Of course, Pickle came to understand that his mother favored Stan. But he learned to ease the burn of it, to make it reasonable, and over time almost normal. And very, very small. He planted all the bones of his pain in a shallow grave, a skeleton that might one day spring back to life.
Cars swished behind Pickle as he lay, cradling his head, on the park bench. Worn wooden slats chafed his hip bone through his jeans, so he turned onto his back. A nap was near and he imagined he could sleep. Then he thought better of the whole thing. Pickle stood up and leaned over the homeless guy he’d almost shared a cardboard blanket with.
“C’mon. Nap time’s over buddy. Let’s go,” he ordered, pulling his badge out of his breast pocket and waving it under the man’s nose.
Pickle took the cardboard off the man and saw that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Just jean cutoffs and sneakers, no socks. His entire torso was filthy, his arms blistered from infected injections.
“Never mind. Sweet dreams.” Pickle re-nestled the cardboard over the man, who’d not moved a muscle during the exchange.
7
KAREN STEPPED IN FROM THE RAIN, SHOOK OUT her umbrella, and stashed it in the Art Nouveau bronze urn by the front door. She fluffed out her blonde hair, which had frizzed a bit from the humidity. She sloughed off her raincoat and hung it on a hook next to Stan’s various outer garments, neatly lined up according to the color wheel and length. Karen scrutinized her appearance in the floor-to-ceiling Art Deco mirror opposite the entrance console table.
She’d soon turn forty-two, but was often taken for early thirties. Her signature clothing style helped: restrained bohemian with a hint of eccentricity verging on Galliano for Dior. But she couldn’t reasonably take any credit; nature alone had given her this odd beauty she’d grown into. And just as her mother had advised in her rules, much of Karen’s influence in business, and by extension with men, rode squarely on the back of her looks. Beauty trumped talent and even hard work. So, she worked at it—in fact, was ferociously dedicated to it. Karen stepped closer to the mirror to assess her bust: side view, front view, then back to side view. She nodded to herself and opened one more button at her bra line. Then she smiled.
It was just over a week since the accident, and Stan still hadn’t made it into the office. Karen knew he was milking his maladies, plus, he’d maintained a regular diet of pain pills to keep him on the other side of coherent. But Karen, who’d learned the true meaning of the word “sanguine” since marrying Stan, wasn’t particularly worried. They had no new projects beginning—just four in current production. The McArdle staff, well-oiled in the challenges of New York City construction management, was more than capable of propelling things along. Indeed, Stan’s absence had allowed for a festive atmosphere in the office. The staff particularly appreciated this—as if they were able to let down their collective hair.
The brownstone was unusually still and Karen wondered if anyone was home. Her bedroom door was closed; no sign of Dallas or The Doodles. This bode well. Karen welcomed the lull before the hurricane: all things Stan McArdle, when he’d certainly grill her in detail about her day at the office. Tucking into her slippers, she padded into the kitchen to consider what to prepare for dinner.
She heard dense chords filter up through the radiator vents from the lower floor—Mahler, Symphony No. 5—music she knew well. Karen had been introduced to it in college via the questionably classic 1971 film Death in Venice, starring Dirk Bogarde. Visconti, the director, had used Mahler’s music as emotional background texture for the grim plot. The day after she moved in, Junie had asked Karen to bring down a dozen or so CDs so she could listen to music. This particular disc seemed to be at the top of Junie’s playlist.
Karen opened the freezer and stared at four unopened bottles of Stoli, stacked on the upper shelf, like dead trout with lifeless eyeballs glaring at her. Stan hadn’t had a drink yet—she’d monitored all their liquor every day. And she’d managed to abstain, as well, now eight full days without. Karen fingered the iced surface of the bottles, her body heat instantly thawing the beautiful crystals. Quickly retracting her hand as if a burn had singed her flesh, Karen thought again of the movie—the final beach scene. Bogarde, whose brown hair dye drips down his whitened face, is ill from cholera. But this doesn’t stop him from lusting after the young boy. And that unrequited longing always squeezed Karen’s heart. Maybe that’s why she saw the movie whenever it played in art houses. The music reminded her of a quality of sadness that she simultaneously sought and avoided. Sought, because this sadness was how she knew herself to be. Avoided, ironically, for the very same reason. When the movie was over, she’d usually go to a bar and get hammered.
Karen slammed the freezer door shut and pressed the front of her body against the cool surface of the Sub Zero. She rubbed her forehead into the metal and felt her breasts flatten; her pelvis connected and she became vaguely stimulated as the music downstairs ended with a whispered nothing. Confusion muddied her thoughts—booze, sex, music; she couldn’t seem to disentangle the things that both moved her and hurt her. Her mother had not given her a rule for this particular quandary.
Now Mahler segued into the last movement. Junie must be awake—who could sleep to such bombastic music, she wondered. But all Junie had managed throughout the last week was to sleep—most of the day, according to Stan—and through the night, as well. Meanwhile, Karen had attempted to wrap up Junie’s loose ends by paying the final money owed on her rental apartment and arranging for her humble possessions to be moved into the brownstone. The young woman braided herself into what fate had planned for them all, and limply agreed to everything Karen proposed without question. It seemed that Junie was, indeed, alone in the world. Though Stan continued to voice suspicion.
The hundred-year-old stair planks creaked as Karen descended to the lower level. She stopped halfway to listen for movement, then continued, stepping past shoes lining the hallway. What a difference a week had made to the lower level of the brownstone. Not only had all the furniture been delivered, but stacks of books towered high in corners of the front room. Clothing hung on hooks by the door to the backyard garden. The bath smelled of a recent soak with lavender soap. All this trace evidence of a life buoyed Karen, and she silently committed herself to one more day of sobriety.
Karen knocked, waited a few seconds, and then pushed the bedroom door open to see Junie, awake and reading. The Doodles, also stretched out on the bed, popped his head up. Junie jolted forward, dropped the book to the floor, and quickly dialed the Mahler down.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in upstairs. Was the music bothering you?”
“No, no—not at all. I just wanted to see how you’re doing,” Karen assured her.
Junie remained quiet, grabbed a brush from the bedside table, and began untangling the snarls in her hair. Karen turned the music back up a bit, then perched at the end of the bed next to The Doodles, who presented his belly for a rub. She plucked an orange ribbon off the floor and handed the silk strand to Junie, who used it to gather her hair up into a bushy ponytail. They sat quietly for a while, as music saturated the space between them.
“I’m going to make dinner,” Karen announced presently. “We have a whole chicken I can roast, or I can make pasta. Anything appeal?”
“Either is fine,” Junie said without enthusiasm. “Don’t go to any trouble. You’ve done so much … I feel like such a freeloader.”
“Please, Junie. Stop. We’ve been through all of this before and you just have to accept that we’re going to take care of you for the foreseeable future.”
The future. Karen let the idea sit heavy in her head. She and Junie talked at the end of each day and Karen had gradually learned general details about her sad new housemate: life with Jacob, and how she’d grown up. Though Karen had assumed a terrible upbringing, Junie’s story was not particularly tragic or even unusual. It seemed that Junie was a person who, for the most part, allowed others to influence her, and that she wasn’t par
ticularly goal oriented. She’d drifted into the relationship with Jacob and was taken with his persuasive personality, until the night she found herself on the bridge. They didn’t talk much about the incident. Surely Junie was changed by it, though she appeared to be embarrassed more than anything. But Karen liked Junie, who displayed a quirky sense of humor once in a while. By the end of the week, Karen felt that she was making inroads to what she hoped would be a friendship.
Junie gave a weak shrug and Karen softened her voice. “Junie, don’t you believe in fate? Kismet? That things might happen for reasons that we can’t immediately understand?”
Junie tossed the brush to the end of the bed. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Well, I honestly believe that meeting you on the bridge was just that. Kismet. It could have been the car behind us, or the one in front. But it wasn’t. We stopped, or crashed anyway, and there you were. And as much as the event has been horrible for you, with Jacob’s suicide and all, I’m here, now, to help you in any way I can and for however long it takes. I want you to try and accept this. Do you think you can?”
Junie hesitated and then gave Karen a doubtful smile. “Okay. As much to thank you as anything.”
“You don’t have to thank me. Actually, you being here is doing something for me too.”
“Oh? I just thought you were a saint and a really nice person.”
Karen laughed and relaxed. She stretched across the bottom of the bed, propping her head up with her hand. The Doodles belly-scooted over and rooted his nose into her neck.
“Yeah, well that’s nice of you to say, but I certainly don’t see myself as a saint or even a ‘really nice person’ most of the time. I’ve got a lot going on with Stan, as you might imagine. And the business, too. It’s stressful and on many days, not a lot of fun. But there’s something I want to tell you. Then, maybe you’ll understand a bit more.”
The next disc had just begun with more Mahler: Kindertotenlieder—Songs on the Death of Children. Karen hesitated for a moment; maybe the music was a warning. A sweat came up and she wiped her forehead with the palm of her hand, but was cold at the same time. Turning to lie on her back, Karen pulled her cardigan tight around her waist. Now she felt modest and followed the S-curve of the cove molding where the wall met the ceiling, looking anywhere but into Junie’s eyes.
“I didn’t help someone when I was young. A man—he was sort of a friend of my father’s—was abusing my younger sister. And one day, by chance, I discovered that it was going on. I was about thirteen at the time and couldn’t completely comprehend what I saw; I was only vaguely aware of sex. The man’s back was to me, but I knew who he was.”
Karen coughed and fixed her eyes on the ceiling light fixture, a stationary orb. “She seemed to let it happen. There was no resistance and no indication of discomfort, so it was somewhat unclear to me that this was wrong or bad or even harmful. But I never said anything—kept it to myself.”
Karen knew that this version, as difficult as it was to admit to, was deeply watered down, nowhere close to the truth. In spite of the fact that Karen was naïve to any manner of sex, or that, yes, her view of Betsy was blocked almost completely by the man’s body—this bedroom scene was, still, horrific. But what she could barely think, let alone say out loud, was that Betsy never recovered from her trauma and died of a heroin overdose several years later.
Karen let the piece finish. Then, she reached over and shut off the CD player. She didn’t want to know what might be cued up next—certainly more wrong music—and she was grateful for the thinness of the silence. As she lay on the bed, Karen’s breathing slowed to its lowest point, as if the autonomic nerve system had failed her and she had to consciously pump air down to her diaphragm in order to stay alive. The effort felt like a punishment. She turned and met Junie’s eyes. “That has largely defined how I see myself, Junie. A coward.”
Junie shook her head. “How awful.”
Karen slammed her eyes shut, tight.
“No, no,” Junie jumped in. “Not that you didn’t tell, but that you’ve tortured yourself all this time. You were young. You weren’t in charge.”
“Well, I suppose that’s true, but I was the older sister. Our mother was gone by then and Betsy didn’t have anyone else but me. Anyway, I haven’t forgiven myself.”
“I can understand that. Guilt is a pretty bad house to live in.”
Karen took those words as Junie’s way of acknowledging what her days might be like thinking about Jacob; he was gone, and Junie was still here. She sat up and grabbed Junie’s hand for emphasis. “You see now? Why I want to help you?”
Junie offered Karen a quick, encouraging smile.
Footsteps clomped above them and The Doodles poked his head up, then jumped off the bed and scampered up the stairs. They both waited a few minutes until Stan left the brownstone to take The Doodles out for his pee before they continued.
Junie’s eyes suddenly brimmed with tears and Karen moved closer. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“What nothing? Is it what I just told you?”
“Yeah, that’s part of it. But hearing Stan upstairs … he hates me.”
“Stan?”
“Yeah.”
“Stan doesn’t like anybody. Even me, at times.”
“You’re at work, so you don’t know. But when I go upstairs and he’s in the kitchen or the living room, he just turns around and goes into the bedroom. He hardly talks. It’s uncomfortable.”
“But think about it, Junie. You don’t talk much either.”
Junie paused to take this in. “I know … Okay, I get what you’re saying.”
“Look. I’m not saying you need to engage in some kind of phony conversation at every turn. But you must have gleaned by now that Stan is not like other people.”
“He does seem odd.” Junie lowered her eyes with this admission.
“To say the least. And he can’t help it. He’s not in control most of the time. So, this transition—with his bad arm and you being here—it hasn’t been easy for him. It’s not in his nature to consider others, but it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t like you. Just give it some time. That’s exactly what I’m telling him—to give it time. He’ll come around and so will you.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I’m not. But part of what Stan relies on me for is to act as if I am sure. And I suppose I’m asking you to do the same. Trust me just a little, maybe?”
Junie sat up with resolution. “Sure. Let me get dressed and I’ll come upstairs and help you with dinner.”
“That would be lovely.”
Karen’s cell phone rang from the upper level. She disengaged herself and trotted upstairs. Seeing the familiar number on the screen, Karen picked up. “Pickle?”
“I’m around the corner and I’m coming over.”
“Wait, not tonight.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“The timing’s off. Please, not tonight.”
“You’ve been putting me off, Karen. All goddamned week. I’m comin’ over. Now.”
Pickle hung up on her just as Stan returned. The Doodles was dripping wet. Karen threw a dishtowel at Stan. “Wipe The Fucking Doodles off. And get out of that robe. Get dressed, for God’s sake! You look dreadful—that robe could stand up by itself and take a bow.”
Stan knelt down to rub The Doodles dry. “What are you talking about? This is only its second appearance. Plus, it works perfectly with my pajamas.”
“Whatever. Get moving. Pickle’s coming over in five minutes.” Karen looked at the freezer door and imagined the Stoli bottles inside. One more day, she thought. Better yet, one more hour.
8
PICKLE PACED IN FRONT OF THE BROWNSTONE as cars whizzed by, spraying the sidewalk with oily rainwater. He danced back toward the building, dodging a few spritzes. He combed his hair, sprayed his breath, and popped in a mint for good measure. Then he cinched up his pants by the belt and tucked in his shirt. H
e looked down at his belly and smoothed his hand along his flat abs; at least he didn’t have a paunch like most men he knew. Finally, he reflexively brushed non-existent dandruff off his shoulders and began to muse about the injustices that surrounded his life.
Pickle found it difficult to swallow the claim that Junie had been asleep in bed for the entire previous week. But that’s what Karen had tried to force-feed him every time he’d called. She’d painted a touching portrait of the young woman buried under the covers, in the pitch dark, much too disturbed to entertain a visit from the likes of him. Karen talked a tidy story. So, the past several nights he’d come down at midnight to conduct his own private drive-by. He was not above spying on them. And good thing, too, because unless Junie slept with every single light bulb turned up to eleven, and there was a ghost living on the bottom floor pacing back and forth behind the front curtains, Karen was a big fat liar.
He shook out his hands to ease his frustration and focused on the evening ahead. Making a good impression was important—Pickle knew this. Female and male alike had advised him that it wouldn’t do any harm if he made more of an effort with his appearance. Because handsome as he was, Pickle was a slob. But for the most part, Pickle didn’t care a whit about his looks. As a matter of fact, he secretly relished taking inventory of his past meals via the slop that had dried up south of his chin. He’d reminisce: Oh yes, Chinese—soy sauce from a few days ago. Italian—pasta grease from yesterday. And always, black coffee with his breakfast. He considered this quirk his birthright—and at least he wasn’t in Stan’s peculiar hell of perfectionism. But tonight, Pickle had cleaned up, because he thought he’d found the woman to push him over his own personal cliff of filth, and he was ready to do a swan dive worthy of a ten from the Russian judge.
Pickle’s Progress Page 6