Next To You

by Sandra Antonelli

  ‘Oh, yeah, how exciting it must be for you to watch a gothic romance while I drool over Laurence Olivier. Don’t you ever go out?’

  He swallowed rich chocolate and said, ‘We could go out.’

  ‘I mean on a date with someone.’

  Will shrugged and carved out more brownie. ‘I’m sort of between girlfriends right now.’

  ‘If you spend anymore time with me that space between is just going to expand.’

  The spoon full of brownie paused at his chin. ‘I travel a lot for work. I’m gone for a few days, sometimes a few weeks, occasionally a few months. Living out of a suitcase gets old. When I get back the only thing I want to do is stay home. I’m at the lazy, stay at home stage right now. But I don’t exactly see you out there either.’

  Mouth flattening, Caroline looked at him, twirling a strand of hair around a finger, contemplating something. ‘I’m not prepared, or even willing, to try that quite yet. Half the time I don’t know how I feel, so why would I want to drag someone else into my mad little world of confusion? Besides that, I really sucked at dating. I just got too embarrassed and tripped over my own tongue. Frankly, William, I think I’m over dating, but mostly I’m trying to build up my cash flow.’

  Will sat back on her striped sofa and dug out the last chunk of brownie. ‘Did you know there’s a social script men and women follow for dating? I read that once in some magazine in my dentist’s office. The interested male shows up, the woman meets him at the door. There’s some chitchat, they go out to eat or maybe dancing, they come back, decide to go out again, and have a goodnight kiss if it all went well. Both parties seem to know the parts they’re supposed to play and the statements they’re supposed to make. Occasionally, people miss the cues, or misconstrue something, which is why there’s a sexual harassment case between employees I’m dealing with at work this month.’

  She snorted. ‘I always missed cues and flubbed my lines. I got it pretty wrong when I thought you’d asked me out and were just being neighborly.’

  ‘True, but I confess I thought you were a fun first date. Speaking of our it-wasn’t-a-date-night, you asked me to indicate politely if you had spinach in your teeth. Let me say you’ve grown a righteous chocolate ice cream soul patch beneath your bottom lip. It’s like my older sister’s, ’cept hers is real.’

  Caroline rubbed her lip and licked the chocolate from her fingertips. ‘Do you have any other siblings, other than the bearded sister who shares her name with this Hitchcock movie?’

  ‘Mm-hm,’ he said. ‘I have a much older half-brother named Timothy. My father’s first wife, Tim’s mom, actually died in childbirth. Tim’s a nice guy. He moved to New Zealand when I was eleven. I think he was twenty-two at the time. He caused some scandal in my family for a while.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  He moved from his corner of the couch and set his empty dish on the coffee table, licking the brownie bits from his teeth. ‘In the late sixties he lived with Sherry, a black woman, and they had a baby. My mother was appalled—not because of the interracial thing, but because Sherry and Tim lived in sin and had their first child out of wedlock.’

  She chuckled. ‘How Catholic is your mother?’

  ‘Very. Tim’s a great guy. We keep in touch, but I don’t see him often. He’s still with Sherry. They have a farm, three sons and lots of sheep. You were an only child, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but I still managed to cause scandal in my family.’

  ‘Why, what did you do, steal a car? Oh wait, you did do that.’

  ‘I shacked up with two men at the same time. My mother was positive I was going to get knocked up by one of them. Eventually, I was, but in a respectable married way that satisfied my conservative mother’s Catholic moral standards.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a child.’

  Caroline’s gazed shifted to the frozen DVD image of Joan Fontaine and Laurence Olivier on the TV screen, unable to meet the surprise Will knew had been plain on his face. She scooted to the end of the sofa, put her parfait dish on the coffee table, and gave a sad little laugh. ‘I don’t. Respectable things don’t always turn out according to plan. My little boy died.’

  He nearly said, losing a child is often the catalyst to the breakdown of a marriage, but he caught himself and turned toward her, his hand settling lightly on her shoulder, thumb on her collarbone. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  She shifted so that her chin rested against the back of his hand. ‘You smell like brownie.’

  ‘You want a bite of me for bringing up something unpleasant?’

  ‘No.’ She lifted her chin, shaking her head. ‘That’s the first time I said that. The first time I told anyone who didn’t already know. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.’

  Will didn’t say anything, accepting that disclosing something so tragic would indeed be hard, and understanding anything he uttered would have simply been hollow. His thumb brushed her jaw when he drew his hand away.

  ‘Let’s watch something else,’ she said, rising from the couch, shaking her hands as if she were flicking off water. ‘Let’s watch something less moody and more fun, like a buddy movie. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, The Sting, or Lethal Weapon 3.’

  ‘Let’s watch Butch and Sundance. It’s a great buddy picture. I love it.’ Will made a face. ‘Except, outside of BJ Thomas’s ‘Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head,’ the score is crappy—but somehow it won an Oscar.’

  ‘I can’t remember what the music is like. I haven’t seen the film in a long time.’

  ‘It’s kind of all over the place. Some of the music sounds like the soundtrack from a cheesy, Swedish, seventies X-rated movie.’

  ‘An X-rated seventies Swedish movie? I’ve never seen one of those. What’s the music like?’

  ‘Women singing ba-da-da-da-da softly, over a recorder. I don’t know who decided recorders were supposed to be sexy. The film score from the YouTube documentary True Facts About the Land Snail is sexier.’

  ‘You watch many of those crappy European porno films?’

  Rising, Will collected the dirty ice cream bowls. ‘Well, when I was twenty and had long hair like Johnny and Edgar Winter—they’re musicians with albinism, you know—I starred in a skin flick. It was called Frosty Gets Milked.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ***

  She watched William doze on her yellow and white striped couch. He had an elbow wedged on the sofa’s arm, his cheek on his wide palm, a leg stretched out on the couch, one foot on the floor. Batman lay resting his little chin resting on William’s thigh. The man had removed his shoes and jacket before they started eating ice cream, before they’d watched Butch Cassidy, yet even in sleep he remained buttoned up to his neck, his tie still knotted in a perfect Half Windsor.

  Curled up on the other end of the sofa, Caroline watched the rise and fall of his wide chest, looked at his pale skin, at the delicate hint of pink in his cheeks, at his finely tailored sky-blue shirt.

  There was a movie where the leading man was impeccably dressed in a fine suit every scene, excluding the time he was in bed or the bath. It took about thirty seconds to search through the movie catalog in her mind to associate the image to Richard Gere in Pretty Woman. William Murphy was handsome in a Richard Gere sort of manner, only bigger, quieter, with oatmeal eyebrows, and very long, very thick eyelashes that were the color of Silver Queen Corn silk. He was elegant and something else she didn’t know how to describe, but knew it had to do with his presence.

  Unfolding herself, she moved quietly, slipping off the sofa. She stood in front of him, watching him sleep for a moment longer before she touched the top of his platinum head. His hair was very soft. ‘William,’ she said. ‘It’s time for bed.’ One time, not so very long ago, the words had been, time for bed, Drew.

  He made a sound, a low rumbling growl. Batman’s head popped up, his ears erect, and he scrambled upright to stand on the cushions, his hackles rising. />
  ‘Will,’ she shook his shoulder softly.

  His eyes fluttered beneath their lids. ‘Yvonne?’ he mumbled sleepily. ‘How was Alaska?’

  ‘No, not Yvonne, Caroline. You’re asleep on my sofa.’ It was funny he’d mistaken her for his ex-wife, but the woman had shared part of his life and he’d said he said he still loved her, so perhaps it wasn’t so strange after all.

  With lethargic effort, he cracked opened an eye, then the other, blinking. ‘Did I snore like an old man?’

  ‘No, but you growled and scared the dog.’

  ‘I growled?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  He grinned as he moved his head around, stretching his neck, rubbing his eyes. Caroline thought he looked like a little boy.

  ‘What time is it?’ he asked through a yawn.

  ‘After eleven. Are you okay?’

  ‘My eyes are bothering me.’

  ‘Is it your nystagmus?’

  He looked at her, opening his eyes wide, smiling. ‘You remembered nystagmus.’ He chuckled. ‘No, it’s my contacts and a stiff neck. Oh, hell, who am I trying to kid? It’s my vanity. I’ve been pushing myself physically, wearing contacts more often and longer than usual because my sister once told me I look younger without spectacles, and I’m suddenly concerned about getting older. What do you bet I grunt when I stand up,’ he said, rubbing the inside corners of his eyes.

  ‘You feel old?’

  ‘I don’t know if I feel old, or if the idea of feeling old has tiptoed around on some subconscious level.’

  ‘You’re not old. You were sleeping sitting up on a couch that’s nowhere near as comfortable as yours.’

  Batman settled back on the couch and tucked himself into a ball on top of the TV remote. William dug it from beneath the dog’s legs and switched off the TV.

  ‘Do you still want to watch Casablanca tomorrow night?’ she asked, watching him rise. He stretched. The unexpectedly graceful movement of his large frame was mesmerizing. Caroline imagined him doing the same thing nude, but she told herself the man she’d actually imagined naked was Richard Gere.

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ he said. ‘I should be home by seven. It’s my turn to be the TV host. Bring Batman with you. I enjoy having a pet without any of the responsibility that goes along with it.’ As he spoke, he made his way to front of her apartment. She followed, opening the door for him. His lethargy had him slightly off balance and he stumbled into her at the doorframe. William reached out to steady her, to regain his stability, his hands on her shoulders, and Caroline found it was a very odd thing to be a woman wanting to maul the bear of a man who stood so sleepy in front of her.

  The next evening, she sat on the L-shaped couch in his living room, a bowl of popcorn in her lap. He took a seat beside her and proceeded to remove his shoes. Casablanca was set to run in the DVD player. She reached for the remote on the ottoman. The moment she stretched forward and grasped the control, he leaned back. They bumped into each other and froze.

  All she had to do was tilt up her chin. Caroline knew the ease of it, the ease of him was tantalizing. He smelled delicious, his face hovered right there, his mouth was right there, and she wanted to feel the warmth of his lips, wanted the rasp of the whiskers she could see to brush against her cheek. It had been so long, and so long led to thoughts of Drew, Alex, to every single boy she’d ever kissed. She had to be fair, fair to William and fair to herself. She was not in a position to kiss anyone, or deal with uncertainty about feelings, or the kinds of disordered feelings that often came with kissing. She was confused enough trying to figure out if the cocktail of feelings was simple lust, affection, or plain ol’ curiosity. Swallowing, she sagged back into the sofa cushions, the remote clutched in her hand. ‘Aw, William,’ she said softly.

  ‘I know,’ he said. He set his shoe on the floor. ‘I know.’

  ‘I like you William. I do, but …’ She rubbed the back of her hand under her nose. ‘You probably need to go out and be with some other friends and stop spending so much time with me. I’m just not … there. And that’s not fair.’ She scooted to the end of the couch. ‘Maybe it’s best if I go home. Maybe it’s best if we don’t see each other for a while. Not even for coffee.’

  ‘Why? What for? Every man wants to kiss a pretty girl, Caroline, but you’re not a pretty girl.’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’

  Will scratched his head. ‘Let me rephrase that. You’re my attractive next-door neighbor and that kind of thing never works out. It gets awkward and stilted until all you do is nod at one another in the stairwell. Do you want that sort of complication in your life? I don’t. That aside, I’m old enough to be your father …’

  ‘My father? Oh, come on, William.’ Caroline squinted one eye.

  ‘All right, then old enough to be your brother, or at least your uncle’s son, which would make me your cousin, instead of some dirty old man who sees that little gold ring you wear on your hand, so don’t go. Okay? I don’t want to watch Casablanca alone. It’s better when someone else laughs along at Louis’s wisecracks.’

  With a half-snorted laugh, she looked at him. Will watched her swallow and lick her lips. He thought she was about to kiss him. Instead, she tossed a handful of popcorn in his face. Will picked popcorn from his shirt and lap and ate it.

  ‘Okay. Play it, Sam,’ she said, munching the kernels she’d stuffed in her mouth.

  ‘Sam?’

  ‘Sam, the piano player, as in, Play it, Sam. Play “As Time Goes By.” As in let’s watch the movie.’ She pointed at the TV screen.

  ‘Caroline, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Or at least it’s just past the beginning, don’t you think?’

  ***

  It took Alex three days to work out who was who in the building. The thirty-something same-sex couple lived above the woman with all the gold jewelry and brightly colored sweat suits. Across from her were a Mediterranean woman and her olive-skinned husband, while the middle-aged guy with the squared-off Hitler mustache had the apartment below Caroline. That meant the big leather-clad guy who rode a red-bodied Harley Fat Boy was her next-door neighbor.

  It took Alex five days to work out Caroline’s routine. He’d watched from across the street, tucked away in a narrow garden between two apartment blocks. First, she’d take her dog for a walk, then return home to drop off the mutt before she went for a run, and come back, all red-faced. She’d get ready for work, and take the number 22 bus downtown.

  If he timed it right he could catch the bus at the stop before hers. He’d done that once, boarded before she had, and stood in the crowd at the back of the bus, watching her, before he got off halfway into town. Once or twice, she’d left her building with the same brawny, whitewashed man who had interrupted their sidewalk conversation a few weeks back, and they rode the bus into town together.

  But not this morning.

  This morning, she left alone. This morning, his beard trimmed, hair brushed back neatly into a ponytail, clad in a navy blazer, white shirt and tan chino flat fronts, Alex rode the number 22 bus all the way downtown. This morning he followed her to Webb & Fairchild and concealed himself behind a rack of sport coats near the department where Caroline worked. This morning, just outside men’s personal shopping, he watched her show a balding man a selection of trousers, watched her tap a pen against her nose as she thought, watched her answer the phone at the desk where she sat.

  He played his spy game, his hands grasping the nubby wool of a blazer, watching and watching until he heard the sound faintly, heard her whispered, feverish, reckless, ‘Please Alex,’ against his ear.

  Alex nodded, took his fingers from between her damp thighs, and moved from the little desk where she’d sat, carrying her inside the very private dressing room with the paneled oak door, pushing her against the mirrored wall, his tongue in her hot mouth, moving to the upholstered chair inside the tiny room, her legs wide and open and all that sweet wet pink waiting for hi—

  ‘May I help you
with something sir?’

  Alex’s world shifted focus.

  ‘Is there something particular you’re after?’ the salesman with a narrow, well-groomed mustache asked.

  Alex coughed. He fixed on the fabric of the sandy tweed jacket in his hands. ‘Yes, thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m trying to educate myself here. What exactly is a Herringbone pattern and is it different to Chevron?’

  ***

  The strident buzz dragged Will from a sound sleep. He lifted his head from his pillow and looked at the large-faced red digital clock beside the bed. It was just past three.

  He rolled out of bed, grabbed his bathrobe to cover his nakedness, and wandered out to the hall to answer the buzzing doorbell, hoping it wasn’t a drunk, a punk, or bad news. Crappy news arrived at the smallest hours of the day, except for when Quincy’s son, Perry, died. An old girlfriend in the city’s police dispatch called with that devastating news just after lunch.

  Will rubbed the stiff, short bristles of his whiskers and pressed the intercom. ‘Normally I’m a really pleasant fellow,’ he said, ‘but seeing how it’s the wee small hours of the morning this had better be good, because I have no qualms about crushing you beneath the mighty weight of the lawyerly briefcase ready to drop out of the window above your head.’

  ‘Willie, I’m freezing out here, and I can’t find my key. Let me upschtairsh!’

  Will rested his sleepy head against the wall and braced himself. ‘Vonnie, what’s wrong. What happened?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong, except I got back a day earlier than I thought I was schupposhed to and I’m not in any mood to wait around the schtation by myself at three in the morning. Come on, Willie, buzz me up.’

  He yawned. ‘What’s the password?’

  ‘Wil-lee, I’m not in the mood for goofy games now.’

  ‘Sorry. Of course.’ He palmed the lock release for the downstairs entry and opened his apartment door. Yawning, he went downstairs to help his ex-wife bring up the fifteen thousand Louis Vuitton bags she always had. When he opened the ground floor interior door, Yvonne threw her arms around him. She smelled like champagne, clove cigarettes, and Chanel No. 5. ‘I’m happy to see you too, Vonnie,’ he said and kissed her cheek.