Women Drinking Benedictine (3 page)

It was August, Steve thought. Hot, dry, vapid August, and I'm in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His contacts were dry, his body dehydrated from the flight. Up ahead, he could see the flashing brake lights of the cars slowing down before they entered the Fort Pitt tunnels. The Pirates were playing at Three Rivers Sta-di um, and traffic came to a standstill just outside the city.

His car had been broken into. Why it was parked on the street instead of in the garage was hard for Kathleen to explain. Something to do with a friend not having a Shadyside parking permit.

“You could have cleaned up the glass,” Steve said.

“I didn't think about it,” Kathleen said with a shrug.

“I guess there's a lot you didn't think about,” Steve snapped.

“I knew you were going to be a shit about this,” Kathleen said. She had not even said a word about his tan, nothing at all about his new shoes—which were pinching his skin. He was sure to have blisters in the morning.

He was tired of talking to her and wanted her to go home. “I want the ring back,” he said. He had been wrong about her. She was never going to make him happy.

“You're not supposed to ask for the ring back,” she scolded.

“You broke off the engagement,” Steve said. “I have every right to ask for my ring back. Consult Miss Manners.”

There was one bottle of Heineken in the refrigerator, a few dried carrots, and a crushed carton of baking powder in the back corner. “It's mine and I want it back.”

“Is that all you can say?” Kathleen asked. “What about your feelings? Aren't you upset that this is over?”

“The ring belonged to my mother. It's the only thing I have of hers,” Steve lied. Kathleen was a tricky person. She was not above taking things that did not belong to her. He wanted it back.

“You never told me it was your mother's,” Kathleen said.

His feet were numb, his skin unbelievably hot and prickly. He went to the bedroom, where she continued arguing.

He heard her voice as if it came over the radio, distant, not directed to him.

He flew back to Paris the next night. He saw no reason to be in Pittsburgh when news of his breakup got around—stupid questions, people trying to be nice. He would rather continue accompanying Max. A week in Italy would be nice. Using the frequent flier miles his father had willed him in his estate, the round-trip ticket cost him only $157.43. It was daring, and he felt cosmopolitan about crossing the ocean twice in two days.

It was not quite seven in the morning when the taxi dropped him off in front of Max's hotel.

The desk clerk recognized him. He, at least, smiled at Steve. “Bonjour, monsieur,” he said.

“Mon ami est ici?” Steve asked, straining his French vocabulary.

“He is in room 513,” the man answered in English. The hotel smelled of vinegar, just as Steve had remembered it. He was excited and took the steps two at a time. He knocked with force, anxious to see Max's face when he opened the door.

“Well,” Max said. He was wearing nylon running shorts. They were neon green.

“Going for a jog?” Steve asked.

“What are you doing here?” Max asked.

“Surprised?” Steve asked.

“Very,” Max agreed. “What are you doing here?”

It had been worth the long flight, Steve thought. They could drive to Italy, stop in some interesting places, and by the time he returned to Pittsburgh, he would have all but forgotten Kathleen. He could shrug off all questions about why their engagement had broken off.

“Did you miss your plane?” Max asked.

It was a stupid question and Steve smiled. “I reconsidered your offer for two weeks in Italy. It looks like I have the time after all.”

Max did not say anything. He was not wearing shoes and his bare feet were pale in the harsh overhead light.

Steve smiled. The trip to Pittsburgh had been a waste of time. He should have called Kathleen and saved himself the trouble and expense of flying home. “Isn't it great? I can go with you to Italy.”

Max looked at him carefully.

“Aren't you going to ask me in?” Steve asked.

Max looked over his shoulder, hesitating. He pulled the door toward him, and in this moment Steve understood that Max was not alone.

“I don't believe it,” Steve said.

“Oh, Steve,” Max said. He spoke with pity as if he felt sorry for Steve.

“There's someone in your room, isn't there?” Steve did not have to ask, but he wanted to hear Max admit it. “My father's been dead less than a year and you're with someone else.”

Max hushed him.

“What about my father?” Steve said. “Does your new friend know about my father?”

“Of course not,” Max said. “Lower your voice, please.”

“You talk about me being an emotional hologram,” Steve said. “You're an emotional zero.”

“Let's go outside,” Max suggested. “We can go for a walk.”

“No,” Steve said. He was furious. Betrayed. He had been gone less than forty-eight hours and Max had already found someone else to be with. “You make me sick,” he yelled.

“Steve,” Max said. There was no mistaking the condescension in his voice now. “We're both adults here. This has nothing to do with your father.”

“I thought you were having a good time with me. Obviously not. The minute I leave, you find someone new to lecture about evil and good. You're a fine one to talk about evil. I just wonder what my father would feel about all this.”

“Be quiet, Steve,” Max said. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

“Don't you try to deny it,” Steve said. “Whatever you do, don't lie to me.” People were always disappointing him. They never, never acted like he wanted them to.

“Let me get dressed,” Max said. “Wait here while I put on some clothes. We can go down the street for coffee.”

“Not with you,” Steve yelled. “Absolutely not. I don't want to go anywhere with you ever again.”

“Steve,” Max started.

“Never,” Steve yelled, and he continued yelling, even after Max slammed the door in his face. Even after the light timer switched off and the hall fell into complete darkness, even when the desk clerk threatened to call the police, when the tall woman in the room next door screamed that he was a lunatic, Steve yelled. The world was not treating him fairly, and he had every right to be pissed. Life owed him something, and that's all he wanted—just the things he should be getting, just the things he deserved.

 

W
INNIE MARTIN WORKED IN A
leather goods shop in the Shady-side neighborhood of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She was an ill-informed retailer when it came to selling leather—fringed, spangled, painted, or tooled, it was all cowhide to her. Still, she was reliable, and when encouraged could be savvy, though not hip, about the merchandise she sold.

The owner of the store, a longtime friend of Winnie's, suggested Winnie describe the leather as “half Miami Beach—Jewish flea market—half Harley-biker-babe wear.” Winnie would rather have died than follow Suzanne's advice. When people asked about the clothes, she simply said that most of the outfits did not flatter a woman her age. A fifty-three-year-old rear end did not look good tucked into skintight biker leather. Perhaps a tailored woolen skirt would be more appropriate. Talbots was right around the corner.

The owner was too busy to notice or care what Winnie said about the clothes. She had gotten married in December to a man who was determined to bring riverfront gambling to Pittsburgh. He envisioned the city as the next Las Vegas or Atlantic City, and they spent most of their time touring different casinos around the country—leaving Winnie to mind the cowhide.

“The Monongahela's a dream spot compared to some of the dismal places we've seen,” Suzanne told her. She was making a pit stop in the Steel City before traveling on to northern Michigan. Her enthusiasm did not convince Winnie that Pittsburgh could ever become a tourist attraction. “Indian reservations are the worst,” Suzanne continued as Winnie rearranged the pale leather bags in the front window. “Tacky, badly painted buildings. Cheap nickel slot machines. The weather is terrible. You end up spending half your time in tanning booths. And believe me, you don't know boring until you gamble at one of those places.”

But boring was just how Winnie would have described Pittsburgh—it was a strange city that seemed to exist in a state where the more things stayed the same, the more things had to stay the same. The only thing that did change was the rents. They kept rising, making it difficult for private businesses to prosper. The chain stores were moving in everywhere, even on Walnut Street. The once trendy, funky street now looked like a suburban shopping mall. Winnie was not without hope, though. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe gambling would make the city a glamorous place to live.

Running the leather shop was dull. Of this, Winnie was certain. The heat was bad in the winter, the air conditioner stalled in the summer. Standing in the shop window, Winnie watched the seasons come and go. Whatever the weather, people went elsewhere to shop. The store seemed to reflect her own middle age: mostly alone, always dull.

Winnie spent most of her days reading. The corner bookstore flooded when the Ann Taylor shop expanded to the second story. The bookstore owner threw out a box full of Penguin Classics. Winnie rescued them before the garbage men could get to them. The books were mildewed and smelled of bug spray, but they still were readable. Hardy, Fielding, Strindberg—these were names she recognized but had never read. Winnie dried the books out in the microwave, which unglued the binding. She read a page, and when it broke away from the spine, she tossed it into the trash.

The bells above the door jingled against the glass—almost noon, the first customer of the day. Winnie wound a rubber band around
Far from the Madding Crowd
. She was not enjoying the book. Like in
Tom Jones
, the chapter titles gave away the plot. “Chapter VII—In Which the Lady Pays a Visit to Mr. Jones.” “Chapter III—The arrival of Mr. Jones, with his Lady, at the Inn, with a very full Description of the Battle of Upton.” “Chapter VI—From which it may be inferred, that the best Things are liable to be misunderstood and misinterpreted.” There was no reason to read when she already knew what was going to happen next.

A man poked his head in the door. He was holding a chocolate and vanilla swirl ice-cream cone.

“Would you mind finishing that before you shop?” she asked politely. It was easy to be nice to the few customers who came in.

The bells jingled as he let the door slam behind him. He stood on the sidewalk staring at the window display. Winnie went back to her book. The next time she looked up he was gone, cone and all.

He was back the next day.

“No food this time,” he announced and held up his hands. “I'm not even chewing gum.” He opened his mouth and moved his tongue around his teeth as if she cared that he wasn't hiding anything. Winnie looked away.

“Can I help you with something in particular?” she asked. She began rearranging the bottle-cap belt buckles in the display case, though nothing was out of place. It was best to be doing something when customers came in. There was a tendency to become vulturelike in such a small shop. For the most part, she found her presence or assistance mattered very little in the customer's decision to buy or not.

“I've got something to ask you,” he said.

His voice, which was strangely loud, as if his larynx were a loudspeaker, reminded her that she had forgotten to turn the cassette over. Suzanne only had a few tapes, all classical. She did not encourage Winnie to play the radio, though in the summer Winnie listened to the Pirates games in the late afternoons.

“Yes?” Winnie asked. Customers did not usually engage her in conversation.

“I want to know if you're interested in making some money,” he asked. It was a warm afternoon, but the man was wearing a windbreaker. It was two-toned in team colors that Winnie did not recognize.

“That's what I'm doing,” she said. She nodded to the leather coats chained to their steel racks, careful to include the men's motorcycle jackets on sale that she had arranged so that the cheapest items were the most accessible for customer inspection. If she was going to sell anything that month, it would probably be one of these pieces.

“How about a few extra bucks added to that paycheck this week?” The man had a salt-and-pepper goatee that needed trimming. “Does that interest you?”

Not really, Winnie thought. Though he carried no briefcase or portfolio, she guessed he was from Amway or one of the other pyramid companies. They had been by before. Winnie always enjoyed talking to people, but knew they were disappointed by her steadfast refusals.

“I bet I know what you want,” the man said.

“Really?” Winnie asked.

“Sure,” he nodded. “And I'm just the person to help you get it.”

What Winnie wanted was an ocean. She would have liked to have beach property where at night or in the morning, depending on where the ocean was located, she could watch the sun setting or rising and feel the cool sand moving between her toes. She would like time to work on her tan. Of German and Irish descent, when Winnie spent time in the sun, she burned or freckled. But with the right creams, the right breezes, she was certain she could eventually change the color of her skin. She was fifty-three, too old to worry about skin cancer.

Money was not something she particularly wanted. “Are you building a casino?” she asked. Perhaps he wanted to talk to Suzanne. Suzanne and her husband were always talking money. She told him she was not interested. She undid the rubber band from her book and tried to remember where she had left the main characters.

He continued talking money to her, but she stayed with the book, wishing he would go away. A few minutes later he left, promising that she'd see him again soon.