Eve in the City

by Thomas Rayfiel

  “Oh no.” I laughed. “I didn’t think that at all. That we were getting married? Give me a break!”

  “Is it silk?”

  “I don’t know what it is. I got it at a thrift shop. It cost ten dollars.”

  “Then how come the price tag says—?”

  “It’s a look,” I said witheringly.

  “Kholmov?” a voice called.

  “Come.” He put his arm around her.

  I had seen him do that probably a hundred times before. There was no personal space with Viktor. He grabbed you to get your attention, rubbed against you, moving behind the bar, started massaging your aching shoulders when you were tired. It was partly working together, the familiarity, but also that he liked women. All women. It was deceptive because you could churn up this whole romance in your mind, based on these touches, and really they didn’t mean anything. But the way he touched Crystal then, put his arm around her in this caring, shielding way, as if she was already the child she was going to have, that’s when it hit me.

  “You’re getting married?” I screamed.

  They both looked dazed. I guess they thought we’d been over that. It was this big day in their lives and there I was, ruining it, standing in front of them, feeling so wronged.

  “I did not know, Eve. Not when I asked you. Then, later, after I found out, it still wasn’t clear what we were going to do, Crystal and me.”

  He seemed stuck on the phrase, like the bad English made it special. I could see them changing, right before my eyes, into a couple, like in a horror movie.

  “We weren’t sure we wanted to keep it,” she explained.

  Yeah, right, I thought.

  “I believe in accepting responsibility for my actions.” He sounded so full of himself. So admiring. And completely without humor. Why had I ever liked him?

  You knew, I glared. You knew she was pregnant when you asked me. That’s why you did it. Not to get a green card. You would have gotten one of those no matter what, no matter who you ended up with. You asked me because you were scared and wanted out. Even as late as the other day. That’s what you meant by me “saving” you. I was Plan B. The escape hatch. But I could have told you Crystal would never let that happen. She’s the kind of girl who goes from one person to the next. She decides when to make a move. Not you.

  “Once Crystal made her decision, my way was clear,” he went on gravely. “The child needs a father.”

  And the bully needs to be bullied, I thought. She’ll be better at it than I am. By far.

  They called him again. Crystal and I were alone for a minute. She looked tired and scared.

  “Have you been sick?”

  “I was at first. Now I’m better.”

  “That sure was a nice bridal shower you threw me.”

  “It wasn’t my idea. The girls wanted to do it and I couldn’t say no because then I’d have to explain what was going on with me.”

  “Where’s Brandy? Your partner in crime.”

  “She’s pissed. She wouldn’t come. She kicked me out of the apartment.”

  “Good for her. So you’re going to be living under a bowling alley?”

  “We found a place in Staten Island. Viktor can drive. I’m going to fix it up. Make it nice.” She sighed. “I didn’t plan it this way, you know.”

  “No kidding! That time you talked to me, when I was in the bathtub, you made it sound like . . . I guess I didn’t get it.”

  “There’s lots of ways two people can live together.”

  “Does Viktor know?”

  “Know what?”

  So he didn’t. I nodded. So he was getting what he deserved. But then she said something that made me see I didn’t know anything at all.

  “You think I could do this if I didn’t . . . love him?” She stumbled on the word, like it was a tippy rock in a stream, but kept going. “Besides, I—”

  I never found out what she was going to say next, because he came back in a panic.

  “Eve, you must come with us right away.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  ...you baby-making rapist foreigner.

  “Go where?” Crystal asked.

  “To the chapel. It is the one thing I forgot. Only a single secretary is left. The clerk says we need another witness.”

  “A witness? No way.”

  I had already witnessed enough, thank you very much. Crystal looked at me.

  “Oh, all right,” I grumbled.

  It seemed to be the only thing I was good at, watching other people make big mistakes. They led us into a room that had all the hideous trappings of a church but was careful not to show a cross or star or part of any specific religion. Instead it was the worst of all, that phony holy atmosphere where everything’s just a little bit special, extra-curvy or made of super-polished wood. But for no reason. The window would have had a great view but was blocked by this abstract network of poured cement. It was the single ugliest thing I had ever seen, except for the man standing in front of it, this young guy with his belly sticking out of a suit, holding a vinyl booklet like it was the menu for a bad restaurant.

  He looked at the three of us.

  “Who exactly is getting married?”

  “Oh. Her.” I tried moving back and stepped on Viktor’s foot.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “This? I got it at a thrift shop.”

  “It is Kholmov.” Viktor was trying to get me off him. “Mr. and Mrs. Viktor Kholmov.”

  We were tangled up somehow. Crystal waited patiently until he got free. I stood off to the side.

  They were the last couple of the day. The clerk read in a hurried drone. I looked around, not just at the sacred office furniture, the artsy light fixtures, but at them, Viktor and Crystal, at the man’s stomach, hanging over his belt, and finally at myself, my worn sneakers attaching me somehow to the wall-to-wall carpeting. What are we? I asked, annoyed that this was where thinking always took me, to more questions, never an answer.

  “Miss, you have to sign.”

  “Sign?” I echoed blankly.

  He had one more form.

  “Sign where? What do I write?”

  “Your name. And I need to see some identification.”

  I looked around. The man didn’t notice. He was putting things in his folder, ready to get out of there. Viktor dug into his pocket and slipped me a driver’s license, a Social Security card, a birth certificate, and a shiny blue passport. I opened the passport, saw me, and gave this little squawk of delight. My face was half-embossed by the Seal of the United States, and then after that there were all these blank pages, all these places I could go, a book yet to be written.

  I flipped to the front.

  “We did not know what to put,” Viktor mumbled. “You said this name was common. I looked it up. It means ‘maker of horseshoes.’ I hope it is all right.”

  “Smith,” I read out loud. “No, that’s . . . that’s perfect, Viktor. Actually, it’s amazing, because I just—”

  “Miss?” He looked at his watch.

  “Oh. Right.”

  I wrote carefully, I didn’t want to misspell anything, and stood back to admire my signature. Then he said it, something like: “By the power vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you man and wife.”

  I found Mingrelia, I wanted to tell him, but they were kissing. I looked it up. It’s part of Georgia. The Republic of Georgia. And the Euxine Sea, that’s just the Black Sea, right? But they were kissing. They were kissing. I tiptoed out of the chapel. I could go anywhere now. I had a passport. I had documentation. Proof I was a real person. I knew because— I didn’t realize it at first, not until a few drops fell on my dress—I was crying. I was weeping uncontrollably.

  It was one of those sunsets when the streets lined up perfectly. Rays fell pure and straight. I looked into them so my tears would have a reason for being. Why was I so upset? I had gotten what I wanted, and didn’t give up a thing in return. I had nev
er loved Viktor. I was always fighting him off. I was still fighting him off, flailing at this person who wasn’t even there anymore. Why did I feel hurt? Rejected? He had picked somebody else, not me, thank God. I still had my plan. I was still on course. I took a deep breath. Viktor, the bar, the girls, were gone, leaving me light, almost weightless. Because I was blinded, my footsteps sounded unnaturally loud. I listened to that slight crunch, the grit of the city, lubricating things, sliding us all along.

  Detective Jourdain opened the door to Horace’s studio.

  “Oh Jesus,” he said. “This is just what I was afraid of.”

  I looked past him. The lamps were down. Those long shallow fluorescent rods that hung from chains. They were laid out on the floor, taking up almost all the space. Which they could, because there was nothing else. He stepped aside. The studio was empty. Out the window, on the highway, cars whizzed by. Most had turned on their headlights, even though you could still see, as if they were trying to bring on the dark.

  I had stood across the street for twenty minutes. I wasn’t sure which windows were his. I wanted there to be some sign this was my true fate. Of course there wasn’t. The sign would be me, walking up those steps. Finally, I looked down and noticed the price tag still dangling from my dress. I tore it off, crossed over, and pushed the buzzer. There was a pause, the pause between when you know you’re going to kiss someone and you actually do, then this low buzz back, with the click of a lock unlocking itself. I hiked to the second floor and was ready. Love. It was automatic, simple as a buzz and an answering click.

  “Well, don’t just stand there.”

  I walked in. Just a few steps, the same as the first time I had come, so he could close the door behind me. It made that important-sounding boom of steel slamming shut. Like a bank vault. This finality. I squinted to the far side.

  “What happened to the bathroom?”

  It wasn’t there. The toilet and sink and shower head were, but without a wall. They huddled all by themselves at the end of the room.

  “Why? You have to use it? The water’s still on. I could go out in the hall and wait.”

  “No, no. I was just wondering.”

  “They’re doing a gut renovation. Making the place nice. This neighborhood’s taking off, apparently. Lofts like this are going to be worth a lot.”

  “Oh.”

  “The workmen just started today. I was supposed to come by and make sure no personal belongings were left behind. Cleaning up.” He shrugged. “Same as always.”

  “I don’t get it. Where’s Horace? What are you doing here?”

  “Mr. Van Arsdale owns this building. Didn’t you know that?”

  I looked for the bed, the mattress on the floor, but that was gone, too. Everything was gone. I could feel myself closing in on the memory, preserving it. Some part of my mind was already doing that, instinctively, even though the rest of me hadn’t accepted the fact, hadn’t even figured out what was going on.

  “You really put the fear of God into those two. I’ve got to hand it to you. Mr. V. couldn’t believe you weren’t jumping at his offer. And that daughter of his was just as terrified you were going to turn her in.”

  “He owns the building?”

  “Finally got them to agree on something. Which is a first.”

  “They agreed on what?”

  “This.” He motioned to the empty space.

  I took a deep sniff, to suck back any tears that might make a reappearance. But I was all cried out. Instead, I got a lungful of dry desert smokiness. Sandalwood. Or sawdust.

  “Mr. V. got that boyfriend, what’s-his-name, Dean? He got him to take her on. They left for Europe yesterday afternoon. Rome, I think.”

  “Rome? No, Horace wouldn’t do that. He was going to go to Italy with—”

  I bit my lip.

  “Most people aren’t as hard to convince as yourself,” he said gently.

  “I don’t believe it.” I tried hitting him. I went up and hammered away at his chest. “What did you do? How did you get Horace to go with her? Did you threaten him?”

  “Me? Threaten? That boy was bought and paid for a long time ago. Cut it out, Eve!” He held my fists until I stopped. “What do you think he was doing here in the first place?”

  I just stood there.

  “. . . wouldn’t be too hard on him. Most people don’t even realize it when they’re selling themselves. It’s second nature to them. I mean it’s what we’re all supposed to do in life, one way or another, isn’t it? Sell ourselves? Just got to make sure you get a good price.”

  “I should go.”

  “If you want.”

  We stared at the crumbled stumps where things had been. Wood and nails. That white board that turns into chalk.

  “And this was all right with you?” I asked suddenly. “That she gets away with it? What if she does something else? I thought you were so concerned about justice.”

  “Well, she won’t be doing it in my backyard. Which means it can’t come back to bite me, that I didn’t lock her up. And who knows? Maybe she’ll get better. You got to have a little faith. Besides, that boy’s going to look after her. She’s his responsibility now.”

  I couldn’t imagine what her father had possibly offered. I mean, I couldn’t see Horace taking money. He wouldn’t sink that low.

  He cleared his throat and went on, “Speaking of back-yards. If you need a place to stay, I’ve got this room, this whole house, practically. It wouldn’t be any kind of a situation. I mean, you wouldn’t have to pay.”

  His side was a wall, a wall you could lean against that wouldn’t disappear from one day to the next. A wall you could shelter behind. You wanted a part to play, I thought; well, here’s one. Maybe not what you fantasized about, but a role, ready-made, waiting. One you know you could do.

  “I suppose it’s kind of silly, but ever since I saw you that morning, in front of your apartment building.”

  He stopped.

  “What?” I asked impatiently. Make a case, for God’s sake. Make an ass of yourself. I need to be convinced.

  He forced the words out, “Listen, whatever it is you want, that I can give. All you have to do is ask.”

  And he can kiss, a voice reminded.

  I jumped. I thought I was done hearing voices.

  “So . . . what?” I asked. “It’s like the dust has cleared and you’re the last man standing?”

  “Huh?”

  “You hit me!”

  “When?” He looked confused. “You mean when you jumped right in front of my car?”

  “No. That time in the elevator.”

  “Oh, then. Damn right I did. Because the situation called for it. And then you marched into that room and told off one of the most powerful men in the city. You don’t remember that part, do you?”

  I was standing a few steps away. I wasn’t just going to melt into somebody. Some body.

  “I hit you and you got strong,” he went on. “Your problem is you don’t give yourself enough credit.”

  “That’s my problem?”

  He took my arms but didn’t pull me to him. We stood there, an in-between distance apart. I remembered before, how this irresistible force lifted me, how I had stretched higher than I thought I could, to reach him, to follow his lips, until my feet were about to float free.

  “You can’t go on the way you’ve been. Writing those letters to your mother. Telling her about walking the streets at night, about that boss of yours, how he tried to grab your private parts.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “You know.”

  I felt his fingers, pressing into my forearms, weaken.

  “Yes, I know. Because it’s my life. But how do you know? I never told you any of that.”

  “I guess I was just jealous.”

  “You read my composition book. How did you even find it?”

  “Eve—”

  “You’re the one who broke into my apartment!”

  “You were crying o
ut for help. Don’t you see?”

  “But why did you have to trash the place?”

  He frowned. I guess it was the most obvious thing in the world. But I still didn’t get it.

  “So you would call, of course. I needed you to need me.”

  “Oh, I could never go back home with you. You’re far too weird.”

  It was out of my mouth before I even knew what I was saying. And then there was that same look on his face as before. This deep hurt. Except this time it didn’t pass. It stayed, and deepened.

  I wish I could say it felt good to give someone else the big kiss-off for a change, instead of being the one to have their heart broken. But it didn’t feel good at all. I left the studio, and walked. I walked all the way uptown. It was late and I was tired. By the time I got home, I couldn’t stop yawning. I stumbled up the stairs. All I could think about was sleep. Somehow, I had gotten myself off nights.

  “Let gel remain in hair one hour.”

  “One hour!”

  “Or until desired color is reached. Rinse and dry naturally. DO NOT BLOW-DRY.”

  I looked in the mirror. I couldn’t see anything, yet.

  Brandy was really into reading the instructions. It’s like she had found this sacred text.

  “The longer gel remains in place, the deeper color will be.”

  “So how do I know when to wash it out?”

  “It’s up to you, I guess.”

  The kittens were playing with her outfit. She grabbed it. They thought she was part of the game, and jumped high in the air, trying to get it back.

  “How cold is it out there?” she asked.

  “Freezing.”

  It was actually kind of wild this way, with my hair sticking straight up, all swathed in evil-smelling jelly. The rest of me was in the white terry-cloth robe. What would happen if I never washed the stuff out? What would the directions say about that? DANGER: WILL CAUSE PERMANENT BRAIN DAMAGE.

  She came out of the bedroom in two sweaters and sweat-pants. She was dressing more like me. And here I was, primping and preening. It was this weird transformation we’d both noticed, each borrowing from the other.

  “Do we need anything?” I asked.

  “You’re not going out again, are you?”

  “I might.”

  She looked at herself in the mirror. The Bikini Bar didn’t have a room in back. I’d been, once. Just to see. It was definitely a step up from Viktor’s. At least it had a name, and a sign, and a door on the street.