Hardest to Love

by Sidney Ivens

  A huffing comes from the stairwell, clomps of boots.

  “Here is the last of it, I think.” Chris brings up another cardboard box and carries it to the dozen or so stacked next to the storage room. The boxes have been coming from the condo so fast, they might as well be flying off a high-speed conveyor belt.

  “Thanks, man.”

  His gaze sweeps the demolished second floor, all the lumber beams. “Whoa.”

  “Yeah. We’re making progress. Turbo accelerated.”

  “It looks so different.”

  “Hmm.” I dust off my hands and pick up a box cutter. “Hey. You see a recipe box anywhere?”

  “Naw.” He shakes his head. “Speaking of food. You eat yet?”

  “Yeah,” I lie, and my stomach growls. No, it yowls from anguish, I’m so goddamned hungry. What I wouldn’t do for home-cooked.

  “Auntie Rob made this giant Italian sub, and I can’t eat it all.”

  My saliva glands issue a mayday. The idea of Genoa salami, ham, mortadella, capicola, provolone cheese piled between two slices of soft Italian bread . . . douse the bread with red wine vinegar and olive oil, add a big slice of onion and some shredded lettuce. I used to double up the pepper, salt, and pepperoncini.

  I swallow. “Thanks anyway. I had some chow an hour ago.”

  “Want to have a beer later?”

  I can’t be Chris’s friend. He’s got problems worse than me, and I’m under too much stress. “I’m swamped. Take a raincheck?”

  He looks down, face falling. “Sure.”

  I fumble for something to say and clap him on a bony shoulder. “You gonna miss this? The bookstore?”

  “Sorta.” Chris grins at my Marvel Rocket Raccoon action figure on the plywood desk. “Some things, yes, others, no.”

  “How’s your aunt handling it? The transition?”

  “She’s driving me crazy. Ship a book here, a box there.”

  “What about—“

  “Leen’s going to miss the Ole Barker more than me. ‘Course, she never had to lug around all those boxes of books.”

  “Women. They’re the stronger sex until there’s heavy lifting involved. She call that corporate training contact yet? I left her a business card next to the cash register. A guy I know, Dustin Tanner.”

  Chris frowns, confused. “Hasn’t said anything.”

  “It’s for a job. The card’s a head honcho at a big corporation. She’d be great as a trainer.”

  He shrugs. “She wants a job at a university. Oh. Almost forgot. Leen’s worried your boxes will get mixed up with ours, so if you see any books, give me a holler. We’re donating whatever books we can’t sell to libraries.”

  “Yeah. Not cool if my Jockey briefs wind up in some horrified librarian’s hands.”

  Laughing, Chris flings his hair from his eyes. “What I do have are a very particular set of skills . . .”

  “Skills I have acquired over a very long career.” I exaggerate a pained frown as though I’ve been constipated for a month. “Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you—”

  I turn to see that Chris has already left.

  Elena dragged the back of her hand over her forehead, fingers sticky from sales stickers. She needed to plug herself into an outlet until her green light came on.

  The last two Sundays had been the worst. Sundays had always been her favorite: serene, slow afternoons that attracted book club organizers, parents holding the hands of their kids dressed in their Sunday School best. Warm greetings, arm squeezes, customers she knew by name. Wasn’t it just last month? The bookstore fully stocked, unpacking a new shipment of books, that heavenly smell of turning the pages of a hardback. The monthly reading circle with local neighborhood kids. Donating books to special teachers and schools. Watching people smile as they thumbed through their favorite stories, stopping at the pages with the scenes they liked.

  Their life upstairs, their home. The quiet evenings after supper, her aunt dunking a tea bag into her New Yorker cartoons mug, settling in for a Golden Girls rerun. Chris struggling with puzzles to help his mind recover. Her curled up in the armchair, reading. Norman dozing on the wooden sill. Or telling Aunt Robbie how her occasional date went. Not that she was some social whirling dervish. Between her studies, taking care of her family and running the bookstore, the notion of “free time” was a joke.

  Frantic scanner beeps called her back into action. The temp they’d hired shouted out that the cash register wasn’t working. She hustled over to the counter area and opened up the second register.

  Booted footsteps thumped down the stairs, and her heart foolishly lurched, thinking it might be Nick. Chris absently slid a finger down the stair rail, slinging back his hair, other hand stuffed in his denim pockets, murmuring to himself. “A particular set of skills.” That tenuous link to the pool game at his condo.

  When it was clear Nick was avoiding them. She pushed aside the business card and note he’d left for her.

  And equally clear he had no problems in euthanizing the Pup. Outside, chain link fence panels blocked pedestrians from walking too close to the building, and eight-foot-high navy dumpsters waited to collect the last of the Lucky Pup’s remains.

  Wearing faded jeans and torn shirts, Nick stood in the eye of the demolition, surrounded by contractors of all shapes and sizes. They huddled with him on the second floor, construction guys clomping around in heavy work boots like Clydesdales. An architect, inspectors, the interior design team. The whole enterprise unnerved her, the noise, barks of laughter, the drilling, hammers.

  Nick didn’t seem to be the cocky entrepreneur but overwhelmed, noticeably thinner. She’d paused on the second-floor landing, stunned by the transformation, the hollowing out of the shelves and walls, and then her gaze rested on him. His hands shook as he reviewed blueprints, smoothing them out over a plywood slab. One finger had been heavily bandaged, and there were dark shadows under his eyes.

  Her traitorous mushy heart swelled with empathy. Shaking it off, she pushed up the white cuff sleeves of her shirt and black sweater and took the next customer’s purchases to ring up. Don’t you feel sympathy. Don’t you dare.

  Although the third-floor-apartment door’s ajar, it’s not like I can barge in. I rap my knuckles against the wood frame. “Knock, knock.”

  “Hey, Nick,” Auntie Rob calls out.

  One of the kitchen cabinets has been emptied, items rolled in newspaper and packed inside boxes, rags stuffed at the sides. I take careful steps around the three or so boxes containing the mummified things.

  “Funny, huh?” Aunt Robbie emerges from the small hallway, carrying a basket of yarn. She brushes her reddish-gray hair back and weaves around the boxes in the chairs to greet me with an arm squeeze. “People don’t read printed newspapers anymore. We use them to pack.” Her head reminds me of a cockatoo’s, her hair sort of ruffled and her eyes round, sharp. It’s like you know those birds know more than they’re letting on.

  She points to the table, where a laptop’s open to a real estate website. “Did Elena or Chris tell you? We’ve fallen in love with a Dutch Colonial in Oak Villa, about forty minutes from here. It’s a steel blue color, cedar shingles. Just lovely. And two whole bathrooms! I’ve already got a spot for the garden. You eat yet?” She moves toward the refrigerator, and her hand grasps the handle. “I have leftovers. Meatloaf, corn casserole.”

  No matter how many times her aunt invites me to their apartment for a hot meal, I politely decline. Best to keep my distance. “Appreciate the offer, though.”

  “You don’t look like you’re eating at all.”

  “I’m jacked up. Renovation phase.” I debrief her: all the electrical has been replaced, joists are being reinforced, new bathrooms are being installed. I’ve spent two weeks with the architect, and I’ve been pulling permits, dealing with the red tape B.S. All the while, I’m paying property taxes, insurance and interest on the mortgage.

  She tugs out a tangle of magenta yarn and winds it aro
und her hand. “What are you going to call it? The sports bar?”

  “I’ve narrowed it down to two names. My bigger push right now is the NEW EATS contest.” I tell her a little about it, but not how my phone calls are being ignored.

  “So it’s a competition for new restaurants.”

  “Sort of a live version of a reality show. Except no housewives flipping over tables.”

  Aunt Robbie laughs and tucks the yarn ball into the basket. “I bet your mother would be proud of you. Coordinating such a splashy contest, televised and all. Starting your own business. All of this takes guts. Was that your dad I saw at the spa event? I would’ve introduced myself, but he left before I could—”

  “Yeah, well, there’s a reason why I’m here. Have you seen a small wooden box with handwritten notecards inside? Recipes?”

  She frowns. “No.”

  I pace and stop near an old photo she’s about to pack, a playground shot of two kids. Has to be Elena and Chris.

  “So.” I cough into a fist. “Elena hates me.”

  “You two.” She clicks her tongue, walks into the living room and plops on the sofa. “Try to understand, Nick. The bookstore represents stability for her.”

  I follow but remain standing, arms crossed. “Home.”

  “Yes. She and her brother had a hard time when they were little.” The crinkle in her forehead deepens. “One time, I went over to my sister’s to surprise her and the kids. They didn’t have much food, some saltines, and canned soup. So I took them out grocery shopping. We all squeezed into my Honda Civic. We were as ridiculous as a clown car, scrunched up in there. Anyway, we got to the store, and Elena was slow, lagging behind us and the cart. Dawdling, like kids sometimes do. My sister yelled at her to keep up.” Her aunt looks up at me. “Elena was hobbling because her shoes were too small.” She presses a hand to her cheek. “Then I noticed other things. My nephew’s arm was crooked because it had been broken and never properly set.”

  I gaze at the playground photo of Elena when she was young. Chris is sitting in a swing and she’s behind him, a protective arm around his shoulders. Dark-haired and skinny, she had a look of caution, even then. Sober yet alert eyes. Eyes older than her years.

  “My sister shouldn’t have ever been a mother. Maybe I shouldn’t say that about my own blood, but that’s the truth.”

  As she speaks, I look at Aunt Robbie, at her worn, pretty face. “Seems to me, she had a great mom.”

  Her gaze is unfocused, mouth curved into a slight smile. “I made mistakes.”

  Footsteps shuffle up the stairs. Elena enters the kitchen, carrying a small box, which appears to contain a few of my items from the condo bathroom.

  “Here. Let me take that.” I rush toward her and take the box from her arms.

  “I’m surprised we haven’t come across your notorious Lost and Found box yet.”

  “I tossed that stuff after you left.”

  Finally. Direct eye contact.

  Silence follows, and then she won’t look at me. “Auntie Rob, I’ll be downstairs.”

  “Elena, will you help me? Lexi’s moving in her crap as we speak. Moving into my condo.”

  “When did this happen? She can’t do that. It’s yours.”

  “Technically, it’s my father’s.”

  “Why wouldn’t she move in with him?”

  “She’s saving herself for the wedding. Maybe it’s the view, who the hell knows,” I say. “Look. I can’t find the recipe box. I’ve searched everywhere. Lexi might throw it out. Can you come along and prevent a crime?”

  “What, breaking and entering?”

  “No.” I hand over her coat and shrug into my leather jacket. “Murder.”

  Lake Shore Drive is four lanes of traffic hell. Battling a headache, I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. I guide the SUV past an endless steel rail, rows of trees, and Soldier Field to the right. If the Bears were playing and the quarterback chucked a wild pass, I might catch the football from the window, passenger side.

  Passenger Elena’s been quiet. The only movement I’ve caught has been the occasional twist of those slim-fingered hands in her lap and fretting worthy of a grandma witnessing her grandson’s first sexual experience.

  “Look. I know we’ve been—” I search for the word. “Distant.”

  She straightens up in the seat, her knees locked together.

  “You grew up in the bookstore, and I know it’s been your home.”

  She glances over. “What did you do to your finger?”

  “A hammer wanted to say hello.”

  She pats the Ford’s glove compartment. “You borrow this?”

  “No. Mine.”

  “Your Bond car . . . “

  “In my savings account.”

  The frown fades from her face.

  A white box truck with a green energy logo switches lanes right in front of me, not only blocking the view but spewing fumes. Way to go, eco-buddy. One call to the EPA and they’ll revoke your Prius. I slam on the horn. “Sometime today, people!”

  “Yelling won’t get us there any faster.”

  “Yeah, but it’ll diffuse the acid dissolving the walls of my stomach.” I cast a side glance. “That’s new.”

  She fingers the bright patterned scarf. “This is a Hermes. One of my customers bought it for me as a gift.”

  “Some customer.” The scarf’s flashy, almost overpowering, but the blues bring out the sapphire in her eyes. “A male customer?”

  “It came all the way from London, can you believe it? They have stores in the U.S. but it came from London.” Her eyes widen, and a pretty pink deepens her cheeks.

  “Who gave it to you?” I feel a little jab of something in my gut, and the pain in my jaw from clenching my teeth burns. Who is this mystery asshole bearing scarves? Six weeks ago, I could’ve inundated her with a warehouse of those things. “So who gave it to you? Some Brit polo player with Austin Powers teeth?”

  “It’s a jaguar.” Either she didn’t hear me or is choosing not to answer. Instead, she looks down at it, pleased by the animal print in black, white and tan, the vivid turquoise and blues. “Look. He’s smiling.”

  I squint. “The only jaguars I like are cars.” Damn. The exit. Getting too distracted by the beautiful girl sitting next to me. I turn off the interstate exit and make a sharp left.

  She ducks a little so she can peer under the passenger windshield visor. “This is like a movie set. Look at the stone details and etchings on the buildings. You must miss it.”

  “Been too busy to—damn.” I punch on the brakes, and the SUV lurches and almost gives us away.

  “What?”

  We both watch as Lexi crosses the street. She’s dressed in a tan cashmere coat and matching high-heeled boots and is heading into the building.

  I slam my hand on the steering wheel. “I was hoping to get it from the movers.”

  “Maybe you still can.”

  “Yeah, right. Lexi doesn’t carry mace; she packs military-grade tear gas.” I spy a parking place up ahead, race to it, and parallel park.

  “Why not go up and ask her?”

  “Because she’ll go to the window, dangle the box, and let it fall twenty-seven stories to its death. All the recipes will go flying.” I release my seat belt, which zips back to its retractor. Peer upward at the brick façade and its masonry work, toward the floor of my former building. “The lasagna recipe is in that box.”

  A beige van chugs past us and pulls into a parking lot ahead, plastered with MAID-SO-FINE and a silhouette logo of a woman holding a feather duster.

  We sit and stew for a few moments.

  “Hold on. That maid van.” Elena’s face lights up. “People are used to personal maids around here.”

  “And?”

  “I can go as your former maid. I’ll use your sunglasses and put this scarf around my head, babushka style.”

  “But she knows you.”

  “Not if I go in disguise. Lexi evaluates everyone by
their looks and money. She won’t catch on, because I’m not worth her time. Look.” She lifts her left leg and pinches the denim fabric away from her knee. “I’m in old jeans and a comfy shirt. I’ll wear your sunglasses.”

  The instant she ties that bright scarf around her head, the colors bring out the blue jewels of her eyes, her velvety skin. The slightest pink of her cheeks looks airbrushed, and I remember what Cos said.

  Quality.

  I’m barely able to concentrate on what she’s saying.

  “I’ll talk in a Slavic accent,” she says. “I’ll explain it’s my recipe box and that I left it at your place after I prepared appetizers for some party of yours.”

  “You can’t pull this off. You’re the Ellis Island girl, remember? You stand out.”

  “It’s worth a try.”

  “Talk and convince me.”

  “Hello, nice lady.” Then the cautious Elena rears up, and she presses a knuckle to her lips. “I will likely offend every Slavic-American in this country.”

  “Hey, everyone makes fun of us Italians with our dee’s, dems and d’ohs. Go on.”

  “I here to pick up box, my recipes, pretty lady. Theese size.” She gestures with her hands. “Has mama’s cheese pierogi.”

  “Not bad.”

  “Not bad yourself, kochanie.”

  That accent is so adorable that I impulsively lean over to try to kiss her.

  She pulls back and waggles a finger. “I no kiss bad man.”

  I pat my chest. “I good man.”

  She opens her purse and pulls out a smaller bag inside containing makeup. Screws off the cap of a little red pencil and starts darkening her eyebrows. She smudges the stuff with the tip of a ring finger and then turns to me. “How do I look?”

  “Like Bigfoot’s kid sister.”

  The elevator pinged softly on its way up to the twenty-seventh floor.

  She clenched and unclenched her hands, remembering how Lexi used to ridicule her clothes in college. “Confession time. Snarky girls like Lexi intimidate me.”