She empties the ashtray into the garbage bag under the sink, takes a couple of bottles from a cupboard, drops onto a chair and fills a water tumbler half full of gin. She adds a quick slosh of ginger ale. “Hello, sweetheart,” she tells the glass, resting it against her cheek.
Ernie would not have approved. During the ten years they were married he didn’t begrudge her the occasional glass of beer or wine, but he drew the line at spirits. After he walked out, she began with a nip or two in the evenings to help her sleep after being deserted and forced to return to teaching. Forced to deal with children needing more discipline than she remembered. By the time she got home each day, she was wrung out. Gin worked best at settling her nerves.
Now Mrs. Kravitz swallows and leans back. She touches the spot where the mole clings beneath the robe and nightgown. “Piss,” she says. “Piss off. Pis-tachio. Italian for pissed. Ha.” She runs her tongue along her lips. “Piss-tol. Aiming to get pissed.”
Because she quit going to the senior’s centre, she no longer has someone with whom to share her wisecracks. She got fed up with the incessant card games, the women shoving photos of their grandchildren at her. Better to be alone.
She’s been mostly alone since Ernie. A few affairs didn’t amount to much, the longest lasting two years and ending when she refused to marry the man. If you don’t marry me, I might move on, he warned. And she replied, Maybe you should move on. Not because she wanted him to leave her (she mourned the end of that relationship for a year) but because the implied or else gave her an idea of how the future with him could be. Both her sisters scolded her for letting go of her last chance. She didn’t bother telling them how, after Ernie, there couldn’t be any good chances.
Mrs. Kravitz drinks gin and looks at the book. Someone told her once – who? Oh, she doesn’t remember; her memory advances and recedes like waves she saw at White Rock during her only vacation to the coast. A male teacher, likely, who remarked in a sly voice, “Guys I know like it when their wives read romances. Gets them in the mood.”
She’s been in the mood a lot lately. An unsettling dream wakes her and, too restless to sleep, she gets up to pace and smoke and take another nip of gin. In her dreams, Ernie looks as he did a few years into their marriage, after driving the bus hiked his belt to circle his waist like a band round a rubber ball. His hair and eyes were a light brown colour, but his chin whiskers held copper highlights. Intertwined across his knuckles grew fine, pink hairs.
She hasn’t gone to fat like Ernie did long ago. And her sisters, since. Whenever the subject’s come up, though, they claim she owes her trim figure to childlessness. No one says barren. Not to her face.
She and Ernie tried for babies most nights during those first few years, snuggled together beneath a cotton sheet, woolen blanket and white chenille bedspread.
be like a gazelle or like a young stag on the rugged hills
Where did that come from? Oh, yeah. Buster. A tickling shiver creeps along the inside of Mrs. Kravitz’s thighs. She shifts her feet beneath the table and sucks her cigarette.
She whispered it their first time together. Buster laughed out loud because she quoted the Bible while they did it. Doing it was what he called those times he took a long lunch break and met her at the Charleton Hotel. She herself didn’t call it “making love.” She wasn’t surprised when a few months into the affair, Buster called from work and told her it was over.
Fine with me, she said and hung up. She didn’t want the sex; she wanted to get even with Ernie after he walked out, claiming he didn’t love her any more. Walked out after she, bewildered and terrified, trailed after him throughout the house while he took what he wanted. She wept and begged as he stood at the door with his sausage fingers bunched around the handles of two suitcases, his brown eyes level with hers. You’re dried up. Get used to being alone.
Oh, but she showed him. She made sure Ernie found out about Buster, made him wait for the divorce after he shacked up with that prissy-faced girl, all long hair and no boobs. And did he end up with babies? A bevy of children climbing onto his knees? No, he did not. Mr. Smarty Pants. Mr. Shooting Blanks.
Tap-tap. The wind must’ve picked up, knocking poplar branches against the eavestrough. She told Ernie when he planted the tree that it would grow too close to the house, but oh no, he knew best.
This time, a loud knock. Goosebumps along her arms. She remembers that she left the inside back door open and the screen door unlocked. She grabs the table and hauls herself to her feet. She can rush out the front door and yell for help.
“Mrs. Kravitz, it’s me. Fred Stone.”
She looks about the kitchen in a vague way, like a woman who’s forgotten something. Then she crosses the bathrobe over her chest and firmly ties the belt.
On the other side of the screen door stands her neighbour, wearing an unbuttoned striped shirt and a pair of dark shorts. A vivid spiral of black hair curls around the white flesh of his navel.
“What do you want?” She doesn’t mean to be rude, doesn’t intend to look angry. In defense, she says, “It’s ten o’clock.”
“I saw, uh, heard you call your cat. When I took out the garbage just now I saw a black cat in the alley and figured it could be yours.”
“I wouldn’t have a black cat.”
“Why not?”
“Bad luck.”
Fred Stone grins.
Mrs. Kravitz moves to shut the inside door.
“What’s yours like?”
She stops. “What?”
“Your puss.”
Fred Stone moves in closer and she hears a slight rasp when his shorts rub against the screen. His thick, black hair shines; he must’ve just showered. This is closer than she’s ever been to him before, close enough for her to reach out and, through the tiny holes of the mesh, touch his chest hair.
“Calico.” The word jumps between them. She clears her throat and speaks slower. “You know. Orange and black.” Her tone becomes instructive. “Calicoes are almost always female. Mine is. Yes, that’s what it is, a calico.” Her shoulders relax. She sounds like a reasonable woman.
“Uh-oh. Looks like somebody can use company.” Fred Stone nods toward the kitchen. “They say drinking alone is a bad sign.”
She glances over her shoulder to where the gin bottle sits in plain view. The nerve.
“I’m going to bed now.”
There’s no mistaking the disappointment in his blue eyes. “Sure. Okay. Women like to get their beauty rest. Not that you need any.”
A tingle kneads her chest. “Maybe it would be all right. For a few minutes.”
When he puts his hand on the door, she wants to change her mind, but he pushes his way inside. “Sure, sure. I won’t stay long. Just a drink between neighbours, hey? Nothing wrong with that.”
Mrs. Kravitz inhales the musk scent of his aftershave. She decides to keep the inside door open, just in case. In case, what?
Fred Stone raises an arm and gestures as though distributing largesse. “Nice place. Can tell it’s a woman’s joint. Me, I’m a plain guy. No pictures, no cutesy ornaments.”
She sees him notice the hairnet and she pounces, gets it shoved into the pocket of her bathrobe. “I’ll get you a glass.” Her voice squeaks. What’s the matter with her?
Instead of sitting across from her at the table, Fred Stone pulls out the chair to her right. “I can pour my own. You just relax. Wow, nice glass.”
“Steuben crystal. Got four as a wedding gift.”
“First time I drank gin out of crystal.” He mixes his drink half-and-half. “By the way, if you want to smoke, go right ahead. I don’t smoke myself, but I don’t mind other people lighting up. I used to smoke once in a while, especially after s – oops. Nearly forgot I was talking to a lady.” He raises his glass. “A toast.”
They clink glasses. “What are we toasting?” she asks.
“The future.”
“Well, that certainly narrows it down.”
When he laug
hs, she sees back partials hooked around his incisors. How old is he? She remembers he once mentioned he’d retired early. Did he dye his hair? She quit colouring hers after she retired from teaching at sixty-two, nine years before.
“Mrs. Kravitz, I had no idea you have such a great sense of humour. I bet you’re full of surprises.”
To hide her smile, she reaches for the gin bottle. “Needs freshening.”
He speaks soft and steady from the back of his throat. “Sure, sure. Top it up. So how come I never seen this cat of yours? I’ve been here three years and I’ve never seen a calico cat.”
“Three years? My, it doesn’t seem that long since the Morgans moved out.
“Buying up, they said. House in the suburbs with a hot tub. I don’t miss them. Snooty people. Now the Hackshaws. Nice enough, but boring. Go to work, come home and watch TV every night until they go to bed. Don’t go out much except to church on Sunday, leave at ten thirty-five on the dot.”
Rap music from the television bounces into the kitchen. Fred Stone taps his fingers on the table. Long, smooth fingers. “You know where this music came from? Jamaica. Ever been there?”
She shakes her head. She feels the gin, the warm fizz slinking through her arms. Making her steady. Oh, she’s poised as a cat on a fence.
“I been once. Honeymoon. Me and the missus had a great time. Beautiful beaches, white sand. I wanted to go back. I said, Shirley, we gotta go back to Jamaica for our tenth anniversary. And we would of, too, if she hadn’t left me right after our sixth.”
“Any children?”
“Naw. Just as well. I’d have made a lousy father. Drove truck all the time. Never home.”
“I’m divorced, too.” Now why did she tell him? It’s none of his business.
“Hey, turns out we got something in common.”
She sniffs. “Lots of people divorce. Almost half, nowadays. I saw it on TV.”
The music from the TV changes to a tinny, panicking kind of rhythm. Mrs. Kravitz reaches again for the gin bottle, but Fred Stone beats her to it. “Here, let me. Say when.”
“Soon.”
He looks at her, brows raised.
What? Her shoulders and neck are warm. “Joke. My husband and I.” She wants to crawl under the table. She wants Fred Stone to leave. She doesn’t want to drink with him any more, and reaches to cover the glass with her hand. Too late. The gin rises like a white tide, threatens to overflow and flood the room.
When she sees she’s scratched his hand with a fingernail, she says, “Oh, I’m sorry.”
He looks at the white mark. “Call an ambulance.”
Really, Fred Stone is a charming man. What on earth’s the matter with her? She will have a bit more to drink and then hint for him to leave. Tell him, if she has to.
“Why’d you split?”
“My husband.” Again, her voice squeaks. When she lowers it, she sounds conspiratorial. “My husband took up with a younger woman. I went back to teaching and he moved to the States. End of story.”
“Teacher, huh. That explains it. First time you spoke to me, I said, Fred, there’s an educated woman. I could tell by the way you talked, everything all grammatical. You sound nice, too, not like some women. Take my wife, Edith. Oh, she had a mouth on her, that one.”
“I thought your ex-wife’s name was Shirley.”
“Edith was my second. And my last.”
“Making Shirley, your first wife, second last.”
Fred Stone’s eyes narrow, as though judging distance. She shivers. What’s the expression? Something about something walking across your grave. She reaches for a cigarette. Fred Stone lunges for the lighter. Isn’t this a scene from the movies? Bogart, leaning forward, touches the inside of Bacall’s wrist while she draws on her cigarette. Mrs. Kravitz glances over Fred Stone’s head at the clock. Ten-thirty. Past her bedtime.
Long past all her bedtimes.
She raises her glass. “Pist-achio.” She watches Fred Stone’s face. “That’s Italian for getting pissed.”
“Where’d you learn Italian?”
She laughs, releases a quick sputter of smoke and shakes her head. “No, no, it’s a joke.”
“Oh, yeah. I get it.”
She sees he doesn’t. She pats one of his smooth hands. “That’s okay.” His glass is still full. Or did he finish it and pour another? She’s come to the favourite part of drinking when all sharp edges become dull, all dark surfaces disappear into mist.
She nods at Fred Stone’s glass. “So you gonna drink that thing or what?”
His lips twitch. He lifts the glass and takes a long swallow. Mrs. Kravitz watches his Adam’s apple move. When he smacks the empty glass onto the table the sound ricochets like a starting pistol.
“I may be dying.” Tears brim her eyes. She draws aside her robe and nightgown, looks down at the mole. “I think it’s melanoma.”
She looks up, again. The tip of Fred Stone’s tongue touches his top lip in a speculative movement, as though tasting the air. “Had it looked at?”
She shakes her head and is about to add, I’m too afraid, when the expression on his face stops her. He isn’t looking at the black spot near her collarbone; he’s staring at her half-exposed breast. A lascivious stare – large, direct and unmistakable.
From the television a male voice croons something about flying. Mrs. Kravitz closes her eyes, drops her hands onto her lap. She wants to raise her arms, arch her back and float to the moon. In a single languid motion, she lifts and stretches her legs beneath the table. Her calf brushes Fred Stone’s bare knees.
Even with her eyes closed, she sees him watch, brown eyes alert. There’s his open shirt where his chest hair descends to the steep inclination of his stomach before it disappears behind the belt buckle. She sees, too, his curved hands waiting, the fine hairs along his knuckles glistening misty pink. Although calloused from years of driving the bus, his palms against her skin will be smooth.
Impact
Naomi, Carol and Rod follow a nurse named Gaston into the Intensive Care Unit. Doctors and nurses speak in hushed voices, glide on soft soles between the beds like the holograph ghosts Naomi once saw at Disneyland. This room, with its pale-eyed monitors and electronic beeping, is more fantastic.
Gaston stops at a narrow bed where a woman is fixed to rubber tubes. A ventilator stretches her lips into a macabre grimace; purple bruises shade her closed eyes. Her arms, sprawled on the covers, are spotted by yellow and green effusions. She lies on a bed of suffering in a room of suffering.
Naomi waits for Carol to weep. This is how she handles serious problems no matter how often Naomi reminds her that tears can’t change a thing. But Carol has a temper and will tell Naomi to quit acting like Sister Superior.
“It’s not a question of superiority; it’s a question of perspective.”
But reason is lost on someone as emotional as Carol.
Now Rod moves close to the bed, his arms straight. Fists clenched. When they were kids, it was Naomi who defended him at school, fought any boy who called him Rod the Runt. Two years later, his nickname changed to Rod the Rooster, and she no longer had to fight for him.
Go on, Rooster. Beat off whatever wants to take Mom.
After only a minute, Gaston asks them to follow him from the Intensive Care Unit. Like children facing punishment, they huddle together while he lists their mother’s injuries in a noncommittal voice. As though a smashed woman is an everyday occurrence.
Clot on the brain, ruptured bladder, a dozen broken bones, internal haemorrhaging. He tells them the ICU waiting room is at the other end of the hall and they move toward it. When Naomi hears someone inside the room, she points right. “Let’s just walk.”
Their grey shadows lurch against the putty-coloured walls. They approach a long bank of windows where the dark glass reflects their dazed faces.
Naomi once read a newspaper article about birds, how lights shining from the windows of high-rises blind the birds. They fly into the glass and,
stunned or with necks broken, they drop to the pavement below.
“We’re killing the birds.”
Rod and Carol stop.
“What?” Rod says.
Naomi fumbles in her pocket for a tissue. “Nothing.”
They move forward again, Carol linking arms with Rod. The two of them stick together because they were conceived by Mom’s second husband, Gerald the Jerk. During family disagreements, they gang up on Naomi. But they don’t know how to reason. They make decisions based on how they feel, which is why they have such difficulty solving their problems.
Carol puts her hand inside the pocket of her oversized cotton shirt and takes out a tissue. She started wearing baggy clothing after her third baby, even though Naomi mentioned several times how loose clothes make a person look bigger. Carol doesn’t get stylish haircuts either, yanks her hair back into ponytails.
Naomi has kept herself in shape by working out. She also makes regular visits to an expensive salon and shops often to keep her wardrobe up-to-date. People need to know who they’re dealing with, especially the parents of her grade six class. Carol, a stay-at-home mom, doesn’t value Naomi’s advice about fashion. Religious people often behave as though being a slob has some kind of redeeming value.
It was Carol who insisted Naomi stop the car during the six-hour drive so she could pray aloud. She crossed herself and quietly asked God to heal their mother and help the three of them be strong.
If there is a God, and Naomi certainly has her doubts on that score, why would He let a sixty-eight-year-old woman who was on her way to the hairdresser for her semi-annual perm get knocked down in the street like she was somebody’s dog?
When Naomi asked this question, Carol’s answer made no sense: “Naomi, you don’t understand faith.”
Rod, of course, doesn’t ask questions and ignores Carol when she talks religion. He’s a long-haul trucker, and Naomi’s been told he travels with cases of beer and a sawed-off baseball bat. He’s heard Carol’s lectures several times, about how drinking is a sin and he should know better; look at what alcohol did to their father.
Sweet Life Page 4