by Lee Conell
Caroline and Ruby no longer played Holocaust-orphans-sisters-survivors, of course, but they had new games, and one of them Ruby had titled in her head the resentment game, which they wound up playing almost anytime they walked around together in the neighborhood where they’d grown up. The best way to really feel like legal adults seemed to be cataloging their childhood resentments toward their parents. Ruby spoke about how her father always seemed disappointed in her, and Caroline spoke about her parents’ divorce (Caroline had better parental resentments, just like she’d had better dolls). But when Caroline asked Ruby if she resented her mother’s absences, it was hard for Ruby to say. As a child, during those evenings when her mother didn’t get back until after dinner, she would usually feel more irritated at her father, the way he hovered over her, making sure she did her homework, his eyes shadowed under his baseball cap. Once when he had knelt down beside her and told her to put the drawing stuff away and do her math assignment, she had grabbed his baseball cap right off his head, covering her face with it like it was a mask, and screamed into the hat that she hated him. During her mother’s night classes, such outbursts at home were common.
But they were followed, always, by her mother holding her when she got back, the big softness of her arms, the relief, the love, her mother’s voice urging her to apologize to her father, okay, none of them had it easy, and if Ruby apologized then she’d read to her more of the All-of-a-Kind Family books; those girls really had it rough, immigrant sisters who didn’t even have a bed to themselves, and they had no books of their own, and they had no TV, so Ruby shouldn’t complain, she should go tell her dad she was sorry, okay, because she was, wasn’t she?
Later, Ruby would write essays in her high school English classes about how her mother was her hero, how she’d graduated from college while working a full-time job, had always been home to read to Ruby at night, and now she helped people in prison gain access to books and information! Her teachers wrote in the margins, Your mom sounds like such a superstar! If Ruby had held resentment toward her, it was hard to excavate today, buried under those more vivid moments when Ruby had raged against her father.
* * *
—
“I’ll be nice to Dad today,” she told her mother as they stood together now. “I promise.”
“Good girl.” Her mother smoothed down Ruby’s hair. “And don’t worry about the interview or what you’ll wear. If anyone should be worried, it’s me. This lady isn’t the best at public speaking.”
“You’ll do great,” Ruby said.
“Text me after the interview, okay? When is it? Eleven? Do you have time to get ready?”
“I washed my hair last night,” Ruby said. “I just have to put on some nicer clothes and walk over. Easy.”
“Okay. Just try to get there early. First impressions and all that. And have fun at Caroline’s party thing tonight, too.”
“Good luck with the conference people.”
“Where’s your dad? I want to say bye.”
“He’s taking care of a pigeon nest in the courtyard. The one across from 2D’s terrace.”
“What do you mean ‘taking care of a pigeon nest’?”
“Destroying it,” Ruby said.
5 FIVE POTENTIAL HAPPY ENDINGS
And so the super stands in the courtyard, eyes the pigeons, raises the broomstick to knock free the nest, it’s the invisible hand of capitalism making him do it, economic ghost forces that will lead to benefits for all, they say, Martin’s own hand visible to them now as he lifts the broom even higher to reach the ledge, can’t get rid of my voice, can you, Martin; he lowers his hand again, he lowers the broom, he can’t do it! He can kick out a human being, but he can’t get rid of these birds.
The pigeons cooed. 2D had said he must destroy this nest. That was the voice Martin needed to listen to, not the Lily voice, which had returned full force ever since he’d stepped out into the courtyard with the broom. He needed to make 2D happy to make the management company happy to keep his job to keep his home. Part of being in charge of the building was demarcating what spaces were and were not potential homes. The foyer could not be a home. This ledge could not be a home. Rats could not make their homes inside the garbage room. Lily’s home could not stay Lily’s home, could not become a museum to Lily, but could be destroyed and remade into a home for someone else with enough money.
He lowered the broom. He had forgotten to mop this morning! The floor in the garbage room must be sticky. More people would complain about that than about this nest, and he should take care of the problems that would attract the majority of tenant whining—democracy and all that. He threw the broom onto the ground, went back inside. The nest could be dealt with as soon as the floor was clean.
He grabbed the custodial bucket out of the utility closet and filled it with hot water from the sink in the laundry room. Then he poured in a decent amount of generic lemon soap from the hardware store’s gallon-size bottle. A few board meetings back, there’d been a big controversy because several tenants pronounced the smell of the generic pine-scented soap Martin used “deeply nauseating.” Martin had then tried out the cherry-scented soap, which had caused even more reports of nausea, and many comparisons to children’s Tylenol. Lemon so far seemed to be going over fine. “It’s a little too hospital-esque, isn’t it?” 9B had said at the last meeting, but not loudly enough to cause any sort of re-vote. Martin mixed the soap in the hot water and got to work.
Whenever Martin mopped long enough, he began to see the world in wet and dry. First, of course, he just saw the wet and dry patches on the floor. But his perception soon expanded to the body as patches of wet and dry. The wet of an eye white. The dry of a cheek. The moisture of mouth pocket. The stickiness of the ear shell. The giant swatch of torso with its prickles of wet in the chest hair, dewed armpit hair, the slight wet of genitals and the skewers of dry pubic hair, the desert stretch of legs, and the feet, the fungal fury that might be unleashed between the toes because of just a drop of moisture.
And next he would think about the city, first the dry parts of the sidewalks and the parts wet with dog urine or spilled coffee. Next the wet slosh of the Hudson and the dry stretch of the highway above it. Wet, dry, wet, dry. It was sometimes beautiful and rhythmic, this work. It could, in its better, quieter moments, put you into a meditative state without a single mantra, with movement alone.
Sometimes, yes, this work could do that.
But other times.
The birds looking down at him.
His chest was glass again. And someone was pounding against this glass, striking out, trapped inside. The glass bottles he’d have to clean up after Caroline’s party. The key was to get up there tomorrow as soon as the sun rose. In the morning, cleaning up would not be so bad—the green glass could, on sunnier dawns, catch and hold the early light. Was this a heart attack? The feeling ripping through his chest? He wished he could have asked his dad, What was it like? He closed his eyes. He concentrated. He counted out his breaths like they were coins and thought, Not the end not the end because how could it stop here? He and Debra would have a happier ending, after how hard they both worked. His daughter, too, would have a happier ending. But he shouldn’t think about Ruby, or the way she had looked at him after he kicked Lily’s cousin out of the building. That hard, hurt stare. That was not a happy-ending look. He knew what her happy-ending look should be because Martin had begun to develop, in waking life, a series of detailed dreams, each concerning possible happy endings for his daughter.
Dream #1: Ruby would become an award-winning diorama artist. Did diorama artists and curators have something like the Oscars? Well, this would be something like the Oscars. She would show off her gold statue and beam and say, This is for my parents. No, no, she would say, This is for my father. (Sorry, Deb.) This is for my father for always supporting me, for inspiring me to follow my dreams, for giving me paper on which to draw,
and art supplies, and even though he did not make enough money for me not to take out all those loans, things still actually wound up great. Maybe better than great because I needed to work for what I had and so thusly acquired the lifelong power of perseverance. Anyway. I’m so, so grateful. Dad, you made me who I am. Thanks!
Dream #2: She would want to be a super. She’d say to Martin, Teach me your ways. She’d say, There is something noble in your work, with the exception of the occasional killing of birds, which is unfortunately unavoidable. She’d say, Also, I want a rent-free apartment. She’d say—actually he didn’t care what she’d say, what reasons she gave for wanting to be a super, the point was she would see in him a life shape to aspire toward.
Dream #3: High-strung, distant Ruby would suddenly become a meditation guru. She’d have a revelation and would stop always looking back at the past or ahead at the future. She’d sit with a straight spine. She’d lead retreats on mountaintops and heal the jerks of the world with her message of mindfulness. She’d even deign to meditate with Martin, and Neilson in 3C. At the start of the session Neilson would say, in his nasal voice, The key is zooming outward to see the inward. And she would say to Neilson, No, Neilson in 3C, oh, Neilson, I’m sorry but? And she would say, The key is not just zooming out. You don’t know what the key is, despite your real efforts. You’ve never actually known what the key is.
Neilson would start to weep.
Ruby would say, It’s okay. Enlightenment doesn’t come easy. Except, of course, when it does.
If diorama artists had something like the Oscars in his imagination, wouldn’t that imply meditation practitioners had something like the Oscars? Well, Ruby would win something like Best Picture at the Oscars of meditation. She would get up onstage and say, First, I would like to thank the universe, and its cosmic forces, obviously. But specifically I want to take this moment to send loving-kindness to my father for helping me better understand who I am, which is tricky, because identity is a constantly shifting and unstable force of mutability. Thanks, Dad! And she would wave. Or bow. Or something.
Dream #4: Ruby would get some regular nothing-job. But she would be happy. She would leave the city. She would go on long walks in the woods and send pictures of owls she found to Martin. She would become a photographer, maybe. Not as her main job. Just as a hobby. Pictures of snowy owls, and barn owls, and great horned owls. Pictures of huddled feathered breathing things blinking wisely on icy branches. She would call Martin and Debra twice a week. She would say, I’m doing great. And how are you old people doing? Each photo from her would feel like Martin had won an award.
Dream #5: Simultaneously the most and the least ambitious dream: Ruby would agree to go bird-watching with Martin, after months of eye-rolls at the suggestion. They’d find the great horned owl he’d been looking for in the park, and the owl would be even more otherworldly than he’d imagined, its beak gunmetal gray, the white patch at its throat like an elongated moon. When Ruby lifted the binoculars to her face, all of a sudden he’d be looking out of her eyes. He’d see the owl as she saw it and he’d have access to her thoughts in that moment, he’d hear her thinking in his mind like he heard Lily’s voice sometimes. And she’d be thinking, This bird is even more otherworldly and majestic than I’d imagined. I am so glad I’m here. I am so glad my father brought me here, I am so content.
His heart felt better now.
A lot of renovation today. Three crews Martin had to let in, one crew Jamaican, one Mexican, one Romanian. The Jamaicans were continuing the demo job on Lily’s apartment to combine it with the apartment above, the Romanians were fixing the ceiling in 3A, the Mexicans were replacing some of the steel lintels above the windows overlooking the north courtyard. Martin would let them all into the building. Would consult with various guys in charge. Would arrange approximate times of arrival/departure. Would account for everyone. Plus the bedbug dog coming by, along with Pumpworks Tony. And Neilson in 3C with the clogged shower drain, which he had just started wailing about to Martin in a series of text messages.
Martin had a policy of never giving out his cell number to tenants. The landline and answering machine were pain enough—his job followed him into his sleep, the last thing he needed was for it to follow him on his brief escapes from the constraints of the building. But he’d recently made an exception with Neilson because Martin wanted to know when his impromptu meditation sessions happened so he could sometimes join in. Of course, Neilson’s texts right now were all very drain-based. His messages popped up along with messages from the birding e-group about the owl. Is owl still near turtle pond. Drainage is REAL issue need to not be standing in puddle of water while showering? No great horned just spotted near sheeps meadow. WHAT time again did you say ud check out drain again working from home let me know hope I didnt wake u up 2 early with my call. saw the owl last night in the locust grove, majestic. Martin? U there? What time? Saw owl around dusk. What time 4 drain?
The birding e-group’s messages and Neilson’s muddled together in Martin’s mind. He pictured an owl slowly turning its massive head to reveal shower drains for eyes, two unblinking stainless-steel strainers.
Deep breaths.
He was done mopping the garbage room. He moved to the hallway in front of the passenger elevator. Some faint footprints. A powdery spattering of detergent had been spilled by somebody on the way to the laundry room. If he looked hard enough at the detergent, maybe he’d see the face of a celebrity, or even a saint to whom he might pray that Ruby get this job at the museum. A contact of Caroline’s had gotten her the interview, which meant she had a good shot, probably. And museums had to pay decently, right? All those priceless artifacts that people in movies were always trying to steal. Probably the gig had really good benefits, maybe even dental. When she got the job, she’d move out again. Things would be back to normal and he would stop constructing dreams of his daughter’s future to calm himself.
Was he expecting too much of her? Martin had moved out of his mother’s place as soon as he turned eighteen. He had supported himself ever since. Martin at that age had been sad and skinny, his dad newly dead, his mother’s new boyfriend a guy who didn’t hit him, but did hurl insults at him whenever he could, no-good-freeloader-cut-your-hair-you-bum kind of thing. A few days on the street when he moved to the city from New Jersey after trying to follow a girl to college, and then he’d done the whole bootstrap thing. He found a job as a “facilities staff member” for a historical society, mopped their wooden floors with Murphy Oil Soap that made at least three curators seize his arm and say, misty-eyed, that the smell brought back memories of their old beloved housekeeper from childhood. He made do, saved what he could, met Debra at the library and now, look at him. Living walking distance from both the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Museum of Natural History.
Living below street level. Mopping beneath the electric-meter boxes.
Well, trade-offs. Trade-offs were a natural part of life. Trade-offs weren’t the same as being scammed. Martin was very sensitive to that difference. He hated being scammed. But he didn’t mind playing the fool so long as he was aware that was the part he was playing. When you were self-aware, you weren’t being scammed. You were just moving inside whatever role the universe had cast you in this time around, an actor winking behind the mask. It could be artful, fooling could. Like when he’d kicked the woman out this morning, he was playing a part. He wasn’t really, deep down, the kind of person who would do such a thing. But he had to act like it to stay alive. Still, he wished he could have helped her. What memories of Lily did she have? Did she hear Lily’s voice in her head, too? Or did her memories of Lily manifest in other ways, did she see Lily sometimes, or just feel her presence?
A hand on Martin’s shoulder. He jumped. “Whoa,” Debra said. “Relax.” She clutched a rolling suitcase in her free hand.
“Sorry,” Martin said. “A little lost in my head. You off on your big adventure?”
�
��You look upset.” She moved closer. “You caved in to 2D and destroyed the nest finally, huh? Ruby told me.”
He kissed her on the lips, then along the centered part of her hair.
“There’ll be more birds on that ledge,” Debra said. “Don’t worry. There will be endless nest-building birds for 2D to complain about.”
Right next to them, machines measured the electrical illumination in bedrooms, bathrooms, the powering on of large TVs, the sleep mode stealing over new computers.
“Martin.” Debra squeezed his hand. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Martin smiled as big as he could. “It’s good you’re getting out of here. Miss Conference USA. You deserve a little vacation.”
“It’s not a vacation.” How fast Debra’s face seemed to fold up into something smaller. “Do you really think that’s what my day will feel like? It’s work.”
“Isn’t there a banquet?”
“I’m trying to build a network of donors. The banquet is also work.”
“I wish my work looked like your work today.”
“Are you trying to piss me off right before I leave for the weekend? Don’t you know how nervous I am? This is my first real panel conference thing.”
“You have nothing to be nervous about.”