Buy Me Love

by Martha Cooley

  His left wrist was in a cast that extended up his forearm; the flesh above his elbow was bruised.

  Wow, Ennio, you took a real tumble, didn’t you?

  Not the kind Roy teaches!

  That’s for sure. How do you feel?

  Kind of like a bird with a busted wing.

  What kind of bird?

  Um, a coot. I learned about them in day camp. There’s this one kind, it’s black with a white face, and it runs on the water before it takes off. The water’s like its highway.

  Gosh. May I come in?

  Yeah, sorry! I want you to sign my cast. Mom’s and Roy’s names are on it already, plus a couple of our neighbors. When I go back to day camp, my friends will sign it.

  Does anything still hurt?

  This ankle, a little.

  He lifted his left foot and planted its sole on the inside of his right knee. With his arm like a tucked-in wing and his head tilted to the side, he did look like a bird.

  Roy’s gonna be back by nine, he added. He’s got a class.

  Don’t count on it, honey. He might be later than that.

  Gina stood behind Ennio now, her face as blank as her tone.

  Hello, Gina—I came to see Ennio . . . I’m so sorry about his accident.

  I’m glad you’re here, said the boy, ’cause now we can read another chapter of my book. Hey Mom, know what? Ellen likes reading aloud.

  Gina gave a brief nod.

  I’ll go get my book, said Ennio. She gets tired of reading to me—he gestured at his mother—and Roy does too, sometimes. But that’s okay. I like to read by myself, too.

  Ennio, said Gina, go brush your teeth. Call me if you need help.

  The boy rolled his eyes.

  I’m fine. Hey Ellen, what was that thing you read to me last time? Jabber-something? A weird poem.

  It’s called Jabberwocky.

  Ennio, said Gina, I think this might not be a good time for—

  —oh, come on, Mom. You’re bored, and Ellen can give you a break!

  He handed a book to Ellen.

  I’m partway through this, he said. It’s really good. It’s not Harry Potter, it’s called The Hobbit. Roy said you told him I’d like it. You were right, I do! Good thing it was at the library, otherwise we’d have to buy it. Mom say we can’t spend too much money on books—

  —Ennio, let’s go, you have to rest. The doctors said you need more sleep than usual.

  The doctors are just trying to scare you.

  Ennio, please . . .

  Look, said Ellen, how about if I come back another time?

  No, stay, please!

  A half-hour, then, said Gina. Not more. Okay?

  Okay. I’ll meet you in my room after my teeth get brushed.

  2

  Just as Bilbo the hobbit was approaching the forest of Mirkwood, twenty minutes into the reading, Roy entered Ennio’s room.

  Hey, you two . . .

  Ennio waved at him.

  Roy, this story’s getting really good! And Ellen’s doing all the voices right.

  She’s a poet, remember? They’re good with voices.

  Yeah. I already know what book I want her to read next! And I can help her with the Italian names in it.

  What book is that, En?

  It’s called Pinocchio. You know that guy you took me to talk with? He said I should read it.

  Roy moved closer to the bed.

  Dr. Rouse told you to read Pinocchio?

  Yeah. He said it’s famous in Italy. It’s about this kid who’s a puppet made of wood. Some animals and boys try to trick him, and he gets into trouble, I don’t know what kind. But in the end, he turns into a real person. The doctor guy said it’s a story for older kids. And adults.

  Ennio paused, then added: He said it’s for anyone who’s lost a parent.

  Well, said Roy, it sounds like a book we should get . . . Ellen, have you ever read it?

  A long time ago. I can’t remember all of Pinocchio’s adventures, but it was a good story. The Disney movie isn’t so hot.

  Yeah, said Ennio, the doctor guy said the book’s much better.

  I can pick up a copy. There’s a bookstore in my neighborhood.

  Thanks!

  Okay, En, that’s enough. Lights out now. I’m taking Ellen home.

  Home where?

  Innocent, the question. Posed without worry.

  Home here in Bay Ridge, Roy answered. My place.

  So Ellen, if you’ll be at Roy’s tomorrow, you can come over and we can read what happens to Bilbo in that forest, what’s it called?

  The boy was looking at her, not at Roy.

  It’s called Mirkwood. Yeah, maybe we could finish that chapter.

  Good!

  Hey En, let’s see what’s up tomorrow, okay? I need to check my work schedule. And Ellen has stuff to do, too.

  Okay. ’Night.

  A quick hug for Roy, a wave for herself. Then Ennio curled on his side, his cast arm resting on a pillow. In a minute he was asleep.

  Roy led Ellen to the kitchen; Gina was in the living room, watching TV.

  Here, dove, have some water. You know, I’m surprised about Pinocchio. I mean, if Ennio reads it, is he gonna think he can’t be a real boy til he finds his father?

  I doubt it. Of course he’ll think Pinocchio’s lucky, since Geppetto doesn’t die. But I bet Ennio will identify with the puppet—having to figure out what to do, who to trust . . .

  Remember the Blue Fairy in the story?

  Not really.

  Let’s say goodnight to Gina and take the dogs for a spin. I need to talk with you.

  3

  The dogs nosed their way down the street. Kay stopped to investigate a low hedge; Nine circled back to join her.

  C’mon, mutts, keep it moving, said Roy. Ellen, look at those spooky shadows over there—those tree branches are like something in a fairytale . . . speaking of which, the Blue Fairy in Pinocchio is pretty great. I remember being struck by her when I was a kid and my grandma read me the story.

  Remind me of her role?

  At first the Blue Fairy is almost like a sister to Pinocchio. But then she disappears and almost dies, or seems to, yet she keeps turning into someone or something else. It’s like she’s there and not there. I mean, as you read the story, you never question whether the Blue Fairy exists, yet you also never know when she’ll materialize. Still, she comes across as totally trustworthy. Pinocchio needs her, and she helps him figure things out. She’s got his back, even though she doesn’t want to be around him all the time.

  His hand reached for hers now, bouncing it lightly in the space between them.

  I sense, he said, you’re a kind of Blue Fairy for Ennio.

  Wait, Roy. I’m no good witch, believe me. And I’m no one’s mother, either.

  I know that. So does Ennio. But the Blue Fairy doesn’t aim to be Pinocchio’s mother. She has her own secret life. I think everyone starts off with a secret life; it’s like the software of childhood, it comes pre-installed. But most people give up on theirs by the time they’re adults. Ennio’s starting to realize that, and he can see you haven’t given up on yours.

  His hand encircled hers now, seeking a reaction.

  How to tell him what it’d been like, from childhood onward? Her own secret life had been hemmed in by a question no girl could avoid: Do you want to have a child? There’d been only three possible responses: yes, no, maybe. Yes got a girl off the hook. Maybe bought her time. But if she answered no, a girl couldn’t escape the follow-up question: Why not?

  I like kids, she said.

  I can tell.

  And I like Ennio. But not in the way you might be fantasizing.

  Wait. Of course I hope you’ll want to spend time with Ennio as well as me. But only as much as you’re comfortable with. That’s the only way it’ll work. The important thing is, Ennio knows you’ll tell him the truth.

  About what?

  Yourself. You know why Ennio asks you to read with
him? Because you like reading aloud. He does, too, but that’s beside the point. He knows I like it pretty well, Gina somewhat less . . . but you like it a lot, and he can sense that. He’s looking for proof that people are actually able to be themselves. He’s wondering if they’re faking, a lot of the time. But he can tell you’re trusty.

  Trusty?

  “My trusty steed”—that’s a phrase in a story I used to read him. Recently I asked him what he thought “trusty” meant, and he laughed and said “my trusty steed,” and then he answered my question. When someone’s trusty, he said, you can tell who they are. I asked him, do you mean they’re for real? And he said yeah, that’s it, for real.

  4

  The dogs began prancing and snorting. Roy called them to his side; they sat, tails wagging, waiting for their leashes to come off.

  Okay—almost home! There. Up you go . . .

  The dogs dashed up the steps. Inside, Roy hung their leashes on a doorknob, then turned to Ellen.

  I’m so glad you’re here, he murmured.

  Me too. But a bit scared.

  Of what?

  Right now, mainly of Ennio—his needs . . .

  I am, too. More than you might think. He’s my kid now, but not just mine. He’s got his mom, and he’ll always have his real father in his heart. It helps me to remember that. I don’t have to be an open door for the kid every moment; it doesn’t work like that. Not just because I don’t want it that way, but because he doesn’t.

  He paused, then added: Don’t worry, be trusty.

  Uh, I think it’s don’t worry, be happy.

  Whichever version you like—you choose. Might just be a matter of words, though. Seems to me they’re basically the same.

  A Wild Run

  1

  The job was going to end.

  Her supervisor had given her two weeks. Something about needing someone friendlier on the shop floor—that was the supervisor’s line, anyway. Not the right environment for you, Blair. The real issue was probably that they’d discovered some missing supplies and figured it had to be her.

  Her final paycheck would come on Monday. She’d have to find a new job fast.

  Where was Keith?

  2

  In the park at this hour—2:00 a.m.—nobody but herself. And chipmunks, squirrels, birds.

  What kind of bird was it, the one in Nadine’s painting? It looked like a dove of some kind. Keith liked doves. Once, he rescued a neighbor’s ring-neck dove, a pale rosy-gray bird that didn’t coo much. Keith said its cage was too small. On the day he rescued it, the boy who owned the bird was home alone, teasing it, poking through the bars of the cage with a lit match. The bird hopped and screeched in terror. When Keith heard the noise, he went in through the back door of the house and showed that kid he could never do it again, what he’d done to the bird. Taught him a lesson and made the kid promise not to tell his parents about it.

  Hopping and screeching. Burn marks on the soles of his feet.

  Keith released the dove outdoors. Even if it was killed by a predatory animal, he said, the bird would be better off.

  3

  The paint-over job was visible on the ceiling of the station where she’d put her slogans. Up there the cream color was slightly lighter. Though it’d been expunged, her project had still left a trace.

  Where to get more cash? She jumped the turnstile and headed downstairs. No one was on the platform. No dollar bills or coins were lying around, either.

  She walked the length of the Manhattan-bound side, then went back up to the mezzanine level and down to the Coney Island side. A train came in, a few passengers got off and climbed up the stairs—a nurse in uniform, a middle-aged couple, a drunk guy being tugged along by another guy who looked as though he were hauling a sack of trash. Forget it, the hauler said, you’re an asshole, why am I helping you?

  The train left, the people left. She was alone on the platform.

  The only boy she’d ever wanted to help was her brother.

  Just be a quiet pup, it’s better that way.

  The parents were still leaving messages. Did you receive the certificate? Do you understand now? You need to move on, get going with your life. Expecting her to be gullible. If you need money, the last message said—she’d deleted it, like all the rest—be in touch, okay? Your brother made his choices, there was nothing we could do—don’t put us through any more. Just let us give you some money.

  Hearing that, she’d felt a hard, sharp anger knife-twisting inside her.

  No borrowing. No one on top.

  It was time to take a bigger risk—make a wild run for it, like Camus said. She should do her next project in a subway car, with people all around. A kind of performance. An absurd intervention.

  A work of art, said Camus, must make use of the dark forces of the soul.

  A work of art, he said, is a confession.

  She walked to the far end of the platform and sat on its edge, dangling her legs over, waiting.

  She pulled up her legs a few seconds before the next train slid in. As it left, cool air from the tunnel swirled all around. She took out her phone and scrolled through the photos of Nadine’s painting. That bird, those sparkles across its back and on its wings and breast—it was some sort of dove, for sure.

  She slid the phone back into the rear pocket of her jeans. How much did she have in her wallet, maybe fifty bucks? Probably less. She’d have to get some more money, somehow. Soon.

  Another train was arriving. The hiss of brakes, then a mechanized voice: Watch the gap. Doors opening, closing, shut. The train pulling out, gone now.

  The tunnel’s inviting darkness. She could just drop down there and crawl.

  Her knees tingled as she pulled them to her chest, rocking back and forth, her eyes closed. Pup, pup.

  Art’s lonely, get used to it.

  Countdown

  1

  Three days left. Today was Friday, mid-afternoon. Jesus—the day already half gone.

  Did jackpot winners reach a point of simply not caring what time it was?

  Roy’s second class would be ending about now. He’d be picking up fish, fennel, and olives on the way home. Her assignment: a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine.

  MetroCard and cellphone, where were they? There, in her bag’s outer pocket. She pulled out the phone. Was her dentist’s number in the contact list? That appointment for Monday the twenty-fourth would have to be cancelled. She scrolled down the list. So many numerals in a life, not just phone numbers but bank accounts, Social Security, PINs, the always-needing-to-be-changed passwords. An endless slew.

  Trio, quartet.

  And now a hot flash.

  Rule one: breathe deeply, eyes closed. Rule two: find a distraction. Best thing was a phrase or line from a poem, something with easy rhymes and cadences.

  How about Wallace Stevens: the bird’s fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

  Say it five times, silently.

  The heat began to pass. The dampness took longer, as usual.

  Fire-fangled . . .

  And now just sit quietly, eyes closed, on this lumbering R train. Think about Roy.

  After last eve’s walk, lovemaking, then a midnight snack of blueberries, the two of them naked at the kitchen table. Moonlight dappling the dogs’ fur.

  A hot flash, too. Roy’d seen it; he’d handed her a cool glass of water. They went back to bed, to sleep, awaking just before dawn. Hands, tongues, the sole of a foot traveling the length of a leg. Roy careful, entering and moving very slowly inside, taking nothing for granted, making sure not to cause pain.

  During breakfast, a phone call from Gina: the babysitter had just called in sick. Was Ellen there . . . ? Roy asked if she could do it—stay with the kid. But more importantly, he said, did she want to? If not, he and Gina would find another solution.

  She could, yes, but not for the whole day. She’d need a few hours for herself in the Slope, in the afternoon. Of course, he said, and Gina would come home after
lunch; the morning was the challenge. And could she come back here for dinner, just the two of them? Good!

  Now the R train was inching from the Slope toward Bay Ridge. Right beneath Sunset Park at the moment. Win’s building was just a few blocks away, above-ground.

  What was he up to? And Maria? Were the two of them together?

  At last the train slid into Eighty-Sixth Street and shuddered to a halt. Win would draw the screech of brakes as a vibrating line that trembled on the page, like a wave of sound or heat. If Ennio were to look at it and be able to hear it, how would he react? Probably run and hide. Or yell—a big yell, first in Italian and then in English, or in some private language all his own.

  2

  Roy had already set the table. She opened the wine and sliced the bread as he served the fish.

  So how’d it go this morning, dove?

  It went fine. Ennio seems to be healing up well. He’s got opinions on everything, by the way. I mean everything.

  Yep! Here, have some fennel salad, it’s good.

  I got a lecture on the virtues and drawbacks of swing-sets.

  That’s one of his favorite themes. So what did you guys do? Did you get bored?

  We read, played some cards, took a walk, went to that little park . . . I confess I got itchy after a bit. Like I always do with kids.

  For me, it’s not a matter of overcoming boredom, it’s about moving through it. One minute I’m itchy, the next I’m laughing, or amazed. The weather keeps changing when I’m with that kid.

  How much time will you be spending with him this weekend?

  All day Sunday. Tomorrow he’s at Gina’s.

  Are you looking forward to it?

  Yes. There are moments with Ennio that just zap my heart. Of course there are always other moments when I want to run away and come back in a couple of hours. Sometimes when he’s babbling away, I just want silence. And it’s not fun when he’s grumpy.

  I don’t mean to sound like I’m interrogating you, but . . . what part of Ennio’s personality do you treasure most?

  Good question, and hard to answer. I’d have to say his curiosity.