Stop Here (10 page)

• • •

The blinds are drawn and the door double-locked no doubt. She hurries in as if she's the one they're after. Tim waits on the couch, his narrow body on guard.

“Want something to eat?”

“Do my hair first,” his voice as tense as his face.

She follows him to the bathroom, drags in a stool, wraps a large towel around his shoulders. She cuts his hair, the back of his neck no longer boyish. A man shouldn't need his mother anymore. Maybe if he'd joined the army like other boys around here . . . There are too many ways to lose a son.

She mixes the dye with the solution, shakes it a few times, and applies it to his hair.

“I had an incident in the shower yesterday,” she's surprised to hear herself say.

“Yeah?”

“I squirted a glob of shampoo in the palm of my hand, then rubbed it on my hair, but my hair was dry. I forgot to wet my hair. That's never happened before. It's frightening to forget the usual things.”

“I once put salt in my coffee. It's not senility, Ma. It's preoccupation.” His words are weirdly reassuring.

Waiting for the dye to take, she sweeps hair off the floor and wipes the steamy mirror, an eerie silence in the house. No radio. No TV. Outside noises are muffled, it's as if they've been sealed in.

“Ma, it's ready to wash off.”

She'd leave it on another ten minutes, but he's too restless, fidgeting, in and out of the bathroom too many times to count.

She shampoos his hair and her hands are gentle on his scalp. The dye turns the sink black. Drying his head with a towel, she offers him a comb. The dark color pales his skin, but it suits him. “You do look different.”

“Don't recognize me, huh?”

“You think I wouldn't know you?”

“Many ways to know me.” He looks past her to the mirror.

She begins scrubbing the sink.

“If my partner does arrive it'll be by three this afternoon. That was the plan. If he's not here by three-thirty, drive me to a bus station near Montauk and stay with me until I pick up something going north. Did you get the money?”

• • •

She waits on the couch in her blue pantsuit and white turtleneck jersey. Montauk is two hours away. They could be stuck waiting in the car for god knows how long before a bus arrives. They should check a schedule. She's packed a small bag with a toothbrush and nightgown in case a motel becomes necessary. Tim once accused her of never venturing past anything familiar and now she's aiding and abetting a criminal. What's usual about that?

He walks slowly down the stairs, stopping to pose for her approval. He does look handsome in the new clothing. He could easily pass for a lawyer or a doctor, someone respected.

“Tell me one thing.” She hands him three hundred dollars in twenties.

“One thing?”

“Was anyone hurt? Or shot? Or dead? Anything like that, I should know.”

“Why? Will you love me less?”

“You're my boy, Tim.”

“It was about money, that's it.”

“I should open the blinds. They aren't usually shuttered at this time.”

“Go ahead.”

The afternoon sun no longer enters the room. A row of houses, outdoor chairs, closed garage doors, people at work, in school—nothing strange, except she's about to drive a fugitive to safety. He sits beside her on the couch. His loafers without a scuff, the crease in his pants sharp. It could be the last time she sees him. But it won't be. He'll return again, and again. Of this she's suddenly certain.

“I filled the gas tank,” she says to say something.

“Good.” But he's not listening, his mind elsewhere, planning lord knows what.

A black Honda pulls up in front of the house. Tim sprints upstairs and returns a moment later with a suitcase he found in the downstairs closet.

“Be careful,” she mutters.

Words she ought to say slip away like time.

“You take care.” He sounds excited he hasn't been left behind after all.

At the window she watches him slide into the passenger seat. Then he's gone. Just like that. A stab of disappointment takes her by surprise. She stares at the space where the car was. The afterimage contains more than the moment, but she blinks it away. She flashes on another memory: her husband's funeral, Tim slipping onto her lap, offering her his only candy bar.

We give each other what we can, she thinks, climbing the stairs to his room. The window is shut, the lights on, the bedding mussed, the closet door ajar, the chest drawers open. His dirty clothes are piled on a chair and a damp towel is on the floor next to an open magazine. Three empty beer bottles line the sill. Grease marks on the wall. A half-full chip bag sits near the bed. She'll air out the room, then tomorrow she'll sweep, vacuum, and change the sheets.

 

7

How We Know Before We Know

Wedding indeed. Rosalyn lifts one shoe from its box. What else could she tell Dina? At least she placed the escorting in the past where everything can be forgiven. More and more, she feels it's where it belongs. The long black skirt and blue silk tunic draped over a chair are waiting for her—whoever he is, he'll like it. It's such a chore dressing up when she'd rather order takeout and watch TV. Still, working for Annie has gone well for her, leaving her with a chunk of savings she'd never have accumulated from diner income. It's the money that bought her little villa . . . well, actually, a condo with terracotta floors and huge windows facing a terraced lawn.

Her eyes linger on the throw rugs bright as turquoise gems, the opalescent vase filled with daffodils, then slide to the sunburst clock on the wall. Jesus. Her father's waiting. He hates flowers, thinks they're a waste of money, promises to toss them when they're given to him.

• • •

The winter snows have damaged the road even more than last year. She drives cautiously past old houses, a few with tarps over their leaky roofs, others with cracked windows. This is where she grew up. The area depressed her then and still does now. Holidays were the worst, yet she'd look forward to Christmas every year as if it would be different. Her father would drink less. Her mother would find a gift that pleased Rosalyn. She and her cousins were always shooed in front of the TV, but her ear was on the adult-talk. Josie lost another baby; Marie Rose pregnant by god knows who; Artie can't get it up; Ron's temper is out of control; Tony's got no work again. After each tidbit, someone would sigh, “That's life, what can you do?” She hated their acceptance. Not that they'd listen to her, a mere girl, at least not until she was married with children, if then. They'd hear her out now, though. With wide eyes and slack jaws, yes they would.

She hoists the bag of food from the rear seat, feels a strain in her back. Yesterday . . . lugging boxes from the storeroom. She warned Murray, no more. If it's over two pounds, he carries it.

“Dad,” she calls, shouldering open the door. Since the emphysema diagnosis he's remained dormant. His body will disintegrate. She's been over this with him. At least walk to the corner and back, she insisted. He won't hear it. When she phones her brother to complain, he's sympathetic, but rarely comes east. Neither of them is filled with affection for the man. How could they be? For too long after their mother died they had put up with him themselves. If she had the excuse of distance, she'd take it as well.

“Make sure to shut the door,” his brusque voice a little wheezy.

“How about hello?”

He's broad-shouldered, with powerful, deeply veined hands, sheltered in his BarcaLounger the small, bomb-shaped oxygen container beside him. Not a trace of gray in his dark mane.

“We don't stand on formalities, you and me.” As usual he shouts over the TV, which is on all the time. Does the man ever sleep?

“I brought frozen lunches and dinners. In and out, it's easy.”

“You want me to pay you?”

Yes, why not? damn it. The man owns his house. He has a fireman's pension, doesn't spend a penny. “That's okay.” How about thank you, she won't say, avoiding a lecture about duty or why have children.

“Can you stay?” He wants her to prepare and serve dinner.

But she's already in the narrow kitchen stuffing food in the freezer. The soiled towels heaped on the chair makes her wonder if the monthly cleaning service she hired is enough. When her mom was alive every room sparkled. After the cancer spread, her mother couldn't leave the bed, so Rosalyn had to mop, dust, whatever.

Peeling off the see-through covering on a turkey dinner, she places it in the microwave, an appliance her mother never owned. It's weird, so many years, yet, recently, thoughts of her mother spring to mind not just when she's here but also in the shower, supermarket, the oddest times. She recalls a story her mom told about living in the Bronx a few streets away from a Gypsy store. One winter evening, when her mother was seven, a Gypsy man scooped her up. Her mother screamed. He put her down and fled. The story was told as a warning to Rosalyn who often wandered away from the house. Her father, listening, muttered good riddance. To this day, she doesn't know if he meant his wife or Rosalyn.

She spoons hot food on a plate and places the meal on the TV tray in front of him.

“Do you think about Mom?”

“What's the point?”

“Memories, I don't know.”

“Can't do a blessed thing to change the past. Today is what I have. You too. Make something of it. Where's your husband? Where's my grandchild?”

“Let's not, Dad.”

“She's in her twenties now. She'd be a friend to me.”

“You sure as hell didn't feel that way at the time,” her voice rising above his.

“I was looking after your mother. It was never right. A child belongs with its parents. Period.”

She watches him shovel food in his mouth. Damn him. What would he do if she died before him?

“I'll pick you up tomorrow for your doctor's appointment.”

She hurries to the car, slides in, slams the door. How dare he mention the baby? The memory is hers, not his. He has no right to it, none at all. She remembers Carl Reese. Another lifetime. Someone told her . . . probably her father . . . Carl's in Iraq. Isn't he too old?

• • •

The hotel caters to conventions. Men wearing name tags wander in and out of the lounge but the bar isn't crowded. Burgundy-flocked paper darkens the walls. Several green-shaded lamps hang over the whiskey bottles and the indirect lighting casts a pinkish glow. She sits at a small square table nursing a glass of sparkling water. Dina should see her now, perfumed, coiffed, new shoes. Annie's message said his name is Jack Temple, a Londoner, carrying a newspaper. Arriving early gives her a chance to catch sight of her date before he sees her. If she gets a bad vibe she's out of there. It's happened once or twice. Annie, who runs the escort service, chooses carefully for her girls, and loves to hear next-day stories. Their phone calls mimic the confessional, with Annie as priest placing details in some universal order that undermines any thought of sin. Still, she can't help but wonder about the wives and girlfriends back home. When she says so, Annie swears it's genetic, that she's never met a man, gay or straight, who hasn't cheated on someone somewhere. Carl didn't cheat on her. Once the baby came, though, it was finished between them. Waiting for a strange man with Carl in her head. Too weird. It's her father's fault dredging him up.

• • •

A tall middle-aged man with a long, bony face and graying hair, carrying a newspaper stops at her table. He's dressed in an expensive-looking dark blazer over pale gray pants, gray shirt open at the neck. She pegs him as very English indeed.

“Rosalyn, I expect? Jack Temple.” His bright green eyes carry the younger man he once was.

“Hi. Have a seat.”

He seems pleased with what he sees. Why would someone like him need an escort?

“Here on business?” It's her job to help him relax, but he doesn't seem nervous.

“Yes, for a while.”

“Let me guess . . . something to do with banks?”

“Not quite. I'm doing research at a lab on Long Island. I work for a pharmaceutical company.”

“Impressive.” Some men prattle on, which can be boring, but less wearing. It's hard to know with this one. Either way, she'd rather be home relaxing on her couch. Such thoughts aren't permitted. It's her job to be
100
percent present. She's learned the art of it, how to keep her distance and leave an impression of closeness.

The blue-white tablecloth, heavy linen napkins, crystal stemware, and elegant silverware are nothing at all like the diner, and nothing like what she grew up knowing. On the rare occasion her father took them out to dinner, but usually to some less than appetizing place. Here she is in for a sumptuous hotel meal, and not her first.

The waiter appears before she can settle in. He and Jack discuss the merits of Beaujolais or Sauvignon Blanc and Jack orders a bottle. Nodding his white-haired head, the waiter hurries off. She scans the other couples in the room, their intimacy, wondering as she always does if her status as an escort is apparent.

“May I say something about myself . . .”

“Of course.” Her dates often attempt to define their goodness in the face of immorality.

“My wife has MS. There are limited hours we can spend together. We don't talk about my needs but she'd understand. A nurse cares for her. My son comes often, but he has his own life.”

“That's a lot of information to tell someone you've just met.”

“I want the woman who touches me to know something about me. It's less impersonal.”

“And are you asking me to do the same?” Usually her dates couldn't care less.

“If you wish.”

“I can't rattle off a bio.” He's a stranger. It feels intrusive.

“Are you an actress, writer, a painter?”

“Why would you think so?”

“Creative women need to support themselves. And . . . well . . . you're very beautiful, radiant, really.”

“This isn't the only work I do. I care for my sick dad, so I appreciate your situation. Shall we order?” She picks up the menu.

• • •

Except for an occasional headlight sweeping past, the road home is dark. Her mind replays the last hours. He was attentive, talkative. He told her about places he's visited, blue skies the color of her blouse, sunsets as tawny as Spanish wine. And middle age, how odd it feels to be there. He was an “up-by-the-bootstraps lad,” worked his way through college. She found herself sharing snippets of her life—unusual—relating diner stories that had him laughing out loud. He was curious about her and easy to be with. The hours passed unnoticed, also unusual. Still, the faint embarrassment of exposure dogs her. He wants to see her again.

• • •

The breakfast rush is in full swing and the cacophony of sounds is jarring. Mila pours coffee with one hand, wipes surfaces with the other while trading words with customers. But that's Mila, her ability to juggle three things at once keeps Murray at a comfortable distance. Nick flips eggs, catches popping slices of toast, pulls plates out from the warmer. The distinct, watery slosh of the dishwasher surprises her. Murray asked Nick not to run it during busy hours, insisting the noise disturbed customers. Murray makes up things like that all the time, but isn't about to criticize Nick who's been pulling double shifts. They've all been covering for Bruce. Even if Bruce were ready to return, Murray's looking to hire someone “reliable.” Changing into her work shoes, Rosalyn fights the urge to return home, to catch up on sleep.

Willy beckons her, his ancient arm in the air. A small man in a booth for four, Willy won't sit at a table because he doesn't want to reveal his skinny legs. They are two sticks. When does vanity end? She jots down his order, though Willy orders the same breakfast special every day. If she walks away without promising to return, he calls out, “Rosalyn, I need you.” She fills his water glass and pats his arm. “I'll be right back.”

Murray's standing at the counter. “Why the long face?” she quips, not expecting an answer.

“The whole thing . . . I don't get it . . . Sylvie leaves early, arrives home late. I have dinner alone when there's no reason for her to work. I don't like it. It's eating at me. What's the point of being married?”

“Talk to her. Tell her you're lonely.” He won't. He'll never admit need. That feels familiar.

She places Willy's poached egg, wheat toast, small cereal box, and milk in front of him.

“Stay,” he orders.

“For a minute.” No doubt Murray's watching her. How he got Sylvie to marry him is the real question.

“You look lovely,” Willy says.

“You say that every day.”

“Sometimes I lie.” He winks. “Did I mention . . . my sons are coming to visit? They're wonderful children, but it would kill me to move in with either one of them. At ninety, eating and sleeping are my last best functions. I need to do them on my own.” His voice is thin, high, the testosterone long gone.

“I understand,” she says sympathetically.

“I knew you would.”

Why do people want to hang on so long? Are memories enough? Not that she'll ever see ninety. “How are you today?” she asks.

“My dear, the question is, will I make it here tomorrow?” He adds the third packet of sugar to his cereal, which he never finishes.

“And, will you?”

“Seems so, but my five senses are no longer intact. Tell me, does springtime still smell fresh? If so, it insists on love.” They often have this conversation, which leads to his advice about her finding a companion. Usually it amuses her but today it's irritating and she doesn't respond, though Jack comes to mind. After sex, her dates want to sleep, happy to have her leave. Jack was different. He insisted on a post-midnight stroll along the dark flower-scented garden paths behind the hotel. Even if Jack were a free man . . . he's not.

“Did I say something to upset you?” Willy asks.

“Of course not.” She gazes at his wizened face, the yellowish skin. His eyes, though, as black and shiny as patent leather. He's alone and as happy as his body allows. Something takes hold inside her, what, she can't exactly say, but it feels like a clutch, a squeeze against the future, a warning to do something now.

“I'll bring coffee in a minute,” she calls over her shoulder, hurrying to the parking lot. Wedged between two cars, she takes the cell phone from her pocket, dials Annie. “It's Rosalyn,” her voice low.

“How was last—”

“Fine, it was fine. It's not why I'm calling. How should I put this . . . I'm quitting,” the words heavy in her mouth. “I'm getting too old for the routine. Or . . . maybe my day shift takes it out of me. I hate having to dress up when I feel like shit.”