He handed Jenny a piece of paper. The couple thanked him and walked out.
The man poured himself a coffee. “Sorry for the delay, Stan. Is Karen here?”
Pickle shook his head.
“Okay, well I got those new slabs of Blue Bahia she called about last week. Wanna see ’em?”
Pickle nodded.
They walked into the factory toward the far side of the building where the loading docks were located. As they continued single file along the stone tunnels, Marcel spoke easily about the ongoing projects for the firm.
“I didn’t wanna bury ’em just yet, ’cause I knew she’d wanna see ’em straight off. But Stan, it’s nice to see you here for a change. It’s been a while.”
They’d finally reached the slabs he wanted to show Stan—gorgeous swirling blue slices.
“You wanna see the ones behind? They’re bookends, or identical, for the most part. I can call Rocco over and he can pull ’em easy enough.”
“Not yet. Give me a few minutes.”
“Sure, Stan, sure. Rocco’s just over there. Give him a whistle when you’re ready. Okay then.” Marcel backed away.
Pickle faced the stones and tried to imagine what it would be like to know which one was the best. They all looked the same to him. Who was to say that this one was prettier than that one? And who decided that, say, plain black granite was less valuable than these swirly blue ones, which he assumed were pricey. Who the hell got to decide all this, especially when things were, as Marcel described, identical? Because if he looked very closely, they weren’t. Not really. Pickle decided right there, that this stone business was a huge scam, based on false advertising. If he were on duty, if he hadn’t taken time off, he’d arrest every person in the building.
Pickle meandered through the tunnels, dragging his fingers over the surface of each stone as he passed by. They felt much colder than the air temperature and he wondered why stone didn’t adapt on its own. Stone was cold-blooded, even lifeless, he concluded.
Eventually he came to the opposite corner of the building. Carrera marble loomed above him by a foot or two. He leaned into the slab with his entire body, thinking that he might have some power over this impenetrable chilled solid. He turned his head and pressed his cheek against the cool of the dusty, veined surface and waited for it to take on his heat. When the stone finally succumbed to the warmth of his skin, he then remembered that this was the exact spot where he’d met Karen.
That day he’d come to give his mother her lottery ticket. He knew she played weekly as part of a pool with people who worked with her. It was a high point of her week, as is the case with many who have no money to speak of. What—were a few bucks going to break the bank? Probably not. When Pickle saw what a thrill she got when the numbers were revealed, regardless of whether she won or not, he began playing single tickets for her. Being connected to her around the potential of an exciting possibility was his purpose; she might even anticipate his company each week. So, once a week he’d travel out to the stone yard, after first stopping at the bodega to purchase the ticket. If she ever did hit, she wouldn’t have to split it with the group—it would be hers alone. Pickle imagined this as their late-in-life bond.
On that particular day, his mother wasn’t in the office. She was out showing a designer some slabs—an exciting thing for her, he knew. Pickle wandered through, trying to find her. He eventually heard her voice over the top of some stones, as she described a slab and discussed cost.
“Well, this one is less money. About twenty percent less.”
“And this one?” The woman pointed to another lot.
“I’m not sure. That just came in. I’ll have to find out from Billy.”
She turned to see Pickle observing her and stammered a bit. “Oh! Pickle. Ah, Karen, this is my son. He’s a cop. Well, I’ll go check on this one for you with Billy.”
“That’d be great, Mrs. McArdle. Thanks.”
His mother walked away, and Karen extended her hand. They shook.
“She’s sweet, your mother.”
“Yeah, but I don’t think she knows a hell of a lot about granite.”
“Oh, she does okay. I’m just browsing for a client today. Your mom’s doing fine.”
Karen smiled and he felt bashful. Pickle was rarely shy. That was Stan.
“So, you’re a police officer?”
“Yup.”
“That must be interesting.”
“It has its moments, as they say. What about you? I assume you’re an architect?”
“No, I’m an interior designer. A step below an architect. As they say.”
She was beautiful. A stunner.
“Well, I’m just here delivering her lottery ticket. I’d better give it to her before I forget. It was nice to meet you …”
“Karen Wells.”
“Miss Wells, then.”
He began to walk away but stopped, surprised by her next words. “There’s a great Italian coffee shop across the street. I could use a cup. Care to join me?”
Pickle, momentarily confused, hesitated. His mother was returning so he rushed ahead; he didn’t want her in on the exchange. “Sure. Why not? But, why don’t I meet you out front? You go ahead and finish up with my mom.”
Pickle walked toward his mother, shoved the lottery ticket into her hand, and headed for the exit.
“Thanks, Pickle. See you next week?” his mother called to his back.
“Sure, Mom. Next week.”
They fell in love. Karen, very hard and fast. Pickle, a bit slower, more tentative, but eventually just as deeply. It was the best thing that had ever happened to him, but he knew, not in a million years, would it last. He didn’t dare tell his mother. Or Stan.
Pickle jumped as Marcel approached him with a clipboard and pen. “Anything, Stan?”
Pickle didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I’ll take all ten slabs over there. The blue ones.”
“Okay. The Blue Bahia. A fifty percent deposit on those alright?”
“No, go ahead and charge it all. You’ve got the credit card number, right?”
“We sure do.”
“Good. Karen’ll call you with the details.”
“Sure, Stan, Sure. Not a problem.”
Pickle walked out with the same display of authority Stan would deliver. He started up the car and eventually pulled onto Queens Boulevard, back toward the city. There was the White Castle, and, hungry, he pulled into the parking lot and sat for a while. The last time he’d been here was, also, the day he’d met Karen. They’d had coffee across the street from the granite yard and made plans for a proper first date. Then he’d stopped at the drive-in section of the White Castle to get a hamburger for the trip home. By the time he’d reached the Apartments, Pickle was feverish and ill with food poisoning. He couldn’t work for the next couple of days.
Pickle pulled out his cell and called Lance.
“What,” Lance snapped.
“I’m in Queens. Near you.”
“Yeah?” Lance sounded dubious.
“Yeah.”
“You wanna come over? Debbie’s cooking something. You could stay for the meal.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Okay …”
Lance’s voice was becoming drowned out by background music playing on his end. The volume suddenly surged into the phone, the tune from a memory Pickle couldn’t quite locate.
“Lance, what’s that music?”
“Fuck. The kids’ve been binging on The Wizard of Oz all morning. It’s the poppy song. They love it for some reason.” Lance muffled the phone and Pickle heard him scream, “Kids! Turn it down.”
“Lance, wait. Don’t turn it down, I wanna hear it. What’s the poppy song? Which one is that?”
“You know. Dorothy’s asleep in the poppy fields, then the snow falls to wake her up, and the little people sing that song. ‘Out of the forest. Out of the thickets. Into the sunshine’ … or some such shit.”
“Is it on the tube? Or vi
deo?”
“Video. They’re addicted. This’ll go on all weekend. I’m going crazy… I don’t believe in the good witch anymore. Neither does Debbie.”
“Wind it back. I wanna hear that song.”
“Where are you? You don’t sound good. I’m comin’ to get you.”
“No. No, I’m okay. Just do it.”
Pickle heard Lance drop the phone on the table. “Brittany! Go back to the poppy song. Uncle Pickle wants to hear it.”
Lance came back on. “I’m putting the phone close, okay? Can you hear it now?”
Pickle set his phone on speaker and, closing his eyes, slumped further down into the seat as the poppy song filled the car. Voices floated, the pitch too high to be reasonable, and he almost wanted to hang up. But he listened.
Shortly after they’d fallen in love, he and Karen had channel surfed late one evening and happened upon the beginning of The Wizard of Oz on TCM. He was embarrassed to admit that he’d never seen it before; his childhood had not included such rites of passage. As they watched the credits roll at the end, Karen was weepy from what he saw as a stock Hollywood ending. Home was not worth crying over as far as he was concerned. Pickle told her he considered the little people his favorite part of the movie because they represented the best part of humanity. Whenever they sang, danger, or any sense of gloom, was swept away, if only temporarily. This was a humble notion, yet optimistic, he’d explained. Karen found this hilarious, and accused Pickle of being naive. She laughed longer than he’d liked.
“Pickle. The song’s over. Are you there?” Lance asked.
Pickle thought about the granite slabs and how confounding the whole place had been. So many pieces of stone. They were, he had to admit now, as good as identical. But for some reason, after being scrutinized, one was chosen as special. The perfect one. And what was he doing at the White Castle, anyway? In Queens.
“Yeah. I’m here,” Pickle mumbled.
“Fuck, Pickle. You know I can track you …”
“No, Lance. I’m okay. It’s just this: who gets to decide what’s good and what’s bad?”
“What do you mean—good and bad?”
“You know—if things are almost the same and you have to make a decision, then how? How do you decide?”
Lance sighed audibly. “The first choice is usually the right one. You just go with your gut.”
“Right.”
“Does that help?”
“Yeah. It does. I’m good now.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“I’m goin’ back home.”
Pickle decided to go ahead and have a meal at the White Castle. Odds that the food would make him sick again were remote.
23
THE AFTERNOON SKY TURNED DARK WITH threatening rain clouds, and a slight ache hovered at the back of Pickle’s head. He turned over, reached for the Excedrin he kept on the bedside table, and forced down two pills without water. His cell phone lay buried somewhere beneath the covers. Rooting around under the sheets, his big toe finally hit something hard and he dragged it up with his foot. No calls. No texts.
He traced the outline of the phone with his fingertip and noticed his blackened palms. He’d not showered since the trip to Queens the day before. Throwing back the sheets, he surveyed his torso and saw that stone silt had abraded much of his chest during the night. His skin was red and almost blistered in certain areas. But then he remembered dreams where he was swimming in thick volcanic pits, his body flailing around as he tried, unsuccessfully, to drag himself out. He’d wake, only to vaguely sense the sores on his body, before slipping back into the muddy sinkholes of dreams.
Rising up, he headed for a soapy, stinging shower and then gingerly blotted his body dry. He scrambled and ate some eggs, stripped and remade the bed, and dressed in new trousers and a pressed shirt. Clouds finally released a horizontal rain pelting his window as he waited for Karen to arrive at four.
The brownstone had a seldom-used landline on Junie’s floor, installed for emergencies in case the cells didn’t work. Sitting on the edge of his bed at three thirty, Pickle dialed the number. No one picked up—not a surprise. But he doggedly persisted, and on the fourth try, after letting the phone ring at least ten times, Junie answered with a tentative, “Hello?”
“Junie?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Pickle. I had no other way to get in touch, so I hoped you’d pick up.”
“Oh. When it kept ringing I thought it might be some emergency, and Stan is out with The Doodles.”
“Karen’s not there?”
“No, she left for the office a couple of hours ago. I think they have some new project starting.”
“Oh. Well, that’s good—I mean about the project.”
“I guess …”
Pickle coughed and checked his cuticles. He pulled breath spray out of his pocket, considered a spritz, then threw it across the room; they were on the phone.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Good, I guess.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah …”
“Well, the reason I’m asking is that you were upset after the museum and I wanted to check in on you.”
“Right. Um, I’m doing better.”
“That’s good.”
After a few moments, he heard her sigh. “Look, Pickle. What you told me? Don’t feel bad. It was really hard to listen to, but I needed to hear the truth. At least now I know.”
He closed his eyes and smiled. “Well, I am sorry. It had to be a shock, the way Jacob was and all.”
“Yeah, that’s for sure. But let’s drop it.”
Pickle was relieved to get that preamble tucked away. “So, how’s it going over there?”
“Well, they’ve been working upstairs, if that’s what you mean. It’s nice to have the activity around. Anyway, the noise keeps me from sleeping so much.”
Pickle heard her yawn and he laughed. “Are you tired now?”
She giggled, “I guess so—must be!”
“Listen, Junie, I wanted to know if you’d like to take in a show and maybe dinner after? On Wednesday—a matinee? Do you like Broadway shows? Do you even want to go?”
“That’s really nice of you, Pickle. I haven’t been to many, but yes, I think I would like that.”
Pickle looked at his watch: 3:50. Karen would arrive in ten minutes; she was always terrifyingly prompt, usually within a few seconds.
“Look, I have to go now. I’m at work and need to take care of some stuff. But how about I pick you up at the brownstone at twelve thirty on Wednesday?”
“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll be ready.”
“Okay, see you then.”
Pickle lay back on the bed. His erection pushed up against his zipper and he stuck his hand down his pants to rub his crotch. Shivering, an erotic surge ran through his body. He had only six minutes remaining until Karen walked through the door, so he raced to the bathroom, dropped his drawers and began to masturbate into the sink. His knees buckled, and he held onto the sink edge with both hands to steady himself; it was pure and also painful, just the way he wanted. He inhaled his own sex odor and stifled a groan. Then he heard Karen’s key in the door, turning over the cylinder. The door clicked shut and her heels pecked across the floor. He wiped his hands on a towel, pulled his pants up and walked out to see her sitting primly on the bed.
“Hi, baby,” he said.
Pickle sat beside Karen and simultaneously pushed her back onto the bed. They lay face to face. He caressed her neck and dragged his fingers along the half-moon of her waist.
“I love you,” Karen said.
Pickle took her face in both hands and smoothed her hair back with his palms. “I missed you. Tell me you missed me, too.”
“I have.”
“That’s good. I like that. You’re so beautiful, Karen. I know you don’t like to hear it, but sometimes I need to tell you. Understand?”
“Of course. And today it feels fine.” She h
esitated. “But Pickle?”
“Hmmm?” He licked her neck, travelling up to suck on her earlobe, which always made her shiver.
Karen wiped off his saliva. “What’s been happening with us?”
Pickle stuck his fingers into her waistband and tugged her closer. “What do you mean? Everything’s fine now. You said you wanted to end it … but you really don’t. Right?”
“Yes, I was crazy that night. But things are different now, don’t you think?”
“How? Nothing’s changed. As far as I’m concerned, anyway,” Pickle said as he ran his hands over her body.
“How can you say that?”
He stopped his movement mid-motion and looked at her from an angle, puzzled. “Karen. What the fuck are you talking about?”
“The brownstone. Do you actually expect us to continue if you’re living upstairs?”
“Not this again. I’m not worried. It’ll work out.”
“How? It’s just too risky. Don’t you think we should hold up on the renovation?”
“Nope. Trust me on this. Nothing will change.”
They stared at each other until Pickle broke into a smile. “Okay. That’s settled then.”
“Not really. But that’s not all.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. What?”
“Well, there’s Junie …”
“What about her?”
“Don’t be obtuse.”
He propped his head against his hand and frowned. “That’s not very nice. Why do you want to spoil things by calling me obtuse?”
She backed up on the bed, gaining about a foot in distance. “Aren’t you falling in love with her?”
“I’m not sure—it’s very early.”
“Well, that’s what I’m talking about. If you’re going to get involved with Junie, it changes things.”
“Why?” he asked, flat.
“Now you are being obtuse.”
“How so?” Pickle’s face remained impassive—not a twitch.
She abruptly sat up. “It would change everything.”
“Karen, I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Are you telling me that if I get involved with Junie—if I fall for her—then you and I can’t continue? That just doesn’t make a whit of sense.”
Pickle’s Progress Page 16