All That's Left

by Ward Anderson

  21

  “How was your Christmas?” The woman behind the counter at Second Cup smiles politely at Steven as she hands him his large coffee. She’s served him dozens of times before and knew instantly what he was going to order before he even asked for it. He can tell that she’s dying to ask him about the bruises on his face. If only she knew what they looked like two weeks ago.

  “It was nice,” he lies. “Yours?”

  “The usual.”

  “Happy New Year, I guess.”

  “You, too.” She smiles and goes back to cleaning the cappuccino machine.

  Steven turns to make his way to his usual seat at his usual table, when he stops himself and turns back around. He’s been coming here for years, ordering the same coffee from the same handful of employees. There are always some new faces here and there, but it’s been pretty much the same staff for the better part of the past year. He steps back up to the counter and catches the barista’s eye.

  “Hey.” He extends his hand. “I’m Steven.”

  “Marie.” She smiles, and her teeth almost outshine the Christmas lights still hanging in the window.

  Steven gives her a nod, then turns around and leaves her to her work, slowly limping his way to the back of the café. His ribs still ache with every step, and he can barely grip his coffee cup because of the brace on his wrist. But somehow he still manages. At least his face is starting to look a little normal again. He’s gotten pretty tired of being stared at everywhere he goes. He probably should still be taking the painkillers he was prescribed, but he figures that all the wine he’s been drinking is pretty much having the same effect. At least he’s not mixing the two anymore.

  As luck would have it, his favorite table is empty, and he slowly lowers himself into his usual chair. This time of day, middle of the week, there are only a couple of other customers, and they chose to sit in the comfortable leather chairs near the middle of the shop. Just the way Steven likes it, he’s practically alone, right next to the electric fireplace that is pretending to crackle in the corner. Outside, the cold January wind is pushing pedestrians up and down the street. It snowed last week, but it’s been raining all morning. The city looks like one big ball of dirt and slush but, somehow, Steven thinks it’s still quite pretty.

  He gently puts his messenger bag on the chair next to him and leans over his coffee while staring outside. It feels as if it’s been months since he was here last, although it’s probably only been about six weeks. On the plane coming home from Singapore, he imagined this was the next place he’d go after getting back to his condo. Instead he stayed away for almost three weeks. As if this little coffee shop were a wife he cheated on overseas and was too ashamed to confront. Sitting here now, he feels as if he never left. That is, of course, until he moves and every aching muscle and bruise brings it all screaming back to him.

  After a minute of staring at the electric fireplace beside him, he reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out the contents. There’s paper, envelopes, and an old fountain pen that once belonged to his father. He’s kept it in a shoebox in his closet for over ten years. As he puts the messenger bag back on the chair and places the fancy stationery in front of himself, he bumps his broken finger on the side of the table. The pain causes his entire arm to jerk back, and he winces hard from the shock it sends up his arm. The pain is gone almost as quickly as it comes, but he drops the fountain pen and it goes rolling out of his hand, onto the table, and then onto the floor. It doesn’t stop there, but instead rolls a few feet away. Steven slumps in his seat, staring at it for a minute, cursing under his breath.

  Sonofa . . . he thinks, looking at his wrist brace, which might as well be shackles at this point. Somewhere in the background, he hears Dean Martin singing. The café probably stopped playing Christmas music on New Year’s Day.

  Taking a deep breath, Steven starts to stand up, but is stopped by his injured ribs, which feel as if they are shooting through his skin and into the back of the chair. He sits down again and tries leaning forward instead of attempting to stand all the way up. This hurts more, and he leans back again, trying to breathe calmly while staring at the elusive pen lying a mere five feet away.

  “How was your Christmas?” a pretty voice asks as a pair of women’s winter boots steps directly behind the fountain pen.

  Steven looks up and is surprised to see her standing there. She looks exactly like she did the last time he saw her, and he swears she’s wearing the exact same perfume. Her hair is mostly bundled under a knit cap, her bangs sprouting out from beneath the front. She blows on her coffee and gives him what could almost be called a smirk.

  “Hello, Robin.” Steven smirks back.

  “Oh, my God.” Robin’s expression changes when she gets a good look at Steven’s face. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “You should see the other guy.”

  “Jesus.”

  “No, really. You should see the other guy. I really do look better.”

  “What the hell happened? Did you get mugged?”

  Steven shrugs. “Killed a pimp.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Just dandy, thanks. You wanna hand me that pen?”

  She picks up the fountain pen and places it gently on the table, as if setting it down harder would somehow bruise Steven more than he already is. Steven inspects the pen as if it were made of glass and the fall to the floor nearly shattered it. Satisfied that there has been no permanent damage from its being treated like a pen, he puts it down on the table again and looks back at Robin.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  “I knew you’d be here,” she says, and motions to the chair directly across the table.

  “By all means.” Steven sighs. As Robin sits, he looks around the café at the other customers, at Marie, and at any possible escape route he can plan. Then he thinks about jamming the fountain pen into his own neck.

  “How are you holding up?” Robin asks, taking a sip of what is probably a soy chai latte. “All things considered, I mean.”

  “One more time”—Steven raises his eyebrows—“what are you doing here?”

  “Just seeing if you’re alright. I haven’t heard anything from you, so I was just hoping you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine, thanks. How’s my stuff?”

  “My stuff,” she says, and pushes one of her bangs out of her eyes and under her hat. She’s wearing a turtleneck sweater that Steven knows is one of her favorites. “It was our stuff, but now it’s my stuff. It’s only fair.”

  “Fair? How do you figure?”

  “It’s all I have left.”

  “Well, that makes one of us,” Steven scoffs. “You cleaned me out. Most of that stuff was there when I met you.”

  “We bought a lot of it together—”

  “I bought it.”

  “Because I couldn’t afford it.” She starts to raise her voice, but catches herself. Taking a breath, she bites her bottom lip for a second before she starts again, this time with a calmer tone. “Look, I don’t want to argue with you, Steven. I really don’t.”

  “Fine,” Steven says. “Keep the furniture. I’m going to replace it anyway.”

  “And that’s what you don’t get.” She pats the table with her left hand while sipping her latte with the right.

  “What?”

  “You can easily get new furniture. You always could. You can afford it with no problem. You could have anything you wanted and you always did, unlike some of us.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “You don’t remember, but the entire reason we have all that furniture is because you made me get rid of mine.”

  “I did not—”

  “You said it was awful and, no matter how great a decorator I might be, you’d never have any of that in your house. Everything I tried to bring with me when we moved in together, it was gone.”

  Steven scrunches up his face and takes a big gulp of his coffee. What started as
a perfectly nice winter’s day—the kind he dreams about all year long—has suddenly turned more bitter than the wind outside. Ten minutes ago Robin was the ex he barely ever thought about. He even thought his anger toward her was pretty much behind him. Sitting here looking at her now, he realizes that’s not remotely true.

  Then he realizes that she’s right.

  He hated almost everything she owned. She sold it online or gave it away because he promised to buy anything they needed. After all, he had money and she never did. She came into the relationship with almost nothing, but only because he made it be that way. He’s not sure if he completely forgot or just never gave it much thought in the first place. He takes another gulp of his coffee and suddenly doesn’t feel as smug anymore. Now he wishes there was booze in his cup.

  “You’re right,” he says, and it stings almost as much as the bruises on his face. “All that stuff should be yours.”

  “Thank you.” She seems sincere and gives him a tiny smile.

  “But what about all the wine?” he asks, still trying to win an argument he lost the day she moved out.

  “I didn’t take it. I moved it. It’s in the storage locker in the basement.”

  “What? Why?”

  “It’s expensive, and I didn’t want the movers to break anything when I was leaving. I know it’s important to you.”

  Steven is ashamed of himself and starts to chuckle. “Why didn’t you tell me that before now?” he asks.

  “To be an asshole,” she says. This almost makes Steven laugh out loud. Instead, he just smiles and raises his cup to her.

  “Happy New Year,” he says, and thinks about ordering another coffee. He wonders if he can talk Robin into getting it for him so he won’t have to stand up.

  “Are you okay?” she asks again. “I mean, about your brother and Singapore and everything?”

  Steven looks out the window and tries to think about the wonderful, awful, bitter wind and snow and freezing temperature that is blanketing the city. He thinks about his topcoat and scarf and thick sweater. He thinks about his winter boots and people trying to start their cars. He tries his best not to think about the intense humidity and heat in Singapore City. He tries not to think about the spicy food and the Four Floors of Whores and about the Minang headdress.

  The bull wins, he thinks.

  “I’m fine,” he says. “I mean, I’ll be okay.”

  “I went by the apartment, before I came here. To see if you were there. Have you been sleeping on the floor?”

  “Haven’t picked out new stuff yet. Was waiting for after Christmas.”

  “Anyway, I just want you to be okay.”

  “I will be.”

  She starts to get up, but stops herself. Steven can tell there’s more she wants to say, but that she’s holding back. He’s actually surprised that the conversation went as well as it did, and wonders if it’d be best for both of them if they never said another word again. At least then they could actually say it ended well and they both moved on with relatively little drama.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you. You’re not wearing a tie or a blazer.”

  “I’m trying a new thing. Casual Wednesday.”

  “What’s with the fancy pen and paper?” she asks, although Steven knows it’s not what she was thinking. She’s using it as an excuse to stay a few minutes longer and then will maybe decide whether or not she wants to spill her guts out a little bit.

  “Writing a letter.” He flicks the cap off the pen and holds it out as if he’s just invented it.

  “Really? Is your laptop broken?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then why?”

  “No one writes letters anymore.”

  She starts to ask him another question, but stops and stares at him for a minute, her mouth slightly open. That one strand of hair has fallen out of her hat and is now hanging over her right eye again. She doesn’t seem to mind, nor does she make any effort to push it away. In the background, Paul Anka is playing on the radio. After a few seconds, Robin sits back in her chair and drums her fingers on the table. Steven is surprised that it doesn’t bother him in the slightest.

  “Who is she?” Robin asks, grinning slyly.

  “Who is who?”

  “The woman you met over there in Asia?”

  Steven’s eyes go wide, and he nearly drops his precious fountain pen on the floor again. Fumbling with it, he puts the cap back on and places it in the middle of the table. He shifts in his seat, feeling his ribs stab against him as he does.

  “There is no woman in Asia.”

  “Of course there is. I know it.”

  “And how’s that?”

  “Because I remember what you were like when that woman was me.”

  Steven starts to speak, but is left with nothing to say. He takes the last sip of his coffee and then looks at the fake fire pretending to crackle in the corner. He looks back at Robin and thinks he should smile or something, but instead he just shrugs his shoulders and says nothing.

  Robin says, “It all makes sense. You miss her.”

  “Maybe,” Steven says softly. “But it’s nothing.”

  “Doesn’t seem like nothing.”

  “It is. It’s over.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Really? That seems weird coming from you.”

  “Believe it or not,” she says, and starts to button her overcoat, “I want to see you happy. Just because it won’t be with me doesn’t mean I don’t want it to happen.”

  “You were the one who was unhappy.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “No?”

  “Well, I wasn’t happy,” she agrees. “But you hadn’t been for a long time, either. You just don’t like change. Or changing your routine. Or confrontations. It was easier for you to stay than to leave and have to start over again or change anything you were doing. Or just tell me to get the hell out. Any other man would have kicked me out a year ago.”

  She’s right, and Steven knows it. He deliberately sabotaged the relationship while thinking it was her. He grew complacent and simply went through the motions, doing nothing. Rather than fight for her or even with her, he just pretended the problems weren’t there at all. It’s why she broke bottles of wine and picked fights. She was trying to get him to realize what she had accepted months ago.

  “So.” Robin stands up and takes one last, long gulp of her latte. “If this woman in Asia or wherever has somehow got you pulling out of this never-ending rut you seem to have been in for God knows how long, I say write whatever letter makes that happen.”

  “You don’t even know who she is.”

  “But I can tell she obviously matters to you, so that’s all that really matters. What’s left besides that?”

  Steven sighs. “I’ll probably never even send it.”

  “You should. She’s definitely special.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Because I’ve been cracking my chewing gum the entire time I’ve been here and you didn’t even notice it. Not once.”

  This hits Steven in the face like a hammer, and he is left with nothing to say. She blows a bubble that pops loudly, then leans over and kisses him on the cheek that isn’t bruised. Steven looks up at her and, for the first time in what is probably months, gives her a genuine smile. She pushes her hair back up into her hat again and returns the smile as she starts to walk away.

  “Hey”—she turns around—“did you start smoking?”

  “What?” He looks at her as if she’s just grown a tail.

  “When I was at the apartment, there was a dish on the counter. Looked like it had some ashes or dirt or something in it. I figured you were using it as an ashtray.”

  Scotty, he thinks.

  “It’s nothing,” he says.

  “Well, I rinsed it out and tossed it in the dishwasher for you.”

  “I appreciate that,” he says as he watches her walk out the door and back into the cold.
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br />   22

  Dania drops her keys on the little table right next to the door. Like every other winter she’s ever lived in Singapore, it’s still quite hot outside and, even with the air-conditioning on high, she’s still sweating a bit when she walks in. There is a tiny mirror on the wall right there and, every time she walks into the little studio apartment, she catches a glimpse of herself. The bruises are gone, but she can still feel the ache in her chin. She looks to make sure there is nothing visible, but she still feels as if the marks are there.

  She can’t believe it’s almost February. She wonders where the past several weeks have gone. It’s a brand new year with a brand new job. Nez is gone and, with him, so is the gig at Orchard Towers. She isn’t upset, and she doesn’t miss it. She never liked the job that much anyway. She works more shifts at The Shark Fin. She does more looking for new gigs and new managers. But she can deal with it. She likes this better.

  She sings at The British Club a few nights a week. It’s not the same as the last gig, with the full band and the weird men in the audience; just her and a guy on piano, doing quiet songs and jazz standards. It’s just the way she likes it. There’s less money, but she’s okay with that. She gets to keep all of it for herself this time. There’s no one she owes anything to anymore. No one knows anything about her, and she likes it that way.

  She likes singing for the British ex-pats and workers. It’s mostly bankers and finance guys and their wives. The people who go to the club every night to pretend they are still back home or—at the very least—anywhere but in Singapore. They sit at the bar and listen to her sing Rosemary Clooney and Etta James and Lena Horne. They pretend they are still in England and, for a while every night, she pretends she’s there with them.

  There are no more floors with whores for her now. There are no more of the sleazy drunks leering at her across the room. No one trying to buy her for the night. No more of the dancers at The Crazy Horse looking at her like they know her, or like they want to be her.

  And yet, when she looks at herself in the mirror, she doesn’t smile.

  Tossing her purse aside, she goes through the mail that was slipped under the door. There’s never anything worth keeping, just the occasional bill and the occasional junk. It’s just enough to make her feel like she’s still alive. At the bottom of the stack, she finds the one envelope that feels out of place and holds it up to the light. The international postage envelope catches her eye, and she immediately feels her heart stop.