He pulled out his cell phone and called Lance, who picked up on the first ring. “What?”
“It’s me. Did you work it out?”
“You’re off for six weeks.”
“Good.”
“Are you okay?”
“Never been fucking better.”
“Somehow, I doubt that, but whatever.”
Pickle pulled a Mets cap out of his back pocket and headed over to Riverside Drive, then north to the Bridge Apartments.
15
SHE ENTERED THE BUILDING AND WIGGLED HER fingers at the doorman. Karen didn’t bother stopping—she had a set of keys. Riding up in the elevator, she dug around in her purse for lipstick and a mirror to check her makeup. Then she realized she could use the reflective brass wall of the elevator. Her face appeared tarnished by the cold metal, her lips the same color as her complexion. She threw the lipstick back in her purse.
Karen walked toward the apartment at the end of the hallway, noting that the building was making much-needed improvements to the décor. Dreary teal-green wallpaper that had been peeling for ages was recently replaced with a French grey grass-cloth. And she saw that the outdated fluorescent lighting had been swapped out for modern ceiling fixtures. Never too late, even for a building like this.
When she reached the apartment door, Karen slid her key into the cylinder, turned, and pushed. As usual, the door was warped, so she gave it the necessary shove with her hip. She stopped up short, yelping a weak cry. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be at work.”
“Obviously.” Pickle, in bed, leafed through a World of Interiors magazine. He was naked, or seemed to be; the sheets exposed only his torso. He threw the magazine on the floor, scissored his legs back and forth, and yawned with his arms stretched above him. Then he lay on his side, propping himself up by one arm, and grinned at Karen. “And what, pray tell, are you doing here?”
“Why aren’t you at work?” Karen threw the keys in her purse and slammed the door shut.
“Ouch! The neighbors don’t like the doors slamming. And by the way, fuck you.”
“I was going to leave you a note with the answer. About the brownstone.”
“Coward.”
“Yes,” she concurred.
“Well, it’s good you’re here. ’Cause now we can discuss all the little details that will, no doubt, crop up due to your answer. Which is what?”
Karen pursed her lips. “Well … yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, we’ll start your renovation.”
“Good. When?”
“Monday.”
“Very good. How long?”
“Ten to twelve weeks.”
Pickle pulled himself up to a sitting position and jammed a pillow between the wall and his back. “No good, Karen. It’s gotta be faster.”
Karen threw her arms up in exasperation. “How, for Christ’s sake? I’ve told Patrick it’s a rush job. Anyway, it’s a miracle we even had the manpower to start on Monday.”
Pickle shook his head like gooey molasses. “I can tell already you haven’t pressed this hard enough.”
She plopped into the chair at the table. “That’s not true—I practically manhandled Patrick to get him to agree. It was very difficult and humiliating.”
“Bullshit. He works for you, right? So, it’s a matter of giving orders. And I know that’s not a problem for you. Bossing people around is the second-best thing you do.”
“Idiot,” she spat.
Karen decided to shut up. A brawl was about to erupt and she wasn’t up to it. Instead, she looked out the window from the quiet of thirty-two floors up. She saw head-to-tail snaking lines of cars—but traffic still managed to move incrementally. She imagined a toxic odor from catalytic converters filtering up—yet this was undetectable in the apartment. The roar of noise below never stopped—though she heard none of it. Then she remembered the jumper and Junie, and tried to find the exact location. There it was, halfway across the bridge—the enormous sign on the New Jersey-bound side. That’s where the cables dipped down to their lowest point and where Jacob ended his life.
In spite of that tragedy, and this current difficulty with Pickle, she was glad for it all because of Junie. The brownstone gently rumbled with Junie’s movements late at night. The morning roar of water through the pipes was the sign that she was up and about. Music she selected seemed to indicate her mood for the day. When Karen returned from work, dishes had been washed and carefully stacked onto the shelves, something Junie understood was important to Stan. All of this trace evidence was within reach, and felt intimate. She could see, smell, touch, and hear all of it if she wanted. The notion buoyed Karen. Not like up here in the clouds, a million miles away from anything alive.
Pickle broke into her trance. “Does Stan know yet?”
Karen sighed. “Yes.”
“How’d he take it?”
“Like a lamb.”
“Ahhh. I can just imagine.” His eyebrows twitched up and down—Groucho Marx style.
“You pig.”
“Defending him now?”
“I’ve always defended Stan.” Karen sniffed and pulled a Kleenex from her pocket. She shoved the chair back, flipped off her shoes and propped her bare heels on the edge of the desk.
“God, stop that whimpering right now,” he demanded. “I don’t buy it.”
Karen blew her nose. “It’s really jammed up down there. Going west. Wonder what happened.”
“A truck broke down on the Cross Bronx about twenty minutes ago. Right underneath the building. I’ve been listening to the scanner all day.”
Karen cocked her head at him, curious. “So, why aren’t you at work?”
“I told you, that’s my business. How’s Junie doing?”
“Better, I think. Stan said she went out for a couple of hours yesterday, in the morning. That’s the first time.”
Pickle snickered. “Oh yeah? Where’d she go?”
“She didn’t say. I’m trying not to interrogate her. And Stan doesn’t care.”
“No surprise there.”
“Leave Stan alone.”
“Okay. I’ll leave Stan alone. But I’m not about to leave you alone. C’mere.”
“No.”
“Don’t make me get out of this bed, Karen,” he warned.
Karen began to relent. But as she stood, she noticed the black-and-white image from the wedding. Oddly, it was taped to the refrigerator. She laughed and pointed to it. “What the hell is that doing there?”
“I tripped over it the night of your last big drunk. It was under the bed, where it probably should be right now.”
Karen started toward the refrigerator.
“Don’t mess with my shit, Karen. I’ve got it just the way I like.”
She felt his sudden quick warmth. Pickle pressed his body into hers, against the refrigerator, forcing her cheek to rub the gloss on the paper, the cool of the metal just behind it. He held her there, reached around and cupped her breasts in his hands.
With her cheek sticking to the paper, and unable to focus, Karen saw a blurred version of the McArdle trio. But a faint smudge appeared in the background she’d never noticed before. Now she recognized the silhouette—their mother.
Karen had received a call from their mother and traveled out to Queens, expecting to have a future mother/daughter-in-law discussion. But she had been wary because Mrs. McArdle had advised, “Come alone, dear. And don’t tell anyone.”
The entrance hallway of the apartment was impossibly dark and cluttered. Karen sidled past ceiling-high stacks of old newspapers and her shoes felt sticky on the worn carpet. She’d actually wondered if she’d stepped on chewing gum and checked the soles of her shoes, with her hand on the wall to keep her balance. No gum, but her fingers came away from the wallpaper oily from years of built-up cooking grease. She followed their mother into the living room and waited while she re-strapped the oxygen mask to her face. Four lamps were on, but the room remai
ned dim; drawn shades kept the daylight away. Karen sat on the sofa opposite their mother, who had slumped into a frayed recliner.
Shortly, after some generic niceties, their mother began to speak with a conspiratorial tone, as if between the best of friends. “I’ll get to the point. You’re a smart girl. You’ve been with Pickle for about a year now, and I see you like him.”
“Yes, Mrs. McArdle, I do. Though, I’d like you to know that I love him.”
“Well, I can see he loves you. But I’m not so sure about you.” She stopped to put the mask to her face and sucked in more air.
Karen’s armpits went damp. She knew to say nothing. It was another rule she’d learned from her own mother: don’t play until the opposition exposes their hand.
Their mother nodded at Karen and smiled with a smirk. “Okay. No response from you. Which I expected.”
Karen stilled herself and clasped her hands together, trying to direct all her nerves into her fingernails—an outgrowth which felt nothing. That was the best way to invite her mother for help: focus on the dead parts of her body.
Their mother continued in a voice strangely devoid of inflection. “I have a proposition for you. My son Stan, he likes you. I could see that at our little get-together a few weeks ago. He and Pickle look the same. So, that part will be easy. But Stan is special. I worry about him. Pickle? He can take care of himself. Always could. Stan, not so much. See where I’m going?” Their mother took another gulp.
Karen looked down at her skirt—vintage Carolina Herrera. The day of that gathering, when she and Pickle had finally introduced themselves as a couple to his family, Stan had complimented her on this same outfit. His attention to her clothing had surprised Karen. Later that night, as she and Pickle lay in bed, she’d found herself wondering if Pickle would ever notice what she wore, or more importantly, would he ever understand why she considered couture clothing an art form. Karen found herself feeling pleased that Stan had appreciated something she loved.
As Karen waited for their mother to continue to reveal her plan, she noticed that her palms had made indelible sweat marks on the silk fabric. The skirt was now destroyed and she’d have to throw it away.
“I have money for you.” Their mother stated it like the letter of the law—an inalienable truth.
Karen took in a quick gasp and their mother laughed.
“Don’t be so surprised. The boys don’t know about it. I won it in the lottery a year ago.” She pulled a savings passbook from her pocket and tossed it over to the sofa. The wafer-like pamphlet slipped down the back cushion and Karen picked it out with two fingers. She didn’t want to look at the amount, though two million was a lot more than she’d expected.
Karen felt a slight movement on the sofa and a small depression appeared next to her. She placed her hand on the cushion. It was hot to the touch. Karen’s insides began to shimmer with what felt like the thin gold flakes of a thousand prospectors. Her own mother’s presence pushed against her skin and then engulfed her body. When she felt the complete fullness, Karen then heard a lower-pitched voice emerge from her own throat.
“Just how do you think this might work?” Karen’s mother asked skeptically.
“It’s easy. You go to Stan and make him fall for you. You’re a smart cookie—you know how all that works. And Stan will go along. I know my son.” Their mother nodded with assurance.
Karen’s mother, a cold strategist, asked the obvious questions, however perfunctory. “But what about Pickle? I love him. He loves me. What about that?”
“Don’t worry about Pickle. He’ll get in line. I know my other son.”
Karen’s mother understood all about uncomfortable arrangements, and knew to bring the negotiation to a swift conclusion. “Okay, I’ll do it. But I want the money first. Once I have it, I’ll go to work.”
Their mother shrugged, as if unbothered by trifling details. “Why not? You’re a good little actress—you’ll do it just right.”
And then it was all over. Karen resumed possession of her own body, her shoulders settled down, and she realized she’d been holding her breath, even as her mother spoke from within her throat. The essence of the agreement disturbed Karen. But not enough. She was grateful that her mother showed up to give her the courage to tack strictly to rules that had been laid down when she was a child. This mother of hers, dead or alive—and she wasn’t sure which—was the only person in her life who’d ever shot straight.
Pickle’s hands made their way from Karen’s breasts to her waist and down her thighs. He dragged the hem of her skirt up and slipped his hand into her thong. The photo came loose and the black-and-white memory fluttered to the floor—a confused paper airplane.
“That day? It belongs on the floor. C’mon. Come to bed.” Pickle said, as he kissed the back of her head. He pulled away from Karen, grabbed the paper, crumpled it in his fist and tossed it over his shoulder.
“Not today. I’m not in the mood.”
“Your mood? This is a happy day. We should be celebrating, because I’ll be in the brownstone soon. We’ll be closer—right on top of each other, in fact.”
Karen stripped off her clothes and fell into bed with Pickle. The sun’s low-setting trajectory, pierced by the cables of the bridge, splayed prison bars across the walls.
16
PICKLE STOOD ACROSS THE STREET AS A CREW of demolition guys finished jiggering an enormous garbage receptacle into place directly in front of the brownstone. The bin occupied three car lengths of precious real estate and Pickle knew things were about to get ugly.
Alternate-side-of-the-street parking is a cruel ballet, danced twice a week according to NYC Sanitation schedules. Residents lucky enough to work at home can conceivably double-park on the opposite side, wait for the sanitation truck to sweep the empty side, and then quickly re-park in the spot they just vacated. Pickle glanced at his watch; that time had now arrived, and car owners flowed from their buildings like hungry cockroaches scurrying toward something delicious. The late stragglers soon realized they were without a parking space due to the offending receptacle.
Pickle looked away, trying to distance himself as the cause of the inconvenience.
He’d been standing there since eight a.m., waiting for the lights to flicker in the brownstone. Karen had called the night before; they’d have a start meeting in the morning after Patrick’s men and their gear were loaded inside. Pickle wanted his presence felt from the beginning of the renovation. After all, a building was being altered for him, and his life was also undergoing a seismic shift.
He downed the remainder of his cold coffee, crushed the cardboard cup, and threw it a few feet away into the gutter. Then, seeing the street sweeper approaching just down the block, he thought better of this, picked up the cup, and tossed it into a trash can on the corner. At the same time, he noticed a light pop on in the basement front room of the brownstone. Junie. Pickle gave her two minutes and then knocked on the door to the lower entrance.
Karen had installed planters at the outdoor vestibule, with all manner of spring flowers sprouting up and flowing down, surrounded by budding boxwoods and small blue spruces for year-round greenery. When Junie’s door swung open, the scene resembled a Fragonard painting straight out of the Frick Museum. Orangutan hair (and that, Pickle had finally decided, was the only word that did her mop justice) billowed around her shoulders. Her white cotton nightgown was deeply crinkled from the night in bed. Junie might as well have been pumping her legs on a rope-and-board swing in the middle of a Giverny meadow. The Doodles skulked behind her and then raced out to tinkle against one of the planter boxes.
“Doodles! Not here, buddy!” she reprimanded. “You know better.”
“He does, but doesn’t care—never has. And by the way, he prefers his formal title—The Doodles. You’ll get more out of him that way.” Pickle winked.
“I’m trying to teach him his Ps and Qs about pee-pee and poo-poo.”
“Good luck with that.”
They stepped inside. Darren, the Design Within Reach guy, had indeed delivered. Pickle stepped into a mid-century modern jewel. The old bones of the brownstone provided a timeless envelope for the furniture’s clean, crisp lines, in dusky taupe with a touch of navy blue here and there. Even the artwork on the walls, some of it culled from the upper floor, no doubt (and probably released only after huge resistance from Stan), held the space together with a seamless fusion of styles.
As they stood in the front room, Pickle nodded with admiration. “My God, this place has changed. Karen really knows her stuff. Is it comfortable for you?”
“Yeah, it’s wonderful. She went out over the weekend and bought everything I’d need. I’ve never lived in a place so perfectly suited to, well, me. Speaking of high-end appliances, do you want an espresso?”
Pickle was massively caffeinated at this point, but stifled a burp and accepted. Junie grabbed a robe and dug her arms into the sleeves. As she tugged her hair out from the back of the robe, she beckoned to him to come into the middle room. She machine-pressed espresso into two demitasse cups. Pickle helped himself to a teaspoon of sugar and opened the half fridge to see if she had milk—only cream. Stan considered milk to be degraded cream and would never tolerate anything remotely watery in his house. He topped his espresso off with a dollop and they settled onto Plexiglas counter-height stools.
Pickle immediately felt intrusive, out of place, and rushed ahead with an explanation as to why he was even there. “They’re starting the renovation today.”
“Yup, Karen told me. Are you excited?”
“I am. But nervous, too. I’ve lived in my apartment for so many years.”
“Where do you live?”
“The Bridge Apartments.”
“That’s a weird name,” she commented.
“They’re the apartments that stand right at the New York side of the George Washington Bridge.”
“Oh—” Junie looked down at the mention of the bridge.
Pickle’s Progress Page 11