by Various
And where has Michael gone?
Maybe he found out what happened and left.
• • •
The echoing rattle inside the chute of trash from another floor makes Michael realize he’s been staring into the black hole for some time, holding the chute open. He must be tired, to be submerged in thought so completely. He bends over to lift the garbage up, wondering if the bag will break or if he should dump the contents from the bag for a better fit. He chooses the whole bag and hefts it.
“The gates of Hell!” a voice booms from behind him, so deep and resonant it seems supernatural. Michael drops the empty trashcan, which thuds dully on the carpet. As if for comic effect, the garbage bag picks that moment to slide slowly down the chute.
A man laughs. “You were so… absorbed. It was hard to resist.”
Michael turns around and sees a bespectacled, middle-aged man of Dickensian girth wearing a worn cardigan and a bow tie. Polka dots on the tie, stripes on the shirt. Peculiar attire for this hour of the night. Michael realizes his jaw has dropped; he closes his mouth abruptly and holds out his hand. “Michael Gould. 14A.”
On hearing his name, the man sobers instantly. “Oh. I’m so sorry.” He pauses as if searching for something to say. He then shakes Michael’s hand vigorously. “Doctor Thomas James, down in D there.”
Michael asks, “Sorry?”
“That I startled you. Inappropriate.”
There’s a quiet moment, which makes Michael nervous. He forces a question, “Did you just move in?”
Dr. James chuckles, “Not just.”
“I’ve been gone for a few weeks and it seems like a lot has happened.”
The doctor says, “Ah, time creeps oddly, I find. Excellent to meet you. If you’ll excuse me.” He holds up his own small leaky paper bag of garbage, gesturing toward the chute.
“Of course. Sorry.” Michael stands aside absently, staring into space as Dr. James completes his task.
The doctor asks, “Mr. Gould? Are you all right?”
“Sorry. I’m tired… housework’s piling up.”
A cloud of concern briefly crosses Dr. James’s face as if he doesn’t understand. He clears his throat. “Ah. Adjustments.”
“You could say so.”
Dr. James musters a smile. “You’ll be fine, fine. It takes time.” He shambles off but then pauses thoughtfully, turning, “If you need anything, Michael, I’m just down the hall. I’m a shrink, you know. My door is always open.”
Michael’s embarrassed. Does he look that bad off?
“Uh… thanks,” he says to the doctor’s retreating back.
Odd man, but Michael’s grateful for the distraction. He had been planning to walk the streets until he cooled down. But his anger has abated. He feels he can go back in and face Sarah, no matter her mood. There’s no way she’s stayed that venomous. It’s just not like her.
He opens the kitchen door cautiously, so the stool won’t slide and scrape the floor. He closes it just as carefully. It’s one of those enormously heavy New York doors that can only close with a ka-chunk. He stops for a moment and listens. The baby has stopped crying, but Michael hears another noise from the living room. He walks in and realizes that it’s Sarah, muttering to herself. He can’t make out the words. Sarah’s sitting on the sofa, knees curled up to her head, rocking.
She looks up, as if she’s surprised to see him standing there. He doesn’t know why she looks embarrassed.
He has no idea what to say. “Uh… hi.”
She smiles nervously. “Hi.”
“Yeah.”
“I thought you’d left me.” This doesn’t sound like Sarah’s usual sarcasm. It sounds like she means it—which unsettles him more than the shrieking.
He decides to pretend that it was her usual sarcasm: neither of them is thinking straight right now. He walks over to the sofa and plops down next to her, far enough away to give her some space. He says, “Nope. ’Fraid you’re stuck with me.”
It’s not like she was going to smile and they’d go back to normal again, but he’s surprised when she doesn’t respond and folds her head into her arms. He sighs and settles into the sofa, rubbing her back with his hand.
CHAPTER TWO
HE’S JUST DRIFTING off when Sarah wakes him. “Michael?”
“Yeah?”
“You awake?”
He rubs his face. “Mmphth. Yeah. Yeah, sure.”
She’s lying on her stomach with her chin propped in her hands, staring at him. “I’m worried.”
Maybe there is really something going on, something that would explain all of her irrational reactions, her sudden moods. Maybe it’s more than just having had a baby.
“About what?” He traces his finger on the outside of her freckled arm.
“That you won’t like me anymore.”
Oh. This is hormones. He has to play this right. “What are you talking about? I like you always. I like you whatever happens.” He rolls on his side and kisses her nose. He smoothes down the worry lines on her forehead with his fingers.
“I’m a mother now.”
He laughs. “Yes, you are.”
“I’m not… I don’t know how to explain.” She looks like she’s weighing her words so carefully, thinking of what to say. He’s surprised when all that comes out is, “I’m not who I was.”
He hopes he’s not too tired to process whatever it is she needs from him. He says, “Okay.”
“I’m not the lawyer, the problem solver, the clever one. I’m not even funny anymore. I’m not the woman you fell in love with anymore. I don’t even know what I am.”
“Hmmm.” He peers closely at her face. “Freckles? Check. Snoring? Well, I can vouch for that from last night. Oh, and the final proof: that half-smile when you’re annoyed with me.” The half-smile grows into a real one. He’s relieved. “Oh, wait. Nope there it is, I see that sense of humor, see it? It’s in that smile. The funny’s not far behind. I guarantee you that you are the woman I fell in love with.”
But her smile falls quickly into worry again. “All I do is carry that infant around and feed him. And I can’t even do that right.”
“Shh, shh.” He leans in and kisses her eyes, one by one. “It’s a change, that’s all.”
She says, “It’s a big, big change.” There is a weight to her tone that goes beyond her words.
“We’ll get through it, honey.”
She rolls on her back and sighs in frustration. “Well, we’ll see.”
There’s no talking her out of it now; he’s never been able to argue her out of a line of thinking once she got going. He’s learned in these cases to just be there for her in a quiet way. He rolls over, resting a reassuring arm on her, and falls asleep before he means to.
• • •
Sarah stands nervously in the kitchen while Michael sleeps. She fills the kettle with water, puts it on the stove over a full flame and opens the cabinet to get down the coffee. She’ll make coffee. She can’t have coffee, of course, but it’s the sort of thing you make when you have company. Right? Greta’s supposed to come over, and while Sarah knows she’ll have some answers to her growing number of questions, she’s worried what Greta will think of Michael. She left a note for Sarah saying she’d be by tonight after Michael was asleep.
They’ve built a comfortable friendship, Greta, Sarah, and the baby. She wants terribly for Michael to like her, but she also feels guilty, as if letting Greta into their little family was a betrayal of some sort. Cheating. But Michael was gone. And she didn’t know if he was coming back. And she needed help. And Greta always knows things. Like what to do next. And why the baby doesn’t like Michael touching him. And why she’s so afraid.
There’s a metallic ticking noise and Sarah looks over to see that all of the water in the kettle has boiled away. The metal is heating up and creaking. She quickly turns off the stove. She’s been doing this lately, losing time to her thoughts. This new world is so tricky.
Does Gre
ta even drink coffee? She doesn’t remember. She puts the coffee back and turns around to find Greta standing behind her. The older woman has a nervous energy about her, a fire in her eyes. She smiles and clasps Sarah’s shoulders in excitement, squeezing. “Your husband is here!”
Sarah catches the sense of excitement. “I know!”
Greta says, “This is a very, very good thing.”
But is it? Sarah has so many questions, she can’t seem to get them in order fast enough to ask them. “How could we…? We made love. I didn’t think we’d be able to do that.”
Greta smiles and hugs Sarah. “Oh my, honey, and you’re on the right track already.”Is she supposed to be doing something on this track she’s on?
Greta’s breathless, bustling about as she talks. “I was hoping. I left you alone for a time, hoping.” She goes to the stove, takes the kettle off and fills it in the sink. “It’s been so very, very long since I’ve seen this. You have to know, this situation is rare. You’re a very lucky woman.”
“I didn’t think I’d ever see him again.”
Greta lights the flame under the kettle and turns to her, saying, “But he’s here. He’s here. And having intercourse cinched the deal. I know it did. Keep that physical contact close, hon. That’s so important. And the baby. Can Tim see his daddy?”
“He’s been crying, screaming when Michael touches him. Is he bad for him or frightening?”
“Oh, no, no, no, no. This is good! He can see him! He just has to get to know him. Babies don’t do well with new people. It takes time. But Sarah”—Greta looks at her directly, as if issuing a command—“This is important. It is absolutely essential that the child get to know his father. That the father get to know his son. Do you understand this?”
She doesn’t, but she feels Greta wanting her to and complies. “I guess so.”
“Get Michael involved in Tim’s life as deeply and as quickly as you can.”
Sarah doesn’t like how manipulative this sounds. It’s never been her way to “manage” her man. But she says, “Okay.”
“You might be able to live and grow together… as a family.” Greta’s face softens and she smiles, beaming, “Oh, the possibilities.” She gets a rapturous look in her eyes. “The possibilities.”
• • •
The sounds of car horns and jackhammers echo up from the street and wake Michael. He hauls himself out of bed and throws on his sweatshirt and jeans. The air seems closer, more stifling, from the way the sounds get trapped and ricochet around the room to the smell of car exhaust that never completely leaves the apartment. It’s such a contrast to the open spaces, rustling trees, trickling water, enormous places in which sounds and wind have room to move. He knows that this disorientation goes both ways, that when traveling anywhere in nature—deserts, mountains, forests—he feels bereft, as if all humanity has left him. As if the spaces are too wide to live in.
In the hallway, Michael hears voices coming from the kitchen. Sarah’s laughter lightens his heart immediately, but then he hears a stranger laugh—someone older, with a huskier voice and a strong New York accent. Probably a woman. Michael pauses outside the door, listening for a moment. Despite being in a different room, he smells a waft of perfume: a heavy patchouli with some floral undercurrent that lies somewhere between gardenia and creosote. It reminds him of Naomi, but gone off. The result is an aura of odor, a malevolence.
“I’m not quite sure how to proceed. I mean, is it okay?” Sarah sounds anxious.
The aggressive, gratingly warm voice says, “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, love. Just be. You know? Be and enjoy.”
Sarah says, “Oh, wait a minute, honey, there’s something I wanted to show you.” Her voice is so light and she’s using such a familiar term for this unknown person.
Michael finds Sarah talking to a heavy-set woman he’s never seen before. He doesn’t usually have violent reactions to new people, but beyond the smell, something about this person’s presence rubs him the wrong way. She’s probably in her late fifties, with that close-cropped salt-and-pepper gray hair and that many layered “international” look favored by many aging hippies. She’s wearing a Mexican peasant skirt and a Chinese jacket, topped with some chunky amber jewelry with wooden beads. Someone should not fill a room so aggressively, so earthily, in so many different textures. Yet Sarah’s happy and seems more relaxed around this person than Michael has seen her in his short time home.
He musters some cheer. “Good morning…”
Sarah’s face lights up when she sees him. “Good morning! Michael, this is…”
“Greta Ohmann, 13D. Sarah and I met a few days after you left, and since then, we’ve been like a couple of schoolgirls.”
The idea of Sarah as one of a couple of schoolgirls is so nonsensical that he snorts. He’s met with no encouragement, so he sobers for their benefit.
He extends a hand. “I’m Michael Gould.”
Greta takes Michael’s hand amid a clatter of multicultural bangles and holds it in hers in a lingering, intrusive way. Her palm is warm and fleshy. He tries to extract it, but Greta doesn’t let go. Trying to complete the correct sequence of handshake to get his hand back, Michael shakes hers again, saying, “Nice to meet you.”
Greta clings, saying, “God you look awful.” She bulldozes on, not giving him a chance to react. “You have no idea how glad I am that you’re here.” She pauses, looking at him quizzically. She turns his hand sideways, weighing it in hers, measuring him up. He opens his mouth to say something but can’t think of anything appropriate.
Greta releases his hand as if she were waiting for it to be her choice instead of his. “Sarah has missed you so and she’s been through so much, with everything.” She leans in close, her perfume choking him. Her tone is that of a confidential gossip. Her cold gray eyes hold his and he’s afraid to look away. “It was a very difficult labor, you know.”
Michael realizes that this awful woman is privy not only to something he shouldn’t have missed but also something he hasn’t yet discussed with his wife. This stranger is too intimate with the details of Tim’s birth.
Greta moves to the counter and gets down a mug. She pours some coffee and hands it to him. “Black, right?” How does she know? She goes into the silver drawer and gets out a spoon. She opens another cabinet, gets down the sugar, and spoons some into her own coffee. He doesn’t like how this woman moves about his kitchen as if it belongs to her. He notices, with some irritation, that she’s drinking out of the DADDY mug that Sarah gave to him to announce her pregnancy.
Greta says, as if solving some problem Michael doesn’t know about, “I think the trick here would be to keep you two close. As close as you were before”—she sips her coffee, which feels like a cheap, theatrical pause, and stares at Michael—“before the baby.” How many details of his life has Sarah shared with this woman? Michael is seething. Has Sarah hired a couple’s counselor? Did they need one? How could she not discuss this with him?
Greta, as if she’s come to some sort of conclusion, announces, “She really needs to work on her muladhara chakra.” She throws a conspiratorial smile to Sarah who timidly returns it, “Or so I keep telling her. A little sexual healing oughta help that right along.” This woman has to go. He has no idea how she charmed her way into Sarah’s good will, but she does not belong here. He’s home now, he’ll take care of this.
Icily, Michael says, “Thank you for your concern, but that’s none of your business.” Surely he’s right to be angry? Sarah’s giving him a look he can’t interpret.
Greta laughs, grabbing her things to go as if she can hear Michael thinking Leave now. “Oh, honey, you’ll get used to me. I promise. Soon enough we’ll be like old friends. I’d better go and leave you two lovebirds to it.” She doesn’t put the mug down.
Sarah starts to walk her to the door, but Greta waves her off. “Oh no, dear, I’ll let myself out.” She turns to Sarah and says, “I’ll see you later.”
Sarah lean
s in and kisses her on the cheek saying, “I look forward to it.” Such warmth and familiarity with someone Sarah met only two weeks ago isn’t normal. It just isn’t. Sarah says, “Bye,” and squeezes Greta’s hand meaningfully. “And thanks.”
“No problem hon.” Greta gives Sarah a pointed look with her steely gray eyes. “You two get busy.” She sashays out the door.
Michael looks after her incredulously as his DADDY mug leaves the apartment for parts unknown. “Who the hell is that woman?”
The fondness in Sarah’s face falls into a frown at his anger, and she doesn’t respond.
He retreats to the kitchen to drink his coffee.
Sarah sits down across from him. She has a glow about her, a mild gleam in her eyes. He’d like to think it was because of last night’s sex, but he has a growing fear that it’s because of her time with Greta. This is the look that she used to get when discussing a particularly exciting case. His jealousy feels too familiar. This is a thrill about a part of her life that doesn’t include him. But his jealousy fades when he sees her worried expression.
“She’s great,” Sarah says. “She’s great.” Not with an air of contentment, but warning him not to argue. This galls him further.
He says, “She took my mug.”
Sarah laughs, chiding him. “She’ll bring it back.”
He says, “How did she become so familiar so fast?”
“You were gone.” He can tell she feels bad the moment she’s said it. “I’m sorry. Greta came up with some banana bread and baby advice and we sort of went from there.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little weird how she just moved in?”
She goes on the defensive. “She was a lactation consultant and a doula for years. Now she… she…” Sarah trails off.
Michael sighs and stops. His anger isn’t helping things and clearly Sarah got something she needed from this woman. Something he wasn’t there to give her.
He takes the moment to lighten things. “So this woman I don’t even know has seen your breasts?”
She shoves him on the shoulder. “It’s not like that.”