Pictures of Houses with Water Damage: Stories (2 page)

I almost run up the stairs and take the flowers when I hear some voices that I think are Lisa and her tall boyfriend with tattoos. I go back inside. The voices do not belong to them, but they do come home ten minutes later, with Heidi, and they are giggling happy like they’re drunk. They must have taken Heidi somewhere, had food, drinks.

I find myself wishing I had gone with them.

The three walk up the stairs and their giggling stops.

Flowers, Lisa says, are they for me?

Huh, her boyfriend says.

Maybe he thinks her ex, the rapper, sent them.

Ohhhh, Lisa goes, they’re for
Heidi
.

What, Heidi says.

For you, Lisa says.

Me.

Your name.

Where did they come from?

They’re just here.

This is weird, Heidi goes.

They’re very nice, Lisa says.

Cooooool, the boyfriend goes.

What does it say? Lisa asks. The card.

Is this a joke, Heidi says, is someone fucking with my head?

What does the card say? Lisa goes.

Heidi’s voice goes: A secret admirer.

Seriously?

The boyfriend with tattoos laughs. I imagine his tattoos laughing.

Weird, Lisa says.

Who would…?

Heidi doesn’t finish her sentence.

Well, Lisa says, they
smell
nice.

The boyfriend sneezes, loudly.

Allergies, he goes.

No shit, Lisa says.

Two days later, I hear Lisa and the tall boyfriend with tattoos talking on the balcony as they smoke cigarettes:

It’s still a mystery, she says.

What is, he says.

The flowers, she says.

Ah, yes, those.

But I think I solved it, she says.

Oh.

I think I know who sent them.

Who?

You
, she says.

Me?

You, she says.

He laughs at that: Why do you think…?

Because you feel sorry for her, you said you did; you wanted to make her feel good, to be happy on her birthday, ‘to smile’ like the note said.

Why would I spend money like that on flowers, on her?

Good question. Why would you?

I wouldn’t. Not even to be nice.

Tell me the truth, she says.

If I was going to buy flowers for someone, he says, I would buy them
for you
.

That’s what I want to hear, Lisa says. Hey, you’ve
never
gotten me flowers, fucker, she goes.

I’m allergic to them, he tells her.

Right
, she says.

He’s like, Isn’t my dick a good enough present?

Oh, shut up, she goes.

He’s like, Didn’t you like the box of chocolates?

And she’s like, Loved them to the last bite.

So—what
if
I had sent them to her? he goes.

Well, yeah,
what if
, she’s like.

Would you be mad?

What do you think, asshole.

Well, it wasn’t me, he says.

It’s driving her batty, Lisa goes, she can’t figure it out, who it is; she’s looking at every guy at work and trying to discover clues, the way this guy looks at her or another guy acts around her. She’s like, ‘What if it’s someone I don’t want it to be?’ Like a married guy, the fat guy, there’s this jerk who comes on to every woman at her job, but she doesn’t think he would say something romantic like ‘I hope these put a smile on your beautiful face.’

He’s like,
Is
that romantic?

And she’s like, Sure it is.

He goes, Sounds sappy.

It’s
kind
, she goes, and
nice
, she says.

He goes, I like the smile on your beautiful face

Quit it, she says, you’re just sounding like a jerk, she goes.

I was
trying
to sound romantic, he says.

Not working.

He’s like, I
can
be.

And she goes, Ha
ha
. Ha.

He says, You don’t think so…

And she goes, Ha ha.
Ha
.

That’s an insult, he says.

She goes, Your romance is in your pants.

And he’s like, Now you’re getting me hot.

Sometimes, at night, I can hear Lisa and this boyfriend above me, in their bedroom, having sex. I used to hear her with the other boyfriend. Heidi must hear them too, sleeping in the living room. I wonder if the sounds make her feel the way I do. When I hear Heidi walking around the living room at night, I think this is ridiculous and indeed sad: here are two lonely people, alone, and all that separates them is wood and stucco.

The world never works out the way it should.

Two-thirty in the morning: the phone rings and there’s no voice, just breathing, the faint sound of a television in the background, tuned to twenty-four hour news, I think.

What is it? I say.

Talk, I say.

You can ask a question, I go.

Two weeks later, I see Heidi sitting outside a coffee house, not far from the florist, drinking coffee, eating a bagel, writing or drawing in a blue notebook. I’m getting coffee. She sees me and I see her.

I decide it is time to say hello.

I approach her.

She looks up.

I say, Hi.

She says, Hi.

She closes her notebook but I see, briefly, what she is doing—drawing a vase with flowers.

Can I join you?

She doesn’t reply.

I sit across from her.

I say, We’re neighbors. I thought I’d say hi.

Why? she asks.

Why not.

Do you want to accuse me of shit again?

Look, I say, that was a mistake.

She smiles.

I didn’t mean anything, I say.

I’m kidding, she says, I didn’t mean anything.

I tell her my name and she hesitates, and tells me hers. I don’t say that I already know it.

We walk to the apartment building together. We don’t talk about anything significant, just chitchat between strangers.

Well, I say.

It was nice meeting you, she says.

We’re neighbors, I say.

So it seems, she goes.

She walks up the stairs and I go inside. I can hear her walking around up there. I hear her for a while. I take a nap. It’s a start, at least.

I wake up from my nap to the sounds of violence. Lisa and her tall boyfriend with tattoos are at it again, and it sounds pretty awful—they both scream at each other, throw things at one another, and it sounds like he tosses her against the wall. I hear hands hitting flesh—slaps or punches, who knows, but it does not sound good.

Heidi runs down the stairs and knocks on my door.

Help, she says, can I come in…

I let her in. She’s wearing blue and white pajamas, holding her blue notebook. Her feet are bare. Her toenails are painted dark blue.

I just need to be somewhere safe, she says.

Maybe I should call the cops, I say.

No, no, she says, they’ll stop soon, they always stop and make nicey-nice.

It sounds bad.

It only sounds that way.

She sits down on the couch. I sit on the floor across from her.

I’m sorry, she says.

It’s okay, I say.

The fighting wanes down upstairs, and stops.

There, Heidi says.

How do you, I start to say.

I don’t, she says. I don’t even like having a roommate but she needed one and I need to save money for something that is coming up.

What’s that? I ask.

What?

What’s coming up?

She goes, Wouldn’t you like to know…

And I’m like, Sorry, didn’t mean to pry.

She glares at me.

What’s wrong? I ask.

Wrong?

Are you okay?

I know it’s you, she goes.

Me, I say.

I know it’s
you
, asshole, she says.

She tosses the notebook at me. It is open to the picture of a vase and flowers she has drawn. There are several drawings on other pages, different angles of the flowers, close-ups, pictures of a single flower.

I know it’s
you
, she says, no one I know knows where I live.

You draw nice, I say.

You’re a
jerk
, she says. You think it’s nice, but it’s not, ‘Secret Admirer.’ It makes a girl feel stalked. I was going nuts trying to figure out who would send me flowers, who would say my face is beautiful. I couldn’t sleep. I had strange dreams. And it was you all along. Don’t deny it. I’ve seen you
look
at me. And today—
today
.

Your face is beautiful, I say.

Oh fuck you, she says, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t say ‘I’m sorry.’ That’s not what I want to hear. I don’t want to hear anything. You have no idea what I’ve been through. You don’t know my life. What do you want from me?

Nothing, I say.

A date? she says. Do you want a date, romance, sex, love?

I wanted you to smile.

Fuck
you, she says, fuck your smiles. You have no idea who I am. You have no idea what I’ve been through.

You’re right, I don’t.

Lisa and her boyfriend start yelling at each other again.

I’m being a bitch, Heidi says, her voice soft now. Maybe you were trying to be nice. I don’t know what you want. You seem nice. It’s just—
weird
.

They’re at it again, I say.

I’m pregnant, she says.

Excuse me?

I’m eleven weeks pregnant, she says.

I ask, What about the father?

And she’s like, Yeah, what about that guy, huh?

Things are getting loud and physical upstairs.

I think I should call the police, I say.

Why? Heidi says.

What if he kills her? I say.

She’ll beat him to it. She has a gun.

It’s not sounding good, I say.

It sounds worse than it really is.

Sounds like they are hurting each other.

That’s what people in love do, she goes, they
hurt
each other.

That’s not love, I say.

You saying you know anything about love?

I don’t know anything about anything, I say.

She goes, No shit, Mr. Pity Party.

What did I ever do to you? I say. They were just
flowers
. Who hurt you so badly, that you act like this?

She goes, Who hurt you so badly that you make a fool of yourself, sending flowers to a stranger you barely know? And why the hell don’t you use your parking space?

What?

Why don’t you use your fucking parking space?

I don’t have a car.

So let someone else use it.

It’s mine, I say.

We have to raise our voices, over the yelling and screaming and hitting upstairs.

It’s a waste of a good parking space, Heidi says.

Then park in it, I tell her, it’s yours now, all yours.

Jerk, she says. I don’t have a car, she goes, I ride a bike, she goes.

I know.

You’ve been
watching
me.

Park your bike there, I say.

I’m keeping it, she says.

Keep it, then, it’s yours, I say.

I meant the baby, she goes, I’m keeping the baby.

Something shatters upstairs—glass, a plate.

I’m going to have it, I won’t have an abortion, she says.

Something else shatters up there, and someone gets thrown into a wall.

That’s it, I say, and reach for the phone.

So do you think you could fall in love with a pregnant woman who is pregnant with some other guy’s child? she asks me.

What did you say?

You heard me.

We both hear a loud sound—a loud pop, a boom. And then another. And then silence.

Heidi and I just look at each other. We are frozen—I am holding the phone and she is touching her slightly protruding belly under her blue pajamas.

Oh my god, she says.

The phone starts to ring but I don’t answer it.

I know she is going to have a boy, a son.

T
here is a one-eyed man in Brooklyn and he wants to save your life. The eye was lost in a freak fishing accident; he was fishing on a lake, a great lake, and he was a boy. There was water everywhere. The shore was beyond his field of vision. A shining hook winked at him, swooped down and took his eye. His uncle screamed, “Oh my fucking God. Your mother is going to kill me, Johnny. Get that fucking thing out of your eye.”

There is something about him that is hard to resist. You might even say he’s a lady’s man. He’s a waffle man. He makes the batter that makes the waffle. He’s an artist really. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that my wife, Cathy, fell in love with the fellow.

“I’m leaving you,” Cathy said one night.

“What?” I said. “What are you telling me?” I said.

“Our marriage,” she said, “is over. You know this. You’ve known this for a long time.”

Yes, I did; yes.

“I’m in love with Johnny,” she said.

“Who?”

“You know, Johnny.”

“The Cyclops?” I said.

“That’s
mean
,” she said, “that’s
horrible
,” she said.

“Since when?” I asked.

She said, “Does it matter?”

So I went to see the Cyclops. I know it was stupid. Thing was, I used to work at the Waffle House; I also made the batter. I waited until five minutes before closing. I went inside. Johnny the Cyclops looked up with his one eye and said, “Oh you. Why are you here?”

“You know why I’m here,” I said.

“What is it?” he said. “Do you want to pick a fight with me?” he said. “Is that it?” he said.

“No,” I said.

“Good. I don’t want to fight you. I like you,” he said.

He closed the Waffle House and we sat down and had some beers.

“So,” he said.

“So,” I said; “you’re taking my wife from me.”

“It’s been over between you and Cathy for some time,” he said. “You know this.”