Broken for You (45 page)

her paj
ama top.

"Help me get dressed please, and then call Robert. I m ready to talk

about radiation therapy."

Thirty

Mrs.
K.'s
Last Frame

M. J.
was speaking with a chubby girl wearing torn jeans and cloddish shoes. He'd seen her before; she was hard to forget. She had gone out of her way—the way young girls seemed to nowadays—to make herself look as ugly as possible: ratty clothes, bleached hair, pale makeup, blue lips. A small gold hoop extruded from her left eyebrow. Behind her, arrayed in attitudes of studied nonchalance around the fountain, were six or seven other kids of indeterminate sex, looking and smelling like they'd rolled a bum for his wardrobe.

"I don't think so," M.J. was saying.

"Whaddya mean?"

"I mean, I'm not gonna put up the bumpers for you."

"Why the hell not?"

"How old are you, anyway, darlin'? Eleven? Twelve?" M.J. knew she was probably more like fourteen, but he wanted to piss her off.

"What the fuck does that matter?" the girl said. On her cheeks, two pale spots of pink struggled up through her pale makeup. "I'm not trying to buy a beer, for chrissake. I just wanna fuckin' bowl."

"You're too old to be asking for a bumper lane. And too young to be usin' that kind of language."

"Who the hell are you, anyway? God?" One of Eyebrow's admirers gave a snicker. "Just give us the lane that's got the goddamn bumpers."
MJ. turned on his most charming accent. "Let me explain somethin' to ya, darlin', so that you'll have the whole picture clear in your darlin' head. For one thing, I got a birthday party comin' at one and the bumper lane is reserved for one Alexander Anderson-Epstein, age five, and the darlin' boys and girls in his party who actually need to use it. For another thing, I've seen you here before. You're name's Roxie, isn't that so?

"How do you know that?"

"You'd be amazed what a person with a curious disposition can learn eavesdropping on an eleven-year-old's phone conversations, especially if they have as many as you do. I've seen you here, without this lot"— he jerked his thumb toward the crowd behind her—"and I've seen you watchin' the sport. Like a hawk." M.J. leaned closer. "You have," he enunciated, "an interest. An interest in somethin' besides pissing off your mum and dad and flunking out of school."

Eyebrow was fuming. M.J. took a long drag on his cigarette and gave her a steely stare. "Let's cut the bullshit, shall we, Roxie? Listen closely: You're never gonna get any good if you rely on the bumpers; you wanna be some slop-ass bowler your whole life? Take lane nine. It's open. If I get a minute, I'll come around and give you some pointers."

"Thanks a lot. Asshole."

"Yeah, well, I may be an asshole, but I'm a helluva good bowler. Come back with a clean mouth and a willingness to learn the greatest game ever invented by humankind!"

M.J. had to shout the last part of his speech, since Roxie and her friends had turned en masse and exited in a group huff toward the video arcade.

"Hoodlums," he muttered.

"Old fuck!" countered Roxie, spinning around with a flourish and giving him the finger.

"You're right about that, darlin'!" M.J. replied. He took another drag on his cigarette and went back to writing next week's schedule.

"That poor girl," Irma clucked later that night. They were eating macaroni-and-cheese TV dinners.

"What poor girl?"

"That girl today. The one you were talking to at lunchtime."

"Poor girl, my ass. She's a hoodlum."

Irma raised an eyebrow. "So, you think she's getting a lot of love at home, do you? A lot of attention?"

"How would I know, Irma?'

"Summer's over."

"So?"

"Things may have changed a lot, but as far as I know kids are still supposed to be in school during the day."

"What is it you're suggesting, Irma?"

"Nothing! I'm not suggesting anything! Just that maybe a girl that age, she still needs someone. A grown-up. You could do a little something. Like you said. Give her some pointers."

"Right, Irma. Like she'd listen."

They ate dessert: cherry Jell-O with celery, walnuts, and cream cheese balls.

"You don't have to bowl, God forbid, and you shouldn't have any fun, but you could show a little interest. Pick up a ball. Give her a lesson."

"Give it a rest, Irma. A kid like that does not want somebody like me butting into their life."

They did the dishes. They brought their coffee into the living room. "What do you want to do tonight?" M.J. asked as he settled on the sofa. "Cards? Scrabble? TV?" He snatched up the
TV Guide
and started reading it. When Irma didn't answer, he looked up.

She walked over to the cabinet, where Maurice was in his cat bed, standing guard as usual. She hoisted him into her arms and stood there, stroking him. "I almost didn't marry Sam, you know. I almost had a different life." She fell silent. Maurice purred and nuzzled her neck. "Irma?" M.J. was struck by how small and frail she looked. "I knew he loved me. I just didn't think I had anything to give. After we'd been together for a while—this was in '47 and his tour was almost over—he asked did I want to go back to Paris one last time. Visit the old neighborhood. Maybe take a look at my apartment." "I thought you said you didn't want to go back." "I didn't, but..." Irma shrugged.
"Sam was trying to be kind. Maybe he thought I'd regret it later if I didn't go, and I halfway thought he might be right. I knew that, whatever happened, I could never live in Paris again. So, we went. Our neighborhood was in the Marais district. It was so strange being there after the war, all the familiar faces gone.

We got as far as across the street from our apartment, and then I started shaking and crying. It was terrible, like it was happening all over again. I couldn't go any farther. I couldn't have walked in the front entrance or up the stairs even if I'd wanted to. Sam said—and I'll never forget this, it was so like him—'I'll do it for you, sweetheart. You wait here. I'll go up first.'"

Irma paused. She settled Maurice back in his cat bed and mewed at him. He looked up at her adoringly and uttered a high-pitched squeak. Then she went on.

"Sam came out with this old woman on his arm and they started to cross the street. She could barely walk, and she looked older than God. At first I didn't recognize her. And then I remembered. She was our next-door neighbor. Our shriveled-up, snoopy, pain-in-the-ass neighbor. You know the kind: living alone, nowhere to go, always home, always squinting through the crack in their door, with their noses in everybody else's business. Old. Old in the worst possible way a person can be old. Albert—my first husband—and I, we couldn't stand her. I remembered thinking that she was probably a sympathizer. And maybe she was—who could tell in those days? Lucie liked her, though. She called her 'Madame Polar Bear.' I never knew why." Irma opened the cupboard. "
'Madame L'Ours Polaire.
' Anyway, I was terrified, seeing her again; I don't know why. It was all too close, and people . . . you just didn't know what they were going to do if you were a Jew in those days. Liberation or no liberation. Sam must have seen it in my face, because he came over and put his arms around me and said, 'Do you remember your neighbor, Miss Levendel? She has something for you.' She didn't smile, she didn't say anything, she just took my hand and put this in it."

Irma reached inside the cupboard. When she turned around, she was holding Lucie's teacup.

"It had rolled onto the carpet, under the table, and after we left she picked it up. It was the only thing in our apartment that the Nazis didn't steal once we were gone. And she saved it, can you imagine? All those years, thinking maybe somebody would come back? It was like that all through the war, things like that, little things that people did. Somebody in the camp, forcing you to put up your arm, holding it up when they asked for volunteers to work, even if you didn't know the first thing about sewing or making bullets or building a road. Even if you wanted to be dead.

Somebody like Sam, feeding me in the hospital, the tiniest mouthfuls, like a baby, so that I wouldn't eat too much. Those little things, those kindnesses." Irma looked down. "She picked up a cup. Such a small thing. How could she know how much it would mean? To have something of my daughter to take away, to keep, when I thought I had nothing."

Irma paused again. Her voice had been steady, but M.J. saw now that she was crying. "It was the first time since it all happened that I thought, Maybe there's some hope in the world. Maybe I can love again. Maybe I can live."

Irma pressed the cup into M.J.'s hand. "Keep this."

"Irma. No. I couldn't."

"Don't argue. I want you to. It's got a little crack there, see?" Irma blew her nose and opened the drawer in the coffee table. "Okay," she said, bringing out a deck of cards and starting to shuffle. "Five-card stud. Penny a point. I feel lucky."

The next day Roxie came in again. It was the middle of the day, and she was by herself. M.J. watched her wander over to the video arcade.

Irma marched to the front desk, waving an envelope. "Guess what? I got a letter from Joyce in the mail."

"Who?"

"Joyce. You know. That nice woman we met in Hawaii?" "That's nice."

"She says she'll be in Seattle next month for Thanksgiving. For a whole week she'll be here. Isn't that terrific?" "Uh-huh."

"You don't seem very surprised."

M.J. squinted at her.
Crafty old carrot-top.
"I got a letter from Joyce today too."

"Oh, really? Well now. Isn't that swell?" Irma tucked her envelope into her shirt pocket. Then she leaned closer and stage-whispered, "She's here, did you notice?"

"Who?"

"Don't be funny. You know who. She's all by herself, too, so this might be a good day to, you know . . ."

"Give her some pointers?" M.J. suggested.

"Sure. Why not?"

"Pick up a ball?"

Irma shrugged. "What harm could it do?"

M.J. reached for her hand and kissed it. "All right, Mrs. K. Go finish your lunch. I'll see if somebody else can cover the front desk for a few minutes."

It didn't take more than M.J.'s lacing up a pair of bowling shoes for the Aloha Lanes clientele and staff to take notice. The regular customers started elbowing each other and whispering. Carrie and Joanna stopped hanging Halloween decorations in the kids' room and came down from their ladders. The gal who sold Lotto tickets stopped buffing her nails. The cooks went pop-eyed in the kitchen. Irma and her girlfriends, who'd been in the diner having the Wednesday Special (hot turkey sandwiches with mashed potatoes and gravy), declined dessert, dabbed at their mouths with their napkins, reapplied their lipstick, and poured their coffee into Styrofoam cups. The waitress went on break.

As soon as Jean, the bookkeeper, came to watch the front desk, M.J. pulled a pair of women's shoes off the shelves and headed to the video arcade.

"Come with me," he said to Roxie, taking her by the arm.

"Why?" Roxie tried to summon up her usual smart-ass demeanor and vocal delivery but failed. Without her crowd, she was a different person. She seemed younger. More vulnerable. More like a kid. Also, thank God, for whatever reason she'd left the eyebrow hardware at home.

Rudy cut short his phone call and came out of the office. He was surprised to see Irma standing at the forefront of a small phalanx of customers and employees who were behaving like bad house detectives, affecting nonchalance while conversing furtively and stealing glances at the video arcade. "What's going on?" he mouthed. Irma smiled and pointed.

"Rule Number One," M.J. said, starting to escort Roxie to one of the empty lanes. "You have to let yourself be led by the ball, not the other way around. You have to honor the weight of the ball, give yourself over to it."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"You will. Sit down and try on those shoes."

Roxie obeyed. "They fit okay."

"You sure? You don't want 'em loose. You don't want 'em tight, either."

"They're just right."

"Good." M.J. picked up a ball. "Here. Try this one. How's it feel?"

"Fine, I guess. How's it supposed to feel?"

"Heavy. But not so heavy that you can't travel with it. Now come over here and stand on the throw line. Hold your ball, like this. Look at the pins. Are you looking?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Rule Number Two—you can't think, not once you start moving. Do all the thinking you want while you're standing on the throw line, but before you move an inch you have to make your mind empty. You have to be all instinct. All heart. Now let me see you throw."