Women Drinking Benedictine

by Sharon Dilworth

  “Your nails are strong,” Pamela says, not looking up, “but you’ve got bad cuticles. You shouldn’t pick at them.”

  “I actually came to see you about a friend of mine,” Carol says. “Donald Rice.”

  “I don’t have many men customers,” Pamela tells her. “Men who live in big cities get their nails done, but here in Ann Arbor, we really only get women.”

  “His wife was a client,” Carol explains. Pamela places her right hand in a dish of warm soapy water. “Do you remember Evelyn Rice?”

  “That woman owes me money.” Pamela wipes her hands on the folded white towel and then flips open the drawer. “Yes, I know.”

  “She owes me fifty-two dollars.” She shows Carol her ledger, full of numbers and red marks. She points to Evelyn’s name in the left column.

  “She won’t return my phone calls.” Pamela puts the book away. “I call her almost every day, and her husband just beats around the bush about paying me back.”

  Pamela begins digging under Carol’s left nail with a long toothpick-type instrument. It pinches Carol’s skin and she pulls away.

  “Listen. You tell her that I have to pay rent on this booth. You tell her I want my money. I can’t afford to have people bounce checks on me.”

  “She’s dead,” Carol says. “That’s what I came here to tell you. Evelyn Rice killed herself last October.”

  Pamela looks at her in surprise. “Dead?”

  Carol nods. A strong chemical smell stings her nostrils, and Carol lifts her hand from the soapy dishwater and rubs her nose.

  “Perming solution,” Pamela explains, then asks. “Are you related?”

  “I’m his reading teacher,” Carol explains. “I volunteer at the local library.”

  “Then why’d he send you in to do his dirty work? Why can’t he just call me and tell me what happened? He could have told me his wife was dead. I’ve talked to him on the phone almost every week. I’m a person. I’ve got sympathy.”

  “I think he was afraid,” Carol says. “He was afraid to tell you the truth.” Though they are talking about Donald, she can’t help but think of Mitch. She wishes he were here to help explain the situation.

  Pamela spreads yellow lotion on Carol’s hands and massages it the length of her arm to her elbows. She circles her fingers around Carol’s wrists until the moisturizer disappears. It smells of cucumbers. The room is air-conditioned, and Carol feels comfortable with this woman massaging her arms. She is so relaxed that she closes her eyes.

  “All I was trying to do was collect my money,” Pamela says. “I didn’t mean to call a dead woman’s house.” She shivers as if superstitious. “That poor, poor man. And here’s me calling him about some manicure payment.”

  Carol gets home just as Mitch pulls into his driveway. They get out of their cars simultaneously. Carol waves and walks over, full of the story of Ann Arbor and the beauty shop. The sun is bright, and she does not see the passenger door open until she is just up to the car. Carol gets flustered immediately. She starts to retreat, but then feels foolish, as if she has done something wrong.

  “I wanted to tell you about Pamela,” Carol speaks directly to Mitch, ignoring the woman as best she can.

  “What?” Mitch closes the car door and stands in the street waiting for her to explain.

  “Donald’s favor,” Carol holds her fingers stiff, though by now the polish must surely be dry. “It was a little more than I expected.”

  “Everything okay?” Mitch asks.

  “Yeah. I guess so.” She hesitates, then decides that this is not a good time. It occurs to her that there might never be a good time, that maybe the only choice she has is to give up on Mitch. “I’ll give you the details later.”

  “Remember you’re only the guy’s reading teacher,” Mitch warns. He smiles and looks concerned. “Don’t get too involved.”

  “Oh, no,” Carol says. She flips her hands around and holds them so Mitch can see the color. Dark mauve. Her nails have never looked so good. Although it does not seem to matter too much right now.

  As they had agreed, Carol meets Donald at the restaurant around the corner from her house. She picked a place that would be bright, loud, full of people. The afternoon is hot, the heat has returned as forcefully as it has all summer. It is not quite two o’clock when Carol pushes open the glass door of Costanzo’s and sees Donald sitting in the second booth from the window with a pitcher of beer and two mugs. He stands and shakes her hand and thanks her for being on time.

  “You’re a very caring person.” He pours her mug full of foamy beer.

  Carol does not usually drink during the day, but she is thirsty and warm from the walk over.

  “Did you talk with the girl?” Donald asks as soon as she’s had a sip.

  “Yes,” Carol says. The beer is cold, and she drinks in long swallows. Donald refills her glass. “And?”

  “And she’s beautiful,” Carol says. “She wants to be a model.”

  “My wife never talked about the beauty parlor.” Donald’s tongue slides awkwardly over the last words as if he is not used to saying these kinds of things.

  “She’s saving all her money to get into an agency,” Carol explains. She remembers exactly what Pamela was doing with the nail file, then the cream, then the polish when she talked with Carol. “That’s why she can’t afford bounced checks. She’s trying to earn her own way into this agency so they can get her photo work.”

  “Did you tell her about my wife?”

  “She’s real sorry,” Carol says. Donald fills her half-empty mug. “She said to tell you she’s real sorry.”

  “What about the check?”

  “Because of what’s happened and all, she says not to worry about the money,” Carol says. “She’s a very fair person.”

  Donald claps his hands as if applauding her actions. “That’s so good,” he says. “That’s just great. How am I going to pay you back?”

  “I was glad to help.” Carol giggles when the foam fizzles into her nose.

  Donald keeps nodding his head, giving her his approval. “You didn’t mind doing it?” he asks.

  “It was fine.”

  “My wife left me with a financial mess when she died.”

  The bartender flips on the television, and Carol turns to look at the images on the oversized screen.

  “She wrote checks to just about everybody in this area,” Donald says. “I wonder if you could help me with another favor?”

  “What’s that?” The beer is slowing her reactions, and she doesn’t hear him.

  “Do you think you could talk to some other people who are bothering me?”

  “Collect on another bounced check?” Carol asks. “I don’t think so.”

  Donald sits back in his seat. Carol focuses on the television. It is a baseball game. Probably the Tigers, but she cannot be sure. “Why not?”

  “Because,” Carol says repeating Mitch’s words, which somehow seem right, “I’m your reading teacher. I’m supposed to be helping you learn to read.”

  “But I need other help,” Donald says. “That’s what you’re involved in. Doing charity work.”

  “To help you read,” Carol reminds him.

  “I needed to read before my wife committed suicide,” Donald says. “Now I need help clearing her debts. This is the kind of help I need now.”

  “I don’t know,” Carol says. She feels too guilty simply to refuse, but she knows that her whole reason for volunteering was wrong. It was not to help anyone but herself. She feels selfish and stupid and terribly alone. Donald is obviously disappointed when she tells him that she’ll think about doing the favor.

  Carol has rarely been drunk in the middle of the day, and the buzz in her head feels like bursts of wild energy, though a minute later she is exhausted. Yesterday’s unopened mail is spread out on the couch, and she sits down and begins tearing at the envelopes. The mail is mostly bills. She throws the extra envelopes and perfumed advertisements into a pile before le
tting all the paper fall to the floor.

  The afternoon gets warmer and the streets get quieter, as if the whole neighborhood is sleeping through the heat. Carol is sweating before she wakes up. She can smell the beer on her skin, and the dizziness she felt before her nap is gone as if she has sweated all the alcohol from her body. It takes Carol a few minutes to recognize where she is, and another minute before she remembers what day it is.

  After a shower, Carol looks through her oversized purse for her hairbrush and realizes she can’t find her wallet. She dumps everything onto the kitchen counter, then remembers taking it out at the restaurant. She knows she’s left it on the dark-red cushioned booth at Costanzo’s restaurant.

  The bar is crowded now. The noise level has increased, and the change in lights makes the place look different—not at all like the place where she drank five glasses of beer. She is dehydrated, and when the bartender asks if he can get her something, Carol cannot speak. He pours a glass of water and she drinks it down before she tells him about her wallet. She starts to identify it—gray with a large silver buckle clasp—when he sets it on the bar in front of her.

  “We didn’t have a phone number on you,” he apologizes. “But we figured you might come looking for it.”

  Carol opens the wallet and checks for her credit cards and driver’s license. Everything is there, even the cash.

  She hears Donald a minute before she actually sees him at the side table with a woman. She recognizes the pleading tone of his voice and his words, so carefully chosen.

  “I’m afraid to tell anyone about my situation,” Donald says. “I know people point at me and think, ‘There’s that stupid man who couldn’t read his wife’s suicide note.’ You should have seen it at the funeral. I couldn’t stand all the pity people felt for me. Even from my own kids. I’ve got four of them.”

  “I’m so sorry.” The woman nods in sympathy.

  “There are plenty of problems to deal with when your wife commits suicide,” Donald says and the woman keeps nodding in sympathy and agreement.

  All of a sudden, Carol understands what Donald is up to. She sees how he does it, how he manipulates people into doing things for him. She realizes that what she is feeling is admiration. She admires how easily Donald gets people to do things for him. All he does is make it clear to them what he wants. It’s that simple. He tells people what he needs and people help him. Now she must spell it out for Mitch.

  The mower is in the middle of the garage. She does not need the light to see the silver metal shining in the glow of the street lamps. She drags it backward to the edge of Mitch’s property and then runs her hand down the side of the machine to find the starter. She pulls the cord and the power kicks as she lets it slide back in. She starts out slowly while her muscles adjust to the vibration and the weight of the machine.

  At nine o’clock the night air is full of shadows. The smell of cut grass rises from the ground, a surprising freshness so late in the day. She moves horizontally, getting closer to his house as she finishes each strip. She cannot see her rows and tries to keep the machine as straight as possible. Mitch comes out and watches from the front porch. She waves, the motor vibrating under her arms. He is saying something. She can hear him shouting, but not his words.

  He moves his hand across his throat in quick jerky motions, telling her to cut the engine.

  “What are you doing?” She shuts off the machine and his words tear through the neighborhood in the sudden silence.

  “I’m showing you I care,” she says. “I’m showing you that I care about you.”

  “What do you mean you care about me?” He looks puzzled, as if he thinks she’s gone crazy.

  “I’m showing you that I want something more,” she says with force.

  “You don’t have to cut my lawn,” he says.

  “I’ve got to do something,” Carol says. “That’s all I know. I’ve just got to do something.”

  Carol pulls the cord. The machine jumps and then starts. The shadows are too deep for her to see his expression, but she imagines it to be one of confusion. She knows she must get rid of this. She must make it clear to Mitch that she cares for him. She takes a deep breath and then, pushing on the long metal handle with all her strength, moves forward toward the edge of the lawn. Mitch follows. If not totally understanding what she is doing, he is at least right there beside her.

  Moving Miami

  SOMEONE COMPARED THE PROBLEMS Marybeth, Doug, and Marco went through last year to dominoes falling—one thing setting off the next—until everything was too much of a mess to pick up. Why the whole thing started was a bit harder to figure out. There were those who thought it was Doug’s fault. He was stupid to let Marco move in so soon after the wedding. Other people thought Marco was a jerk. There was just no excuse for sleeping with your best friend’s wife.

  Most everyone, though, blamed Marybeth. They never actually called her a slut, but they found other words: attention deficit disorder as it applied to the marital bed, low self-esteem as it applied to her own sense of honor, and quack as it applied to—well, everyone knew what that applied to. Still, no one can expect interest in a failing marriage to last longer than the marriage itself, and gossip about the trio faded as the summer came to an end. By the time Hurricane Andrew slammed into Miami, destroying everything in sight, people were talking of other things. The affair seemed far away, as if it had happened years ago to another group of friends in some distant city.

  Marybeth and Doug met at Biscayne Baby, a Coconut Grove nightclub, on Doug’s twenty-ninth birthday. Doug and his friends arrived after midnight and immediately began playing a game they used to play in college when drinking funds were hard to come by. Money was no longer an issue, but it was still fun to see if they could get away with it. They’d look for a group of single girls, although this was not always easy to tell in a crowded club. They’d talk them up, ask them to dance. Once they were on the floor, the others would make a grab for the girls’ drinks. The women drank strawberry daiquiris, piña coladas, and something blended with grapefruit juice and rum and grenadine. Doug, buzzed from the sugar, quit after a couple of rounds and stood at the far end of the bar watching his friends on the dance floor. The strobe lights were flashing to the beat of the music, and he closed his eyes until the dizziness faded.

  Marybeth was bartending that night, and though she did not know these guys personally, she could see exactly what they were up to. She thought they were too old to be playing such a stupid game, so when Doug ordered a glass of ice water, she charged him a hundred dollars. No one had complained—the girls didn’t seem to realize what was going on—but she thought they were being rude. Ridiculously cheap. Doug only had twenty dollars on him. He gave Marybeth one of his business cards and promised to come back the next night with the rest of the cash. He forgot his promise, but a few days later Marybeth called his office and asked if he wanted to drive to Ft. Lauderdale to see the hydroplane races. Doug agreed, hoping she wouldn’t ask him for the money he owed her. They left Miami before noon with a picnic lunch and a Styrofoam cooler full of Very Berry White Wine Spritzers. Strong winds delayed the race, finally canceling it. Still, it was a beautiful day, and rather than getting right back in the slow-moving highway traffic, Marybeth and Doug spent the afternoon on the beach.

  Marybeth wouldn’t take off her tennis shoes, and when Doug asked her what she was afraid of, she told him that her right foot was webbed. The skin between her toes was almost transparent, but it was obvious that her toes were connected, and she was self-conscious about showing people. The kids in grade school used to quack at her on the playground. They’d move their arms up and down like they had two short wings and sing a song about rubber ducks. She never got used to having a deformed foot. She refused to show it to Doug when he asked if he could see it. It was too early in the relationship, she teased, but he was touched that she had told him about it.

  They dated steadily for the next three or four months, then agreed not
to see other people, though sometimes when Doug said he had soccer practice he took out his next-door neighbor for barbecued ribs. She was a sad but striking woman who became weepy when she drank. She was often crying when the waiter brought their coffee and wet-naps, and the only advice Doug could give her was to tell her that things couldn’t be as bad as they seemed. She said he was living in a dream world. Real people hurt. Real people were dying of loneliness. Doug made out with her on his living room couch before walking her home. But when she pressed him about her ideas, he admitted that he didn’t understand what she wanted him to do about it all. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing he could do.

  Biscayne Baby closed soon after they started dating, so Marybeth went back to nursing. A retirement home in Miami Beach hired her from a telephone interview. She actually preferred bartending to nursing, but club hours were tough in Miami—most places stayed open until 3 or 4 A.M. Afterward she would have clean-up cocktails with her co-workers, and it would be morning by the time she drove home. It felt strange to be caught in rush-hour traffic, her uniform smelling of alcohol and cigarettes. Doug was relieved when she quit working there. Too many guys hung out at those places. There were too many single guys looking for someone like Marybeth.

  Their wedding was a Hawaiian-style pig roast at the public park in Coconut Grove. Their friends came dressed in loud printed shirts, khaki shorts, sandals. A few people wore nothing but bathing suits. Doug and Marybeth passed out leis in the reception line. The reggae band seemingly played “Red, Red Wine” over and over—the same for hours. Marybeth thought a song about a guy trying to forget a former lover was an odd choice for a wedding reception, but the dance floor stayed crowded all night, and their friends all agreed that it was the best wedding they had ever been to.

  Marybeth and Doug bought a condo on Key Biscayne—where everyone assumed they were living happily enough—until early May when Doug’s best friend, Marco, moved into their spare bedroom. Marco’s girlfriend had been a pilot for Eastern Airlines, but when the company began major layoffs, she started looking for other jobs. She had no intention of giving up her accumulated flying hours just to stay in Miami, a city she had grown up in but had never particularly liked. The highways were always under construction, and when they weren’t they were still confusing. Even using the ocean as a permanent marker, she couldn’t figure out which way she was going. She often found herself by the airport when she wanted to be on the beach.