Seventh Avenue

by Norman Bogner

  “I’m glad it amuses you.”

  “No, it’s not funny. It’s just that I didn’t expect you to be married.”

  “I’ve got a little girl who’s two. That should make you howl.”

  “Do you love your husband?”

  “Do you love your wife?”

  “No. I never did.”

  “Then why’d you marry her?”

  He ignored her question and drank more wine.

  “Sorry I asked. Looks like we’re both in the same boat,” she said stoically. “I love my little girl very much, and I’m afraid I’ll have to leave in a few minutes. One of the neighbor’s kids is babysitting, and I can’t be home too late.”

  “What about your husband?”

  “He’s in Cleveland till next week. He sells sporting equipment on the road.”

  “I’ll take you home.”

  “What’ll your wife say?”

  “The same as your husband.”

  They left separately in an effort to avert suspicion, and Marty held Jay’s coat for him.

  “You’ve made a hit with my father-in-law. Like to marry his daughter? You can have her for nothing, and I’ll pay the freight charges.”

  “She better?” Jay asked out of politeness.

  “Much . . . she’s drinking herself sober. It always happens with the second bottle. Amazing constitution. I’m hoping she’ll walk through the window one of these nights.”

  “See you, and thanks. I enjoyed myself.”

  “Come up to the showroom next week.”

  He got his car back from a different doorman after producing his driving license and registration. Jay held the door open for Eva and with some embarrassment got in.

  Eva lived in a small apartment house on Ocean Avenue. It was well-kept and had a night man who watched them curiously out of the corner of his eye while rolling a cigarette. A sixteen-year-old girl who looked about thirty-five and had spent most of the evening eating everything in Eva’s icebox, gazed cross-eyed up at them from a copy of Silver Screen. She continued with her reading even after Eva had paid her.

  “Baby quiet?”

  “Dead to the world.”

  “You can go now.”

  “When I finish this,” the girl said, flipping a page.

  “Your mother’ll worry.”

  “Her worry? She’s playing Mah-Jongg. They never break up before two.”

  Eva led Jay into the kitchen, which was small but obsessively tidy; it seemed more like a W. & J. Sloane ideal kitchen than a place where people ate. Copper frypans, the type used in all-night ham and eggeries, hung from a wooden slat on the wall opposite him. She ground some beans in a coffee grinder and put the water in the percolator. He watched her with avid attention, marveling at the fact that she appeared to do everything with a style peculiarly her own. He got the impression that she had a method for everything she did.

  “Like it strong?”

  “Any way it comes.”

  “Sandra’ll go soon, I hope,” she added.

  “I could always push her out the window.”

  “Not worth it. I may need her again.”

  “Who looks after the baby when you’re working?”

  “I drop her at my mother’s every morning and she brings her home in the afternoon. Not a very satisfactory arrangement really, but frankly we need the money. Herbie’s been on the road for five years now and things have got a lot rougher. People don’t want to buy things to play with when they haven’t got enough money for food.”

  “So he sends you out to work?”

  “It was my idea . . .” She sat down next to him in the coffee nook and put a cigarette in her mouth. She looked tired of life, but she still maintained an air of buoyancy, but without bubbles.

  “What kind of guy is he?”

  “Honest, hardworking . . . dull. I always wanted to be a dress designer . . . funny ambition, I suppose, but that’s what I studied for. I never had it in me to be a serious painter. So here I am at twenty-two and slightly tarnished with a new career in front of me. I’ll tell you something: even if Herbie was doing well, I couldn’t stand staying at home full time. I’d have to do something to get out of the rut of being a housewife.”

  He touched her hand tentatively and watched the blue smoke filter through her nostrils. The smoke reminded him of skywriting. The water boiled, and she got up slowly, patting his hand in a comradely way and took out cups and saucers. On the way back to the table, she kicked off her high heels, and he realized that she was only about five-foot-two and very compact. Her legs were long and that made her seem taller.

  Sandra entered the kitchen, yawned adenoidally, scratched one of her chins and stared blankly at Jay out of small brown bloodshot eyes decidedly oriental in shape. She looked like an Indian squaw, the fat pregnant one who’s always the last one to leave the reservation when the cavalry starts to attack.

  “Guess I’ll mosey over to Apartment 4B and see if my mother’s still alive.”

  Jay could have kissed her if she had a place to kiss. He took out a half-dollar piece and handed it to her.

  “My treat,” he said. It was worth a dollar to get rid of her.

  Sandra examined the coin, stuck it in her teeth, then in her eye as a monocle. A living goon.

  “T’ain’t gold, pardner. But I’ll take it jus’ the same.”

  “Buy yourself a mask.”

  “Yeah?”

  “For Hallowe’en.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Good night, Sandra.”

  After Sandra had gone, Jay said: “That’s gonna be somebody’s mother, someday.”

  “We can’t all be born as beautiful as you, can we?”

  “You were,” he said, edging closer to her.

  “You’re a nice guy, Jay. In spite of yourself. But just for the record: I’m not a fast pickup. I never was, and I never will be. I made one mistake in my life. I felt sorry for Herbie, and I married him. But that doesn’t alter the fact that I haven’t cheated on him, and I didn’t sleep around when I was single.”

  “Would you have felt sorry for me?”

  “I doubt it. No, I couldn’t have that kind of relationship with you.”

  The coffee was hot, bitter and strong, and he sipped it slowly, anxious to prolong the night. His demands on women were usually straightforward and elementary, but he found himself enjoying her company, and his desire for her increased out of all proportion. She leaned her head back against the stretch of leather head buffer behind her, and he kissed her softly on the cheek.

  “I had to do that.”

  “Did you?” she replied in a toneless voice. “You strike me as the sort of man that doesn’t have to do anything except what he wants to.”

  “You’re too smart for me.”

  “That sounds like a challenge, but I’m too tired to accept it, so I’ll put it down to flattery and be very feminine about the whole thing.”

  “Can you sleep late tomorrow?”

  “What do you want to do, take me night-clubbing?”

  “Another night. I just wondered . . .”

  “Lorna gets me up at seven and as I don’t see much of her during the week, I spend the whole day with her.”

  “Where do you go?”

  “We walk up to Prospect Park, and about two hundred men, usually with their wives and children on their arms, try to pick me up. But I manage to resist them all.”

  “Could I meet you one Sunday?”

  “Sure and bring your wife; Herb and I’ll have tea with milk ready and we’ll all talk about the weather and the view of Ocean Avenue we have from our living room.”

  “I have to see you again.”

  “Why?”

  He put his arm around her and kissed her roughly on the mouth. She neither protested nor gave anything, and when his hand moved to her waist, she pulled away and held his wrist firmly against the side of the table.

  “It won’t work, you know.”

  “How do you
know?” he said angrily, at the top of his voice. “You don’t love your husband. I think maybe you could love me.”

  “That’s a charming solution to my problem. Why didn’t I think of it myself? All I have to do now is fall in love with you, and we’ll live happily ever after. Oh, boy, this is a George Raft scene if I ever played one. All that’s missing is the tango music, and you haven’t got a .45 in your hand.” She shoved a teaspoon in his fist, ruffled his hair, and threw her beautiful red head back and laughed.

  “I don’t think you’re very funny and if you ever get smart with me again, I’ll knock your head off.”

  She put up her fists and sparred against the air, and he started for the door.

  “You’re really serious. Hey, Jay, aren’t you?” She got up and chased him through the living room. He was almost out of the door. “Hey, honestly, I was only teasing you.”

  “I don’t like to be made a schmuck of. Better people have tried it and wound up laughing on the other side of their face.”

  “Wait a minute, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  She didn’t finish the sentence but fell against him. He raised her face and looked at it with loathing, then kissed her with a sense of anguish that almost made him cry. He forced her mouth open, and her breath tasted warm and sweet and he clung to her as though to a life preserver in the open sea. He looked at her closed eyes, and she came away slowly and surprised as though she had received a shock from a live wire.

  “Call me,” she said as he started to go. “Oh, and you better comb your hair, or your wife won’t believe that you’re telling her the truth about it being an innocent little party.”

  “I’ll see you on Monday when I come up to the showroom. We’ll have lunch,” he added matter-of-factly.

  It rained on Sunday, and Roebling Street seemed dirtier, drearier and even more nondescript in the pelting gray thunderstorm. A street designed to support traffic and not much else. In the bedroom, Jay slept fitfully. He woke from time to time to listen to the rain, breathe in the heavy odor of sleep and unaired bedclothes, then decided it was one of those lost days in which one’s personality and the elements find each other at odds and the usual activities reserved for the day, visiting relatives, an early movie, a longish drive, dinner at the local Chinese restaurant, are of such overwhelming futility that sleep becomes an end in itself.

  It was about two-thirty when Jay, his beard itching, his tongue parched, his disenchantment with his surroundings at a new and dizzy height, stalked out of the bedroom to the bathroom. On the way he passed Rhoda, who was glued to the radio absorbing the weather report. If she had been standing by the window, he could have pushed her out, without remorse and without thinking. Pregnant women have accidents, he reflected, so she becomes a statistic, somebody has to.

  “It’s gonna keep up all day, the rain,” she said.

  “That announcer must be a genius. Must’ve had a college education, like you.”

  “You’re in a great mood.”

  “Put on some coffee, if you can tear yourself away.”

  “You might ask me how I feel?”

  “Well?” He paused in mid-stride.

  “Rotten. I was sick half the night.”

  “That’s what happens when you stuff yourself like a pig.”

  “Oh, Jay. Cut it out, for God’s sake.”

  “Any plans for today?”

  “I thought we could drive over to see my family, then maybe go to a movie.”

  “Good idea.” Her face brightened. “I’d get an early start if I was you. So don’t bother with coffee, I’ll make it myself.”

  “Sure, get me out of the way, so you can go to see one of your whores.”

  He slammed the door in her face and ran the bath to drown her voice. A bath and a shave, although refreshing him and reaffirming his status in the human race, did little to improve his humor. He sat down at the table and drank three cups of coffee, and ate two slices of dry toast. The butter had gone rancid. Only one thing could improve the day: Eva. An afternoon in bed with Eva, safely locked in her arms, with perhaps a bottle of rye nearby.

  “So what do you say?” Rhoda asked.

  “If you want to see your family you can go. I’ll release you from custody. And if you’d like to make it more than an afternoon visit, I’ll help you pack a bag.”

  Her bottom lip trembled, and she fought to maintain a show of composure. Tears got her nowhere with Jay, and they gave her gas. She poured herself the dregs of the coffee and flopped down in a chair. He picked up the Sunday Mirror and examined the dress advertisements to see if anyone was underselling him.

  “What’s got into you?”

  He looked over the paper.

  “You.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ll draw you a picture.”

  “All of a sudden you’re picking on me whenever you get the chance.”

  “Not all of a sudden.”

  “Since we got married then.”

  “The day we got married.”

  “For months you ignore me. You don’t come near me.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “There was a time when you were nice, when you cared.”

  “People make mistakes. And to set the record straight: I never cared a whore’s drawers for you.”

  “Jay, you can’t talk to me like that. Not after what I’ve gone through.”

  He threw the paper savagely on the floor and she recoiled as though from a slap.

  “You could’ve saved us both a lot aggravation if you’d done what I wanted you to in Scranton. You could’ve gone back to Borough Park as good as new and married somebody more your style.”

  “What I’ve done for you! I mean what were you when I met you! A porter free-loading meals at weddings you weren’t invited to. I’ve made something out of you, given you a trade, tried to teach you manners. Everything I’ve given.”

  “If that’s supposed to bring tears to my eyes, it’s failed. I’m grateful, and I’ll always be that, but I don’t feel a thing for you. You’re like a dead lump of meat to me. I’ve learned everything you can teach me, and that wasn’t as much as you think because frankly, Rhoda, I’ve outgrown you already. Now if you want to run home to your parents, I’ll drive you.”

  She began to wail slowly and hopelessly. He was too strong for her.

  “I’m having your child!” she shrieked. “Your child, you low-life bastard. What did I ever do to deserve someone like you? God must hate me.”

  “Don’t blame God. Blame yourself. Your child’ll have a father and a name, and I’ll provide for it. But if you want sympathy, get it from that old pimp Dobrinski or your father.”

  She slapped him with the back of her hand across his face, and his nose began to bleed. He caught the dripping blood with the palm of his hand, and he was more startled than hurt. He lifted his foot and with all his strength pushed against her chair. The chair thudded to the floor, and Rhoda hit her head against the leg of the stove. She lay without moving, dazed, her face frozen as though caught in that last moment between life and death. Jay picked up his overcoat and walked out of the room. He paused in the hallway, hoping she was dead. He’d say it was an accident - she must have lost her balance standing on a chair. As he descended the stairs, he heard a yelp that sounded less than human. He pulled up his collar and dashed out into the street. He had the key to his car in his hand but decided first to go to the bar opposite. He had never noticed it before.

  The bartender gave him a warm hello, a moan about the weather, lit his cigarette and told him to keep the matches that had the name of the place on it. Jay stared dumbly at the matchbook: SAL’S BAR AND GRILL: SPECIALIZING IN STEAKS AND SEAFOOD. It smelled like a cat morgue and the bartender seemed the sort of man who never washed his hands after going to the toilet and who cleaned the glasses with spit. Jay had three double Harwood’s in quick succession. He wondered if he ought to use the telephone, but decided against it, then rushed
out into the street leaving his change on the bar and started up his car. He drove wildly, passing two lights. A patrol car at the curb with two cops made him stop for one.

  Eva would be happy to see him. She had to be. The hate in him welled up, and he felt a distinct glow as though the bitterness had reached its limit. He realized with an apprehension so sudden and inexplicable that he gasped: He didn’t hate Rhoda, he had fallen in love with Eva.

  Eva was wearing a gray tweed skirt and black sweater when she answered the doorbell. Her hair was loosely combed in a page boy, and he thought she was the most exquisite creature he had ever seen. She had an easy swaying grace, and her mouth was irresistibly sad. He swallowed the mint he had been sucking and almost choked on it. She blinked her eyes unbelievingly when she put the hall light on.

  “Oh, God. I don’t know whether to laugh or . . .”

  He kissed her, and she almost lost her balance.

  “Are you glad I . . . ?”

  She rubbed her sleeve over his wet hair and wrinkled her nose.

  “I never would’ve believed . . . Crazy isn’t it? Only seen you a few hours.”

  He brandished a paper bag that contained a bottle of rye and one of scotch. The apartment was just as neat and clean as it had been the night before, and he noticed that she was making a pair of striped kitchen curtains. The material was spread out on the settee.

  “You might’ve called.”

  “I didn’t have your number. No reprimands today.”

  She rubbed his face affectionately.

  “I would’ve made you lunch.”

  “You didn’t do much walking today.”

  “I only walk in the rain when I’m in love.”

  “Could you get that cigar store Indian to babysit?”

  “I’ll ask her. Gee, I am glad you came. Did you kill your wife?”

  He fumbled awkwardly with his coat and avoided her question. She took his dripping coat and hung it in the bathroom on the shower curtain rail; then she went into the kitchen and brought out some glasses and a piece of salami.

  “We’ll both smell of garlic,” she said, “but so what?”

  She had long reddish-brown eyelashes, and her complexion had an ivory hue under the light He poured them drinks and opened the large bottle of ginger ale he had bought at the last moment. She reached for his hand and toyed with his fingers, then ran them along her cheek.