Again, she laughs at her own misadventures, but it’s a sad, bitter laugh, as if she’s still not able to let go of her disappointment.
“It’s funny now, how naïve I was, how I had no idea how this world works at all. But back then I was crestfallen. I realized the only thing I could really afford was to go back to New York, back to Victor, if he’d take me. The thought of facing him at this point scared me so much it made me sick. But with that knot in my stomach, I packed my things, then looked one last time out the window of my hotel room, the lovely room that had been mine for three nights, but which I hadn’t really taken the time to enjoy. I pressed my face against the cold windowpane, and wondered when I’d have the opportunity to be alone again.”
Her face is filled with nostalgia, as if that moment, suspended in time, is a sacred, yet painful memory. The last moment when she was by herself, in Scranton, in her hotel room. It hurts to think that that’s what Mami longed for, all these years. Being alone. Rather than with her family.
“I checked out of the hotel and walked to the train station. I managed to purchase a ticket back, but once I got into the city and off my train, I got lost. How ironic that I’d made it all the way to Scranton and back, but then I couldn’t figure out the New York City subway and go back to Queens. I called your father from a payphone at the station. I was terrified. I just kept praying, as the phone rang, praying that he’d be home, that he’d pick up, that he’d agree to take me back, praying that he’d come get me in Manhattan.
He did come. He came in the cab. I felt so horrible, I couldn’t bring myself to look at his face. He was so angry with me, L. But he was quiet, as usual, cold. I sat in the back of the cab. I was afraid to sit next to him, not physically afraid, of course. Your father never raised a hand at me, and I want you to know that. But I was afraid of his quiet, controlled anger, because I knew that I deserved it. I was so ashamed of myself. I cried all the way home.
We stopped at a stupid diner. He picked up food for us. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes, the worst meal I ever had. I could not touch meatloaf for years after that. I even would not touch anything that had ground beef in it. Meatballs. Remember how Alex always liked my marinated meatballs? I’d nearly throw up after making them, just the sight of them made me sick. But I got over that, of course. It’s funny how people manage to get over things. There were so many times in my life when I thought I’d be in pain forever, that I’d never recover, but time heals everything.”
She says this, but she sighs, and her face is not that of a woman who’s come to terms with her past.
“The only thing I never truly got over was leaving my children. I could never forgive myself for that. I couldn’t talk about it to anyone. The only person I told was Josephine, and you know what she said? She said she knew my husband beat me. She really thought that, L. She thought your father was abusive, and that that’s why I left. But you know as well as I do, that’s not true. I couldn’t even imagine it. I still can’t. But there are so many women out there who have to deal with that. And if I felt like my house was a prison, can you imagine what kind of hell they must be going through?”
Silence takes over the room. I have long since finished my tea, but am still holding the cup, cold by now. I’m inspecting the rim, studying the pattern of blue flowers bordering it. It’s ugly, and I’ve always thought so, but I’d rather look at it, than look at Mami’s face.
“It’s funny, L, but that stupid trip to Scranton, that is the only time, in my whole life, that I’ve gone somewhere by myself. I mean, gone out of town, you know. I’ve never been anywhere. We used to go on vacation, in Romania, remember? We’d go to the mountains, or to the Black Sea. It was always so beautiful. But I’ve never gone anywhere alone. Ever. And I’ve never gone anywhere since. Not even for a weekend. I’ve never in my life been anywhere by myself. Except to Scranton.
My only independent excursion. And that only to find out that I could not cope in the world, by myself. Do you know how proud I am of you, L? For braving life on your own, at such a young age? You say you fucked up, but sweetie, you’ve been gone for months, and you haven’t come back. And if you ever do, if you ever need to, you’ll always know that you can take care of yourself, that you can go out there on your own, and do more than just spend three days in a hotel in Scranton. L, I was thirty-four before I lived independently from your father, before I figured out how to support myself and my children. Thirty-four. And here you are, ten years younger, doing your own thing, putting a roof above your head, surviving. You might think you fucked up because of some stupid credit card bill, but I think you are doing great, and I’m so proud of you.
I guess that’s part of why I wanted to tell you this story. So you can know that, if you think you fucked up, I did it so much worse before. So you can be proud of yourself, of standing on your own two feet. And so you can appreciate your freedom. If you want to go to Scranton, or even somewhere real, somewhere actually exciting. If you want to go to Italy, L, and just stay there, you are free. You are not trapped in a bad marriage. And you don’t have children who need you. If you go to Italy and buy some ridiculously expensive clothes, well, you might be slightly irresponsible, and you might get deeper into debt and have to pay lots of interest, but it doesn’t make you a bad person, because you haven’t left your children and your husband to do it.”
28
Lox and Bagels
Maria is bored. This time of year, suitably outfitted with scarves and gloves, all of New York seems determined to ignore her. They’ll be back soon enough, seeking the silk pastels of spring. Until then, she has nothing to do but rearrange her favorite items, soon to go on sale. And worry about L. The way she was sleeping the other night, so peacefully, so innocently, like a child. Yet her daughter is no longer a child, but a grown woman. A woman about to make a stupid mistake that could ruin her life. Next to her sleeping daughter, Maria stayed up all night, praying. It’s been two days already. L has not been in touch, and Maria has a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach each time she thinks of her. Has she, in the light of day, decided to shun her mother, this time for good, this mother who admitted to abandoning her?
Maria sighs and takes comfort in rearranging her favorite gloves. She’s so distracted, that she doesn’t even notice the customer walking up to the counter, and when she finally becomes aware of his presence she has the feeling that he’s been waiting for a while. She looks up from the gloves. Her eyes meet Victor’s. Blood rushes to her cheeks. How silly of her to get so flustered! Will this ever stop? Will she ever be able to act normal around him?
“You here to buy glove?” she asks, smiling. From under the glass countertop, she produces her favorite pair, the elbow length ones in the softest leather she’s ever encountered. They are a delight to touch, and as she hands them over to Victor she realizes that she’s proud of them, as if she made them herself. They are divine and perfect, and it’s impossible not to enjoy such craftsmanship.
“Maybe for girlfriend?” she asks playfully. She’s dying to know if he and Monica are back together, or if there’s someone new in his life. “Surely a handsome man like you has girlfriend, no?”
Victor laughs.
“Actually, I have an estranged wife. I was hoping maybe to take her to lunch?”
Maria smiles.
He’s looking at the gloves. His manly hands are caressing the fine leather. She has to avert her eyes. She’s always loved his hands, his fingers, big, strong, yet at the same time elegant. She used to think they were a sign of good character, of nobility and endurance. But little good did it do her, that he is such a noble man. Little good did it do her that he is strong, or that he’s great with those big manly hands of his.
“This feels fucking amazing!” he says. Maria sighs.
“I know. They’re my favorites.”
Victor takes a quick glance at the price tag.
“Eight hundred dollars? For gloves?”
She shrugs.
“You want q
uality, you pay.”
“Well, they are amazing,” he admits. “Here, let me see.”
Before she knows it, his hand reaches for hers, and in slow, deliberate gestures, he’s slipping the glove onto her fingers. It feels divine. It feels unbearable. Wrapped in the finest leather known to man, her hand is shaking visibly, betraying her. There’s no way to conceal it now, is there? He can see her trembling, so he knows that his touch still sends shivers down her spine, that she cannot, will not, ever in her silly wretched life be indifferent to him. She tries to hide behind her eyelashes, but it’s no use.
“It’s beautiful,” he says. “I’ll buy it for you, if you like.”
“It’s eight hundred dollars!” She laughs. Her voice comes out too shrill. “That’s crazy! Beside, I have gloves. I have very nice gloves.”
She peels the leather off her hand, and places the object of beauty back in its glass compartment.
“So how about lunch?” he asks.
“Wait here a minute. I’ll ask.”
She goes off in search of Grace, her supervisor. It’s one of the drawbacks of her faulty English. Despite her charm, she’s never been promoted. A woman in her twenties, who’s only worked here a few months, is her supervisor. Normally, she doesn’t give a damn. But today she’s embarrassed that she has to ask Grace if she can take her lunch early, that Victor will hear this exchange.
“Grace, I go lunch now,” she announces, hoping that her supervisor will not consider this an impertinence. “I go punch out. I be back in an hour.”
Grace smiles, and Maria knows it’s all right. After all, there aren’t any customers.
“O.K.,” her supervisor says, then pulls her aside to ask, in a whisper. “Who’s the guy? Did you meet someone?”
Maria blushes.
“Is my husband.”
She feels good saying it, and she enjoys the look of admiration on the other woman’s face. No need to tell her they are separated, and really just friends, that their friendship is new and fragile.
She slips into the back room to punch out, and grab her coat. She can’t help but look in the mirror, can’t help but swipe a brush through her hair a few times, dab a drop of fragrance on her wrists, and put on a fresh coat of lipstick. She wishes she could erase the circles around her eyes, the wrinkles around her mouth, the time and bitterness they testify to. It’s silly, of course to care so much about her appearance. After all, it’s just lunch with a friend.
When she returns to the floor, she can’t see Victor anywhere. Did she spend too long primping? Did he leave? But then her eyes find him. He’s wandered off from the glove department, and is now chatting with a saleswoman from the fragrance section. It’s a woman Maria doesn’t know well, but who has quite a reputation as a flirt. She’s from somewhere in South America, has the most beautiful complexion, wild black hair, and a voluptuous body. She wears low-cut shirts, has a deep sexy voice, and pouty lips. On top of that, her job is to tempt customers with fragrance. What on earth could be more seductive?
Seeing her now, in conversation with Victor, Maria can’t suppress her jealousy. There they are, obviously flirting. The way he’s looking at her, the way her feline body arches towards him, the smiles, the eye contact. There’s obviously a seduction ritual going on, and Maria is not sure who will be seducing whom.
Her first impulse is a childish one. She wants to turn around, go back to the break room, hide there, eat the tuna sandwich she’s brought from home, and forget all about lunch with Victor. She wonders if he’d even notice.
Her second impulse is to march over and interrupt their flirting by throwing a tantrum. But that is stupid, and she knows it. She’s not going to pull at Victor’s sleeve, and she’s not going to stomp her feet demanding his attention. After all, she has no claim to him whatsoever. That they are not divorced is only a formality, an oversight on both of their parts.
She walks towards them, and stops about five feet away, unsure of how to act. She notices Victor looking around in search of her, in the middle of whatever tantalizing conversation he’s having with the other woman. His eyes find her, before she has a chance to wipe the jealousy off her face. He must have seen it, because he smiles a smug little smile.
Blushing, she smiles back, and walks towards them.
“Here, you should try this,” Victor says, and his hand rests on the small of her back. She can feel his touch, even through her winter coat, or maybe she just imagines feeling it. Victor’s hand rests on her body as if it’s normal for him to touch her this way, as if she belongs to him, just a little bit. Does it mean anything? Or is it just a random gesture from a man used to being around women? Maybe to him, it has no deeper meaning than a sneeze.
She straightens her back. He removes his hand.
The fragrance woman hands her a piece of paper to smell.
“No. Actually try it on,” Victor says, and the woman offers Maria the atomizer bottle. It’s made of blue glass, and shaped like a star. Aware of Victor’s eyes on her, she sprays perfume into her décolleté, then rolls up her sleeve and sprays some on her arm. It still looks young, the skin on her arm, she knows it. It still looks sensuous, feminine, and inviting. She holds up her forearm and lets Victor smell it. He seems to enjoy the fragrance and the closeness. In spite of herself, she giggles, and before she knows it, she is flirting. With Victor, of all men…
The perfume does smell wonderful. Exotic, sensual, and strangely familiar. She’s heard people say that nothing evokes memories better than fragrance, and this one reminds her of someone.
“Thank you,” she says to the saleswoman. “You ready to go, Victor?”
Her voice, too brisk and too impatient, dispels the magic cloud of fragrance and flirtation. She only has an hour for lunch. No time for foolishness.
Since she’s in a rush, Victor suggests the bar of a luxury hotel nearby. She’s passed by it a million times. She always wanted go in. It’s the kind of place that’s too expensive for her, and she always secretly wanted to go there. Just as she wanted to go to so many other places she could never afford.
Outside it’s cold, grey, and the air smells like an imminent snowfall. The typical cruelty of spring in New York. Inside, it’s warm, and the room is just as lovely as Maria imagined. They sit in leather armchairs, at a safe distance from each other. A large window offers a view of passers-by huddled in coats, navigating the frosty afternoon. Although she only has an hour, Maria feels relaxed. The fragrance envelops her in its delicious magic. It blends with the scent of leather and the warmth in the room, making her feel spoiled and sexy. And although she cannot remember where she encountered this lovely scent before, she knows that it will be forever in her mind associated with the memory of sitting here with Victor on a snowy day.
“It smells amazing on you,” Victor says. “Maybe I should buy it for you.”
She smiles. In her relaxed and cozy state, the thought is rather appealing. But why would he buy her a gift?
Then it suddenly comes to her, her recent memory of this exact same fragrance.
“You know, is same perfume our daughter has.”
She laughs, thinking it would be silly to wear the same scent as L.
“Is that so? Well, she does look quite like you, our daughter, don’t you think? If it suits you so well, it must suit her.”
Maria smiles.
“You really think she looks like me?”
“Yes. She’s amazingly beautiful.”
She loves hearing him say so. How vain of her, she knows it. How nonsensical to cherish a compliment while at the same time trying to suppress all sparks of attraction. How silly, to enjoy that look in his eyes, and to imagine that he still finds her beautiful. She tries to chase the thought away, to concentrate on the mental image of L, hoping her daughter’s youthful face will bring her back to safer ground. And she remembers just how badly she wanted to call Victor the other night, after confessing to her daughter.
“She came by Monday,” she says. She f
eels uneasy, opening the subject, but he is, after all, the only one she can share this with. “I talked to her… I hope it will help. I talked to her about this Greg, and about marriage. And I spoke to her about, you know…” In spite of their last conversation, she’s still uncomfortable mentioning her betrayal. It’s almost impossible to say it, and it’s definitely impossible to meet his eyes while doing so.
“Scranton,” she finally says, staring at the cloth napkin on her lap.
The weight of the word hangs in the air, as heavy as the guilt pressing down on her shoulders.
“Yes, Scranton,” he says. There’s something rusty in his voice. But he smiles, and she’s relieved to see it. “Your big wild adventure. You know, we are in a hotel, and I’m pretty sure they serve bagels, since that seems to be your idea of a crazy good time.”
“Fuck you!” she says, laughing.
They end up ordering the bagels, gourmet bagels, with cream cheese, lox, and scallions, a far cry from the bland pieces of dough she had in Scranton. They drink champagne, and she feels slightly tipsy. It’s snowing outside, big flakes dancing around, falling peacefully onto the dirty New York sidewalk.
They talk about L. She feels better after telling him how quiet their daughter was the night of her confession. How she seemed so withdrawn. She shares her fear that L will this time really and truly cut her off.
“She might just need some time to process it,” he says. “It was brave of you to tell her.”
“But you still think I shouldn’t have.”
“I guess we’ll have to wait and see. L is smart, underneath all her immaturity. She might be taken aback now, but I think she’ll come to appreciate your honesty.”
Dogs With Bagels Page 29