Even So

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Even So Page 23

by Lauren B. Davis


  “I can’t go to jail. I can’t do that. I can’t stand the idea of everyone knowing … Eileen, it’s too much! You’re asking too much. You say you’re on my side, but then only if I do what you want. What kind of a friend is that?”

  “I love you. I care for you. And this is the only way I know to help you. But before we run down that road to jail, let’s take it one day at a time, yes? Will you agree to go to a meeting? You don’t have to say a word, but you have to go, if you want my company on this journey. Now, I’m going to leave you to think about that, and I’m going to go down to the lobby and make a few calls about getting you somewhere to live. I also think you should consider calling Philip and at least letting him know where you are. Will you do that? Think while I’m gone?”

  Angela flopped down on the bed, making the frame creak. “Yes. I’ll think. I’ll think. I’ll think. I’ll think until I go mad.” Tears were leaking out of her eyes, rolling toward her ears.

  Good lord, thought Eileen, this is like dealing with a teenager. How dramatic.

  Angela

  By the beginning of the next week, thanks to Sister Eileen, Angela was ensconced on the top floor of a small house owned by Mrs. Simonofsky, the elderly Polish lady who lived downstairs. Just two rooms and a bath, but she didn’t need any more than that. An old house in a quiet neighbourhood. A kitchen/living-room space with oak cabinets and a small wooden table with two chairs under the window, through which a maple tree was visible, a television, and a somewhat worn couch. The bedroom had a double bed with a blue chenille spread, a bureau, and a side table with a matchbook under one leg to level it. A gooseneck lamp on the table waited for her, in case she ever read a book again. Bathroom through the bedroom. She didn’t feel she deserved even this. She still thought of running. There was something, though, about the nearly monastic room that she admitted calmed her. There was even a crucifix over the bed. Starving, suffering Jesus.

  “Mrs. Simonofsky had the same tenant for years, an older woman who went to live with her kids in Chicago last month,” said Sister Eileen when she brought Angela here yesterday. “I think God wants this for you. It’s a safe place, and quiet. And Mrs. Simonofsky will leave you alone, but she’s there if you need her.”

  Mrs. Simonofsky, a widow in her seventies, hair dyed an improbable blond, said she was glad to have Angela in her home. “I would,” she said, as she handed over the keys, “be happy with almost anyone, because Jesus told us to give comfort to the homeless.” That made Angela wince. Was she homeless? Hardly. Well, technically yes, she was, she supposed, although not in the way that her new landlady seemed to think she was. At least that meant Sister Eileen had told her very little. She was just a piece of human flotsam washed up on the shore of this little blue house in Trenton. She could hide here for a while. The only people Mrs. Simonofsky would not rent to were homosexuals, she said. They were not good people, she could tell you, because Mrs. Simonofsky, who still cleaned houses to make extra money, had seen inside their houses. “Oh,” she said, shaking her jowly face in revulsion, “the things I have seen. I don’t clean there no more.” She said, “Making home is my gift from God. It is my prayer.”

  At any other time, Angela might have launched into a spirited defence of the LGBTQIA community, but not right now. She simply regarded Mrs. Simonofsky as another person of her kind — the people who hurt others. At least Mrs. Simonofsky was up front about it.

  Yesterday she had driven the SUV, following Sister Eileen to this address. She still hadn’t fixed the dents and headlight, and wondered a bit absently why that might be? Did she want to be caught? Possibly. At least then she wouldn’t have to make any decisions, a responsibility-free state that appealed to her. They had stopped at Target on the way so Angela could pick up some things she needed: hygiene products and pajamas. No other clothes. She didn’t care about clothes anymore. The few items she had in her bag were fine. She didn’t care about makeup, either, since she had no interest in the male gaze. She didn’t know if she would ever again. Then they stopped at the grocery store to pick up a few essentials, but mostly it was Eileen who chose. Angela found eating a kind of agony, like stuffing a foie gras–destined goose. Sickening and bloat-inducing. She had diarrhea often. All she wanted to eat were crackers and, somewhat surprisingly having lost her taste for alcohol, all she wanted to drink was seltzer.

  Had she gone to a meeting? She had. Although she didn’t think this accounted for her sobriety. What Happened (which was how she thought of the accident), had knocked the desire for a drink out of her. True, she had been drunk the day after What Happened, but that wasn’t really after, or so she justified. That was still part of What Happened. What Happened ended only when Sister Eileen appeared. Since that moment she hadn’t really wanted booze, although she certainly wanted to forget. Still, she went to a meeting, and Eileen went with her. Angela was surprised to find some of the people in the badly lit church basement room knew Eileen, greeted her warmly.

  “I didn’t know you were an alcoholic,” said Angela.

  “I’m not. We know each other from Adult Children of Alcoholics meetings.” She laughed. “Some of us call that the graduate program.”

  Eileen encouraged her to get a sponsor, but Angela certainly wasn’t ready for all that steps-and-salvation stuff.

  It was fine. She sat with Eileen in the back, drinking coffee that tasted like a combination of prune juice and battery acid, and listened as a woman at least ten years younger than Angela, with piercings in her nose and lip and eyebrow, with tattoos completely covering both arms, talked about how awful life had been, how she got fat and ugly and foul-mouthed and fought in bars, physical fights resulting in black eyes and knocked-out teeth. “See,” she said, pulling her lip back with her forefinger and revealing a gap. She said she woke up one morning in a pool of blood and vomit and accepted she was an alcoholic right then and there, and now was sober, living a terrific, serenity-filled life and working in a hair salon. For this she got applause, and then other people responded, saying how much they identified, because they’d been there, too. Well, most did. There were a few who complained about spouses and bosses and health and how even after all these years they wanted a drink and Angela thought, Oh, great. Years of sitting in rooms like this and you still want a drink? Just kill me now. Then they all stood, held hands and prayed. Oddly, that part was all right. She’d closed her eyes and felt Eileen’s warm hand in hers and pictured blueish-white energy swirling around and around over the heads of all these poor people. If asked, she wouldn’t have been able to say if she’d made the image up or actually experienced … something. It was disturbing.

  As they were leaving, Eileen wanted to know when her next meeting would be.

  “Soon,” said Angela. “I’ll go back. I promise.”

  So, she’d have to go back. But not today.

  Today, she had promised Sister Eileen she would do something else, and she would do it. And she supposed the time had come. It was after 7:00 p.m. He’d be home now. She realized she was biting her thumbnail. She torn a hangnail and now it was bleeding. She sucked on it, willing her breathing to slow down. She picked up her phone and he answered on the third ring.

  “What do you want?” said Philip, his voice like a hollow log.

  “I thought we should talk,” she said.

  “I presume you won’t be contesting the divorce?”

  Oh, she thought, are we there already? Yes, of course they were.

  “No,” she said. “I won’t contest.”

  Did she want to? No, she didn’t. It was foolish to think Philip, always so on top of details, so proud of his ability to be one step ahead of anyone else, wouldn’t have already contacted a lawyer.

  “So, give me your lawyer’s name and address.”

  “I don’t have a lawyer.”

  “Too busy fucking to get one?”

  She heard what sounded like ice cubes rattling into a glass. She could picture him standing in the kitchen, filling up the spac
e. It would be spotless, that kitchen. Cleaner than when she’d lived there. Philip hated even a spoon left out on the counter. Yes, there was the sound of water from the filter spout in the refrigerator door glugging over the cubes. In a moment he’d be chewing an ice cube. The sharp crunching setting her teeth on edge. He knew she loathed this habit of his.

  “I’ll find somebody.”

  “Well, don’t expect a recommendation from me.”

  “I’ll give you my address —”

  “I know where you are, remember?”

  Surely there was a wild, wicked ocean between them, swirling with the million details of the past days. Days? Eons.

  “I’m not at Carsten’s house. I have an apartment.”

  “What? Oh, don’t tell me!” Silence for a moment and then the shattering sound of him chewing ice. He was chewing, she thought, as if on her bones, and winced. “Oh,” he said, “that is rich. Come on, spill. Why aren’t you in the love nest? He threw you out?”

  “I’m not going to talk to you about this, Philip.”

  “Wait. You weren’t calling to see if you could come back, were you? Because I’m here to tell you that if I have my way you will never set foot in this house again. In fact, I’m going to put it up on the market, throw all your stuff into a big bonfire, and buy a place in the city like I’ve always wanted.”

  It seemed pointless to tell him he had never mentioned wanting to live in New York, that buying the place in Princeton had been his idea, not hers. Her heart jumped a little, to think she’d never sit in the greenhouse again, never have her fingers in the loamy soil she used for the orchids, never smell their intoxicating scent again.

  Voices snuck into the room from the street. She looked out the window. Teenaged boys, with wafts of vape-smoke around their heads, laughing and punching each other on the shoulders.

  “Fuck.”

  “Motherfucker. Fuck him.”

  “You would!”

  She never heard street noises when she lived in Princeton. What a small, contained world that had been. Is this what Connor was like when she hadn’t been watching? So much of his life, she now understood, probably happened when she hadn’t been watching. Oh, Connor.

  She must have made a noise.

  “What? What did you say?”

  “Nothing. Just someone outside.”

  “So, where are you?”

  She gave him the address. For a second afterward there was this odd, full-of-electricity silence, and then he said, “What the hell are you doing there, in that neighbourhood? What sort of dramatic shit is this? You don’t have to live like some Trenton rat. Listen, Angela …” Ah, she imagined him bending over the counter, leaning on his elbows, resting his forehead in one hand. She smiled a little. How well she knew him, even now. The difference between their environments struck her like a ringing bell. The stairs to her apartment led directly into the kitchen, such as it was. No granite counters here. No Sub-Zero refrigerator. No dishwasher. Just a metal sink, with two oak-veneer cupboards above, a small, impossible-to-clean oven. An under-the-counter fridge. For the first time, she thought how lonely Philip must feel, all alone in that huge house, so full of her, her imprint on every surface and fabric and colour and lampshade. She wondered if her smell lingered.

  “I’m fine, Philip. I’ll be fine.”

  “Whether or not you’re fine isn’t my worry any longer. However, I’ll set up a bank account in your name, so you’ll have funds until this all shakes out. I don’t want anyone saying I put you out on the street, you understand? I’ll email you the details. Don’t be a martyr. It makes you ridiculous. More ridiculous.”

  “I may need some more money, like a lump sum.”

  “What for? You want to buy a place?”

  “Something like that.”

  “We’ll see. Get a lawyer. Have him call my lawyer.”

  Of course, he would never think her lawyer could be a woman. He gave her the information, and, after taking a moment to search for a pen, she wrote the name and number down on the back of an old magazine cover.

  “Have you called Connor?” he asked.

  She thought, Reach right in and rip out my heart, why don’t you?

  “He doesn’t pick up,” she said. “Have you told him?”

  “Yes, Angela. I told him. I told him everything. If you didn’t want me to do that, you should have acted better. Frankly, I don’t think he’s going to want to talk to you for a long time.”

  Tears, of course. “I know.” In the silence that followed she wondered if he, too, might be crying. Had she been a different woman entirely, who had not done what she had done, she might have been tempted to ask to see him, to see what might be salvaged from the wreckage she had created of so many lives. But she was not another person. “I’m sorry, Philip. I really am. More than you know. But —”

  “Goodbye, Angela. Good luck.” He made those last words sound like a cosmic joke, and probably it was.

  She looked at the phone. She wanted to try and call Connor again, but it was far too late in France now. He’d be asleep. She would try again tomorrow, and the day after that, and she knew somewhere deep inside that he would not pick up, and that continuing to call would only make it worse. She took out her laptop and wrote him an email.

  My darling Connor. I know your father has told you we are no longer together and will be getting a divorce. I also know he’s told you this is all my fault. It’s true, I have been an enormous idiot and have behaved very badly, and it is also true that I haven’t been happy for a very long time, although now I’ve just made everything worse. You don’t want to talk to me. I understand. All I can do now is tell you I love you, very much.

  She had been about to write, more than my own life, but she had proven that wasn’t entirely true, hadn’t she? Besides, she wasn’t sure that was the best thing to say. It smacked of guilt’s noose, didn’t it? No, very much was fine.

  We will all be fine. We will get through this.

  Did she believe that? No, not really, but it was the only thing she could say to her son, so far away, with a girl he loved.

  I am living in a sweet little apartment and will be here for the foreseeable future. You have my number. You have my email. Call, write … whenever you want. Do what is right for you. Just know I love you and that I’m sorry and that I’ll always love you, my darling boy.

  She hesitated. There was so much to say and so much she absolutely would not say. She would not tell him What Happened. How could anyone tell their child they’d done such a thing? And the man was going to be all right. That was why she’d asked Philip for a lump sum, wasn’t it? At the time she’d said it the words coming out of her mouth sort of surprised her. Something, she supposed, was swirling around in her head about how to help the man. How to assuage her guilt.

  She would go to bed. She would not look at her phone again until tomorrow. She considered hanging herself from the bathroom door. But that seemed like it would take a lot of energy and would leave a mess for someone — Mrs. Simonofsky, probably — and she didn’t want to be any more trouble to anyone. And so she sat. She read a bit from the book on alcoholics the people at the meeting had given her. The stories were depressing and formulaic. And all that stuff about wives being understanding of their husbands because the men were cranky during early sobriety. It was written during the 1940s or something, but still. Hadn’t they thought to update it, not even now, in light of the #MeToo movement? She nibbled crackers and drank a cup of decaf, not that it mattered. Sleep? A joke.

  She turned on the old television and something on the local channel caught her attention. It was the story of a local woman, Annie Bright, who had been in a widely watched television show back in the early eighties. She had been driving drunk a few years back and had rear-ended someone at a stop sign. The woman she hit realized right away that Annie Bright was drunk and tried to take her car keys away, but Annie Bright fled the scene in her SUV and some minutes later slammed into the side of a car as the
driver turned into his driveway. The man, Mr. Sampal, survived, but the passenger, his wife, did not. Ms. Bright had been sentenced to three years in prison, two years less than the mandatory minimum, which a lot of people thought was a travesty and that the judge had been influenced by how pretty she was, and by her modest fame. She served less than half of her sentence and was now speaking out about the dangers of drunk driving to high school students.

  Angela gazed at the images on the television. She watched the woman, roughly her own age, with hair the colour of wheat and big blue eyes and expensive-looking clothing, smiling and talking.

  How was it possible she could go on with her life, after what she’d done? Did she really think talking to a few high school kids would make a difference? Understanding this was imperative. This woman, who had done what Angela had almost done, had paid for it, had gone to jail (no matter how short the sentence), and was now out again in the world, living a useful life, wasn’t she? And Angela hadn’t killed anyone, so surely there was hope for her, wasn’t there?

  Annie Bright flicked her hair off her shoulders and said being in prison was like witnessing your own death, and that most of her friends had deserted her. But she was sober now, had been since the accident, and that’s what mattered. She tilted her head, her smile radiant.

  Yes, thought Angela, that is what matters. Friends deserting her? Oh, now here was something she could relate to.

  “So, have you had any contact with Mr. Sampal,” asked the journalist, moving the microphone closer to Ms. Bright’s glossy lips, “since your release from prison?”

  A flash of annoyance crossed Annie Bright’s face. “Well, no. I haven’t spoken to him.”

  “Do you think you might? That you might make a public apology?”

  Annie Bright was obviously trying to compose her features into a pleasant expression, open and caring, but she wasn’t doing very well. She looked livid. Angela thought she must not have been a very good actress. Like witnessing your own death? What about the other person’s death? Jesus. Angela leaned closer to the television.

 

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