The Late, Lamented Molly Marx (42 page)

I sped past a small stand of scrubby pines guarding the empty tennis courts, winding left to Cherry Walk, a scraggly string of bike path bordered on the left by low stone embankments. The rocks sloped straight down to the lapping edge of the gloomy river barely a foot or two below.

In lyrics, life is always distilled to quaint, deceptive clarity. But women I knew wouldn’t drown their woes in Southern Comfort, nor were they willing to trade all their tomorrows for a single yesterday. Before bed, they did fifty sit-ups, popped a Lexapro, contemplated having a baby or a consultation with a top divorce lawyer, and counted the months until their vacation, when they could liquefy into a beach under a broad-brimmed hat and a creamy slather of SPF 45. Until then, they soldiered on and kept their shoes and optimism shined, responsible, cut, and colored, inside and out.

I was determined to do better than that. I couldn’t lead a halfway life in a halfway home.

The intermittent sun had called it a day and rain was starting to fall again. It felt refreshing, washing away the old Molly, cleansing my attitude. I planned to cycle all the way to the bridge, make sure that the little red lighthouse Annabel and I loved had withstood the winter, then turn back and zip over to the bakery. If the sprinkle got worse, I’d shift to plan B and exit by Fairway, where I could buy Barry one of those tiny cherry pies he polished off in two servings—a peace offering, even if he thought it was just dessert.

As adrenaline kicked in, my brain began to drain—comfortably, pleasantly, and reliably. That was as much the point of cycling as any benefit to my hip measurement or cardiovascular system. I took scant note of the skate park, the basketball courts, or even the path’s painted
dividing line, blue and steady as a vein, separating north-traveling bikers like me from those heading south. With each revolution, I could feel my tension release, my resolve grow.

On Monday I would call Luke. To avoid him was cruel; the sweetness of our history deserved more than jagged conversations. In plain, sans serif language I’d tell him this would be our last conversation. It would be over.

Except—I squinted—there he was, Bobby McGee Delaney himself, a tall streak in a navy windbreaker and jeans, standing by the side of the road. “Stop so we can talk,” he shouted.

I was touched that Luke had gone to this length to find me, but I wasn’t prepared, and I felt trapped. “Oh, Luke, not now,” I shouted back. “It’s too late.” I meant that in every way, but I tried to keep it kind and casual. “I don’t have the time.”

“Molly, I’m here and we need to speak,” he yelled.

I begged to differ; my face said as much.

“You don’t get how much I love you.”

Perhaps, but I didn’t want to listen. I wanted to keep it clean and manageable.

“I love you, Molly. I do.”

Maybe he did. Maybe I owed him. Maybe this was my
Casablanca
. A whole lot of maybe.

“Okay,” I said. “Grant’s Tomb is up the road. Walk there and wait for me. I’ll see you inside.”

He shot me a skeptical look. Did he honestly think I’d ditch him?

“I will,” I said. “In ten minutes, fifteen at the most.”

“Grant’s Tomb,” he said. “I’ll be there.” And he was off.

I’d ride to the bridge as I’d planned, check out the lighthouse, circle back, meet Luke, and we’d talk now instead of Monday. I didn’t want to pose, to pretend. I wanted to make right in my life what wasn’t. I wanted to change. I
would
change, starting that very day. Even if the wrong man loved me, I told myself, I refused to be one more woman who smiled meekly and tried to make the best of her 5-on-a-scale-of-10 life.

I wouldn’t get out my knife sharpener. I’d break things off gently but irrevocably, like snapping a brittle twig, and Luke and I would go our separate ways. I’d face my husband with the first layer of guilt
scrubbed away. I knew I was doing the right thing, which gave me a blast of speed.

Yes, I had feelings for Luke.

No, I wasn’t prepared to act on them.

Yes, I might always love him.

No, nothing he could do would change my mind.

With each rotation of my wheels, I became more convinced. I, Molly Divine Marx, could do this. I began rehearsing.

Luke, I will love you forever but
… Nope. Nobody likes a
but
.

Luke, from the beginning we both always knew …
Except we didn’t.

Luke, you are deeply precious to me and because of that …

I got busy editing away clichés, picking them off like lint. I barely noticed that the late afternoon sky had darkened as efficiently as if someone had dimmed the lights. The raindrops had become a steady march, pelting my helmet. I heard a clap of thunder. Bass drums.

As I was deciding whether I should skip the lighthouse and go straight to Grant’s Tomb, there was suddenly a second, larger thunderclap. Cymbals.

The sky started exploding. Which is why at first I didn’t hear the other sound, which began growing louder. And then it was unmistakable: the grinding of another biker’s gears behind me. Closer.

Too close.

I thought I heard someone call my name. Had Barry followed me? I twisted back to look over my shoulder. This tailgater apparently had prepared for the weather by cashing in a hefty gift certificate at L.L. Bean. I’m talking serious, textbook gear, rubbery black from toe to head, ending in a hood that slid over a helmet. I was looking at a Garanimal in mourning, a biker so sleek but loosely tailored that the he within might be a she; I could not see the outlines of the person’s body, but I did see sunglasses—large, dark, and heavy.

Excuse me, did I miss the paparazzi or the forecast for the hurricane?
I wanted to shout. But the rider shouted first.

What was the voice saying? “On your left”? “Be careful”? Or was this person screaming my name? The words were swallowed by thunder. Platinum lightning ripped the heavens and rain began pounding even harder, unmercifully, horizontally. I was trapped in the monsoon cycle of a car wash, but I kept pedaling, trying to ignore the grand vizier
of foul weather chic behind me, concentrating on keeping my line. Yet as my wheels skidded through runoff from the sudden squall, I could sense the presence hovering close. Way too fucking close. Didn’t he realize how dangerous this was, or was he right up my ass because he thought I could shepherd him through the tempest? Darth Vader had picked the wrong Girl Scout.

When he failed to pass, I considered cursing him out in my reliable crazy-lady howl, the one that had worked when a thief with an extra dose of hubris had tried to steal my wallet. In a courthouse. At jury duty. But what if this dick-brain was, say, a deranged bike messenger, out to rob me—or worse? This was, after all, a city with a fairly imaginative crime blotter.

I needed to get away. I decided to edge as far as I could toward the fence that separated the bike path from the traffic, even though puddles there were already deep. Water splashed my pants and, for the second time that day, oozed into my shoes. I could feel the slosh under my socks. Whether that was Barry or not, he was right. Who rides a bicycle in February? Had I, a responsible mother with biking skills that didn’t surpass average, mistaken myself for a Tour de France contender? I was officially a moron.

I craned my head. The person was yelling. “… talk to you.” At closer range the voice sounded shrill, nasal, of a higher pitch. Not Barry. And now there was no mistake. He—or she—knew who I was.

“Molly Marx! Slow down!”

“What are you doing?” I screamed. But it actually looked as if this wheeled deviant was coming at me. Pissed off and scared shitless, I tried to yell, “Back off! Stay the fuck away.” The sound refused to leave my throat. I started to gasp and wheeze.

“Pull the fuck over!” the biker screeched while skidding into a puddle, flying at me on the right like a missile.

I had to pedal away from this banshee freak. I could do it.

“Face it, Molly. You and Barry are done! He thinks you’re a joke. Ignoring me’s not going to change that! He doesn’t love you anymore.”

“Who are you?” I shrieked.

“C’mon, you know exactly who I am!”

Suddenly I did. I understood everything and was fortified with an emotion both strong and pure. I believe it was white-hot hatred. I
twisted to try to get another look—to be completely sure. That’s when we collided and I lost my grip. My arms flew above my head like a demented cheerleader, any control surrendered. One foot broke loose. But the other refused to budge from its clip as my bike zigzagged in a dizzying swerve to the left. I watched this as I might a horror movie, until I had to close my eyes. Finally, the bike started to slow.

I thanked God. As Papa Louie liked to say, if a Jew doesn’t expect miracles, she isn’t a realist.

Then I saw my destination, the sharp, serrated edge of a rock. In slow motion, it met the soft plain of my forehead and gashed my skin, dripping blood into my mouth. My bike landed on top of me in a deafening clatter of entwined spokes and jeering, hideously cheerful yellow metal.

“Christ!” someone said. “Don’t you dare do this.” I was fairly sure the disembodied voice was not my own.

I heard my bike splash and the spray of the Hudson iced my face, my neck, my shoulders. Then I felt … nothing.

The bike-bitch towered above me and freed my foot. Or perhaps I disengaged myself, like a hero-mom who’d hoisted four tons of mini-van that had pinned her toddler. I was at the water’s edge. All I could see and smell was the brackish river. How demon-fast was that current? When was the last time I’d had a tetanus shot? Would I even remember how to swim?

As the Hudson threatened to suck me into its maw, I snaked myself forward—bouncing and sliding in a desperate break-dance—and stretched to reach for the spike of a protruding green-slimed rock. I forced up my arm, the pain virtually unbearable. In the sudden movement my eye caught a glint stuck to the Velcro that fastened the wrist of my windbreaker. I’d snared a treasure, a glittering pink heart pendant encircled by plum-colored pavé stones, the same heart that had dangled from the necklace Barry was going to give me, that or its evil twin.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Molly Here’s another knife in your heart
.

With a frozen hand—my glove shredded—I reached for the taunting bauble. I snatched it, cool, hard, and glossy to the touch. As if I were grasping God, I wrapped my fingers tightly around the heart.

My leg seared. My shoulder pulsed with savage pain. I was soaked, yet sweating profusely. From what I remembered of anatomy, I guessed
I’d cracked my clavicle as easily as if it were a wishbone on a rotisserie chicken, yet my leg and shoulder were half the agony of my insides.

I wanted to shut my eyes again.

Gather my breath.

Take a time-out.

I thought I heard a voice imploring me to stay awake, to not surrender to the slicing ache, to the rush of frigid water. It cried, “Molly,” a distant soundtrack coming from the middle of a bell. It was a voice that I’m not sure even existed, a voice both filled and filling me with fear.

“Sorry,” it said.

Someone bent low. Was the person going to help me or kill me? But all that happened was that the heart was pried from my hand. I heard a small splash. Footsteps. And then I heard … nothing.

I was alone now, drowning in my own silence.

I could see the sky. While I couldn’t move my neck or raise my head, I could faintly make out a billboard on the parkway.
Getting home late?
it said.
Tell your TiVo to start without you
.

I tried to laugh, and when I couldn’t, I cried out, yelling, “Help … help me … help me, someone,” but the traffic was deafening. Could anyone even hear me where I lay, discarded like a piece of garbage, hid amid the brambles? I screamed, flinched, and screamed once more. Each time I yelled out, it felt as if razor blades were digging into my ribs, yet I would catch my breath and scream again and again and again … continuing until all that came out were feeble animal mews and gurgling moans.

Someone would find me. Someone had to find me. Soon.

I told myself, out loud, in a whisper, to stay calm and awake. I counted to one thousand and recited the alphabet—in English, then in French—and played the rhyme game, as Lucy and I had done in grade school, taking turns calling out the first word that came to mind.

Lucy, Moosey, juicy, Gary Busey, Watusi, Cousin Brucie, goosey, Debussy
.

Molly, trolley, volley, Bengali, dolly, Ollie, holly, Norma Kamali, collie, Salvador Dalí, jolly, Polly, golly, Mexicali, “Zum Gali Gali,” folly
.

Pure folly.

Was that Luke I was seeing, standing above me—telling me to hang on, that he was going to get help? Was that him, or just a hope, a prayer, love dressed in blue jeans?

Luke, duke, Dubuque, Baruch, fluke, Herman Wouk, puke, spook
.

Had I actually been run off the road by a marauding hag dressed in black, Coco Chanel’s worst nightmare, or was this a hallucination, a vision fucking with my mind? Had a woman claimed she loved Barry? Was it that Barry loved her and not me?

What did it matter? The only thing that counted was staying alive.

I tried to concentrate on the top spire of Riverside Church, Annabel’s Burger King crown pinned against the charcoal sky. I began to run through Annabel’s life, starting with that night that I was fairly sure the sperm had gotten the egg and all the cells were busy growing a new person. Almost nine months of astonishing pregnancy, every flutter kick a promise. William Alexander. Alexander William. Would I ever get to meet him? I skipped to Annabel’s delivery. Bringing home my pink, bald, beautiful baby. Nursing in the wee hours, a milky team, the two of us alone together rocking in the green velvet chair. Annabel’s first tooth, first laugh, first ice cream cone, first lollipop, first doll, first tantrum, first haircut. Learning to crawl like a crab along the shiny wood floor, to walk, to say “mommy.” Starting nursery school, ballet, starting everything.

I tried to remember each birthday party, each party dress, each cake, especially the chocolate teddy bear I’d baked myself for her third birthday, showering it with coconut to hide frosting I’d heaved on in slabs to cover my sloppy work. Blowing out candles.
Are you one? Are you two? Are you three? Are you four?
Not four. Not yet. I had to stay alive for four. I needed to get to four. One, two, three …