Buy Me Love

by Martha Cooley

  Twenty minutes, then a cool-down.

  She checked her watch. Five more minutes til the start of the class on the court below. A balance beam and tumbling session for junior high girls with Roy Lince as instructor, according to the signup sheet on the door.

  She leaned over the railing. Several balance beams had already been set up. A dozen girls—seventh and eighth graders, dressed in bright leotards—entered the court. Peeling off sneakers and socks, they began stretching. A minute later, the door opened and a boy skipped in.

  Ennio. In the same shorts but a different T-shirt.

  He took off his shoes and socks and joined the girls, who greeted him by name. After a few minutes, three girls went over to a high beam and conferred in low voices, giggling. Then the tallest girl placed her hands on the beam and popped up, crouching unsteadily before standing.

  Go! cried the other two girls.

  The door to the court opened.

  Roy, wearing a gray sweatshirt and black sweatpants. And a frown.

  Get off there, he called loudly to the girl on the beam. You know better than that, Alma! Haven’t I told all of you never to use the high beam when you’re unsupervised?

  I know, the tall girl said sheepishly. I was just—

  —impatient? Roy cut in. He slipped off his sneakers and socks and tossed them to the side.

  Get back on the beam, Alma, he said. But do a proper mount this time.

  The girl mounted the beam. Ennio began touching his fingertips to his toes. After performing this stretch a few times, he lay back on the mat, his arms at his sides. He kicked his legs upward a few times, alternatingly, then dropped them to the floor. His upward-drifting gaze met Ellen’s as she leaned over the Balcony’s railing.

  His mouth opened in surprise.

  Shhh, she gestured with a forefinger at her lips.

  After glancing in Roy’s direction, Ennio grinned and flashed her a quick thumbs-up.

  The girls did beam mounts and dismounts on the high beam, then practiced one-leg balancing, rolls, and lunges on the low beam.

  For Alma (evidently the star talent), there was a lesson in hand-walking. To demonstrate, Roy leapt onto the high beam and inverted himself. Placing one hand at the beam’s left edge and the other a few inches behind on the right edge, he took several hand-steps. Then he brought his legs down lightly, his feet echoing the placement of his hands.

  Got it? he asked the girls. Now watch again!

  He went through the moves once more, repeating his instructions. Watching, Ennio moved his hands in the air, mimicking Roy. As Roy’s feet dropped onto the beam, Ennio hopped lightly in approval, then looked upward, checking. Spotting Ellen, he gave a little wave.

  At that moment, Roy glanced at Ennio. His gaze shifted rapidly upward, then back down to the beam on which a girl was crouched, preparing for a forward roll.

  Okay, Patty, he said, moving to the girl’s side. Watch closely, everyone! Listen up! Remember, the power’s in your thighs and knees. Round back, loose neck . . . don’t take off too hard! Steady!

  All eyes were on the beam. Which meant no one was watching Roy—who, while maintaining an unbroken visual focus on the girl-about-to-roll, lifted one hand slightly and waggled his fingers at Ellen.

  3

  Now what? said Ennio.

  The class had ended, and they stood in an empty court. She’d been summoned from the Balcony by a giggling Ennio; Roy had feigned surprise, then given her a wink.

  I dunno . . . are you hungry? he asked Ennio.

  You bet! We didn’t have time to eat before we got here, remember? Did you? Ennio added, turning to Ellen.

  I think not, said Roy. Ellen has that lean and hungry look.

  Good grief, I’m being compared to Cassius!

  Well, do you scheme and plot? Do you have secret plans?

  Her stomach pitched; she forced herself to smile.

  Uh, no more than average.

  Then how come that starved look of yours? How many miles did you jog up there, anyway?

  Forget it . . . how come you’re quoting Julius Caesar?

  A tenth-grade class project. I actually liked that play.

  Who’s Cassius? asked Ennio.

  A guy out to get another guy, Roy answered. In a play. The other guy was Caesar, the emperor of Rome. The two of them were having a fight.

  Rome, like in Italy?

  It’s a long story, said Roy. Maybe Ellen can tell it to you over the dinner we’re going to treat her to. Don’t you think she looks like she’s starving?

  Yeah, said Ennio, she does!

  Summarizing the plot of Julius Caesar for an eight-year-old wasn’t easy.

  He died how?

  Which guy.

  The one who killed Caesar.

  Brutus? By impaling himself. Running onto his sword.

  Whoah . . . that sounds hard to do!

  Not much fun to think about, said Roy. Didn’t I tell you the story was gory?

  A gory story!

  We’re big on rhymes around here, Roy said to Ellen. And stuff like, what’s it called, when the first letters are the same . . .

  Alliteration.

  Yeah. Pass the hummus, Ennio, you’re hogging it.

  They were eating Middle Eastern food at a small cafe on Third Avenue in Bay Ridge. To get there, they’d taken the R train.

  Were the R’s announcers as goofy as the F’s? she’d asked Ennio en route.

  I don’t know, he’d replied. We never take the F, the R is the only train we can take to get here. It stays underground. When we finish eating, I’ll show you where my mom and I live.

  And, said Roy, we’ll make Ellen some tea.

  4

  In the kitchen of Gina’s apartment, a note for Roy lay on the table. His sister was at the movies with a friend and would be back by ten.

  Roy prepared tea while Ennio showed Ellen his room: games, books, trading cards.

  Hey guy, start winding it down, said Roy. You’ve stayed up later than usual. It’s Ellen’s fault.

  Yeah, she said. And so I’d better—

  —wait! said Ennio. Read me a story.

  En, you’re a little beyond that, aren’t you, said Roy.

  Just one!

  Not a story, Ellen said. I’ll recite a poem instead.

  Recite?

  Speak it aloud, from memory. Like reading, but without a book.

  What poem will you recite?

  Get your PJs on first, said Roy. And brush your teeth.

  As Ennio went off to the bathroom, Roy lit the bedside lamp and pulled down the shades.

  Thanks for bearing with him, said Roy. He likes you, I can tell.

  He’s a good kid.

  In the room’s low light, Roy’s skin appeared darker than usual, his hair nearly black. Oddly familiar, this man, yet how could he be? She’d met him just the other day. Everything was strange, there was no familiar anymore. That category had been deleted.

  Her stomach kited again; a hot flash commenced. She was somewhere in Bay Ridge, with roughly thirty bucks in her wallet and not more than ten times that sum in her checking account. Standing in a boy’s bedroom talking with some guy she barely knew, a guy who’d deem her crazy if she were suddenly to announce guess what, I’ve just learned something, I’ve got this ticket in a sugar dispenser and—

  Anybody home? asked Roy, waving a hand lightly before her eyes. You all right?

  She returned his gaze.

  Sorry . . . lost in space. I’ve really enjoyed myself this evening. I don’t hang out with boys very often.

  He let out a soft laugh. We’re not that scarce, are we?

  Young ones, I mean.

  Ah. Well, it’s good for Ennio to be with other adults. He’s been leery of grownups since his father died. He can get sort of . . . testy.

  He doesn’t seem that way.

  Tonight he was fine. But he sometimes behaves like a kid half his age. From day to day, you don’t know which kid you’re gonna get. And
when he acts out, it’s not pretty.

  She sat at the foot of the boy’s bed.

  Ennio’s father—what was he like?

  Roy turned one hand palm upward, in search of a starting-point. Ennio reentered the room, flinging himself on his bed.

  Come on, Ellen, the poem! Recite it!

  How about please, said Roy. Say it in Italian if you want.

  Per favore!

  “’Twas brillig, Ellen began, and the slithy toves . . .”

  After reciting the whole of “Jabberwocky,” she explained that its author adored strange words and Cheshire cats. Her own cats grinned like Cheshires, but right now they were frowning, since dinner was late. Time for her to go home.

  I’ll walk you to Eighty-Sixth Street, said Roy. Gina’ll be here in a few minutes. To bed, En!

  5

  They waited to leave the apartment until Roy’s sister returned.

  Gina bore no resemblance to her brother. Her body was stockier, her gestures rapid, her voice sharp-edged.

  I’ll call you tomorrow morning, she said to Roy as she sifted through the day’s mail. Gotta make a few calls now. You’re taking him to day-camp, right? Nice to meet you, she added, nodding at Ellen as she headed toward her bedroom.

  After leaving Gina’s, they passed in front of Roy’s building, one block over.

  He pointed to the second floor.

  Those are my windows, he said.

  It’s good you’re right around the corner, Ellen said. Must make things a lot easier for Gina.

  For all three of us, actually.

  Do Gina and Ennio have a good relationship?

  He pondered the question.

  Yeah, he answered, they do. They clash sometimes. Lately he’s into telling her she doesn’t listen to him.

  That’s normal at his age, isn’t it?

  Probably. With Ennio, you never know.

  A few minutes of walking, without speaking.

  Sugar and spice.

  The jackpot couldn’t be real. Yet it was—as real as this moment of dizziness. As real as the sound of Roy’s boots on the sidewalk. As the hazy light of the streetlamps. She reached out and took Roy’s arm for balance. He drew her to his side, his ribcage against her knuckles as their footsteps synchronized; then, after a few moments, he let go. Had he noticed the slight lurch in her step?

  Ennio was a real mess after Renzo died, he said. You can’t tell a four-year-old much about death, it doesn’t compute. He didn’t get how the train accident happened, kept asking what a derailment was. For a while, trains were the only thing he’d talk about. Sometimes when I tried changing the subject, he’d throw something at me—a toy, a book, things like that . . . once, a rock. He didn’t have much of an arm back then, luckily. He’s become a pretty good ballplayer.

  Threw stuff at you?

  Yeah. In anger, frustration . . . and then he has his silent spells, when he just won’t talk.

  That reminds me of Win, my brother. His girlfriend was killed two years ago, in Madrid. He’s been in pretty bad shape since then.

  Wow. Killed how?

  In one of the bombings at the central train station.

  He glanced at her, eyebrows raised.

  Oh my god . . . your brother’s girlfriend? What was she doing in Madrid?

  Visiting her sister, who was living there at the time. I think I understand Ennio, because of my brother. The anger, the helplessness . . .

  What’s he like, what kind of guy?

  Hard to describe. Win drinks way more than he should. He’s a really talented composer, but he isn’t working, isn’t even composing anymore. Not in the usual way, at least.

  How do you mean?

  He claims he’s still composing, but he doesn’t notate. He draws what he hears. It’s as if he’s become a visual artist. Yet he still insists he’s a composer.

  That’s kind of interesting, actually.

  As a question of art, maybe. But in Win’s case, the whole thing is a mess. He’s still grieving for Mel, and this is how he’s dealing with it—by refusing to notate his own music. He used to be well regarded as a composer, but he doesn’t care about any of that anymore.

  Does he get out much?

  No. He can’t handle public spaces. Not just aboveground train stations, like Ennio—I’m talking about any big gathering place. He’s almost always at home, and he goes through a bottle of vodka a day. He’s pretty much a hermit.

  The station? Here it was, they’d reached it already. She steadied herself on the handrail. Sounds like your brother’s had a rough time of it, said Roy.

  Yeah, but Win’s a grown man. It’s different with Ennio. I can imagine your worries.

  He nodded.

  Listen, he said, thanks again for tonight.

  Thank you. For dinner, for the evening.

  You’re welcome.

  A few more beats of silence, then he added: You in the city often? For work?

  Not too much, since most of my work happens in Brooklyn.

  Mine, too. I’m teaching Phys Ed courses at Brooklyn College and LIU. Oh—and I have two dogs, and they’re probably wondering where I am, like your cats are worried about you. So I should probably say ’bye.

  She pulled out her farecard.

  See you at the gym, she said.

  He reached out and palmed the side of her neck, his fingers traveling lightly in her hair, his thumb tracing the underside of her ear.

  Good, he said. Til soon, then.

  Deferral

  1

  I thought you weren’t going to be in touch.

  Win’s voice sounded a little gravelly. Was he sleeping? Taking at least minimal care of himself?

  Just wanted to know how you’re doing, Ellen said.

  Come on, El, don’t tell me you called to chat. Are you at work? What’s that I hear in the background? Sounds like a sprinkler system. Is the museum drowning?

  I’m on my lunch break outside, by the new fountain. You’re right, I didn’t call to chat. Just to find out how you are.

  How I am? Well, I’m wondering how you are. Why haven’t you quit, now that you’re . . . what’s the right adjective? Mega-rich?

  I didn’t call to talk about that, she said.

  Well, I’m not sure I can talk about anything but that.

  What do you mean?

  I mean, Christ, you’ve gotta figure out what you’re gonna do. It’s been four days, right? As soon as the news is announced, your name will be tossed all over the place. You know that, don’t you? Have you talked with anyone yet, a lawyer, an accountant?

  The ticket doesn’t have to be redeemed for three weeks, Win. I’ve still got plenty of time.

  A group of young kids rushed toward the fountain’s rising-and-falling plumes, shrieking as the fine spray hit them.

  She stepped back. Why not squeal with the same happy hysteria? Why this mix of euphoria and dread? The seat of happiness—was this what it amounted to? And the vertigo, the hot flashes now every fifteen minutes instead of each hour, the swarming questions, when and where and how to find lawyers and accountants and computer security specialists and who knew who else, what to do what to do what to do—

  Dale hadn’t yet asked why she’d texted instead of calling to cancel their film date. But he surely would. Four days had gone by, and she hadn’t answered emails from Anne and Sophie. They’d soon start wondering and worrying, too.

  She’d had to talk briefly with a couple of people at the museum. Exchanged a few words with the lady at the dry cleaners. Spoke with the local pet store owner about four kittens, only a week old, each a tabby with green eyes. Did she know of someone looking for kitties? Could she help cover their upkeep in the meantime? If every customer contributed a dollar . . .

  Wallet immediately emptied of thirty bucks. Which in that moment happened to be all she had.

  There’d been a few conversations with Roy as well.

  They’d talked on the gym’s Balcony each evening before his class. Enni
o had gotten into trouble on the playground. He was being kept at home after school, and wasn’t riding the subway that week.

  You all right? Roy asked at one point. You seem distracted.

  Yeah, I’m fine, just a bit tired. Lots going on at the moment.

  2

  The fountain flung more spray. She covered her phone to protect it.

  Don’t kid yourself, said Win. Nobody’s got plenty of time.

  He hadn’t hung up, though he’d gone silent for a bit. His tone was cooler now. But at least he was still there.

  I know . . .

  What’s that noise, like rain?

  I told you already, I’m outside the museum, by the fountain. Can’t you tell me how you are?

  I’m all right. You know what you might purchase for me when you finally cash in? I could use my own pianist. Someone like Tatiana Nikolaeva.

  Who’s that?

  Dimitri Shostakovich’s private pianist. He hired her to help him while he was on the road, so he could keep composing while traveling. They didn’t get to work together for very long, though. She dropped dead after a few weeks. Heart attack.

  A short, hard bark: his vodka-laugh.

  Win, have you shown anyone what you’ve written so far? The preludes and fugues?

  No. When I’m ready, I will. You fixing on becoming my manager?

  Just wondering how you’re doing.

  Ah, that again. Well, if you mean, am I drinking myself into a stupor every night, the answer’s no. Am I wallpapering my bedroom with photos of Mel, also no. Nor am I running personal ads in newspapers, or picking up whores. Does that answer your question?

  A lot of nights you do drink yourself into a stupor, Win.

  Nah! A torpor, maybe. There’s a nice word . . . you should use it in a poem.

  Ice plinking, then the crackling sound of liquid poured over it. Win’s voice was clipped now.

  Stop acting like all you’ve won is a plastic keyring, El.

  For God’s sake, I don’t need to do anything right away! Not til the twenty-fourth of next month.

  Lemme get this straight. You’re planning on hiding out in your apartment til the day you’ve got to turn in the ticket?

  I’m not hiding out, I’m working. There’s no penalty if I wait, so I’m not rushing. By the way, why don’t you line up an accountant? You’ll need one, too.