Consequently, although he didn’t express his feelings in this way, he felt himself to be in a state of harmony with his true God-given identify and—by the natural extension which exists among all living things—with the very cosmos itself. In such a state of bliss, which, by the way, he had entered before after meeting other women for the first time, it was perfectly normal that he wanted to swing dance.
Going to the console cabinet on which his TV sat, he opened up the cabinet’s front door. Inside was a turntable, a relic from his teenage years that still functioned. It produced a sound that seemed warmer and richer than devices that played digital recordings, but that was not the reason why he still had it. He couldn’t see the need to buy something new, unless something broke and couldn’t be repaired inexpensively. After pressing the “on” switch, he put on his favorite record of big-band swing tunes. There was a scratchy pause—a poor herald of what was to come—as the needle approached the first song. Suddenly, the snappy sounds of swing rhythms and melodies stirred the air, filling his apartment. The glorious music from another era lived again. Bill was in his spiritual element.
The record contained songs like “In The Mood” and “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy”—happy music, music that gets under a person’s skin and speeds up the circulation. It was music made for dancing, composed at a time when dancing was more than people shaking themselves in place, like disjointed puppets. When people hear this music, as Bill heard it, their hearts start to pump a little quicker and a little stronger. Their feet begin to tap along with the beat, and in hardly any time at all, people want to be up and dancing, just like Bill was doing now in his apartment.
At first, his steps and moves were light and easy, because he was floating among the clouds, like an amorous bird born up on air, which mostly glides through space. He was also being careful about his back. There was still some tightness and mild inflammation around his lower spine, which he couldn’t forget, despite the height of his ecstatic raptures. But as the music played on, the pulsing syncopations drew him out, loosening him up, making him forget his physical limitations, and he really began to swing. He was stretching and spinning and fast stepping.
In his imagination, he believed he was with Donna, swing dancing in the grand ballroom of a handsome, old hotel before a live band. Other couples were dancing around them, twisting and twirling, but he only had eyes for her. She looked so young and so swell. He was so happy. He pulled her close, squeezed her, and kissed her passionately.
“You’re beautiful, baby doll,” he murmured in her ear. “And you’re mine. Today and forever.” She smiled like an angel, an angel who knew something about the corrupting influences of the body.
Again he squeezed and kissed her with all the ardent fervor of a man violently in love. She melted with passion in his arms, kissing him madly in return. Their puckering lips were inseparable. They were inseparable. Nothing could tear them apart.
At that magical, imaginary moment, his Blackberry began to ring, and the pleasant vision dissipated. He plummeted to earth from the thin, upper reaches of his mind, where he had been wandering since he had left the salon. He became aware that he was kissing one of his old and worn-out couch cushions, which his arms embraced tightly.
He threw the cushion back on the couch and grabbed his cell phone. He checked the number and then answered the call. His happiness erupted from him spontaneously, like a geyser. “Marie dear, I’m in love. I’m in love.”
Marie was calling from her kitchen where she sat, chain-smoking. The sound of her brother being in a good mood and calling her “dear” was a nasty surprise and gave her a coughing fit, preventing her from hearing what else he said. When she finished hacking after half a minute of uncontrollable, unhealthy sounds, and put the receiver back to her ear, she demanded of him, “What’s that noise?”
“I’m dancing,” he announced in high spirits, undeterred by his sister’s obvious low ones.
“Turn it down,” she groused. “I can hardly hear you.”
“OK, OK, I’m turning it down,” he said cheerfully. He lifted the needle off the record, and the music stopped. “There, is that better, sis?” he asked.
“Don’t call me that. You know I hate it,” she grumbled. “What’s all that racket for? Have you gone crazy?” It didn’t sound as if she cared one way or the other. She was in a complaining mood.
“Yes, I’m delirious. I’m out-of-my-senses mad,” he said, and she could hear the satisfaction, the pleasure with which he spoke. It was easy for her to perceive this, because he was practically shouting with joy. At first, she felt a little flutter of jealousy that he could be happy, while she felt miserable. But then she began to suspect that something was very, very wrong.
“Are you taking drugs?” she said in a tight, accusing voice.
“Only one, Marie,” he said breezily. “Only one. It begins with an ‘L.’”
“L...L...L,” she pondered severely. “Lucifer! Is there a drug on the street called Lucifer?” she cried. “You work close to Hell’s Kitchen. There has to be some bad stuff around there. Some drug dealer probably thought it was clever to name a drug Lucifer, since that place is hell.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” he said sweetly. “I wouldn’t touch a drug called that.”
“Well, I don’t know of any drug that begins with an ‘L,’” she grumbled. “But whatever it is, it sounds dangerous. It’ll be your undoing. A hundred times worse than these cigarettes.” She had another coughing fit, but it was shorter than the first one.
“Love is the most wonderful feeling,” he sighed, like someone who knew, unable to contain the fullness of his feeling from his unshakeable attachment.
“Love?” she exclaimed, as if a tornado was headed to her house. “Oh my God. Christ have mercy. Not again. Don’t tell me, please don’t tell me that you met another woman.”
“What do you want me to say?” he asked, completely unruffled by her unsupportive attitude.
“Did you meet another woman?” Despite what she had said a second ago, she had to know whether it had happened again.
“The only one for me,” he said, confessing what he honestly felt. In his mind, he saw Donna again, and his spirits soared, like a rocket being launched into outer space, never to return to earth. “We were meant to be together.”
“Did she say that?” His sister was incredulous. She thought that if he said yes, if he said that this new woman wanted to live her life with him, then she would need drugs to cope. Without drugs stronger than cigarettes, she was certain she would go crazy on account of this totally unexpected development. She was unable to believe that there was a woman alive anywhere in the world, who wanted to be with her brother for the sake of being with him. She herself couldn’t stand him much anymore. Their boisterous childhood camaraderie had become bitter distaste and mutual unconcern in adulthood, and the less she had to do with him, the better she liked it. Was there a woman who honestly liked him, she asked herself.
“Not yet,” he replied, confidant that Donna would rectify the situation in the near future.
Marie was pleased to hear this. It was clear to her that a familiar pattern was unfolding. “Does this one need a green card like Tanya?” she sneered.
“No, this one is American. And she has her own business,” he boasted. “She runs a hair salon for men and women. She worked on my hair, and it looks great. You should see it.” He decided to leave out any mention of his facial and massage, so his sister wouldn’t get a wrong idea.
“I wonder what she sees in you,” she said cuttingly.
“Love. True love. We only have eyes for each other.” He spoke with the simplicity of feeling and fullness of heart that only lovers have. But there was a tad of arrogance in his attitude, since he chose to speak for Donna without consulting her first.
“How many times have you seen her?” Marie demanded.
“It was love at first sight,” he replied. “The stars were aligned for us.”
She pe
rceived an incongruous fact in the celestial order he described and cried, “You only saw her once? For how long? What do you know about her?”
“She’s gorgeous. A knockout,” he exclaimed. “And she’s divorced.”
“You know her real well, don’t you?” she observed with scorn. “You got all the important facts, and there’s nothing more to find out.”
“There’ll be time to talk later,” he said. “The most important thing is, it’s love.”
“I wonder.” Actually, she wondered very little. She doubted what he said completely. This story was too similar to previous stories he had told her about other women.
“Next weekend I’m meeting her friends,” he said as irrefutable evidence of how attached he and Donna were to each other.
“Already?” she questioned in surprise. This was an unusual bit of information.
“As I keep saying...” he started.
“OK, I’ve heard enough,” she interjected, tired of the subject. Wishing her brother well was not on her list of things to do. “I’m calling because uncle Joe had a little stroke.”
“Oh,” he replied.
“Don’t get too upset,” she said, although she knew he wasn’t upset at all. “It’s just a little stroke. Someone needs to come over every day while he recovers to run errands, drive him to therapy, make meals. It’s a lot of work. Can you help out?”
“Just on the weekends,” he said. “I have to work Monday through Friday. I don’t have a spouse, like you, bringing home a paycheck. It’s just me here, until my situation changes. That should be soon—we’re in love—but I can’t say when.”
“He is your uncle, too,” she insisted.
“You know how long my commute is,” he said peevishly. “I hardly get any leave. I can’t take leave without pay. I could contribute a little money...”
“He doesn’t need any money. He has plenty. He needs help.”
“Why doesn’t he hire some help?” Bill asked.
“Hired help is not like family,” she said. “They don’t care what happens to him. Maybe they would care more than you...”
“I can help on the weekends,” he said with a tone of finality.
“So you’re making me do everything? Do you think that’s fair?”
“I said I can help on weekends. That’s what I can do.” He had lost his air of unconcerned elation, which he had had at the beginning of their conversation, and was now arguing with her. It was their usual mode of communication.
“What you mean is, you’ll help when you feel like it, for a couple of hours, when it’s convenient for you,” she quarreled. “That’s what you mean. The only person you would make an effort for is yourself. So don’t trouble yourself. I can help uncle Joe all alone. But just remember this next time you want something.” With that peroration, she slammed the telephone receiver in its cradle and puffed angrily on her cigarette, until it was finished.
Bill paused and spent a few moments in thought after the phone call. He did not think about his sister and what she would have to do. Nor did he reflect on the health of uncle Joe and what he might be suffering. Instead, he wondered how soon it would be until he and Donna were living together. They had made such rapid progress in their relationship already, he was sure that the first day of their cohabitation would arrive in the near future. That would be an event to celebrate, he thought. Maybe he would take her on a cruise around Manhattan that day to dine. Whatever they did, he would gladly open his wallet on that occasion. He would even empty it out, which wasn’t difficult to do, because he rarely carried more than twenty dollars in it. But on that day he would have more, and he would spend it as if he had won the lottery. Satisfied with such an optimistic evaluation of his situation and the upcoming celebration, he turned the big-band music back on and resumed dancing.
Chapter 21
Fortified with wine, but not over-fortified, Helen and Joan listened to Sandra’s suggestion. At first, Helen refused to do any such thing. She didn’t explain her reasoning. Wine had not turned her into a blabbermouth. She simply said no. Sandra expected this reaction from Helen, so she continued to tell her why her idea was likely to succeed, that’s what men want to see, women have to humor the brutes sometimes, and anything else she could think of to convince her. But Sandra’s explanations, justifications, and comical rationalizations did not change Helen’s mind in the least. Like most everyone, Helen did not like being told what she should do, even if she was given excellent grounds for doing it. She preferred to handle her affairs in her own way.
But then Joan asked, “Why would anyone put this much effort into Bill? That’s who we’re talking about. Boring, bawdy, self-absorbed Bill. If you ask me, and I know you’re not, he’s not worth any effort. I would never do this for him. Maybe for another guy, someone cute, someone like Paul Newman, but for Bill? Never.”
Joan’s words threw Helen into a dilemma. Although she didn’t like what Sandra proposed, if she didn’t try it, she thought she would seem to be in agreement with Joan, even if she denied vehemently that she was. Her friends would probably think that she had only a slight, passing fancy for Bill, some sort of incidental quirk born out of her loneliness and proximity to him.
To prevent herself from looking like a dupe of circumstances to her friends—a sad, companionless widow, desperate for another man—she had to show them that she was honestly attracted to Bill and willing to risk something. Reluctantly, she agreed to try Sandra’s plan. Although it wasn’t something she would chose to do on her own, the idea sounded plausible enough, and maybe it would bring a positive result, despite her reservations. That was what she told herself wishfully to make what she would have to do sound more appealing.
Her aversion returned with a rush when Sandra said the plan should be executed tomorrow, Sunday, when Helen would see Bill at church. But it was too late to resist now. She wanted to wiggle out of such precipitousness and push the attempt into the future, the far distant future, but she thought it was impossible to retreat without seeming irresolute to her friends and just mildly interested in Bill. Against her will, she was committed to action.
When Helen’s shaky participation had been confirmed—it did not appear so wobbly to the others, however, because Helen could control outward signs of her inner distress—Sandra’s enthusiasm and well-meaning tyranny swept them out of the restaurant, with orders to drive to her house immediately, so they could start preparing Helen for tomorrow. Helen made a last, feeble attempt to excuse herself on account of a previous appointment, which she actually had for an exercise class, but failed. Without knowing what the appointment was or asking, Sandra dismissed it as unimportant and told her that they were all going to her house now. And that was where they all went, with Sandra leading the way.
Out of modesty and some embarrassment, Sandra always referred to her home as a house. But this deliberate understatement was the equivalent of describing such Manhattan landmarks as the Empire State Building as “a building” or Central Park as “a park.” In reality, her home—there were two others in the United States and one in London—was a mansion, a large Georgian-style mansion in the Hamptons, with a view of the ocean, acres of property, and servants. She had not been born into such prosperity: She had been immensely fortunate in marriage. Her husband came from a wealthy family, and he had increased his inheritance through successful investments. Although Sandra had easily accustomed herself to a life of privilege, she was still conscious of how lucky she was and never took her fabulous wealth for granted. Neither had she cut ties to her ordinary past. She maintained strong friendships with Helen and Joan, which were formed when they were young adults and all part of the working class. At that time, she had no expectation of any future higher position in society for herself, nor dreamed of the affluence she would one day reach, with all its attendant material excess.
In her Jaguar, Sandra was the first to arrive in the graveled circular driveway. Joan and Helen pulled in soon afterwards in much less expensive ca
rs. Together all three walked to the entrance of the mansion, which was flanked by massive, imposing Corinthian columns made of stone, conversing normally. Helen and Joan had been there many times before, and they greeted the vigilant housekeeper by name, who opened the front door to let them in.
Under Sandra’s commanding guidance, the three women made their way directly upstairs to Sandra’s daughter’s bedroom. It was a very large room with a wall of closets over twenty feet long. Unlike the other rooms in the mansion, which were decorated in a dignified, subdued English style, with an abundance of antique furniture, chandeliers, printed fabrics, and plush carpets, this bedroom was a hodgepodge of furnishings, colors, and possessions, without any type of aesthetic predominating, except that of newness. Nothing appeared to be an antique or even vintage. It was obvious that a considerable amount of money had been spent on what was to be seen in the room. Yet there was a curious lack of taste in the environment, as well as an absence of coziness and comfort. The room didn’t say anything about Sandra’s daughter, except advertise her ability to frequently acquire costly new things.
Sandra walked to the wall of closets and pushed the accordion doors open, revealing everything inside.
“Voila!” she announced with panache, pointing out the glittering, profuse contents with a flourish of her arm. “Everything’s here, Helen, for your transformation to entrap Bill. Tops, bottoms, dresses, wigs, scarves, belts, jewelry. Some of the jewelry is costume, but not too much. My daughter wasn’t spending her own money. She couldn’t do that. She’s barely worked a day in her life. The shoes ought to fit you, too. You’re almost exactly her size.”
Cheapskate in Love Page 14