But after a while, all of that don’t matter no more.
What matters is only what’s here. I touch my skin right under my breasts, which is where the little one’s curled, and where he kicks, ‘cause he has to. Like, he don’t feel so cosy no more. Here, can you feel it? I reckon he wants me to talk to him. He can hear me inside, for sure. He can hear every note of this silvery music.
It ripples all around him, wave after wave. I can tell that it’s starting to sooth him. It’s so full of joy, of delight, even if to him, it’s coming across somewhat muffled. Like a dream in a dream, it’s floating inside, into his soft, tender ear.
I close my eyes and hold myself, wrapping my arms real soft—around me around him—and I rock ever so gently, back and forth, back and forth, with every note of this silvery marvel. You can barely hear me—but here I am, singing along. I’m whispering words into myself, into him.
And this is the moment when, like one, we’re happy.
Not The End
Chapter 15
He’s been so busy, punching away at the machine and crumpling page after page into the trash bin, that lately I can’t get a word through to him no more. Oh, he’s replacing this tape with another and like, listening to my voice all the time—but not to me.
Which makes me wish sometimes that I was some written piece, some character in his book, ‘cause I would be more real to him that way. I see myself as her, a thing of fiction springing to life, like, right out of them letters—which are so dense, so crammed on that sheet of paper, that there isn’t no space to breathe—and smoothing all them creases in me with a slight, crispy rustle, which for sure, would win his attention right away.
I bet he would let himself stretch the truth about me to create her, ‘cause like, the paper can take it. His story would draw the longest legs and the sexiest ass and the most perfect pair of boobs you could ever dream up. What’s more, she would become a mouth, like, for things that go on in his head, things so fucking raw and intense that they frighten him.
Them words he writes, they would all come out of her lips, stained with ink and scratched out here and there, to say the things that in real life Lenny wishes he could blurt out, yet holds himself back, as best he can, from doing so. But then, that Anita won’t be me.
By now I’ve learned my lesson, I learned it good: I won’t leave no more pieces of me laying around. When I’m done with the tape recorder I pop my tape out, and stash it away at once, like, behind Beethoven’s bust or under it or some other such place, and I cover it with papers and stuff.
This way Lenny don’t get it in his hands, to listen to my voice, to study the way I enunciate things, so he don’t have no excuse to ignore the real me. And what’s more, he can’t get hurt by what he don’t hear, by what wasn’t meant for his ears in the first place, so he don’t feel so jealous no more, and like, he don’t try to forget it, to blank out how hurt he is.
Which is good, ‘cause then there isn’t no need to argue between us, like, if he’s the one betraying my trust by listening to my tape—or I’m the one betraying his, by what I say.
Anyhow, this evening he’s different. I hear him pacing around the balcony, between his desk and the wall behind his chair, which is a small feat all by itself, ‘cause like, there isn’t barely room to move out there. Then, after two hours of this Lenny throws his hands in the air, and comes in to tell me he’s stuck.
Which makes me raise one of my eyebrows, like, “You sure don’t look stuck to me, ‘cause here you are, running around.” And what I mean by running around is clear to both of us.
What can he say to that? Nothing, that’s what.
Anyhow, I don’t want to sound bitter at him, ‘cause I care for Lenny, really, I do. So I ask, “Now, how d’you mean, stuck?”
And he says, “Oh, stop it. You are never going to understand me.”
And I say, “Just try me, Lenny.”
And he goes, “I am stuck, stuck, stuck! Stuck in a rut! I will never succeed in getting anything done. I am wasting time here, exhausted, not being able to think, and why? Because unwittingly, I am too busy complaining to myself over my wasted time.”
And before I can tell him to stop talking nonsense, or else put it in writing, he goes on to say, “Damn it. I cannot write a single line.”
“But like, why?”
“Because,” he groans, “every word gets me closer to The End.”
So I try this, I say, “Maybe there is no end, really, and all you can do is just cut off at any point, because life just goes on, like, even if you leave me right here, right in the middle of a sentence. That,” I say, “could be The End, too.”
“No, no, no! It is not that simple.”
“I bet it’s simpler than you think.”
“No,” he says, “I am not that tired, not yet. Cannot abandon it, cannot leave off just like that, in the middle, because the story needs something, it needs to be completed—but then, I do not know where it goes from here, and for the life of me, I cannot find The End, even though I know—I know it’s closing in on me.”
“If you can’t add no words, don’t you think you’re already done?”
“No,” he says. “At this point, no. I cannot stop writing—and I cannot write. I am left in midair, hanging from a cliff.”
“So? Just let go.”
And he stares at me strange, “Wouldn’t you like that.”
I ain’t exactly sure I get what he means by that, but instead of explaining Lenny runs back to the balcony and leans over his desk, scribbling something real fast in the margin of a page, like he is chasing some idea with his pen. Then he waves his hand, pretty wild, calling me to come out there and listen.
He pushes his bifocals up his nose, which is totally useless, ‘cause they just slip down again. And this is what he reads to me:
She knew not to expect hearing the end of the sentence, because the old man had already slammed the door behind him. She could guess where Leonard was heading, probably to that fake old blond, who lived on the southern fringe of town.
The next morning she woke up to the sound, the insistent sound of knocks at the door, and a sudden fear squeezed her heart as she opened it, to find two grim-faced cops.
When they hesitated to say what they came in to say, she screamed. She did not want to learn that the old man had been found lifeless, nor did she want to see the snapshots they had taken, right there at the scene, snapshots that revealed all the tedious details of how he had ended up lying there, with a half crooked smile, in the other woman’s arms.
“Awesome!” I tell Lenny. “I’m so glad to hear this.”
His eyes pop, “You are?”
“Sure!” I say. “Me, I was kinda afraid you’re writing something real, like, something about us. Now—with what you’ve come up with, right there—I can see awful clear that it ain’t nothing but fiction.”
By way of an answer Lenny crumples the page, and sinks back in his chair, muttering something about how I don’t understand him, him and his creative ideas and this particular blueprint he is drafting, for a new kind of a novel, and what a damn fool he is, like, every time he repeats the mistake of using me for a listener.
“Then,” I say, “find yourself someone else to listen. Me, I don’t much like the sound of how you wrote it.”
“The sound?” his eyes widen once more. “What sound? And, what is wrong with it?”
“Noise,” I say. “Just too much of it! That’s what you get when you try to end things, like, with a bang. Me, I don’t even want to imagine all that slamming, and them knocks at the door and what not. Come here, I want you to hear something.”
I take him by the hand, and somehow Lenny lets me. He’s curious, I bet, so I lead him straight to the bedroom. I come to a stop right there, under the musical mobile, which I hung just last night in the window, between one blind and another.
Then, I pull the little string, so the thing starts turning around, and playing its tender notes. “There... Hear
this? Now here’s a sound I do like.”
He closes his eyes to listen, so I ain’t exactly sure what he sees in his head. After a while Lenny says, “You know, I like it too. Just a delicate little whisper of a lullaby. Maybe you are right, Anita. Maybe that is what I need. Maybe that is what is called for, I mean, not just to heal both of us—but also, to complete the story. Listen! Here is a note—I could just detect it, just now—a note that could mark the end.”
“But then,” I say, “it could mark a beginning, just as well.”
And for the first time this evening he looks straight into my eyes. At that moment I can tell that he sees me, like, for what I am. I mean, he sees beyond what he’s put on paper, with them longest legs and that sexiest ass and them boobs and what not. Yes, now he sees in me something more than all that, something else: a woman, expecting.
At that instant a sudden pain makes itself known in me, right down my back. It starts turning there, deep in my belly. Which is when I figure that I’ve felt it before. It’s come and gone several times this evening—only it seemed awful dull up to now, which like, lets me ignore it.
This time it’s sharper, and it lasts quite a while, which makes me wince. “Aw,” I say.
But anyhow, Lenny don’t even hear me, ‘cause he’s back to scratching his head, on account of being confused about his story, and about what this music could tell you, and how he could use it in his story, like, to mark the end.
“Yes,” he whispers. “Just a sound of bells, chiming, chiming, chiming. And behind that, the breath of a baby asleep in the cradle, rocked to sleep by a mother’s hand. Maybe that is what is needed.”
“Aw,” I say again.
And he says, “Such a gentle sound. No doubt, Ben would like it.”
I stare at him in surprise, ‘cause for several months Lenny’s been so mad, so angry at his son, that he didn’t hardly mention his name—nor did he allow me to mention it.
“So now,” I say, like, with caution, “all’s fine? Like, you’ve forgiven him?”
“I do not know about that,” he says, sounding pretty touchy.
A minute later his voice seems to soften. “What I do know—I can feel it in my bones—is this: any day now, my son will be coming here, to my door, and—”
“You have two sons, not one,” I cut in.
“He will be coming back,” says Lenny, right over my words. “Looking for the thing, the one thing only I can give him: a story.”
Me, I can tell he don’t pay no attention to anything I say, so all I can do is at this point is just breathe hard for a few seconds, and then repeat, “Aw,” a third time.
Meanwhile Lenny’s busy arguing with himself.
“Whenever I read what I’ve written, it seems so sketchy to me, so goddam fragmented! Just a jumble of moments, and some voices here and there, lost in the clutter. What am I missing? How come I find myself falling short, so terribly short of where I thought I was going? What the story needs is a meaning—or else all my work, and all my sleepless nights have come to nothing, nothing, nothing in the end.”
His eyes seem to beg me for some hint, some meaning, like I could give it to him. What can I say to that? Nothing, and he knows it.
So Lenny starts pacing around the bed, and he reaches the mirror, the oval mirror standing there, slightly tilted, in the corner. Here he stops, and glances at the scribbled page over there, in his reflected hand.
From where I stand, them letters look pretty odd, them words scrambled—right turned left, in turned out—right there, on that patch of white, clutched by the ghost of his hand, deep in the glass. Lenny leans in, so his nose nearly touches that other nose, the one in the mirror, like he’s trying to go in, to read what’s in there. And his shadow inside, it’s trying to read, just as hard, what’s out here.
It’s like, a riddle, waiting to be solved.
His bifocals, they’ve come loose from his face and dropped off, so he searches for them here and there across the floor. No matter, he’ll find them later. Then, like, by mistake, Lenny gets too close to the mirror and—bang!—hits his forehead against it. I ain’t exactly sure how it’s happened. Anyhow, you can tell he’s growing restless, ‘cause the paper in his hand starts rustling, till the writing becomes just a blur, on both sides of the glass.
“There must be some significance to all this,” he mutters. “And it must be extracted. It must be put in words—or else, my son would open the door, and I—I would not be ready for him.”
“So?” I say. “What is it you’re afraid of?”
“Ben would come in, and there would be no one to see but an old man, an old man standing there, his mouth open as if to start singing, and just cold breath coming out.”
And with that Lenny pushes the frame of the mirror, so now it’s tilted awful sharp, and it’s like, sticking clear out of the corner, right here between me and him. He lifts a hand, like, to correct it, to straighten the thing, which is when we start hearing the knocks.
Them knocks, they come rapping, rapping real timid at first, there at the entrance door. Then comes a squeal, like that of a key which—having been inserted—starts turning, real slow, in the lock.
The old man turns his back to the mirror, which is still pretty crooked.
“My God,” he mumbles. “Not now! I am not ready for him.”
And then, then he takes a shaky step back, stumbling—
Play. Stop. Eject
Chapter 16
Next morning I’m sent home empty-handed, while my baby must stay at the hospital a few more days, to get something called colored light therapy, ‘cause like, he’s been diagnosed with jaundice. But does anyone care? Hello there? I try to call home, for Lenny to come pick me up—but as usual I end up just managing, somehow, to get back on my own.
I open the bedroom window, and feel warm spring air coming in, blowing gently into my face, which feels like a promise. Like, it’s gonna be good. It’s gonna be a beautiful day.
I rewind the musical mobile, and listen to it chiming, chiming, chiming over my head for a long while. And there I stand listening, not knowing what to do, not wanting to admit to myself how I feel. Anyhow I’m glad you can’t see me sniffling, and blotting the corner of my eye, ‘cause like, there isn’t no one here I can hug, and no one to hug me right back.
Lenny isn’t back yet, and neither is Ben. The place seems kinda empty to me—more so than usual—like a spirit has left it, on account of the piano, which is gone, and the shattered mirror. And it’s messy, because of the glass, which is strewn all around me, crushing underfoot as I move around the floor, until finally I stomp off to the corridor.
Then I’m empty. Exhausted. Can’t bring myself to hold a broom straight, like, to sweep away all them broken pieces. In a daze I wander into Ben’s bedroom, and within moments I’m asleep in his bed.
When I open my eyes again, it’s already the next morning.
I wake up to a sound, an annoying sound of knocks at the door, and a sudden fear squeezes my heart as I open it, to find two grim-faced cops. It almost feels like I’ve read this story before.
When they hesitate to say, like, what they’ve come in to say, I make up my mind I ain’t gonna scream. Instead I stick my thumbs in my ears, ‘cause I don’t want to hear, don’t want to learn that my husband’s been found lifeless. And for sure I don’t want to be asked no questions, ‘cause like, I don’t hardly have answers.
I cup the palms of my hands over my eyes, ‘cause I don’t want to see the snapshots they’re trying to show me, which was taken right there at the scene, snapshots that show him lying there, curled, in Natasha’s arms. How he got there, no one seems to know—not even them cops. They want me to tell them, like, how it happened.
So in spite of myself I can’t help peeking, between one finger and another, only to find that in some of them pictures, his face muscles seem awful relaxed. I bet it’s just a trick of the camera, some flash, which makes him look like he’s laughing, almost—even though the c
rease on his forehead hasn’t barely smoothed up.
Which reminds me of my pa, who left me such a long time ago, that I can’t remember nothing of his face no more, I mean, nothing but a crease just like this, in the middle of his forehead. And even that’s turning into a blur now. I swear, it’s because of them tears. Damn, I miss him. I miss him so.
No, Lenny. I ain’t gonna cry.
A week after the funeral, which I couldn’t attend because of a sudden fever, I get a call from Lenny’s attorney, Mr. Bliss. Which is a sure sign—if you didn’t know it already—that this is a time of misery.
He coughs up something like, “Mrs. Kaminsky, I hope you shall know no more sorrow.” And I go, “Really? That makes two of us.”
Then Mr. Bliss goes on to say he’s stunned, simply stunned to hear what’s happened, and congratulations are in order, Mazel Tov for the baby, what’s his name? And he can’t find Ben, do I happen to know his address? A phone number, at least? No? And to come to his office just as soon as I can, because of the will, which Lenny has changed again only three days before his passing, and because of a key to some secret drawer in his desk, both of which must be handed over to me.
I don’t exactly bother to tell him that I’ve known about that drawer for quite some time now, and that I’ve managed to pry it open—right after them cops finally left—with a kitchen knife.
It’s like, I had to stab something, someone. If Lenny was gonna pop in right then, I was gonna kill him right on the spot.
What I found in the drawer was like, confusing. There was no way for me to read the whole thing clear through to the end, ‘cause it was way too long, and anyhow, from the beginning, them letters was too small, and the writing too dense or something, which made me start yawning right away.
My Own Voice Page 12