the greatest similarity to all the other days, yet the meagerest aspects in and of the day which held the greatest significance would make the most worthwhile difference for both of them.

For Sam, it meant a more meticulous shave, and a chance to laugh at the memory his reflection brought him of the incident in eighth grade when he was standing in the school auditorium watching the principal strut by only to be shoved backwards causing him to sit heavily on the piano keys behind him. A most unusual and unexpected fanfare. It brought the audience to tears with laughter. The insensitive assistant principal bitch of a frustrate, unsatisfied with the innocent lad's spreading deep purple embarrassment, enraged with his sheepish half-grin, forced him to march the gauntlet out of the auditorium to the accompaniment of the raucous laughter which became more and more obscene to him with each step. Recalling the incident, he nodded. Of such was the genesis of murderers and their violent acts. But, he knew enough, even then, not to take life too seriously, and recalled that for one brilliant moment, he played a magnificent dissonant rallentando tarantella, which the stickstiff assistant principal wouldn't recognize if it was shoved up her backside. He liked that, smiling happily now as he carefully filmed his face with his special after shave, unused in more than a dozen years. The scent was electric, provoking a deep emotional response--first, sadness. It had been used so little. Next, joy, the hope nurtured by the reason of its application. He walked into the kitchen fully intending to prepare his usual lunch. No. He received a signal from within. No lunch. He'll not be needing anything to eat, especially with no appetite. There was always the deli, and what restaurant worker ever went hungry? The thought of working with Primo and Peppi always brought ripples of happiness to his heart, he moaned at the thought wondering if he could call them and say he wouldn't be in? It would allow him to spend some hours in Eden Farms again. It would be hard on them if he did that, and he knew it, realizing also, if his prospects of meeting Louisa Golczek were just the slightest bit better, he wouldn't hesitate for a heartbeat. He had to be satisfied late that afternoon to close the shop at the usual time, making the pilgrimage to the shrine in a disheartened air knowing for some reason that he was much too early to interdict Louisa Golczek in her travels. No matter. He stayed as long as he could and then caught a bus to Il Ristorante del Giardino in the ritzy section of Southern Boulevard. Had he looked back toward The Wall, where IT happened, he might've recognized the woman he knew as Louisa Golczek.

That morning, all the small things were going for Mary, too. Like lipstick. On a weekday morning? And extra time to fix her hair. And picked with care a special blouse and skirt.

--Looks like you got a date.

Gilda. Smartass. --No date. The retort: Bull! Again, no date.

--You're going to meet someone special then. Know how I can tell? You see, you're in my department now. Nothing gives me a bigger thrill than getting ready for a date. I want to look just so. Iron something special. From skin out, nice and clean, nice smell, good feel. Make up like it's for the Academy Award. Then, stoke the furnace in my brain to get up for the meeting. Then, try to calm the frizzle below my belly button, but inside. Nothing like it. Nothing. I love it. I get excited talking about it. And you're going to tell me I'm wrong?

--Wrong! Go back to sleep.

--Aunt Mary...? Got any cigarettes?

A few. Half of them for Gilda.

--Aunt Mary, do you believe in Free Will?

--Course. Without Free Will there could be no Heaven, no Hell. What's all this business we're doing on Earth if not to prove we're worthy of Paradise, or deserve our eternal souls to roast in Purgatory. Without Free Will no choice would be ours freely, we would be puppets with nothing to prove.