“No,” said Jason. “Come up for the holiday. You have to do this in person … besides he’s sleeping right now.”
“Imagine that,” said Jalal and ended the call. Sleep would elude him for a while now. It occurred to him Renee might be awake, maybe driving past on the highway above right that minute. They lived in parallel loneliness. He went to the kitchen and drew a glass of water. While he drank, he picked up his journal from the kitchen counter and opened it at random. Meredith was the first word he read, written on a page where he had described one of their Paris trips. They had returned there every spring after that first one. Just days before the accident, he had made hotel reservations for their next visit. No! He snapped the book shut. I will not do this anymore.
He returned to the living room, dropped the journal on his desk, and took a new one from the bookshelves. It was time to stop looking backward. He returned to the kitchen to write. Countless nights, he had sat there while everything but the ocean slept around him. There had been purpose to it; he had kept vigil, guarded Meredith’s memory. He opened the new journal and its blankness sent a ripple of fear through him. What was his purpose now?
Jalal did his best, but the roses Meredith had planted in his garden did not flourish as they had under her care. Even she had admitted partial defeat against the mildew from the damp air and fog, and where she had first planted tea roses, the hardier rugosas now grew. Her one hold out, her favorite, had now been reduced to a parody of its former glory. Busy pruning its blasted buds and spent blossoms, Jalal heard the gate open behind him. When Renee did not approach, he turned. She stood smiling at him, one hand still on the gate. Her unbound hair flowed over her shoulders in waves the color of the cola she loved. “Why are you standing back there?” he asked.
“I was admiring the view.” She walked up to him. “You're like a poem yourself, you know.”
He responded with his finest bewildered look, prompting her to explain. “Look at you,” she said, “the mysterious, handsome man alone in his garden by the sea.”
Anger surged through him, choking off any words he might have spoken. Why was she always here, making a pest of herself? He swung back to the roses and attacked them with the shears, letting the thorns tear at his hands, willing her to take the hint and leave him alone.
“Jalal?”
He ignored her, chopping at the shrub as though he stood there alone. After a moment, she spoke again.
“I didn’t mean to offend you. Honestly. I was … it was a stupid thing to say, I guess.”
Still, he gave her no response, but when he grabbed for a cane near her shoulder, she flinched, and the fear in her eyes shocked him to his senses. His anger had nothing to do with Renee’s innocent man alone observation. He closed his eyes, willing himself under control, and when he opened them, the last perfect rose in full bloom lay in his field of vision. He clipped it. “This is a Margaret Merrill,” he said, “the most fragrant of white roses.” He offered it to her.
“It’s beautiful.” She took the rose and breathed its scent. “Do roses ever make you sad?” she asked.
“Sad?”
“Like the title of your book, their beauty is so brief. Don’t you think that’s sad?”
Jalal stared at the rose in her hand for a long moment before he spoke. “Yes, so we must appreciate them while they last.” He smiled, hoping to dispel the seriousness of the morning. “How could you describe me as mysterious? Do I not lay bare my very soul to the whole world?”
“Well,” she said, “not the whole world exactly, you’re just a poet, you know.”
“Ouch!” He grimaced and feigned pulling a knife from his heart. “Give me that.” He took back the rose, but only to cut the stem shorter and check for thorns so he could tuck it behind her ear. “Ah, ‘fair Rosalind.’” Renee reached up and held his hand to her cheek. She leaned in toward him, face upturned expectantly. He froze. Had she caught the reference? Why had he used those words? He had only meant … This was too soon.
Renee let go his hand and took a step back. “Well, I can see you’re busy,” she said, a beat too quickly, “and anyway, I was on my way to … I have to do some shopping. I’ll see you later.” She turned to go.
“Renee.”
“Later,” she repeated, and with a wave over her shoulder, she went through the gate. He watched her car until it rounded the curve. They had just taken one step forward and two steps back.
That night, Jalal walked into Bahia Bar for the first time. Renee hurried over to him. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said.
He glanced around. “This is open to the public.”
“I’m working.”
“Yes, I can see that. Can I order a beer?”
Renee turned to the bartender. “I need a quick break.” She led Jalal outside and away from the door, into the shadows near her stairway. “I don’t want you here when I’m working,” she said. “It makes me uncomfortable. I’m working for tips. Understand?”
He nodded. “Is that the only reason you want me to leave?”
“Yes. I’ll come by tomorrow. Okay?”
“All right.” Their relationship had changed from when they stood in this spot nearly a month ago, but he was unclear what it had changed to. For a second, he considered kissing her, and then she was backing toward the door.
“Goodnight, Jalal. Go home. I have to get back to work.” She wiggled her fingers at him and turned away.
He waited until she was inside, and still he did not move, but watched her through the window. She was right; nothing good would come of him watching her work. His teeth clenched now, as she smiled at those men. As they eyed her walking away from their table, his hands rolled into fists. She should not be working in a place like this—and probably only to pay the rent on that dreary apartment. She should not be living there either. Alone. Above a bar. It was not safe.
Jalal got in his car and drove away, but distance did not erase his images of Renee in that bar. He knew who owned that property; he could make an offer to buy it. Change the Bahia over to something classy—a wine bar—and let Renee run the place. She would like that. Or would she? How well did he know her? Not well enough to judge that, surely.
She was so young. Look at how she dressed. Maybe she enjoyed those men leering at her. Face it; she is too young for me.
When Jalal climbed up from the beach the next morning, he found Renee at the top of the steps. She sat with her knees pulled up and her sweatshirt—his sweatshirt—stretched over her bare legs against the cold fog. “You told Jennie you gave up running,” she said.
“My muscles felt stiff.” He gave her a hand up, then stepped around her. “Would you like a cup of tea?” They crossed the road to his house. “I am glad you came by early. I thought I would have to leave a note on the door.”
“A note?”
“You left abruptly yesterday, and I did not get a chance to tell you last night that I have to leave on a trip today.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“That is hard to say. I will drive, so that takes three days round trip. I have a family matter to deal with, and who knows how long that could take to resolve.” They entered the house, and having taught Renee the proper way to make tea, Jalal left her to it. While he showered, he rehearsed what he would say to her, how he would let her know there was no relationship between them—not the kind she wanted—and never could be. He would stay in Seattle for a while, a couple of weeks, a month. By then, maybe she would have made other friends here. Or—such a selfish hope—maybe she would have left town. It would be too hard to see her around town and not want to be with her.
He entered the kitchen determined to be serious, to be the adult, to explain that their friendship was simply inappropriate.
Renee said, “I should cook for you sometime.”
His resolve weakened a bit. “Do you really know how to cook?”
She planted her hands on her hips and mimicked him. “Of course, I do. It keeps me fro
m starving.”
“Ha. Ha.” He moved to her side, ready to take over. She motioned him away, and feeling oddly pleased to let her take over his kitchen, he took his place at the table.
“I’ve been cooking since I was a child,” she said. “Not gourmet like you, but it’s edible.” She carried the tea to the table, poured a cup, and served it to him before she poured hers and sat down. “So why, exactly, are you going to Seattle?”
“My nephew Jason wants me to convince his father the world will not end if he takes a year off before starting college.”
“Is that where your family lives? You’ve never mentioned them.”
“You have not mentioned yours either.”
“Tell me about them,” said Renee.
“How can I possibly tell you about your family? We have never met.”
She kicked him under the table. “My, aren’t you the comedian. Tell me about your family.”
“Well … besides my parents, I have two older brothers: Farhad and Navid; and four sisters—two older: Goli and Shadi and two younger: Azadeh and Ziba. Also, I have twenty-one nieces and nephews, but please do not ask me to name them all.”
A shadow passed over Renee’s face, lasting no longer than a blink, and then her mask slipped back into place. She smiled. “Wow! That must be sort of overwhelming when you all get together.”
“You have no idea how true that is.” He topped off their cups. “Now, it is your turn.”
“It’s going to be dull around here without—”
“Why do you do that?” he asked. “Why do you change the subject every time I ask you a personal question?”
“Oh,” she said, waving it off, “my life is boring—”
“Renee!” He waited. She looked down and her hair fell forward, curtains hiding her face while she traced a pattern in the cookie crumbs on the table in front of her. Now, he regretted challenging her. He was, after all, supposed to be backing off. Let her keep her life private. He would not be a part of it. He opened his mouth to change the subject, but she spoke first.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay.” She took a deep breath, as if to brace herself, and began, “I come from a dysfunctional family—” Her breath rushed out all at once. “God, what an understatement that is.”
She paused, and Jalal both hoped and feared she would continue. With another sigh, she tucked her hair behind her ears, and went on. “My parents divorced when I was four, and that was the last time Becky—my mom—ever bothered with legalities. She had three more children, with two other men, but she wasn’t married to either of them. Those guys left her, and the kids, but about half the time they sent support checks.” Renee closed her eyes for a moment, rubbing two fingertips in little circles in the center of her forehead. Then she pressed her palms together and touched her fingers to her lips as though she were a child about to pray. She looked into his eyes. “Becky was an alcoholic … and an addict.” She waited, as though gauging his reaction. When he gave her none, she sighed and rested her hands on the table.
“Becky drank up most of the support money. But then,” Renee smiled, “I got smart. By the time I was eleven, I was forging her signature and cashing some of the checks myself—they didn’t ask too many questions at the mom-and-pop in our neighborhood. Becky cursed the kids’ dads for flaking out on her … but somebody had to buy food and keep the electricity on. Somebody had to be in charge.”
Renee paused and smiled, as if she were proud of herself for being so resourceful. Again, she looked to him for a reaction. This time, he nodded, as though he understood, and he forced a smile as though he, too, were proud of her, as though his heart were not breaking for that little girl. Then, for a long minute, she looked past him, lost in thought. He sat still, afraid to move or make a sound, afraid she wouldn’t say all she needed to tell him.
“So,” she said, “while Becky lived in her damned drunken universe, I just tried to keep the kids clean and fed … and in school, when they got old enough. She brought a lot of other guys around. They didn’t stay very long, but mostly they didn’t bother me or the kids. Then one day, when I was fifteen, I came home from school and found cops all over the place. She’d brought some guy home with her and tried to sneak money out of his pocket while he slept, but he’d caught her and beat the hell out of her. They took her to the hospital … and CPS took the kids and me.
“They asked me a lot of questions, mostly about the kids, and I guess they sent them to their fathers because they made me go live with my dad—a total stranger. He wasn’t exactly happy about having me in his life. When I turned sixteen, he paid the legal fees to have me emancipated. Then, I could make my own decisions.” For another minute, she said nothing, staring as if at her hands, but the hypnotic movement of her index fingers, making circles on the table, told him she was seeing something else. Her exhalations were whispers that lingered.
“I decided to go back,” she said. “Somebody had to take care of Becky. She was a real mess. She didn’t even try to get the kids back. Half the time, I don’t think she even remembered she had other kids. Hell, half the time I don’t think she remembered I was her kid. But for a year … we just kept on keeping on.”
Renee braced her palms against the table edge and pushed herself away. She grabbed her empty cup, carried it to the sink, and stood there with her back to him. “One night … just out of the blue … a week before my graduation … she emptied the damned medicine cabinet down her throat. She didn’t even leave a note.” Renee made a sound that was half laugh half sob. “Some family story, huh?”
Jalal was standing behind her when she turned from the sink. He pulled her into his arms and held her, rocked her, while she cried. They stood in that dance embrace for a long time. Until her tears dried. Until her sobs died away. Until his hands, caressing her hair, slid lower. Until her hands, resting against his chest, slipped up behind his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers.
Jalal lay on his back, twisting a lock of Renee’s hair around his finger. Since he had scrapped his decision to distance himself from her, it seemed only a small step to inviting her to make the Seattle trip with him. She lay so still, her head on his chest, he thought she might have fallen asleep. He glanced at the clock. He needed to get on the road soon. “Meredith?” he said softly. She stiffened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I wake you?”
Renee jerked her hair loose from his hand and sat up. “You need to get going,” she said.
“Will you come with me?”
“No!” The look she gave him left no doubt she thought him insane for suggesting it. She slipped on her underwear and stood.
“But … why?” he asked.
She glared at him, then scanned the floor for the rest of her clothes. “Why don’t you just get packed?”
He turned on his side and propped himself up on one elbow. “Can we talk—”
“I’ve already made that mistake once today.”
“It appears we are talking about what you told me earlier,” he said, “but I do not see—”
“Look, Jalal! I’m a train wreck. What more do you need to see?”
He waited until she finished dressing, then reached for her hand, pulling her down beside him. “Renee, you are not a train wreck. Those things happened to you. You did not cause them.”
“What difference does that make?” she asked. “I’m still screwed up.”
“Life screws us all up.”
“Yeah, really.” She pulled away from him and stood again.
“Why do I have the feeling we are talking about two different things here?”
“We’re not talking about anything.”
Her anger infected him, though he was as much confused as angry. “Well then, I guess I should get ready to leave.”
“I’ll be out of your way in a minute,” she said and slammed the bathroom door behind her. When she came back into the bedroom, she had twisted her hair tightly and tied it in a knot at the nape of her neck.
“You are
angry with me,” he said, pulling clothes from a drawer.
The set of her jaw as she strode across the room did not deny it. She paused for a second at the door. “Have a nice trip,” she said, but her voice was as cold as her eyes.
“Wait!”
She had taken a step into the hall and she stopped, but made only a half-turn toward him.
“One more time, will you come with me?”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but said nothing.
“Then, hand me your cell phone,” he said.
“What!” She faced him fully now. “Why?”
He held out his hand, waiting. With a huff, she pulled it from her pocket and tossed it to him. “I will give you my number,” he said. “In case you want to talk.”
“I won’t.”
“You might.” Jalal finished the entry and gave back her phone. “I will see you in a few days.”
“Whatever,” she said. Then, she was gone.
Though Jalal had driven halfway to San Francisco, and mulled it over the whole way, he was not sure what had gone wrong with Renee. She was furious with him, he knew that much. But why? Maybe he knew. Maybe his ego just wanted to hide from the truth. Taking her to bed had been a mistake on every level. How had he veered so far off course? How the hell did he go from ending a friendship to jumping in bed? But how could she be angry about his original intention when she never knew about it? Besides, she was the one who tried to start something yesterday in the garden. And she kissed him first today! So what the hell was she angry about?
Why did she come around every day anyway? I mean, look at her, she had to know how beautiful she was. And dressing like that … those tight little shirts and shorts, did she think that would have no effect on him? Renee had some serious issues, but he was no therapist. Obviously! Taking her to bed this morning after she poured her heart out to him was probably the worst thing he could have done. He should have known that. He was forty fucking years old. He had screwed up everything. Now what? Could they just forget the whole day happened? Go back to being casual friends? Pretend he knew nothing about her abusive childhood? No. It was too late for that. She hated him because he had betrayed her trust. She had opened up to him and he had reacted like a rutting goat! He shook his head in disgust. Well done, Jalal.
The Brevity of Roses Page 21