The Minor Apocalypse of Meena Krejci

by Susan Taylor Chehak

  Mrs. Grandon was at home when you went by, and she was alone, sitting all by herself at the kitchen table and playing solitaire. She looked up, startled when you knocked at the back door, and then she invited you in with a wave of her hand, a gesture that seemed so natural and normal, so familiar, that for a minute you were thinking this was just like old times, when you would be here together waiting for Libbie and John and Mr. Grandon to come home from play and school and work. Except it wasn't anything like that now, because nobody was coming home—they didn't any of them even live there anymore. Libbie had Matka's apartment with Fox, and John was off at college in California, and Mr. Grandon was camped downtown in a room of his own at the Fielding Hotel.

  The house was clean and quiet as usual, perfectly presentable, hushed and hopeful as a museum, the rooms untouched and unused and on display for anyone who might care to come and look and see. The oven was cold, but the sink was scrubbed. The floor was polished. The appliances gleamed.

  Mrs. Grandon lit a match, lit a cigarette, squinted at you. "How are you?" she asked. She nodded at an empty chair, and you sat down in it.

  "Fine. Good. I'm okay." Shrug. "The same."

  She cocked her head and studied you for a moment, her own face open, eyes wide, expression frank. She was kind, as always. Worried for your welfare, it seemed, careful of your feelings, thoughtful for your well-being. Just as she had been when you and Libbie were younger and maybe you argued and Libbie went upstairs to her room to pout and Mrs. Grandon would be there, looking at you, poor Meena Krejci, motherless girl on her own. She'd take you into the kitchen, give you something sweet. Send you home with a soft kiss and a gentle pat.

  "Come back tomorrow, Meena. Little Miss Princess will be over her snit by then."

  But: "What's wrong, Meena?" she was asking now. "I can tell just by looking at you, your face all fisted up. Something's wrong." She sat back, blew smoke, pleased with herself and what she believed to be her sensitive perceptions. "Isn't it?"

  You weren't sure what to say, didn't know where to start.

  "Not sick are you?"

  You shook your head. "No. No. Nothing like that."

  Mrs. Grandon smiled. Tilted her chin. "Boy trouble?

  You winced. "No, not that either."

  Mrs. Grandon crushed her cigarette out in the ashtray, sighed, leaned on her elbows and studied the cards that she'd laid out on the table. Drew one from the pile in her hand and placed it—an ace. From this she looked up and fixed her eyes on you—ice blue, stone cold, lashes heavy with black mascara. She'd cut her bangs short so that they feathered her forehead, against skin as softly creased as the chamois that her husband used to polish the curvy fenders of his convertible. She was wearing a dress with big blocks of bright color, meant to imitate a painting by Mondrian.

  "Tell me about Fox Dow," she said.

  That took you aback. And anyway, you didn't know much. Just that after their first encounter he called Libbie on the phone and asked her to meet him.

  "Where?"

  The woods. On Hollow Hill.

  You knew this because you had been watching from your window and you'd seen Libbie climbing through the overgrowth, up the hill behind the houses. The path was a treachery of nettles and weeds then, but that didn't stop her, she didn't seem to mind. In her shorts and her tank top. Her hair pulled back into a pony tail. Sneakers on her feet—black boys' high-tops that you knew she'd swiped from Sanford's, just put them on and walked out of the store.

  "Jesus, Libbie," you had scolded when Libbie told you about it, bragging, proud. "What if you'd got caught?"

  A careless shrug. Her white hair shining in the street lamp, so bright even the moths were drawn to it.

  "I didn't," she'd replied. "But I didn't."

  And now, exposed to the wiser scrutiny of Mrs. Grandon's judgment, you could feel the heat rising in your face. "What do you want to know?"

  "Everything."

  "Well, I sure don't know everything."

  "All right." Mrs. Grandon nodded.

  "Just… his name is Dow." What else was there to say? "He's rich."

  She nodded again. "What's he like then?"

  "He seems okay. I think maybe he loves her."

  "Love." Mrs. Grandon spat the word. Lips shining, tangerine orange. "Well that's not going be enough. Love." She lit another cigarette. "Not near enough by half."

  But this was nothing new; it was just the same old story that you had already heard so many times you had it down by heart. How Jack and Faye Grandon had been sweethearts all their lives. They were the real thing, everybody said, admiring. Jack and Faye Grandon. Just look at them. Love birds. Can't get enough of each other, isn't it sweet?

  "And," she said, sighing, tapping ash, "for a while, it was so."

  "What happened?"

  She smirked. Took a sip of her cold coffee. "What happened?" she echoed back.

  What happened is what always happens: flames grow cold, energy runs downhill. She got tired; he got tired. And then in the end it was all just too much trouble anymore, wasn't it?

  "And now?"

  He had betrayed everything. He had made a mockery of her life, and of their children's lives, and of himself. Dating a bar girl down at the Pickwick, for Christ's sake.

  "But she does love him," you said, meaning Libbie, meaning Fox.

  And in reply Mrs. Grandon snorted, coughed, squashed out her cigarette and fixed you with that hard blue frozen look of her contempt.

  "Love. What can Libbie possibly know about love?"

  She got up from the table, poured herself another cup. It seemed to amuse her: Libbie and her youth. That innocence, that ignorance, that hope that Faye Grandon seemed to be in her own way working so hard to try to recapture for herself, even as she scorned it in her daughter. Standing there in her short dress. With her cheap jewelry gleaming, with her hair growing longer in the back and her eyes made up, while all the while her face was aging, and time was running out.

  This house next door, this house that you had envied once and wanted for your own, this house that had been so full of light and sound and life, it had now become an empty shell with Mrs. Grandon rattling around alone inside it, like a seed in a dried up pod. How could she stand to stay there by herself?

  And maybe it was then that you had your big idea, or maybe it was earlier. When did it first occur to you that Faye Grandon's loneliness might be the question and at the same time the answer, to everything? Because, what if you knew of a way to fix it? What you had in mind seemed like the most obvious answer in the world: that Mrs. Grandon should cross the double driveways and move into your house next door, with you.

  What if one night, after dark, out of the blue, the doorbell rang, and there she was, standing on the front porch?

  Josef wouldn't hesitate, how could he? Faye was too beautiful for him to resist. He would reach out into the night and take her by the elbow and bring her inside with him, where it was safe. He'd lead her through the dining room and into the kitchen; he'd sit her at the table and pour her a glass of sherry. She would talk, and he would listen. She'd been frightened by a noise outside the house, but it was probably just a raccoon. She was sorry for the mess she'd made of her marriage, but maybe it wasn't really all her fault. She was lonely, and wasn't he a little bit lonely, too?

  You dreamed: you were huddled in the shadows of the staircase of your father's house, and you were holding your breath, in hope and in wonder. What you were listening to was only the most ordinary sound—the murmur of two adult voices, talking. Hers high and plaintive, his deep and reassuring. And that was all it would take—just such a simple, most commonplace phenomenon, a conversation between two lonely people, a man and a woman, in a warm kitchen in the middle of the night—that's all it would take to vanquish the familiar emptiness of your world, to fill it up with being other than your own. When you finally did dare to breathe again, when you picked yourself up and crept back through the shadows to your bed, then you would lie ther
e in the dark and know, for once, that you were not alone.

  And later, when you got up in the morning, Mrs. Grandon would still be there. She'd be standing at the stove in your own kitchen, making breakfast for you and your father, frying bacon, scrambling eggs, buttering toast. Josef Krejci would sit at the table with his coffee and his newspaper, and when you came in he and Faye Grandon would both look up and smile. As if there hadn't been a miracle. As if this was maybe how it had always been.

  "Good morning, Meena!" So cheerful!

  Where did Mrs. Grandon sleep? You wouldn't ask; you would be afraid to look. You'd have to talk about something else, for now.

  "How was your night, dear?" Faye would ask you. And then, "That's such a pretty blouse you're wearing," she'd say. "A great color on you. Brings out the green in your eyes." Her face would be pale but beautiful, clean, without makeup, except for lipstick—Creamsicle Orange that went with the dress she wore. She'd lean forward to touch your hair, while you sniffed at her powdered flowery scent, with its familiar hint of clove.

  After breakfast Josef would fold his paper, look at his watch, and say, It's time for us to go to work. You would follow him out the back door to the truck, and you'd leave Faye Grandon there to clean up after you, the way that mothers do. Plates piled up next to the sink, juice glasses on the table, a napkin on the floor. She'd be standing at the door, waving as Josef backed the truck away. And from then on that was how it would be: the two of you, Meena and Josef Krejci, same as any other day, except that then Mrs. Grandon would be there, too.

  You would not say anything about it to your father. He would drive, and you wouldn't talk. You'd hold yourself as still and steady as you could, and all day as you sat at your desk under the stairs, recording numbers and calculating accounts, reading invoices and sending out bills, you would hardly even dare to breathe. You'd jump at every sound, startle whenever the front bell chimed or a can fell off a shelf, when the phone rang or a customer laughed or the register drawer got slammed shut. You'd have to keep quiet. You'd have to be careful, because any abrupt movement or sudden noise might tear the delicate skin of your bubble and shatter the contents of this fragile new world that you had dreamed up for yourself.

  "So, how's your father, Meena?" Faye Grandon was asking.

  "Oh, he's all right, I guess. A little lonely maybe."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. But I guess I'm not surprised."

  "Maybe you could go out with him sometime. You're lonely too, aren't you Mrs. Grandon?"

  "Go out with your father? Me?" Her small laugh was like a cough. Just a little hiccup.

  You leaned toward her, all business now. "You know you owe him money, don't you?"

  Mrs. Grandon's eyes widened.

  "Four thousand one hundred thirty-one dollars and sixty-seven cents, to be exact."

  "What do you want from me?"

  "I think he might forgive the debt if, you know, if the two of you were... friends?"

  Mrs. Grandon lurched to her feet, toppling the chair behind her, splattering her playing cards on the floor. She steadied herself, raised a hand, pointed a finger at the door. "Get out."

  She always had been dramatic.

  But you held your ground. "I know I should have stopped you sooner," you said. "We never should have let it get so high."

  Mrs. Grandon wasn't listening. She had come around the table and she'd taken you by the arm, hauled you up out of the chair. "Get out!"

  Her fingers bruised, but still you pleaded: "Or maybe you could pay it off a little bit at a time? Just enough to make it so I wouldn't have to mention it to him. Could you manage that?"

  Mrs. Grandon was hissing as she guided you across the room and toward the back door. "Talk to my husband," she said. "Go get your goddamned money from him."

  She ushered you out, so brusquely, so roughly, so rudely. No smile, no kiss, no pat, she just shut the door, and locked it. You could hear the bolt slam into place. You stood there on the back porch for a while. Saw Mrs. Grandon's face at the glass, peering out. Saw her wave her hand, shooing you away.

  You found Mr. Grandon at his office. You had to hang around outside for a while first and pretend to be absorbed in the bulletin board with its photos of houses for sale before he noticed you. You strolled from one end of it to the other, reading about floor plans, architectural styles, prices and financing terms, while you worked at mustering the courage to go inside and confront him. You almost gave it up. You couldn't do this. You thought, "How can I do this?"

  You'd just have to let your father take care of the situation. Bear his anger and his silence for however long he decided to hold it. This was not your problem, after all. Maybe he would fire you. Send you off to college somewhere. And so maybe that would be all right, too.

  But then you heard your name, and you looked up and there he was, Jack Grandon, coming toward you, grinning big, all bright teeth and glowing cheeks. Reaching out to take your hand in his. He was so handsome. His blond hair and his blue eyes.

  "Meena! How are you?"

  Hands on your shoulders, he held you away to get a better look, then pulled you close and hugged you. A drowning man hanging on to a life belt. If he could have, he might have picked you up. Or dragged you down with him.

  But Mr. Grandon was not a big man; he was nothing like Josef Krejci. He was only a few inches taller than you, and small-boned, thin, boyish. He seemed so young, too, maybe because of how he was dressed, fashionably, in a turtleneck sweater and black pants, zippered leather boots, a wide black belt with a big silver buckle. His hair was modishly shaggy. He could have been somebody's boyfriend. He was wearing English Leather cologne.

  Now that you'd come that far, you didn't bother to beat around the bush—you pulled the bill out of your purse and handed it to him. He looked at it, sucked on his teeth, frowned and looked at you.

  Whatever it was he saw, it caused him to shift gears. He was all smiles again, affable and talkative. Of course he'd pay his wife's grocery bill. No problem. But first, would you mind keeping him company for a little while? You were a reminder of the old days, he said, a glimpse back at the way things used to be. He looked at you, and from that sight he was able to remember everything. He missed the neighborhood. He missed his family. He was a little lonely, he was reluctant to admit.

  How about if you came back to the hotel with him? Right now. To keep him company. He'd buy you dinner downstairs at the Pickwick, would you like that? Would that make all the bother of the rest of it worth your while? For now?

  You slid into the leather booth across from Mr. Grandon. You ran a hand over the deep polished wood of the table, and squinted up at the brass light fixtures overhead. You wondered, what would you do if your father were to come in and find you here like this? What would you say and what would he think, what would he do, in return?

  Across from you, Libbie's father grinned. He ordered drinks—a scotch and water for himself, a Shirley Temple for you. The waitress—a Playboy Bunny imitation in seamed fishnet stockings, low-cut black leotard, bow tie, spiked heels—bent over and pecked him on the cheek. He grinned, blushed and introduced you as his daughter. The waitress winked at you.

  "Lucky girl," she said.

  Mr. Grandon sat back, watched the waitress walk away, then turned to you and shrugged.

  "Well," he reasoned, "we can't have everybody thinking you're my girlfriend, can we?"

  Jack Grandon and Meena Krejci sitting together in a booth at the back of the Pickwick Club, downstairs in the basement of the Fielding Hotel. You listened while he talked about his wife and his daughter and his son. He wanted you to understand, he wanted everybody to know, he had not abandoned his family. The current situation was not his doing, it was not his choice, he had not left his wife and his children to come downtown and live there at the hotel all by himself. No.

  His wife had kicked him out. That was the truth. She took all of his things and she drove them downtown and she dumped them on the sidewalk, told him not to come
back. She kicked him out of his own house.

  He said this again and again, insisting, disbelieving maybe. But you had seen it for yourself, hadn't you? He seemed to want you to confirm it, how his wife had been.

  "Impossible."

  Nevertheless, it didn't matter. Ultimately. Because, there had been no convincing Libbie. No matter what the facts were, still she was going to blame him. For everything. He was her father, after all.

  He sighed when he said her name: "Libbie." Shook his head, ground his teeth. "Libbie."

  He said: they were both trying to kill him, his wife and his daughter. They wanted him out of the way, out of the house. Dead of a heart attack now, in the prime of his life. And that would make them happy, wouldn't it? As if maybe he deserved it?

  Well but no, it was not going to be that easy. No sir. Oh no, Jack Grandon was not going to just disappear, he was not going to give up. They were his family. Even though they treated him like this.

  The waitress brought the drinks and handed over the menus. You wondered if she knew Josef Krejci. Did he eat there? With someone else across the table from him, some girl he'd found upstairs in the lobby?

  "You hungry, Meena?" Mr. Grandon was asking. He closed his menu with a snap and lit a cigarette, drew on it deeply, tapped ashes nervously. "I'm not," he said. "Late lunch. You go ahead and order some dinner for yourself. Whatever you want. My treat. A steak? Lobster? Don't look at the price."

  You had a bowl of onion soup. Mr. Grandon nibbled on nuts. He shook the ice in his glass, waved at the waitress to bring him another scotch.