“This is what you wanted to talk about?” she asks.
“Yes,” he says. What does he mean ‘yes’? Is this what she went through all this agony for? She’s too irritated to even feel any relief. Here she is, completely humiliated, thinking he’s about to divorce her, when in fact he’s dragged her out on the town to discuss her finances?
“I was wondering…” Victor continues, but she interrupts.
“Is none of your business, Victor. I don’t know why the bank tell you my information. Is my loan. And is nothing to do with you!”
“Well, since we are married, legally we are one financial entity.”
She feels blood rushing to her face. She takes a sip of water to calm herself down.
“No, we are not! We have separate accounts! We have our own separate money!”
“We do.” His voice is conciliatory. He reaches across the table, but she pulls her hand away. Then she realizes he wasn’t going to touch her, he’s just pushing the glass of water towards her. “And I respect that,” he says. “It’s the bank’s mistake.”
She takes a sip of water and does her best to calm down. “Anyway,” he continues. “That’s not the issue. What I wanted to talk to you about is the fact that you are obviously trying to buy an apartment.”
Maria reaches for the naan bread, and twists off a piece. She has no intention of eating it, and instead starts kneading it into a ball. Does he even know how patronizing he sounds? She doesn’t want to discuss her plans with him. She’s been coping without his help for years, but now he feels entitled to lecture her about real estate just because he’s a man?
“I think that’s a great decision,” he says. Her irritation grows.
She squeezes the naan ball flat between her fingers.
“I don’t care what you think, Victor. I don’t need your approval!”
“I know you don’t.” There’s almost a trace of affection in his voice. “What I mean, is, I’m happy for you. Is it a nice apartment?”
“You ask me to dinner to ask if the apartment is nice?”
“Don’t get so defensive. It’s just a question. Is it nice?”
She rolls her eyes. In all their fights, she always came out looking like the bad guy. He is just too infuriatingly polite.
“It doesn’t matter, Victor. I’m not buying.”
“Why not?”
She exhales sharply.
“None of you business. Really!”
He waits, staring her down. She fumbles with the napkin on her lap.
“I don’t have enough money, ok? Down payment is too large. You happy now?”
She immediately regrets telling him. It makes her feel like such a pauper. She looks down at the glass plate covering the table. There is a little smudge in one corner, where somebody, probably herself, has dropped a bit of curry. She scratches at it with her fingernail.
“How much do you need?”
She feels the sting of tears in her eyes, and she tries blinking them away. She stalls, taking another sip of water. The pressure in her bladder is unbearable by now, but her throat feels dry, like somebody is strangling the life out of her. His eyes on her are persistent. She has to do her best to look away, has to do her best not to cry.
“Twenty thousand,” she finally says, hating herself for having agreed to this humiliating dinner.
“You know I could give it to you, don’t you?”
There’s an infuriating amount of kindness in his voice. He’s trying to be charitable, and she just can’t stand it.
“I’m not asking,” she says.
“I know. But I’m offering.”
She shakes her head, and forces herself to look at him.
“Why? Why would you give me twenty thousand dollars?”
It’s not that she doesn’t want the money. But if she took his charity, how would her pride recover? And seriously, why would he give her money? Why would the man who is no longer truly her husband, the man who shares his bed with another woman, give her twenty thousand dollars, just like that?
“Well, I thought that if I helped, maybe you’d soften up.” He winks. “You know, give me some sugar.”
“Some sugar?”
Is he suggesting what she thinks he is? She takes a sip of water. Her heart is racing. Is this for real? He’s propositioning her in exchange for money? Perversely, she’s turned on.
“Sugar,” she repeats caustically. “You are asking me to…” She cannot bring herself to say it.
Their eyes meet. She feels her face burning. She has to look away.
“Yes, honey. I’m asking you to sleep with me.”
Well, at least that settles the question of whether he still wants her. Some crazy part of her enjoys this. Yet it’s disgusting and demeaning. How dare he?
“Excuse me?” She raises her hand to cover her cleavage. Her face still burning, she reaches for her iced water. She knows Victor has little respect left for her, but she never thought he would be such a pig. “How you dare even suggest that?”
He laughs. It angers her beyond words that he’s having fun at her expense.
“Well, princess, it’s not that outrageous, if you think about it.”
“For me to sleep with you?” she asks, shaking her head in disbelief. “And you to give me money?”
“You are my wife,” he points out. “Neither me giving you money, nor you sleeping with me would be all that shocking.”
She should get up and leave, that’s what she should do. If only her knees would stop shaking.
“Seriously,” he continues. “What’s the big deal? We’ve had sex countless of times. Thousands, perhaps. Seriously, do the math, for ten years or so, we did it almost every day, sometimes several times a day, so…”
She stands up, and places her napkin on the table. She’s let this go too far.
“Sit down, sunshine. Your virtue is safe.” Victor grabs her hand, and gently pulls her back towards her seat. “I’m only joking, of course. God, you are such a fucking prude!”
Now on the brink of tears, she collapses into her chair and takes another sip of water. Her bladder is about to burst. She has no clue where the restroom is, and no force left to drag herself up again.
She looks at him in disbelief and anger. For all his faults, Victor has never been this cruel before.
“I’m serious about the money, though,” he says, trying to meet her eyes. She looks down at the food she hasn’t touched. She’s not just angry. She’s hurt. She has to summon all her willpower not to cry. She tries to count the holes in the white paper doily under the glass plate of the table. There are ten holes in a pattern. And ten little flowers to go with them.
“I’ll write you a check,” he says. “No strings attached.”
He takes out his checkbook and an expensive looking pen.
“I will not take it,” she says, trying to conceal the hurt in her voice. “Not in a million years. I will save and buy something later. I don’t want your money. I told you so years ago. I want to have nothing to do with your money.”
Victor signs the check and slides it across the table. She doesn’t touch it, but she can’t help looking. He made it out for thirty thousand dollars. Bloody generous. Or rather, bloody arrogant motherfucking showoff!
“I won’t take it, Victor.”
“Please take it, Maria. I want you to have it.”
“No.”
She slides the check back across the table. It physically hurts to push it away, all that money, all her dreams. But her pride will not let her take it. Especially after that distasteful joke.
He sighs.
“Well, if you wanted our financial affairs to be so separate, you should have divorced me years ago, princess.”
She takes another sip of water. The sting in her bladder cuts like a knife.
“Don’t be so stubborn. Take the money. Get yourself the apartment. I know you want it.”
She looks at him defiantly.
“I already say I not want i
t,” she says. “You think you are so good? You come in here, shove your money in my face? What you are trying to show Victor? That you are a good man, that you do the right thing? What you are trying to buy with your money? A clear conscience? You want to go home and know you did the right thing?”
She hopes he can see the hate in her eyes.
“Mark my words, Victor. You will never do right by me. Never.”
He sighs, and reaches into his pocket, taking out his wallet again. He’ll put the check back in, she knows it. It hurts to think of all that money, and how she could have used it. It will take her years to save up that much. She’ll be an old lady before she moves to Manhattan. She can’t watch him put that check back in his wallet. She has to look away.
“I’m not trying to,” he finally says. “And for the record, sugar ray, you will never do right by me either.”
He stands up to go, and reaches for his cigarettes.
He’s holding a fifty-dollar bill.
“Stop being such a self-righteous cunt. Take the money.” He places the fifty on top of the check and slides it across the table to her. “And get yourself a fucking cab back to Queens!”
He pushes his chair back and walks off. She sees him light a cigarette outside. A few steps, and his tall dark silhouette is gone. She’s left with a feeling of emptiness and shame, just like the old days. That, and a check for thirty thousand dollars she knows she should rip up.
But not right now.
First, she’ll wait for her knees to stop trembling, then she’ll get up and use the ladies’ room. She needs to pee like there is no tomorrow.
“More water, miss?” the waiter asks, holding out the carafe.
12
New Beginnings
September announces itself as a happy month. Or at least, I try to see it that way. There are a few things to look forward to: Rachelle called out of the blue wanting to have lunch, Greg’s taking me out tonight, and, most importantly, I’m getting paid today! I’m hoping my check will be enough to cover the minimum payment on my credit card, and allow me to give Gretchen a few hundred dollars.
At Bella, Francesca is waiting for me with a cappuccino, and congratulates me for selling a record number of bags and accessories last month. “You outdid yourself, carina! The slowest month of the year, and here you go, selling, selling, selling!”
I wonder what my commission will be. I want to ask, but I’m afraid to. Then I burn my tongue on my coffee, and take that as a sign that it’s better to shut up.
My tongue is still sore when I head out to lunch. I’m almost late, and Rachelle hates lateness. Still, I stop by an ATM, just to withdraw a twenty. I look at the receipt. I don’t want to believe this. But there it is, black on white: Minus the twenty dollars I’ve just withdrawn, my account contains one thousand thirty two dollars, and seventy eight cents. O mie treizeci şi doi de dolari şi şaptezeci si opt de cenţi. The stupid cappuccino was a consolation prize.
I’m terrifyingly poor, and I’m late for lunch with Rachelle. We’re meeting at an Au Bon Pain across the street from her work. Rachelle hates waiting for people, and her lunch breaks are short. But as I come galloping along, I see her smiling, pleased to see me.
I hug her with enthusiasm, and shriek with joy, a childish habit I cannot outgrow. Rachelle shushes me, embarrassed. We stand in line to order. I love the sandwiches here, especially one with roasted red peppers and crusty bread with rosemary in it. Rozmarin. I also love the chocolate croissants and the delicious French roast coffee. My stomach hurts. I’m dying for a sandwich. I covetously eye what others are buying. How I wish I could bite into a crunchy baguette! But there’s nothing I can afford today. Although this is an inexpensive place, which is why Rachelle and I keep coming here, today everything seems out of my price range. Even the bagels are two dollars, something I cannot bring myself to pay. I’m tired of bagels anyway. When my turn comes to order, I stammer:
“I think I’ll just have a glass of tap water, with ice in it. I burned my tongue on this coffee this morning, and, well, I can’t eat.”
Rachelle gives me a strange look, and proceeds to order a chicken sandwich and a cup of soup for herself.
As we sit down, I try not to look at her sandwich, try to ignore the steam rising from the broccoli and cheddar soup. I have a killer craving for a piece of juicy chicken breast on a baguette with just a tad of garlic mayo. I pretend to enjoy my water, and pray that my empty stomach will not make any growling noises.
Rachelle takes a few bites of her sandwich, a few spoons of her soup, then pushes her tray torturously close to my side of the table, straightens her back, and gets right down to business.
“Look, L,” she says. “I have to go back to the office soon, so I’ll just have to come out and tell you, with no embellishments, why I’m here. I have not had much time, with my work schedule, and though I’ve interviewed a few people, I have not found anybody I trust. So if you’ll still consider it, I’ll take you on as a roommate.”
I open my mouth, but she holds up her hand. She’s not done yet.
“Now, don’t flatter yourself, child. This is not out of friendship, and I sure have limited trust in you, but you seem to be the best out of a bunch of screw-ups who want that room. I’m not sure you’ll work out, since, honestly you don’t seem to have your life together, but I do want to take my courses, I do want to feed my child, and I do want to not live in squalor.” She pauses to take a sip of her diet soda, and something about her demeanor tells me that it’s not wise to interject anything just yet.
“I want you to know, you’d be on probation,” Rachelle says, giving me a look that intimidates me more than I care to admit. “You mess up on paying the rent, the bills, or you engage in any funny business in my house, and I’ll kick your white ass as far as New Jersey. I want us to be clear on that before you even consider it.”
I nod.
“And there would be a lease. I’ve drafted it and had a lawyer friend look it over. I want you to know this would be legally binding.”
“How much is the rent?” I ask.
“Five hundred dollars.”
“That’s it?”
“It’s for the one bedroom only. I have the master bedroom, and Jurron has a room for himself, although he mostly sleeps with me. You’d just have the one small room, the one Rhonda stayed in. You have use of the kitchen, and of the bathroom. But you sure would not be welcome to lounge around my living room and watch my TV unless you a) pay half the cable bill or b) get invited by me. Anyway, five hundred is a third of the rent. That’s to make clear, you’d only be renting the one room.”
In spite of all the restrictions, this sounds like my one chance for freedom.
“That is awesome, Rachelle, I…”
Rachelle holds up her hand again.
“Girl child you sure have lots to learn about life! Look at you getting all excited. Now you need to sleep on it, so don’t answer me right away. I made a copy of the lease for you to look at. It explains the utilities and all. And there’s also a list of all the rules for the apartment. Like cleaning, and all that.”
Rachelle takes a folder out of her tote bag, and hands it to me.
“Would I get a key?” I ask.
Rachelle gives me a puzzled look. “Of course you’d get a key! How would I ever rent you a place without giving you a key to it? Now I gotta run back to work, but you think this over and call me. But don’t take longer than two days, please. If you’re not interested, then I’ve gotta drop out of my classes and I better do so while I can get a refund. I would of course prorate September’s rent until you can move in. But if you want in, you better chop chop. I can’t afford to wait too long.”
I watch Rachelle disappear into the sliding glass door of the building across the street. I wait a few moments to make sure she’s truly gone, then reach over and devour the leftover sandwich and cold broccoli soup. Supă rece.
I call Rachelle later that night. The next day we meet at a deli. Over
toasted bagels with lots of cream cheese, I hand her the signed lease, and a check. A little thrown by my plan to move in that very night, Rachelle gives me the key, saying: “You better guard this with your life, white child! I hope you read what the lease says about replacing those locks!”
I swallow a chunk of bagel that goes down my throat like a brick. They’re about as satisfying as eating concrete. I really wish Rachelle would lose the commanding tone. Even my offer to pay for lunch was met with a snort: “Really child, what are you gonna go and do that for? Just pay for your own food!”
I sneak out of Gretchen’s apartment at night, like a thief. All I’m taking is an oversize garbage bag (un sac de gunoi) full of my own crummy clothes and less than glamorous shoes. I say goodbye to a closet full of Gretchen’s couture. I paid dear money to have everything dry cleaned. I’ve left the dresses in the plastic bags from the cleaners, and I’ve arranged all of her shoes in a neat row at the bottom. On my way out of the apartment I leave my key on the kitchen counter.
I take the subway to Roosevelt Island, dragging my garbage bag full of clothes up and down several filthy flights of stairs, getting lost, then running to catch the train. Once in the empty cart, I hug my possessions to my chest. I forgot to worry about thieves and rapists, and now here I am, alone, at night, on the New York City subway. When I finally get to my new apartment I’m sweaty and completely exhausted.
I unlock the front door as quietly as possible, knowing that Rachelle and the baby are asleep. I walk to my room slowly through the darkness, hoping the garbage bag will not make too much noise. I fumble with the light switch. I’m greeted by nothing but darkness. I place my bag down and sink to the floor next to it.
As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I realize that my room is empty. I raise the blinds, and see the East River, glowing red from the city lights, like a big stream of dirty blood. Somewhere out in the night, there are sounds of ambulances, cars, helicopters, people… Salvări, maşini, elicoptere, oameni…
13
Labor Day
(Ziua Muncii?)
Dogs With Bagels Page 12