Fearless

by Rafael Yglesias

  “But at least I’ve never actually added to what’s bad.”

  Brillstein’s mouth pursed. His eyes were offended. “Maybe you don’t understand,” Brillstein said softly, but with menace. “If you contradict me on Nutty Nick or Mr. Gordon’s ‘key man’ status you’ll only be hurting Mrs. Gordon.”

  Max said nothing.

  “You’ll leave me no choice but to take the line that you’re not in your right mind.” Brillstein stood up. His mouth had gotten very tight and severe. He looked too small to achieve the threatening effect he wanted. “Your wife and I have talked about this. There’s a lot of evidence you’re unwell.” Brillstein became nervous again. He grinned and said, “We’re both tired and tired talk is no good. Let me know when you want the psychologist to bring you the questionnaire. Get some rest.” Brillstein scurried out in his brown suit, a small, even cute creature. But the lawyer had meant what he said. And Max knew that sometimes the littlest animals were the most determined and the most vicious.

  21

  Carla decided to call a cease-fire with Manny. But only after she asked if he was still seeing “that bitch.”

  Manny said no with his head down, ashamed. He mumbled to the floor, “I ain’t seen her since the day in Jersey.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she said dispassionately.

  “It’s the truth!” His head came up; his black eyes shined. “I called her that night and told her I couldn’t see her no more.”

  “I believe you,” she said and let go of the subject. So they were talking again. Nevertheless, she moved her things into Bubble’s old room and slept there. The next morning she bought cans of white paint. Using Manny’s brushes and ladder she began to cover the pale blue color of the nursery.

  A few days later Manny came home with a dozen roses. They must have cost half his take-home pay for the week. She told him he was crazy. He took off his coat and revealed he was wearing a clean white shirt, a blue tie and his best slacks. She hadn’t seen him in a tie since their wedding. For one delighted moment she thought he was going to take her out to dinner and dancing. What he wanted was sex.

  She let him—in their old room. The lovemaking didn’t bother her although she felt nothing, like always since the accident. But it did bother Manny that she wasn’t ecstatic no matter what he tried. He was a skilled lover. Carla assumed he had been taught by experts—probably his mother’s colleagues—but even his fanciest stimulations were of no use. Afterwards he said softly, “You didn’t like it.”

  She told him as gently as she could, “Enjoy yourself. Don’t worry about me. I feel fine.”

  “I can’t.” Manny pushed at his hair with the flat of his palm, agonized. “If you don’t like it, I can’t.”

  But he had enjoyed himself. He had arched to the ceiling and moaned, like always. “That’s your pride,” she said. “We’re married. You don’t have to show off with me.”

  Manny put his other palm to his hair and pressed with both hands. “Did you do it with him?” he said in a choked voice.

  “No,” she said and was disgusted. “I’m not you.”

  Finally Manny relaxed, stopped asking questions, and began to brag about his triumphs at work. They talked for a while in a friendly way before she went to Bubble’s room to sleep. To her room really. She felt no trace of her dead boy in the real world anymore. Bubble did live on in her dreams. There he was always happy and pleased with her.

  She visited Max three times. She made sure each time (once with Brillstein; the others with Manny) that he would be alone when she came. She worried about his health. They said he was healing okay but she thought something in his brain wasn’t working right. When she made jokes he sometimes looked bewildered instead of laughing or smiling; and he didn’t say smart things, the kind of things that he used to, that changed the way she thought about the world. On her third visit she found out why. A kid came in a white coat—he was an intern Max told her later, but he looked like a child to her—and said in a cheerful way, “How’s the vision, Mr. Klein? Still seeing double?”

  “No.” Max covered his eyes with the fingers of his right hand, as if hiding from the question.

  “Good. Let me take a look.” He came up to the bed, snapping on a flashlight in the shape of a pen. Carla thought he was too young to be so presumptuous with Max.

  Max persisted in shielding his eyes with his fingers. To coax them down the intern pulled gently on Max’s wrist. He shined the penlight into one eye and then the other, each time asking Max to roll his eyes up and then down. “Good,” the intern said. “Things blurry, especially in the distance?”

  “I can’t really see,” Max said in a tone Carla had never heard from him; he sounded afraid.

  “You can’t see!” the young man was skeptical. “You can see everything in the room, right? Things are a little cloudy, right?”

  “Right,” Max said dully.

  “I don’t want to put words in your mouth, Mr. Klein. You’re the patient, you tell me. But you see everything—it’s just not sharp, right?”

  “Right,” Max said angrily.

  “But he can see,” the intern said to Carla.

  She understood then why Max wasn’t laughing or talking cleverly. She sat by the bed after the kid doctor left and took Max’s hand. It was soft and warm. He was quiet for a long time. Finally, he mumbled bitterly, “It’s not seeing.”

  When Brillstein came to the apartment that night to ask if he could offer to settle the case for three hundred thousand dollars, she waited through Manny’s first excited, then suspicious agreement. At first Manny said, “Three hundred thousand!” as if it were all the money in the world. Yet only a moment later he said to Brillstein, “They’d be getting off cheap.” Finally he was satisfied when Brillstein told him that the most any other parent had gotten was one hundred thousand. Carla nodded to indicate it was okay with her and then said, “Are the doctors telling the truth about Max’s eyes?”

  While Brillstein assured her that Max’s eyes should be fine, Manny sulked. “He’s lucky to have eyes,” Manny commented.

  As soon as Brillstein left, Manny sat opposite Carla in one of the metal kitchen chairs and said in a bullying tone, “I gotta know something. You gonna go on seeing this nut forever?”

  “You want me to stop talking to you again?” Carla said.

  Manny picked himself and his chair up while still seated and slammed both down. The metal feet and his shoes made a hard and soft clap of thunder. “You’re taking a fuck of a lotta chances with me, woman!”

  “When you get your blood money, Manny—” Carla said in a rage, getting to her feet. The white flash of this anger seemed to blind her momentarily. She blinked hard and Manny reappeared. “You can keep it all to yourself and get the fuck out of my life!” She marched to her room and felt bitterly disappointed.

  Manny knocked later, came in without permission, and gave her an espresso. “I’m sorry,” he said in a mumble.

  She took the cup. She had been sitting at the window, looking out at the street, wondering about the tourists and rich New Yorkers passing below. Max had once said that walking through Little Italy made those people feel they were in a Godfather movie. She wondered if that was entirely a joke. After a while, she said to Manny, “Thank you.”

  Manny studied her while she sipped the coffee. It was good.

  “Do you want a TV in here?” he said eventually.

  “No thanks,” she said. She liked the room this way, all white and empty except for the small bed, dresser and rocking chair she had kept from the nursery. A television would spoil it.

  “You’re my wife,” Manny said quietly.

  “Yes, I am,” Carla answered.

  Manny nodded and left. She got up early the next morning and made him pancakes. He kissed her with syrupy lips on his way out. He hummed with pleasure and pushed his sweet tongue between her teeth. She eased him out the door.

  She cleaned the apartment in an hour. The laundry was done and there
was food for dinner. She thought about going to Old Saint Pat’s. She could pray for Max’s eyes.

  I need a job, she thought.

  Manny would want her to get pregnant again. She didn’t think she could have another child—at least not physically. To raise one, yes; to make one, no. But Manny would never adopt.

  Her intercom buzzed. When she asked who it was, she didn’t believe the answer: “Debby Klein. Max Klein’s wife. Could I come up and see you?”

  Carla was so taken aback she didn’t reply, she buzzed her in, wandered to the front door in a daze and opened it.

  Carla was surprised by Max’s wife. She was slight and nervous, not commanding as Carla imagined she would be, and although Debby looked to be around forty years old, she had the uncertain expression of a timid girl.

  “I’m sorry,” were Debby’s first words as she climbed the last few steps.

  “That’s okay.”

  “If I’m interrupting something—”

  “That’s okay,” Carla said again.

  Debby offered her hand. “I’m Debby.”

  “Hi, I’m Carla.” Carla shook it. “Come in. How’s Max doing?”

  Debby passed her and entered the apartment with open interest in the objects. She peered at the furniture and the photographs as they moved into the living room. “I guess physically he’s getting better. I’m worried about what’s going on in his head.”

  Carla nodded. She gestured for Debby to sit and asked, “Do you want something? Coffee?”

  “No. Thanks. I’m sorry to bother you. I guess this is crazy. I’ve never done anything like this in my life.” She laughed and it was a surprise. Her laugh was deep and mature and confident. “When have I ever been in a situation like this? I don’t even know what my situation is—” Her amusement shut off, as suddenly and completely as a light going out. “There are no rules about what’s happened to you and Max. I guess that’s what I realized last night. What a terrible night.” Debby looked into the distance and there was grief in her eyes, the sort of hopelessness that Carla understood very well. “It was the worst night of my life. I thought there would never be anything as bad as the night I thought Max had died—” she found Carla’s sympathetic eyes and stopped. She smiled feebly. “Did Max help you? I talked to Bill Perlman yesterday. He said Max helped you.”

  Carla waited to think how she could say it. She felt she owed Debby the truth, if she could figure out what the truth was. She considered and then had an answer that was right. “He saved my soul,” she told Debby.

  Debby’s eyes filled with tears. Her lips trembled. “Well,” she stood up, so agitated that she obviously wanted to hide. “Well, then, that’s that. Thank you. I’m going to go.” She turned away. Carla stood up. She hadn’t wanted to make her feel bad and yet she seemed to have hurt her. It was confusing.

  Debby moved toward the door. Carla hurried after her. She wanted to say more but she didn’t know what else to say; she had an impulse to take care of Debby, she seemed so fragile. Debby was still upset, only barely managing to contain her tears. She pulled at the front door but couldn’t get it open. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

  “It’s okay,” Carla said, unlocking it.

  Debby opened the door. Her eyes were awash with tears. “I think,” she said to Carla and swallowed hard. “I think maybe you’re the only one who can help Max.” And she rushed out, hurrying down the stairs.

  It was sometime later that Carla found herself sitting in the kitchen eating from a box of crackers. She had been thinking so hard it was like a trance: What did Debby mean? How could she help Max? Was there anything wrong with him? To her it seemed that he was as great as anyone could be, that he was fearless and kind and smart and loving. Why would anyone want to change that? She didn’t know, except that obviously he wasn’t being a good husband to Debby. She seemed lost, grief-stricken. Was it Carla’s fault, somehow? Had she done this to them? That was an awful thought, a sin she couldn’t bear. The crackers were so dry she had to go to the sink and drink two glasses of water. As she put the box away the phone rang.

  It was Max, speaking in a whisper, “Carla. I’m at my apartment.”

  “They let you go—”

  “Yes!” he hissed in his hurry to tell her. “Listen. I can’t talk long. Can you meet me somewhere? Or do I have to go down to you?”

  “Are you supposed to be—?”

  “Carla, I don’t have much time!” He almost moaned. “Brillstein and my wife—they’re going to put me in a mental institution. I have to get away. Can you meet me somewhere?”

  “No!” she said, shocked.

  “You can’t?”

  “No, I mean, they’re not going to put you away.”

  “I can’t talk. Listen, I don’t know where…Grand Central. Do you know the Oyster Bar Restaurant?”

  “No.”

  “It’s underneath Grand Central. Take the Lex. That’s near you, isn’t it? Or a cab. I’ll pay you back. Go into Grand Central and look for the signs. The Oyster Bar Restaurant. Meet me there at noon. Don’t go in. At the entrance. Okay? Please?”

  “Sure, Max.”

  He hung up. He had sounded crazy. She was sad for a moment and didn’t want to move. She was reluctant to go out, blocks away from home, into the underground with beggars and crazies, to the middle of Manhattan filled with people, thousands and thousands, all indifferent, all strange.

  It passed quickly. She had wished for something to do. Max needed her. Wasn’t that better than a job? If he was really crazy then she owed him her help all the more.

  The trip uptown was scary. Everyone in New York seemed demented in one way or another. Many were openly so: in rags, shouting at invisible tormentors, thrusting paper cups and insisting on money as if you owed them charity. Many more were fearful, pretending to be self-absorbed while they peeked from behind newspapers, wearing earphones that disappeared into their clothing or shoulder bags, as if they were switchboard operators wandering sadly to find something they could plug into. The teenagers were scary, especially the black teenagers, whose eyes were so angry and so hopeless that she couldn’t believe there was any mercy in their hearts. She avoided meeting their defiant stares.

  “Don’t look at him,” Manny had once whispered to her because she looked closely at a man on the subway whose pants were gray with filth, who had a cut across his forehead, and whose left shoe top had come off. “When you’re really poor you don’t want people to look at you,” he explained later. “All they got is their pride. You were shaming him. He could kill you for that.”

  “Oh, come on, Manny!” She had laughed, nervous at the idea.

  “Don’t laugh.” Manny had been grave. He pointed to the sky to emphasize the importance of what he was saying. “I know what I’m talking about. I was one of them in Manila. I didn’t care the Americans were so rich so long as they didn’t look at me like I was an animal in the zoo.”

  She got to Grand Central without incident. The station seemed to be in another time. The curved interior walls were made of smooth gray stone as thick as a tomb’s. The clocks were old-fashioned and so was the lettering embedded in the walls that directed people to the trains or the exits. Carla thought it was too gloomy.

  Max probably thinks it looks beautiful, she realized and felt better about this meeting. Grand Central was Max’s kind of place. At least he was still partly himself.

  She found the Oyster Bar easily. It was also preserved from New York’s past. She liked it better. The arched entrance walls were cunningly made with once white tiles that now had a yellow tint. One half of the restaurant had snaking U-shaped counters to accommodate quick lunches; the other half had tables with red-checked cloths. It reminded her of her hardworking father.

  She stood outside in the station’s tombs, soothed by the echo of footsteps. She saw Max from a long way off coming toward her. Behind him a cloud of dusty light from the street darkened his face. He walked like an old man.

  She hurried to help h
im.

  “Hello, Carla,” he said as she reached him and put her arm through his. He smiled at her anxious grip. “I’m okay. I’m just getting used to walking distances. I guess I don’t trust that my head is better.”

  “How are your eyes?”

  “They’re great!” he said. They paused at the archway leading to the main waiting room. “Wow,” he said, peering up at the vaulted ceiling. “Look at how much they’ve cleaned! It looks so grand, doesn’t it? A public place designed like a palace. And clocks with faces!” he said, beaming.

  “That Oyster Bar looks good. Can we get something to eat?” Carla was hungry, and had been made hungrier by the sight of the lobster tank in the restaurant. But she also wanted Max to sit.

  They had a delicious lunch. She loved seafood, but the sweet fat oysters Max ordered for her as a starter were new to her. Max insisted she have a lobster and they shared a thick chocolate cake for dessert. She was so full her stomach ached dully and her eyes felt heavy.

  Max ate feverishly and jabbered about how he knew that Debby and Brillstein were going to have him committed. When she challenged this suspicion, he explained the lawyer could get more money that way.

  “But your wife wouldn’t lock you up just to get more money,” Carla said.

  “That’s not why. She’s got a choice. Either accept I don’t love her or decide that I’m crazy.”

  “How do you know you don’t love her?” Carla said, not as an argument, a wondering question.

  “I don’t think I ever did love her. I loved the idea of her.”

  Carla slid down in her chair a little. The heavy meal was dragging her down. She wanted to yawn. “I don’t know what that means, Max,” she said, again not as an argument.

  “I don’t even know what love is,” Max said. He yawned without restraint. “I’m exhausted.”

  Carla laughed. “I could sleep right in this chair.”

  “Let’s go,” he said. She didn’t ask where. She didn’t think about where either, although somehow she knew. He hailed a taxi—there were rows of them out on the street—and said, “The Plaza Hotel, please.” He sagged back, his head against the backseat. His Adam’s apple and strong chin made sharp angles. His face had only a trace of puffiness from the crash; a healing cut on his jaw gave his handsome features a romantic wound. “I reserved a suite this morning,” he said to the car roof. “Asked them to make sure it was on a high floor. It’ll be my last look at New York for God knows how long. I was too tired to figure out where to go. I thought I’d leave the state tomorrow morning. I don’t think they can institutionalize me if I move to another state.” He sat up and turned toward her. His eyes were lively, their pale blue as clear as a boy’s marbles. He reached for her hands. She gave them to him. His skin was soft and warm. “I want you to come with me,” he said.