Stop Here (14 page)

“I could ask the same question.”

“No one home yet.” He sounds mellow, unusual for him.

“I fought with Darla, don't know where she ran to.”

“These kids,” he offers. “What about?”

“Wants to join the army.” God, is she really sharing with Murray? He doesn't have a clue about her daughter. When Darla occasionally comes in for a meal, he doesn't chat with her, just notices the food she eats.

“That's crazy.”

“I thought you liked the war.”

“It's no place for women. Better stop her,” his tone more dismissive than interested.

“After July she won't need my signature.” The powerlessness of it all threatens to drown her.

“Tough, tough. Kids test us.”

“You don't have children.”

“Doesn't mean I'm stupid.” He scowls at her.

Man's still her boss. “Of course not.” She finishes the drink, which isn't doing a thing to calm her.

“The truth about kids is . . . they grow up.”

“Murray, she'll be sent to a war zone. Growing older may not happen. Get it?” She can't help herself.

His hand covers hers.

She stares at him. “What's going on?” She removes her hand.

“I'm a little drunk, a lot lonely. Let me buy us a round.” He holds up two fingers for the bartender to see. Then gazes at her as if she's the answer to a question he's been pondering. It doesn't take a shrink to know he wants her to probe his misery, help him unburden. Men like him expect that from a woman. An instant fantasy, bed down with him, then ask him to pay for Darla's education. The only thing more ludicrous would be doing it.

“One more and I'm off,” she says. No doubt the man looked old when he was thirty. Some men are like that, wheelers and dealers, anxious about next steps while peering over their shoulder to see who's stalking them. It wears out the face. Jimmy was open, boyish, probably doesn't look much older now.

The bartender serves the drinks, places their empty glasses on a tray, then wipes the table with a rag and leaves.

After a quick sip, she reminds him, “Really . . . I have to go find Darla.”

“Sure. Sure. But stay a few minutes. If something bad happens to me, Sylvie will be sorry.”

“Why's that?” she mumbles. Because who cares. An unhappy man with a lot of money doesn't rouse her sympathy. One quarter of what he paid for the house would cover four years of college.

“The woman isn't being attentive the way it's supposed to be. She works late, sometimes even on weekends, but doesn't need to work at all. She cooks when she can, then freezes the damn food for me. I sit there alone with the dogs. The house is so big it echoes. Why did I even set it up? I don't know, Mila, I don't understand her. Women tend to be devious.”

“Thanks, but I refuse the insult.” He looks at her bewildered. She chooses to conserve her energy, which is dissipating with each drink.

“Maybe Sylvie's having an affair, but I don't think so. A man can smell that kind of thing. You know what I think? I think Sylvie doesn't know how to be married. No one taught her. Maybe we both need a few lessons,” his tone gloomy.

“Well, amen to that,” she says. “Murray, go home. Sylvie will be there by now. She'll worry.”

“That's what I want,” his tone defiant. “See—”

She'll trawl a few bars, find one of Darla's friends who can give her some place to search for her. Oh Jesus and Mary, the beach . . . she and Michelle always go there. At this time of night? Maniacs lurking in the shadows? Two beautiful young women walking alone in the dark?

“What I believe is—”

Christ! Panic has her by the throat. She grabs her purse.

“—sooner or later, everything has a solution,” he says.

• • •

“Darla, I can't drive around all night. My father will have the force out. Stay at my house. We won't answer the phone.”

“No.” Not with Michelle's brothers parading around, she doesn't like sleeping with them in the next room, either, probably jerking off. “Drive me to Rosalyn's dad, the guy I work for. It's right down the road.”

“This time of night?”

“He naps on and off all day and watches TV forever. I'll knock . . . just try it.” She stares out the window seeing nothing. So what if this Jimmy guy fought in Iraq. That was a million years ago.

“Well, sorry for thinking you're nuts.”

“It's around the corner, second house.”

Michelle looks at her. “You can still change—”

“Wait to see if I get inside.”

She runs up the old driveway, the blue and white TV screen flickers through the foggy window. She knocks hard at the door. Hears the slow plod of feet.

“Who's there?”

“It's me, Mr. Joseph, Darla.” She waves at Michelle to leave.

He opens the door. “What are you doing here? Something happen? A guy chasing you?”

She smiles. Because what could the sick old man do about it. “I had a fight with my mom, and don't want to go home. I could sleep on the couch, do some work for you in the morning. You don't have to pay me. Sort of a trade-off.” She hears the quickness of her words and wonders if he's gotten it all.

“Come in. Shut off the TV. Make some coffee.”

She turns off the TV, goes in the kitchen. The coffee's already made. Old man probably forgot. This Jimmy guy could be old, too . . . more likely Mila's age. Who cares? It's all so stupid, the lies, the whatever. It probably made her mother feel powerful. Secrets can do that.

She's hyper enough but pours two cups, brings them in. The old man sits in his BarcaLounger but doesn't touch the coffee. She eyes the oxygen canister, the long tubes extending into his nose, the slow hiss of air, hypnotic. Dropping on the couch, she feels the springs. There's an unused bedroom. Later.

He removes the oxygen lines and hangs them over the chair arm. “What did you fight about?” His wheeze is more pronounced than usual. God, don't let him get worse while she's here.

“My mother revealed a long-held secret to stop me from joining the army. She figures if I'm going to die, I might as well know the truth.”

“What secret?” He looks concerned. Sweet old man.

“My father's been in prison sixteen years. He didn't want me to see myself as the daughter of a criminal.” Her mom's setting her up, that's what. Her mom wants her to talk to this Jimmy guy who went nuts in Iraq. Isn't going to happen.

“Well, maybe you're not.”

“Mr. Joseph, they don't put people away all those years for no reason.”

“Circumstances make people do stupid things, then they have to pay. Doesn't mean he's a horrible person. He could be. Doesn't mean he is.”

“You're only saying that to make me feel better.”

“I knew good people who did a lot of dumb things. Some ended up in jail, some in rehab, some in the ground. I've seen my share . . .” He gazes past her, his mouth slightly open.

“My mom's determined to keep me from signing up, but soon I'll be able to go without her permission. Thing is, the next few weeks with her will be hell. I wish I could leave tomorrow.”

“I know a woman who had a baby when she was around your age. She gave it away, couldn't care for it properly, so she said. Your mother didn't do that.” He takes a sip of coffee. “It's cold,” he hands her the cup. For a moment she stares at it, then returns to the kitchen to make a fresh pot.

While it drips into the pot she checks the fridge. Stuff there for breakfast. The old man likes his food. She'll remind Mr. Joseph to replace the oxygen lines. The last thing she needs is for him to have a breathing attack. What if this Jimmy guy is sick like the old man, some disease or cancer? Shouldn't she know about this for her future? Everyone says she looks like her mom, still . . . how come this Jimmy guy wasn't curious about her? Prisoners always want contact with spouses and children. He sounds like a selfish prick. How could her mother love a guy like that? No wonder she doesn't go out much, scared of repeating the mess she made.

She carries in a steaming cup of coffee. His eyes are closed. She leaves the cup on his TV tray, tiptoes into the spare bedroom. She switches on one of the dim lamps. It must've been his daughter's room, though there's no sign of life anywhere. The bed's made, nothing on walls or dresser top except an old, grimy mirror. She could check the closets but she doesn't want to. Okay, she's surprised. Okay, shocked. Her mother gabs about every little thing. What else hasn't her mom told her? Who cares? Sooner than later she's out of here. Her mother will adjust. She'll have to. She checks her cell phone: five missed calls from her mother. Anyway, no one asked her mom to be a martyr. If
she
got pregnant, she'd have an abortion. There's also a message from Michelle. She listens. Her mother called the house and woke her father, who yelled up to ask where Darla was. “Obviously, I was fast asleep.”

Tiptoeing out, she sees the old man is still napping. Should she reattach the oxygen? That's another thing. Stay home with her mom and then what? Become a nurse. Take care of sick old men. She's fond of Mr. Joseph. But he's not her future. And the hellhole he lives in isn't either. Maybe old people don't care where they live. That would never be her. Her house, too, is disgusting. It's clean, her mother keeps telling her. But what the hell does that mean? Clean? You can't call something so run-down clean. Jesus. These people fool themselves because they're either too lazy or too scared to change. Or worse, they don't know any better. It's depressing. Her cell phone vibrates and she takes it into the spare room, stares at it till it stops. Her mother's having a heart attack. She picks up the last message; Mila's walking the beach looking for her. She calls her mom's number.

“Darla?” her mother's breathless voice.

Who else, she wants to say. “I'm signing up day after my birthday. Period. Otherwise I'll live at Michelle's until its time to leave.”

“I hear you.”

“I want an agreement.”

“I won't nag you. Come home. Where are you?”

“Rosalyn's dad's.”

“Christ. You woke the old man?”

“He wasn't asleep. Mom, something else.”

“Yes?”

“Why did you listen to this Jimmy guy?”

“I was young and scared and he sounded so sure.”

“Are you sorry?”

“I don't let myself go there.”

“All these years you didn't think about—”

“I did a lot at first.”

“Were you heartbroken?”

“Let's talk more about it when we see each other. It's easier that way.”

“Mom, easy isn't the way life is. Never mind. Just pick me up.”

Mr. Joseph wheels the canister to the doorway. He's reattached the oxygen. Suddenly she feels like an intruder. He didn't offer this room. “My mom's coming to . . . I'm sorry if I . . .”

“Get me a six-pack on your way over tomorrow.” He shuffles out.

She waits on the lawn, her back against the rough bark of a tree; light opening in the sky, the heat of the day beginning. Does her mother know where Mr. Joseph lives? Even if this Jimmy guy suddenly wants to see her, she'll refuse. What kind of father waits sixteen years to offer a hand? No kind she wants to know, though she'd probably get a lot of pointers from him about the desert.

• • •

Mila glances out the car window. Leaves hang precariously from tree limbs. In another week they'll fill the gutters. It's been a summer hot enough to wilt anyone's spirit. But now, a cool breeze ruffles her hair. The map's open on the seat beside her. She's terrible with directions, giving, taking, or following them. On long trips, her daughter was the guide. She's avoiding the highway, going through small towns different from her own. Huge houses that don't resemble each other remind her of the one Murray built. Her foot on the gas pedal is bare, though high-heeled shoes lie on the mat. Darla would get a chuckle seeing her in the sexy green dress she hasn't worn in years.

Darla's last e-mail said she might get a leave after basic, but “Mom, don't count on it.” God knows she counts on nothing, trying to adjust is all. Less shopping, less cooking, no checking the clock to wonder where her daughter is, but none of it gives her an ounce of comfort. Dread dogs her even at the diner where she hoped to be too busy to notice. Morning, noon, night, she tells herself, what's done is done. No use. She can't accept the danger. Iraq? Afghanistan? It's where Darla's headed. Friends try to help. Ava offers words of support, Shelly, who should know, assures her that all will be fine, that time passes quickly. Even Sylvie sent a message. But, really, it's a crapshoot. The truth is no one has a clue what will happen, she least of all.

And truth is what's she's after. It's about time. He doesn't know she's coming. He'll recognize her, though. She's the best prize he ever won. He said so too many times to forget, his face lighting up whenever she came in view. She, too, always excited to see him, now as well. She's nervous, yes, but not scared. Years get used up; she can't fill them in for him, even if Jimmy does ask. Maybe he'll bow his head, reveal graying hair, or offer her that grin so close to sadness. Maybe he'll search for the girl in her that's no longer there.

 

9

Happiness Exists Somewhere

The news stuns her. Still seated on the exam table, legs dangling, she stares at the dove-gray suit hanging on the closed door as if it belonged to someone else, the person who walked in an hour ago. She can't go back to the office. A dental appointment, she lied. Her purse is beside a tray of instruments and she takes out the cell phone. The receptionist's voicemail picks up. “Hi, it's Sylvie, I'll be back a little later than expected. That is, if anyone asks. Thanks.”

If she hadn't called in sick a few days ago she'd take the rest of the afternoon off. That, too, was a lie. She went to Liam's funeral. The entire service at the East Hampton church was bleak: a scattering of old people, the urn buried in an unmarked hole behind his house. Gone, all signs of him. Murray would've accompanied her, but she didn't want him to see her cry, didn't want to deal with the insistent questions that would follow.

He's already badgering her. In bed last night he wanted to know why she had to work? Why does she stay so late? Why can't she be home for dinner? Reasonable questions. She feigned sleep. He won't stop asking. She knows that. He's not an easy man to live with. He dotes on her but that's the problem. There's nothing concrete to hang her discontent on, except who he is.

Sliding off the table, she tears off the paper robe, stuffs it in the receptacle marked
waste
, and dresses. She needs to walk.

• • •

Fifth Avenue sometimes distracts her, even lifts her spirits. She allows herself to study the well-dressed people, stylish storefronts, soaring architecture, St. Patrick's Cathedral. She peers into the FAO Schwarz window of toys, decorated for Christmas, though it's weeks away. Grieving takes time, she reminds herself. Holidays don't help. But it's more than Liam. The sad eyes of a stuffed giraffe nearly as tall as the real thing stare at her. She turns away, surprised to see Shelly across the avenue, and finds herself striding toward her. Shelly's a woman of endurance, what she needs right now.

“Hi. What are you doing in the city?” Shelly's black coat does no justice to the lovely combination of her dark hair and light eyes. The woman should wear greens and purples.

“Hi to you. Bruce attends two days as an outpatient. I drive him in, walk around, then pick him up. I don't mind.”

“How's he doing?”

“Up and about. They found medicine he can tolerate. Until now, the stuff they fed him made him a maniac. What are you doing here?”

“My office is nearby. A cup of coffee?”

“I wouldn't mind a glass of wine.”

She leads them up a side street to an easy-to-miss Irish pub stuck between two restaurants. Inside there's no hint of afternoon light. The coziness suits her. No one would look for her here. People stand two deep at the bar, office workers, unemployed, lunchtime trysts, who knows?

They find a small table and a waitress appears dressed in slacks and a sweater. Maybe she's just helping out. Shelly orders a glass of house red. She asks for club soda.

“How's your youngest son doing?” What she wants to ask is how to go on when things are beyond control.

“In that horrible place.” Shelly sighs. “The kids face death at every turn, not that I would say so to Mila. I can't pick up a newspaper or listen to the radio, forget TV. If Michael came home Bruce would recover faster. The doctor thinks Bruce has confused his own soldier past with Michael's war, which I could've told him weeks ago if he ever asked. I worry because so many reservists are being made to stay longer than their terms. Two months ago, my middle guy wrote to the National Guard that Michael has to come home for a family emergency. No dice.”

“It is frightening. I'm so sorry.” Shelly looks worn, her heart-shaped face thinner. “Have you eaten lunch?”

“Food isn't friendly lately. My oldest brings me takeout. Firstborns are worrywarts.”

“You must've been a baby yourself when you had him.”

“I swore I'd never go through the pain of it again, but the memory evaporates. It's the way of the world. Are you thinking of . . . ?”

Heat flames her cheeks. “Well . . . Murray's in his fifties.”

“Unless they've given up their favorite pastime, age isn't a factor.”

The waitress sets down their drinks. She's glad for the interruption. “Your children sound devoted. It must be comforting.”

“I don't know. They have their own lives and a life takes time. If Bruce got sick like this with a bunch of youngsters in tow . . .” Shelly shakes her head.

“I'm sure now that Bruce is on the right medication he'll be on the mend shortly.”

“He'd like to put in a few hours at the diner but full-time is still iffy.” Shelly looks past her, clearly embarrassed to be asking.

Murray doesn't want Bruce coming back but she'll appeal to his sympathy bone. Bruce is a vet, son in Iraq. Murray likes feeling noble. He's always announcing how much food he sends to the shelter. “I'll talk to Murray about it. Nick's overwhelmed, I'm sure.”

“That would be great. I hear you did a fine renovation job in the house. It must be lovely.”

“Seems so.” Is there nothing in her life greater than that damned house?

Shelly searches her face. “Is everything all right?”

“A dear friend died recently. It still grieves me.” It was Liam who encouraged her to return to work, who said her unused energy was festering. The photo of Liam's dead son, what happened to it?

“You need to find something uplifting to get it off your mind. While Bruce was in the hospital I bought a print of women dancing in a circle. I hung it in my kitchen. I look at it and think happiness exists somewhere. Sounds silly, I know.”

“God, no, Shelly. It's a wonderful thought. But . . .” she shrugs.

“What? You can tell me.”

She gazes at Shelly, whose features blur slightly in the ashy darkness. How can she say she's pregnant with no idea what to do? Shelly will think her foolish for throwing away everything for a bit of pleasure. Is that what she did? Is that what she wanted to do? “My house feels too big,” she says inanely.

“I can't say I know what that would be like.”

Of course she wouldn't. They probably live in one of those tiny . . .

“I envy you,” she admits. “You have a family who cares about you.”

“Sylvie, everyone at the diner can see Murray's crazy about you. He'd do anything for you.”

“Yes, he would,” she agrees, letting the truth of it sink in to no avail.

• • •

At her desk, the computer open on the columns of numbers and names on the sales screen, but her mind refuses to focus, is everywhere but here. Another woman would be excited, perhaps even relieved. Not her; she's amazed, yes, but mostly scared and confused.

When her cell phone rings, her eyes flit to his corner office,
vice president
stenciled large. “Dinner tonight?” Harry's voice certain.

“Well . . .” she hesitates. “Can I get back to you?”

“Why?” he insists.

“I had tentative plans.”

“Cancel them.”

She doesn't answer.

“Buzz me.” He clicks off.

There's nothing spontaneous about Harry. Most likely his wife called to say she'll be busy this evening. Across the wide expanse of desks separated by see-through walls of Plexiglas, salespeople talk into headphones while watching computer screens. Most here are starting careers. In the cafeteria and hallways they gab about ad agency profits and losses as if it were personal. The top echelon doesn't care a whit about any of them, the indifference palpable in Harry's anecdotes, which she counters. A spunky woman, he calls her.

It's no use, she can't concentrate, presses a few buttons and the document disappears. Endless white flakes drift across the snow-filled screensaver. Why choose a winter scene? She didn't; it was simply here, like Harry.

• • •

Harry waits at the cloakroom to check their coats. His elegant cocoa-brown suit fits smoothly across his broad shoulders. His stylishness first attracted her. They chatted a few times at the proverbial watercooler. He asked her to accompany him to account focus groups; wanted her input. She was flattered. In the chauffeured car maneuvering through crowded midtown, Harry didn't talk about work. He discussed foreign cinema, Italian films were his favorite, art shows in unexpected places. A man interested in museum exhibits, who'd been to the theater too many times to remember. Her acting background enthralled him. After their second “work” day, Harry asked her to dinner. She accepted easily, which surprises her still.

They're ushered to a table near a window of mullioned glass. Except for the warm coral blush of streetlamps, it's too dark to see much outside. Logs crackle in a nearby fireplace, the ambience seductive. People dine here late, usually after a cocktail party. They bustle in full of the cold outdoors, reluctant to give up their coats, impatient for whiskey to warm them. Most other nights, she frames the scene as if in a play, but she doesn't know what her role is now.

The menu is in his unblemished hands, manicured nails. She glances at his wedding band and hers.

“Shall I choose for us?” he asks as he does most evenings they're together.

“Why not?” she replies as usual, though not a bit hungry.

“I do like knowing you,” he says softly, studying her face, which isn't as concentrated on his as he expects.

“Why's that?” she responds, also softly, while another scene plays in her head. I'm pregnant with your baby. Why didn't you use contraception? Because I had unprotected sex with my husband for a year, and nothing happened. I thought my fertility was gone. Likely story, he'll say. She glances at him. A man with four grown sons he'd never disappoint. He made that clear from date one.

“Your attitude makes me think. It's a challenge.” He's trying to engage her. Who wants to bed down with a distant icy woman? Is that who she is tonight?

“My repertoire is endless,” she offers through the fog of worry that threatens to dull her mind.

He smiles. Lovely teeth, strong chin, dark eyes that glitter. In the theater, he'd be the matinee idol but never Sir Laurence, whose talent reined over appearance.

“In my position, people tell me what I want to hear. You don't. That's what makes you refreshing.”

“I try to be entertaining,” she says lightly. Conversing about nothing feels almost beyond her.

“See, like that.”

He can't see and he isn't curious either, not really. He's killing time till they're ready to leave for the corporate apartment, his to do with as he pleases. She suspects their encounters there are unlike anything he experiences at home.

The waiter pours a finger of wine in each glass, waits for Harry's nod of approval, then leaves. Harry is about to top hers but she places her hand over the rim. He glances at her but says nothing. She rarely has more than two drinks at any time, her mother's vacant alcoholic eyes never far away.

“There's something I can't figure out about you,” he says.

“What could that be?” she asks, hoping miraculously he'll force the truth out of her.

“Are you ambitious?”

“Meaning am I after your job?” she teases, though disappointed.

“No, that would be stupid.” He laughs. It's a nice sound, deep, warm.

“Which I'm not.” She takes a sip of water. “Tell me,” she probes gently, “why are we here, together?”

“Don't you think it's a little late in the day to be asking that?” His careful tone reminds her she's not delivering the correct lines.

“No, it's never too late.” She shrugs, then fakes another smile.

“The brutal truth is I'm bored at home. And I find you appealing. I have from the beginning.” He reaches across to stroke her hand. Two people married to others acting as if they're engaged in some dramatic first experience when passion's at its highest. Her interest in any of it tonight is less than nil.

“That doesn't sound so brutal,” she says.

“Why the sudden curiosity?” He places the napkin on his lap. The man doesn't want to know.

“I'm interested in marriages. Why some go sour and some don't.” No, Harry, I'm interested in how you'd react to my having a baby. I'm interested in knowing how disastrous your response would be. Interested, yes, but unable to put it to the test.

“My wife and I have been together twenty-eight years. Relationships plateau. Some get past that, other's teeter.” He's reciting probably the same litany he gives all his women. Once she lied at an audition, said she was sixteen, and had to pretend for the duration of the play. But how long can she pretend not to be pregnant?

“An amount of time not to be sniffed at,” she quips.

“You don't say much about your marriage . . .” He refills his wineglass.

“A bit stultifying,” she offers. How to describe what she doesn't understand. Even if she did, it would feel disloyal to discuss it.

“You haven't been married that long,” he reminds her.

“You can pepper me with questions in the boardroom, not here,” she quips.

“In the boardroom I'd already know the answers.”

She laughs. “So I hear.” Rumor has it Harry's a hard man, that he fires people for first offenses. If she hints at her predicament he'll insist she deal with it immediately. She isn't ready, has no clue what ready would feel like.

Harry raises his hand and the waiter hurries over. He gives their order, pronouncing the French dishes with ease. He's comfortable in his skin, doesn't want to be anyone else. Onstage, she's been a mother, a wife, a lover. It's easy to play other people.

• • •

Her car, a dark shape beneath a sputtering lamp, is one of a few still at the station. She beeps open the door and slides in. On the road, an occasional light shimmers in the distance, the sense of the ocean near. She ratchets up the heat. Dead winter's on the way. Her refusal to go to the corporate apartment surprised him. She said dinner lasted longer than she expected. Harry didn't press her. He walked her to Penn Station, chatting easily. He kissed her cheek, his aloofness apparent. She didn't perform well tonight, didn't provide the pleasure the world owes him. He doesn't need her—she's a whim, a toy like the ones in the store window. Yes, the first weeks with him were exciting. Even now it's easy to imagine them in Bali, something they talked about. She sees them lying hand in hand on a sparkling white beach and she tells him she's pregnant, her voice languid, reassuring.