by Amy Bloom
“Lewis, have you noticed that this summer feels different?”
“What do you mean?”
“Summer is usually such a happy time. All the children are running outside. The men are playing bocce. There are parties and dancing and gelato . . .”
“I see all of that.”
“Yes, but this summer there’s something else. A kind of shadow. I can’t explain it.”
“Do you mean a dread?”
She looked at him sharply. “Yes—that’s exactly what I mean! What do you think is causing it?”
“Maybe it has to do with the quilt fire.”
“I think you’re right, Mr. O’Connor. I mean, Lewis. It must be the quilt fire. It was terrible, wasn’t it?”
The fire at the New Haven Quilt and Pad Company had indeed been terrible. Though the incident on nearby Franklin Street had happened months ago, Lewis knew it still haunted Wooster Square. Ten people had been trapped in a fire on the third floor. Rumor had it the automatic sprinkler system had been turned off and the fire doors ordered shut. These measures wouldn’t have surprised Lewis. Every factory in this part of town cut corners. Savings always trumped safety.
“I lost my favorite cousin in that fire,” she said.
“I’m sorry.”
“Did you know anyone that worked there?”
“No.”
“Really? You’re the first person I’ve talked to in Wooster Square who’s said that.”
“I don’t know many people. I try to keep to myself.”
“Why?”
“It’s part of my policy of isolation,” he said, smiling at her wryly.
They had reached the green. She was right about the grass. And the elms weren’t faring much better. Those few that had survived the big hurricane in ’38 were beginning to look sick. He wondered if another wave of the tree disease was underway.
“I’d love to sit in the shade, but I don’t think there is any,” she observed.
They found a seat on a sun-soaked bench and looked around. A few young men sauntered by and one of them stole an appreciative glance at Cecilia’s shapely calves. Lewis knew he ought to feel protective, even territorial, but he didn’t.
“I love to watch people,” she said, oblivious to the attention. My sister and I try to figure out what they’re thinking. Where they’re going. What their lives are like.” She paused and turned to him searchingly. “Why do you prefer to be alone, Lewis? Is it because you’re shy?”
“I just don’t relate to most people.”
“Do you think you could relate to me?”
He studied her face. She wasn’t wearing any lipstick or rouge, not like her sister, who seemed to use a trowel to apply her cosmetics. Cecilia was a fresh-faced, lovely young woman. And that was the problem.
Suddenly she leaned in and tilted her head, just the way he’d asked her to do hours ago. She closed her eyes. Her lashes, thick and long, nearly rested on the ripe apples of her cheeks. He knew what she was waiting for.
“No,” he said.
“What?” Discombobulated, she opened her eyes.
“I don’t relate to you at all.”
* * *
He offered to walk her home, but she refused. She was too embarrassed. Mortified was the word she’d used. Lewis felt bad. He knew he’d handled things poorly. He should have been more kind. He should have made a gentlemanly excuse. It wasn’t the girl’s fault, after all. Their outing had been an experiment. A failed experiment.
When he got home he soaked his feet in a bath. He looked at them side by side. The right foot was normal. The left was a disfigured, swollen, scarred clod of meat. It didn’t even have toes, just oddly shaped nubs. And the skin—it didn’t resemble regular skin. It was tough and rubbery and crosshatched with gleaming-pale connective tissue.
Even under the warm water, his bad foot throbbed. Sometimes it did this, especially when the weather was very hot or cold. He sighed, undressed, and slid his whole body into the water. Through the narrow basement windows, the aroma of a hundred dinners wafted in. It was getting late, he should have been hungry by now. But the walk had left a bad taste in his mouth.
He went to bed soon after, lying awake and listening to Victrolas, men singing opera, squealing children. The pain kept him up, as did the persistent feeling that he was a reject, abnormal, maybe even a monster.
It must have been two o’clock by the time he finally drifted to sleep. He awoke to a sharp rap on the front door. He sat up abruptly, thinking it was daybreak. He must be late for work. But when he opened his eyes, darkness still streamed through his windows.
More knocking.
His instincts told him that it was Cecilia. What did she want? An apology? A second chance?
“It’s me,” a voice called out.
“Mr. Russo?”
“Open up, Lewis.”
Hurriedly, he slipped on pants and opened the door. He was sure it was an emergency; Mrs. Russo must be ill. Maybe she needed to go to the hospital.
“What is it?” he asked worriedly.
But Mr. Russo didn’t appear distressed. He leaned his head against the doorframe, and then the whole of his weight. He smelled like a distillery.
“Someone said they saw you,” he mumbled in a gravelly voice. “You were with one of the Colavolpe girls.” He sounded irritated, but not angry. Lewis was worried that he would slump over and fall to the ground.
“We went for a walk,” he replied.
“Consorting with a model is not acceptable.”
Lewis rubbed his large, pale eyes. “I’m sorry—I lost my head. It won’t happen again.”
Mr. Russo rubbed his eyes too; they looked bleary and bloodshot. “I didn’t peg you for that type, Lewis.”
“What type do you mean, sir?”
“The type that would exploit an opportunity.”
“I didn’t do any such thing. We just went for a walk.”
“It has been my experience, Lewis, that men like yourself aren’t always forthcoming about the truth.”
Lewis was fully awake now, and cross. He resented Mr. Russo for showing up on his doorstep at this time of night, for causing him concern, for accusing him of something he hadn’t done. Lewis had thought that Mr. Russo had a better opinion of him. He’d always believed there was a trust between them, unspoken but implicit.
“I am being truthful,” he said.
Mr. Russo stared at Lewis, and as he stared, his expression softened. Tenderness, or something like it, replaced consternation. He reached out and brushed Lewis’s cheek with his fingertips.
“Men like us aren’t always forthcoming,” he whispered.
Lewis has no idea what to say. Mr. Russo had taken a step closer. His foot was practically across the threshold. Lewis saw that his tie was loose, the top buttons of his shirt undone. A tuft of curly black hair peeked out from the starchy opening. He looked like a different man.
Lewis breathed deeply. He hated the whiskey smell of Mr. Russo’s breath. He knew that odor all too well. It was his first olfactory memory—forever branded on his brain. He remembered his father bending over him, hands clenching his spindly arms like vises, the whites of his eyes pink like Mr. Russo’s. His father promised another thrashing with the belt. The thick brown one with the heavy metal buckle. The one Lewis feared more than anything in this world.
That memory of his father contrasted deeply with his early memories of his mother, which were visual and tactile. He recalled the scratchy straw-stuffed mattress they used to lie on. The way he would snuggle against her corpulent body, nestling deep into the warm, protective rolls of her flesh. He’d felt so safe there, as she read to him from their favorite book. She must have read it thirty times, but he never tired of listening to it.
And then one day everything ended. His father came home more drunk than usual, stumbling through the door, angry and jealous about something Lewis didn’t understand. He ranted, grabbed the book, and threw it into the fire. Lewis remembered being picke
d up roughly, and then dangled over a large pot of boiling water, his mother screaming “Stop!” and “No!”—but it was too late. His father dipped his foot into the pot. Lewis recoiled like a wild animal fending for its life—thrashing, biting, clawing. He remembered being dropped to the floor, his mother futilely beating his father with her fists. From the ground, his view somehow magnified, Lewis watched his father strike his mother’s face with the back of his hand. She toppled over, hitting her head on the sharp corner of the counter.
Lewis remembered his father’s expression, anger and anguish in equal measures, as he gazed down at his wife and son, realizing the permanence of what he’d done. And then Lewis’s pain became intolerable, growing with the pool of sticky, scarlet blood on the floor under his mother’s head. His own wailing reached a piercing crescendo. His father fled and a neighbor entered, followed by a policeman. This was as much of the story as Lewis could dredge up, for he must have passed out.
After that, everything in his life changed. He lived somewhere else, bunking in a room with many children. He barely spoke, but drew incessantly on the paper the nuns gave him: old newspapers, magazines, wrapping paper, cut-up cardboard boxes. He grew older in a place where parents no longer existed, until he was old enough to leave.
“I understand your message,” Lewis now said, meeting Mr. Russo’s eyes meaningfully. “You don’t need to come around again.”
For a second Mr. Russo glanced down, then looked up again bitterly. Lewis quickly shut the door. After a pause, he locked it too.
* * *
The next morning, Lewis awoke with a headache. It was as if he’d been the one drinking whiskey all night. He cringed when he remembered whom he was scheduled to draw that morning: Antonia. Lewis knew there would be trouble. Women always talked to each other. And sisters—they must tell each other everything. He’d been foolish to ignore that fact.
She strutted into his workroom without a word, shoulders squared, back straight as a lightning rod. Behind the partition she noisily changed her clothes. She emerged in the day’s garments: a conical brassiere, garters, stockings, high heels, and a waist-high, lace-up corset. Lewis took a deep breath. Behind his sketch pad, he felt unnerved. By contrast, Antonia appeared supremely confident.
“We’ll be drawing you from the front today. Straight on. One hand on your hip, the other dangling, fingers relaxed,” he said. “Look at me directly, please.”
She glared at him as she assumed the position he’d requested. Under his arms, sweat stains bloomed.
“I hear you went out with my sister,” she said. Lewis knew more was coming. Her voice was smug, indignant, and jealous all at once. “She said you were quite peculiar, but I could have told her that.”
“Relax your hands, please. They’re clenched.”
“She said you didn’t like her.”
Lewis didn’t reply.
“She said she’s not your type. But I guess I’m not your type either, am I, Lewis?”
He wiped his brow. Now his whole body was perspiring, though this was one of the few rooms at Strouse Adler that was air-conditioned.
“What I want to know is—what is your type?”
“I don’t think that’s an appropriate question, Miss Colavolpe.”
“But it was appropriate to take out my sister?”
“No, that wasn’t appropriate either,” he conceded.
“All I want you to do is answer the question. What kind of girl do you want? My sister thinks the problem is that you don’t know what to do. I think you know what to do—but can’t do it.”
Quietly, Lewis chose another pencil, licked the tip, and kept drawing. He wasn’t sketching Antonia, however. The body he created was naked, lush, and fat—thick in the middle. A baby suckled on a swollen, unconstrained breast. Antonia continued to antagonize him. All the while, he wanted to argue, but he’d promised himself he wouldn’t insult her.
* * *
The rest of the day passed in a blur. He picked at the meal Mrs. Russo had packed him. He still had no appetite. She fretted, asking him if he was feeling well.
“I’m fine,” he replied, avoiding eye contact.
After lunch he crumpled up the picture he’d drawn. From memory, he tried to sketch how Antonia had appeared that morning, like an angry empress, but his mind was muddled. His hands kept trembling and he couldn’t concentrate. Eventually, he threw his pencil on the floor and left the room to wander the halls of the factory. On the first floor he loitered outside one of the huge workrooms. Like the others, this one had a wood floor and slow-moving fans. Corsets and brassieres and other silky things spilled out of bins. Many lay scattered about on the ground. The air was thick with lint particles.
The ear-piercing cacophony of sewing machines filled his head, giving him a respite from his thoughts. From outside the room he watched row after row of tired women hunched over their machines, working in tandem. Occasionally they paused, or tried to take a smoke break. But those were discouraged, as was talking. Mainly, the women hummed or sang as their fingers busily guided fabric under sharp needles.
Young bundle girls moved the garments from station to station, for there were many stages before a product was complete: cutting, sewing, embroidering, eyeletting, boning, binding, trimming, starching, ironing, lacing, and packing. By comparison, Lewis’s job was a breeze.
The noise distracted him for a time, but it also made his headache worse. He decided to leave work early—something he rarely did. With nothing to do, he walked New Haven for hours, until his legs tired. Until his left foot felt like it was on fire.
* * *
On his way home he decided to walk down Court Street, to the store that carried books. Over a week had passed; he’d counted the days. He opened the door and greeted the shopkeeper, who had a twinkle in his eye.
“I have it,” the man said proudly.
Lewis was skeptical. In his heart he didn’t believe he would ever find that childhood treasure again. Sometimes he wondered if he had imagined it in the first place.
The storekeeper disappeared into the back, returning a few moments later with a book in his hands. The book. The same version of The Time Machine that Lewis’s mother had read to him when he was a young boy.
“It’s a sfinge?” the shopkeeper asked, pointing to the cover. “I find it—for you.”
“Yes, the sphinx,” Lewis said, wide-eyed. There it was, front and center, the same mythical, lion-haunched creature he remembered.
“Hard to find. Very hard to find,” the shopkeeper said, holding fast to the book. Still smiling, he sized Lewis up. “Perfect condition. I take only ten.”
“Ten dollars?”
When the man nodded, Lewis nearly lost his breath. It was an unreasonable sum, especially now. Especially here. Nobody had that kind of money. But Lewis could not possibly leave without the book. He opened his wallet and gave the man what he’d asked for.
The man examined the bill carefully, then nodded again. Humming, he wrapped the book in brown paper, tied it with twine, and handed it to Lewis. “Glad you happy,” he said.
Lewis tipped his hat on his way out. He thought that happy wasn’t quite the right word. What Lewis felt was transported.
* * *
It was dusk by the time he finally returned to his apartment.
He fell asleep in a chair while reading the book, having lost himself in familiar characters from another time. Hours later, a knock on the door awakened him. He was annoyed, although it was still a reasonable hour—not the middle of the night. Readying himself for a conflict, he was shocked to see Mrs. Russo—instead of her husband. She smiled and held out a steaming plate of food.
“I brought you dinner. I was worried about you at lunchtime today. Still am. You look sick, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“I’m fine,” he said brusquely. Now that he had the book, it was going to be harder to keep the bad thoughts at bay. “But I appreciate your kindness,” he added, trying not to look at her.
>
“My husband’s out with the boys tonight. They play cards once a week. Pinochle. Those games must be something.”
“Why do you say that?”
“When my husband comes home, he always looks like a freight train hit him.”
“Boys will be boys,” he muttered.
“Indeed.”
Lewis noted a quaver in her voice. Perhaps she understood more than she was letting on. Perhaps she needed a confidant, someone to pour her heart out to. He knew he shouldn’t let her in, for her own sake, but he didn’t want to disappoint her either.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” he asked after a beat. It felt funny to ask—it was her house, after all.
“If you don’t mind—that would be nice.”
He’d been right: she wanted an intimate. She needed him—although not as much as he needed her. He guided her inside and motioned for her to sit in one of the wooden chairs that flanked the kitchen table. Primly, she adjusted her voluminous floral dress, her ample figure overflowing the seat. Lewis watched her intently. He had a sudden urge to sit in her lap, to feel himself engulfed in the soft, snug folds of her flesh.
When she caught him staring, Lewis turned away in embarrassment and started the coffee. He found the bottle of milk and the sugar jar, napkins, and spoons. He glanced at the stove, ashamed at how dirty it was, and at the greasy cast-iron frying pan he kept on one of the burner grates.
“The coffee will be ready in no time,” he said.
“Thank you, Lewis. You’re always very good to me.”
“I was about to say the same thing about you, Mrs. Russo . . . Doris.”
“We’re like family, you and I, aren’t we?”
Lewis realized that his hands were shaking again. In his fingers, the sugar jar trembled, its lid tinkling. He wished she hadn’t said that. It was hard enough to distance himself without hearing that kind of talk. Now that she was here, alone with him, he couldn’t stop thinking that the book might be a sign—a sign that the time had come.
“You said you thought you’d have half a dozen,” he blurted, a new coat of sweat covering his body. “What if you could still have one?”