Heft (6 page)

“I love this show,” she said, and she came around the front of an armchair and sat down hard in it with a sigh.

She looked at her watch.

“You mind if I stay here for a little bit? I got a ride coming,” she said.

The truth was that I did mind. It had been a trying day and I was ready to have my house to myself again, but I could not for a minute imagine telling her that.

“By all means,” I said, and then we sat there in an uncomfortable silence for a commercial had come on and I didn’t know whether to make a move to change the channel or just to let things be.

Neither of us said anything except the girl hummed under her breath, some song I did not know. I was sitting on my couch with my back to the picture window & she was in the armchair to my left. She looked out the window frequently to check for whomever was coming for her. I would have done the same but I could not turn around. Both of us were angled toward the television which had become the third person in the room.

When my show came back on I was able to relax a bit more & the girl impressed me by saying more answers than I thought she would know. She shouted them gladly when she knew them, pointing one finger at the television. I knew almost everything but I only muttered the answers very quietly for fear of seeming like a show-off, which is probably a leftover from my school days.

I could see her in my peripheral vision. She was so tiny that her feet stuck straight out in front of her and did not touch the floor. Her little pink sneakers pointed at the ceiling. Her toes tapped together. When she craned to look out the window she gripped the arms of the chair and pushed herself up & her mouth fell open.

I tried hard to think of something to say to her before the next commercial break arrived but before I could a little tinny horn sounded outside, and Yolanda said “Ooh! My ride.”

She hopped up and once again hoisted her little purse up on her shoulder and said “You talked to the company?”

“Yes indeed,” I said.

“When am I coming back?”

“Two days,” I said, and held up my fingers in a V, idiotically.

“See you then!” she said, and skipped out the door, slamming it a bit too hard behind her.

I made myself count to five before hauling myself up so that I could look out the window behind me.

I put one knee on the couch and leaned forward to peer down Fifth Street. All I saw was her back as she clung to the driver of a powder-blue Vespa that was speeding loudly away. The driver I did not see.

• • •

T
his morning I woke up from a dream about my childhood &
immediately the self-pity that I have been feeling set in like a disease. You see Charlene still has not called or responded. & at this point she has had my letter, my confession, for nearly two weeks.

But rather than wallowing I decided I would be in a good mood & congratulated myself on the progress I have recently made (I spent yesterday trying to organize my pots & pans, a process that required a great deal of bending over & reaching up) & decided that maybe I should not be sad that Charlene has not called. In fact, I decided, it is likely that I should be quite worried about her. There is the possibility of drug use or drunkenness. I keep hearing her voice in my head & no—it does not sound right. There is the matter of her ex-husband. Last name Keller. By my calculations she would have met him shortly after I knew her or even during the time that I knew her which is a painful thought. On the phone she told me he left her when their son was only four years old. I am horrified by this & think he should be very ashamed. I wondered if Charlene’s calling me was in fact a cry for help. This is a possibility that, I am embarrassed to admit, thrills me.

Therefore I decided that rather than waiting indefinitely I would take some initiative & call her myself. To do this I would have to put aside my pride, but—as this is something I have been doing all my life—I have a talent for it.

I would call her, I decided, & I would invite her and her son to my house in two weeks. This would give me time to further the beautification of both my house & myself. I felt happy & alive; I was practically whistling as I rose from my bed.

I performed all of my morning ablutions very carefully for Yolanda was arriving at eleven.

At 10:30 I sat down on my sofa & placed the phone on my lap. I lifted the receiver & dialed Charlene’s number, which I memorized the first time she gave it to me.

The phone rang seven times & I had nearly given up hope when suddenly I heard a sort of clatter on the other end.

“Hello,” she said, after taking a little breath.

“This is Arthur,” I said.

A second pause, this time longer.

“Charlene?” I said.

“This isn’t Charlene,” said Charlene.

“I’m sorry?” said I.

“Wrong number,” said Charlene, & then she said it again, & then she hung up the phone.

I looked at the receiver in my hand for a long time. The dial tone came out at me viciously. I considered looking up her number & trying her again, but there was no point—I knew it had been Charlene on the other end. I also knew certainly, this time, that she was drunk or drugged or something of the sort. It made me heartsick & I did not know what to do.

At eleven Yolanda came. I fear I was short with her. I had a group of thoughts whirling through my mind in turn, involving the emotions of shame (for in sending her such an honest letter, I had made Charlene my confessor, and it seemed to me that her refusal to talk to me was an act of rejection) and fear (for her safety; for her health; for her son). Then while Yolanda was vacuuming the living room I brushed up against her accidentally in the process of making my way to the bathroom. I certainly didn’t mean to, & I was horrified when it happened—I always make very sure not to come anywhere near her. I shouted, “Sorry! O I’m sorry,” and drew in my stomach immediately, though ineffectually, but she didn’t respond.

• • •

I
happened to be looking out the window today right at the
time Yolanda arrived. And when she arrived she did so by Vespa again & this time I saw the driver. He got off and they kissed goodbye. He was young, about her age, and meatheaded. Large muscles & that sort of thing. He was small in stature but taller than her. He was tattooed; I could see one creeping up his neck from under the collar of his coat. A scrawling blue script. When he took his helmet off I saw he had a tight short haircut like a Marine.

They spoke for a moment while he sat on the seat of his bike & she stood before him. Then she leaned in to him and he put his arms around her and they stood like that for a while silently & I did not like the look on his face. Then she turned away from him & trotted up my stoop and he called after her & she waved him off playfully. He kept watching her.

She rang the bell and I went to the door & hesitated to open it because of the young man outside but when I opened it he was already driving away.

“Hi,” she said, and came right in & tossed her purse on the floor by the door, already very much at home. “I guess I’ll start upstairs today?”

“Well—” I said. “Well.”

I felt the need to make lots of excuses for the state of the upstairs but I couldn’t really think of any that would not call attention to my weight. Which does not need to be called attention to. So all I said was that I thought it was probably very dusty and I apologized.

Without waiting for me to say anything else, she went to the kitchen and got her bucket of cleaning supplies and then trotted gaily up the stairs & for the first time I noticed that she looked like someone in love.

I heard by her footsteps that she had gone all the way to the top floor & I wondered what she would find.

Meanwhile I sat up very properly on my couch. I cannot move myself around quickly so every time she has been here I’ve been careful with what I’m doing & watching & reading & eating. She could catch me at any time doing anything. So while she is in my house I generally don’t have anything to eat, nothing at all. Today I tried to read at first but my eyes wouldn’t focus on the words and I kept reading the same paragraph over and over again. So then I tried turning on the television and Dr Phil was on, who, I am reluctant to admit, is a special favorite of mine. Bald, ursine, mustachioed Dr Phil wears gray suits and pink shirts, invites fat ladies onto his show, and then tells them why they are fat. The ladies cry & agree with him mostly. Many of them have been molested or abused. Many of them have husbands who say terrible things to them about their weight. Dr Phil tells these husbands that they are no prizes either. I have a hopeless halfhearted fantasy of going on this show and receiving a benediction from Dr Phil, a hug, a promise of rescue and relief.
You don’t deserve this,
he says to the ladies.
You deserve better than this.

I watched him for an hour. The story was a very pretty young woman and an ugly young man on the verge of divorce and disaster. They could not get along you see, and Dr Phil was finding out why not by watching the footage from hidden cameras that he had put all over their house.

O shut up, shut up, the woman was saying. On camera. And at one point her terrible husband took her by the shoulders and squeezed her, sort of, & Dr Phil paused the tape there, which is where I also would have paused the tape, and said
What are you thinking.

Suddenly I realized I was hungry. It was past noon and I had not eaten for a couple of hours. But I did not want to eat when Yolanda was in the house because I did not want her to be disgusted by me. I was contemplating going into the kitchen to get the healthiest thing I could find when Yolanda’s phone rang. I heard it from inside her little black purse. It was some sort of high, high whine & a rumbling beat below. Rap music.

It was just out of my reach, on the floor between the couch and the front door. I scooted toward it. I waited to hear if she would come pounding down the stairs for it, but she didn’t. For reasons I can’t explain I rocked myself off the couch and timidly approached it, and then I reached down into her purse—the ringing had already stopped—and brought out the cell phone, which was pink and covered in rhinestones that looked as if they had been applied by Yolanda herself.

I flipped open her phone. There, in a bubble, it said
1 missed call: Junior Baby Love. 12:56 p.m.

Then I heard the sprightly Yolanda’s footfall on the stairs and I dropped the phone into her purse and hastened back to my place on the couch but I was breathing quite hard when I sat back down and I realized that I had forgotten to flip her phone shut.

She appeared very quickly, confirming my theory that I always have to be on my best behavior when Yolanda is in the house.

She looked at me suspiciously.

“My phone ring?” she asked.

“Is that what that noise was?” I asked. Innocently.

She went to her purse and took her phone out with two fingers, holding it up in its flipped-open state and looking at me.

“Is everything all right?” I asked, and she nodded.

“O Yolanda,” I said, to change the subject. “O Yolanda, I have never said this before, but please feel free to make yourself at home while you’re here. For example, would you like a glass of water?”

She considered my offer silently.

I looked at my watch. “I see it’s twelve fifty-six now,” I said. “Are you hungry?”

She nodded. And then she said, “Do you have any milk actually?”

“To drink?”

“Yeah.”

“I certainly do,” I said, & then I tried to get up off the couch as gracefully as I could but I failed & had to rock several times.

“I can get it,” said Yolanda, & I said “Nonsense nonsense. As a matter of fact I was going to make lunch & would you like some.” (At this point I had launched myself successfully and was standing on my own two feet.)

“What do you have?”

I paused. I wasn’t quite sure what to offer a girl like Yolanda. She herself was delicate and therefore deserved delicacies. But ideas for delicacies escaped me.

“Do you like sandwiches?” I asked, and she nodded.

“What kind? I should have . . .”

& then I realized that I had everything, almost everything anyone could dream of in my house.

“You got PB&J?” asked the girl.

“I do.” (That peanut butter is a peculiar favorite of mine, that I mix it with vanilla ice cream—I did not mention.)

“Can I have one?” she asked.

“Certainly,” I said. “Sit right here & watch whatever you like.”

I handed her the remote and walked into the kitchen & there I found whole milk & crusty white French bread & raspberry preserves & Skippy peanut butter. I poured her a tall glass of milk and spread the peanut butter & jelly thickly onto the bread and then I took a soup spoon out of the drawer and helped myself to a mouthful of Skippy from the jar. & then I went into the freezer and helped myself to a mouthful of ice cream. & then cold hot fudge from the refrigerator. & then my stomach started rumbling badly so I opened my pantry and got out a bag of potato chips and ate as many as I could very quickly just to quiet my gut.

From the other room I heard her murmuring & laughing & assumed she had returned Junior Baby Love’s phone call.

When I was finished, I waited until I was certain she had finished her conversation. Then I walked back through the swinging kitchen door & through the dining room & into the living room where Yolanda was waiting expectantly & watching a soap that I don’t watch.

“Thank you!” she said brightly. Her feet once again were sticking out ahead of her and she was bobbing them up and down.

I placed the sandwich and the milk on the table before her & she ate the sandwich very meticulously and left the hard crust on the plate. Her little tooth marks had crenellated the remains.

In silence we watched the soap opera. At one point Yolanda said “You know what’s going on?”

“No I don’t,” I confessed.

“She’s sleeping with his son,” said Yolanda, pointing at a tight shot of a middle-aged female character and an older man. “But he don’t know.”