When she looked up, Fred’s expression was sympathetic. His kindness made her weak, and she forced her tears back. She felt their weight, lodged in the space behind her eyes and nose. Her sorrow was tangible, like taking a bite of an apple. But at least—unlike last night—she was participating; at least she was active in her grief. It wasn’t simply having its way with her.
Fred’s face showed concern, his eyes deep and serious. He was letting her know that they were done discussing what had happened, that he wasn’t about to fire her, and that he wouldn’t put her through any more humiliation.
8
NORA GIVENS HAD experienced a surge of success with Clothing for Change, due mostly to a large donation ($200,000) from an anonymous benefactor. With the extra funds as an incentive, Nora had tried to hire Esther—who she knew was in financial and emotional duress—as an “accessories consultant,” but Esther had gracefully declined (fortuitous, since God knew with Esther’s reputation, the board of directors would have fought the hire).
“Poor Esther!” she said (although her thoughts were far more complex), when she learned of the breakup and Charlie’s subsequent trip around the world.
Who had broken up with whom? There’d been so many nasty rumors. Had Esther slept with Jim Dunnels? Nora didn’t know much about the man, except that he owned Fashion Island. But ever since she’d witnessed Esther’s open cavity of pain, she no longer passed judgment; it was as if her soul had fused with Esther’s, in some kind of empathetic lifelong union.
Sometimes Nora joined in the mirthful gossip, in the most peripheral of ways, by listening. But within minutes of solitary introspection, the full extent of her betrayal would overcome her, and she’d vow not to participate. A challenge, considering Esther was an easy target and a common topic of conversation.
In the six months that had passed, Nora had become occupied with the opening of two more “outlets,” and while she hadn’t necessarily forgotten about Esther’s plight, she didn’t think of her as often, and when she did, it was with something like sad curiosity.
Nora’s feelings for Charlie didn’t have the same grip. She thought of him with a rueful sadness, a resignation, and her disappointment had liberated her from the bondage of fantasy. She felt that she could take him or leave him—it was all the same.
But he kept in contact, sending her postcards from his travels. He’d been promoted to full professor at Orange County Community College, and he continued to travel at every opportunity.
“Poor Esther!” Nora said again, when she heard that Esther had not received money from Eileen’s will. “Poor Esther!” Rumor had it that Eileen had been alone at the time of her death, but that relatives had come out of the woodwork for the reading of her will, from Canada and Michigan and Arizona, from all over. Nora imagined them as vultures circling roadkill. But Eileen had left her estate in arrears, and the will was nebulous enough for the relatives to fight, ensuring that much of the money would go to lawyers, and that the battle would continue for years—vultures circling vultures circling roadkill.
Esther had been stonewalled, her disgrace blamed for accelerating Eileen’s demise. And there was something about a neglected cat—Esther had a cat?—that had caused Eileen’s fall.
Nora had heard that Esther was living with Eileen’s former caretaker in an apartment somewhere in Costa Mesa, and that Esther couldn’t get a job because no one would hire her. She knew that Esther’s brother, Eric, had stayed sober for a long period—but a while ago he’d disappeared, in blatant violation of his parole. No one knew where to, which, Nora believed, didn’t bode well for his sobriety.
And it was this very same exclamation (“Poor Esther!”) that came to mind when Nora happened to drive past a dark alleyway in Mariner’s Mile. She was driving home from an unfortunate blind date (What was she thinking? No more blind dates, ever!) and had made a wrong turn.
Sitting at a curb, a skinnier Esther was smoking a cigarette while two men hosed something that looked to be black and made of rubber—the protective flooring, perhaps, of a restaurant kitchen, the jet of water thudding against it.
Nora slowed her car, turned off her headlights, and pulled over beside a Dumpster. She was disgusted by her voyeurism, but her voyeurism was stronger than her disgust.
There was a keen possibility of being seen, but Esther appeared consumed by her thoughts. Her elbows were at her knees, her legs extended from the curb. She wore a black skirt and blouse, and the skirt was gathered between her legs.
The only light came from a single streetlight and a light above the back doorway, but it was enough to see that her face had become more angular.
Her hair was pulled back in what looked like a loose braid. Her face was pinched in concentration, a heaviness of thought. She appeared to have forgotten about the cigarette. After some time, she stubbed it out on the curb, flicked it into the gutter. The hose was turned off and spray drifted, lingering, a haze of silver. Her head hung down for a long moment, and then she lifted it, said something to the men.
Nora rolled down her window, but it was too late. She’d missed whatever had been said. The men were laughing, in a casual way that suggested they worked together. The surroundings smelled of rotted eggs and ocean, and the odor drifted into her open window with the breeze, settled over her in the moist air.
She watched the men put the flooring down, and they walked to the side of the alley, ready to haul another mat to be cleaned.
And then Esther stood, turned to go through the back door. But before she opened it, she turned around, as if she’d forgotten something. She was looking, and then she found her lighter. She leaned over and picked it up, and when she stood, her gaze came up, hitting Nora directly.
Nora was going to duck, but it was too late and she sat frozen, stared back.
Esther’s head came forward—she was peering, making sure. “What are you doing?” she called out, smiling sadly.
Nora gave a small hand wave.
“Are you spying on me?”
Nora tried to ignore the ringing in her ears. Her face composed itself into a false smile. She imagined it looked like a horrified smile, so she let her lips go slack.
With a look of humiliation and defiance, Esther began walking to her. Not only had she lost weight—the folds of her black skirt and blouse clung to her, which made her seem hardened somehow—but also something had changed about her face: A weary sadness that Nora had caught only glimmers of before—weaving in and out of the composed Esther—was displayed openly, nakedly present. Poor Esther!
“What are you doing?” Esther repeated, crouching beside the car door.
Nora didn’t know how to respond. She was at a loss, her mouth dry.
After a moment, Esther said, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Nora made an effort to calm her facial features.
“Why are you here?” Esther asked.
“I had a blind date,” Nora said, with a pinch of humiliation, remembering how her date had looked over her shoulder while she had talked, assessing the women at the bar.
Esther’s stare became a smile, as if understanding everything that Nora’s blind date meant.
Nora could hear the men conversing in a hum of Spanish, the sound of their hose, and the traffic on Pacific Coast Highway. Esther tapped the lighter against the car, as if to break up the tension.
Nora noticed a sapphire ring on Esther’s ring finger, and she must have been staring, because Esther said, “Grandma Eileen left it to me.” She wondered why Esther didn’t sell it for money, but decorum prevented her from asking. They heard a scraping noise. The men were sliding the rubber flooring through the door. The sky was dark and murky with marine clouds, and the streetlight flickered and then went out.
“I miss him,” Esther said. Her lips pressed together. “But don’t tell me where he is. I don’t want to know.” She paused, thinking. “I woke up,” she said. She looked down for a long second, and when her face came up, she seemed surprised
. “There’s more space around me,” she said, and she looked to her left and then to her right, as if she could see the space.
The heavy back door slammed; the men had gone inside. The light over the doorway made the air look silky and soft.
Esther began to rise, slowly.
“Wait.”
Esther leaned her palm against the car door to keep her balance, squatting again.
“I don’t know,” Nora said. “It’s just, I’m wondering if you’re okay. I mean, are you happy?” As soon as she asked, she regretted it. “Not happy. That’s not what I mean.”
Esther was watching her steadily. She looked very serious.
“That’s such a stupid word,” Nora said. “Is anyone ever happy? I’m just trying to understand, about more space.”
Caught in the current of Esther’s stare, locked back into an intimacy that she had never expected, Nora saw her answer, and she understood that the kindest thing she could do would be to leave Esther alone.
She waited to start her car, watching while Esther walked slowly to the back door. Because Esther wore black and the streetlight had gone dark, for a second, even before she slipped inside the restaurant, Nora lost her to the night.
Later, sitting in a chair on her balcony, the breeze rattling the palm fronds, the stars invisible, and the only evidence of the moon a dull amber gleam, Nora decided that more space was good, and the view and the sky and her breathing seemed to verify it, as if her consciousness was, in her present awareness, still meeting and connecting with Esther’s. Briefly, an airplane twinkled red over the horizon, and then it was gone. And all seemed further confirmed by the dark space of nothing that came when Nora closed her eyes.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My deep gratitude goes to Michael Carlisle, Ethan Bassoff, and Jack Shoemaker. Thank you to these friends for their insight, honesty, and patience: Danzy Senna, Veronica Gonzalez, Dana Johnson, Michael Leone, Michelle Huneven, Natasha Prime, and Holly Stauffer. Also, thanks to Terri Waits-Smith and Debra Albin-Riley for opening their homes when I needed a space to write. Profound thanks as well to my parents and to my brother, and, as always, Chris, Cole, and Ry.
Copyright © 2011 by Victoria Patterson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
eISBN : 978-1-582-43872-6
COUNTERPOINT
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