She keeps thinking of Victor in the other room. She feels like she’s been unkind. Though, really, she’s proud of having said no. She’s also proud of resisting her impulse to comfort him when he looked so vulnerable. After all, kindness to Victor has always been her downfall. But she can’t help feeling some sort of tenderness, some sort of concern. She wonders if he’s ok after drinking so much. But no, she’s not going to check on him, as if he were a sick child. It’s crazy and self-destructive to even think of it. But maybe in the morning she will make him breakfast. Maybe then she can talk to him again, sober. Maybe he’ll act differently then. Maybe they both will.
She anticipates waking up before him, making coffee, cutting up some of the pound cake and toasting it, squeezing fresh orange juice, frying eggs and bacon, adding hot sauce, to fight off his hangover. When he’ll emerge from Alex’ room, with a monster headache, she’ll be waiting for him with aspirin and a warm breakfast. The thought makes her feel better, and finally she’s able to relax. She sleeps a full nine hours. When she wakes up, it’s almost noon. As she steps out of her bedroom, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Alex’ door is wide open. Her son’s bed is a mess. The other bed is neatly made. Victor already left.
She paces around her apartment, feeling oddly bereaved. Once again, emptiness weighs her down. She’s so lonely it physically hurts. And for a woman who so badly longed to be alone, it sure is an unexpected revelation.
24
A New Life
It’s a white door, covered with a shiny coat of paint. If you look carefully, the way she has, you’ll see the individual brushstrokes. She loves these little imperfections.
The door squeaks loudly, and she’s greeted by the smell of dust and aged wood, slightly wilted, slightly sweet. To her, this smell is heaven. And if you can’t understand why, you’ve obviously never loved an old house.
She stops to take it all in, the hardwood floors, the beige walls, the large French window, and that lovely scent of days gone by. She’s finally home!
It’s just one room, and a small one at that. She once stayed in a hotel room that was larger. There are some disadvantages, a fourth floor walk up, a tiny bathroom with a shower and no tub, no separation between the kitchen and the rest of the living space. Still, it’s a small studio apartment in lower Manhattan, it’s full of light, and worn and lovely, and it’s hers.
There is only one window, but it’s large, and faces south. She loves the tree whose branches almost touch her one window. It’s an ordinary tree. She doesn’t know what kind. At least it’s not a walnut tree. If it were, she would not have bought the apartment.
She loves the beige walls; they look old fashioned and mellow. She loves the fact that all doors and window frames are painted white. She knows details like these are unimportant, that she could easily change them. But she is happy that she likes it just the way it is.
She loves the built-in shelves, ideal for her books. And she loves that this tiny place, with its puny bathroom, actually has a walk-in closet, a luxury she’s never had before.
Of course, having her kitchen in her bedroom is not something she’s crazy about. There won’t be enough counter space for all her pots and pans and spices. But then again, with her children grown, her son openly hating her, and her daughter obviously avoiding her, who is she going to cook for anyway?
Buying the apartment has been an ordeal. She never could have imagined all the complications, the paperwork, the inspections, all the people she had to deal with, the calls to and from the bank, the sleepless nights. But finally, she did it! And she’s proud that in spite of her bad English, she was able to handle it all on her own. When she recalls her first years in this country, the frustration of stumbling around clueless, her victory in buying this apartment seems even more momentous.
Of course, under normal circumstances she would not have been stubborn enough to try doing this without help. She would have at least asked L to help her translate some of the documents, and accompany her to some of the meetings. But airtime with L is hard to come by these days. Her daughter, noting her disapproval, has decided to avoid her. They had one conversation, over lunch, in January, where Maria asked her directly if she loved Greg. L insisted she did with a vehemence that looked suspicious. Maria didn’t even pretend to believe her. L got defensive. She started listing all of Greg’s qualities, like a lawyer trying to win a case. Maria eventually gave up and said, “I’m sure he’s wonderful,” which didn’t sound sincere. L left early, without finishing her food. After that, their conversations, on the phone, were short and superficial. The last time they talked, L gushed about the wedding, and Maria felt as bereft as if they were talking about a funeral. At least, L has not set a date yet. But she did express excitement over Victor agreeing to pay for her wedding. “Except your shoes,” Maria insisted. “Mami will buy your shoes.” She hoped this modest offering would appease her daughter. L thanked her, but didn’t sound pleased. Later, Maria realized that Victor could afford much nicer shoes. Maybe L already had her eye on something expensive. And now her poor cheapskate of a mother offered to buy her something else instead. When it comes to her children, why can’t she ever get it right?
But this is not a day to think about unpleasant things. Today she will celebrate her apartment. Her very own tiny piece of the big apple. She turns the thermostat to 75. She can’t suffer the cold. She’s happy that she remembered to contact NYSEG and have the power switched on, and that now, on her first day of being here alone, without the realtor, without the inspector, without any of the annoying people she’s had to deal with, she actually has heat.
She places her heavy plastic bags on the counter in the so-called kitchen. She takes out a bottle of Laurent Perrier, her favorite French champagne, four sponges, a pair of gloves, a toilet brush, a box of baking soda, vinegar, bleach, dishwashing liquid, and some paper towels.
For the next three hours she scrubs every nook and cranny of her new apartment. She cleans the shower and toilet, washes the inside of the fridge, cleans the window, the floors, the cupboards, and the stove. While doing this, she carries the champagne bottle with her, and periodically treats herself to a swig of bubbly. When she’s satisfied with the cleaning, she turns off the heat and opens the window to air the place out. She puts her coat on, and sits in the middle of the floor, holding the bottle. She feels decidedly tipsy. Her movements are slow and clumsy, and she cannot stop giggling. Enjoying her light-headedness she takes one more small sip, then laughs at the weight of her own arm placing the bottle back on the floor. And in her giddy happiness she feels generous and grateful. All in all, the world has been kind to her. And she feels the need to spread some of that goodness.
She takes off her rubber gloves and washes her hands with dish soap, laughing at the bubbles. She takes another sip of champagne, and reaches for her tote bag. There are a few things she always carries with her. She always likes to have cards and stamps. She buys blank cards with flowers or trees on them. She stocks up whenever they’re on sale.
She has taken to writing cards years ago because she noticed it’s something nice that Americans do. She remembers receiving her first card, shortly after arriving in the new country. She sent little Alex to a child’s birthday party, in Queens. It was an American kid from school, whose parents she and Victor didn’t know. She was excited that Alex was going to this party. She thought it was important for her children to meet people outside the community, to make friends with all kinds of other children. She insisted on buying that little American boy a present, a cheap ball. She cut five dollars out of the grocery budget to buy it, and Alex, true to form, hated it. When he returned from the party he pouted and told her that all other kids brought ‘real presents,’ that real presents were wrapped in nice wrapping paper, or packed in cool bags, and that they came with birthday cards attached. Still, a few days after that party, she received a thank you card in the mail. It was a tiny card, with the picture of a teddy bear on it. “Dear Mrs. Pop,” it sa
id, in a hand writing that to her seemed as foreign as the English words. “Thank you very much for the present. Sincerely, Tina, John, and Bobby.” Alex refused to translate it, but L read it for her. Maria kept it for years, and is still sorry she lost it. To her it symbolized a new height of grace and friendliness. As soon as she was able to write in English, she started buying cards. She would write them on the subway, on her way to or from work, and drop them in a post box along the way. She wrote cards to other parents, but also to neighbors and work colleagues. As reserved as she was in person, cards allowed her make her own kind of forthcoming gestures.
Taking another sip of champagne, Maria chooses the card she likes best. It’s a stylized drawing of a red poppy on a white background. She writes in her beautiful cursive, with carefully drawn rounded letters:
“Drinking champagne in my new apartment. Thank you!”
It comes out a bit slanted, probably because she’s a little drunk. But she laughs, licks the envelope, looks for a stamp in her wallet, and copies the address from her leather notebook.
On her way out, bound for the subway that will take her back to Queens, she drops the little envelope into a postal box.
Later that evening, sobering up, and treating her post-champagne headache with aspirin, she regrets having sent that stupid card. What the fuck was she thinking? How on earth could she get drunk and start writing cards? Still, there is nothing she can do about it, short of riding the subway back to Manhattan, standing by that stupid box, waiting for the postal worker to pick up the mail, then assaulting a Federal employee in order to snatch back that uninspired card. All she can do is pray it gets lost in the mail.
25
Closure?
Maria is wandering around her old apartment, contemplating packing. She wouldn’t mind walking out of this place empty handed, pulling the door shut on her old life, and starting over new. But she’s too poor to afford that.
So she pours herself a glass of wine, puts on some music, and starts making a mental inventory of her possessions. She’s just starting to get into it, when the rotary phone in her bedroom starts ringing.
Victor’s voice takes her by surprise.
“So you haven’t moved yet?”
“No.”
There is silence on the line for a while. She doesn’t know what to say to him.
He states the obvious: “I got your card.”
She still doesn’t know what to say. She’s embarrassed for getting drunk and sending it in the first place.
“Were you drunk?” he asks.
“Quite drunk.”
“Nice.”
Silence again.
“So, can I take you out to dinner to celebrate?”
“Sure.” It slips out before she has time to think about it.
“How about tomorrow? What time do you get off work?”
The next day, dressed in black slacks and a turtleneck, an outfit she hopes looks flattering but relatively casual, wearing her black coat, and her most expensive boots, gloves, and purse, Maria rides a cab uptown to the restaurant Victor suggested. She’s nervous at the thought of meeting him, also a little angry with herself for having accepted. But then again, she’s still too happy about her new apartment to want to dwell on hard feelings from the past. It’s the happiest she’s been in a long time. Why ruin it? She’s about to start a new life. There’s no need to bring old resentments into it. Besides, she’s looking forward to having a nice dinner in a nice restaurant. She cannot even remember the last time she enjoyed a meal out. It’s a luxury she could never afford after moving to the new country. Of course, she and Victor used to go to lovely places in Romania. Even in the darkest era of communism, when there were shortages of all sorts, menus were limited, and waiters were rude, Victor took her to places that served impeccable meals, where one could enjoy the fragrant shade of tree-filled gardens and be seduced by Gypsy violins. Once they arrived in America, eating out seemed too frivolous for their budget, and more trouble than it was worth, with two children in tow. Still, on their tenth wedding anniversary, Victor insisted on taking her out. And he insisted that it be somewhere special. She knew they couldn’t afford it, but she wanted to humor him. She put on her best dress, which by then looked washed out and dated, slipped into pumps that pinched her toes, and entrusted her children to Mrs. Stoica for the evening. They went to an Italian restaurant. The place was beautiful, the service flawless, and the food on other diners’ plates looked exquisite. Seeing it, Maria experienced gluttony so acute, that even her pregnancy cravings paled in comparison. But the prices on the menu scared her. The filet Victor ordered for her cost more than several days’ worth of groceries. She showed superhuman discipline in eating only half. She planned on using the rest in a stew the next day. Even so, she could not justify the expense. She pushed her delicious steak aside, drank her outlandishly priced cabernet, and smiled at her handsome husband, who obviously wanted her to have a good time. Victor prompted her to eat the rest of her meat. She very badly wanted to. It was a great steak and she was still hungry. But she didn’t want to make Victor feel bad by admitting she thought they were too poor to eat in such a nice place. She smiled and said that she was full. “Do you mind if I have it?” he asked. He had eaten his entire chicken entree, but obviously he was still hungry too. She watched him finish her filet, and forced herself to keep smiling, even as she declined having a dessert she really craved. That night she locked herself in the bathroom, and cried for a full hour with the water running, so her family wouldn’t hear. By the time she finally came to bed, Victor was asleep, and she felt relieved.
That was the last moderately pleasant dinner out Maria can remember the two of them sharing. After all these years, she should at least try to enjoy the fact that he can now afford to buy her a nice meal. And if he really wants to, why should she make it so difficult for him? After all, she did accept his money. And in her drunken happiness she even brought herself to send that stupid card and thank him for it. So wouldn’t it be just ridiculous if she refused to let him buy her dinner to celebrate?
Victor is already sitting at their table when she gets there. She feels awkward. What do people do in these situations? Kiss on the cheek, the European way? Shake hands like business partners? Hug? He stands up to greet her, and his hand brushes hers in a gesture that is neither too familiar nor too business-like. He helps her out of her coat, and she sits down.
She quickly gives him a once-over. He looks good, as usual, the bastard! She wonders if by now there is another woman in his life, or if maybe Monica is back. She wonders if he ever thinks of her, his estranged wife. They haven’t seen each other since Christmas, when he made that drunken pass at her. But she can’t think of that, not if she’s really going to try to be pleasant.
Their first attempts at conversation, about her carbide over, are awkward. They’re both trying too hard to be polite. Everything she says rings fake. Her enthusiasm reminds her of something recent, but she cannot remember what. Something she read, maybe, but she’s not sure. Not that it matters, anyway. At a loss for words, she smiles, knowing that she looks silly. She’s afraid this entire dinner will be an uncomfortable farce, the two of them acting the role of the cordial separated couple.
Luckily the waiter interrupts, asking what she would like to drink. Victor is already nursing a scotch. She likes the thought that even he occasionally needs something to steady his nerves. In fact, she’s surprised that he wasn’t waiting for her outside, smoking.
“I’ll have one of those,” she says, pointing to a woman at the bar drinking a light colored beverage out of a tall glass. She feels silly pointing, and ordering the first thing she sees, without even knowing what it is. But she needs alcohol fast, if she’s going to relax and act natural.
“Ah, the mojitos are excellent!” the waiter says. Maria smiles. She hopes to God they’re strong!
“And we’d love to look at a wine list for later, please,” Victor adds. He seems as anxious for alcohol as she
is. He’s nervous too. She can feel it. She smiles. Victor, nervous! At seeing her, no less!
Her drink arrives. Victor raises his glass.
“To your new apartment.”
She smiles. The drink is good, pleasantly tart, with a hint of freshness. She hopes there’s an abundance of liquor in there, though she can’t really taste it.
“Thank you for agreeing to have dinner with me,” he says. “I wanted to see you, so I could apologize in person for my behavior at Christmas.”
He sounds too formal, but sincere. She’s shocked. He was so angry with her at Christmas, and she assumed that he would stay that way.
“I...” she mutters, unsure of how to respond but willing to acknowledge his effort. After all, it must be difficult for him to apologize. To her limited knowledge, men generally try to avoid that, at all costs.
Just then, the waiter interrupts.
“Here is the wine list, sir. And here are some menus for the two of you to look over. I will be right back to tell you about our specials.”
She scans the menu looking for fish courses. She doesn’t eat meat during Lent.
“The fish here is excellent!” Victor says, as if reading her mind. “Do you still observe Lent?” Still formal, still overly polite. How long will this dinner farce have to go on?
“Yes, I do.”
She smiles at him, like the Stepford wife she isn’t.
“I think they have a grouper special today, and it’s supposed to be fantastic.”
“Lovely!” she says cheerfully, putting down her menu, which she has no patience to read anyway. “I love grouper!”
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