The Miracles of Ordinary Men (6 page)

Jemima, who doesn't smoke, glares at her as she passes through the foyer. Lilah smiles again and blows a ring out into the air — a most unladylike skill, that, learned courtesy of Rainer and those days in the Thai mountains. Jemima huffs in her seat and pretends to go back to her magazine, but her eyes follow Lilah as she heads for the stairs. Lilah ignores her and slides her hand along the greasy rail as she climbs the steps.

Back in the apartment, Timothy is sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace that does not work. He wears the clothes that Lilah gave him, bunched under his filthy jacket. His ears are red, as though he's scrubbed them too hard.

“Hi,” she says, softly. She closes the door behind her and is careful not to lock it.

“Hi.” He fidgets and then holds out his hands. “Where are my clothes?”

“They're in the dryer,” she says. And then, because she can't help it, “I could keep them here. For you. If you don't want to carry so much stuff.”

“No.” His voice shakes with urgency. “Give them to me.”

She nods. “Okay. When you want to go, we'll get them from downstairs.” She tries not to stare at his hands. His wrists are thin, his arms long, so awkward. “You've grown.”

He snorts. “Yeah. It's what people do.”

“You need new clothes.”

Timothy shakes his head. “My clothes are fine.”

How many times have they said this? “Look — I can take you. Shopping. We can just get a few things — ”

“I'm
fine
,”
he snarls.

“Just a few things,” she says again. “How can you sleep if you're cold?”

“I'm not cold.” He rocks forward as he sits, just as he did when he was young. “Are you leaving again? Is that it? Do you want to buy me clothes again to make yourself feel better?”

“I'm not going anywhere,” she says, her voice low.

“That's what you always say. And then oh, look — you're in Europe, or you're in Thailand, or Mom's sick and you're in Montreal. Or Toronto. Or New York.”

“I came home,” she shoots back. “I always come home. And now
you're
sleeping by some garbage can. Mom must be so proud — some family this turned out to be.”

“That's different,” but already he is smaller, unsure. “That's completely different.”

Lilah stares at him, watches as he rocks on the floor. Then she gives up. “Do you want something to drink? Tea? Anything else to eat?”

“Hot chocolate,” he says, surprising her. She can hear the hint of a smile in his voice. “With milk.”

She laughs. “I always make it with milk.” She steps into the kitchen, pours milk into a pan on the stove. She pulls out the spoons and the nice mugs, the ones that Timothy gave her years ago as a birthday present. Clay mugs, rough and brown. When the hot chocolate is ready, she fills the mugs and lets the steam brush over her face.

“Are you sure you don't want anything else?”

“I'm fine,” he says. And then, when she hands him his mug, “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” She sits on the floor beside him and pretends not to notice when he inches himself away.

“This is good,” he says, sipping. “I always forget how good it is.”

Lilah snorts. “Of course it's good. It's
always
good.”

“Hey — I made a pretty good cup too. Back in the day.”

She sniffs. “You always left lumps.”

“I did not.”

“Did too.” She turns to face him so that he can see her smile. He was so tiny, then, her Timothy, swinging his feet in the air. “I ate them anyway.”

“Right. Because you're the greatest big sister ever.”

“Naturally.”

He doesn't laugh, or disagree. They sit and drink the chocolate. Lilah has opened one of the windows and they listen as two people shout at each other on the sidewalks below.
Fuck you
this, and
motherfucking
that. A quarrel, maybe, or two people falling in love.

Timothy finishes his drink first, and places the mug on the floor beside the fireplace — carefully, as though afraid the cup might break. “Thank you,” he says again, once more so polite.

“You're welcome.”

He fidgets again, and picks at a thread on his jeans. “I like your house,” he says, finally. “Does Joe-with-an-L like it too?”

She shrugs. “I guess so. We spend all of our time here.”

“Right. Because Joe-with-an-L lives with his mom.”

“Is that a problem?” she asks, annoyed.

Timothy looks at her, then away, and shrugs out a laugh. “It's just — ”

“Just
what
?”

“You could do better. I don't even know the guy, and I know you could do better.”

“Better men, dear brother, seem to be in short supply.” Then she remembers Israel, the soon-to-be-date.
Saturday. Seven. I will drive.
She opens her mouth to tell him about it but Timothy stands, suddenly, and when he glances down at her he has the street look in his eyes and that's it — he's disappearing, again, right in front of her.

“I have to go,” he says. “I'm going to go.”

“You can have my bed,” she says, speaking slowly. “You can go in there now, Tim. I won't bother you.” Please. Stay. “I promise.”

“You said you wouldn't keep me,” and he backs away from her, toward the door. The whites of his eyes are showing, and his breath comes fast and shallow. “
You said
.”

“It's just a night,” she says, standing, again speaking slowly. Stay. Stay. “Just — just rest
for a night. I just want you to be safe.”

He laughs — the high, terrified laugh of a madman. “No one can keep me safe,” he says. “No one, Lilah. You least of all.” He turns from her, wrenches open the door, and runs into the hallway, shoes dangling from his hand.

She stands in front of the fireplace, silent. He takes the stairs down — flying down the stairwell and back into the night. Running away from her, now, always away. The rest of her hot chocolate goes cold. She puts her mug down, beside Timothy's; she'll have to get his clothes from the laundry, but for the moment she sits back down and listens. The
motherfucking
voices are still fighting, but they're now on the move; they dwindle, fade away. For three seconds the world is heavily, achingly quiet.

Then a breeze comes in, and she stands and shuts the window.

—

In the morning, Israel leaves a message on her machine.
Delilah. I think Indian would be lovely. Don't you?

She showers and picks her outfit, and when evening comes she makes her way to the Indian
restaurant, the famous one on
11
th Avenue. She shivers in the high-necked black dress, the red silk scarf from Timothy, the boots that lace up at the back. Her hair is down because she likes the way it looks, white-blonde in the light from the street. The black feathered fascinator — a guilt gift from Roberta, who has great taste when it comes to matters of the millinery world — completes everything. She feels enchanting and subdued. Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich. Grace Kelly in
Rear Window
,
on her way to break another man.

Then she reaches the restaurant, and sees Israel at the window, and as she steps inside the door everything changes.

“Delilah,” he says. He stands to greet her, and the words carry. “You're late.”

She flushes to the tips of her fingers. She is five years old. “I'm sorry.” She allows him to take her coat, to drape it gently over the last chair. His coat sits on the chair to her left. She can tell it's expensive just by the way it hangs.

“Not
very
late,” he concedes. He pulls out her chair and she sits. “But I am not used to waiting.”

“Well,” she snaps, before she can stop herself, “I don't rush for anybody.” She winces and tugs on her scarf. “Just so you know.”

Israel laughs and sits down. “So you are not as polite outside of work. I wondered. We will overlook it, for tonight.”

“Overlook what?” She wipes her hands against her thighs. “Being impolite or being late?”

“Both.” He has beautiful hands, this man. Large. Long-fingered. He wears a silver ring on his right index finger, and when he motions to the waiter again the ring glimmers in the light. He orders wine for both of them and lets his menu lie open on the table. “You are young — I must remember this.”

She thinks of Rainer and those long ago days in the mountains. “Why does everyone talk about my age like it's some kind of fucking handicap?”

“You watch your mouth,” he says softly. There's that hint of steel. “But that's just what a young person would say. Maybe you're not ready just yet.”

She blinks. The waiter brings a bottle of wine and fills her glass. What kind of date is this? “Ready for what?”

“Never mind.” He shrugs and places one hand on the table, then hooks his other arm around the back of the chair. “Let us begin at the beginning, then. Tell me about you.”

“But I don't know anything about you,” she blurts, hating the way it sounds. The wine is cool and sharp. “I don't even know why I'm here.”

“I come from Mexico City. And now I live here. What else do you want to know?”

“Do you have any brothers? Any sisters?” Or favourite foods, a favourite colour. Suddenly everything sounds so juvenile, so strange.

“I do not,” he says. “And you have a brother.”

“Yes,” she says, surprised. “He lives here, in the city.” She drinks, and suddenly her glass is empty. “Did Penny tell you that?”

“I pay attention,” Israel says. His hand around the wine bottle, more wine in her glass. “It's amazing, what you learn.”

Joe-with-an-L, she realizes suddenly, does not even know her brother's name.

“Mediocre men do not pay attention,” he continues. “Surely you've met enough of those, by now, to know the difference. Surely you know enough to long for something better?”

She sips her wine, uneasy. “Well isn't that a lovely thing to say.”

“The truth is hardly ever
lovely
,
Delilah. But no doubt you know that already, as does your brother.” He shrugs. “This is what you learn when you look deeply at the world.”

“Is this what you do, then? ‘Look deeply at the world' while we're making you expensive coffee and shuffling papers around in the foyer?”

“You could say that.” The waiter arrives with poppadums and chutney, places the dishes noiselessly on the table, and then retreats, once more, into shadow. Israel cracks a poppadum between his hands. “You might call it a . . . project. Or a hobby. Most people, Delilah, pay the world no attention at all. They do not watch for opportunity. They are content to let their lives mean nothing. But you,” he points a long finger at her, “you are different. I think so, anyway.”

This from the man who, up until two days ago, had never spoken her name.

“I think you're crazy.”

“People have said that before,” he tells her, unperturbed. “But they only say it once.” The waiter comes back and Israel orders for them both — jackfruit in masala, saag paneer. He finishes his own wine, refills it, and watches her. Lilah stares at the table and says nothing. She is mortified and furious, her fingers tight around the stem of her wine glass. Where is the sparkling conversationalist, or the girl who at the very least knows enough about decorum to watch her mouth in front of the boss?

“You needn't worry about being proper,”
Israel says. Now her wineglass is empty again; he refills it. “We are not at work anymore.”

“So you read minds now?” she mutters.

“You'd be surprised how much a face can tell, Delilah. And is this a date? I am no longer so sure.” She glances up, blushing, as he continues. “You are so much quieter than the women I usually entertain.”

“Well, maybe you're not entertaining me.”

He chuckles. “So I am not interesting, then?”

“Interesting enough.”

Outright laughter this time. “Delilah, Delilah. I have never met a woman like you.”

“You can't have met many women, then.” She spoons chutney onto her plate and dips in a poppadum. “I'm not that special.”

“If you say so.” The waiter places another bottle of wine on the table. “Somehow, I don't think that is true.”

They stumble on like this until the food comes, and then Israel talks for most of the meal. He tells her about a childhood in Mexico — the colour, the food, parades down the Paseo de la Reforma. A mother who prayed a hundred times a day, a struggle with numbers at school.

“You call them the
times tables
,”
he says. “Even now, I find them difficult.”

“Yes,” she says, surprised. “I know.” In return, she tells him about Thailand, about the hills, about sleeping drenched in opium and rain. About the café job she took when she moved back in with Roberta, about the man she met there and the job opportunity that took her to Toronto, then Montreal. She does not tell him about Timothy, or the phone calls.

“And now you're back,” he says.

“I've been back for two years. Almost three.”

“Why?” Israel spoons the last of the jackfruit on his plate. “If it was so wonderful — why come back?”

“My mother got sick. I moved home for a while, to help.” She laughs; she can't help it. “And it drove me crazy, so I moved here. Now there's practically an ocean between us, and I'm still only a few hours away.”

“And now you are a secretary.” The sentence thuds onto the table. “Do you enjoy your job?”

“Yes. I've dreamed about being a secretary since I was five. Doesn't everybody?”

“Then why are you there?” he asks.

“Why didn't I get a bonus?” she blurts. “At the end of last quarter. Everyone else got a bonus. Even Debbie.”