Apart From Love (35 page)

And me, I shrug, which in a flash, ignites the fury in him. I know Lenny: he can be terribly jealous. He claims that jealousy is like a compliment, almost; the most honest compliment a man can give. In his mind I should be happy, awful happy that he loves me so crazy, so deep.
 

But never did I see him like that: torn.
 

When it comes to his boy, Lenny is usually so steady. He’s been longing for him for so many years. I wish I had a pa like that. And even if my husband has some secrets, and things he don’t share, still, I’m sure that as a father, he has an awful big heart—but now that Ben is back home, a change has come over the old man. He can’t make up his mind between trusting his son—or suspecting him for a rival.
 

Lenny comes forward—nearly going into a skid—and with full force he bangs the glass door, like he wants it to crack, to fall down in pieces, and to scatter all over the floor, with sharp shards ringing, pinging around me, ‘cause like, he can see something in me, something invisible, that no one else can see: a mark, a see-through mark on my neck, like, from the touch of his son, zipping up my little black dress, a stain left there by accident, almost.
 

So he demands, “I need to talk to him. Now you tell me, where the hell is he?”

Which brings a little voice into my head, whispering something ma used to say, which is, “Charm the snake and then, real slow, back away.”

So I say, real soft and gentle, “You know, Lenny, you have two sons—not one. Right now, I know where one of them is.”

And I unbuckle my pink belt, and open my winter coat—just enough to let him see how my dress clings to my belly, which looks kinda puffy, ‘cause it isn’t exactly flat no more.
 

And from the inner pocket of my coat I bring out a picture, which I must admit is kinda confusing, ‘cause at first glance it’s like, nothing more than a mishmash of gray, so you can’t exactly get it—not all at once, anyhow.
 

So you must learn to be awful patient, and take your time to study them lights and shadows here, in the picture, like, real slow and careful—or else, have someone else come to your help, and point out that, like, this is the inside of me, and this here, see, is a nose, and this, the lips of my sweet baby boy.

I bring the picture up and hold it for Lenny, pressing it right here, against the glass, just above the smudge, which his hand has just left there, on the other side.
 

I bet he can tell, by the glint in my eyes, that this here is like, real special, because looking at it you must also imagine the beat, the heartbeat going blip, blip, blip across the screen, from left to right, which means the baby is doing fine, real fine.
 

For a second Lenny is drawn to me, to the smile on my lips—but then, just before he can take a good look at the picture or say nothing, the phone rings.
 

So with a long screech he slides open the door, and passes me by on his way to the hall, in a rush to answer the thing.
 

“Hello,” he says. “Aunt Hadassa!”
 

And after a long pause, which means she’s going at him real good, he slumps against the wall, saying, “What? What did you say? Is there something wrong, I mean, at your end of the line? No, I am fine. Really, I am. Thank you for asking. What? My hearing? It is just as fine, aunt Hadassa. It is just... Just, I am a bit surprised. I cannot believe what you have just said.”

Then he says, “Let me see now, do I remember correctly? You used to hate her, didn’t you? My God, how you cursed, how you laid out all the reasons why I shouldn’t, under any circumstances, have married the girl—even if she is pregnant! And after the wedding, you would not even return my calls. I got a whole week of silence—thank God—after which it was back to the same old thing: there was no stopping you on the phone, lamenting what you called, the
sorry event
. Why, just yesterday you gave me an earful—didn’t you?

“What?” he cries. “Can you repeat that, now? Anita,
she
deserves better?”

His lips tighten. “Hell,” he says, this time under his breath, so I can’t barely guess the words, “what is the matter with everybody today?”
 

And back to his usual voice he tells her, “Yes, I
am
listening, aunt Hadassa, of course I am. Yes, I know I should be careful, much more careful with her. Really, I promise. Yes, I realize she is still dizzy. Of course, I will do that—”
 

And to himself Lenny mutters, like, “Everyone is telling me, lately, just what she deserves. Some even care so much about the two of us as to say it behind my back. I mean, my own son...”

Now he bends down, as if aunt Hadassa is weighing him down, somehow.
 

“Well, fine,” he tells her. “I will talk to him, too—but really, I can assure you—”

By now, his hand is well on its way to put the phone down, but then he jerks it up, just to say, “No. No, you are quite wrong. Really. I find him to be a well adjusted young man. Well, as happy as can be expected, of course, under the circumstances.”

“No, I am not at all worried about him. And no,” he gasps, “there is none of that. As far as I can tell. No. Absolutely nothing. No trace of jealousy.”

And then, at last, the old man drops the thing in its cradle.

When he finally comes to bed that night, Lenny lays there for a long time without even stirring, as if he can’t bring himself to close the gap, or even to try to reach over it, somehow, and touch me. I bet that in his head it’s like, a ceasefire, and so me and him, we must build what so far, we’ve managed to destroy—by which he means, our defenses.
 

And so he figures that we can, perhaps, be safe from injury, and safe from inflicting it—but only if we hide from each other. I swear, this isn’t no way to end a battle.

Lenny’s kinda silent, except for heaving a sigh from time to time, which means he’s still tied up at trying to hide feeling guilty—but anyhow, he isn’t quite ready to forgive, or to be forgiven.
 

Then, out of the blue he says, not exactly to me but to the dark ceiling over us, “You know, I have thought about aunt Hadassa, what she said.”

And me, I say, “Oh Lenny, just forget it,” real soft.
 

And I roll away from my edge, a little closer to his side of the bed, like, half the distance to him, hoping he’ll come halfway too and just, just hold me.
 

Instead, he’s holding his grudge.
 

In a dry, guarded tone Lenny says, “I’ve left you an envelope on the kitchen table. First thing tomorrow morning I want you to take it, count the money, and then,” he don’t even say,
Anita
, “then go open a bank account in your name.”

And I go, “What’s that for, all of a sudden?”

And he goes, “Let it not be said that I am not giving you that which you deserve.”

And in my aching heart I’m telling him, like, What I deserve is not to be made to feel like some fucking bitch. I’m your wife now. Before the wedding we used to have something, like, some good moments, some places where we was happy together. Can’t you fight, Lenny, to get us back there?

Which is when he turns over, in a big hurry, to the other side, like there’s something real exciting to be found over there. Then—before I have a chance to say nothing to him—his breathing gets awful deep, so I reckon he’s fallen asleep.
 

Meanwhile, a distant rumble can be heard from outside.
 

It comes in fits, and from time to time reaches closer, rattling the window pane. I lay there wide awake, listening to the thunder, dreading what I know is sure to come next. I count the seconds in my head till finally, here it is: a fork of lightning comes tearing through in the night sky, zig zagging across the half-turned blinds.
 

And in a blinding flash my wedding dress, which is hung right there, opposite me, in the corner of the bedroom, comes alive. The heavy satin rustles like it’s just about to breathe. The lace trembles in the cold air. And for a moment the beading glitters. It blinks, like it’s trying to bring back some memory. So bright, so dazzling!
 

Then the dress sinks back into the dark.

So I slip off the bed, and feel my way, somehow, to the window to bolt it, and to turn them blinds, so Lenny won’t wake up to the sound of the storm, ‘cause clearly, you can tell that he needs his rest.
 

Now I touch something. It feels kinda round. Must be the oval frame, the frame of the standalone mirror, which used to belong to his ex-wife, Natasha.
 

I turn my head away, so as not to catch sight of the face—the pale, wide-eyed face, which I try to tell myself, is mine—but already, it’s too late to believe that. Piercing me, out of the black void of the glass, is her sad, heart-rending look.
 

Which brings a thought into my head: Natasha, she isn’t my enemy no more, because at this point it’s over, I ain’t a threat to her. Like, now I ain’t the
other woman
no more.
 

Instead, I’ve grown to become what she used to be.
 

So it shouldn’t scare me so, I mean, the fact that we look so much alike, because at last I’ve come full circle, just to learn—like she did, at the time—how bitter it feels, to see the moment coming, and be too weak to stop it, or even to avert your eyes, when you find yourself betrayed.
 

I can’t change none of the things I’ve done to get here, and none of what it takes to be here, in her place—but I this I swear: never before did I feel this sorrow, this dark, crushing sorrow for what happened, and for how she ended up.
 

Like ma used to say, The only hope you have, Anita, is to look at yourself in the mirror—and find regret.
 

I cross to the window, which is the moment I begin hearing the sound. On the surface it seems to be blend with the howling of the wind, and the scraping of bare branches across the edge of the roof—except it isn’t coming from outside, and it’s just a whimper at first.
 

Even so, it takes me by surprise, ‘cause Lenny don’t dream—or so he says. And for sure, he don’t never talk in his sleep, ‘cause no matter if it’s day or night, his jaw is set firm, and them muscles, they’re always tight around his lips, which looks funny with his eyes closed, but also a bit stern.
 

Anyhow you can see, just by looking, that at this moment he isn’t hardly his usual self. So I rush to his side—but can’t get nothing, not a word of what he mumbles, because now that he’s in the grip of some fear, he don’t barely make sense.
 

It takes my breath away to look at Lenny, ‘cause he feels awful helpless, like a baby, almost. After a while he starts whining—not from his throat but from an inner place, deep down in his guts. From there he wails, wrapped up in his nightmare, as if he’s about to be cut away, like, lose the one dear to him.

Me, I reckon it’s something you might expect, like, when you’re expecting: my heart pounds with great worry inside me, so much so that it hurts, even, like I’m already a mama—and not only to my little one.
 

So the fact that Lenny, he’s like, twice my age, flies clear out of my head. I cuddle him, real gentle, and feel his big body trembling here, in my arms. And I rock him back and forth, back and forth, like he’s a child, and I try to calm him down, whispering, “Sh... Sh...” And I hug him, even tighter now, ‘cause he’s shaking like a leaf. “What is it, Lenny?”

By now his voice is so intense. It’s rising, rising to a shriek, “Taaah! Taaah—”

Which is when I figure, like, he’s trying to call someone, call her back, real urgent, to make her stop just there—just before she reaches the rift, the edge of what he sees in his dream—so he don’t end up losing her.