Disconnected

by J. Cafesin

  "Okay. See ya around 3:00."

  I got to Carrie's just after 4:00. On my way to her kitchen I said "Hi" to the kids who barely acknowledge me, mesmerized in front of the TV watching Rugrats. Maria was washing dishes. Carrie was putting a matzo kugel in the oven.

  "Hi. Sorry I'm late, but I had to finish a job that had to go out today. What can I do to help?"

  "It's done," she remarked, clearly pissed off I was an hour late. "I have to go upstairs and get changed so we can't talk now," she said as she left the kitchen. "Oh, would you go take Lee's place off the table. I didn't get to it."

  "How do I know which one it is?" I yelled after her as she went up the stairs.

  "Read the seating cards." She disappeared into her bedroom. I went into the living room. Carrie and Larry, Lee and I were seated at the smaller table, set up in a T against the long table. I took Lee's setting away and almost crumbled, repeatedly swallowing back the lump in my throat so my sister wouldn't see me cry. I was going to look pathetic sitting alone at the head of the table with my sister and her husband. My mother and father were at the end of the long table. They'd have a perfect view of their daughters. The winner and the loser. Just great.

  Walking into the kitchen with the place setting in my hand the doorbell rang. I handed the dishes to Maria and went to get the door. Enter mom and dad.

  After kisses and hugs my mother looked around and asked, "Where's Lee?"

  "He's not coming." I left it at that. She didn't.

  "Why not?"

  "We broke up."

  "Why?"

  "I really don't want to get into it, mom, okay?"

  My niece and nephew came in to greet their grandparents right then and saved me from the third degree. I went upstairs to avoid them all. Carrie was putting on her makeup in her 'dressing' room the size of my bedroom. "Mom and dad are here."

  "I heard. What'd you tell mom?"

  "That Lee and I broke up. And I would prefer you didn't tell them what we talked about this morning." Just in case Lee and I ever got back together...

  "I won't," she said to my refection in her wall to wall mirror. "I've been thinking about what you said this morning. Is Lee using affecting your sobriety?"

  My sister, like my parents assumed I got clean in MA and never resumed using. Since I was back to abstinence, I answered with certainty. "No."

  "Well, then I guess it goes back to what we've talked about before. You're never going to find the perfect guy, Rachel. Most men are boys at best, cloaked in bravado, and ego that needs massaging virtually daily. You've told me Lee's a successful businessman, and he can afford to support a family. Well, you can't. He treats you nicely, and he seems to genuinely care for you. I can see why his getting high scares you. But not everyone's an addict just because they use drugs. I mean, most everyone drinks, or is taking something to help them cope, or sleep, or function."

  "Carrie, why are you pushing this relationship so hard?"

  "You're almost 34 years old, Rachel, and you haven't had a real relationship since Michael. Lee is the first man in a long time you seemed to like that likes you. You hardly have any time left to meet someone and have a family. Do you really want to risk spending the rest of your life alone and childless while you search for a perfect fit that doesn't exist." She focused on me in the mirror. "God, I'm sorry," she said turning around to my tear streaked face. "I just want you to find someone to share your life with, have kids and be happy."

  "I know," I practically whispered, wiped my face, looked at myself in the mirror and wanted to cry again. My eyes were red-rimmed and surrounded in darkness, my entire countenance looked so very sad. We heard the doorbell ring and then people coming into the house greeting each other.

  "I have to go downstairs now." She stared at me. "You gonna be okay?"

  "Yeah. I'm fine." I wasn't though. I couldn't swallow back the lump in my throat threatening to suffocate me.

  "Good. Wash your face and try to look happy. I worked really hard on this dinner and I want it to be special for everyone. Please don't be sad in front of my guests." She didn't mean it mean. Carrie was just that way. Totally and completely self-absorbed. If what she'd said of most men was true, she and Larry were merely two sides of the same coin, and yet another relationship I had no intention or desire to emulate. She was probably right that the partnership I envisioned didn't actually exist yet.

  She left the bathroom and went downstairs to greet everyone. I heard more people coming in and the crowd downstairs grew noisy with gaiety. I ran some cold water in the sink and stuck my face in it, wondering if one could drown themselves in a bathroom sink. Dead— feeling no more felt eminently more attractive than my daunting future right then. I kept my face submerged until instinct took over and I stood up gasping in fresh air. I buried my face in one of her plush purple towels, then combed my hair and looked at myself in the mirror again. My eyes still looked puffy and sad, but I plastered a smile across my face and went down to join the happy crowd.

  After a few brief exchanges, I hid in the kitchen and helped Maria put the finishing touches on dinner. It felt like if I opened my mouth I'd start crying, which I was desperately trying to avoid. I didn't want to spoil my sister's party. We all took our seats and Carrie started the two hour service. Twenty minutes into it I couldn't sit there another second as the only single adult at the table, and subjected to my mother's sympathy every time she looked at me. I went into the bathroom. Tears came immediately. I stayed in the bathroom for a good fifteen minutes, finally got the crying under control, rinsed my face off yet again, and then went into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. My mother came in a few minutes later, her pinched expression plastered on her face.

  "What is going on with you?” Her words felt like projectiles. “Your sister worked very hard on this dinner. Do you really want to spoil it for her?"

  "No, mom. I'm sorry." I preferred her 'don't ask, don't tell' policy better. I didn't say anything. I felt small enough as it was.

  "Is this about Lee?" She stood two feet from me. I moved to the counter and sat on it to put distance between us. She followed me over though, stood directly in front of me so I was trapped up there on the counter top.

  "I thought you weren't seeing him anymore."

  I felt tears welling. Damn. "I'm not." I'm back to alone. "I'm not seeing anyone." I fought to not to cry, swallowed hard, wiped my eyes with my palm. "And I'm scared out of my mind I'll be alone forever, mom, and miss the chance to have kids, have a family of my own." I couldn't talk anymore. I sat there and cried.

  "Ah. Rachel Lynn..." She sighed. Her expression softened as she watched me, though her eyes were hard to see with her glasses reflecting the kitchen lights. "Then I have only one question for you."

  I suddenly felt trapped, though I don't know why. Whatever she asked I was going to lie anyway. "What?"

  "Do you want to fix it with Lee? Because if you can, maybe you should. I was so pleased to see you with someone. You seemed to have such a nice connection."

  "My issue with Lee was never our connection."

  "Well then, maybe it's time you focus more on the positives between you. Your dad and I thought Lee was great. And he was clearly enamored with you. And at this stage in the game, dolly, maybe you should learn how to be more accepting." Her typical lemons into lemonade response. “My beautiful baby, you'll never find someone to be with by critically examining everything.”

  "That's not fair, mother. You don't understand who Lee is—"

  “And I don't want to know.” She folded her arms across her chest, leaned back against the butcher block behind her. “Let me tell you something about relationships, missy. They aren't supposed to make your life harder. They're supposed to be a calm harbor, someplace you feel comfortable, and secure in. We all want a safe place to come home to. If that can't be with Lee, then stop wasting energy on him and go out and find someone who will be a haven for you, and to whom you can provide the same."

  "That's exactly w
hat I'm trying to find, mom. And I've been looking for like a decade now.” I shook my head and looked away, feeling the distance growing between us. According to my mother, I was still single was because I was being unreasonable wanting more than what I saw of most marriages. I sighed. “I really have to get out of L.A., to someplace less expensive, less pretentious, like up to the Bay."

  "There's nothing in San Francisco that isn't here, except family and friends that loves you. How can you move from your home, from people who care about you, away from your sister and the kids? You can't be part of their lives hundreds of miles away. And wherever you go, you take you with you, dolly," she sniped, again implying her daughter needed fixing.

  What I don't take is you, but I didn't say it, of course. "Carrie's kids don't need me, mother. They hardly know I exist." The kettle whistled, which stopped me from deconstructing her Pollyanna version of our family dynamics with facts.

  She straightened, stared at me through her thick glasses. "Get yourself a cup of tea, go wash your face, put on a smile and then join us in the living room please." She moved aside so I could move off the counter. When I jumped down in front of her, she gave me a hug. It took all my will not to start crying again, and maybe she felt that because she quickly released me, held my face in her hands just a moment, and turned away and went back to the party.

  I got my tea, washed my face and went back to the table. Carrie was leading the crowd in song. She didn't look at me when I sat down. She kept a smile on her face as she strummed her guitar. My mother stared at me with concerned contempt. I was spoiling Carrie's big night. Larry sat next to me. He poured me a full glass of wine when we got to the part in the service that honors 'the fruit of the vine.'

  "Go ahead. It will make you feel better, swear to God," he whispered.

  Anything to make Carrie and my mother happy. I practically gagged as downed the entire glass after the prayer. Larry filled my glass almost to the rim again, looked at me and grinned. He poured another full glass for himself too. I finished the second glass by the end of the second prayer. He filled my glass to the top again for the third prayer. After the toast I drank that one too. By the time dinner was served I was feeling fine. Actually, to be more precise, I wasn't feeling anything, which was fine with me. I chatted amicably with the guests, played Nintendo with the kids, sang with my sister after dinner. Everyone was entertained. My mother was pleased with my performance. My sister was glad I'd "snapped out of it."

  I stayed until dessert was finished and the liquor buzz all but gone, and was the first to leave my sister's party. Like a mouse in a maze, I ran down the halls of my brain as I drove back to my empty house, my empty life, searching for something to save me from the descending darkness.

  Later in bed, I wrote another personal ad for the Daily News:

  Attractive, passionate, creative pro, 33, SWF, seeks SM who thinks with his brain instead of his dick; who wants a wife that's more than a doting mother who doubles as his whore; a man looking to be challenged to achieve more than he can conceive, and who's grown up enough to understand commitment and compromise are vital for a lasting relationship, and is ready to practice both.

  The actual ad I placed in the paper the following morning simply read:

  Attractive, passionate, creative pro, 33, SWF, 5'7", 135, active and in-shape seeks professional, kind, attractive, thinking SM, 30-40 who is ready for the real thing.

  I hoped my vague and limited descriptors, along with nixing the anger would broaden my response rate. The rest of the day until late that night, then up again at dawn on Wednesday I focused on the direct mail campaign I was creating, meant to soothe the ruffled feathers of customers who would lose half their services, and be charged for the rest, when my credit union client merged with Bank of the West. Beyond feeling small and slimy, Lonely lurked, black threatening to consume me. The only thing that held it at bay and allowed me to function was meeting Lee for racquetball later in the day.

  He was on the court, volleying with himself, but when I came through the heavy door he stopped. "Hi." He stood in the center of the white walled room, already sweating, his gray t-shirt saturated around the collar. "You okay?"

  "Yeah." I was humbled his first words were concern for me. Seeing him on the court per usual, it was as if nothing had changed between us. "You?"

  "I guess. What do you say we play for points today? I think you're ready. Don't you?" He bounced the ball on the floor with his racquet after delivering the challenge. He wore a poker face but I was absolutely sure there was humor in there.

  I slipped on my glove, twirled the cord at the end of the racquet around my wrist as tight as it would go and gripped the handle. "Is it important?"

  "Not important. But it could be educational, ya know, see how far you've come. One game for points. How about it?"

  He slaughtered me, placed the ball everywhere I was not, commanded center court and had me running the entire game. I didn't get one point. I'd known he was better than me, but I had no idea Lee could play that well. Easily an A player, he'd been dumbing it down for me. And I got mad. I insisted we keep score the next game too, to prove to him and myself that I could challenge him, if not with control, at least with endurance. I didn't want to give him an excuse to stop playing ball with me. I didn't want to lose him. I played as focused and hard as I could. It took me until our third game to get any points, and game after game I never got beyond ten before he took me.

  A knock on our door two hours later didn't stop us from playing but then two big guys barged through the heavy door and claimed the court as theirs. I retrieved my wallet from the wall cubby as Lee went out. I met him in the hall, watched him towel off sweat.

  "Well, that was educational. I learned I'm still an oafish clown at this and you're some ace pro."

  He laughed, threw the towel around the back of his neck and held the ends as he looked at me. "You are no clown at racquetball, my dear. If you were, I wouldn't waste my time playing you. I'd put you up against any solid B player, and I'm talking about guys. When you're focused you touch A sometimes, more and more actually."

  "Not enough to beat you."

  "You already have, honey." Lee stayed fixed on me a moment then bent to put his towel in his gym bag. "Truth is, you'll be able to take me in racquetball sooner than later if we keep playing."

  "I'll be here, if you will. I love playing with you." I gave him a shy smile, hoping he got the double entendre.

  He smiled but it faded as his eyes drifted to a couple at the other end of the hall going into a court. "I'd do a soda but I've gotta take off. See you here Friday?"

  "Yeah." Disappointment mingled with exhaustion and I leaned into the wall behind me for support. I'd hoped to hang out after playing, possibly find a space to be friends again. "See ya Friday."

  "Good. Look forward to it." Lee picked up his gym bag, put the strap over his shoulder then walked away, waved without looking back as he went down the hall and disappeared past the entryway.

  I missed him the moment he was gone, and would have pined for him all night long had I not seen him lighting a joint as he drove by me on his way to exit the parking lot. It sparked a Pavlovian carving for a buzz, but also reminded me that weed was one of Lee's many obsessions that ignited mine, confirming why it unwise for us to hang out anymore.

  -

  Chapter 28

  Got home from racquetball, flopped on my bed and flipped on the TV. A middle-age White male reporter spoke in this very excited tone "—that two of the three cops were acquitted of all charges, and one was acquitted of all but one charge in which the jury was hung." He stood on the steps of the L.A. courthouse yelling over an angry crowd. "We are expecting an official statement from Mayor Bradley on this obvious miscarriage of justice..."

  I switched the channel. Another reporter standing outside the Simi Valley courthouse was repeating the verdict. He spoke in the same amped manner, like he couldn't get the words out fast enough. "We're all shocked. This is unbelieva
ble," the young, White reporter exclaimed. "I don't know about you folks out there, but after seeing that videotape there is no doubt the police used excessive force. The results were obviously prejudiced by the all White jury in this upper middle class neighborhood of Simi Valley."

  So much for unbiased reporting.

  It got worse station to station, minute by minute. The press retried the case, live, and found the jurors guilty of racism, the courts suspect of jury rigging for moving the venue, and convicted the cops for excessive force. Reporters stated opinions as if facts, made Rodney King into a hero, even though he was a violent, thieving drunk.

  Click. On ABC a bunch of people were shoving each other in back of a reporter speaking excitedly into the camera, and a part of me hoped that reporter would get his head bashed in. My phone rang and I clicked off the TV.

  "Are you watching this?" my mother asked.

  "No, it was making me ill so I turned it off."

  "Well all hell's breaking loose downtown. They just dragged some poor man out of his truck, and there's a bunch of Black men smashing his head in. Oh my god…" her voice trailed off. Someone on my mom's TV in the background was screaming, "Terrible, terrible pictures! The only thing this guy did was enter the area. Being White is his only crime!"

  I couldn't resist. Click. POV from a helicopter, circling above a red Mack truck stopped in the center of an intersection. A White man was on the ground, on his knees a few feet from the open door of the truck. Several Black men moved around him, then one ran up behind him and slugged him in the back. He stumbled but managed to get to his feet, then another Black guy came up and pitched something into the side of his head.

  "Ah! The man is down again!" the reporter yelled over the thrumming chopper blades as the Black guy pranced away with his arms in the air like Score!, both hands flipping the bird. "What was that?...Some sort of rock, possibly a brick," the reporter mused as camera pulls in on the man laying in the street, blood now appearing near his head on the pavement.