Crash Diet (15 page)

The landlord already had the painters there in the hallway when I went in to look around one last time. There were clean white patches where Carl’s picture had hung over the television set in our bedroom; there were bits of dried concrete in the corner of our closet where Frank threw his work clothes. There was an old ball of yarn that had belonged to our cat years before and had somehow fallen into a small space at the back of Carl’s closet. Fitting, since it was in his closet that he had hidden the cat after sneaking it into the apartment. That was when he was only seven years old, and the cat slept in that same closet until Carl was a senior in high school. Finally the old cat went into the closet one Sunday afternoon and refused to come out. Carl was out at the movies with a girl in his class. Frank asked me to go down to the market and get him some bicarbonate, and while I was gone, he took the cat away so none of us would have to see it die.

I felt panic rise in my throat as I surveyed the apartment, pacing room to room and back. There was a mark on the living room ceiling made by a rocketing champagne cork on the day Carl and Anne got married. There were smudges on the kitchen doorframe where all of us held on while
leaning into the living room to hear the conversation, or to announce dinner was almost ready. There was masking tape around one window pane in the bedroom, Frank’s solution to the winter wind he had likened to a dog whistle. The painters were waiting. They would lay on a fresh coat of paint that would hide all traces of us. I excused myself a moment and then opened the window over the bathtub and leaned out onto the small flat section of roof where I had deserted a dying geranium. In the distance I could see the train, hear the familiar rumble as it made its way into the city, where it would spill all the people and scoop up some more. I thought of all those times I’d complained, my arms filled with shopping bags, while I stood and waited for the rush of wind that announced an approaching train. I wanted another chance; just one more trip into the city and I would return stoically, no complaint uttered.

My young neighbor, pregnant and cheerful, was watering her patio tomatoes. “We will miss you,” she said, I assume speaking for her husband and unborn child, maybe for the whole building. I mouthed a thank-you and turned quickly, sat on the edge of the empty bathtub, my hand gripping the faucet. I grieved that I had never counted the baths taken there, never made little marks on the inside of the door with each passing day. I was sorry that I had not taken
longer
baths, that I had not simply lain back in my world and stared at the full green weeping willow which hid the building next door.

“Alice.” Frank was there in the bathroom door, a young
wild-haired painter behind him. “I was getting worried.” He turned then to the young man and said something about
women things
.

“You know that we can never come back,” I told him, and he shook his head, hugged me close. “If we leave, we can’t ever afford to come back.”

“Sure we can, honey,” he whispered. “But we won’t
want
to. Wait and see.”

Frank and I were both born right near where we lived all those years; we figure we walked the same streets, shopped in the same stores, saw all the same movies at the same time, but we never met until we were in our twenties. He had just come back from World War II and I was taking some business courses in night school. I went to a party at my cousin’s house and there he was. He was already in the same concrete business where his father worked for years before him, and he was spending his day off setting my cousin’s children’s swingset in concrete. He was kneeling there, his big hands pouring cement, face flushed with the brisk March wind, his thick hair a deep auburn in the late afternoon light. “Once it dries, that swing is set for eternity,” he told my cousin when he was all finished. “Won’t budge an inch.”

I tell Frank about the love bugs and he gets a good laugh, says that if I’m going to waste my time thinking about such, I might as well go ahead and join Ida, the accordion-necked
woman, at the bridge table. I do and by the end of the afternoon, I have heard about every stage of her daughter Catherine’s life and everything about Catherine’s children and Catherine’s Christmas Shoppe up in Georgia. “You can buy yourself an ornament at any month of the year,” Ida says. “Walk inside of Catherine’s shoppe, that’s shoppe with two
p
s and an
e
, mind you—sophisticated, huh?—anyway, walk in there and you get a shiver like it might be December and you’re in a snowstorm, carols playing, bells ringing.” I stare at Ida’s face, at her mouth moving in a slow drawling way, her lipstick caked like clay on her dry lips, and I long for winter, the hiss and whine of a radiator, the rattling of ancient glass windows, windows made long before anyone had heard the word
thermal
. I wish it were Christmas in our apartment, and Frank had just tiptoed in and slipped that bottle of White Shoulders under the tree, leaned in the kitchen to say,
You’ll never guess what I just got for you
. I wish I were standing in our neighborhood drugstore the first time I ever smelled that fragrance. It was a drizzly autumn day, four-thirty and already dark. I sprayed my wrists and then stepped out onto the busy sidewalk, my umbrella raised as I walked home, nothing on my mind other than the chicken I was going to cook for dinner and the calculated minutes until Frank got home. Carl was just an unnamed abstraction that we had talked about for ten years; he was the child we had finally accepted we’d never have.

Ida is still talking, her voice like a buzz, while I see myself
up on a chair, reaching to throw old wool blankets over the curtain rods to close out the whistling air, while Carl at ten months holds onto the coffee table and pulls himself up in a wobbly stance. I want to feel the sting of cold; to pull a wool hat down close around my face; to huddle into a seat on the train, Carl pulled close on my lap while we draw in warmth from the strangers collected there, alive to the flashing lights and popcorn smells, the surfacing to daylight and the cold gray sky, the river frozen like a sheet of glass, lights thrown in crazy patterns onto the trees in the Boston Common.

“Then you walk out and it’s ninety-odd degrees, what do you think?” Ida asks. She is staring and I nod at her, returned suddenly to a much older body, a much quieter life, weather so eternally hot and humid that I feel like I might fly out and fling myself into the grille of a car. If I am going to sweat like a pig, then let me do it in Fenway Park or Filene’s Basement. Let me have a purpose and a little dignity. “I said if there’s something you want and can’t find, Catherine could send it to you.” Ida pauses and takes a sip of her fruity drink, some concoction I have refused. (It is always happy hour in the ambulatory senior citizens’ park.)

“I like birds on my tree,” Ida says. “Every year Catherine sends me a few new birds. You can’t wait until December to get your ornaments. Any time of year is good. I want
some woodpeckers, you know sort of a comical bird, for the grandbabies.” I watch her neck, imagining strains of “Lady of Spain.” All of a sudden I feel the hideous speckled nausea that comes just before fainting. I have to wipe my face with a tissue I dip in my ice water. I have to breathe deeply.

“My son and his family will be here,” I finally tell her, though this is something we haven’t decided for sure. Frank says we will not be making the long trip home, so we are hoping they’ll come. Still, I know that if I were Anne and settled there in Brookline, her parents and siblings close by in New Hampshire, I would not drive to Hades to see anybody. “I have a simple tree, a biodegradable tree, popcorn, cranberries. I don’t buy ornaments.”

“Well.” Ida is speechless for a fraction of a second. “Did I tell you about our son Harvey, the artist?”

“I still can’t get over those bugs,” I tell Frank late one night. Our bedroom is the width of the bed, and its ceiling curves with air vents. “I mean, what are they doing? Why don’t they just stay put?” I know that he knows what I am insinuating but he just squeezes my hand.

“I know what’s got you worried,” he says, referring once again to what has
him
worried, hurricane season and what Carl calls
The Mobile Home Tornado Theory
. “First sign of a storm and we’ll just move our cinder blocks aside and drive inland. There’s nothing holding us down.”

“Sounds easy enough,” I say, knowing that he’s describing what we’ve already done. Frank wasn’t running
to
this new place as much as he was running
away
from our old one.
First sign of a storm
(or old age—legs that can’t make the apartment stair climb, bones too brittle to risk icy sidewalks)
and we’ll just move
. It makes me ache to picture our home at night, the familiar shapes and shadows of our belongings. Maybe Frank had a similar vision at one time, a picture of one of us sitting there alone, nothing to break the silence but the distant hum of a passing train. Maybe he felt the unknown survivor should begin letting go by degrees, throwing off old treasured relics that would only become burdens when the other one was gone. He knew, for example, that I would never stare out at this golf course and see any bits of our past. He would never look at the cheap flip-down table and be reminded of my elaborate holiday dinners. He didn’t take time to see that the memories would be there all the same, that they might even be heightened by the strangeness of an unfamiliar place. I suppose he thought when one of us died the other could simply move away from the grief. His plan of action was as simple as taking a dying house cat from its home. Or maybe he didn’t see any of these things; maybe an instinct to run had come to him out of nature without realization or explanation.

“As for the bugs,” he says, “what’s foolish is that they don’t stop and stay right here for a while, in the lap of
luxury.” He says the word
luxury
with a slight shake of his head, as if in awe, this impossible dream that he has convinced himself just came true.

“They have a terribly short life,” I say.

“Yeah, and the men bugs have really got it bad.” He rolls into me, his hand on my hip. In the faint glow from the streetlight in front of Ida’s double-wide, he almost looks the way I remember from the first time we met; it was the same day he poured concrete around the legs of the swingset in my cousin’s yard, a cluster of children watching. “The men bugs only have three stages of life. At least the women get that extra one.”

“Birth? That’s the bonus?” I ask. “You’re saying you’d like to give birth.”

“Well, can’t be much to laying a little egg.”

“Try a seven-pound-and-ten-ounce egg, try that,” I say, and then he pulls me close and I try to imagine us in our bedroom with the full-size window and lace panel curtains; the window overlooks a sidewalk that Frank’s daddy poured not long before the market on the corner opened. The market has fresh fruits and vegetables that the clerks arrange on tables out on the sidewalk; even in the rain, you can stand under the bright green awnings and fill your bag. Carl is a baby napping in a crib; he is a teenager sprawled in front of the TV set with that cat stretched out on his chest. I close my eyes when I feel like crying but Frank doesn’t notice; he jiggles me and laughs, pulls me closer, and I imagine Carl in his small apartment, Anne beside
him. I imagine them halfway listening to each other, halfway listening for the baby’s cry, and, once again, the bathtub drained, another night unnumbered. Maybe they are too tired to hold each other, too tired to tell about the day, to say our neighbor said this to me or you’ll never believe who I bumped into when I went into the city or when I was on the train. They tell themselves that some day they won’t be so tired.

When I returned home from getting Frank his bicarbonate that Sunday afternoon, he was staring out the window, the cat nowhere in sight. I went to the kitchen to put away the things I had bought, noticing immediately that the cat food was gone, the bowls, the rubber mouse. There was a quietness as we sat and waited to hear Carl coming up the stairs. “I just didn’t think it was right,” Frank finally said when the three of us were sitting there. “House cats are deprived of nature.” Carl shrugged, lowered his head to hide any response. “It’s just a cat,” he finally said and left the room.

Frank is snoring quietly now, his warm arm draped over my stomach. I want to wake him, to tell him that there’s no such thing as paradise; there is no Promised Land. At journey’s end, it is all a mirage, a picture of the journey itself and all we left behind. Wherever we are, here or inland or a hundred miles south, that’s all that there is. There is nothing
that can make the end easier for whoever is left behind. That’s what I want to tell him but I don’t. He is sleeping so peacefully, so satisfied with the accomplishments of his life; yet, even as he sleeps, he is preparing for some day when at a moment’s notice one of us must take flight.

Waiting for Hard Times to End

I haven’t heard from my sister, Rhonda, in over a week now, and I’m starting to get worried. My boss at Thriftway Grocery, which is where I work after school, tells me there’s no reason for me to worry, that he bets Rhonda has better things to do than to sit and write out a card to me. “I know what kind that Rhonda is,” he said and laughed. I don’t like the way he laughs or the way his bushy eyebrows go up when he talks about Rhonda. “You know what kind Rhonda is, now don’t you, Bunny?” he asked, and I just shook my head and went back to counting up the cans of B&M Baked Beans.

I’m tired of being called Bunny, but nobody in this town is going to change and call me by my right name, which is Saralyn. I’ve never minded that Rhonda called me Bunny because she made it up years ago because of the way my
teeth look and because she said I always look scared and on the verge of bolting off. I do feel scared sometimes but I’m not always sure why. I’d be a whole lot less scared if I’d just hear from Rhonda. She left home two years ago when I was just fourteen and I have missed her ever since. We had some times, me and Rhonda. She used to make up my eyes and take me down to Ho Jo’s, where she was the hostess. “This is my baby sister,” she would tell people, and I’d sit up straight on my stool and nod at the person. “She’s the sweetest,” Rhonda would say about me, and it made me feel so good. Sometimes Rhonda would buy me dinner, and we’d sit at one of the tables and let somebody wait on us. The man who ran Ho Jo’s would always want to sit with us and Rhonda would say, “Another time, Bill,” then wink, so she didn’t hurt his feelings. “This is mine and Bunny’s night.” Then when it started getting late, she’d put me in a taxi. “I don’t want somebody trying to pick you up. Tell Mother I’ll be home later after I’m through working,” she would say, and I would, and my mother would get red in the face and shake her head, mad that I had on blue eyeshadow and only thirteen. “Don’t you be like her,” Mama said.