Pickle’s Progress

by Marcia Butler

  “Oh, God no, Karen—”

  She worked her way downstairs to Junie’s level and wrapped herself inside the fleece robe, which smelled of some kind of citrus. Walking into the front room, she looked at the rumpled sofa and intuitively knew that Pickle and Junie had conducted an intimate conversation here, just a few minutes before. Maybe they’d shared personal details about their lives. Karen couldn’t imagine such disclosure; she’d hidden so much of her past and wouldn’t know where to begin. Her brain had managed to push memories around, so that all the bits and pieces were far away from each other, at safe distances. Certain facts had poked into her elbow; others had sifted down to her feet. One tidbit lived in her little finger. Yet her own mind didn’t want the story to be complete or known or even real. So, the details had been parsed out to others: Pickle knew some of the worst. Mundane facts were safe inside Stan’s brain. Her mother understood her the best, but she was gone. And Betsy could still wake Karen in the night with her passive body and her blank eyes and her owl sounds. Karen had been able to tolerate all of this. That is, until the man had shown himself in the Cuban/Chinese restaurant. That was a new visitation and Karen finally understood she could no longer keep all the disparate chunks of herself apart. Somehow, it had to coalesce; she needed to funnel herself into one safe person. She’d thought that could be Junie. Now she saw that possibility slipping away.

  The work crashed above her. She pounded one new bruise on her ankle bone. Perhaps the last one ever. She looked out the back door and saw fairy dust floating down—it was microscopic, silver and very beautiful, as it glinted against the rays of the sun. Karen walked out to the backyard and looked up to discover the source: Pickle’s windows. She lay down in the virgin soil. Spring crocuses brushed against her hair and the ground accepted her body. Karen allowed the dust to cover her, and she dreamed of a shallow grave, while her mother’s robe protected her from the moist earth.

  33

  PICKLE CRESTED THE SLIGHT INCLINE ON THE walking path at the Cloisters. He spied Lance talking on the phone, standing with one foot resting on the bench seat, gesturing with his other hand. The scene kicked him in the gut—not so much with regret, but nostalgia. Pickle knew police work—could see it a mile away.

  Lance eyed Pickle with suspicion and quickly shut his phone. “I’ve been waiting here for a fucking half hour. Like I have time for this crap with you? Hurry up. I’ve got a shitstorm up my ass.”

  “Hold on there, partner. I was on the subway and there was an incident. Okay? Not my fault.”

  “Whatever. So, tell me. How’s the man of leisure?”

  “Good. I think.”

  “What does that mean? You had sex with that girl?”

  Pickle shook his head in disgust. “So devoid of any class whatsoever. I mean, if you could even hear yourself—”

  “Wait a minute. A few weeks away from your tribe and you’re all holier-than-thou? I don’t buy it. You’re a hound dog and always have been.”

  “Well. Yeah, I suppose you’re right—at least from your limited perspective.”

  “Talk.” Lance sat on the bench and dusted the space beside him with his handkerchief, gesturing for Pickle to join him. Pickle plopped down, rubbed his hands into his face and coughed up some phlegm.

  “Waaaaiting …” Lance looked at his watch, tapped his foot, and checked his phone.

  “Well, it does have to do with Junie. But not really.”

  “Okay. What?”

  “I’m gonna resign from the force.”

  “And I’m gonna get you into mental services so fast your head’ll pop off.”

  “I understand your concerns.”

  “Don’t give me that bullshit phrase. My concerns are that you’ve completely flipped your lid ever since the night that nut took a dip in the tub from the South Sidewalk. And the girl he left behind has taken hold of your dick with a vice grip.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah, fucking ouch is right. And she’s obviously twisting it to the point of no blood flow to the brain.”

  Pickle twiddled his thumbs. “Let me see. How can I possibly explain this to you?”

  “No idea.”

  “Let me start with a question: if money were no object, would you be a cop?”

  “Fuck no.”

  “Right. That’s my point.”

  “What is this? Not everybody in the world has a job that makes the heart go pitter-pat. Anyway, money is a moot point for us slobs. Being a cop is just what we do.”

  “Right. It’s what we do. But I ask again, if you did have the money, would you do it?”

  Lance sighed and waved his hand for Pickle to get on with it. “No.”

  “So, I’ve asked twice, and you’ve given me the same answer, which proves my point.”

  “Okay. You have money. Is that what you’re trying to tell me? Which property room did you raid? Candice’s?”

  Pickle crossed his arms, with a satisfied smirk. “Karen’s.”

  Lance let out a whistle. “That sot? What about her drunken husband—sorry—your brother? Where does he fit in?”

  “Well, first, they’ve stopped drinking … as far as I can tell.”

  “Really.”

  “Yeah. But this has nothing to do with Stan. I’ve got Karen in a choke hold so tight her eyeballs are popping. Turns out she owes me money, and I’m talking a lot.”

  “Really.”

  “Yeah. And as soon as I collect it, which should be in the next day or two—goodbye, police force. I’m gonna give my notice.”

  “Wow. Does Stan know?”

  “Nope. And if I play my cards right, he never will.”

  “That good, huh?”

  “Yeah. That good.”

  “Well, let me give you a warning. From someone who knows a tiny smidge about sneaky bitches.” Lance shifted in his seat to face Pickle. “Let’s say I believe there’s some money there. I’ll give you that.”

  “It’s there. One hundred percent.”

  “Okay, fine. And let’s say that you do get hold of this money. From Karen.”

  “I will.”

  “Well, remember that old adage? ‘Never take everything from somebody, because when you gut them out, they have nothing left to lose.’ Ever hear that one?”

  “Never. Who the hell said that?”

  “I can’t remember. Gotti. Gandhi. Giuliani. Does it matter? You know it’s true.”

  Pickle remained silent.

  Lance pressed forward. “’Cause, I’m thinking. You say Stan doesn’t know about any of this—whatever it is. Right?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Karen could spill it to him.”

  “She wouldn’t. She’s got much more to lose than me.”

  “Okay. But just be very sure, because women are crazy, especially when it comes to money. And sex.”

  Pickle dismissed him with a sniff. “I don’t care about any of that shit. I really don’t. I’d risk it all in a heartbeat if I had this money and a chance with Junie. Now I’m right next to the cash. And I’m gonna get it. And Junie. I’ve got Karen right where I need her. And it’s taken this girl, Junie, for me to find out that it was there all along. I just never asked the right questions.”

  Kids were kicking a ball around, forbidden at the Cloisters, but they didn’t move to stop them. After a few minutes, Lance placed his hand on his partner’s back. “Okay. Let’s do a recap.”

  “That’s my line.”

  “I know, but I think you need one about now.”

  “You’re probably right. Hit me.”

  “What do you know to be absolutely the truth? Rock solid?”

  Pickle stared at the ground. “Karen’s a great fuck,” he said. “And she’s been the love of my life in the worst way imaginable,” he whispered with resignation.

  “Right. And what about the money? Is this just on Karen’s say-so? Or do you have proof that it exists?”

  “So far, only her say-so. But I believe her. She told me about it u
nder duress, so to speak.”

  “And this Junie? Is this really a feasible thing? In other words, is it mutual?”

  “Yeah, it’s mutual. She practically offered herself to me in the nude just this morning. I held back. But I could have, I’m pretty sure.”

  “What about Stan?”

  “What about him?”

  “Where does he fit in?”

  “Who the hell knows? I’m fucking tired of his puss right now. I’m sick of looking at him. I’m sick of looking like him. Tell the truth, I’m sick of being his brother! I’m sick to death of him, and his clothes, and his superior opinions, and his hotshot business and his colors and his sweaters and his spice bottles and his counting—”

  “Whoa! Bingo. Jackpot. Ball in the corner pocket. Hole in one.”

  “What!?”

  “This whole time we’ve been talking? You’ve been flat—no juice. The real emotion comes up around Stan. Which means that with all your plans surrounding Karen and Junie, you’re hottest around your brother. Which leads me to believe that you’re not clear.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Right. Fuck me.” Lance got up and stood in front of Pickle. “Be careful, is all I’m saying. And get clear.”

  Lance wandered off, screaming at the kids playing ball while flashing his badge. “Get out of here! You know better! Go home and do some homework!”

  34

  STAN HAD ACED THE KINSEY MEETING; THE CLIENT awarded McArdle the project on the spot. And Suzie, who’d survived being Karen, had filled her in earlier that morning. Now Karen was up to her eyeballs trying to catch up on Kinsey, with several rolls of millwork drawings cluttering her desk for review. She was jotting notes in the margins, slashing a red pen back and forth, when a familiar shadow loomed at her frosted glass door.

  “Give me fifteen more minutes, Stan. I have to get these drawings buttoned up. Okay?”

  The door opened. Annoyed, with her eyes stubbornly aimed at her work, she shook her head in irritation. “Can’t you listen to me for once? I need some time here.”

  Pickle walked in and sat on the loveseat. “I can wait. I’ve got fifteen minutes or fifteen hours. In fact, I’d wait forever for you.”

  “Mother of God. What’re you doing here?”

  “Well, let’s see. It’s Monday morning. The sun is out. The temperature is mild—no rain predicted. I slept well last night.” Pickle kissed the air in her direction. “How’re you, baby? You good?”

  “C’mon, Pickle, what the hell is going on? And shut the door. Somebody’ll hear you.”

  Pickle stuck his leg out and kicked the door shut. “Karen, I just asked after your well-being. The least you could do is to respond in a civil manner.”

  “I’m fine. Everything is fine. Now, what?”

  “Come for a walk with me.”

  Karen threw her red pen on the desk and it rolled off onto the carpet. Pickle grabbed it and pocketed it. “C’mon, let’s go.”

  “I’m busy. And I’m on deadline. So, no, I cannot take a walk with you.” She faked a smile, tilting her head to the side.

  “I just wanna go for a walk with my best girl. Is that too much to ask?” Pickle wagged his finger at the drawings. “All that shit? It can wait, right?”

  “Actually? It can’t.” Karen leaned back in her chair.

  He got up and went to Karen’s closet, reached for her jacket, and held it like a bullfighter with a red cape. She gave in, slipped on her shoes, and poked her arms into the waiting coat.

  “That’s my girl. It isn’t often I come to where the brain trust of the family does its stuff. All this Lipstick Building jazz? It’s intimidating. Have I ever admitted that to you?”

  “No, though I’ve had my suspicions. But believe me, there’s nothing special about this place, or the building for that matter. It’s just a big smokestack filled with a bunch of working slobs. Like me.”

  Karen gathered the rolls of drawings in her arms and pointed to the loveseat. “Sit right there for a minute. I need to give these to Suzie—she’ll get somebody else to finish. Now you’ve got me curious, and a little excited, too.”

  When she returned from dumping the workload on Suzie’s desk, Karen took Pickle by the hand. “Okay. Where to?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “Okey dokey. Whatever. Let’s go out the back entrance.”

  As they walked down the long corridor past all the lipstick tubes, Pickle led the way and picked up two or three random tubes.

  Karen swatted him on the head. “Thief,” she teased.

  Once on the street, they walked a few blocks from Third Avenue to Fifty-First Street and Second, when Pickle abruptly stopped.

  “What gives? This better be good, Pickle,” Karen warned.

  “Don’t worry, it’s gonna be great. Let’s go inside.” He held the glass door open for her.

  Karen looked up and around, then back at Pickle, and balked. “Wait. No. This is my bank—”

  Before she could complete her protest, Pickle grabbed her by the arm and muscled her into the lobby. William strode out of his office and approached them.

  “Good morning, Karen. And hello, Stan! It was nice to get your call this morning. I’ve got everything set up for you both in the back office. Just follow me.” William looked back at them as they walked. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  “Oh yes, the best day ever,” Pickle said.

  The three settled into his office as William banged on the computer, pulling up the accounts. He swiveled around and launched into his banker spiel.

  “First, let me congratulate you both on the huge leap you’re making for the firm. It gives us great pride when our clients have the courage to grow their businesses. Now Stan, you told me on the phone this morning that you and Karen have decided to release funds from the Zed account. We’ll need a signature from Karen, so I’ve prepared the papers for her to sign. Once you sign, Karen, the transfer will go through in about an hour.”

  Pickle held the pen toward Karen. “Let’s do this, honey. We’ve been waiting our whole lives to use this money in the right way at the right time.”

  Karen grabbed the pen and quickly signed the papers. She sat back heavily in her chair. “William, could I have a glass of water, please? I’m parched, for some reason.”

  “Sure, let me get that for you.” He left, and the door clicked shut.

  “Pickle. This is theft. Or robbery—whatever you want to call it.”

  “Wrong. Leave the police jargon to me. Robbery occurs when you take something from a person using force. No force here. Theft refers to taking something without the person’s knowledge or consent. You’re here and you just signed the papers of your own free will. And let me remind you that just the other night you said, quote, ‘I’ll give it all to you. It’s money from the devil. It doesn’t belong to me. I don’t want any of it.’ Unquote.”

  Karen bristled. “Well, we can’t talk about this now, obviously.”

  Pickle moved his chair closer to hers and took both of her hands into his. “There’s nothing to talk about, Karen. You told me the money was mine. I thought about it over the weekend and I agree. Or would you like me to ask Stan his opinion?”

  Pickle kissed Karen and when she tried to disengage from him, he kissed harder.

  “Whoops! Sorry for the intrusion,” said William, who’d just entered the room with a pitcher of water. He poured a glass and handed it to Karen.

  Karen gulped the water, which dribbled onto her chin. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand, smudging her lipstick. Pickle whipped out his handkerchief, along with a tube of lipstick. Taking her chin in his hand, he carefully dabbed at the smudge and then applied fresh lipstick. “There. I can’t have my wife walking around with a mussed mouth.”

  “That’s very sweet.” William sat back, admiring them.

  Pickle winked at William. “That’s why we’ve been together this long. We look after each other.”

  Karen quickly ended the meeting,
saying she needed to get back to the office. Once outside on the street, Pickle backed her into the side of the building. Pedestrians sidestepped them with New York City ease—just another couple having a public spat.

  “Karen, this was just step one. Step two is we go have lunch for an hour and then come right back to the bank. You’re going to make out a cashier’s check to me for the entire amount. Look at this as old business—just some loose ends being tied up.”

  Karen turned her head and stared down the block as if looking to be rescued. He shook her.

  “Okay. Okay, Pickle.”

  “You’ll see. It’s the best thing for everyone. You’ve got to get this burden off your chest. So many years … all this time … it must have been killing you.”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Step three: you’ll come to the apartment tonight at seven. You’ll sleep over. Tell Stan … whatever it is you always tell him. We’ll celebrate.”

  They walked down the street and Pickle ushered Karen into a nearby four-star restaurant. She realized he’d made a reservation.

  35

  THE DOODLES TOOK UP RESIDENCE ON THE PARLOR floor at the stair landing to Junie’s level, below. That small nook had become his default nesting area shortly after she’d come to live in the brownstone. Stan had grudgingly acquiesced and finally dragged the dog’s bed and blanket to the landing. This was only after many failed attempts to get The Doodles to sleep at his usual corner in Stan’s bedroom. The Doodles’s loyalties were now clearly divided and he’d apparently found a new soul mate.

  Stan nudged the dog with his big toe. The Doodles stood up, turned around three times, and plopped back down to resume his nap.

  “Junie? Did you take him out?” Stan yelled down the stairs.

  He’d not ventured to the basement since he and Karen had purchased the brownstone, much less since Junie had come to live with them. Now with her lurking down there, visions had tortured Stan on a daily basis—of things in disarray, of his irrational fantasies of stacked-up coffins, of the very earth that might swallow him. But mostly it was the notion that another human on the premises didn’t understand him. She’d need to learn what he could barely tolerate and what was forbidden. He anticipated that it would take months of fine-tuned adjustment, and exclusively on Junie’s part. Stan had been patient, or so he saw himself.