The Art of Forgetting

by Peter Palmieri

  “No, you probably couldn’t handle the gore,” Erin said. “I don’t think you’re gay… Shit! Don’t tell me you’re secretly married.”

  Lloyd shook his head. “I’m not married.”

  “Okay. Then… maybe an evil witch put a spell on you. You were a cute little frog and she turned you into an ogre.” Erin looked down to his shoes and slowly brought her gaze back up.

  Lloyd peered into her eyes. “That’s it, actually. I’m cursed. I carry a family curse.”

  Erin opened her mouth to say something but caught herself. She regarded him quietly for a moment and finally nodded once as if acknowledging the recognition of sincerity.

  She grabbed his forearm, pulled his hand out of his pocket and grasped it firmly. Then she gave him a sharp tug and the two were running down the sidewalk, hand in hand, towards Lloyd’s apartment. Crossing the side-street to Lloyd’s block, they badly mis-timed a jump and landed ankle deep in a little stream that had formed near a rain gutter. They exchanged a comical glance and kept jogging until they arrived at the apartment’s doorstep breathless. Lloyd caught a glimpse of a smile on Erin’s lips, but then she turned to look at the soggy pile on the curb which was all that was left of the sandwich bag and frowned. Lloyd stepped over and tried to salvage the remains but they were a hopeless, sopping mess. He scooped everything in his hands, walked to a nearby trash can. He was about to toss the dripping bundle in the bin when Erin said, “Wait, I’m starving.”

  Lloyd let the bag drop in the trash and brushed his hands against the back of his jeans. “Don’t worry. I still have all the food I ordered last night.”

  He took a couple of hops over shallow puddles to get to the door and grasped the handle when Erin said, “You told me last night you didn’t order any food.”

  “Oh, yeah. I lied about that.” He pushed the door open and as he crossed the threshold he felt a slap on his butt.

  Lloyd’s windowless first floor was as cool as a cellar. Erin started shivering.

  “It’s freezing in here.”

  Lloyd tried rubbing her arms briskly. “Is that better?”

  “No-o-o,” she said through chattering teeth.

  “We need to get out of these wet clothes.”

  Erin raised her eyebrow in her trademark way.

  “What?” Lloyd said with a soft chortle.

  “I’m not ready for… you know.”

  “Yeah, I know. We just need to get you in a hot shower.”

  “You think we could handle being naked and just… I don’t know… snuggle?” she asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” Lloyd nodded. His body quivered. “Sure. Absolutely.”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “So am I. Dead serious.”

  Erin began to unbutton her blouse. Lloyd unfastened the buttons of his shirt. By the time he started to unzip his fly Erin had already kicked off her pumps and slipped out of her skirt. Lloyd struggled to peel off his jeans, made heavy by their wetness. Erin turned her back to him and said, “A little help?”

  He unfastened the metal clasp of her bra, his heart pounding against his rib cage, every breath filling him with the eager trepidation of a schoolboy. When Erin turned, clutching her bra against her chest, Lloyd pulled his boxers down, letting them drape around his ankles. He stepped out with one foot gave a kick with the other sending the boxers aloft in a high arc that ended on the windshield of his dusty Subaru.

  Erin laughed. She tossed aside her bra and slowly removed her silk panties. The two stood facing each other, eyes locked, hesitant to gawk at each other’s nakedness. Then Lloyd allowed his eyes drift down.

  More than once, Lloyd had felt the let-down, when seeing a woman nude for the first time, which came with the realization that she looked far better with her clothes on: dimpled thighs made smooth by the travesty of Spandex, drooping breasts sustained and shaped by the gravity-defying marvels that are wonder-bras. But with Erin the effect was quite the opposite. She stood before him even more alluringly than he could have imagined – and he had imagined quite a lot. She had all the grace and beauty of a butterfly freshly emerged from her cocoon, the curves of her body freed to glow in unimaginable splendor.

  “So…” Erin said.

  Lloyd cleared his voice. “So… if Botticelli saw you like this he’d have to white wash his Birth of Venus and start all over again.”

  “Gee, that’s just about the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me. But what I was about to say was, so, how about that hot shower?”

  “After you,” Lloyd signaled up the stairs with his arm.

  Erin smiled. “You just want to sneak a peek at my butt.”

  “I do. I bet you have big hairy moles on your ass.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “You have to. Nobody can be this perfect.”

  Erin studied him for a moment. Then she flung her arms around his neck and pressed her lips against his.

  “So…” she said, “Do you like me?”

  “You’re starting to grow on me.”

  “It looks like you’re starting to grow on me.”

  She let go of him, stepped back half a step and looked down. “Easy Pavlov!” she said. Remember, just snuggling.” Then she scampered up the stairs.

  Not a single hairy mole on her butt.

  Chapter 16

  While Erin showered, Lloyd toweled off and pulled on a fresh t-shirt and shorts. He cleared the papers and files from the dining table and stacked them on the floor next to the sofa. Then he went to the fridge and pulled out the containers of takeout from the night before and laid them out on the granite counter. The sound of a blow-dryer made him stop and turn.

  He opened a cupboard and removed the new serving dishes, emptied each container in a separate dish and cued them up in front of the microwave. He studied the Nua Nom Tok for a moment, removed the strips of beef and tossed the wilted salad in the trash. With the Panang curry popping and hissing in the microwave, Lloyd extracted a bottle of Pinot Grigio from the fridge and studied its label. Strange how they bottled damn good wine with screw-off tops nowadays. He walked to the table, bottle and wine glasses in hand and started pouring when Erin stepped out of the bedroom. She was wearing a pair of plaid boxers and one of his blue dress shirts rolled up at the sleeves, buttoned sparingly.

  “You’re spilling,” she said.

  Lloyd righted the bottle, set it on the table and lifted the glasses out from the puddle he had created.

  “You okay?” Erin asked.

  “The clothes caught me by surprise.”

  “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, not at all,” he said. And he meant it. For once, he felt a fluid smugness that a woman was playing house in one of his shirts. He looked her over head to toe. She was breathtaking. “That shirt looks way better on you than it does on me.”

  “I think I might steal it from you. It’s so comfy. I love the way it feels.”

  Had any other woman said this he’d be bristling by now but strangely Erin’s comment made him giddy.

  They ate saying little, glancing at each other but not holding eye contact very long. Erin wiped her lips on a paper napkin, closed her eyes and filled her lungs with a deep breath.

  “That really hit the spot. I was famished,” she said.

  “We still have dessert,” Lloyd said sliding a pair of cellophane wrapped fortune cookies between them.

  “I could use some words of wisdom about now,” she said.

  “Why don’t you stay the night?”

  “Lloyd…”

  “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

  Erin studied his expression. “I don’t know Lloyd. I better read my fortune first.”

  They peeled off the cellophane wrappers, snapped the cookies in half and extracted the slips of paper. Erin’s eyes widened. She turned to Lloyd and smiled.

  “So what does it say?” Lloyd asked.

  “Be both a speaker of words and a doer of deeds.”

  “I guess you’re staying the n
ight, then. Can’t argue with the fortune cookie. It’s bad karma.”

  “What does yours say?” Erin asked.

  Lloyd held the strip of paper in front of him and said, “I hope your skank gives you crabs too.”

  “Shut up! It does not say that.”

  “I wonder who writes these.”

  “Gosh, that was such a horrible thing to say to you.”

  “It’s not a phrase Hallmark is likely to use any time soon,” Lloyd said.

  “I’m sorry I said that. Even though you deserved it.”

  Lloyd held up his fortune again and said, “Lucky numbers: six, six, six.”

  “You’re such a liar Lloyd.”

  “I never lie.”

  “Oh, yeah? I already caught you in two lies. You lied about not ordering food last night.”

  “That wasn’t a lie,” Lloyd said. “It was me being polite. I told you a more pleasant version of the truth.”

  “Whatever.”

  “And what was the other lie?”

  Erin bit into her fortune cookie and stared at Lloyd.

  “The other lie, Erin?”

  “You said the boy I knew from North Mason was gone. It’s not true. I caught a glimpse of him again tonight.” Lloyd looked down and folded the thin piece of paper in half, ironing a straight crease down its middle with his fingers. She leaned forward. “So what does your fortune cookie say?”

  “I already told you.”

  She pried the sliver of paper from Lloyd’s hands, unfolded it and read it aloud. “The one you love is closer than you think.” She raised her eyes to meet his. “So, Lloyd, do you like me?”

  “Yeah, I guess I do.”

  Erin smiled a two dimple smile. “I knew it!”

  The rain had stopped. Lloyd lay on the sofa unable to sleep. He listened to the drone of the season’s first cicadas that rose in waves of crescendo to a burst of clicks that sounded like a sprinkler before settling back to a whirring baseline. In another month, the insects would emerge in droves from their seventeen year slumber and their desperate mating call would surge loud enough to drown out the roar of the Lake street El.

  Lloyd kneaded his forehead. Just a few weeks ago his life was manageable, predictable. He had a clear trajectory which had brought him within grasp of the cure he had sought since deciding to pursue a career in medicine. Along the way he had been the master of his emotions. The one-night stands were a just reward for his self-discipline. Now, his life was coming unraveled.

  His research had come to a halt, the emotional wall he had built to insulate himself was crumbling and all he could do was think of Erin walking barefoot in his apartment in his boxers and dress shirt – Erin who was now walking towards him in his boxers but no dress shirt. She squeezed onto the sofa next to Lloyd.

  “I can’t sleep,” she said.

  “Neither can I.”

  “What are we Lloyd?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Friends? Lovers? Paramours? What do you call this?”

  “I’m just following your lead,” Lloyd said.

  Erin placed a hand on his chest.

  “Have you ever been in love?” she asked him.

  “No.”

  “You’ve never fallen in love?”

  “Not even close.”

  “That’s hard to believe,” she said. “I had the impression…”

  “You thought I’d been hurt. That someone broke my heart.” Erin propped herself on an elbow to study his expression. “No, Erin. I’m the one who doles out the pain.”

  “Then why are you so afraid to fall in love? Is it the fear of the unknown?”

  “I said I didn’t want to hurt you,” Lloyd said.

  “Will you, Lloyd? Will you hurt me?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll either hurt you or I’ll ruin your life.”

  “Wow! You really know how to charm a girl.”

  “It’s beyond my control. It’s my crummy fate.”

  “Because you’re cursed,” Erin said.

  “That’s right.”

  Erin rested her head on his shoulder. “What about your father?”

  “What do you know about my father?” Lloyd asked.

  “I know my dad sold him a life insurance policy, and when your father died the company wouldn’t pay out the death premium.”

  Lloyd said nothing.

  “Your father… did he have the curse?”

  Lloyd nodded.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

  He ran his fingers through her hair. “Do you want to make love?”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to. I’m just not ready yet.”

  Lloyd kissed her forehead. “You just answered your own question.”

  Chapter 17

  The entire next morning Lloyd felt giddy. He conducted his outpatient clinic with an unusual cheerfulness that was unperturbed even by the visit of a clutching hypochondriac that Lloyd had been treating since we has a resident. By the afternoon his feet came back to the ground when he walked through his lab on the way to his office and saw Kaz cleaning mouse cages with a toothbrush.

  “What else can I do?” the lab technician said with a shrug.

  Lloyd was back at his desk, scrolling through the spreadsheet that contained the hard data on all the treated mice, writing down lot numbers of the prion preparation each was injected with when his cell phone vibrated and chirped on his desk. The display on the screen read, “Number unknown.” Maybe it was Erin. Lloyd cleared his throat and let it ring once more before he answered it. It was Uncle Roy.

  “I wondered if you might have time to meet for coffee,” Roy said

  Lloyd mentioned the name of a chain coffee shop

  “Heavens, no. There’s a small café in Elmwood Park on North Harlem. Great coffee, no paper cups, no wooden sticks for stirrers.”

  “In the Italian neighborhood?” Lloyd asked.

  “Where else?”

  Lloyd rode his motorcycle past the train tracks in Elmwood Park where Harlem Avenue narrows and the traffic bogs as drivers try to parallel park into narrow spaces on the crowded street. He knew he was getting close to his destination when he passed a grocery store where fruits and vegetables were stacked in pine-wood crates along an outside wall. On the next block, a fish market and a bakery were engaged in a battle of dueling odors. Past the next stop light he saw a sign with the inscription “Caffè Amalfi” under a coat of arms consisting of a white Maltese cross on a blue background.

  He parked in a space next to another motorcycle and entered through the smoked glass tinted door. The café was furnished in an elegant, modern European décor. A rich aroma of coffee mixed with the acrid smell of unfiltered cigarettes and cigars. The bar counter was nothing short of a work of art in Italian marble.

  Four elderly men sat at a corner table arguing in Italian, playing cards in hand. An aloof young man in a shirt and tie sat alone at another table. He looked up at Lloyd, licked his thumb and turned the page of a newspaper printed on pink stock that lay spread open on his table. A geezer in a tweed sports coat with gray stubble sprouting from skin the color and texture of leather stood at the bar, spooning way too much sugar in a demitasse. Behind the bar, a burly man with a lush, black mustache and wavy hair polished a wine glass with a cotton rag, keeping a watch on Lloyd all the while.

  Lloyd stepped up to the bar. The bartender placed the wine glass on a towel lined shelf, hung the rag on a small rack and resumed staring at Lloyd.

  “An espresso, please,” Lloyd said.

  Without a word the barista removed the handle from the chromed espresso machine. He emptied the packed grinds by slamming the metal basket against a padded bar that was fixed diagonally across the top of a trash can, then rinsed the basket in a sink before delivering a precise aliquot of fresh-ground coffee from a large dispenser. He torqued the handle back onto the espresso machine, flicked a toggle switch and a few seconds later, set an elegant demitasse atop the matching saucer he had alr
eady placed on the marble bar top. He completed the picture by depositing a tiny spoon on the saucer. Then he walked a few steps down the bar, put a hand on a silver sugar dispenser that had two long spoons sticking out of it like antennae, and slid it next to Lloyd’s coffee as the leather skinned man watched on with melancholy eyes. Finally he stood there, both hands resting on the bar top, gawking at Lloyd, as if challenging him to criticize his creation.

  Lloyd added a dollop of sugar to the cup, stirred and took a sip. It was the best coffee he had ever tasted. He downed the rest in one drag.

  “Good?” the barista asked.

  “Very good,” Lloyd said. The burly man didn’t move. He kept his eyes fixed on Lloyd. Lloyd turned to look at the geezer in the tweed jacket who was also staring at him. The old man smiled a partly toothless smile making Lloyd look away.

  “So, what do I owe you?” Lloyd asked the bartender.

  “Are you Italian?” the burly man asked.

  Lloyd shook his head.

  “Two dollars,” said the bartender.

  Lloyd pulled two bills from his wallet. “What would you have said if I told you I was Italian?”

  The bartender took the money. “I would have said, ‘Due scudi, minchione!’”

  The leather man cackled and wheezed and slapped the surface of the counter. The bartender slipped the money in the cash register, picked up the cotton rag and started polishing another wine glass.

  “Hey, friend,” the leather man said. “You sure you not Italian?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Maybe just a little Italian, no?”

  “Irish and Welsh,” Lloyd said.

  “Irish and Welch? You no look Irish. You look Italian. Maybe your mother, she aah…” he made some indiscernible hand gestures.

  “Gennaro!” the barista shouted. “Fatti i cazzi tuoi!” then his expression softened as he looked over Lloyd’s shoulder. “Mi scusi, padre…”

  Lloyd felt a hand on his shoulder and a voice said “Non è niente.”

  Lloyd turned and saw Uncle Roy in a short sleeve black shirt with a clerical collar, straining a thin smile. “Shall we take a table?” Roy asked.

  As the men ambled toward a table the barista strode around the counter, wiped the table top and held the back of the chairs as they sat. A miraculous transformation. “What can I get you?” he asked with a flustered smile.