An Almost Perfect Moment (10 page)

So it was no surprise to Harry when John peeked at the white sticker fixed to the band and said, “That’s a little steep. Do you have one that isn’t so expensive.”

“Of course,” Harry said, and he brought out a tray of rings, the whole lot of them didn’t total a carat. Chips and dust these were. Crap. “These are all quite reasonably priced,” Harry said, and to show just how reasonably priced they were, he held out the sticker, price side up.

Not so many blocks away, Joanne Clarke stood at the kitchen counter dipping fish filets into a batter of egg and bread crumbs. On the stove, the oil in the skillet was beginning to sizzle, and in the living room, pitch dark but for the blue light of the television, her father, dozing in his armchair, began to snore. Joanne wondered how much more of this life she could take, and she prayed to God, not really so much to God Himself because Joanne Clarke quit believing in God when her mother died an agonizing and putrid death from breast cancer when Joanne was twelve, but more of a
pro forma
plea to the fates to push John Wosileski to ask for her hand in marriage, to save her from being an old maid, a bitter spinster schoolteacher caring for a senile father, who sooner or later would have to be put in a home anyway.

Under the partial darkness of dusk, the streetlights came on as John Wosileski walked home from Harry’s House of Gold and Other Fine Jewelry. The diamond ring, in a red velveteen box, was clutched in his hand, which was snuggled in his ski jacket pocket. Maybe it was the twilight, sorrowful and lovely at once, which was responsible for his melancholy, the vague sense of despair. This should have been a time for joy in John Wosileski’s otherwise predominantly desolate life. He was going to propose marriage to Joanne Clarke, a good woman who will make a fine wife and don’t forget, her figure was nothing to sneeze at either. Soon he would no longer come home to an empty apartment, drafty and dark, to turn on the television simply to feel less alone. And he thought of this as he stepped inside his drab abode, snapped on the light, not an overhead light, but a lamp on an end table. The sixty-watt bulb cast a faint yellow candescence which was hardly enough to brighten the room.

Miriam Kessler was cleaning up after the her mah-jongg game. She carried the dishes to the kitchen sink, emptied the ashtray—telltale coral colored lipstick on nearly all the butts, Sunny Shapiro was smoking like a chimney—and she was folding up the card table when Valentine snuck up behind her mother, practically giving her a heart attack. “Ma,” Valentine asked, “where’s the phone book?”

“The White Pages? Or the Yellow?”

“White,” Valentine said.

“Hall closet,” Miriam told her. “Second shelf on the left side.”

At the kitchen table, Valentine flipped open the telephone book, running her finger down the columns. Miriam, standing at the sink, turned on the faucet and took a sponge to a cake plate.

Having copied out an address and phone number, Valentine folded the piece of loose-leaf paper into fours and then eights before tucking it into the zippered compartment in her pocketbook.

The cake plate was one from Miriam’s set of good dishes. Royal Dalton china, which was a wedding gift from her parents. Miriam soaped the plate and worked the sponge in concentric circles and even when it was very, very clean she continued washing it as if the motion were involuntary when the plate slipped from her grasp and broke on the floor.

Miriam bent down to pick up the pieces, and grunted from the effort, which prompted Valentine to rush over. “I got it, Ma. I got it.” While Miriam went to get the broom, Valentine picked up the larger shards and dropped them in the trash. Turning back, she was face-to-face with her mother, who had the broom in one hand, the dustpan in the other, and two fat tears, having left wet streaks on her cheeks the way snails leave a trail of sludge, now hung in the balance before she wiped them away.

“Hey, Ma. Come on. It’s only a plate.”

Only a plate. But a plate which was part of the set which Miriam had planned to pass along, intact, to Valentine on her wedding day. But that’s one of the problems with plans: the unforeseen making a mess of it all.

I
n this year, as it happened, Valentine’s Day fell on a Saturday, which was a boon for the restaurant business. You’d think each and every couple in all of Brooklyn would be dining out that night, the way reservations were required, even at Dominick’s Pizzeria. Big Dom was advertising a price-fixed extra-large heart-shaped pie with two soft drinks of your choice for $7.95. Not that Beth Sandler was the sort of girl to be content with pizza on Valentine’s Day, heart-shaped or not. Forget that. Joey Rappaport had reservations for Chez Toulouse, which was a French restaurant. Romantic. And expensive.

For Valentine’s Day John Wosileski was going to take Joanne Clarke to Ho Fat’s on Mott Street in the city; a return engagement to the place where they celebrated New Year’s Eve, which was a
demonstrably romantic-type gesture on his part. Ho Fat’s was destined now to become
their
place.

They’d take the train to the city—the LL to Fourteenth Street and transfer for the D to Grand Street—to Chinatown, and once at Ho Fat’s, he’d say, “Happy Valentine’s Day,” as if this, dinner at
their
place, were his gift to her. Wonton soup, egg rolls, scallion pancakes, moo shu pork, and then when the bill came weighted down beneath a pair of fortune cookies, he’d reach into his pocket as if to pay, but instead of his wallet, he’d take out the velveteen box and place it on the plate alongside her other fortune.

That was his plan.

And it was a good plan, and he was satisfied with all of it except for the melancholy that came over him at seemingly random intervals, which he chalked up to a case of the jitters.

All Joanne Clarke knew of John’s plans was that they were going to meet on Valentine’s Day at six-thirty, at the token booth at the Glenwood Road subway, and that they would be going out for dinner. Somewhere special.

That morning, Valentine’s Day, Joanne Clarke was at the King’s County Mall when the doors opened. She had her heart set on buying herself a red dress because this was the first Valentine’s Day ever that she had herself a honey who was taking her out for a Valentine’s Day dinner. She wanted to wear something to suit the occasion.

After she tried on several dresses, all of which looked cheap in her opinion, the saleswoman brought her one more. A soft red, more like a dark pink, sleeveless gabardine knit. It was a nice dress. Very nice, but how much? Joanne snuck a peek at the price
tag. Although it was more than she’d intended to spend, she nonetheless tried it on, and wouldn’t you know, it was like it was made for her. She stepped out of the dressing room for the saleswoman’s take, which was, “Stunning. Absolutely stunning. Like it was made for you.”

And for the first time in her life, Joanne Clarke asked herself,
Why the hell not?
Why not treat herself to something special? And so she did, and as long as she had done one nice thing for herself, why not do another? And another? The idea of such frivolity made her giddy.

Such frivolity came in the form of new shoes—black patent leather, square-toed, and that fashionable chunky heel—to go with the new red dress, and then—all caution to the wind—Joanne found herself seated on a stool at the Estée Lauder counter in Macy’s, where a Puerto Rican woman applied makeup to her face. “This”—the woman held up a tube of something—“this is like the miracle. This will smooth out the skin tone like you wouldn’t believe. Now close your eyes,” she instructed, not as precursor to a surprise—but to apply a glittery mauve eye shadow.

Reclining in the bathtub, Valentine held her nose and slid back and under the water, emerging seconds later with her hair wet for washing. With her left hand, she squeezed a dollop of Clairol Herbal Essence into the open palm of her right hand, where she looked it at for a while, maybe a full minute, as if she were expecting to discover a revelation in the green globule of shampoo. Then she washed her newly highlighted hair.

Miriam was over at the Weinsteins’; Judy’s husband, Artie, worked on Saturdays. Artie had a dry-cleaning establishment and Saturday was the busiest day of his week. On Saturdays, he never got home before seven. He worked like a dog, that Artie, and a nicer guy you could never meet and so what if he was hirsute like a monkey.

To those who would judge them for playing mah-jongg on the Sabbath, those who would condemn The Girls for not keeping the day holy, The Girls said, “Piffle.” What? They shouldn’t have some pleasure after all the cleaning and the cooking and the baking and the shopping and the
schlepping
? What? With everything going on in the world, God was going to be offended at this? Nah. Old-fashioned nonsense, that.

They were modern women, The Girls.

Judy, a dish in a gold lamé pants suit, put out a plate of apricot ruggeleh that of course she baked from scratch and a store bought coffee crumb cake because who had time to bake twice in a day? And The Girls got down to business. Sunny Shapiro lit up a Newport cigarette. Miriam bit into a ruggelah and groaned from the exquisiteness of it. “Oh, Judy. This is dee-lish-ous. Really, you could sell these. Really. Sunny, try the ruggelah and tell me she couldn’t sell these.”

Sunny put her cigarette in the ashtray and popped a ruggelah into her mouth. Her eyes rolled to the heavens as she chewed. After she swallowed she said, “Miriam’s right, Judy. You could sell these.”

Edith passed three tiles to Judy, who passed two tiles—Four Crak and Three Bam—to Miriam, who called, “Pung.”

Sunny lit another cigarette.

“For crying out loud, Sunny,” Edith said. “You got one going in the ashtray.”

Sunny snuffed out the first cigarette and asked Miriam, “So what did you wind up getting her for the Sweet Sixteen?”

“An Add-A-Pearl necklace,” Miriam told them. “With sixteen starter pearls. From Harry’s.”

In unison, the girls nodded their approval. “You get good value at Harry’s,” Sunny said.

“And I got her a couple of blouses,” Miriam said, as if a couple of blouses were nothing. “Huk-A-Poo and Wayne Rogers. The saleswoman said the kids all go for the Wayne Rogers now.”

“It’s true. They’re all wearing them. They’re cute, those blouses.” As the fashion maven of the group, Judy gave her imprimatur to the polyester blouses, fitted to the form and in an array of not-so-subdued prints.

“And she got her hair highlighted. Blond streaks. It looks adorable. Still,” Miriam said, “I would have liked to make her a party,” and then Edith said, “Mah-jongg.”

Home from the mall, Joanne Clarke took her purchases from the bags and spread them out on her bed, as if creating a layout for a fashion magazine. This was exhilarating, to shop for new things for the big date. Joanne wondered how many big dates it would take before the sting of all the nights alone would be relieved. Well, there weren’t going to be any more sorry times. John Wosileski was definitely coming around and in a significant way too. She could envision them engaged within a year’s time, married, and a baby soon thereafter. A baby. Joanne never liked babies. Their red faces and the way they shrieked and wailed and pooped in their pants disgusted her. Babies had that smell about them, that fetid smell she had come to know so well. Her father smelled that way
often enough. But with her own baby, it would be different. She’d heard plenty of women say so, that when it’s your own baby, the poop smells like perfume.

Her reverie was interrupted by her father’s cry coming from the living room. “Joanne,” he called to her. “Joanne.”

Her teeth set on edge, she counted to ten to keep her temper in check before she went to him. “What is it, Dad?” and then she saw what it was. He’d wet himself. Again. The large wet spot spread across his pajama bottom. She kept him in pajamas around the clock now. What was the point of dressing him? It’s not like he was going anywhere.

Soon,
she thought to herself,
soon I’ll be done with this
. No one could expect a newly married woman with a baby to continue to care for a senile old man, and she led her father to the bathroom to clean him up.

Valentine emerged from the bathroom, squeaky clean and smelling of Jean Naté Lemon-Scented After-Bath Splash. She put on her one pair of lace underpants, white, and her newest blue jeans. Although brassieres were the garment on which the family fortune was made, Valentine was not in possession of a pretty bra, an incongruity common enough to have become a cliché in the guise of cobblers’ children going barefoot. Maybe that, not being in possession of an especially pretty bra, was why she didn’t put on a bra at all. Or maybe it was the irony of the fact that she didn’t really need one. It’s not like she had much to rein in or strap up. Valentine, in her blue jeans and bare-breasted, the luster of her skin, the coy sexuality hinted at, the innocence she radiated, conjured up angelic sensuality that could have been reviled as kiddie porn. Next,
Valentine put on a blouse, one of the new Huk-A-Poos Miriam had bought for her, a floral print, little lilies of the valley against a midnight-blue background and one hundred percent polyester of the sort that was like Styrofoam to the touch.

In the kitchen, Valentine wrote her mother a note on the pad which hung on the wall next to the phone for that very purpose.
Dear Ma, I’m with a friend. I don’t know what time I’ll be back, so eat without me. Love, Valentine
.

With an address written down and the paper folded and nestled in the zippered compartment in her pocketbook, Valentine left home.

Miriam won big at that afternoon’s game, largely because not once, but twice, Judy discarded the one tile Miriam needed to complete her hand, which, according to the mah-jongg bylaws, meant Judy had to pay double. True, they played for nickels, so we’re not talking a fortune here, but to have such luck twice in one afternoon put Miriam in a jovial mood; a jovial mood which was enhanced when she discovered her daughter’s note.
With a friend
.
With a friend,
that was good because it pained Miriam to think that her daughter was alone for her Sweet Sixteen.
With a friend
brought about an alleviation, a load off Miriam’s mind, and so Miriam opened the refrigerator and surveyed the bounty.

John Wosileski was fixing himself a bromide. Indigestion. Not indigestion as he had known it before, not bile backing up on him or burning, but rather he felt as if he’d swallowed a golf ball; heavy for its size, weighing on him. Having stirred the Brioschi in a glass of
water, he waited for the fizz to settle. The bubble and tickle of drinks sparkling, be it Asti Spumante, ginger ale, or the Fizzies of his childhood caused him, not to sneeze but to want to sneeze, which was yet another desire unfulfilled. Holding his nose because the taste was terrible, he drank the Brioschi down in one long swallow and put the glass, coated with chalky residue, in the sink. From there, he was headed to the bedroom, where he intended to pick up his dirty laundry from the floor, when he was detoured by a knock at his door.

Wearing jeans and an old SUNY Plattsburgh T-shirt, frayed at the neck, and his moccasins over socks with a hole at the big toe of his right foot, John lumbered across the living room wondering who could it be? A neighbor needing to borrow something or perhaps to ask if he smelled anything funny? (He did, but it was nothing new; the chemical odor from Weinstein’s Dry Cleaning in 24 Hours was always present.) Or maybe it was Joanne Clarke with some sort of a surprise? Or maybe it was a Jehovah’s Witness or the Mormons coming to talk to him about God.

Despite acknowledging the poor odds of getting a preengagement opal or garnet ring this Valentine’s Day, Beth Sandler couldn’t help but think that
maybe, just maybe, you never know, you can’t give up hope. Just because Valentine Kessler said it wasn’t going to happen? Who died and made her God?

To find Valentine Kessler at his door sent John Wosileski into a tailspin.
I must be hallucinating
, he thought, as if she could not be
flesh and blood, but particles of light, as if he were to put his hand out, it would go right through her.

“Hi,” said Valentine. “Can I come in?”

John could produce no words, but after what was only a few seconds, albeit seconds in very slow motion, a garbled noise shot forth from him as if he’d brought up a hairball.

Apparently Valentine—if that was Valentine and not the result of a psychoactive mushroom winding up in the can of Campbell’s vegetable soup he’d had for lunch or else wishful thinking run amok—she read the retching sound to be an answer in the affirmative. She stepped around him and she entered his apartment, which really was something of a shithole. An armchair, his most recent purchase and the color of liverwurst, was stationed directly across from a television with a wire hanger filling in for one missing rabbit’s ear of the antenna. A poster of Jean-Claude Killy was tacked to the wall.

Because of the intent way she scanned the surroundings, John feared she might take it upon herself to tour the place. “Excuse me for a minute,” he said before dashing into the bedroom, where he gathered his dirty laundry as if his underwear were rosebuds. He shoved the bundle under his pillow and just in the nick of time. Or maybe not. Who knew for how long she’d been standing there behind him?

Valentine Kessler’s gaze was concentrated on John Wosileski’s twin bed; that is to say, a single, a bed for one. Unmade, dingy sheets, a lumpy pillow, a blanket which had once been a banquet for moths and discolored too, stained with God knows what, and all it represented—loneliness and worse, the resignation to loneliness. What kind of single guy in his twenties doesn’t buy a bed big enough for
two, big enough to, at the very least, anticipate the possibility of a little action? Also, it was enough to cause your skin to itch.

But it wasn’t as sad as all that, was it? John was on the cusp of triumph over loneliness, his resignation having yielded just enough to give him a chance at something else, and you really don’t have to be in love with a person to have a life together; sometimes a life together is good enough.