Within Arm's Reach

by Ann Napolitano

  But suddenly I am not sure that I can. I am not certain at all. I can feel the soft cloth wrapped around my waist leading to the rough bark of the tree. I hear the sound of constant laughter flowing like a river over my head as I crawl beneath the feet of my brothers and sisters. I hear Eddie’s musical voice, Jessie giggling, Eddie Jr. snorting like he does when a joke is so funny that he can’t stand it.

  The old woman shakes her head. “This is not about responsibility. I’ve been given the chance to fix things before I die. I never thought I would get tired, but I’m tired now. It might end before I’m ready, if I’m not careful. I have to focus.”

  My temper surges up from behind the wall of grief I carry around every single day. This old woman is saying that my life is beyond my control, and that I am here to facilitate her needs, her visions. “I want to be clear,” I say. “My brothers and sisters didn’t send me here. This job was a gift from my husband. Eddie knew that I needed the money. My children need things from me that I haven’t been able to afford to give them.”

  Mrs. McLaughlin and I regard each other for a full minute, dueling dead husbands and children and brothers and sisters waiting in the background. Her gaze is full of belief, unbreakable.

  I back down first. I look away. This is ridiculous. This woman is senile and I have to be the reasonable adult here. I need to hold on to the facts. “I haven’t seen my family for years,” I say. “We gave each other up.”

  Mrs. McLaughlin shrugs at that. She dismisses the restraints of practicality and time and distance as flimsy obstacles. Without me, she heads back toward the building. She centers her walker carefully in front of her with each step. I wait a moment, then hurry to meet her stride.

  KELLY

  I cannot believe the speed at which change is happening. Life whipped around again when my husband pulled into the driveway with my younger brother and his wheelchair in the backseat of his truck and the news that Ryan’s home had burned down. Louis had saved Ryan’s life. He carried my brother out of the burning building in his arms. I can’t really express what this means to me. It is the image I am left with now when I fall asleep at night.

  I was not home the afternoon that Louis and Ryan pulled into the driveway. I was at the motel, with Vince.

  While Ryan’s home burned, Vince and I were talking. We are usually talking. In the same way that when I met Louis as a young woman I was almost mute, since I got to know Vincent Carrelli I have hardly shut up. I tell him about my memory. I tell him about my daughters. I tell him the strangest things about myself, things I have never told anyone, like the fact that I love circuses. That I am drawn to them, reading books on the subject, watching documentaries, dragging my small daughters to Barnum & Bailey in New York every year despite the fact that Gracie cried over the caged animals and Lila asked endless questions concerning the safety of the acrobats. The circus seemed to bring out worry and dread in my daughters, while the sight of women flying through the air and men sticking their heads inside lions’ mouths made me feel exhilarated and free.

  I say to Vince, “I think Louis is having an affair with my mother’s nurse.”

  We are in the motel room, which I now think of as our room. The curtains are drawn and only the lamp beside the bed is lit. I am wearing a long dress with buttons down the front. Most of the buttons are unfastened, and I am lying in Vince’s arms. His hand is cupping my bare left breast.

  I feel Vince’s arm stiffen beneath me, and realize that I have probably said too much. For all our talking, we rarely mention Louis. We talk about Cynthia often, but then, Cynthia is dead.

  “You should leave him. He doesn’t deserve you.” Vince speaks quickly, as if relieved to say the words he has been holding in for weeks.

  “You said to me months ago that it was inconceivable for Louis to have an affair, that he was too good a man.”

  “I have a different viewpoint now.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to talk about the future with you,” I say, and roll away from him on the bed. I button up my dress. That is my rule: We don’t talk or think about the future while in this room. We live only in the moment.

  He looks after me in dismay. “Come back here, sweetheart.”

  He calls me that, sweetheart. He also calls me darling. I have never liked these kinds of endearments. I broke Louis from using them early in our relationship. I never called my children by pet names, either. Those terms seem demeaning and belittling. I think a person should be allowed the dignity of being known by his or her proper name. But somehow, oddly, I don’t mind sweetheart and darling coming from Vincent’s mouth.

  “We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to,” he says. “What I mean is that Louis is a good man, but I have a better sense of the gray areas now. Not everything is so black and white, morally speaking.”

  “Isn’t that convenient for us,” I say.

  There is a muffled bark from the bathroom, where Chastity is sleeping. Vince refuses to leave her at home or at the Municipal Building. It makes me a little uncomfortable having the dog at the motel with us, but she’s blind and deaf and stays in the bathroom, so I can’t really complain. The poor animal is on her last legs.

  I touch my lips with my finger. They are puffy from kissing. “Do you think Louis is a better person than I am?”

  “Of course not! You’re the most amazing woman I have ever known.”

  There is a pause and I remain motionless on the far side of the bed. My dress is back in place. I have on nude stockings and off-white heels. It occurs to me that in the rigid position I am lying in, arms crossed, legs straight, that I might as well be standing upright in the middle of the room. There is no release and no relaxation in my position, nothing that suggests I am on a bed.

  I think, I never relax, and that thought strikes me as so full of truth that I am shocked. Is it true that I am incapable of relaxing? Well, if I can let go at all, the closest I have come has been in this room, with Vince.

  “Maybe you should talk to your daughters if you’re upset about Louis,” he says. “You’re right, this isn’t a conversation we should have. It’s not a comfortable fit for either one of us.”

  “Talk to my daughters? About their father?” I give him a look that says he is crazy. It’s obvious that he doesn’t have children of his own, but I don’t say that out loud. During the endless, extraordinary conversation we had the first time we came to this room, Vince told me that his childlessness is his greatest regret. Cynthia had eight miscarriages before they stopped trying. Eight tiny deaths.

  “I love you,” he says. This is often how Vincent opens or ends a conversation. He says the phrase as if it is an apology, and an answer, all on its own. This always amazes me. It opens me right up. He reaches his hand out toward me.

  I unfold my arms and take his hand. I kiss the side of his pinky finger. I let him pull me back toward him. My body loosens. He starts to undo the buttons on my dress, but his thick fingers are too slow, and I finish the job. I slip off my heels and wriggle out of panty hose. We have sex quickly, silently, meeting each other with a rush of need. We fumble over each other’s bodies. I suck in my stomach, and try to stay out of the lamplight. Our lovemaking is always the same: fast and quiet, tinged with shame. He is excessively grateful when it’s over.

  “Thank you,” he says. “Thank you. You’re so beautiful, so wonderful.”

  I struggle back into my clothes. I can’t believe this is me, I think, while I revisit the buttons on my dress. This can’t be real. To ground myself, I picture my daughters. In my head they are still teenagers, Lila dark-haired and sturdy, Gracie pale and smiling. Their arms are wrapped around each other’s waist. I love them so much that I never know what to say. Everything I try comes out wrong.

  “I would have bet any amount of money that I would never break one of the Commandments,” I say. “I would have bet millions. With no hesitation.”

  Vince has heard this line of guilt-ridden exposition before. He h
as learned it is best not to respond. “How about an omelet?” he says.

  He feeds me nearly every time we meet. There is only a mini-refrigerator and one electric burner in the room, yet he manages to make wonderful pastas and even fish with vegetables. I am rarely hungry when I’m with him, but I love the smells that fill the room while he cooks. I lie on the bed and watch him shake sauté pans and test noodles for doneness. When the food is ready Vince puts some in a small bowl and brings it to Chastity in the bathroom. She whimpers with pleasure while she eats.

  Louis has cooked for me regularly over the years. He prepares dishes he thinks I will like, and while he cooks he glances over his shoulder with an Am I doing all right? expression on his face. There is so much expectation in the meals Louis prepares that the food tastes heavy and I turn nasty. He will never stop hoping that one single meal is going to make me happy. I will never forgive him for thinking it could be that simple. I wonder if I should leave Louis before he leaves me. Would he really leave me?

  Vince has never even asked what foods I like. He cooks for the pleasure of it, and because he loves to eat. I watch him crack eggs out of their shells with one hand. He takes a wire whisk out of a side compartment in his bag. He leans over the pan and inhales deeply. “Garlic,” he says. “Is there anything better than garlic?”

  “Shopping. My convertible. Summer evenings.” I sit up. “After we eat, I should go. I told Louis I’d be back soon.”

  The enthusiasm leaves Vince’s voice. “Where did you tell him you were going?”

  “To the library, and to the office. But I’ve hardly been home this week, so I shouldn’t be too late.” I stop. I want to believe that what Vince and I are doing is decent and right and pure. We are comforting each other, knowing each other. This experience is unlike anything I’ve ever felt, and I deserve it. But the Catholicism that I grew up with, that I raised my children with, that we have all since abandoned except for Louis, always rears its ugly head when it smells guilt. I find myself asking God to keep Louis and the girls from finding out. I ask God to give me a little more time in this room with Vince. I ask God to look out for my mother and make her well.

  “I hate it when you leave,” Vince says. “I’m sorry to say it, but I’m jealous of your life. You have so much to go to—your daughters, your mother, Louis. I have only my empty house.”

  “My life is useless,” I say. “The only real living I do is in this room.”

  “You still have something to work with,” Vince says, his back to me. I see a flash of yellow as he slides the omelet from the hot pan onto the cutting board he brought with him. Using a spatula, he divides the omelet and puts one half on one plate, one half on another.

  “Utensils,” he says, and I obediently move to his side to pull two forks off of the drying rack above the tiny sink. I stay there, my upper arm touching his upper arm while he grinds fresh pepper over the plates. I feel, where our bodies touch, his short, choppy breath as he works. Cooking is the most exercise he ever gets. I have chided him that he should start jogging and lose thirty pounds for his health, but in this moment I wonder if my hours spent on the treadmill in the basement have been misspent. Maybe Vince knows what he is doing. Maybe by this time in my life I should have found some activity that I love, whether it makes me sweat or not.

  Vince finishes by scooping up chopped tomatoes with his hands and sprinkling them over the eggs. Bright red against soft yellow. He shakes the tomato juice and seeds off of his big hands. “Well?” he says, smiling down at the plates.

  I hand him a fork. The warm, delicious, fragrant smell fills the room. I am suddenly starving. We start to eat immediately, standing there by the sink. My mouth full with steaming eggs, I manage to say, “Delicious.”

  I DRIVE home quickly, the top down on the convertible. Even though I’m exceeding the speed limit, I take the long way so I don’t have to drive on Main Street. I visited Vince’s barbershop, but that was before I really knew him. I will avoid the sight of it from now on. I like to think of Vince in our room at the motel and nowhere else. The man I know and have feelings for does not match up with that crummy barbershop. When I think of Vince cutting hair and taking cash out of men’s hands, I am embarrassed for him. I am simply embarrassed. It is not appropriate work for a man of his caliber, or for a man who is in love with me.

  I pull into the driveway nervous, though I don’t know why. I have been gone for two hours longer than I said I would, but I don’t expect Louis to have noticed. And frankly, I don’t care if he does. I have stopped pretending. I live my life the way I like, without worrying over appearances. I am done fighting for or with my husband.

  It is now the middle of Saturday afternoon and the sun slants over our big house. Louis’s truck is not in the driveway, which means he has remembered to put it in the garage like I asked. I press a button and the convertible top motors up into position. I spray on extra perfume to cover any scent Vince may have left. I check my face in the rearview mirror, but for what? I still look the same: green eyes, well-shaped eyebrows, tiny lines leaking from the corners of my eyes and mouth.

  When I let myself into the house I hear the phone ringing. I rush into the kitchen and pick up the receiver before Louis has a chance to. What if it is Vince? He isn’t supposed to call here, but when I left him he said he didn’t think he could bear missing me. What if he couldn’t bear it and had to call?

  I almost whisper into the phone. “Hello.”

  “Kelly, it’s me.” It’s Meggy’s voice. My relief lasts only a split second. I don’t want to talk to her.

  “Where have you been? Mom and I have been trying to reach you for two hours—your cell phone was off.”

  “I’ve been busy.” I’ve been avoiding Meggy ever since Gracie told me about my sister’s attempt to take her child from her. I am not sure what to say to Meggy. I am too angry to address it. “What do you want? I’ve been out all afternoon and I have things to do here.”

  “I want information—I called the hospital but they wouldn’t tell me anything. The idiots in charge there called Mom and got her all worked up about what happened. Have you spoken to Louis? Do you know how he is?”

  I shake my head. Meggy is talking too fast. “What are you talking about? Do I know how who is?”

  Meggy’s voice clamps down. “You don’t know? No, of course you don’t. I was an idiot to think you’d know what was going on in your own family. Jesus, Kelly. Your husband saved Ryan from his burning apartment building this afternoon. Apparently Gracie and Lila were there too.”

  My heart flips in my chest. “The girls? How bad . . . Are they all right?”

  “They’re fine. They weren’t involved. Look, you need to get your ass over to the hospital so you can make sure everything’s okay and call Mom. She’s freaking out.”

  The fear that has been making my chest burn turns into anger. “You know, keeping Mom happy and well shouldn’t be my job alone. You could come up here once in a while, you know.” Out of the corner of my eye I spot a folded piece of paper on the kitchen table and grab for it. It’s one of Louis’s notes.

  Meggy heaves a dramatic sigh into my ear. “You know I have a lot on my plate. I was up there for the surgery, and then when she moved back into her room. Has Pat even called Mother? Don’t try to make me feel guilty.”

  “Oh, thank God,” I say. “Louis left a note saying Ryan is fine. He’s just taking him to the hospital for a checkup. Thank God.”

  “Thank God.”

  There’s a silence, then Meggy says, “We’re going to have to put him in a home.”

  I shake my head. “No,” I say. But I was thinking the same thought. Mom can’t support him anymore. None of us are willing or able to. The reality sits and sinks between us. We have been looking out for Ryan our entire lives.

  “Kelly,” Meggy says. “Do you think Mom is dying?”

  I stand up and breathe out the word at the same time. “No. Jesus, Meggy.”

  “Okay.” I can hear h
er relief.

  I don’t know why I lash out then; maybe it’s just to get back to a kind of conversation that’s less disturbing, more familiar, more comfortable. I say, “When I see Mother later on today, or maybe when I visit her tomorrow, I’ll tell her you were concerned. I’m sure she’ll appreciate that you thought to call.”

  “Oh, please. Don’t give me the Saint Kelly act. I asked the nurse about visitors, and she said Louis is there more often than you are. You’re no more the perfect daughter than I am.”

  Something black seethes up inside me. “Look, I don’t care if you never visit Mom again. I don’t care what you do, but you’d better stay away from my children.”

  There is a pause, and I think, I’ve got you now.

  But Meggy sounds casual, not intimidated, when she speaks. “Oh, so you finally heard. I was wondering if Gracie would tell you about our chat.”

  “Of course she told me.” I hold on to the back of the chair with my hand. “Of course she did. You need to leave her alone.”

  “Like you do?”

  Her words ring in my ear. Meggy and I have never gotten along. At the age of three she started speaking and immediately rubbed me the wrong way. She was and is relentless and bossy. She was able to mold the others, even Pat, to her will, but never me. Several times when we were young, even though she is five years my junior, we came to blows. I can imagine her now standing in her ugly orange kitchen, which hasn’t seen a fresh coat of paint or a new appliance since the seventies. She needs to have the split ends trimmed on her long, flat hair. She is tapping one badly shod foot on the linoleum floor. Tap, talk, tap, talk.

  “Maybe if Gracie had more support from her parents, she wouldn’t need my help, but she does. Have you even noticed what a complete mess she is? She’s fallen apart since Mother fell, and she wasn’t that stable to begin with. Angel would be a better mother to that baby, and that’s a fact.”

  “That baby,” I say, almost choking, “is my grandchild.”