“Don’t remind me.”
“Oh. Now it comes out. You fucking snob.”
“I’m not a snob, but you’re threatening me. That’s what cops do.”
“I haven’t threatened you. The gun sits on the table. I haven’t beaten you up—though God knows I could still be provoked. I’ve only asked for an answer. A reason. And you’ve given me nothing. Wait. Correction. You’ve shown me that you’re a conniving, cold-blooded bitch. I suppose that’s your answer.”
“I suppose it is.”
“Are you?”
“What?”
“A cold-blooded bitch?”
She looked down at the floor, then lifted only her eyes and he expected them to land on his face. Instead she looked at the ceiling, toward a corner of the room, without moving her head. A trick he’d never seen before.
“Yes, Pickle. I’m a cold-blooded bitch.” Her voice was lower than normal.
He leaned over and took the gun off the table, tossing it up and down in his right hand, like a baseball he might casually throw to a son.
“Get undressed.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Don’t worry—it’ll be a quickie. I’m good at those, remember?”
She got up and started toward the front door. Pickle grabbed her arm and jerked her close to his body. She didn’t wince. In fact, her face was devoid of any expression and it unnerved him. He squeezed her arm, hard, just to get some kind of juice out of her. Karen bit her lip but gave no other indication of pain. He hated her for a self-control she’d never exhibited before. Who was this woman?
“Think, Karen. This can be over in eight minutes or eighty. Your call. But it’s gonna happen.”
He reached toward her neck to unbutton her blouse and she pushed his hand away. “I’ll do it.” The voice, from the bottom of a canyon.
“That’s better.” Pickle holstered his gun, sat on the sofa and watched her.
She stepped out of her shoes, dropped her skirt to the floor, slipped off her blouse, unsnapped her bra and wiggled out of her underpants. Naked, she quickly straddled him. She closed her eyes and her fingers stroked his face in a perfunctory way. He noticed her eyeballs do something strange behind the lids—rising up into her brain. He shook her shoulders but it had no effect on her. Still, his erection pushed forward with an urgency he wasn’t expecting.
“I hate that you can do this to me.” Pickle pushed Karen off his lap and walked to the door. She stood naked in front of the window, hands on her hips, as if she were posing—a willing participant for a voyeur across the street. Her eyes, trained on him, almost frightened Pickle.
“Who do you see, Karen? Am I Pickle or Stan? I know you can tell the difference. Not many people can.”
He closed the door quietly behind him.
Entering the elevator, he punched the lobby button, and, riding down, instinctively kept his head out of the aim of the camera. It easily could have been awful, after all.
As he approached his car he saw Stan sitting in the front passenger seat with sunglasses on. Pickle let himself in, turned to his brother, removed the sunglasses and tossed them on the dashboard. “Stan. Look at me.”
Stan covered his eyes. “I can’t.”
Pickle pulled his brother’s hands away from his face. “I’m in hell right now, but I’ll get over it. Let’s get you home.”
Stan sank back into the corner of the seat. Pickle pulled out onto the street.
Their mother died the next day. The wedding was two weeks later. Seven days post-nuptials, Karen was back in Pickle’s bed.
As he stood in front of Karen’s old building, staring at her window, he texted her.
Can’t meet u tonight c u at brownstone in a m
Pickle powered down his phone and walked the city. He had all the time the darkness would give him.
30
KAREN STARED AT THE CORNER OF THE CEILING in her office. She lay on the loveseat with her legs over the back and her head dangling down, hair brushing the floor. She tried to recall the last time she was happy. Nothing came to mind, at least not in recent memory. Pickle’s text, cancelling their date for that evening, had just come through on her cell. The phone now lay at the bottom of her trash basket, thrown there in a fit of despair.
And she’d prepared so carefully. First, by telling Stan she’d do an overnighter at the office to get on top of a backlog of work. That was easy. Then, she’d frittered away the afternoon ruminating on talking points for how she and Pickle might get all their confounding relationship details ironed out. A challenge, but not impossible. Finally, she’d donned a fire-engine red D&G blouse. As requested. All the while, she’d tried to avoid her bookcase and the top shelf at the ceiling. The flask, and the deadening effect the liquid would surely provide. Of course, she knew it was empty, but the fantasy felt like the most realistic thing she knew at this moment. Because now she wouldn’t be going to Pickle’s and she didn’t want to go home. Work was out of the question. She might as well drink. Or dream.
Karen righted her body to a supine position and blood stopped pulsing to her brain. She tucked the wool throw under her chin, hoping the warmth would make her drowsy. When her eyes wouldn’t cooperate by closing, or even look away from the flask stuck on the shelf, Karen reached down, picked up one of her kitten heels off the floor, and gave herself a few well-placed whacks on her skull. The pain of the welts screamed louder than the urge to guzzle, just like the backyard dirt she’d been shoveling down her throat most evenings.
She heaved her shoe across the room into the wall common to Suzie’s office, leaving one more divot among the dozens that had accumulated over the last few days. In just a few seconds, she heard footsteps race up, and then a banging on her door.
“Jesus, Karen. Will you open up already? It’s after seven and I’m worried … you’ve been locked in there for hours,” Suzie implored.
Karen got up, grabbed her purse, and dug her phone out of the trash. She opened the door and strode past Suzie. “Fix everything,” she ordered.
“What do you mean? Karen!” Suzie yelled into her back.
Karen left the Lipstick Building and hailed a cab on First Avenue. Around the corner from the Apartments, she hit a liquor store on Broadway and 177th Street to purchase a small bottle of vodka. An impulse, yes, but necessary. Maybe she’d drink, maybe she wouldn’t—but she wanted to be prepared in case the bruises on her body didn’t hurt sufficiently. Karen stuffed the bottle deep into the bottom of her purse, covering it with her makeup pouch.
The night doorman greeted her.
“Jim, is Mr. McArdle in? Did you see him go up in the last couple hours?”
“No, Mrs. McArdle, I haven’t seen him. But go on up—you have the keys, right?”
“That’s okay. I think I’ll wait for him in the lobby.”
Karen sank into one of the mid-seventies pleather chairs smattering the dated lobby and pulled out a copy of Elle Décor magazine from her bag. She flipped through with disinterest. How many Hamptons mansions did she really need to look at? Beige, beige, beige. Off-white. Nude. Weak colors literally made her gag. Then she spied a beautiful purple welt on her shin. Now that was a color she would stake her life on.
After several minutes of dismissing the design world, she noticed a pair of Nike sneakers at her feet. Pickle smiled and gently pulled her up by her hands. His haggard look startled her, but she remained silent, allowing him to say the first words.
“What the hell are you doing here? Didn’t you see my text?”
“I wanted to talk. I just chanced it—coming up here.”
“Well, I’m not unhappy to see you. But why didn’t you just go upstairs?”
“I’m not sure. Can we walk a bit?”
“Huh. Funny, but I’ve been walking for hours—all day, in fact. And I have to pee really badly. Come up for a few minutes?”
His apartment was still immaculate. She admired the change, but it made her feel even more alienated: who the hell
was Pickle? She sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb the covers with her weight. With her knees clamped tightly together and her arms stiff at her sides, Karen tried to maintain her balance. She thought about the bottle of vodka in her bag and leaned down to dig into her purse at the floor. Her fingers fluttered against the paper label on the bottle—there it was.
Pickle came out of the bathroom and stretched broadly. He’d shaved and combed his hair and she felt a stab of optimism.
Pickle raised his eyebrows in a question. “The Cuban/Chinese joint?”
“Sure. I could use some food, too.”
He planted a firm kiss on the crown of her head, which hurt, and placed a protective hand at the small of her back, which felt fine, then guided her out the door.
The small dive around the corner was familiar. They’d eaten there many times through the years, and it was number one in their stack of delivery menus.
A favorite waiter approached. “Martini for the lady?”
“No, Carlos, just water.”
“Me too, water’s great. And, Karen, should we just do the usual?”
“Perfect. Go ahead.”
He ordered their food, and then placed his paper napkin in his lap. Karen followed his lead. They stared at each other. She sighed.
“What?” Pickle leaned forward.
“Everything’s screwed up.”
“Yup.”
“And I’m very sad.”
“Tell me.”
Karen shook her head rapidly. “Please. Don’t interrogate me.” Her eyes dropped to the table.
“I’m not. At least, I don’t mean to. Sorry if it sounds that way.”
“Whatever.”
Pickle prodded with his chin. “So?”
“Well, first, I know you took off from work.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t you want to know how I found out?”
“I talked to Lance. And I gave him shit for contacting you.”
“Well, I was glad he told me.”
“He told me you were royally pissed that he called you at all.”
“That’s true—I was at the time. He caught me off guard. I was so confused … and scared.”
“Why scared?”
“Because I’m losing you.” Karen’s eyes welled up.
“Why do you say that? The fact that I’m having a midlife crisis … well … I’m fucking entitled. Don’t you think? Can’t you slice me up a little piece of slack here?”
“I guess … Pickle, do a recap for me. I hate them, but right now I need it.”
He laughed out loud and drummed his fingers on the table. “Recap number 4001 for Karen McArdle.”
“Go.”
“Okay. But can we eat a few bites first? I’m gonna die from hunger.”
The waiter had just brought their food, and they dug into their meals of fried chicken, plantains, and spicy rice. After several minutes of determined chewing, Pickle blew out a breath and wiped his hands free of grease. “Whoa. That shit packs a wallop.”
Karen finished her bite. She took a sip of ice water and slipped her hands between her thighs. She dug her nails deep into the skin and felt warm liquid spread onto her fingertips.
“I love you. That hasn’t changed for one second. Though, we’ve sure had some ‘rough patches.’” Pickle smirked as he made the air quotes. Karen held still.
“But I’m not in control of the love part, much as I hate admitting it. You’ve been the gold standard, and you know I’ve fucked other women. But no one has come close. Truly. Now. Let me muse a bit about why I think you feel that my love, or our love, is in trouble. And you’d better brace yourself because this might not go down too easy.”
Karen’s jaw ached from trying to keep her face immutable, and she wondered whether her teeth were loose.
“First, there’s the initial betrayal bomb, which you probably feel you need to continually make up for, and rightly so. And I’ll admit that I press that vulnerability—perhaps unfairly at times. All things considered, though, I’d say that event has shaped our relationship. And I’m still here. You still alive?”
She nodded and rubbed the blood into the skin on her knees.
“Well, that’s the easy part, because we both know all that shit.” Pickle burped into his napkin.
“Anyway, it’s Junie. I’m attracted to her, Karen. No surprise. But it’s not sexual, exactly. Just that I’m very relaxed around her, and that’s not easy for me.”
Pickle paused and seemed to consider what to say next. “But I’m here with you right now. And God knows I had every reason on Earth to never speak to you again … that night—”
Karen held up her hands to stop him, but he reached over, slapped them down and held them to the table. He didn’t notice the crimson under her nails.
“No. You’re gonna hear this. You asked, remember?” Pickle held her hands down and squeezed hard. “That night? I never got an answer. I think that’s the reason why I took you back right after the wedding. I’ve been expecting you to, one day, explain why you left me for Stan. Because I still don’t get it … and I’ve never asked.”
Pickle released his grip, took a sip of water, looked above Karen’s head, and then lowered his eyes to his empty plate. His voice began to tremble.
“I’ve waited all this time. And for much of it, I forgot I was waiting. Then there’d be something in your face when I’d remember and think: Now, she’s finally going to tell me. But you never did. I know something happened. And it wasn’t about Stan. I feel that so clearly.”
Pickle repositioned himself and crossed his legs. She knew the familiar posture: the cop—the authority on every subject known to man, and she braced herself for a noose.
“But now with Junie showing up? I suppose there’s the possibility that I’m at the end of my rope. Maybe I’ve stopped caring or even wondering what the reason was. It might not even matter anymore.”
They sat quietly, his words like logs tied to their necks. Pickle broke the stillness by poking at the barely eaten fried chicken on her plate. He took one more bite, swallowed, and threw down his fork. It clattered to the floor.
Karen coughed out a whisper. “Can we go back to the apartment?”
“Why?”
“Because I want to tell you. And I think I can do it better if we’re alone.”
“I don’t think so. I want this public … I mean, in a public place. That way I can trust myself. Understand?”
Pickle shoved his plate forward, the sound like wheels screeching to a halt. The waiter appeared to scoop up the fork and clear the table.
“It was your mother,” Karen said.
Pickle cocked his ear toward her, as if he were hard of hearing. “Huh?”
“Your mother.”
“My mother made you do it,” he repeated.
“In a way.”
Pickle scooted his chair back a few inches. “How so?”
“She gave me money.”
“Money? My mother didn’t have any money.”
“I know. But remember the lottery tickets?”
“Yeah. I bought them for her every week.”
“Right. But not those tickets. The office pool. She played that one with her own money.”
“So?”
“Well, they won. It was split between four people. And her share was two million.”
Pickle whistled, suspicious. “That’s a lot of money. Particularly for my mother. But what does this have to do with you?”
“Remember when I told you about the day she asked me to come out to her apartment? I thought she wanted to talk about our relationship. Maybe she had concerns about my age, because I’m older. So, I went. But Stan wasn’t there.”
“No? Okay. But what about this so-called money?” Pickle pressed, doubtful.
She couldn’t remember the details; much of that day was lost because she’d not actually said the words. Pickle was waiting, thrumming his fingers on the table. She heard the cloudy din of the
restaurant around her. A cluster of people stood by the entrance door. One man stood apart from the others, and she knew it was him. The slope of his shoulders, the cut of his waist, the bulging veins running down the back of his forearms. He’d never come to her before, but his words, his declaration, helped her now: “You’re part of it now, little girl.”
Karen remembered enough to proceed. “She was blunt. She told me that she would give me the money if I went to Stan. Over you. She showed me a savings account passbook. It was there—the money; it was real.”
“Yeah?”
Now the memories were gone. Then it dawned on her. Karen finally understood the last rule, and what sneaky meant: she’d make it up. “I was stunned. I argued with her—tried to reason with her. We went back and forth. But I didn’t want to insult her because she was, after all, your mother. I told her how much I loved you. Which was true. But she didn’t think that was important. She was very clever and so, so sure of herself. And then I thought of a way out: I explained that even if I tried to go to Stan, it wouldn’t work because I’d never gotten any inkling of interest from him. But she said that he was interested. That he’d told her so.”
Pickle started forward. “She said that? That Stan was interested in you?”
“Yes.” It could have happened like that and in a strange way, Karen knew it was close enough to the truth. After all, her mother had been with her, inside her, speaking through her.
“Did Stan know about it? This money scheme?”
Now Karen was back into her conscious thought and she continued with what she knew to be literal reality. “At first I wasn’t sure, but then I quickly realized that he didn’t know a thing. Stan’s pretty guileless.”
“Whatever,” Pickle scoffed.
Pickle’s Progress Page 20