Searching for the One

by Gabriella Murray

  "Never show you're eager to see him. That drives guys up the wall."

  "Thanks," she said, as Vincenzo approached.

  "Cara Mia," he said, edging between, "this dance is made just for us!"

  Bob turned away. Vincenzo pulled Sara into his arms and, like birds let loose from the same cage, they danced together all night long.

  At the end of the night, back on the sofa, drinking club sodas, Sara asked him who he was.

  "Lawyer," he said, "I work for the city. I live with my mother. Never married. Never will be, either. I love to dance and have fun."

  Sara's eyes misted over.

  "And you, Cara Mia?"

  He was charming, delightful, not a mean bone in his body. He was honest too. Vincenzo was just who he was.

  "Married for years. Three, mostly grown children."

  "Mamma Mia! You still dance like a girl!"

  "Thank you."

  "Better than a girl! Like a free woman!"

  "Do you ever do more than dance, Vincenzo?"

  "Like what?"

  "You ever date?"

  "No need for it, Cara Mia. Why should I? I find all my happiness right here."

  * * * * *

  After a few more nights of incredible dancing, Sara realized Vincenzo meant what he said. He never dated, never went back to a woman's place, called her, or took her to his. The rest of the week he worked out at the gym, or danced elsewhere. There were a ton of dance parties around. You could go, dance your fill, and then go home alone. No problems. No worries. No expense.

  When Cynthia asked Sara how it was going with Vincenzo, when she would get to meet him, at first Sara said things were grand. After a while, though, it became too exhausting to keep up the pretense.

  "He's not for me," she finally confided.

  "What's wrong?" Cynthia sounded horrified.

  "Nothing. He's charming. . . just not my type."

  "Something horrible happened!"

  "Nothing."

  "He doesn't like you? It was a passing fling?"

  "He likes me very much. I like him. We have wonderful times together. In fact, he told me I'm the best relationship he's ever had. I believe him, too - he doesn't lie."

  "Really?"

  "Really! And, leave me alone, Cynthia. When I have more to report, I will."

  Sara was sick of reporting to them, of basing her value in their eyes, on the fluctuations of passing men. She was beginning to feel this would go on forever, that the soul mate Camella insisted was coming was nothing more than a passing dream.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sara knew she'd made a mistake the minute she agreed to go back to the block to meet Arnold Beane. She arrived in the old neighborhood late on a Friday afternoon, parking a few blocks away so she could take a little walk before climbing the steps to her mother's small, brick house that always smelled from chicken baking.

  The minute she got out of her car, a wave of sorrow hit her. The wide avenue was crowded with women and men doing last minute shopping before sundown, getting ready for the Sabbath. She could feel the bustle of people eager to finish chores.

  Sara walked slowly, a refugee from this world she'd been raised in. Although Melvin had also been raised this way, he'd left it early in his life, right after his father died, felt no remorse, and never looked back; in fact he was relieved to be free of its stifling demands. Sara looked back occasionally; although it could be constricting, it also held a beauty and power she could not quite shake. But over the years, when she brought it up, Melvin would have no part of it. He brought bags of pork into the house proudly, as a declaration of freedom. Sara would toss the pork out the back door and he would laugh it off. It was all superstition, he constantly told her, and she was still caught in its web.

  Sara breathed in the electric energy and wondered what kind of life she had exchanged for this. She was slightly worried about meeting the accountant, but her mother assured her Arnold Beane was a moderate, liberal, understanding man.

  As she walked along the streets, Sara felt annoyed with herself for succumbing to the invitation. She knew why she was doing it, too; the men she'd met so far had been frightening, disappointing. As Cynthia grimly reminded, the rest of her friends hadn't had these experiences. There was some reason this was happening and Sara wanted to understand it, go straight to God and defy any web destiny was weaving. And she wanted to be safe.

  Camella had warned her that destiny could not be undone; but deep in her heart she disagreed. Go straight to God and talk it over, it she thought. Faith in Camella, or any person, was always misplaced. No man could speak of another's destiny with ultimate certainty. And she was especially tired of Camella's parrot's grim proclamations, tired of waiting for her mysterious love to appear on the scene. For a short while she even thought it might be Vincenzo. What a fool she was.

  She had thought of going to Camella and demanding more details about him. Why would she have to be so careful? She didn't want to be careful; she didn't like looking at pale blue cars that followed her into parking lots, men wearing sandals in winter with unkempt feet; she was tired of going to The Swan, feeling worse each time she returned. Sara couldn't help wondering, if she went back home and started at the beginning, perhaps she could throw a wrench in destiny's plans? Perhaps there were even several destinies, and it was up to her to choose one - claim the birthright she'd discounted a long time ago.

  Sara flinched as she turned her mother's corner. Some men in dark suits, sons in hand, were rushing on the streets. Completely intent on their destination, they didn't look up or even acknowledge her presence. In a way, this made her tremendously lonely, as if she were completely invisible, haunting streets she had no right to walk on anymore.

  All the possibilities she had missed in life drifted before her as she walked. For a moment she saw herself comfortably situated in one of these brick homes, candles lit, table prepared, a host of children gathered around her..

  Tova's house was in the middle of the block. Sara climbed the steps and knocked. It flew open. Tova stood there and scooped her in.

  "I thought you'd never get here."

  Tova took a step back and looked her over. "Nice, very nice. You look beautiful."

  "Thanks, mom."

  Tova was a medium sized woman with large, flashing, dark eyes, flushed cheeks and short, curly hair that still held a lot of natural color.

  Sara walked in slowly. The house smelled of chicken roasting, and noodle pudding. Sara breathed deeply as she entered the living room, she looked at the furniture which was upholstered in peach satin, lace doilies on the arms. A huge, smoky mirror covered the far wall. On the other wall hung portraits of Tova's grandparents. Not one of them smiled. The women hung below them, were covered completely from head to toe, only their eyes staring out from the generations.

  "They're happy you finally came home," Tova said.

  Sara imagined what would happen if they saw her dancing with Vincenzo, waiting for suitors at The Swan. She wondered how such worthy people could have a great granddaughter for whom destiny carved such a strange web.

  Standing among these portraits made Sara's stomach sink. Why had she come back on a Friday night? She was asking for trouble. Perhaps Melvin had been right after all - she thrived on chaos, sought confusion wherever she could.

  "You know, if you want, you can stay over," Tova interrupted. "We can have a whole day together - like other women on the block have with their children every week."

  "Not right now, mom."

  "All right, just a suggestion. . .Well, we have half an hour until Arnold's coming," Tova said. "Let's sit down and talk."

  They went to sit on the sofas, when, thankfully, there was a sudden, strong knock on the door.

  Tova jumped. "He's early!" She rushed to the door to welcome him.

  Sara listened to the voices at the entrance. A moment later, Tova came back into the living room, followed by a man. Sara suddenly felt as if she were in a play and at this moment was sup
posed to stand up and make a curtsy.

  Arnold stood beside her mother. He was in his mid-forties, short, balding, with round shoulders and large, brown eyes. He wore a cheap, blue suit and tie, and as Tova had told her, had an enormous dimple in his chin.

  He took a step forward firmly. "Nice to meet you", he said in a nasal voice that had a business-like tint, as if he could have been meeting a new client.

  "Thank you," Sara replied.

  Neither of them said another word.

  "Well, I made a wonderful supper tonight," Tova spoke quickly to break the growing tension.

  "What a mother," said Arnold.

  Sara tried to smile. She turned to go to the dining room, and as she did, Arnold came up closer behind her.

  "I've had plenty of blind dates," he said. "But none like you."

  Sara wondered what was so different about her. She felt like running for her life, slipping out the back door and flying far away.

  "I hear you're from the neighborhood," Arnold said, as they all walked into the dining room, single file.

  "A hundred years ago," Sara said.

  She smiled as they took their seats opposite one another at the dining room table, covered with an ivory lace tablecloth. and beautiful china dishes. A table for a wedding, Sara thought.

  "Your mother is such a wonderful woman," Arnold said, taking the table in. "Look at the care. And look at the portraits! You come from a fantastic family."

  Sara gulped audibly.

  "I come from merchants," Arnold continued. "Simple folk. Good in their own way. Not like this though - candles and everything."

  "There's room for every way," Sara said.

  Arnold grinned and scrutinized Sara, weighing the costs and benefits of a huge purchase. From the look in his eyes, she felt the benefits were way ahead. Sara felt uneasy here though; she longed to get away, to a place of utter simplicity. A place without satin, lace, and perfect china on the table. Instead, driftwood, rocks, ocean, seaweed - anything that wasn't man-made.

  "I heard lots of amazing things about you," Arnold said, staring openly at her.

  Sara was caught off guard. "What?"

  "That you're an incredible, fantastic, giving woman."

  "Don't believe everything you hear."

  Arnold looked dismayed. Perhaps he had no idea how to play, she wondered, could never engage in foolish bantering.

  "Don't think I'm naive," he said. "Far from it. I'm a careful man. I've got an eye for detail. I plan ahead. I love to plan ahead, Sara. In fact, I'm building an extension onto my house, to decorate for just the perfect woman to share."

  She gulped.

  "She'll have everything she wants in it; wooden floors, huge windows everything except cats. I'm allergic to cats and I hate them, anyway. That's my one flaw. The last woman I saw was a cat lover. We didn't last very long. That's the first thing I asked your mother - did she tell you?"

  "No, she didn't, but I'm partial to birds anyway."

  He gulped. "Flying outside, I hope."

  "Yes."

  "That's the way it should be. I'm not really a man who can welcome a pet. They make me nervous. I can't figure them out." He threw her a big smile. "But I understand you love music. I'm ordering opera tickets right away. Your mother told me you love Carmen."

  "I used to - in high school."

  "You'll love it again now."

  Sara tried to smile back at him, but couldn't quite make it. She felt sad seeing him trying so hard.

  "Tell me what you're thinking?" he burst out. "You look funny. I hope I haven't said something to offend you."

  "No."

  Fortunately, at that moment, Tova walked in grandly, carrying a silver tray with bowls of steaming chicken soup.

  Arnold took a deep, hungry breath.

  "I can see why your mother loves you so much," he continued. "It would be hard for anyone not to."

  Tova perked up her ears at that, almost tripping and tipped the bowls of hot soup onto Arnold Beane, who miraculously jumped up just in time to miss steaming matzoh balls in his lap.

  "Now, this is what I call soup," Arnold exclaimed when the bowl was placed down before him. He grabbed his spoon and started eating quickly.

  "What do you do for fun?" Sara asked, as hot soup disappeared. "Fun?"

  "To relax."

  He looked at her quizzically.

  "I have many responsibilities. I don't usually think about fun. I have complete custody, you know."

  "No, I didn't," said Sara.

  "She means for a vacation," Tova broke in. "Sara's a woman who loves vacations."

  "Oh, that?" Arnold was perplexed. "Well, in my family we go to the mountains for the month of August, and before all my trouble, my wife and I took a one week cruise every winter."

  Little drops of perspiration broke out on his forehead. Clearly, it was hard for him to talk about his wife.

  Sara was afraid to cause him any more suffering, so after the dinner, when he asked for her number, she told Arnold she would be delighted if he called. At that he nodded officially, acting as though things were set. They'd met, had dinner, were compatible - what more could you ask from a first meeting? When he finally left, Sara felt exhausted and disheartened, as if she had mislead him. At the very least, she certainly realized, he was not the One. He couldn't be - could he?

  CHAPTER 12

  Sara returned from dinner at her mother's feeling more uneasy than before. Arnold was dull, but solid. He wasn't bad looking, either, if you could get over the dimple in his chin. Sara knew she was being childish; she told herself he was a good man and that she'd have to give him at least one more chance when he called.

  She took out what was left of her letters and leafed through them. There were many she hadn't yet read. Glancing at all the wild scrawling, she suddenly grew tired of them and put them back. She'd try again when the mood hit her. As she was putting away the last of them, the telephone rang.

  It was Cynthia. "What a warm, fantastic night!" Cynthia said brightly."Want to go for a drive?"

  "Not at all."

  Sara was tired of going anywhere. Tonight she wanted to do nothing but spend time in the shed.

  "Come on," Cynthia'd been upset since she'd broken up with Lex. "There's no one else for me to go out with tonight. And I can't bear to stay in."

  "Sorry."

  "Please. I'm so much in the mood to go to Club G, drop in for an hour. Thursday nights used to be great there. Help me out. It's better than a hundred valiums."

  "It's not for me."

  "Sara, I'm begging, please. I can't walk in alone. Just for an hour. Walk me in the door. You don't have to dance. You don't have to do anything. You can sit and drink seltzer on the cocktail landing."

  "That's not my idea of a terrific evening."

  "Just do me a favor and stay for an hour. Is that such a big deal?" Cynthia was like a child, demanding one lollipop; but the pleading edge in her voice gripped Sara. "What's one, lousy hour out of your life to give to a friend?"

  "All right. One hour. That's it."

  "Great, you're a doll. I'll be by in five minutes."

  Sara didn't change out of the jeans she was wearing, just threw on a fresh V necked shirt and brushed her hair back off her face.

  In a few minutes Cynthia's car pulled up, honking loudly. Sara ran downstairs and threw open the front door. An hour was all. Loud, tinny music blared from the car.

  "Change out of your jeans," Cynthia called when she saw her.

  "Throw on a short, tight, black skirt."

  "I'm only going to keep you company, remember?"

  Cynthia grinned. "Throw on a skirt at least. What's the big deal? It'll only take a few seconds."

  "No."

  "For me, please do it." Cynthia always wanted to make a splash when she walked in. If Sara looked scraggly, it would spoil her impression.

  By now Sara was aware of exactly what the women needed from each other, the consequences if they didn't get it, and how it c
ould all change when a man came along. Annoyed with herself, she went back into the house and threw on a short, black cotton skirt. She told herself she was doing it for Cynthia and knew she was lying. She was doing it out of weakness, to keep the peace, or the semblance of peace between herself and the women she had grown to depend upon. She was doing it to not disrupt the fragile balance.

  Dressed in a short, black skirt, Sara dashed back to the car and slipped in the front seat beside her.

  "Every detail matters so much to you," Sara mumbled. "How you look - how your friends look when they're with you. . ."

  "Yup," Cynthia crooned, turning the radio even higher, revving the motor and screeching out the driveway as a voice on the radio crooned, Strangers In The Night, blending into the spring air.

  Club G was a well known, medium sized disco in an elegant hotel, about twenty minutes away. As soon as the car pulled up, a valet parker took the key, bringing the car to a parking lot that was half full, but would be packed before long. People came to Club G from all over the Island - especially on Thursday nights. Sara had been here briefly once, but had no real memory of it, or desire to return. She and Cynthia walked into a dark narrow hallway, stopped at the coat check to pay admission and then were ushered into the main part of the posh, glitzy club.

  As soon as Sara walked in, she saw video cameras on the ceiling, showing dancers of all kinds. The walls were covered with mirrors, loud disco music was blaring, and a handsome bartender looked everyone over condescendingly. Already the place was hot and smoky.

  It was early, not quite ten o'clock, and there was still enough room to actually see who was there. The bartender caught Sara and Cynthia's eyes and nodded for them to come over. Cynthia hopped over to the bar, but Sara turned in the other direction and walked up a few steps to a small cocktail landing, sat down on a fluffy sofa, and waited for a waitress to take her order.

  A minute after she sat down, a tall, slender man, a little younger, came and sat down beside her. A little too close. For a while they both said nothing, just stared into the night. Finally, a blonde waitress in a mini skirt came and said, "Okay, what'll it be?"