She stood in the teller queue, trembling. Be calm, she told herself. Calm as a mutt by a midday fire—Jamie’s turn of phrase. He had so many expressions, most of a darker sort: vivid as a cat’s ass, face like a bulldog licking piss off a nettle, cold as my dear mother’s heart. That bitter turn of mind, so Celtic, but that was why she loved him.
From the very start the attraction lay precisely in what others might call his failures. Success held little appeal for her. Always something brittle about success, something garish, too lucky. She preferred her men wounded but resolved. Solemn determination had greater purchase in her heart than confidence. A man who knew the edge was only a footfall away and who was thinking of how to grab you back from it, protect you, not because he was scared but because he’d made that fall himself once or twice, loved you too much to wish it on you—that was the fella for her.
The queue advanced a step, everyone trudged forward, squeaky boots, soggy shoes. Not much in the way of merry in the faces, she thought, eyeing the others in line. Despite herself, she glanced over her shoulder at the guard near the door. He was hardly more than a boy, his uniform draped on his bone-thin body like a hand-me-down on a rack—a Latino, face dotted with acne, hair gelled into a black shiny wave frozen in time, thumbs tucked in his belt—no gun, just pepper spray. Good, she supposed, feeling a bit less afraid.
Sensing her gaze, perhaps, he turned toward her and met her eyes. Unable to help herself, she smiled. He returned a smile of his own, self-effacing and slack, then reconsidered, averting his face toward the door, but in that instant she detected not one of those sullen, antsy, me-first young men she so despised and feared. Instead she caught a little of the lonely, the lost.
What is it with me, she thought, and strays?
She looked down at the purse she’d brought, one of those shapeless sack-like vinyl things you could get so cheap along Market Street, the Salvation Army bells ringing all around you as you browsed the vendor racks and stalls. Would it be big enough, she wondered, was it too big? She nudged it with her foot along the floor as the line inched ahead.
She’d met Jamie two Januarys past, at the Horn & Whistle, her neighborhood pub, the holidays well behind them, just the bleak cold wind and metal-gray sky, the empty promise of a new year. But then there he was, and promise beckoned.
He was a charmer, yes, the sandy-colored hair, the milky Irish skin and rust-brown freckles, the chesty laugh and the endless string of slightly cruel jokes. A pint of stout, that’s what he ordered for her, like a black liquor soup, topped with creamy foam. She nursed it as they got acquainted, she a teacher at city college, remedial composition—a tragedy, how poorly most young people read and wrote these days—and he was in sales, something involving computers, she never did grasp it completely.
Ireland was the new promised land for the digerati then, and he‘d worked in Dublin for a while, earned his degrees and certificates, then come over with a cousin, acquired one of those visas Silicon Valley was sponsoring right and left a decade back. He soon tired of the whole mega-corporate slog, went off with a few cohorts to start their own venture, a freelance affair, striking that right balance, enough coin on hand to keep the wolves at bay, enough freedom in his heart to feel like a man. There were setbacks, sure, and he told her about them and they broke her heart. He knew what it meant to fail, then pick himself up, have a pint, share a laugh, get on with it. Leave self-pity to the Russians and Mexicans, he said. Dreams get dashed so new dreams can take their place. They drank to dreams. And she knew in the pit of her heart they would marry.
A mere four weeks later, they did. Valentine’s Day. The courthouse, two strangers for witnesses.
She suddenly found herself at the head of the queue, and a queasy lightheadedness came over her. She bit back the nausea, dabbed at her face with the back of her wool glove.
The house was Jamie’s idea. No better investment than property, he’d said, San Francisco property in particular. What about the recession, she’d said, and he’d answered that’s why the timing’s perfect. Buy low, sell dear. There’s still no way we can manage it, she’d told him, but he’d taken rein of the finances—a husband’s mortal obligation, his words—and he knew a man who knew a man and said trust me and how could she not? And then there they were, a two-bedroom bungalow bordering Noe Valley, a fixer-upper for sure, but home.
She left her job with its benefits to manage the most essential repairs, emptied her savings to pay for them—the kitchen and bath had to be gutted, rebuilt from the floor joists up, so much dry rot, and she blamed the ache in her joints on all the physical labor, pitching in with the workers—while Jamie, suit and tie and freshly shined shoes, went out each day to slay the beast. Solemn determination. Protecting her.
It took until Thanksgiving for him to confess the truth. There was no job, hadn’t been for over a year. He just rode the bus from one end of the city to the other, or sometimes he’d get on the train, ride down to San Jose or out to Walnut Creek, the suburban outposts, all those majestic hills and bustling malls, all the traffic and the nouveau riche. The mortgage lender, in truth a den of crooks Marybeth could hardly believe existed, filed their notices, moved to foreclose and evict—a scam from the start, and she wondered if Jamie had been duped or complicit. Regardless, two days after the last papers were served, she had her consult, learned her joint aches were not arthritis but something much worse.
The teller near the end came free and beckoned Marybeth forward. She reached down, snatched up the giant floppy purse, trundled over. The teller said something festive in greeting but Marybeth barely heard, it was like she was underwater, rustling around in the bag for the envelope and remembering what Jamie had said the day he’d left: You deserve someone better, I can only drag you down, I’m nothing, a wretch, a failure. I know, she’d thought, I’m a lover of failures, it’s my curse, wanting to tell him—I have cancer, it’s in my bone marrow—but the words wouldn’t come.
Finally, she felt it, the card, brought it out and, hand shaking as though from palsy, slipped it across the counter to the teller. A plump girl, heavy-lidded eyes, flat nose, chestnut hair. She lifted the flap on the envelope, withdrew the Christmas card, inside of which Marybeth had written: I have a gun. Do not trigger the alarm or make a sound. Give me all the money in your cashier tray or I will shoot, one by one, the customers standing in line behind me.
Her heart bucked inside her chest as she hefted the huge bag onto the counter for the teller to fill. A note job, they called it—in truth there was no gun, and she hoped she’d get consideration for that when they prosecuted her. Glancing about to see who was staring—no one, it turned out, not yet—she listened to the fluttery thump of the banded stacks of bills as the teller stuffed them inside the purse. Then a sudden flare of pain shot through her, ripping through her bones like black fire. No, she thought, not now, and she steadied herself, grabbed the purse, then glanced at the teller whose eyes were scared and resentful.
“I’m sorry,” Marybeth whispered as she turned away, shouldering the purse, surprised at its toppling weight, then staggered toward the young Latino guard. A few of the other patrons finally seemed aware of what had happened, there were whispers and stares but Marybeth paid no heed. Her eyes remained fixed on the guard with his stiff wavelike hair, his expression first puzzled then alarmed as she plodded closer.
“I’ve just stolen this.” Grimacing from the pain, she dropped the purse at his feet. They both stared at it. “You need to arrest me, or call the police, if that’s how it’s done.”
Last week, in a magazine that someone had left behind in the bus shelter, she’d read that women could get chemotherapy in prison. And a bank robbery meant federal custody, better care. By no means good care, she thought, but a small hope is still hope, almost collapsing as the young guard glanced down into the bag, saw the money, then looked back at her, panic in his eyes. So young, she thought. Christmas is for the young.
“I’m not crazy.” Her voice was clench
ed. “Sick, yes, you can probably tell. But not mad.”
He still seemed paralyzed. Fearing she might faint before he understood, she took his hand, clutched it tight. So helpless, she thought, a stray. “Please,” she said softly. “Help me.”
It Can Happen
PILGRIM WATCHED AS, just outside his bedroom door, Lorene handed Robert fifty dollars and told him she wanted to visit personal with her ex-husband for a spell. Robert was Pilgrim’s nurse. He’d been a wrestler in college—you had to be strong to heft a paralyzed man in and out of bed—and worked sometimes now as a bouncer on his off-hours.
Robert glanced back toward the bedroom for approval and Pilgrim gave his nod. The big man pocketed the money, donned his hat and walked out the door in his whites, not bothering with his coat despite the cold.
Pilgrim liked that about Robert—his strength, his vigor, his indifference to life’s little bothers. Maybe ‘liked’ wasn’t quite the word. Envied.
He lay back in bed and waited for Lorene to rejoin him. His room was the largest in the cramped, dreary house and bare except for the twenty thousand dollar wheel chair gathering dust in the corner, the large-screen TV he was so very tired of watching, an armchair for visitors with a single lamp beside it and the centerpiece—the mechanical bed, a hospital model, tilted up so he didn’t just lie flat all day.
Lorene took up position bedside and crossed her arms. She was a pretty, short, ample, strong woman. “Don’t make me go off on you.”
Pilgrim tilted his head to see her, eyes glazed. Every ten minutes or so, someone needed to wipe the fluid away. It was a new problem, the tear ducts. Three years now since the accident, reduced to deadweight from the neck down, followed by organs failing, musty skin, powdery hair, his body in a slow but inexorable race with his mind to the grave. He was forty-three years old.
In a scratchy whisper, he said, “I got my eyes and ears out there.”
“Corella?” Their daughter. Corella the Giver, Lorene called her, not kindly.
“You been buying things,” he said.
“Furniture a crime now?”
“Things you can’t afford, not by the wildest stretch—”
“Ain’t your business, Pilgrim. My home, we’re talkin’ about.” She pressed her finger against her breastbone. “Mine.”
Lorene lived in a renovated Queen Anne Victorian in the Excelsior District of San Francisco, hardly an exclusive area but grand next to Hunter’s Point, where Pilgrim remained, living in the same house he’d lived in on a warehouseman’s salary, barely more than a shack.
Pilgrim bought the Excelsior house after his accident, when he came into his money through the legal settlement. He was broadsided by a semi when his brakes failed, a design defect on his lightweight pickup. Lorene stood by him till the money came through then filed for divorce, saying she was still young. She needed a real husband.
Actually, the word she used was “functional.”
The divorce was uglier than some, less so than most. The major compromise concerned the Victorian. Her gave her a living estate—it was her residence till she died—but it stayed in his name. He needed that. Lorene would have her lovers, the men would come and go, but he’d still have that cord, connecting them—his love, her guilt. His money, her wants.
He got $12,000 a month from the annuity the truck manufacturer set up. Half of that went to pay Lorene’s mortgage, the rest got eaten up by medical bills, twenty-four hour care, medicine, food, utilities. He had no choice but to stay here in this ugly, decrepit, shameful house.
“Know your problem, Pilgrim? You don’t get out. Dust off that damn wheelchair and—”
“Catch pneumonia.”
“Wrap your damn self up.”
“Who is he, Lorene?”
She cocked her head. “Who you mean?”
“The man in the house I pay for.”
Lorene put her hands on her hips and rocked a little, back and forth. “No. No, Pilgrim. You and me, we got an understanding. I don’t know what Corella’s been saying—”
“I know you got men. That’s not the point here. You take this one in?”
“You got no say, Pilgrim.”
“Even folks at Corella’s church know about him. Reverend Williams, he calls himself. Slick as a frog’s ass.”
“I ain’t listening to this.”
“All AIDS this and Africa that. But he’s running from trouble in Florida somewhere, down around Tampa.”
“That’s church gossip, Pilgrim. Raymont never even been to Tampa.”
“Now you spending money hand over fist. That where it’s coming from, Lorene? Phony charity, pass the basket? Raymont? No. That wouldn’t pay the freight, way I hear you re-done that house. What you up to, Lorene? You know I’ll find out.”
Finally, fear darkened her eyes. He wanted to ask her: What do you expect? Take away a man’s body, he still has his heart. Mess with his heart, though, there’s nothing left but the hate. And the hate builds.
“Pilgrim, you do me an injustice when you make accusations like that.” The words came out with a sad, lukewarm pity. She sighed, slipped off her shoes, motored the bed down till he lay flat then climbed on, straddling him. “This what you after? Then say so.” She took a Kleenex from the box on the bed and wiped his puddled eyes, then stroked his face with her fingers, her skin cool against his. She cupped his cheek in her palm and leaned down to kiss him. “Why do you doubt my feelings, Pilgrim?”
“Send him away, Lorene.”
“Pilgrim, you gotta let—”
“I’ll forgive everything—I don’t care what you’ve done to get the money or how much it is—but you gotta send him away. For good.”
Lorene looked deep into Pilgrim’s eyes then got down off the bed, slipped her shoes back on and straightened her skirt. “One of these days, Pilgrim—before you die—you’re gonna have to accept that I’m not to blame for what happened to you. And what you want from me, and what I’m able to give, are two entirely different things.”
Robert returned to find Lorene gone. How long she leave Mr. Baxter alone, he wondered, chastising himself. He checked his watch, barely half an hour since he’d left but that was plenty of time to have an accident. And he ain’t gonna blame her, hell no. That witch got the man’s paralyzed dick wrapped around her little finger tight as a yo-yo. He’s gonna lay blame on me.
That was pretty much the routine between them. Bitch rant scream, beg snivel thank. Return to beginning and start again. Even so, Robert knew he had the makings of a good thing here. He didn’t want it jeopardized. Mr. Baxter wasn’t long for this life, every day something else went wrong, more and more, faster and faster. The man relied on Robert for all those sad, pathetic, humiliating little tasks no one else would bother with. If Robert played it right, made himself trusted and dependable—the final friend—there could be a little something on the back end worth waiting for.
Everybody working in-home care knew a story. One woman Robert knew personally had tended an old man down in Hillsborough, famously wealthy, and he scribbled on a napkin two days before he passed that she was to get forty thousand dollars from his estate. The family fought it, of course—they were already inheriting millions but that’s white people for you—claiming she’d had undue influence over his weakened mind. The point was, though, it can happen. Long as you don’t let the family hoodwink you.
Venturing into the bedroom doorway, Robert discovered Pilgrim trembling. His breathing was ragged.
“Mr. Baxter, you all right?”
Edging closer, he saw more tears streaking down the older man’s face than leakage could explain. His lip quivered.
“Good Lord, Mr. Baxter? What did that woman do?”
Pilgrim hissed, “Call my lawyer.”
Marguerite Johnstone had gone to law school to escape Hunter’s Point but still had clients in the neighborhood—wills and trusts, conservatorships, probate contests, for those who could afford them. She sat parked at the curb outside Pilgrim’s hou
se, waiting a moment behind the wheel, checking to make sure she had the address right.
The place was small and square with peeling paint and a flat, tar-paper roof. In back, a makeshift carport had all but collapsed from dry rot. Weeds had claimed the yard from the grass and grew waist-high. How in God’s name, she thought, can a man worth three-quarters of a million dollars live in a dump like this?
It sat at the corner of Fitch and Crisp—Fish & Chips, they used to call it when she lived up the hill on Jerrold—the last residence before the shabby warehouses and noxious body shops rimming the old shipyard. The Redevelopment Agency had big plans for new housing nearby but plans had never been the problem in this part of town. The problem was following through. And if any locals, meaning black folks, actually got a chance to live in what the city finally built up there it would constitute an act of God. Meanwhile, the only construction actually underway was for the light rail and that was lagging, millions over budget, years behind schedule, the muddy trench down Third Street all anyone could point to and say: There’s where the money went.
The rest of the neighborhood consisted of bland, crumbling little two-story houses painted tacky colors, with iron bars at the windows. At least they looked lived in. There were families here, holding out, waiting for something better to come—where else could they go? And with the new white mayor coming down all the time, making a show of how he cared, people had a right to think maybe now, finally, things would turn around. But come sunset the hoodrats still crawled out, mayor or no mayor, claiming their corners. Making trade. Marguerite made a mental note to wrap things up and get out before dark.
Robert led the lawyer through the bedroom door and Pilgrim sized her up. A tall, freckled, coffee-skinned woman with her hair pulled back and tied with a bow, glasses, frumpy suit and flats. Be nicer looking if she made an effort, he thought.
“Nice to meet you,” he croaked. “You come well recommended. This here’s my daughter.”
Killing Yourself to Survive: Stories Page 5