Apparently I needed to prove I didn’t have an eating disorder. I extracted the long slender doughnut, sugar sprinkling the floor. Positioning my mouth over the white bag, I took a bite.
“Sabrosa.” Delicious. It was.
The doughnut and Rosaura’s kindness got me through that day at school. I felt floaty and disconnected. In the middle of explaining compare-and-contrast essays to the freshmen, I forgot what I was talking about, slowly erased the board while I tried to remember, and finally simply asked them to compare this Halloween to last Halloween in their journals. I gave the juniors an impossible reading assignment and threatened them with detentions if they talked.
“You’re tired, huh?” Elene Petroutsas said.
I didn’t ask her how she knew.
After school, in spite of my stacks of papers, I stopped by Florence’s for my fix of gossip. I rapped a shave-and-a-haircut on her weathered door.
“Who is it?” Her words already sounded slurred.
“Me.”
“Who is me?”
“Cecile.” How could she not recognize my voice?
“Come in.”
Florence slumped to the side in one of the rattan chairs drawn up to the television. Her hand dangled toward a water glass of wine. The television worked now, but she stared at it in an annoyed way as if it were out of focus. “Sorry,” she said, “but us women living alone, we can’t be too careful, love.”
Since she’d answered the door before, I wondered if the Lefty Hunt business was getting to her. Or, perhaps she was worried I might be Bobbi, or maybe she couldn’t get out of the chair.
She flapped a hand for me to take the other rattan chair, so I brushed the calico cat off it and pulled my seat closer to hers.
She turned her blurry eyes toward me. “Can I offer you a drink?”
“I’ll get it.” I sprang up before she had a chance to try.
“I suppose you know Buddha Belly died,” she said as I rounded the corner to the kitchenette.
I was glad to be out of sight. “Yeah.”
“He got buried today,” she said as I settled into the chair again and promptly sneezed from the stirred up cat hair. “Bless you.”
“Where was he buried?”
“In one of those animal cemeteries. I took old Mrs. Bean down there today. She had the cat bundled in a piece of black velvet with a plastic red rose across the top.”
After a long pause during which the television newswoman told of a murder and a traffic accident, Florence declared with surprising clarity and firmness, “We have to get her another cat.”
The November 2 Episode of “Love on Lostart”
Vince saw Punky peeking at him through the window. She flung open the door, grabbed a handful of shirt, and tugged him through the door into the apartment.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he said, instantly wishing he could be more original, but feeling happy that she was glad to see him. He’d finally done his laundry (for the last two days he’d gone to work without any underwear), but Florence seemed to have forgotten all about the catnapping. She’d filled his ear with info about Todd and Child Protective Services.
Lefty Hunt’s threats were serious and prompted apparently by jealousy of him. Vince had considered staying away from Punky to make her life easier and realized that he didn’t want to.
Punky rested her head against his chest and he tightened, but then he placed a hand in the dip between the wings of her back. He smiled weakly into the dusky hair under his nose and marveled at how small she felt even though she was chubby.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said as she pulled away from him. She filled in the details of the trip to Child Protective Services.
“Jesus,” he said, “that guy’s loony. Did you call the manager again?”
Punky put the copper kettle on the stove. “Bobbi knows about Lefty, but it can take three months to evict a person and there has to be a reason.”
She moved like liquid, Vince thought, as Punky went on. They had no proof Lefty had made the calls, but she might be able to involve the police on grounds of harassment.
“I have a surprise for you.” Punky held up in succession a brown bag of freshly ground coffee, a plastic funnel and then a package of one-cup filters. When she measured out a scoop of coffee and poured hot water over it, the rich aroma curled into the room.
“Wow,” he said. “Thank you.” He felt like a king. A pleasant contrast to being regarded as a lowly warehouse worker.
Taking the mug of coffee, he folded down onto his futon throne. Todd was pushing a yellow, rubber tractor between straddled legs, blowing air through his lips.
With a cup of tea in hand, Punky followed him down to the futon. “I wonder if I could ask you a big favor.”
The coffee lost some of its deliciousness.
“Could you keep my pot plant for a few days.” She spread her eyes wide to show her openness. “In case I have to call the police.”
The words probed like a queen’s pawn opening. The whole game depended on his response.
His doubt dissolved into the grayness of her eyes. “Sure.”
“I know this is asking a lot.” She waited, giving him time to retract.
Vince sipped the coffee. He would not change a move after he’d taken his hand from a piece. “This is good shit,” he said about the coffee.
That night, after the child was asleep, they lay on the futons together. His heart thumped and he knew she must feel it, the way he felt her warmth seeping through his clothing. He kissed her forehead, down her nose to her lips. She wrapped soft arms around his neck and pulled him against the cushiony breasts and he wondered why he’d always preferred bony girls. Society must have taught him that, and here he considered himself so impartial, so fair, so rational.
He thought of the license plate holder on the back of The Fat Lady’s red mustang that said: TRY FAT AND YOU’LL NEVER GO BACK. He had snorted at it. No way. Rolls of fat were ugly, obscene, unhealthy. Now he doubted himself. He felt as though he were sinking.
He abruptly propped himself on his elbows and forced his mind to face facts, to become hard and clear. The lazy protest humming from her distracted him. Her eyes were closed, her face fluttered in the candlelight, and rich muskiness undulated under his nose. He remained rigid until her eyelids lifted.
“Do you take the pill?” he asked.
“Don’t worry,” she said.
He sank back to the futon and her hand ran down the front of his shirt, catching and releasing buttons. A finger traced his ribs.
He moved his hands under the yoga top and encountered no bra, just flesh, pliable as bread dough, but then he jerked away, and she opened her eyes again.
“Diaphragm?” The word rolled clumsily from his tongue.
“Rhythm,” she whispered seductively.
He sat all the way up. “Russian roulette.”
She sighed and sat up, too.
“I’m not into making babies,” he said.
She propped her chin in her hand. “Do you think I am?”
“Is that how you got him?” He nodded toward the bedroom door. “Using rhythm?”
“No. We used nothing. We simply gave in to the occasion.” Her voice had a bit of bite in it.
He touched the glimmering mass of hair, but she recoiled.
“I know my rhythms.” Her voice now sounded hurt and angry, a tone he’d never heard her use before.
“I believe you.”
“I don’t think you do,” she said.
He caressed the face flittering in the candlelight, but she tucked her head against her shoulder as if his fingers were violating her. “I do,” he said gently.
She pressed her face against his bare chest and he stroked her hair. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s too late.”
Tiny spots of dampness tingled his chest.
Later, when she’d blown out the candles, she told him she had pre-menstrual blues, but that didn’
t change the fact another night passed without sex.
In the wee hours, they got cold and moved to the bed, rolling Todd to the edge. At times like this she wondered what she would do as Todd grew older and they would need a bigger apartment. Maybe they’d be forced to live in some crummy place or she would have to turn to her parents and feel, no matter how pleasantly they offered assistance, that they gloated in smugness. Told you so.
She snuggled close to Vince’s sinewy body. When she awoke, the bed was empty beside her and she groped across the space for Todd. Where he’d lain, the wet mattress reeked of ammonia. She squeezed her eyes shut, slammed her fist on the mattress, and laughed, wondering how Vince responded to a wet bed.
On the kitchen counter the key to his apartment reposed like a stamen in the heart of a small white paper curled up at the edges. The note said to go ahead and move the plant and was signed “love, Vince.” Tenderness flooded her. Some men might have been bitter or nasty after an evening like the one they’d had. And Vince had probably thought for a while before choosing that word; he wasn’t the type to use “love” carelessly.
Todd was pushing Cheerios through the screen to the sick mouse. She couldn’t afford a vet fee for a stupid mouse, and each day Punky half hoped to find it dead, but Love proved tenacious. Punky let the child play in his pajamas while she dressed and prepared to tackle the problem of the plant.
Scouting the area, Punky propped open both the door to Vince’s apartment and the door to her own, covered the plant with a sheet, and staying turned toward Lefty’s door, lugged the pot to Vince’s apartment. With both the shades and curtains drawn, she maneuvered the plant past the dim outlines of furniture to the back bedroom where a fish tank gurgled and hummed.
As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she absorbed the orderly bedroom, the neatly-made, simple, steel-framed bed. A calendar and a bulletin board hung on the wall, but no paintings or prints. With the exception of the terrarium and aquarium, everything seemed functional. No extra pillows topped the bed; no photos graced the rectangular, four drawer dresser.
A squeal hurled through the wall at her. Punky sprinted to the driveway. Lefty Hunt slid out the door of her apartment, dragging Todd by the wrist.
The child writhed and squirmed. “Mamamama!”
She ran toward them. “What are you doing with my child? That’s kidnapping. A felony!”
The Bible appeared from behind Lefty’s back and rose over his head. She halted a few steps in front of him.
Lefty smiled.
The desolation of the place seeped into her consciousness. Vince was at work; Cecile was teaching. The laundry room stood empty as Florence slept off her nightly bout. The Fat Lady didn’t come home until midmorning. A shout for help might only upset Lefty and reach no one.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she asked.
Lefty stared, grinning, but holding the Bible high as though it were an offering and cinching his other hand so tightly around Todd’s wrist that the skin puckered under the fingers. Todd whimpered and tried to pull away by dropping to his knees, his face beseeching Punky to rescue him.
“You’re scaring us,” she said. “Is that what you want?”
“He’s the devil!” Lefty shouted, and then soothingly he said, “We’re all left-handers.”
“Let me have my baby.”
Lefty released Todd’s arm and touched the child’s head. “See how the whorl of his hair goes counterclockwise?”
Freed, Todd ran to Punky and she swept him up.
“Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Joan of Arc, Picasso, Ben Franklin, you and me.” Lefty whirled. “Stay away from him. Stay away from that man!” Lefty stalked across the driveway toward his apartment, and Punky hurried to her unit to call the police.
That morning, Vince had decided that all the mice in his car had crawled into the bottle and were trapped there. After work, he’d drop them off at a pet store where they could be used as snake food.
When he arrived at work, the receptionist said, “You look nice,” as though she didn’t notice he wore the same shirt as he had the day before and that he smelled slightly of pee. “You look like someone who’s captured the mouse market,” she teased.
He did feel buoyant. He had lain beside Punky until the last minute, debating whether to call in sick, and when he’d decided to go, he didn’t have time to shower, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t believe for a moment that love conquered all. But it conquered a whiff of urine.
The Tocker Ticks
As Lefty dragged Todd from the apartment, Florence was not sleeping one off. She was absent from the laundry room because she was preparing to relinquish her calico cat for the soul of Mrs. Bean. She waited until the old lady would be up, and then gathered the motley mass in her arms. Hair coated her hands as Florence stroked and caressed the cat, murmuring goodbyes and comforting herself that the cat would be nearby.
She explained to the cat that she’d have a new home. Florence had dismissed the idea of Tom, her favorite, and the other two were too wild to adjust to the sedentary life at Mrs. Bean’s. Florence prayed old String would pamper the cat as she had Buddha Belly. The sacrifice had to be made and this neurotic cat called Cowlickcoo that loved to loaf in any hot spot was the best choice. She could hardly afford to buy the woman a new Himalayan, but without a companion, Mrs. Bean would not live long. Florence felt sure of that.
As Florence knocked and knocked at Mrs. Bean’s door, the cat became more aroused and frightened, until finally Florence, who’d known Mrs. Bean for ten years, called, “It’s me, love,” and cracked the front door.
Springing from Florence’s arms, the calico cat landed on the lap of pale pink, synthetic fiber with two toothpick legs protruding from it, and from there to the floor.
“Didn’t you hear me at the door?” Florence said.
Undisturbed by the wild cat and enveloped by an overstuffed chair, the old woman stretched her eyes wide and clasped what used to be her bosom. “Oh, yes,” she moaned, “but I’m having a heart attack, Florence.”
With the experience of a woman who for fifty years had attracted catastrophes, Florence picked up the phone, but before dialing, she peeked out the window. To her disbelief, as though God were in Heaven and still performed miracles, a Sheriff’s vehicle rolled into the driveway.
With nervous glances toward Lefty’s unit, Punky watched the arrival of the cruiser from the Sheriff’s Office through the window. This small, unincorporated neighborhood didn’t even have a police department, and the green sheriff’s car with the gold star on the door arrived without a siren. She’d imagined a more dramatic rescue.
She drew back from the window, almost knocking over Todd who’d been clinging to her leg since the incident. With a palm on each of the boy’s healthy cheeks, she manipulated his head looking for boogers, earwax, dirt, and other natural child phenomena that might be construed as neglect. She double checked her own hair in the bathroom mirror and tried to imagine the first impression of her apartment on this sheriff deputy.
When enough time had passed so that even the greenest of horns should have made it to the door, she glanced out the window again. The ephemeral car had vaporized. Inculcated with the magic of Irish folklore, enchanted by acid trips as a teenager, and receptive as an adult to the mysterious, when Punky peered down the drive and still didn’t see anything, she consulted her Guide to Alternatives to Chemical Medicine for a calming blend of herbs. Had she hallucinated?
As she put the teakettle on the stove, the trauma of the morning caught up with Todd. He wailed, tugging at the hem of her shirt, wanting to be picked up, crying for his binky, the immediate demands driving out Punky’s thought of calling the sheriff again.
The Invisible Lady
A book bag weighed down my right arm, the hand grasping a huge ring of keys. My purse, my empty lunch bag, and a ten-pound American literature text that I couldn’t squeeze into the book bag encumbered the other arm. I liked the challenge of trying to pick up my m
ail and open the front door without unloading anything. This feat required clutching something either with my knees or teeth, and I’d just stuck the corners of the junk mail into my mouth so my fingertips could handle the keys, when behind me a clear, healthy, unmistakably feminine voice said, “Come here. I want to meet you.”
I barely turned, believing no one would compromise me in such an awkward position, but then the voice directed me, “Over here.” My ears told me the sound came from The Invisible Lady’s apartment, but that seemed so unlikely my gaze roved the driveway for a woman.
I cracked my door and lowered the bag inside the front room, took the mail from my mouth and peered around again for the owner of the voice.
“Come to the window,” the voice said.
The young voice probably belonged to one of The Invisible Lady’s relatives. I dumped the rest of my things into my apartment and walked across the asphalt to the window.
Although declining into dusk, the November afternoon still glowed brighter than the inside of the apartment so I could see only a silhouette with flowing locks that spilled over squared shoulders. Since the apartments were raised from the asphalt, my head cocked at an uncomfortable angle as I squinted through the screen at the woman who seemed to be separated from the window by a table or desk.
“Aren’t you cold with the window open?” I asked in my motherly, school-teacher way.
“Oh, I wear a sweater to watch the world,” she said lightly. “Besides I might ask you the same question.”
“There’s a gas leak in my apartment.”
The woman sighed impatiently. “Good grief. Why don’t you call P.G. & E?”
“I thought I had to check with the landlord first.” This had to be The Invisible Lady, but I’d expected a poor, helpless creature. An elderly person. I didn’t think it polite to ask why she didn’t come out, what her affliction might be, so I waited for her to reveal her purpose. She reached across her desk, unfastened the bottom of her screen, and nudged it outward. Slender, elegant, white fingers extended from the crack with a white paper folded like a business letter. This hand belonged to a young person. I leaned closer and saw that the flowing reddish hair framed a smooth face, the face of a woman neither young nor old.
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