Each letter was spaced right; the spacing was exact, too. Just as planned, even though she’d had to execute the whole thing upside-down. The train engineers and the passengers riding in the front car with the window, along with everybody on the platform during daylight hours, would have a clear view of what she’d done. Glancing toward the tunnel, they’d surely notice what was just above it. At first they’d be struck by how neat the whole thing was, the strong red color of the lettering. Then they’d start puzzling over the opening pair of words—you suckers—and the disturbing cliché that followed: you’re being taken for a ride.
They’d wonder. Nobody likes to be made a fool. Was this just about the subway?
Ripples, implications.
Keith would praise her. You were like a snake up there, he’d say. Slithering right to the edge.
He’d want her to keep going. What you’re doing is good, he’d tell her, but it’s not enough.
4
The boy emerged from the shadows just as she walked out of the station. His hands were still stained red from the paint.
You, he said, grabbing one of her shoulders and twisting her sideways. You little bitch.
He must’ve waited for her. Before she could squirm away, he pulled her arms behind her. She bucked, trying to throw him off. His breath smelled rancid. He shoved her into the wall of the station. Keep still, he said, or I’ll bash your fucking head.
One side of her face was pressed flat against the wall. She couldn’t see him, only smell the funk of his sweat. His breath foul as an old dog’s.
Who d’you think you are, he said. I got red all over me! My clothes all ruined. Bitch!
He shook her; her cheekbone scraped against the wall.
I’m gonna make you bleed, the kid said. Make you turn all red.
He pushed into her with all his weight, jamming her against the wall and rubbing her face against the rough cement.
Fuck! she called out.
Shut up, he said, pulling her face away and clamping a hand over her mouth.
She bit into one of his fingers. He screeched, then stepped away and backhanded her across the face. A passing car slowed, pausing as she yelled and waved her arms at the driver. The kid took off down the street. The car stopped; the driver opened his door and stepped out.
You okay? he called.
She turned and reentered the station.
Waiting was the only thing to do.
She stood in the station a half-hour before exiting. It’d be better to run on the street than in the station.
The coast was clear. She inhaled deeply, fatigue invading her whole body. She shook her head back and forth to clear it, then headed home.
5
Back in her apartment, she winced while washing her face.
Several big scrapes covered her right cheek and temple. There was blood and some bruising where the boy had hit her. She’d invent a story: a slip on the subway steps. No one at her workplace would care. Her face would heal before long.
That kid should’ve been able to tell she wasn’t actually a girl but a short tough boy, with a boy’s strong hands and feet. A boy who didn’t want to have sex with boys as much as with girls but would do it with either, as long as nobody got on top. A boy for whom sex was merely something the body occasionally required, like water for thirst. You quenched it, but you could go without it.
She slathered antibacterial cream on her cheek and taped a bandage across the messier part of it.
Black coffee, rye bread and butter, a banana for the potassium. A glass of water.
Six in the morning. She’d need to leave for work in two hours.
Her sketchbook lay open on her table. She scribbled a fast portrait of the boy, then scratched it with her pencil til his face disappeared. Tearing the page from the book, she lit it with a match and flushed the ashes down the toilet.
There could be only one reason for Keith’s silence: it was better that way, better for him.
He was okay, wherever he was. Not in trouble. Of course it would be easier if he hadn’t gone silent. But Keith knew what he was doing, and he’d expect her to know what she was doing, too. His silence was his way of saying he trusted her. His pup.
He’d always known who she was.
That boy tonight, though, with his stinking breath . . . Next time she crossed paths with a boy like that, a boy who refused to recognize who she was—he’d pay for it.
Diamond Doves
1
Inside the modest trattoria, the air held scents of rosemary, garlic, and lemon. A waiter led them through the interior and out to a walled garden, lighting a candle on their table.
Too warm for you out here? Roy asked.
No, it’s fine. I smell roasted chicken . . .
They do it really well here, said Roy. With balsamic vinegar drizzled over it. You hungry?
Hungry, was she hungry? Was it appropriate to be hungry? How would Walter answer that question? He’d say, Eat.
Yes, I am. Let’s have the chicken and some salad—the arugula one sounds nice.
It does. And wine?
You choose, please.
He scanned the wine list, then gave their order to the waiter.
Do you eat out a lot? she asked as a bottle of Vermentino was brought to the table, along with crusty rolls and a dish of olives.
More than I should, he answered. I’m not much of a cook; neither is Gina. Renzo was the chef in the family. We all like Italian food, needless to say.
She spooned some olives onto her plate. Is Ennio a good eater?
Roy smiled as he poured the wine.
You bet! Remember how he hogged the hummus? He takes after his father. Well, and after me, too. Cheers, he said, clinking his glass against hers.
They drank; the waiter filled their water glasses.
My father . . . he liked to eat, too.
How long’s it been since you last saw him? Roy asked.
She took a roll from the basket, sipped some water, fanned herself with her napkin.
It is warm, she said.
You all right? Want to go inside? It’s air-conditioned.
No, I’m fine. Just . . . adjusting. Wow, these olives are good. My father . . . he left when I was eight years old. I’ve seen nothing of him since.
Ah. What’s he do for a living?
He’s—he used to be a professional singer. A baritone. He toured all over the States and Europe.
Roy took a roll, broke off a piece, ate it.
That’s impressive. And you have a brother who’s a composer? Plenty of music in your family. You see your brother recently?
We mostly talk on the phone. What about your parents?
My mother died when I was a toddler. Leukemia.
Ah . . .
And my father lives in an assisted living community in New Jersey. It’s a good thing he’s there, since he’s gotten pretty senile. He can’t do any cooking or anything like that for himself. I don’t see him often; he doesn’t want any visitors, isn’t fun to be around. He was always a crabby guy, but it’s worse now.
I grew up in New Jersey. Maybe he’s crabby because he lives there.
He smiled. Nothing to do with that. How’d you end up in Brooklyn if you’re a Jersey girl?
I went to NYU and decided to stay in the city. I moved to Brooklyn quite a while ago. Much nicer than Manhattan.
I agree. Especially for kids.
2
The chicken arrived; Roy poured more wine.
Buon appetito, he said. So tell me about your father. I can’t imagine having a dad who sings. What’s it like hearing his voice when you haven’t actually seen him in decades? I assume you’ve listened to his recordings?
She broke a roll into pieces, pushing them into a little pile on the tablecloth before speaking.
Some of them, yes. He’s . . . Walter used to have a very good voice. He sang opera, lieder, some choral music. He left my mother for a man, an Italian who makes stringed instruments. V
iolins and violas, mostly.
Roy’s mouth pursed in surprise.
Where’d they meet?
At a music festival in Tuscany.
How’d your mother deal with that?
I’m sure she knew he’d had affairs with men. She never talked about him after he left to be with Bruno. He just kind of vanished.
Roy frowned.
Wait a minute. Your father’s name is Walter, and he’s with someone called Bruno . . . Wasn’t there a famous musician named Bruno Walter? I seem to remember that name from my music-history class in high school.
Bruno Walter, yeah. He was a conductor.
That’s pretty weird. The names, I mean—your dad and his partner.
A moment to salt the potatoes on her plate. Another to sip some wine and try for composure.
Yeah, it is. But when it comes to names, that’s not the only odd coincidence in my family. My mother’s first name was Enola, and her last name was Gay.
Roy frowned. Lemme think . . .
Remember the plane that dropped the bomb on Hiroshima?
He leaned back in his chair. Oh shit, that’s right—the Enola Gay. My God, your poor mother. Her parents didn’t have any idea when they named her, did they?
Nope.
Wow. After your father left, did your mother remarry?
No. She lived by herself, didn’t want anything to do with family. Or any other relationships. When she died, I hadn’t seen her for several years. Neither had my brother.
Not even for birthdays or holidays?
I used to go to friends’ houses for holidays. My mother was usually drunk. If it weren’t for my father’s alimony payments, she’d have been on the street. She couldn’t hold a job.
Where’d she live?
In a studio apartment in Morristown, New Jersey, where I grew up. She sold the family home and got the apartment; it was easier for her. She and I communicated by phone. She never picked up, so we traded messages.
That’s kind of intense . . .
I got used to it. Sometimes she’d recite bits of songs or poems in her messages. Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson . . . song lyrics and poems were the only things we had in common. She’d leave a few lines of a song on my answering machine, and I’d recite a poem on hers.
Your own poems?
Oh God, no. She never knew how to react to my poetry, or to Win’s music.
Well, if she was drunk most of the time . . . but after your father left, didn’t you live with her?
Yeah, for a few years. But then Win left for college, and when I went off to NYU, my mother moved into the apartment. The proceeds of the house sale kept her afloat, thankfully.
How’d you afford NYU? If you don’t mind my asking . . .
My father paid for it. After he left, he set up a fund for my brother’s and my college educations. He arranged it so my mother had to spend the money on tuition.
And then she passed away while you were in college?
I’d been out of school for a year or so. Living on my own by then.
That was thirty years ago, you said? Hmm . . . I figured you weren’t much over forty.
Ah, you’re a good liar. I’m fifty-two.
He shook his head, smiling.
You don’t look your age, he said. Which makes you the deceptive one.
3
The waiter removed their plates, replacing them with smaller ones. He brought a bowl of greens to the table, dressed the salad, and served it.
Tell me something, said Roy. Are you a good poet?
Why do you ask?
I’m interested in how people arrange their lives. Like, if a person believes she’s good at doing something, can she put that thing first?
Uh, do you have a particular she in mind?
Not you; someone else. A woman who was my closest friend for many years. Her name was Nadine. She was my age—I’m forty-seven—and she had a couple of heart attacks, two years ago. The first was so mild it almost went undiagnosed, but a few months later she had a second one, and it killed her.
How terrible . . .
Turned out she had serious heart disease. A fluke, since she’d always been in perfect health. She was a painter. She painted money.
Money?
Yeah. Bills, not coins. She made the same kind of painting over and over, an image of a bill—money, I mean. Usually a ten or a twenty. In the center of each painting, she put a bird instead of the usual presidential portrait. All different kinds of birds. And she came up with new wording for each bill, tweaking the legal language. Like, “to God we’re dust” instead of “in God we trust.”
He paused.
I liked her work very much, he added. There was something haunting about it. I wish she’d had time to do more.
D’you remember that hundred-dollar bill we saw painted on the sidewalk the other day? Was your friend’s work anything like that?
No. Nadine’s paintings were more . . . fanciful, I guess is the word. A bit out of focus, dreamlike. She never did any street art. It wasn’t her thing.
Did she show her work anywhere?
No. Not because she lacked talent, but because she didn’t believe in herself. She hung her paintings on the walls of her apartment. She and her husband had a place in Sunset Park. That’s where your brother lives, right? I used to love walking into her place and seeing her work. It always cheered me up.
The waiter cleared their salad plates.
Dessert? Roy asked.
No thanks, I’m full.
Me too. Let’s just sit, then. Finish our wine.
It’s peaceful here.
That’s why I wanted to bring you to this place. It’s one of the few restaurants in Bay Ridge with a nice garden. Sometimes I fantasize about buying it.
A wave of dizziness; she covered her eyes with one hand, willing it to recede, then pushed herself to speak.
So, I’m trying to picture your friend’s work in my mind. Did she think of her paintings as a series?
Yeah. They all had great titles, taken from songs that deal with money in some way. One was called The Eagle Flies on Friday; it had an eagle at its center, of course. The Price Is Getting Steeper was from a Van Morrison song, and Take the Money I Make was from Ani DiFranco. Then there was I’ll Get You Anything—that one had a woodpecker in it.
What about the Beatles? I can think of one song . . .
He nodded.
I own that painting, in fact. Nadine called it Buy Me Love. It’s the only one left.
The other paintings were sold?
No. Her husband threw them out.
You’re kidding.
Nope. After her first heart attack, Nadine told him if she were to die, he could toss her paintings because they weren’t worth keeping. So when she passed, he took her on her word.
Wow.
They had a complicated marriage. Neither of them behaved like a saint. He was a very successful sculptor, and he considered her, what’s the word for it? Not an amateur—oh, it’s right on the tip of my tongue . . .
A dilettante?
Yeah. A somewhat talented dilettante, but without the will or force to be a quote-unquote real artist. And I think his attitude wore off on Nadine. Not that it was all his fault. She never had faith in herself as a painter, even though she was a good one. That’s what got me interested in the question of priorities. So: do you think you’re a good poet?
She spun her glass by its stem.
Your question makes me wince.
Why?
Because I haven’t been writing for a while.
Can I ask if you’ve published anything?
Yes. A chapbook of prose-poems, a while back, and some poems in literary magazines. Nothing recent, though. You can’t make a living as a poet, in case you’re wondering. I write and edit all the time for my freelance jobs. But not poems.
I haven’t read much poetry, I confess. Not that I don’t enjoy it, at least sometimes. But I find it kind of intimidating.
Lots
of people do. In school you’re told to look for meanings. What matters first is sound, though. The poem’s music.
I can’t even imagine how you’d actually write one . . .
Well, I can’t imagine doing a backflip.
Ah, that’s not so hard. I think you should get back to writing—poems, I mean, not whatever it is you do for money. You come from an artistic family, why waste your genes? I bet your father’s wondered what you’re up to. Like, whether you became some sort of artist, too. Don’t you think?
She patted her forehead with her napkin. Full fathom five thy father lies. Had anyone but Bruno been there for the lowering of Walter’s coffin? Anyone read a poem or sung a song?
Honestly, Roy, I have no idea.
4
The waiter approached and lay the check on the table. Roy was gazing at her.
Hope I didn’t seem pushy about the poetry, he said.
No, you’re right to ask if I’m doing it. I should ask myself more often.
She reached for the check. Please, let me get this. I’d never have found such a nice place on my own. It’s been a treat for me.
All right, he said. This time.
You got the last one, don’t forget.
And I’ll get the next.
He pushed back his chair. Time for a little air, don’t you think? A stroll? Then some tea at my place?
His apartment was small and tidy. Two compact Australian sheepdogs awaited them at the door.
Kay and Nine, meet Ellen, said Roy.
Kay and Nine? Like, canine?
Uh-huh. Pretty lame, I know.
She pet each dog, scratching their chins.
I got ’em when they were pups, he said. They’re siblings, and I knew I’d be calling them dozens of times a day, so I decided their names ought to be entertaining.
They’re great, actually.
We nonpoets do our best . . .
In the kitchen he put the kettle on, then plucked sprigs of mint from a plant on the fire escape. Cups in hand, they walked back to the living room, which was furnished with a sofa, an armchair, and an old leather-and-brass trunk serving as an end table. Two lamps softly illumined the blue-gray walls.
Buy Me Love Page 12