The Merchants of Zion

by William Stamp

  “I hate this,” she said.

  “I know, but there are only two left.”

  “My hand hurts.”

  “How about you tell me what to write and I'll do it for you.”

  Her Spanish was quite good—vestiges of being raised by a Dominican nanny until she was five—but I couldn't write as quickly as she spoke, and I was equally unable to complete the exercise before the screen changed.

  “Good job,” I said when the next exercise ended and the screen went blank. “Let's move on to French.”

  “Don't be a slave driver,” she whined.

  “What do you propose?”

  “Snack break?” she asked, her eyes as wide and innocent as she could muster.

  “Fine. What do you want?”

  “Hmmm.” Deep-thought. “Milk and cookies?”

  “What flavor?”

  “Vanilla.”

  When I was a kid, milk and cookies meant a glass of milk and a plate of chocolate chip cookies, but Helen didn't allow milk into her house. She'd read that humans evolved to digest milk while they were infants only, and drinking it beyond that retarded their growth due to calcium saturation. So she bought soy milk and—because of another article—cookies made from bran and rye, studded with chunks of minimally processed cocoa. When they're fresh, biting into them is like biting into a sponge. They don't have any preservatives, and after a day it's like trying to eat marble. Elly circumvented this problem by soaking them in the soy milk. The concoction had the taste and consistency of wet paper mache, but she loved it. Strong evidence that you can teach 'em anything if you get 'em when they're young.

  When she finished her snack we went through the French exercises. I didn't know more than ten words in the language and neither did she. Towards the end she was filling in the first couple of blanks, then staring me down until the timer ran out. I took the stylus from her and completed the remaining exercises to the best of my ability.

  Next: the art. The software brought up an album of Renaissance paintings and sculptures. There was no timer and we could scroll through the images at will, but they weren't labeled or annotated in any way. I wasn't sure what it had in mind for us to learn, but assumed it was trying to lay the foundation for Elly's inevitable backpacking trip across Europe. She asked me what each work was called and what it was about. I recognized a few, and made up names and histories for the rest.

  When we were on the final painting Elly thumbed the bottom corner of the screen, which summoned a column of text with the name of the painter (Titian), the title of the work (Assumption of the Virgin), the year it was completed (1518), and two paragraphs of information providing historical context.

  “Do you want to go back and look through them again?” I asked.

  “It's fine,” she said. “You already told me the most important stuff.”

  At six, Helen called to say she wouldn't be home until eight at the earliest, and wondered if I wouldn't mind watching Elly until she did. Robert, her husband, was in California visiting his sister. Her daughter, his niece, was graduating from UC Berkeley.

  “It's not a problem,” I said.

  “Thank you so much, Cliff. I don't know what we'd do without you.”

  “Um... what should we do for dinner?” Elly grinned from ear to ear when she those words. The outcome was inevitable.

  “What does Elly want?”

  “Ells Bells. Your mother is asking what you want for dinner,” I said, cupping the phone with my hand.

  “Pizza!” Her parents, or rather Helen, watched her diet carefully, emphasizing produce and fish. But when Helen left Elly with me for an extended period the suspicion that she was being a bad mother and the ensuing guilt caused her to loosen her grip, and she allowed her daughter to eat whatever she wanted. Nine times out of ten this meant pizza, specifically pizza with pepperoni and green olives, which just so happened to be my favorite as well. Six months ago the two of us went to the Met and afterwards I let her have a piece as a secret treat. It had been her go-to food ever since.

  “She wants pizza.”

  “Of course she does. Why do I even ask?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Oh, and one more thing. Could you water the plants in my office?”

  “Of course.”

  “Bye Cliff.”

  “Bye Helen.” I put away my phone. “Do you want to get the pizza delivered or go out?”

  “Can we go to Pi?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Helen's office was a mess. Her desk was strewn with stacks of unorganized papers, and three enormous monitors stuck out like half-buried desert relics. Pink and yellow post-it notes were plastered everywhere. Her degree from Princeton hung prominently on the wall, flanked by an MFA from Iowa and the first cover of her magazine, featuring the novelist William Stamp in his final interview before his tragic and untimely death in Chicago.

  An old-fashioned picture frame on her desk held a photograph of Helen as a young mother, holding a baby Ryan and looking gorgeous and determined, ready to take on the world. I'd seen the picture the first time I visited the house. My own mother had also succumbed to that event in Chicago and, not feeling up to seeing my father and sister, I'd been preparing to spend a lonely Thanksgiving in New York. When I told Ryan my holiday plans he insisted I have dinner with his family. I'd teased him afterwards about how hot his mom used to be.

  I watered the plants—a few hypoallergenic ferns—and closed the door behind me. Skittles was playing with Elly in the kitchen, staying out of reach as she tried to grab him to put him away. After helping her and getting nowhere, I bribed him into my arms with a piece of Brie pilfered from the fridge. I put him in his cage, and he hadn't quit barking by the time we left the house.

  “Do you think Skittles is sad when we leave him home by himself?”

  “Yes. But think how much happier it makes him when we come back.”

  “What kind of pizza are we getting?” she asked, her interest in the previous subject thoroughly mined.

  “Whatever you want.”

  “Can we get pepperoni and green olives?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can we buy a piece for Skittles?”

  “No. Dogs shouldn't eat people food.”

  “But you gave him cheese.”

  “That was an emergency.”

  Pi was all black walls and low lights, stark metal furniture and soft music with a heavy beat. It was empty except for a table of mid-twenties suits—finance grunts off early—and a short, balding Hispanic man peering from behind the counter. He asked what we wanted. They were out of green olives, but Elly was a trooper and didn't mind having black ones instead. I ordered three slices and two small sodas.

  When we sat down Elly asked if I liked pizza with pepperoni and black olives. I told her I did, but not as much as with green olives. She agreed.

  I asked if she had any crushes on the boys at school. She turned scarlet. There was a boy she did math with who was really nice. He liked volcanoes and had told her about one he'd made with his tutor after school.

  “Is that why you're reading that book?” She giggled and nodded. “Have you kissed your boyfriend yet?” I teased.

  “No. Gross,” she said. “He's not even my boyfriend.” I finished my first slice and waited to see if she wanted the second one. The suits filed out of Pi without bothering to throw away their trash.

  “Do you have any crushes?” Elly asked.

  “No, those things go away as you grow up. It changes...” I trailed off, my mind wandering toward the phantoms of exes and broken hearts. And girls whose lives had split from mine, our feelings still unresolved. None of them were crushes, not exactly—

  “Do you love me Cliff?”

  “What? Yes, of course.”

  “I love you too. I love,” she started counting on her fingers. “You, mom, dad, and Skittles.” Deep-thought. “And I love Ryan. Even if he's gone. Have you ever, you know, like love loved anyone?”

  I s
miled. “That's a rude question.”

  “Why?”

  “It's very personal and not something people want to be asked about.”

  “Oh.”

  “But there's been a few girls I maybe love loved.”

  “Nooo waaay. A few! I'm only ever going to love love one boy.” She finished her first slice and I asked if she wanted the second one. Only the crust. I tore it off and ate the rest.

  “What if he breaks your heart?”

  “I'm gonna make sure and pick one who doesn't.”

  “And what if you break his?”

  A middle-aged man wearing a tuxedo came into the pizzeria, followed closely by a girl in a slinky cocktail dress who was my age or younger. She had an olive complexion and chestnut hair, and she was gorgeous. I would've thought she was his daughter but for the way he pressed his open hand into the small of her back, several inches too low. She turned to whisper in his ear and there was a flash of neon pink as her hair shifted, the dye stylishly hidden. In college I'd had a friend who wore her hair the same way. Except hers had been violet.

  Elly's curiosity was insatiable. She wanted to know how you could fall in love more than once. Or if you could love two people at the same time. Or if you could fall out of love as well as into it. I told her love was one of those things no one ever figures out.

  “But that doesn't answer any of my questions.”

  “It's the best I've got.” I hoped the mysterious couple would sit close enough for me to eavesdrop, but they chose a table in the back corner of the restaurant. They couldn't have gotten further from us if they tried. Which disappointed them, I'm sure; no doubt they wanted the entire place to themselves. Or was he worried about crossing paths with someone he knew, and trying to hide?

  They talked and she laughed, and I'd never been more jealous of two people I hadn't met. He wasn't even good looking. I could see his gut from across the room. It wasn't fair; I had no chance against older, successful men. She looked happy though, and I couldn't judge her for wanting that.

  I told Elly it was time to go, and made her help me clean up our mess. We wished the man behind the counter a good night as we left. He smiled and returned the favor.

  Back at the house, Elly wanted me to read her one of The Confectioner's Tales, a young adult series about Anne Precious, an orphan girl who works at a bakery on the Lower East Side. It's owned by her aunt, who also happens to be a vampire. A multitude of beasties frequent the place: werewolves, warlocks, and other vampires all come to eat her monstrous baked goods. Her specialty is blood biscuits, made with human blood stolen from a hospital across the street. Hilarious adventures ensue. In the latest book—the twelfth so far—Anne helps a leprechaun and werewolf who are in love, but whose families refuse to accept it. They get married at the end, Elly told me. She was rereading them all before the new one came out next month. The spooky thirteenth installment. No one ever seemed to worry about Anne's education—she never goes to school—or the poor humans who can't get blood transfusions because someone wanted to make a buck. Elly loved them though, and squealed with delight every time Anne outwitted the adults or fixed one of their mistakes.

  After two chapters we moved on to watching TV on the behemoth screens the Felkins had built into the living room wall. Helen worried about it retarding Elly's mental development, but she and Robert were unable to give up their generation's greatest vice.

  We watched a show where giant cartoon animals wandered across the screen looking cute. I had no idea what was going on, and Elly was too absorbed by it to fill me in. Skittles jumped on the couch and settled behind Elly's head.

  Her bedtime was at eight, and she was so excited about staying up late that she wore herself out in less than an hour. She fell asleep around eight-thirty. I changed the channel to Common Sense Premium Plus Gold News, the ad-free, subscription-only, twenty-four hour news network. They were replaying a press conference from earlier in the day. The press secretary was assuring reporters that the anti-terrorism efforts in Mexico were working and the transitional government was in no danger of collapsing. Liberty Bell's CEO was meeting with the President and Congress to develop the most efficient plan for the next stage of Operation Empire for Liberty. Things must be pretty bad, I thought, if the administration was bothering to deny anything. Not that I cared.

  I'd been born ten years too late to understand the allure of television, and I flipped through the channels, was unable to find anything of interest, and turned it off. As I was about to carry Elly to bed Skittles heard someone at the door. His barking woke up Elly, who ran to the front hall yelling, “Mommy!”

  It had begun raining, and Helen shook off her umbrella before stepping inside. She was closer to fifty now than forty, and the stress piled on over the course of her life manifested itself in the crow's feet clustered around her gray eyes. She had recently dyed her hair—naturally salt-and-pepper—jet black. “You'd think I was in broadcasting,” she'd told me with a sarcastic laugh. “Image is everything.”

  She was still attractive, but not like when she'd been a young mother. In the picture she was Copacabana in July, now she was an autumnal fjord. Looking into her eyes too long was like peering off a cliff into dark water. It's a terrible, impossible idea—you'll be swallowed in sorrow, you'll never see light again—but the impulse is powerful. Thinking, before the plunge “what's one step, really?”

  “Hi Helen,” I said.

  “Hi Cliff, thank you for being so patient,” she said, taking my hand and smiling.

  “Mommy, mommy,” said Elly, tugging at her mother's shirt.

  “Yes, darling?”

  “Cliff taught me a new word today.”

  “Is that right? What was it?” I froze, wondering which of the wonderful new word she would pick.

  “Eeerie-sponsible.”

  “What's it mean darling?”

  “It means you don't do what people tell you. I wanna be eeerie-sponsible when I grow up so I can have lotsa fun.”

  “I certainly hope not,” she kissed Elly's forehead.

  “She fell asleep on the couch. I was about to take her upstairs,” I said.

  “That's fine. I'll put her to bed, then I have to work a while longer. You're welcome to stay if you like. I can put on a pot of coffee.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I need to get back home. A friend of mine fell out of the sky and now he's staying... um it's a long story. I'll tell you all about it later.”

  “All right. Take care,” she murmured.

  “Bye Helen. Bye Elly.”

  “Bye-bye.”

  * * *

  Dimitri was waiting for me on the couch/James's bed.

  “What's up?” I asked.

  “What the fuck do you think you're doing?” he fumed.

  “I have no idea what you're talking about”

  “You're so funny.”

  “It'll only be for a little while.”

  “Do you remember what I said would happen if I saw James again?”

  “You'd throw him out of a window. Death by defenestration. I don't think the second story is high enough for guaranteed lethality.” Dimitri looked calm, but with his well-trimmed beard and thick-framed glasses he always looked so damned professorial he'd have to spit up blood to ruin the effect.

  “Do you see what he's done?” A pair of khakis lay crumpled on the floor and a few socks were balled up by the door. “And this is only the beginning.”

  “It's not that bad. Here, let me take care of it,” I said. I kicked the socks and khakis across the floor and under the couch.

  “I was talking about the kitchen.”

  In the eyes of Dimitri, James's crime against humanity consisted of his existence. He embodied the vulgar greed—unique to Americans—that had turned the world to shit. Half of Bangladesh underwater and the burning question in a financier's mind was the size of this year's bonus.

  “So where is he?” I asked.

  “I dunno... I stayed in my room 'til he left.”


  The kitchen was a war zone. Onion skins unraveled like barbed wire, the exposed guts of an entire company of peppers littered the counter, and eggshells were scattered like land mines. A pan caked with fried eggs and a dirty plate with vegetables charred beyond recognition huddled at the table like refugees. He'd made an effort at cleaning: I found his fork in the sink.

  “Looks like he made an omelette,” I said, beginning to clean it up.

  “You can't be serious. Are you his mother?”

  “It's no big deal.” Dimitri refused to help. “So, did you two talk?” I asked.

  “No.” He leaned against the counter and watched me scrub the pan.

  “Not even a hello?”

  “Look, it's your house, so whatever. But don't expect me to be Mr. Vivacious.”

  I'd been mistaken. Dimitri's problems with James were numerous and specific. First, he was a selfish prick. Second, he was a slob. Third, Dimitri hated him. Additionally, James was stupid, argued about everything, and mongered conspiracies like a Baptist preacher spreading the word of God. Dimitri recounted the numerous times James had gotten us kicked out of bars, tried to sleep with someone's girlfriend, and how he never paid for anything if he could help it. I nodded along as he ranted. “Yeah,” ... “I remember that,” ... “that was his fault, wasn't it?” By the time he finished the kitchen was back to normal. I'd even washed the countertops.

  Everything Dimitri had said was true. Nor could I argue that James had changed since college; the evidence thus far suggested he hadn't. It made no difference, however, as I'd told him he could stay here.

  “I agree with everything you've said. But it doesn't matter. He's my... friend, and I can't turn him out on the street. It's not like he has anywhere else to go.”

  “Yeah right. You realize he's lying to you?”

  “About what?”

  “Oh, probably everything. Who knows? Just because he flattered you into thinking you're his savior doesn't mean you actually are.”

  I hadn't thought of that—was I no more than the next sucker on his list? But any list of long-term acquaintances with whom James was still on speaking terms had to be pretty short. Like one name short. “How many people do you think James knows who wouldn't slam the door in his face?” This was our first roommate argument in over a year—the last being when I'd briefly dated the ex of a mutual friend.