The rain had mostly abated, leaving a fishy scent from the Hudson River mingling around him. A new moon fizzed through the almost-bald branches, which clawed at the dewy air. The evening could almost be a noir movie set, if not for the suspicious pedestrians who looked Pickle up and down as he stood staring at the brownstone, muttering to himself.
Pickle stuck his tongue out at the next ogler who gave him a sidelong glance. “What’re you looking at? I’m talking to myself here!” he yelled into the guy’s back.
Suddenly Pickle felt foolish and began a well-worn litany of second-guessing. Was he too well dressed? Who did he think he was? And what was the point, anyway? Because, if he was honest with himself, how could someone like Junie take to someone like him? Since that morning at the precinct, he’d built her up in his mind as the Queen of Sheba. Now, as he stood at the steps of the brownstone, his sense of deficiency roared through like Amtrak, on schedule for a change.
It was all Karen’s fault—the whole lot of it. He didn’t even have keys to the damned house he partially owned. The meeting that was supposed to iron out all this delayed renovation bullshit had simply evaporated, as if the elephant ambled out of the room and sailed the Queen Mary back to Africa. He was at Karen’s mercy and felt no agency in his life. Then he reminded himself that Junie was not some far-flung fantasy—she was about fifty feet away. This helped to calm him, and Pickle again scrolled through the only things within his control: his hair, his breath, a mint, a clean shirt, a belt, ironed trousers and finally, no dandruff. For good measure, he pulled out a pocket mirror to check his nose hairs. Clipped. Good.
Just as he was about to race up the steps to make his entrance, the front door opened and Stan, dressed in matching celadon green sweats, T-shirt, and sneakers, breached the upper landing. His bruised arm, in the bandage but out of the sling, swung heavily at his side. Stan hesitated, sniffed the air, then clomped down the steps to meet Pickle.
Usually the kempt twin, Stan appeared haggard—like out of last week’s police lineup. A yellowing bruise from Karen’s teeth stretched across his forehead. His unshaven beard, possibly due to shaky hands from withdrawal, clouded his cheeks. All of this pleased Pickle to no end. He straightened up and smiled broadly at his brother.
Stan brusquely pierced Pickle’s optimism. “Don’t smile at me like that. I’m doing worse than I look. And what’re you doing standing here talking to yourself—out loud, no less? I’ve been watching you for ten minutes. Karen’s got the dinner almost on and that girl is finally awake and about to come up for air.”
Pickle cocked his head in disbelief. “You mean she has been asleep downstairs this whole time?”
“Well, not the whole time, but yeah, she sleeps a lot. But I think she stays down there because I get the feeling she doesn’t like me—at least that’s what Karen has intimated. Wait. Correction: the girl thinks I don’t like her. But what’s the difference? Bottom line? We don’t communicate well. Anyway, in case you care at all, I’m miserable. I can’t work. I can’t drink. I’m on pain meds. Ergo my intestines are at a standstill. I haven’t showered—only baths are allowed and I can’t tolerate sitting in dirty water. Bathtubs are all wrong.”
“Bathtubs are wrong?” Pickle prepared himself for a Ted Talk on ablutions according to Stan.
“Yes, as a matter of fact they are dead-to-rights wrong. My client, the one in 15 Central Park West? He’s Indian—from the country—and they have four full bathrooms in their apartment. He’s having us gut out every tub in the place. He’ll only use showers. I told him it was bad for resale—they should leave at least one tub. But he was adamant, and didn’t give a shit about the resale. He’s filthy rich, so what does he care? But ideologically, he agrees with me. He won’t take a bath. It’s unhealthy—the germs breeding like bunnies in tepid water—”
“Bad metaphor—rabbits don’t spend quality time in water,” Pickle interrupted.
“Quiet. I’m on a roll. Anyway, now I’m sitting in a filthy bathtub every stinking night. I can’t even shave, and God knows when this dreadful bandage will come off—”
Pickle’d had enough. “Stop, for fuck’s sake! Listen to yourself. Bathtubs? Do you actually believe this nonsense?”
Stan paused to consider. “Yes. Yes I do.”
“But wait. Wait a damned minute. I thought your clients in that building were Brazilian.” Whether he liked it or not, Pickle heard all about their projects, so it was relatively easy to store this drivel in his subconscious and cough it up when it suited his cause—like an opportunity to throw an inconsistency in Stan’s face.
“I fired them,” Stan scoffed. “They were whiners. I’d never heard such moaning—day in and day out. But that wasn’t the kicker.”
“No? Oh, goody, tell me how evil you were.” Pickle also had to admit that he vicariously fed off the fact that Stan was in a position to tell people to go to hell without passing Go. Which he did frequently and with blithe satisfaction.
“With pleasure. What pushed these South American goats off the Andes was that they had the gall to object to what I wanted for the space—”
“Stop. These people are from Brazil. The Andes are in Peru.”
“Don’t bother me with topographical details. Anyway, it seems they had ‘ideas.’ And most of them stemmed from predictable mother projections they were exploring with their current four-hundred-dollar-an-hour shrink. How dare they work out their inadequate breastfeeding issues on me! My God, how I could make money analyzing these people. I could retire tomorrow with the shit I’ve had to sift through. So, they had to go. Even Karen agreed, and she’s loath to fire anyone. Anyway, the Indian guy was in the building already and had just bought an apartment on a higher floor with better views. I told them the place would need to be completely gutted and that they’d have to do what I wanted. They agreed immediately. Of course.”
“Oh, of course,” Pickle said with sarcasm.
“Look, I have my standards. But what do you want from me? I’m a mess.” Stan bandied his bad arm up and down in a demonstration of disability.
Pickle grimaced with disgust. Why did people think Stan was such hot shit? It must be his fashion plate: celadon—a trendsetter. “Forget about the stupid bathtubs. Let’s get back to Junie. Seriously, Stan. What the hell’s going on in there? I’ve called Karen every day and she’s been putting me off like crazy.”
“Nothing’s going on—seriously nothing. Not that I’d know much anyway. I haven’t descended to that level of the brownstone since we moved in. I don’t like environments that are underground, even halfway.”
Pickle grunted in acknowledgement. He knew Stan had an aversion to basements, maintaining that only people in coffins should spend any time at all below grass level. Another one of his “it’s wrong” convictions—like the bathtubs—prime fodder for another “Talk.” And who was this “Ted” bastard anyway, Pickle wondered.
Stan laid his bad arm on the wrought-iron railing. “God, this thing’s heavy. But since you ask, all I know is the girl, who by the way isn’t such a girl—I think she’s in her late twenties—is recovering from her ‘trauma.’ This is all according to Karen, of course. I’ve barely uttered a word to the nymph.”
Stan paused to scrutinize his fingers at the end of his bandaged arm. “Jesus, even my cuticles are a disaster. Look, Pickle. A word of advice from your older brother by sixty-eight seconds: Don’t get ahead of yourself. Don’t overblow things. It’s only been a week. To be honest, I think Karen’s right to hold you off.”
“You and Karen: the undivided force of nature.”
“I understand you’ve taken a liking to her, but you can’t expect to charge in and swoop her up.”
Stan reached over and patted Pickle’s cheek. “By the way, you look good.”
Pickle jerked his head back. “Thanks.”
“No, really, you look good.”
“I said fucking thanks. Stop acting like it’s a miracle from the baby Jesus.”
“We
ll, you have to admit I don’t see you shaved, showered, reeking of Mentos, and in trousers and a sport coat very often. With a belt.”
“What the hell do you expect? I’m a cop who’s usually in civvies. We don’t dress up. We try to fit in, blend with the crowds?”
“I cannot relate to the crowds to which you refer,” Stan stated with indignation.
“Stop the uppity shit, Stan. Try to remember your humble beginnings—the good old fucked-up years.” Pickle tapped his forefinger to his lips. “You know what? You should be a cop for about ninety seconds. Your entire view of humanity would change instantly. Rich or poor—people are people. Period.”
“God. This drivel. Were we even raised by the same she-wolf? Please, remind me.”
Karen popped her head out the door and screamed in a whisper, “Dinner is served!”
Stan started up the steps, but Pickle held him back. “Wait up, Stan. Karen, we’ll be there in a minute.”
She eyed them both, sniffed the air, threw them a phony smile and closed the front door.
Stan sighed. “See? Even Karen smelled your breath from fifteen feet. You’re going to have to sleep that mint off. Now, what?”
“You know what. I’m begging you to take advantage of this latest episode of demolition derby to dry up.”
“We’ll see.”
“I looked up your record of DUIs and you’re at the limit. One more and bye-bye car for a year. Not to mention other considerable inconveniences. Trust me, you do not want to tip into that world.”
Stan remained silent, nodding his head incrementally, and Pickle couldn’t tell if the gesture meant agreement or if he was just placating him.
Pickle pressed. “And it’s not because I judge you … really—”
“Oh no you don’t! Don’t you dare throw me that deadbeat line about no judgment. We both know there’s not a person on the planet that doesn’t judge a drunk. You work with them and I am one. So, there’s that. Second—”
Pickle raised both hands to halt Stan’s freight train of deflections and justifications. “Just shut up and let me finish? Okay, I won’t stand here and torture you with all the reasons you already know.”
“Well thank God for that!” Stan smirked and murdered a mosquito on Pickle’s hand with his bandaged arm.
“I’m just saying this could be the time that you stop. For real.”
Pickle paused and stared at his twin’s face, which was actually his face, and an odd realization occurred to him. At that moment, Stan looked like the disheveled Pickle, and Pickle could easily pass for the natty Stan. They were ghost twins and always had been. A clever immersion into one another’s psyche began early on when Stan began to trick his mother. He’d impersonate Pickle, dress like him, take on his persona completely—all in order to absorb the fierce blows she’d meant for Pickle. This was a debt Pickle knew he could never repay.
Stan shook his head with his hands over his ears. “Goddamn it, Pickle. I know you’re about to wax poetic about our childhood and … it’s manipulative … and frankly, beneath you.”
“I don’t give a shit. I’m here because of you.”
“Whatever!” Stan heaved a sigh and lowered his voice. “Well, it’s been over a week now. Let’s not jinx it.”
“No drinking? Really? That’s great,” Pickle whispered back.
“I said, don’t mess me up. I don’t wanna talk about it. Let’s just go in.”
They found Junie sitting at the dining table with The Doodles perched on top of her feet. Cloth napkins peaked like triangles at each place setting, the salad had been tossed, and glasses brimmed with sparkling water.
Pickle eyed the water and then Karen.
She waited a beat. “Do you want a drink, Pickle? Wine perhaps? Stan and I are drying out a bit.” Another three beats. “Junie knows all about our current sobriety. Good things can come out of tragedy sometimes.”
“Cut the platitudes, Karen,” Stan groaned. “I’m barely holding it together over here.”
“Nothing to drink for me. Water’s fine.” Pickle thought it best to stay sharp.
He took the seat opposite Junie, nodded to her as a greeting, and looked around the open-plan space. Karen always came up with interesting stuff to display on the live-edge walnut shelves above the kitchen counters. In fact, everywhere he looked, Pickle couldn’t help but admire Karen’s sense of color, style, and her overall sophistication. The place was ridiculously lovely. How nice for them.
Karen stood at the end of the dining table and began carving into a roasted chicken. The Doodles took his cue, gave up his short-lived devotion to Junie’s feet and strolled over to Karen—the dispenser of the tidbits—for a chance at a scrap of poultry. As the knife slid back and forth across the meat, Karen stabbed at small talk. “I heard the weather is supposed to be nice tomorrow. Thank goodness.”
“What the hell difference does that make in my life, Karen? I can barely go outside with this thing suffocating me,” Stan snapped, waving his arm up and down like C-3PO.
Karen plopped down into her chair and put her head in her hands.
“Sorry.” Stan pushed his hair out of his eyes with his left paw. “I’m just really having a hard time. I can barely feed myself with my right hand. I’m hungry all the time.”
Karen looked up and her eyes drilled into Stan. “Then stop complaining and keep shoveling in the food.”
As Stan and Karen devolved into their most familiar characters—Albee’s Martha and George—Pickle began a game of cat and mouse with Junie. He’d catch her looking at him and he’d smile. Not too much. Just enough to impersonate a guy she might take to—on alternate Saturdays, every three months—if he was lucky. But as soon as the corners of his lips went north, she’d look away. Then he’d admonish himself for the attempt. This eye banter continued while the odd couple excavated some disturbing aspects of married life. Their voices rose and they soon began screaming at each other. Pickle barely took notice; he considered their arguing like background noise. But he saw Junie cave into her seat, little by little.
“Jesus, you guys. You’re giving Junie the wrong impression. Can’t we have a nice family meal?” Pickle gave Junie a sarcastic wink. “See how the McArdle clan shows its love, Junie? All the dreadful fodder is fair game. And speaking of manure, Karen, Stan reminded me while we chatted outside that he has an aversion to basements. And bathtubs, but we’ll leave that topic for another meal. Anyway, this made me wonder why you guys took the two lower floors of the brownstone. See Junie, I’m supposed to have the two upper floors.”
Junie piped up for the first time. “You mean you own this place, too?”
“Yup.”
Karen stared at Pickle, blinking several times. “Pickle, now is not the time for this discussion. But if you must know, Stan is fine with the arrangement—parlor floor and basement.”
“I am?” Stan said with bewilderment.
“Yes, you are. We discussed this.”
“We did?”
“Yes, we did. That’s the end of that.”
Stan shot up, causing his chair to fall backwards. “No. No, no, no. Waiiiiit a goddamned minute, Karen. Pickle’s got a good point. I don’t remember this so-called discussion and anyway, why would I agree to something that doesn’t make sense? I won’t go into basements—and you of all people know this very well—so why are we living on the two bottom floors? You’re taking advantage of me, Karen. I miss things and then you railroad me!”
Pickle began to laugh. Karen slammed both hands on the table.
“Pickle, shut up. And Stan? Sit. Both of you calm the hell down. You’re acting like idiots. This is embarrassing. We have a guest in the house.”
Stan righted his chair and, chastened, slumped into his seat. Pickle leaned in, wondering exactly how she was going to finesse all of this. But of course, Karen proceeded with Socratic reasoning.
“Stan. Listen to me. We did talk about this and decided that it would be easier if we kept you and all of your ne
eds to one floor. You know—the organizing, the counting, the color-coding, the lining up, yadda yadda. If all of that bled to another floor, then there’d literally be no place for me. So, the basement is perfect. And further, we both decided that it would be nice for Pickle to enjoy the better light upstairs.”
Karen fixed her face into a pout as if she’d had to beat her children after they’d been bad boys. “Jesus. You’re both so suspicious of me, and neither of you has a memory worth a dime.”
“Pickle, she’s right. I remember now. I think,” Stan acquiesced.
While all this bickering went on, Junie had slowly risen from her chair and backed up toward the stairway. Her hands found the railing behind her and she gripped for stability. Pickle recognized the look on her face—one he’d not been able to forget all week, since the precinct. Her inability to bear the sway of her world, when her lungs were about to explode from grief. And he was now helpless to rewind this dinner mayhem, which he’d helped to create.
Junie called for The Doodles and they disappeared down into the basement.
Stan, clearly exasperated by the sudden departure of two-fifths of the dinner crew, muttered, “Jesus, that dog never goes down there. One week with that girl and he’s turned rogue on me. I can’t count on anyone anymore.”
For a few moments, no one moved. Then Stan began to press Karen for his nightly recap about what had happened at the office that day and she obliged with excruciating detail. Pickle pushed it all to the background—it sounded like the worst elevator music ever plagiarized.
9
THE DINNER ENDED WITH A LIMP FIZZLE. JUNIE slunk back into her Mahler, and Stan receded to the bedroom for a soak in a tub of filthy water followed by some Dallas. Pickle remained in the kitchen to help Karen clean up. They worked quietly, as a team—clearing the dining table, washing and drying the dishes, then stacking them onto the shelves. Karen didn’t like dishwashers—too noisy, the cycle too lengthy, she maintained. In fact, she eschewed many trappings of domestic convenience. A purist, or just a micromanager, Pickle wasn’t sure which.
Pickle’s Progress Page 7