Stop Here (5 page)

“It's my fault,” she offers.

“God,” he says, “God . . .”

“Leave,” she stage-whispers; the dogs sit.

“Miserable, stupid curs,” he grabs the back of a chair.

“Murray—” she begins.

“Everything's wrecked, everything.”

“Murray?”

“How could you?”

Is he talking to her? “Murray . . . Look at me.”

He turns; eyes wide, astonished, wet, skin blue-white and taut, mouth slack. She's never seen him this way, it's scary, a whipped man resigned to the next lash. He's no youngster, a seizure, stroke, anything is possible. Prying his hands from the chair, she walks him to the bedroom, lies down beside him.

“Murray,” she whispers, “they're things. They can be replaced . . . we can reupholster the couches . . . and the chairs. The paintings, okay, they're destroyed . . . Are you listening? . . .” She looks into his nearly unblinking eyes. “It's okay, it doesn't matter, it's not important . . .” But he's not responding.

“Say something, please, you're frightening me.”

“I never lived this well . . .”

“I know.” But does she? She was expecting anger, not collapse.

“You can't imagine what this house, the furniture, means to me,” his voice a whimper.

Her eyes slide to the mahogany dresser, the floor-to-ceiling mirror, wicker rocker, all of it inanimate. How can he be so emotional; no one's died.

Suddenly he grabs her arm. “We'll make it beautiful. We did it once, we can do it again.” The volume loud, he could be screaming.

She sees herself in one of the large suburban shops, salesmen circling her every move, furniture arranged by room, pillows galore, tables set for eight, peering at materials until her head aches.

“Money's not a problem. We can spend,” his voice revelatory, gleeful, which should reassure her, except her energy's gone, a pricked balloon, the air seeping away. She takes a deep breath, but it doesn't help.

“I'll get rid of the dogs. Everything has a trade-off.”

“A trainer can teach them to behave.” Does she care?

“Are you sure?” his tone childlike, high-pitched.

“Yes.”

“It'll all be the same as before, I promise.” He's breathing heavily.

Once she watched an actor playing King Lear suffer a heart attack during his last scene. The audience applauded.

“You believe me, don't you?” His voice shaky, he takes her hand. “Are you okay with me?”

She looks past him at the darkness and visualizes the moon's tangerine light above the storm.

“Yes,” she replies because the truth now would do him in.

 

4

The Way Things Work

Shelly stares out the kitchen window, cell phone in hand, as a few cars pass by. Across the road her elderly neighbor wearing a sweater over a robe is watering the lawn as she does every morning. Maybe it's penance, or a pact with the devil in exchange for something. If the devil approached her offering relief, what would she agree to in return? she wonders. She glances at her cell phone. God knows she doesn't want to make this call. Bruce . . . he's killing her. It's the fourth time this week she had to call to say he'd be late. If Murray happens to arrive earlier, if he picks up before Ava, if . . . it won't happen. Sylvie told her he goes to sleep and wakes at the same time every day, no exceptions. Sylvie sounded disappointed, but isn't it a good thing? He functions at a high level, doesn't he? Runs the damn diner like he was born to do it, doesn't make business mistakes that she's heard about and can be counted on to get to work on time. None of which she said to Sylvie. Once more she glances at the phone. It's no use, either she calls or . . . The diner is on speed dial and she listens to it ring. When no one picks up, she exhales and leaves a voice message.

Her cold coffee on the table, she eyes the muffin. Can't eat that. God! Even her oldest, after he sees his father, asks what's happening. She could give him an earful but all she says is, Dad's getting on and it's not easy in a diner kitchen. Bruce was never tidy, but now it's impossible. Leaves things wherever, but, okay, she's used to men doing that. She has three sons for god's sake. But at least he used to shower every day. It's making her crazy. They've shared a bed for twenty-seven years, ever since she was nineteen. She can't do it anymore.

Her eyes slide to the newly painted kitchen walls. Apricot. Lord, what possessed her? She hoped it would cheer her baby before he took off. He did say he'd remember the color, something bright in the desert. It's painful to think of Michael there. She can't watch TV, either, though since Michael left, Bruce is a news junkie. What she can't say to her sons or to Bruce is that fear for Michael's safety has her by the throat, though she confided as much to Ava and Mila during breakfast at the diner. Women with children, they understand the terror.

She glances at the clock. Three times she's told him to get up. He'll lose the damn job. Murray isn't the type you want to piss off too often. She strides out of the kitchen and smashes open the bedroom door. “Bruce, I swear, you don't get out of bed now I'm leaving for good.” She hates shouting; it's so crude. Even when the boys were little, she didn't raise her voice. Now she's beginning to sound like her mother who screamed everything.

He rolls slowly toward the side. He's gained weight. He used to have a good build, he jogged and pumped. Now he does none of it. She waits till his feet touch the floor, then walks out.

Leaving Bruce has become a daily fantasy. Then she'd have only herself to care for. Her sons, too, of course, but with Michael away and her oldest married, already saddled with a baby, and the middle guy in Seattle doing whatever with computers, it's just Bruce, isn't it? What would she tell her sons? I can't live with your father anymore. He doesn't bathe, doesn't talk. They're not going to be sympathetic to that. Even if they are, they'll want him to get help; you can't leave a man when he's down. It's immoral. Well, let them come live with him.

Bruce shuffles in, dressed in baggy jeans and a sweater.

“Want breakfast?”

He nods.

“Coffee and a muffin? Because you don't have time for a big one.”

He nods, again.

“Why couldn't you get up?” She cuts up the muffin the way he likes. Sweeps the crumbs off the smooth surface of the counter, which she planed and stained herself.

“It's hard.”

“Tell me something I haven't heard.”

“Just is.” She pours the coffee and he gulps it down, though she's sure it's too hot.

“Bruce, be careful, you'll burn your tongue.” Habit. She shouldn't bother when the man asks nothing about her well-being.

“Jam?”

“On the table there. I was thinking before how Michael likes the color of the kitchen, I mean he said so in his last—”

“He's a baby. He shouldn't be fighting in this frigging war. He didn't even sign up . . . what's the National Guard doing there anyway,” his face reddening.

“Jesus, Bruce, calm down. I agree with you, but what can we do? He's there.”

“Do?” He looks at her like she's posed the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.

“I know how you feel. But Bruce, there's nothing we . . .” She stops, no point repeating herself like an idiot.

“I'm too jittery to drive this morning,” he says. “You take me.”

“Why not. I have nowhere special to go.”

“What about work?”

“I told you twice, they cut my days to three. After twelve years, it's a shame. People are saying they'll call me back. Who knows?” She's one of two assistants to the head bookkeeper. They check accounts, payment errors, and merchandise received. It's satisfying, the order of it, the repetition, the predictability. She watches the colorful bustle on the supermarket floor from the little glass cage of an office. If she slides open one of the panels, the cacophony rises up to remind her there's a world out there.

• • •

As she drives through familiar streets, her eyes flit past houses with extensions not half as good-looking as the one Bruce's brother built onto their place. His brother is creative but can't stop drinking no matter how many programs he attends. Once, sitting at the kitchen table crowded with empty beer bottles, he said AA meetings leave him so desolate only a drink can help. Bruce laughed. It wasn't funny. Later, in bed, Bruce mumbled people choose the way they die. When did he make his choice, she wonders, glancing at him gazing ahead, his face empty of clues.

“Heard anything from your brother?” she asks.

He shakes his head.

“He must be on a bender,” she offers.

“Why do you care?” He sounds bothered, as if she's taking something from him.

“I'm just talking, that's all.”

“Things on the news now that no one's seeing.”

“Bruce, millions of people watch TV.”

“Watching and seeing are different.”

“Well . . . that's true.” Is this the beginning of a conversation? “It's hard for people to really . . .” but he's turned away to stare out the window with the same intense look that comes over him when he watches TV, as if there's something he has to catch before it disappears.

In the diner parking lot, she waits for him to begin his slow climb up the few steps, her eyes glued to the front door till it closes behind him. She could go in too, have a cup of coffee and chat with Mila, but it's the morning rush; Mila will be busy. The sun too bright by far, splashes the front windows. She flips down the visor, steps on the gas, and wonders where she's headed.

• • •

Could be too early to drop in, she thinks, pulling up in front of her son's garage. Well, she's here, isn't she? Ricky rented the small Cape Cod with a deal to buy in two years. He's working his heart out, but he can't control construction. It happens when it happens, he'd be the first to say. He's on a site now, thank god.

Ricky holds open the door for her. “What's up?” He sounds concerned. Firstborns are like that, always waiting for the shoe to drop.

“Hi son. Drove your dad to work and thought I'd pop in to kiss the baby. Hope it's okay.”

“Joni still has the coffee hot.”

Joni is sipping coffee at the table, her thin body hidden in a cotton robe. Shelly notices the mess in the sink, must be two days' worth of dishes. Should she offer to wash them? She doesn't want to. Besides, Joni might take offense.

“What time do you go in?”

“In a few minutes. We're on weird shifts now. It's a big piece of property near Jones Beach. How's Dad?”

“He felt too jittery to drive this morning.”

“Poor guy's beaten down, is what I think.”

And what about her? she'd like to ask, eyeing the baby swing next to the high chair, neither of which has been used yet. They were presents from the baby shower where she and Joni's mom were the only people over thirty. Damn thing lasted for hours. Then the men arrived, including Joni's father, but no Bruce.

“Dad needs to get checked out. A doctor might give him something.”

“I've suggested it a million times. He looks at me like I'm asking him to climb Mount Everest.”

“Ricky, you talk to him,” Joni says, which surprises her. Joni's a quiet girl who's loved her son since junior high. And why not? He's earnest, handsome, and energetic. He used to polka his mom around the living room, lift her right off the floor, and laugh. Or was that Bruce? There was a time when Bruce was the man. They were married, but they were lovers, four or five times a week, which is no easy feat with a bunch of kids in the house. Bruce always had his quirks, he's a vet, isn't he? When he first returned all those years ago, he'd open up after a few drinks and talk about the war. She never liked what she heard, but comforted herself that it was over and done with. Except maybe things don't go away, maybe they go into hiding like bears and come out when you're too old to fight them. Bruce will be leaving his fifties real soon.

“Want something to eat?” Joni asks, her tone less than inviting. She can't blame her; these kids don't have much. Besides, Joni's got her hands full with the house, the baby, her telephone canvas job.

She shakes her head. “Where's the baby?”

“Asleep in the carriage. He was up all night. I had to wheel him around. Don't wake him.”

“No, I wouldn't think of it.” She turns to Ricky, “Joni's right, talk to him. Maybe he'll listen to you.”

“I'll take him out for a few beers.”

“Like he needs the calories.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Pick him up at the diner after his shift.”

He nods. “Gotta go.” He grabs his jacket. She's about to tell him it's pretty warm out there, but it's none of her business. It's Joni's business now. Joni kisses him hard on the mouth. The girl's still crazy about him, but just wait. Such negativity . . . it's not like her. Where's the bright-eyed, perky Shelly, a woman determined to get what she wanted? A woman who said yes to whatever it took to make it happen, and god help any who stood in her way. Bruce used to laugh at her combativeness, said it would put a grunt to shame.

She's careful not to slam the car door and wake the baby. No point hanging around without Ricky there. Maybe if she'd had a daughter . . . but her sons, they're men, they feel with their dad. Oh they love her, but sometimes she's on a planet by herself. Joni's sweet, but the only thing they have in common is Ricky. She doesn't want to hear Shelly's problems. Does she want to hear Joni's? She could find a therapist who'd listen, or maybe she could go to confession for free. Except you have to believe to receive solace. She could drive till the car runs out of gas and see where she ends up. Her fantasies of flight are beginning to scare her. But what scares her more are the thoughts piling up in her head like so much garbage she can't get rid of.

• • •

Searching the mall for a shady spot to park, she pulls in between a pickup truck and an SUV. With keys in hand, she slings the bag over her shoulder and hurries toward the bakery. As usual, the mall seems endless and unrewarding, but where else to go? A hotel in the city for a few days, not too expensive, with room service, a bar, a restaurant? A temporary escape. She'll take in a show, something deep, not a musical. Ricky will fire how-come questions at her she won't be able to answer. Her sister, too, will be calling to ask if she's okay. Well, she's not.

The well-dressed, stout woman who owns the bakery sits on a stool behind the cash register. The warm scent of fresh bread fills the shop. A gorgeous display of cakes and cookies offer themselves behind a domed glass. She spies a man near the large oven icing cakes on a flat table, his apron a palette of colors.

“Shelly?” From behind the counter, her sister throws her a questioning look.

“Take lunch early, please,” she whispers. “I'll be at that café across from the shoe store.” She's out the door before Patti can refuse.

Slipping the keys in her bag, she heads toward the café taking in people's expressions on the way. What does her face say? she wonders. The first few years of their marriage, Bruce would study her for long minutes, then try to guess her thoughts. She didn't like it, said it was intrusive; he was invading her head. Some of that would go a long way now.

The café isn't crowded. A waiter loiters near the counter looking bored. He follows her as she finds a table away from the window. Her watch reads eleven. It's too early for anything but coffee, which she orders black. Then she decides on a scone. They're going to be here awhile, is what she thinks. A huge mural covers one wall, a French countryside, she thinks. A trip to Europe by herself would be exciting. She'd go places if Bruce weren't around. But where would he be?

Patti hurries in as she always does, a kind of tic with her, rushing.

“Hi sweetie. What's up?”

“Order something,” she says.

“I can't look at cake.”

The waiter arrives, pad and pencil in hand. Her sister orders a cappuccino.

“Time of day tells me this isn't a how-are-you visit,” Patti says.

She gazes at Patti's long wavy hair dyed the same honey-blond color since she was fifteen; her eye makeup hasn't changed either. Her sister doesn't look different from ever before. “It's Bruce. I don't love him. I can't live with him.” The words run out before she can test them, and they surprise her.