Pickle’s Progress

by Marcia Butler

  Karen got off the bed, walked over to the chair at the table and sat down with a thump. “You’re tricking me.”

  “No. You brought this up. You obviously want something from me—some kind of agreement. What that is, I have a pretty good idea. But you’re going to have to make a very good case for it. So, spell it out, Karen. And you’d better give me reasons that, first, I can understand and, second, are fair and equitable.”

  “You make it sound like mergers and acquisitions.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Fuck you. I just told you I love you.”

  “And I—you.”

  “It wasn’t the same.”

  “Oh? How?”

  “You have to say it. I. Love. You. Karen … Just like that.”

  “Now you’re trying to control my colloquial phrasing. Jesus motherfuckingchrist.” Pickle shook his head in disgust and looked out the window. Water drenched the glass behind Karen’s head, sluicing hard, unrelenting. He decided to forget that he loved her—for a few minutes, anyway. “Do me a favor. Go into the bathroom.”

  “Why?” she asked, suspicious.

  “Just do it. I’ll go with you, if that helps. I’m gonna make this easy for you because I can see this could go on for hours.”

  Pickle pulled Karen to her feet and kissed the top of her head, then led her to the bathroom by the hand. He switched on the light as they stood side by side in front of the sink.

  She looked up at him, uncertain. “This is scary.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about. You’ve been in here before—about a trillion times, actually. Now. Look down into the sink. What do you see?”

  She peered down. “What?”

  “Look closer.”

  The sink, original to the building, was the old Pepto-Bismol-colored porcelain of the 1960s. She leaned over to look, then quickly stepped back, hitting the wall. “No.”

  “Yes. Now tell me what you smell.” He pulled her face into his chest; she inhaled.

  “You bastard. Did you just have sex with someone? Somebody was in this apartment! I can smell it. I know that smell.”

  “No one was here—nothing nearly so gamey. I just had phone sex. With Junie. And she fuckin’ loved it.”

  Karen shoved him away, ran out of the bathroom and sat on the opposite side of the bed with her back to him, her chin bowed to her chest. Pickle climbed onto the bed and scooted up behind her. He tapped her on the shoulder and she pushed his hand away.

  “Why do you always put me in this position? Of being a bastard, as you so eloquently called me a minute ago?”

  “You are a bastard.”

  “I’m not—not really. But let’s recap. For old time’s sake?”

  Karen’s head slunk further into her shoulders. She teetered over with a plop, lying with her back to him.

  Pickle’s voice took on a monotone quality, on a cusp of loving her and hating her. That was the devil that lived inside of the truth: he was rarely nice and almost never soothed. But every once in a while, heaven and hell looked, and felt, exactly the same.

  “I was your love. And you were mine. Truly, you were. And, let’s be honest, the sex has always been unreal—like no other. It still is, Karen.”

  She turned over and looked at him, her eyes bone dry. Pickle’s voice caught on his next words. “Then you went and fucking married my twin brother.”

  He cleared the phlegm from his throat; his voice dropped, low to the floor. “So, you call me a bastard on occasion. And each and every time you do, we need to have a little history lesson to remind you of what a deceptive bitch you are. You said it didn’t matter that he looked the same. But it turns out, you were attracted to him. You say you still love me. And somehow, God help me, I believe that.”

  Pickle rolled to his back, closed his eyes, and took her hand.

  “About Junie? It’s simple. I may want her. I’m not sure. But whatever happens, I will move into that house. As long I get that, everything’s gonna be okay. I think I deserve it.”

  Pickle grabbed her torso and yanked her toward the musk of his damp shirt. Karen rubbed her face into his chest and lifted her chin to him. She smiled, then closed her eyes. Pickle shook her shoulders. “Karen?”

  Her eyes fluttered open.

  “The phone sex. It was Candice from Property. Not Junie.” He wasn’t completely heartless.

  Her face turned hopeful and she wrapped her arms and legs around him. They rocked each other for what felt like a long time. But each time she began to remove her clothes, Pickle stopped her, because he imagined that resisting sex now was an indication of a new understanding in their relationship. Maybe even a maturity, whatever that was. He knew the notion was a sound bite, of course. But at that moment, it was all he could think of to keep his heart from feeling too much.

  24

  KAREN WALKED ACROSS CENTRAL PARK TO THE East Side and then meandered downtown, letting the traffic lights pull her southward. She timed the pace of her gait according to the countdowns on each pedestrian walk signal. Some allowed her thirty seconds, some only ten. It felt good to give up control for the moment and let the relentlessly receding numbers dictate whether to hurry up or slow down. She was late for work and didn’t much care.

  Entering her office via the back hallway, Karen tossed her coat on the loveseat. It promptly slipped to the floor and she kicked it under the furniture. She was exhausted, feeling pulled apart by a million emotions, but had to get herself back on track. Work had always provided structure to her life; the jobs substituted for a pretense of normalcy. Building out and designing spaces was, and always had been, relatively simple. Living her life felt like a death-defying feat.

  She perused her desk, spilling over with stacks of orders, invoices, paint chips, wood samples: the minutiae of the business. Lying right on top was the new Kinsey project—and next to that, the brownstone drawings for Pickle’s renovation. She pulled out her cell.

  “Patrick? You’ve pushed the plumber back?”

  “Done.”

  “Great. And how many guys on-site today?”

  “Two.”

  “Perfect. I’ll call a site meeting for Friday. You, me, and Pickle.”

  “Whatever.”

  She hung up, satisfied with this bit of bother off her list, when Suzie stuck her head in the door. Suzie, third in line at the firm, worked exclusively in the office and handled every detail, from proposals and orders to invoicing. Able to visualize multiple construction spreadsheets simultaneously in her head, her knack for numbers rivaled Stan’s, a fact he was loath to acknowledge.

  “Karen? Busy?”

  “C’mon in, Suzie. How was your weekend? Good?”

  Suzie perched primly on the loveseat. “Good enough, I suppose. But listen—I just had a credit card purchase come through from Greco Granite for about sixty grand. I looked through all the projects and there’s nothing about this much stone being specified, or even proposed. Then I looked at the date and saw it was run through on Saturday. I thought it was a fraud, so I called Marcel and he said Stan had been in Saturday morning and purchased ten slabs of Blue Bahia. That’s a shitload of money to front for a client, Karen. And which client? Tell me what to do.”

  Karen quickly reviewed the weekend in her mind. They’d both slept late on Saturday. Gloria came in at noon to work with Stan on the sweater project in the bedroom, while Karen binged on Dallas episodes in the living room. Stan hadn’t left the brownstone all day. Pickle.

  She looked around the room for a few seconds, avoiding Suzie’s stare, trying to figure out how to manage this. “I’m sure it’s either a misunderstanding or something I just don’t know about. I’ll check with Stan. But hang tight for now.”

  When Suzie left, Karen locked her office door and called the stone yard. “Jenny, get me Marcel. It’s Karen McArdle.”

  “Oh, hi, Karen. Sure, just a sec.”

  While she waited, Karen perused her bookshelves, housing hundreds of design tomes collected throughout
her years of work. Three books butted out on the top shelf, not lined up with the others. She knew a flask of vodka was nestled behind for emergencies like this. She placed the phone on speaker and dragged a chair over from her desk. Standing on the chair, she ran her fingers across the weathered spines and over the protrusion the flask created. The bump felt important.

  Marcel’s voice popped into the room. “Karen? Suzie just called a half hour ago. I explained. Stan bought the slabs … That’s what you’re calling about, right? Karen?”

  She jumped down and grabbed the phone. “Yes, but that’s not the problem, Marcel. The stone is for my brownstone—not McArdle. It shouldn’t have gone through the business account. I want you to refund the firm immediately. I’ll give you my personal card. Sorry about the mix-up—Stan’s just not aware of these purchasing details.”

  “Sure. Jenny’ll take care of it. When’ll you get the drawings to me? Is it a kitchen? Bathrooms? That’s a heck of a lot of stone—”

  “Hold the stones for the time being. We’re not ready for fabrication yet.”

  “Okay. But Karen, is Stan okay?”

  Karen, startled, pressed the phone closer to her ear. “What? What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s not for me to say; I haven’t seen Stan for some time. But he seemed kind of quiet—more than usual. Hardly said a word, in fact. I thought he might be sick. And the other thing is that his hands were dirty, really filthy. In fact, he had dirt all over his clothes—his face, too. And I thought—that’s not Stan. Not the Stan I know, anyway. It’s none of my business, of course. I just thought you’d wanna know.”

  Karen waited for her heart to stop pounding. “Thanks, Marcel. Everything’s fine. He was under the weather, is all. Can I have Jenny now?”

  After she’d finished with the details of the exchange, Karen climbed back onto the chair and watched her hand slide the vodka out from its hiding place. The flask felt brittle to her touch, neglected. She rubbed the silver around in her hands, then nudged the flask into the hollow of her cheek and inhaled the tarnished odor. She flinched from the musty smell. It reminded her of Pickle’s words from the night before—a good friend who tells you the awful truth, when what you really wanted was the lie you’d rather live with. But you asked.

  The twist cap was stuck shut. Could vodka do that to metal? Get all gummed up? She gripped hard and finally cracked the congealed-alcohol seal. Karen wiped the rim off with a Kleenex and drew her head back. Her lips opened, ready to accept the perfect antidote for her poisoned life. But nothing flowed from the flask. There were no balms, nor any comfort. And no booze. The flask was bone dry and she was deeply empty.

  Karen lay down on the loveseat, pulled the coat from underneath, and threw it on top of herself. She cradled the flask, like a hungry infant, in the crook of her elbow.

  25

  PICKLE SIDESTEPPED SACKS OF CEMENT AND tubs of compound. Layers of Sheetrock lined the hallway on both sides, stopping just short of the plastic barrier that divided the work area from Karen and Stan’s living quarters. The brownstone was quiet, eerily so. His adrenalin picked up as he climbed the stairs two at a time to find one guy sitting on the floor, reading El Diario. A radio, set to a Spanish station, softly pulsed an up-tempo salsa. Well, it was almost twelve thirty—lunch hour for most civilians.

  Open windows allowed a strong breeze to waft front to back, and Pickle shivered from a chill. He looked around the space and the word “wow” came to his mind. Every room partition had been leveled. Silver BX electrical cables snaked through the gaps between vertical metal studs. This really seemed to be happening. In just a few weeks he’d be living literally on top of Karen. And Stan and Junie. The quiet, though, unnerved him. But what did he know about construction? Maybe they were all out at the local pizza joint.

  A tall, balding man loped down the stairs from the upper floor. “Oh, hi, Stan. Just starting upstairs now with the wiring.”

  Pickle bristled. “I’m not Stan; I’m the other owner, Pickle McArdle. Stan’s brother.”

  “Oh. Got it.” The man, with an Irish accent, recovered admirably.

  “You’re the electrician?”

  “Yeah, I’m Brendan. I work on Patrick’s jobs.”

  They shook, after which Pickle clapped his hands to rid himself of dust. He’d dressed with care that morning in anticipation of his date with Junie, set to begin in a few minutes.

  Brendan smiled and brushed off Pickle’s coat sleeve. “Sorry about that, I was just about to wash up for lunch.”

  Pickle ignored the niceties. “What’s going on here? Where is everybody?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean. We’re here—José and me—stringin’ the electrical.”

  He pointed to the guy, now lying on his back, talking on his cell phone, repeating, “Mi amor, mi amor, mi amor.”

  “No one else? Where’s the crew? Where’s the plumber?”

  Brendan backed up a few steps. “Mr. McArdle, I’m not in charge of the scheduling, so I have no idea. I’ve not seen anyone else since I’ve been on the job. I don’t think the plumber has started, but I could be wrong. You’d best speak with Patrick. Or Karen.”

  Pickle shook his head in disgust and pointed to the guy on the floor. “Shut him up, for Christ’s sake. Mi amor? What the fuck!”

  A few uncomfortable moments passed before Brendan continued. “Well, I came down to take my lunch, like I said.”

  “Right, you go ahead. I’ll take a look around.”

  Brendan dragged José up by the hand and they left. Pickle fumed. No workers? No plumber? He punched in Karen’s number and then immediately hung up because Junie was calling him from the lowest level.

  “Pickle! Is that you?” she shouted.

  “Yeah, it’s me! Stay there. I’ll be down in a minute. I have to make a phone call.”

  He took the stairs two at a time and by the time he reached the top floor, Pickle was furious. What kind of fool did Karen take him for? Pickle, chagrined, remembered the excitement he’d felt when Karen and Stan had presented his floor plans shortly after they’d purchased. It was a formal affair; they’d all gathered at a table in their office as Karen spread the rolled drawings out in front of him. Then, over the course of an hour, Stan and Karen had explained their vision. Suzie took notes. He’d felt like one of their special clients being given the royal treatment. And the design was perfect: An enormous master bedroom with a luxurious bath/spa, complete with a claw-foot soaking tub, separate shower, and his-and-hers sinks. Light flooding down from three skylights above. Walk-in closets lining the back of the building. Built-in bookcases on the bed wall. They even seemed eager to please him. What a joke, he thought.

  He braced himself against a grimy brick common wall and tried to regulate his breath—in and out. Then, staggering to the back of the building, he looked out onto the backyard garden. The buildings across the way were completely suffocated with ivy, and then he noticed some movement. Junie was outside with The Doodles, who was sniffing every last bush before he deigned to pee.

  He punched Karen’s number again. It went immediately to voice mail. “Karen. I’m in the brownstone and I have to say, the progress is amazing. And the place is buzzing with workers—ten, maybe fifteen, no, twenty guys all swinging their hammers. And the plumber. What a lovely guy! I couldn’t be happier. Junie and I are off to a show and dinner.” Pickle shoved the phone into his back pocket. Let her stew.

  He skipped down the stairs and found Junie sitting outside on the front steps of the brownstone. She wore the exact same outfit as the day he’d met her at the Frick: black and purple against her orange hair.

  Pickle studied her. “Jesus. You don’t have any clothes.”

  She let out a weak laugh. “I know. But Karen’s going to take me shopping soon. She’s got incredible taste.”

  “Right.” Pickle stared at the ground, blinking hard. The day was overcast, dreary, and he continued to feel a vague unease, as if he was on the verge of a bad flu. His vision
was compromised—nothing came into complete focus, and his back ached. He’d purchased tickets to a play at Circle in the Square, but now wondered whether he could sit in a theatre for three hours.

  “What’s wrong, Pickle? You look sad all of a sudden. Don’t you want to go? We don’t have to, you know.”

  “I’m sorry, but I guess I don’t. I wanted to see you, but right now I don’t feel up to sitting through a play.”

  Junie pressed her hand to his forehead. “You’re clammy and slightly hot, maybe feverish. Come inside. I’ll get you some aspirin.”

  She led him into her lower floor and sat him down on the deep sofa from Design Within Reach. When she went to the bathroom for aspirin, Pickle bent down to untie his shoes and kicked them away. He arranged the pillows, tossed a throw over himself, and lay down. The Doodles, who was snoozing in the corner of the room, perked up, wagged his tail, then jumped up on the sofa to nestle onto Pickle’s feet.

  Junie returned with a glass of water and two tablets.

  “Take these.”

  “Thanks. I just want to lie here for a while.”

  “Don’t worry. We’re not on any schedule.”

  Pickle swallowed the aspirin, then sank back into the pillows. Junie pulled over a club chair and sat down. She took his hand—letting it rest in hers. Pickle noticed her fingernails were bitten to the quick, the cuticles bloody. She withdrew her hand and balled her fists. They exchanged an uncomfortable glance, as if each was acknowledging the other’s private failings, and Pickle sensed for the first time that they might have more in common than he’d imagined.

  Light from the windows glowed behind her head, causing that lunar aureole he’d seen on the South Sidewalk. He couldn’t quite make out her face, though the fuzz of her hair was enough. This gauziness seemed to relax him, and as his eyelids eventually began to droop, his breathing slowed, too.

  Junie shifted to get up, and he started forward. “No. Please stay. I don’t wanna be alone right now.”

  “Okay, Pickle. I know that feeling.”