A Matter of Love in da Bronx (14 page)

--I think that's a crock. I think we're mostly like the animals. Number One: Survive. Number Two: Make babies. I like that. The church likes that to make more disciples on one hand, and wants to control the uncontrollable urge on the other. What guilt conflicts are created. Aunt Mary, do you have any money I can borrow? I don't how, but I'll pay you back one day, somehow.

--How much?

--What can you spare?

--Naturally, I won't ask for what, but I think at this moment I'm working on about eighteen dollars. I hardly work for magnanimous people--at work or at home.

--Shoot! Not nearly enough. I'll tell you. I want to take off. I want to get out of here. Florida, I think. I can waitress. I think I can make it as a dancer, you know, body stuff and that. Course, I got something more ambitious, more academic in mind, college, and a trip back home. I'll need more money than that.

--It's not the season. Why not wait until you graduate?

--It's never the season. Anywhere. The season comes with the greenbacks. Shit.

No sandwich and cookies for lunch. For some reason, cottage cheese and fruit appealed more than a big tuna fish sandwich with loads of mayonnaise and cookies. And why did Gilda say there was a flush about her? Lady looking for a lay. Close. The little snit was too smart for her own good!

It took her boss, Amiel Goldberg, usually about a week to get over one of her turndowns which meant he ignored her, wouldn't ask her to make a pattern of something he wanted to steal, or to give him some designs for a specialty item. So, it was remarkable for him to send for her early that morning. He appeared casual, businesslike, as if he never asked her to let him do dirty things to her. He talked about the clothing business, how far she would go, and such schmoozing; finally getting to the point. He wanted to know what kind of design she'd submitted to the fashion institute's contest.

--A beach coverup. A simple, practical, adorable device always in demand. He wanted to put it into production immediately and could he get a work-up on it? It would mean another design she could show off in her portfolio. She could never believe he was sincere until she actually saw the finished product. He was eager this time, too eager. It made her think. How did he know she'd submitted a design? He ran for cover. He wouldn't get the design until he explained. Simple, he had friends. One called with the news his worker--Mary Dolorosso--was in line for a fashion prize, if not the first prize, from the Institute.

Unexpected. Delightful. Something else to think about to speed the day, to pass on to Louisa, to catapult dreams into the unknown. Besides, writing dialog should she encounter Sal. No matter what she rehearsed it would all come out tongue-tied, she suspected.

But, she'd have to shout to make him hear her from across Eden Farms. He was on the bus headed for the restaurant which was just pulling out, and she stopped near the porny flic. Had she known, it primarily would've saved her the four-hour chore of looking for him, and finding things to do that she thought wouldn't make her look like she was plying a trade. No matter, no one approached her on any account. She walked, she gawked, she ate in the deli; she shifted from one foot to the other; she wished Sol banged into her again.

That night, just before she went to sleep, she told Gilda she might have some money for her.

After she went to sleep, nightmares pursued her relentlessly. Most of them had to do with Sol's wife and children beating, torturing her for trying to steal husband and father. Others had to do with Sol as an evil man who blackmailed her with the fact that she went to pornographic films, forcing her to his luxurious private apartment where he stripped her naked and had his way with her. She awoke during one of the more sexually pleasurable experiences determined before she went housecleaning with her mother to talk to Louisa and stop the search for Sol. She immediately fell asleep to find herself sharing the fate of Joan of Arc on the steps of St. Polycarp's Roman Catholic Church in the Bronx with her mother and father applauding. There was also, before the night was over, something to do with Mary the virgin. Uncapitalized.

The choreography continued. It is now Saturday.

For the first time ever, Sam satisfied a whim by sleeping in rather than being punctual at work. The restaurant was particularly busy. He was operating on afterburners from the moment he walked into the kitchen, and although he could've left earlier, if he wished, he remained to help Primo and Peppi clean up and polish the kitchen until nearly midnight. He filled in where he was needed most, depending on what was most in demand. He started out making salads; soon he was broiler chef, then sauce chef. He rarely found himself with a lighter heart than when he was creating in the kitchen. Only for very brief moments did Louisa Golczek come to mind. Would he have seen her if he remained in Eden Farms? Was it possible she was looking for him? He wouldn't allow himself to think that if he found her she wouldn't be available to him. He did permit himself to lacerate Sam with the thought that she might find him terribly unappealing, crazing his heart preparatory to its being cracked. Gratefully, after the long day, fatigue an opiate inducing a quick, deep sleep. He was into his second light snooze that morning when he was catapulted into hearing hardshock by a fulminating father. The man, filled with rancor, was spewing a smorgasbord of invectives, orders, declamations dealing with the Jew-boss Sol, grubby need for money, his good-for-nothing son, and the fact that the school gym floor was to be varnished that very morning instead of Sunday. Sam found his heart tripping like a runaway diesel only to be superseded by the anger he felt when he finally realized there was no great and immediate danger only a scared old man dumping a honeywagonload of frustrations on the best available warm body. He sat up, held both hands palm outwards to indicate nail holes and blood did not show. --We'll varnish the gym floor this morning, Pa. He'd make up the time. Tomorrow. Sol wouldn't be around to stop him.

Mary found housecleaning a rigorous task, but only when she was paid for it, which is what happened usually on Saturday mornings when she helped her mother. She found it demeaning, which manifested an attitude incorrectly interpreted by her mother's employer as a properly subservient servant. Besides, all Mary received for her labor from her mother--on orders from the father--was enough money for a couple packs of cigarettes, making the trial both thanklessly unrewarding, and discouragingly depressing. She looked forward to the afternoon when she would devise good reason to get out of the house to visit Louisa Golczek.

For her friend, it was a Saturday morning mercy mission, in sympathy with her very dear friend who was held so strictly. She had to get a lead on Sol, or Sal, who worked somewhere around Eden Farms, in an upholstery shop. She was startled with the ease of her quest. The deli. Directions. Same side of the street, the other side of the el. Sure enough, there it was, The Sanitary Upholstery Shop. Closed. No one about. How was she ever going to tell her dear friend? A death in the family, enough to close the place for a month. Wow! At least, she could provide Mary with his full name, address and phone number: Sol Youchah. Golly...

Phone. Five rings.

--Hello?

Finally. Husky voice. Throaty. Sexy. Interesting. Fucks for love. Loves to fuck. Mission: To help a buddy who lives his life in a mental straightjacket. Find her for him.

--Louisa Golczek, please. Response, straight up from the gonads, in kind.

--Who's calling?

Oh! Particular these days. --You don't know me... I want the edge, Lady.

--That's fine with me. Now who are you?

Snippy bitch says I fight for the edge. Okay. --If you don't know me, what's the difference what my name is? Silentstaticnoise. How about Miles Standish? Deadlinesilence.

--How about you try drowning? Controlled anger. Clickoff.

Three rings. Sensitive bitch. Make me pay. --Louisa! Please don't hang up, okay? My name's Lou Harness and you wee ahead of me in high school...

--High school. Not a question, not a pronouncement, a repetitive acknowledgement. Louisa's not here. What's the message? Smartass twat got me right by the shorthairs.

--You sure this isn't Louisa? Does she really think I sound like a dope?

--You've got your nerve! You don't even know me, and you call me a liar! Bangclick.

Lou is an asshole! Lou is an asshole! Some edge you got there, Lou! Let's see if you've got more grease than geese. Two rings. --I'm running out of change. I apologize, and would like to start all over. Okay?

--Okay. Big, bossomtitted mother, that's your weakspot, Sister!

--Would you be kind enough to tell Louisa I'm calling for a friend--that's why I used the Miles Standish bit, get it, or don't they teach you about that in Poleski Land?--and he wants to return something to her that she lost. He can't call because he's working.

--What is it?

Gotcha! Curious like a cat. --What's what? Give it right back to you, Louisa, ole gal, I know it's you.

--I don't like you. I'm saying that instead of hanging up--forever! Now tell me what you're talking about, and where you got Louisa's name.

Fair's fair, a no-fucking-around Kid. --Fair's fair. I remember a Louisa Golczek on the Library Squad. I got Louisa's name from Sam who got it off of something Louisa lost. I don't know what it is. How's that for the sound of sincerity? He wants two things: One, he wants to return the article to Louisa; and, two, I think he's got a thing for Louisa and wants to see her again. Ta-rah! I thought maybe a nice safe place would be at Mass tomorrow morning? St. Polycarp's? Ten o'clock? Did I sell her?

--Is this on the level?

Just have to set the hook. --Louisa's father's a cop, right? Who wants that kind of trouble? My only interest is to help a buddy with this phone call. You tell Louisa, I'll tell Sam. Hookset. --In the vestry, after Mass... Linestatic alive, alive-oh! And you are?

--...Louisa's mother.

Balls! Oh! Balls!

The sight and smell of food sickened her. It was the usual and ordinary Saturday routine for Mary to help her mother with the cooking. A pleasant enough task, one she wasn't required to do too often to make it burdensome; besides, she considered herself a better cook than her mother. The nausea was a sudden discovery she made when she walked into the kitchen. Raw chicken. The sight caused her stomach to contract uneasily. She turned away, fought for control, wondering. She knew she would have to be brave and perform normally before her distress was noticed. She strode to the sink, grabbed the fowl as if it were on fire, dashing it under the running cold water. The smell of it engulfed her, making her reel, bringing tears to her eyes.

--Mary...?

Emissaries, those noble souls venturing forth on priority missions, returns with ignoble reports oftentimes left better undiscovered. Louisa. Of course it wasn't so, but if one interpreted less objectively, couldn't one say the news was delivered with a bit of glee? Now, really! And all the truth about Sol. To have lost him by finding him, and all the recriminations of shoulda-woulda-coulda at the first meeting reprise. Over and over again. She made Louisa report her morning's itinerary at least six times, each one seeking more and more detail. Draw a map! Mark carefully the Sanitary Upholstery Shop. Now make a sign exactly as the one on the door. And the emergency card. What time did you get there? What time did you leave? How many times did you let the phone ring. A month? A whole month before there's any chance he might be back in my world? No, maybe somebody else's world. Who died? Of all the people with which to play that dreadful guessing game of who became expired. Would it be really evil to wonder about him now that he's a widower? If only Louisa wasn't so blazingly efficient! So clever. So blooming eager to do a thorough job. She could've noted the sign, bringing that news only back to me. It would leave a crack of hope for whatever dreams I wished. But, no! When she got no answer on the phone, she didn't stop there! Back to the deli where they told her, yes, they heard Sol's wife had died. Couldn't she have just skipped that part? Forgot to tell me? Yes, I wanted to live a delusion, to have a dream based on the ring of reality, to think it could really happen; to believe if we met all possibilities were possible. Slimygreen web of life. Oh! Sure! Bet your whole and entire living life on a million-dollar sweepstakes lottery! Mary? You did. You have. You lost. So? So isn't it about time you considered whether or not it was appropriate to call a halt to this miasmic performance? This is a theme without variations until your breasts hang as bags, and your coitional fluids dry out. Just remember, it's the resentment we're dealing with here, not anything else, not the luck, misfortune, misjudgment. Just the pure indignation stemming from the simple usurpation of your life! Forget duty! If this is your life, is it not your right, your duty, to spend it as you wish? Are there no rights? No courts of appeals? Above, the laws of the church say I must endure; my parents take for granted that I shall persevere; then my lot in life says I shall endure; and I would like to say I've had enough and wish not to look forward to more of the same, Thank You. That, not Sol, incites the gorge to rise. Much as the artist suffering the aftershocks of the revelation that in his chosen field he is a failure. Can any such one suddenly turn his attention to becoming a successful hardware salesman, say? Or lacking the courage to take the final alternative, does he compromise by even as much as teaching his love, his compulsion, his insufficient gift and talent? If he can, in the first place, it's only to prove his unworthiness. My! What a perfectly circular circle! Mary knew why she'd become ill. She knew she was despondency personified, magnified by an unrequited life which was brought into focus by a near-miss to a close affair. She questioned her normalcy, not in the sense of deviation from the usual, but in the degree, the amount of sensitivity she had. It was so easy to compare herself to Gilda, half her age, which was astute enough to understand she had to be loyal first to herself and disconcatenate herself from self-appointed masters. Narcisistic! Is that Gilda? Pleasure-seeking Hedonist? Yes! And Hurrah! Yes! Uncowardly? Yes, yet, Mary? Mary? Are you listening? To set Gilda free, wouldn't you perform the self-same sacrifice? Oh! Yes! Yes! Fine. So? What's the difference? The difference as I see it is that Gilda's freedom buys her life; for my parents I'm buying their deaths. Well, that's not the difference, though it may satisfy your reasoning. The difference is that you are who you are, that sacrifice is your middle name, no matter for what or for whom, locked into your brain is the code of extravagant consumption of your life for others! Fool! There is no pride if it comes so easily! The honor comes when it's given at great cost! If you don't see this difference, pray for enlightenment. Should you see it, then permit me to anticipate your verynext question. Salvation lies in turning your skin inside out. P'shaw! You say? Change thyself, I say. How? Just as you felt your skin tighten and pull when dearest friend Louisa nettled your soul by asking questions of her unknown admirer. Saying: Did he really find something I'd lost? Did he really have a friend call, or was he talking? Will he be in the vestry? Didn't that trouble you? Sure, Louisa's your very best friend, and you love her, but how could you not wish her luck be yours? So let's say her luck is yours, at what cost would you consider to keep your lover? Easy. At whatever cost I felt me the value, no more, no less. I try to be fair. No, I couldn't name it until it was before me, as circumstances dictate to make cowards or heroes. Which would you choose reclining in the easy chair of your reveries? And tomorrow? When you appear in the vestry with Louisa, and you will, what kind of an observer will you be? Thinking less of death and more of life than I am looking at this denuded, smelly, repulsive bird.