Orientation

by Rick R. Reed

  So how do I get over the torture? How do I move on from losing the person I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with?

  You do what you always do. You act. And maybe if you act the part long enough, you will become the role and this gaping hole where your heart once beat will be replaced with something. Not another heart certainly, but maybe, if you’re lucky…steel.

  Jess took a deep breath, approached the vestibule door, and fitted her key in the lock.

  The apartment upstairs felt even emptier, as if Jess had left it long ago instead of just several hours. She hugged herself, looking around. They had been excited when they found the top-floor, two-bedroom apartment. It was large, with gleaming hardwood floors, a fireplace in the living room, crown moldings and built-in cabinets. Big windows let a lot of sunlight stream in. The kitchen needed updating, and the refrigerator leaked water sometimes, but it had a big pantry and a window with a view of the El tracks where they had grown pots of herbs.

  The bathroom was pretty much the same as it had been when the building was erected in the 1920s, with the original pedestal sink and claw-foot tub, which was big enough for both Jess and Ramona. Tiny black and white mosaic tiles made up the floor, the window was frosted glass and when the streetlight shone through it, the silhouette of the fire escape outside emerged. Suddenly, she felt the warm water embracing her and could hear Ramona’s giggle as they fitted their legs around each other in the tub. She saw Ramona’s dark skin, broad nose, and black hair in the flickering light of a candle they had put on the windowsill.

  Jess walked through the dining room to the balcony door and looked outside. All was quiet on Fargo Avenue as the light slowly filtered in, illuminating the parked cars and other apartment buildings. There was someone up early, one of the two guys from across the hall, ceding to the early-morning demands of their Boston terrier. She watched the man with his dog, smiling in spite of herself as it yanked on its leash and jumped on its owner, nipping at the bottom of his coat. Bruce, she thought his name was, wagged his finger threateningly at the dog, leaning over her. She stared up at him, then hurried on, as if unconcerned. Bruce shook his head and followed.

  How lovely to have such pedestrian duties. How lovely to have a family of sorts. She turned away from the glass and sat on the floor, back against the door. A draft of cold air pushed in underneath it, but Jess didn’t care. She had thought of herself and Ramona as a family once. They had had a pet, an insane Calico cat named Ernestine. She used to mewl in the middle of the night outside their bedroom door. Neither Jess nor Ramona ever knew what she wanted, in spite of many bleary-eyed attempts to find out.

  Maybe the cat had wanted to get away from Jess, just like Ramona had. Maybe the cat, too, had found life with Jess to be something that “just wasn’t working out for her.” Maybe the cat, if pressed, would admit that she “simply didn’t love Jess anymore.” Perhaps Ernestine might say, if she could speak beyond purrs, meows, and the occasional screech, that she “felt suffocated” by Jess and needed to move on. And last, maybe the cat would tell Jess that it wasn’t really Jess’s, fault, but it was all about Ernestine, really, her and her feline personality.

  Jess hoped Ernestine was happy now, resting at the foot of Ramona’s bed in some new bedroom, sleeping peacefully through the night. She wondered if this year, Ramona had had a tree and if she had to keep the lights and ornaments three feet off the floor so the cat wouldn’t get at them.

  Jess thought she should be crying now. She wondered if tear reservoirs existed behind her eyes, and if these had finally run dry, depleted by her grief.

  Ramona had been the first woman she had loved. Oh sure, there had been that flirtation with her speech professor at DePaul, but that didn’t count. When she had met Ramona, Jess had thought they would be together forever.

  And now, where was she? Alone herself, down in the Andersonville neighborhood, not far away, and presumably happy. Jess hoped someone was happy after all this upheaval.

  The apartment was empty. When they had moved in together, it was with Ramona’s furniture. Ramona had been older—thirty-six—and had even once been married. She had collected the overstuffed sofa, the occasional tables, the dining room and bedroom suites that Jess, just out of school, hadn’t even begun thinking about. Jess’s futon, desk, and milk crates went to the Goodwill. Their home together had been warm, comfortable, and Jess gradually came to view Ramona’s things as her own. The apartment had become home, where love lived.

  Now it was a shell. A place that echoed when you walked through it. A place where ghosts hid behind bedroom doors and taunted you with memories of happy dinners, fights in the kitchen over a burned and smoking pork roast, sighs and whispers on the balcony during late summer nights…

  Jess stood and walked around the apartment. Ramona had left very little behind. Jess didn’t fight with her. Fair was fair; all the stuff was hers. They had bought very little in their three years together: a small table for the kitchen with two chairs from IKEA, a daybed for the second bedroom, a shower curtain, an ottoman. Ramona had been generous enough—a bit of bitterness leaking into Jess’s thoughts—to have left behind those things. So she had a place to sleep if she ever felt like sleeping again and a place to eat if she ever felt like eating again. She could bathe in privacy.

  Jess entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. A moldy lime languished in the crisper. A half-emptied carton of milk dared Jess to open it and sniff, especially since the sell-by date was two weeks before. Something wrapped in foil near the back made Jess wonder if it would come alive if she unwrapped it.

  She slammed the door shut, crossed the hardwood to the sink, and splashed cold water on her face.

  Jess was tired, too tired to face any more grief, any more anguish. She was too tired to wonder if Ramona had spent her Christmas with another woman, too tired to picture her in an erotic embrace with another redhead, one more mature than Jess, one who didn’t “suffocate” her.

  She was just bone weary. She headed down the narrow hallway to the two bedrooms at the end, turned right, stripped out of her clothes, and collapsed onto the daybed. She pulled the covers over her head and whispered to herself just before falling asleep, “Tomorrow, Scarlett, is another day.”

  * * * *

  The sun streamed through the bedroom window and door that led to a Juliet balcony. She pulled the pillow over her head and groaned. What time was it? How long had she slept? When she thought her eyes could bear it, she lifted the pillow from her head and sat up.

  “Jesus,” she whispered. “It looks like summer.”

  Indeed, butter yellow sunlight drenched the room, so bright it glowed, making the hardwood floors shine so brilliantly, they were almost like mirrors. Dust motes played in the shafts of light coming in through the mini blinds. The room was warm, almost stuffy, yet Jess could not hear the clank or hiss of the radiators.

  Outside, birds sang. An El train rumbled by, and Jess heard the mechanical voice call out, “Howard. Howard next. End of the line. All passengers must exit the train at Howard. Change for Evanston and Skokie trains.” Jess wondered if a new blanket of snow was reflecting the sun and making it shine more brightly than usual. She put her feet on the floor, usually cold, but now warm, and crossed to the door. She was just about to swing it open when she heard footsteps behind her.

  She turned and the man from last night, Robert, stood there. Jess cocked her head. It was him and it wasn’t him. He looked the same, only much younger, his complexion rosy and unlined, his blond hair, thicker and more luxuriant, curled around his face. The blue of his eyes almost glowed with the help of the sun. He wore a black turtleneck and black jeans and held a tray. He grinned.

  “Get back in bed! Get back in bed!” he cried, laughing. “I wanted to surprise you.” He moved forward, and Jess could see the tray contained breakfast: a bone china pitcher with tea, cream and sugar, a plate of blueberry muffins, and another of scrambled eggs, topped with what looked like scallions and che
ese. Steam rose from the eggs.

  Jess shook her head, wanting to ask him how he had found time to have a face lift and hair transplant between the few hours that had elapsed since she left his condominium. But she was too stunned to say anything, too stunned to do anything but crawl back in bed, lean against the headboard, and pull the comforter over her legs. What was he doing here?

  “That’s better. I’ve got all your favorites here.” He held the tray up higher.

  Jess wondered how he would know what “all her favorites” were. Had they discussed breakfast last night? And besides, these were not all of Jess’s favorites; she was more partial to pancakes with real maple syrup.

  This was all too strange. How did he get in? How had he managed to get through the two locked doors downstairs and then through her own, which she assumed she had locked when she got home? Then again, her state of mind wasn’t exactly concentrating on security. But how had he found her? She had left him with no contact information. She wasn’t even sure she had mentioned her first name.

  Even though the questions popped into her brain with alarming rapidity, she found herself mute, unable to ask them. She simply smiled up at Robert, who unfurled a linen napkin with a snap and laid it across her lap.

  He set the tray on top. “Now, eat up before it gets cold, sweetheart. I have a big day planned for us.” Jess smelled the spicy aroma of the tea wafting up, with hints of cinnamon and orange peel. The muffins must have been fresh baked.

  Robert smiled.

  But when Jess looked down at the tray again, it was empty, save for a glass of watery orange juice and a little bowl with what looked like runny oatmeal. The sight of the oatmeal made her stomach lurch.

  She looked up. Robert seemed to be waiting for her to take her first bite. “Go on, eat up, you’re gonna need your strength. You need to eat, honey. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me.”

  Jess reached out to touch him.

  * * * *

  Cold air filled the room. Dingy gray light trickled in through the tightly shut blinds. The radiators clanked, and Jess could tell the heat had been off for a while. The chill seeped into her bones. She pulled the comforter tighter around herself, shrinking down into the cocoon of warmth her body heat had created. It took her several minutes of just lying there, staring up at the ceiling for the dream to come back. When it did, it didn’t seep in slowly, with an image here and there, but came back whole, like a short movie she had watched.

  Why had she dreamt about Robert? And why was he so much younger in the dream? Her age, really. Jess turned on her side and supposed it was logical she should dream of the man who had come along and saved her life, rescuing her from self-destruction.

  What weren’t logical were the feelings the dream had brought on. Jess felt a strange kinship toward the man, a warmth that she couldn’t quite explain. Sure, she supposed she was grateful for his coming along and saving her from a very permanent error, but the feelings in her gut went much deeper than gratitude.

  They were almost like love.

  Romantic love. Jess laughed out loud. Even in her most confused adolescent years, Jess had always been sure she was a lesbian, through and through. No boy had ever turned her head. But she thought now of Robert with dreamy-eyed wonder.

  Dream being the operative word. You know how dreams can stir up emotions. I wouldn’t worry too much about it. But the feelings the dream brought on alarmed her. Forget about it, Jess. It’s just leftovers from the dream.

  Speaking of leftovers, Jess sat up, ravenous. She knew there was no food in the house, but a twenty-minute walk would bring her to one of her favorite restaurants, a little health food hippie joint that had been there for years and that served the best pancakes on the north side.

  Jess started toward the shower, knowing that, right after breakfast, she was going to walk out to Sheridan Road and hop on a 151 bus and get herself back to this Robert’s.

  After all, she had never even said thank you. And, in spite of her own grief and depression, she had felt bad about just slipping away from him, without even the slightest sign of gratitude. He was a caring soul, of that much she was certain. He would be worried. She ignored the longing she suddenly felt to see him again. That was just too bizarre.

  A man? I mean, come on. Really!

  Chapter 5

  Jess looked down at her plate, amazed at her appetite. She’d only left a few pancake crumbs, a smear of maple syrup, and a burnt end of turkey bacon on her plate. The restaurant was fairly empty, what with it being a Wednesday and the day after Christmas (thank God this joint served breakfast all day).

  A couple sat on a little platform that converted to a stage when the restaurant had open mic nights and folk singers performed. They leaned close to one another and talked in low voices. They were children, really, probably students at Loyola University, playing hooky from their homes to play house on campus through the holidays. The boy’s dyed black hair fell in a luxuriant lock over one eye. He was dressed all in black, with combat boots. The girl couldn’t have been less like him, with the pert good looks of a sorority sister. She wore a pink sweater and khakis, her blonde hair pulled up in a ponytail. Jess was sure there were knitted mittens and a hat with a tassel somewhere nearby. The couple held hands and laughed.

  She envied them, flashing back to when she and Ramona had sat at that very same table, in much the same state (at least early in their relationship). They’d come there often when they lived together on Fargo Avenue, the place being one of their favorite haunts, a fall-back for when they tired of the Vietnamese restaurants on Argyle, or the Ethiopian haunts on Broadway.

  Jess wondered what Ramona was having for breakfast this morning, if she was even in town, or if she had traveled down to Texas to visit her mother in Dallas. Maybe she was eating grits and ham, red-eye gravy. Jess snorted out a brief burst of laughter, then reddened when she realized the waitress stood over her.

  The waitress looked at her a little too intently. She had sandy hair and a kind face, probably more wizened than her years would actually indicate by cigarettes and too much sun in the summer. Still, there was something attractive about her, a sense that this was a woman who knew how to nurture. She had waited on her and Ramona when they had been in the restaurant at other times.

  “Get you anything else? More hot water for your tea?”

  Jess shook her head. “No, thanks. I’m stuffed.”

  The waitress expertly gathered up Jess’s plate, cutlery, cup, and saucer. “Your check, then?”

  “Sure.”

  The waitress stood for a moment. “Have a nice Christmas?”

  Jess put on a bright, false smile. “Oh, it was wonderful. Just needed to get away from the merriment for a while.”

  The waitress laughed and nodded. “I know what you mean. Or at least I used to.” She stared out the window for a minute and turned back to Jess. “Where’s your friend?”

  The vacant grin retreated from Jess’s face. “Oh, we’re…” She groped for the right words, still just a bit uncomfortable with talking about Ramona as if she were a lover, or a partner, or whatever the hell she should have called her. It made no difference now. What did it matter? Wilma Waitress here was probably a lesbo herself, and even if she weren’t, who cared? Jess said, “Oh, we’re not together anymore.”

  The waitress nodded. “Sorry to hear that.” But her smile indicated she was anything but.

  Oh Lord, is she hitting on me? I am so not ready…

  “Um, could I get my check?”

  “Sure, honey. I’ll be right back with it.”

  She left Jess sitting alone in a wake of patchouli and stale smoke.

  When the waitress brought her check, Jess noticed she had written across the bottom, Thanks! Betty 773-555-1564. Jess couldn’t believe it. Here, the body isn’t even cold and I’m already getting hit on by strange, wild women.

  Jess dug in her bag and pulled out a ten. She laid another single on top of it and wanted to leave more,
but she needed her change and the other few bills she had to get to and from Robert’s on the bus.

  She stood and started moving away from the table when she caught herself. Oh what the hell? She crossed back to the table, grabbed the check, and stuck it in her purse.

  As she was leaving, Betty called from behind the service window, “You have a real nice day, sweetie.”

  “You, too,” Jess mumbled, heading out into the cold.

  * * * *

  Robert stared down at the plate of poached eggs on toast, gone cold, the melted butter and yolk congealing in an ugly way. Good thing he wasn’t hungry, anyway. His temples throbbed, and he felt like a battalion of elves behind his left eye hit at it steadily with tiny pick axes. So much for getting drunk on Christmas. Upstairs, Ethan was listening to one of the CDs Robert had bought him for Christmas against his better judgment, an older disc by a band with the oh-so-clever name of Crystal Method.

  Robert snorted and gathered up his plate and spoon. “Fitting.”

  In the kitchen, he rinsed the plate and fork and put them in the dishwasher. He looked at the gray day, wondering if it would snow.

  Suddenly, for what he thought was no reason at all, he felt like crying. He sat down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs and tried to rein in the impulse to begin sobbing. He knew where the impulse came from: a fleeting thought he’d had at the kitchen sink, what should I do today? The lack of a response caused him to despair. There was a time, a long time ago now, when the day after Christmas would be a fun one. Boxing Day, they called it in England, and Canada, too. Keith had once told him he held a big annual party on this day, complete with a British High Tea, and Robert had looked forward to it…until things turned sour with Keith’s health and ideas of parties suddenly seemed remote, if not ghoulish. Keith had never made it to Boxing Day, anyway.