But no sooner had the honor dawned then a hand-painted sandwich board appeared outside Kamal’s shopfront accosting all pedestrians. A deceptively prim head shot of Helena wearing a turtleneck and a schoolgirl smile was laminated to both sides. She smirked at all comers. Many paused to consider her expression, then shelled out good money for galleys xeroxed on wax paper wrapped around a bunch of rotting rosebuds. Twenty pages detailing Raymond’s career philosophy. The title? Dead-head: Every Bud a Weed to Crush and Kill Me.
Raymond spoke to Kamal, man to man. Reminded him of their long fruitful association. But Kamal said, It’s a free country! The little girl can speak her mind.
Raymond tried once more. He told Kamal about Helena’s problems. He made a circling gesture in the crotch region to indicate something fairly horrible.
Kamal refused to listen. Out, he said. Don’t come back, please.
On the sidewalk Kamal straightened the sandwich board so Helena’s malevolent mug dared him to say another word. And Raymond was forced to do the only responsible thing, should have done it ages ago. He called the number posted pretty much everywhere and reported the funny looking people drinking poisonous coffee in the shadows of Kamal’s establishment.
When he phoned the Heron’s Flap Quarterly, they were delirious just to hear the sound of his voice. So modest, they said, so unassuming. They’d take care of it immediately. A much better experience than the dysfunctional anonymous city hotline.
And that was the end. Helena came to his office the one final time. The day of all the contradictory weeping. He thought only colicky babies could cry so hard. No one knew where Kamal was being kept!
Kept? Raymond said. He’s traveling! Maybe he’s gone home to Beirut. Raymond shook his head. Don’t worry. You worry too much. And it will only get in your way.
Soon the flowers died in earnest in the little storefront. A latch and padlock were installed. Strips of yellow police tape crisscrossed the door. The sandwich board was tossed inside, but if he pressed his face to the window at dusk he could see Helena’s picture, just the eyes smiling and the letters “Crush” in a Gothic script like a love note she’d left behind.
Just thinking about her made his nostrils sting. His toes and fingers went numb, his inner ears itched, and his eyelids swelled. Some cheap toxic economy-class cleaning fluids emitted nearly visible waves that would probably blind him. And Megan was no doubt off getting a foot massage from the stewardesses. It seemed just yesterday when the good news she hurried to deliver was that she’d finagled a way to upgrade him. He needed rest, he needed to be on top of things. She used to take pleasure in making things go well. But six weeks of pregnancy and she was hustling for herself alone. Raymond shook his head but that only increased the vertigo. And if he had to sit one more minute with the fidgeting guy, he’d shoot someone.
Though of course he didn’t have a gun. He didn’t even own a gun, didn’t believe in them. Once, after Friendly’s, his father had taken him hunting near his boarding school. It was all winter white out in the woods. Raymond was on magic mushrooms like nearly everyone in his senior class all that last semester. When his father made a direct hit to the doe’s abdomen and the blood spattered so red on the snow, Raymond burst into tears and could only be soothed by a priest in the local Catholic church. Up until then, Raymond’s family didn’t even know any Catholics. But now his father had to buy a pew. And he still hadn’t quite forgiven Raymond. At least that’s what Raymond always says when he tells the story: This is how a boy becomes a man in America. And he always gets a laugh of recognition, of understanding. Except, of course, from Helena, who had fairly insane ideas about priests—she was raised by Vatican II zealots—and deer, she thought deer were endangered. Look, he’d told her, it’s a story about me, forget the priest, forget the fucking deer.
But Helena was unconvinced. Again. She heard the hunting trip as a story of sexual enticement and animal torture. The priest had only cradled his head, Raymond insisted. His father was in the room the entire time. Helena could believe what she wanted. What she believed, apparently, was that he was turned on by dead deer and old head-holding priests. No, no, no, he’d told her, he was high on mushrooms.
Thinking back on that conversation, he understood that if it hadn’t been for her face, none of it would have mattered. If he hadn’t seen that look of hers, he wouldn’t care if she couldn’t understand a simple story he’d told a dozen times before, in front of audiences who got it completely and applauded. Sometimes on their feet, sometimes with tears in their eyes. Most exuberantly of all at the alumni reunion of his boarding school. But he always waved away the adulation, didn’t he? He’d say, No, no, come on, now, his irony and self-effacement completely apparent. Helena was blind. And her face, that come-hither-no-prisoners face of hers was distorted by a vision only she could see.
He hoped. He hoped only she could see it. And though he was fairly certain that was true, he started dropping little hints about her credibility to open ears here and there. In a precautionary way. And it was gratifying how quickly the innuendos, the half thoughts took on a life of their own.
Now and then people still asked, What ever happened to her? He heard she was sick for a while. But now she’d pitched up in Rome of all places, looking healthy, except for all the skittering back. What to make of that? He tried to recapture her expression just as she left the café. She wasn’t laughing, was she? Probably crying. Whatever she was doing, he realized, he finally realized, it was making him kind of furious.
Yes, they’d had talks about men and women, and deer and priests, some of them good, some of them ludicrous. But the chief thing to understand about Helena was that she was enraging. He felt that rage pumping in a pleasant, familiar, enlivening way across his chest, opening up his sinuses. He felt sharp and alert for the first time in forever and blinked open his eyes to see the least attractive stewardess charging down the aisle right for him. Now the fidgeter was bouncing in his seat, swatting at the back of his pants.
Good Christ, said Raymond.
The stewardess leaned into their space and the guy shouted, There are fleas in my seat!
Now, sir, calm yourself, she said. And Raymond sat far back and closed his eyes. Raymond was afraid of fleas. Nothing he could do about it. As his neighbor climbed over him, all outer-wear and wriggle, Raymond clamped his mouth shut and commanded himself not to scream. No screaming. No screaming, it was his own kind of mantra, and he’d discovered it worked in a variety of situations. And now it was helping already.
The stewardess hustled the man to the restroom while Raymond quickly determined, from certain clues, that the problem was all in the guy’s head. One, nothing leaped up and down in the window seat. And two, wouldn’t he, who was so susceptible, be the first one bitten? Without moving his head, he kept a tight surveillance on the mash of nuts and pretzels.
The one truth he’d actually been able to teach Helena, very early on, when she first came to work for him, before all the trouble began and she became such a deep and incurable pest, was this: Stone hard, unrelenting confrontation rewards itself.
What do you mean? she’d said, that gentle, open face not fooling him for an instant.
People call you a louse and a pretender, just stare them down until they evaporate.
Raymond?
That’s right.
Raymond, no one thinks you’re a pretender. Sometimes, it’s a little nutty in there. She pressed a small finger to his temple. Then she was tossing aside the throw pillow and standing up. The rough tweed of the sofa had left red imprints along the tops of her thighs like he’d branded her. See what I did? he said, rubbing his fist across her skin.
I’m dehydrated, she said, twisting to look, frowning down. She slumped into the bathroom and slammed the door. A second later the sink started pounding. He listened, then thought, What?
Hey! he was up and shouting through the locked door, What do you mean, No one thinks I’m a pretender? Who have you been talking to?
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br /> The water boomed away until finally she was back in the room wearing a stretchy black miniskirt and a lavender blouse with torn ruffles. There were big water splotches down her front. Her shampoo smelled like burning asbestos.
Answer me. What have you been saying about me?
She rubbed his only hand towel in her wet hair. Her eyes took on an expression best used for viewing newborn kittens. That you’re beautiful, she smiled.
I’m serious. Who, what, and where, right now, tell me.
Raymond, don’t be silly, I adore you! She dropped the towel on the floor and sat next to him on the edge of the sofa. She wore the prim smile that would soon gross out the neighborhood from a sandwich board.
He wouldn’t look at her, she didn’t deserve that kind of courtesy. But then again, why not stare her down? Who the hell was she?
Raymond? Raymond. Everyone I know thinks you’re amazing. I’ve been in awe of you since the day I was born. Before, in fact! My mom used to listen to Why Me? on tape when I was in utero! And when I was little? She read me the sad childhood parts of Only Genius. How the low IQs of your siblings isolated you? In my case, it was, you know, an actual death. So the IQ part wasn’t as pressing. But the loneliness was the same. And I could get through somehow, just because of you and your essays. The worst, most impossible things became bearable. Kind of.
She seemed compelled to display those impossible things now. Curling her mouth, filling up her eyes with chaos. I know you understand because you understand everything. Just try, just a little, please?
Try? He should try? Fuck her. He bolted off the sofa and commandeered the bathroom. Flooded as usual. He waited, seated on the lip of the tub, feet on the toilet, eye on the lock, for her next move. It was a long wait. Then he heard the quiet click of the front door closing. A bad sound by any reckoning. And next thing his head was in his hands and he felt like crying. He’d been working too hard. And now some dopey chit was out testing the market on his success. Telling him horror stories to boot. Megan never messed with him in this way. He let out a shuddering sigh, he couldn’t possibly detest Helena more. But then she did something even worse. She came back. Three light taps on the hollow door, Hey! I got us some coffee. Please, come out. I’m an idiot.
No news there. But he’d withstood a lot more than some baby succubus in a wet blouse.
Raymond? If the way I feel about you? If that’s the problem? Don’t worry. I get it completely now. I said something stupid about love?
Oh, boy. She seemed to be speaking from the floor. He could see the shadow of her head moving on the threshold beneath the door. The little pink spot of her lips pressing in. And now he noticed the tiles around the sink were coming loose, she was wrecking everything.
Raymond, she whispered, please. This is killing me.
He was nearly seated in the aisle when Megan returned from her stolen nirvana with a peace offering. He could tell by the unfocused smile. Wow, he said, squinting. I can barely see.
It’s that bad?
Yup.
Come on, you, she said.
Come on, what?
She pitched her head back with a playful wink. With her Audrey Hepburn haircut growing out, sideburns were curling in front of her ears. He followed her glance and saw her friends the stewardesses had sequestered themselves behind a drawn metal door to prepare dinner. Follow me, she said.
He gave her a look to say his indulgence had a short lease. This better not be about herbal tea. But no, she was leading Raymond behind the magic curtain and tucking him into the very last seat in first class. She’d made a sweet little nest, with M&M’s and Scotch on the rocks, his personal weapons against every trouble, large and small. There was even a flower in a tiny stick-on vase. For me? he mouthed.
Who else? she whispered. She blew a kiss then tiptoed back out to economy. And he understood. All the bloating, all the coyness had been a ploy, an act, she was still his ace in the hole. And he was hers, of course. He settled deep into the leather ergonomic recliner, a perfect fit! He pressed the release until he lay nearly flat. Every muscle in his body relaxed into the cushions. He turned his face toward the closed window shade, the rising sun completely obscured. It was peaceful here and Helena was far away.
Farther away by the second, back in Rome where he wouldn’t return for a very long time. And when he did, he’d be a father. Something Helena would never understand. How could she? He was safe. A whole new time well begun. He pulled the sleep mask over his eyes and a smoky lavender scent whacked him into a lulling contentment. There were hard truths out there just waiting to be dusted off. And he would do it.
May Day
FULL CHOP IN THE WATER ON FRIDAY EVENING DIDN’T necessarily mean no sailing in the morning. All week, her husband had fulfilled the list of tasks he’d written down on a yellow legal pad as if he’d never done them before. Then the enormous worry about time. And what about the new owners at the marina, could they be trusted to get the basics right, get the slips ready and the buoys secured, mark the channel, clear the fallen trees from winter storms, clear out the boats of the dead? Sad truth, they were an old dwindling club and every spring brought a tag sale of leather cushions and rusted saucepans. The old boat dragged to inland children wherever they were. Once, Philip Kellstone drove to Oregon with a Chris-Craft twenty-footer. My great adventure, he called it. The new marina owners were unlikely to keep up the tradition. Already they were making noises about a dance club overlooking the inlet, and family memberships for a swimming beach. Who in their right mind would swim in the Hudson? But they claimed the cleanup would be better than anyone could imagine. They’d import pink Bermuda sand. And sell organic fruit drinks.
He was thinking of a change, he told his wife. The decision to stay or go wouldn’t affect her, it was purely his thing, but he looked so forlorn.
They were standing in the upper parking lot of the Rhinecliff train station, getting the full vista of the whitecaps on the water and the gusts in the distant trees, a lowering gray in the sky. So unlike Mother’s Day last year when every flower in the Hudson Valley had bloomed right on time, but Melody hadn’t come, and hadn’t for a very long while. This year the forsythias were still green and nearly closed, only sparse tips of yellow. The lilacs were just budded, no more, and wisteria hung with desiccated fronds. Wouldn’t you know it, said his wife.
She doesn’t bother with that kind of thing anyway, he said.
Oh, I don’t know, I always thought the garden mattered in a way, maybe not so much to talk about, she said.
She says what’s on her mind. No big mysteries there. I promise you.
His wife kept quiet, and opened her eyes wider toward the river. She shifted her hand above them, but there was little sunlight to block out. Her eyes felt strained, nearly distended in their sockets, as if she had extra-duty seeing to attend to. She felt serious, settled, grounded in new ways, tried, You’ll be fine tomorrow. This breeze is just stirring the pot out there.
He nodded, and the train blew a sharp hoot coming into the station. She caught a first sweet gush of a lilac scent out of nowhere. He started down the stone steps to the station. She smoothed the front of her skirt and followed, looking carefully as she went, holding tight to the rail.
The train was on time. And crowded. So many people taking the large leap from the dangling silver platform in the train door to the three-legged plastic stool like a toddler’s plaything. Too big a step, she thought, for some, and felt no impatience when the conductor slowed someone down, let the bags be passed into his arms first before a tentative foot was allowed. Sixty, maybe seventy, people got off the train, but who would have guessed that Melody would travel all the way in the very back, the car barely in the station.
She spotted Melody first—over there!—yanking a green rolling bag off-kilter, something out of whack with the wheels. There! she said, and started the zigzag through the Friday commuters too tired to let her by. She lifted an arm and waved but nothing too flashy, she didn’t want
to embarrass Melody, as she knew she’d done in the past. She wasn’t too old to learn how to get along with the people she loved. No one was. Melody, she said, low, smiling, and only the old conductor caught her voice and smiled back. He’d been around forever, and held his arm out stiff for the young mother making the jump out of the train. Melody, she said to herself, felt the draft of her husband behind her. Excuse us, he said, please. They were moving in entirely the wrong direction.
The daughter looked up, saw the mother’s face, stopped moving, and dropped the ragged strap on her bag and rubbed her shoulder, until they were close, then said, Hey, Daphne, hi.
And the mother frowned but caught herself, reminded herself of she wasn’t sure what. There was no time for analysis, except whatever Melody wanted to call her that was okay, wasn’t it? Sweetheart, she said back, and she reached out and felt, quick as a leaf brush, the dry tired peck from her tall, too-thin girl. Long trip? she asked. Though she knew the timing to the second. Are you tired?
Nope, said the daughter, who looked, at thirty-five, not a great deal different than at nineteen, too thin, dark sad circles under her eyes, a halo of black hair all in squiggles near her shoulders. What now, the mother thought. But she felt her eyes relax, the commuters jostled her in their hurry, she didn’t mind. The same thrill rushed through her, and wasn’t it silly. This girl-woman who barely spoke to her, wouldn’t call her Mother, because she didn’t deserve the title, that’s what Melody had said at nineteen and apparently stayed with the decision, this teetering frowning wretch could fill her with such happiness. It was ridiculous, and so certainly chemical. A great rise and something she should discuss later on. Sweetheart, she said again, thank you. Thank you for coming.
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