Afraid to move a muscle, Karen took in her mother’s words, thinking and wondering, but mostly worrying. She blew a warm breath into the back of the robe and felt her mother’s shoulders settle down. She wanted so much to ask questions. But for now, she would have to be satisfied with understanding just small portions of each rule. She imagined if she rolled all the parts she did understand into a tiny ball, they would make sense, and explanations might not be needed after all. Maybe she could even figure out the rules on her own.
The last Sunday morning, before the house caved in on itself due to the vanishing of her mother, Karen came down to the kitchen expecting to see her at the window. The sun blazed fully into the room; her mother’s body was not there to shape the morning light. She saw the fleece robe lying over her father’s slack form as he slept on the sofa. The robe collar was tucked snugly under his whiskered chin. Her chin. She saw, just then, that she actually did resemble her father and it felt like a hot poker to her eye. Karen blinked. A piece of green paper poked out of the robe pocket and she became brave. She reached down and plucked it out: a one-hundred-dollar bill. The paper found its way into Karen’s fist—crumpled hard—just like the men. And then all the rules finally tumbled together: clear, concise, and now understood. She might, after all, live as her mother had instructed.
Lying on the sofa in the brownstone, Karen watched the sky morph into a grey color she’d never seen before. What part of her mother did she remember most vividly? Was it her godless praying hands, her bewildering advice parsed out in a monotone voice, or the swing of her body? None of that. No, it was the warp and weft of the robe fabric. Karen rubbed her hands up and down the cloth as the end of morning, now devoid of any sun, seemed to ease her headache. She stood on wobbly legs and made her way toward the stairway to the lower level. Stan must have heard her footsteps on the creaking floorboards. He cracked the bedroom door open.
“Karen, don’t go down there. Not today. Look at my clothes—all over the floor.” He opened the door wider and gestured around the bedroom for emphasis. “And The Doodles. He’s on top of my stuff. I need your help. My arm.”
Karen dismissed him with a swat to the air. “You’ll be okay. Go back to bed. I want the space downstairs to be comfortable for Junie. It’s almost noon and they’ll be here soon.”
Stan walked out of the bedroom and positioned himself between her and the stairway. “Why in God’s name are we bringing this clearly damaged woman into our home? You seriously need to think about this. We know nothing about her. She could be untrustworthy, maybe even a thief. You saw her in the car … like a ghost. She’s strange and odd.”
“Strange and odd? Listen to yourself. Sounds like someone I know.”
The Doodles skulked over to Stan and sat on top of his right foot. Stan rubbed The Doodles with his left toes. “Well, you don’t have to get personal. It’s just that I honestly don’t understand your reasoning.”
Karen had to think about this, because she understood that her current decisions were being controlled by something other than common sense. “Okay. I admit this is impulsive and it probably is ill-advised,” she conceded. “God only knows why I’m taking her on. I don’t know … I just feel I must … that somehow it’s necessary.”
“This is very unlike you. You clearly haven’t thought it through. For example, she must have family that’ll take her. Have you even thought of that? They’ll be wondering what’s happened to her. C’mon, Karen, call this shit off before we get in too deep.”
Stan reached over and stroked her cheek. Karen, jerking back from him, shook her head. She couldn’t tolerate physical contact and noticed a tremor in her fingers. They quivered from not enough sleep or, more likely, a hangover. A strong Bloody Mary would solve all of this. Instead, she made fists and roughly stuffed her hands into her robe pockets. Laughter from the street outside caught her attention and she walked back to the front window to watch a street scene below the partially lowered blinds. She saw fingers holding cigarettes from swinging hands, baby strollers being pushed along followed by sneakered feet. Even a basketball bounced by. Everyone in the world was propelling the day forward, except her. Karen looked down at her bare feet—the polish on her toes had chipped. She’d gotten a pedicure just the day before, and couldn’t remember how or when this had happened.
With her back still to Stan, Karen grabbed at some final reasoning, mostly for his benefit, but also for her own. “Look, we can’t let her go back to her apartment when her boyfriend just killed himself. That would be insanely cruel. And besides, she told me she has no family. She’s an orphan.”
Stan laughed, raucous and cutting. “An orphan? You believe that crock?”
Karen reached over and picked up a plastic tumbler from the dining table. Feeling the weightless goblet in her hand, she swiveled and heaved it toward Stan’s head. He managed to duck in time and the plastic ping-ponged off the wall behind him, bouncing several times before it rolled back to Karen’s big toe.
“See?” Stan said with disgust. “You’re a mess. You can’t even hit me. But I promise you this girl will be a disaster. Mark my words.”
“Whatever. But it’ll be my disaster. So today you’re gonna do something for somebody else for a change. And if you can’t do it for Junie, you’ll fucking well do it for me. Today, you are going to be nice.”
She picked up the glass and placed it, just so, on the table. Stan stepped back and bumped into the wall as Karen walked past him to head down the staircase.
“That’s good, Stan. Do your rope a dope, just like Ali.”
Karen flicked on the light to the lower level. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she saw shadows through the frosted glass at the outside door. Curious, she unbolted the latch and found Junie in Pickle’s arms.
“Dear God, Pickle. What the hell are you doing at this entrance?”
“We just got here. I rang the doorbell upstairs—I don’t think it’s working. We came down here to try this bell.”
“Why didn’t you knock upstairs?”
“I’m not an idiot, Karen. I did. You and Stan were screaming at each other and couldn’t hear me. But forget that. Just let us in. Junie’s a mess.”
Karen pulled Junie into the vestibule and then shoved Pickle back outside. She slammed the door shut and locked it.
Pickle began to pound on the door. “What the hell, Karen? Don’t do this!”
She ignored him and shepherded Junie into the bedroom at the back of the brownstone. Karen plunked her down on the bed, one of the few pieces of furniture in the room. She knelt down and positioned herself at the young woman’s knees, then pushed Junie’s hair back. She wanted a good look at her face because up until that point, she’d viewed Junie only through dim light at the bridge.
Suddenly Junie draped her arms around Karen’s neck and they hugged. Each time Karen made a motion to disengage, Junie would claw her closer. As they remained in their entwined position, Karen thought back to Stan’s words of warning. Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea. Junie was not a stray pet that would adapt after just a few nights. Enveloped in Karen’s arms was a thoroughly distraught human being. For the first time in a long time, Karen had no idea what tomorrow would bring. A chill crept up her back.
“Do you have to pee?” Karen whispered into Junie’s ear.
Junie shook her head.
“Do you need to eat?”
“No.” Junie finally pulled away and stared into Karen’s eyes, waiting for directives.
Karen looked down at the front of her robe and noticed Junie’s mascara smudges on the lapels. On impulse, she pulled off the robe, exposing herself in only a bra and panties. She then undressed the girl, who limply complied, and tucked Junie into the robe, knotting it loosely around her waist. She dragged the covers back and positioned Junie onto the bed. She pushed the girl onto her side and smoothed the covers over her body. Then she lifted Junie’s head and placed a plump pillow underneath. Karen climbed over Junie, lay on top of the c
overs and brought the girl close into her body, like melted granite slices. Her exposed back hairs prickled from the chilled air. Gradually, the warmth of Junie’s body bled through the covers and reached Karen’s chest and belly. Somehow the contrariness didn’t bother her. She stroked Junie’s hair and the girl began an intermittent whimper, which gradually turned into a sustained wail. Karen held on hard, as she witnessed an explosion of grief she wished she herself could feel.
6
SQUARED - OFF GRIDS DEFINE NEW YORK CITY, making navigation around town fairly easy for locals and tourists alike. But there are occasional streets that disturb the geometry. Roosevelt Avenue in Queens slices the patchwork asphalt at an angle. Broadway rips up the very center of Manhattan, beginning at the Merchant Marine Building in the financial district, then ascending into the Bronx and beyond.
The Flatiron Building, situated at the triangle of Fifth Avenue and Broadway, whose chignon-like acute angle measures just six feet wide, was Pickle’s favorite New York City slice of pie. He stood close to the curve of the building and placed his hands on the limestone façade, cool to his touch, stubbly in texture. Then he looked to the structure’s top. Wherever his eyes landed, carved decorations reinforced his admiration. Eagles spread their feathered wings, ready for flight. Military shields stood at attention, prepared to do battle. Acanthus leaves twined around classic ball-and-dart edging. And it then occurred to him that this building, which capped off at just twenty-one stories high, was a reasonable height for a skyscraper. Though little else was reasonable at this moment, because he was about to do Karen’s bidding.
When Pickle had delivered Junie to the brownstone the previous day, Karen managed the handoff in her usual pushy fashion, spiriting the girl into the lower level, then slamming the door in his face. After sitting on the stoop for a few minutes to assuage his bruised ego, Pickle decided to try the parlor-floor entrance again. This time he pounded like a firefighter. Stan let him in without a word and they sat around with coffees, eavesdropping on some painful sounds emanating from below. Stan appeared numbed to his apparent future living arrangement, while Pickle could barely contain the excitement he felt about the possibility that he might actually have some sort of chance with Junie.
But soon it was obvious there was to be no inclusion or even discussion about Junie, according to battle plans laid out by Karen. After an hour, she’d come up and shoved a list of furniture items and her credit card into Pickle’s hand. Then, she shepherded him to the front door and pushed him out with the parting shot, “Pickle, I really need your help. Go buy all this stuff tomorrow. The salesman, Darren, knows Stan and me. He’s older and bald—you can’t miss him. It’ll be easy.”
Pickle left the comfort of the Flatiron, walked a block south, and entered Design Within Reach. He looked around, walked up to his mark—the only bald salesman on the floor—handed him the list, and tossed Karen’s credit card on the desk. “Ring this up, and make a note that this is for McArdle, so I want the fastest delivery possible.”
The man, startled, stared at Pickle. “Stan?”
Pickle remained stone-faced and silent; he was in no mood for niceties, let alone explanations.
“It’s Darren—remember me?” The man, confused, blinked for a few seconds and then continued. “We’ve worked together several times—all the Knoll furniture you and Karen installed in that triplex in SoHo a few months ago?”
Pickle sacrificed a perfunctory smile, then crossed his arms. Waiting for … what? He didn’t really know—just that he wanted the guy to suffer. Why this guy? Well, he was standing in front of him. Poor sap.
Darren, clearly floundering, tried again. “I think the address was the Printing House, just above Houston Street. Does that ring a bell, Stan?”
Pickle felt himself cave. After all, it wasn’t this guy’s fault. “I’m not Stan. I’m his brother, okay? But I don’t have time for chit-chat. I want this stuff delivered by the end of the week. Per Karen and Stan.”
Darren cocked his head to the side, and then squinted his eyes. “Oh. Sorry. Ah … you’re twins. You’re identical!”
Pickle bristled, returned with a cold stare and pointed to the paper in Darren’s hand. “The list, please?”
Darren examined the paper for a few seconds, logged onto his computer and scrolled around for inventory. He looked up, uncertain. “Well, there is a lead-time on several of these pieces. At least four to six weeks from day of order.”
Pickle looked up toward the ceiling and shook his head. “I just told you this is for McArdle. You gotta move this to the top of the line for Karen. Is there going to be a problem?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Darren stammered.
“Don’t see—just do. Obviously, this is an emergency, or she wouldn’t ask.”
“Right. Let me talk to my manager and we’ll try to work something out. I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”
“I hope not, because Karen already told me that they can get this Knoll shit, whatever that is, over the Internet—and probably for less money.” Pickle paused for effect. “Do you want the sale or not?”
“Of course, Stan. I mean … Mr. McArdle. I’ll call Karen this afternoon with the confirmation and try to have it delivered by Friday.”
Darren wrote up the order and ran the credit card through. “Can I just trouble you for your signature?” He pointed to the paperwork and Pickle reluctantly grabbed a pen off the desk and signed.
Darren handed Pickle the credit card and stared at the signature. “Pickle?”
Pickle slipped the plastic into his jacket pocket. “Yeah. Tiny Vlasic Pickles. Just like your dick. Have a nice day.”
He walked out of the store and wandered north into Madison Square Park, past a bronze statue of the casually seated former New York State governor, William Seward. The day was fair, with a breeze somewhere between cool and warm, and infant buds on branches brushed the governor’s head. Pickle eased himself down on a bench next to the beat-up sneakers of a homeless guy who’d covered himself with cardboard. He looked right and left, noticing several vagrant men prone on the benches, grabbing much-needed rest that, Pickle knew, was difficult to achieve when homeless in the city. Cookie-cutter scenes fanned out in front of him: mothers with infants in strollers, swings filled with kids—their nannies pushing them from behind with varying levels of disinterest plastered on their faces. And with each belch from municipal buses behind him, starting-stopping-starting-stopping, Pickle imagined bombs primed to explode in his head.
The twins had lived in apartments in Nassau County, where they spent their early childhood. Their mother raised them, the father having disappeared shortly after the twins’ birth. Pickle had only seen one photograph of him, displayed on a table by the sofa, holding both scrawny, premature infants—with either arm folded up in between their legs. His father’s eyes bore into the lens, assured—almost smug. And eventually Pickle saw that he had his father’s eyes, so it was as if he was looking at himself. Those eyes, like the Mona Lisa’s, seemed to follow his body as he walked through the living room on his way to the kitchen. This troubled Pickle and sometimes, when no one was looking, he’d crawl through the room just to avoid his father’s stare, or his own stare—self-similar—like a menacing fractal.
Pickle had only a vague awareness of his mother’s precarious financial state. Just that things were never quite right, as she struggled to feed and clothe the family. They were not allowed second helpings at meals, but since Pickle knew nothing different, this was normal enough to him. Though he was often hungry again at bedtime, he knew not to ask for food. But as Pickle got older, something shameful seeped into his growing awareness of himself and his family. One day in the future he would name it: they were third-world white—very poor, fatherless, and secretly hungry.
They’d never had a yard like other kids, not a swing set or sandbox in close proximity. So, his mother made a point of getting the twins to the local town park at least twice a week. That park became the equiv
alent of their absent backyard. She picked them up after school, drove to the playground and unleashed them to the grass and dirt. There were two small fields—one for soccer and one for baseball. It was understood that the twins would always participate in separate sports, mostly because no one could tell them apart. They were known as the “baseball twin” (Pickle), and the “soccer twin” (Stan). For that unbridled hour or so, they exhausted themselves while their mother went to an automat cafeteria across the street. Pickle imagined that she kept track of their games by watching through the thick plate-glass window, covered with chunky black lettering.
Pickle tipped over on the bench and stretched out. The anonymity of Madison Square Park felt sweetly familiar; governor Seward, now his friend. Then a faint odor of decaying feet from his bench neighbor, like a rancid batch of smelling salts, startled him, and his head jerked in a disgusted reflex. The comfort from a few moments ago shifted and suddenly he felt like a released fish that was desperate for a gulp of watery oxygen to sift through its gills. The distant scream of a fire engine circled Pickle’s mind like barbed wire—a rescue attempt, but for someone else. Pickle turned his body toward the back of the bench.
One spring evening, the other parents had gathered at the park to take their kids home after the scores were discussed and the losers placated. Pickle strained to see his mother exit the cafeteria. He waited on one end of the field—Stan at the other. Pickle saw the glass doors open, splitting the black letters in half. His mother said goodbye to a man with a prim peck to his cheek. They held onto each other’s hands as they separated, with their fingertips the last point of contact, and then walked in opposite directions. His heart pounded in anticipation, wanting desperately to tell her that he’d scored the winning run that day—something he’d never accomplished before.
Her car was parked directly in front of the cafeteria, closest to Pickle. As his mother pulled out onto the street that flanked the park, Pickle gathered up his gear, readying himself to get into the car. But she made a U-turn and drove by, wiggling her fingers at him. He watched her speed to the other side of the field to pick up Stan, who jumped into the front seat beside her. She then made another U-turn. Pickle crossed the street and climbed into the back seat. Discussion of Stan’s game was already in progress. He never told his mother about his game-winning run.
Pickle’s Progress Page 5