Pickle’s Progress

by Marcia Butler

  During the first week Junie was there, Stan decided that he’d simply make believe she didn’t exist. This seemed the easiest solution to the reality of her presence, and it worked well for a short time. But music floating up through the radiators quickly destroyed that plan. He couldn’t quite imagine music away. Gradually his brain began to clear (mostly due to drying out from the booze), and he began to notice that what felt impossible to bear or even imagine just a few weeks before, was slowly becoming stuff he could now not only tolerate, but was also, oddly, curious about. What was it about Junie, the first person perhaps ever, that made him stop caring about spice bottles and his sweaters, at least for a day or two? He hadn’t even watched Dallas in the past two weeks!

  “Yes, Stan! About an hour ago! He’s good!” Junie bellowed from below.

  Stan realigned the shoes at the stair landing and tucked all the arms of each coat into the body of the garments. He glanced into the kitchen to make sure the spice bottles suited him. They were imperfect, but he managed to ignore the annoyance. Then he realized that the sweater he currently wore was the same one he wore yesterday, which, just a month before, would have been an impossibility. He allowed himself to count The Doodles’s toenails, just to recreate a semblance of normalcy.

  They’d established their rhythm around The Doodles. With Karen at the office more and more, Stan and Junie found a symbiosis that was soft and reliable—like a brother and sister, or a single woman and her slightly androgynous male friend. The distance of one floor, physically and mentally, proved optimum for them both. And music became their tendril of connection—an invisible silk thread that spun up from the basement to let Stan know: she’s awake—she feels this way today. Maybe he knew more about Junie than he’d admit to himself. And even worse (or maybe it was better), could she possibly know something about him?

  Junie appeared at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at him. “Is the music bothering you? You have to tell me, Stan.”

  “Well, now that you mention it, could you turn it down just a tad? I’m trying to prepare for Gloria tomorrow. You know, cleaning up a bit? And it’s hard to think clearly with Mozart horn concertos going full blast.”

  “Of course. I forgot it was even on until now.” She went into her bedroom and switched off the Bose CD player, then reappeared at the stairway. “Stan, I just had a thought. Do you want me to help you? I mean, I’m not doing anything, and I’m a little bored. We could clean together. Maybe organize a little? It might be fun. And, you know—it might help me, too.”

  Stan looked down the stairs at her, wary. Her figure was backlit from the light at her entrance door and all he could see was the outline of her body, which he had to admit was very similar to Karen’s—a thought he pushed aside. “I’m not sure about that. No. It wouldn’t work.”

  “Okay. But keep it in mind. I’m pretty good at that stuff. You should see it down here. Everything is clean and in its place. You wanna come down?”

  “No. No. I can’t. But I appreciate the offer.”

  Just then his cell rang. Stan went into the kitchen to fetch it. It was after six p.m. and he was expecting Karen to walk in the door any minute. But he now saw she was calling. He let it ring exactly four and a half times, which, when doubled, equaled nine.

  “Stan, I have to stay at the office tonight.”

  “Again? So many nights, Karen. Why? I’m waiting for you. I’m starved.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry, but those millwork drawings need more work after all. I found a huge mistake that offset everything by three inches, and I’m keeping the CAD person here so we can print and review. It’ll take hours. I have to approve them by early tomorrow morning … it’s just easier to stay here through the night.”

  “Okay, if you say so.”

  “Junie can come up and cook, right? Or there’s leftover takeout in the fridge. Or just order in. Or you guys can go out.”

  “Enough, Karen. I know the options.”

  “Oh, and Stan, have you been upstairs to check the work at all?”

  “Yeah, I went up about an hour ago. It’s all fine. They started with Sheetrock for the partitions and some guys have begun the first skim on the common walls. All on the top floor, of course.”

  “Good. Did the bath fixtures arrive? And what about lighting fixtures? Tile?”

  “Yup, it’s all here. I think Pickle might actually be able to move in on his timeline. I wish all our projects could be fast-tracked this way.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Okay, let me get some dinner plans going.”

  “How is she?”

  “Junie? How the hell should I know? I never go down there. We rarely speak. But as of five minutes ago, she seemed great.”

  “Great?”

  “Yeah. Great. She seems different these days.”

  “How would you know? You just said you never speak to her.”

  “I didn’t say ‘never,’ I said ‘rarely.’ Leave it at that. Christ.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you at the office tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  “So, you’ll eat, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll check it out with Junie; include her, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  They signed off and Stan listened for the music downstairs. He’d only asked Junie to turn it down, but she had turned it off. Is that what he did to people? The house was silent, save the banging of hot water pipes, but that was noise he had no sway over. He paused, remaining very still, trying to discern some other movement. Maybe she’d gone back to bed. And now The Doodles had disappeared from his nest—probably down there with her.

  Stan suddenly sensed the vacancy of the house—of sound, of any life—and it felt wrong. He’d gotten used to the pulse of Junie’s days and nights—the running of the shower, even the toilet flushing, as much as he hated noticing that. Not to mention the front basement door squeaking when she took The Doodles out. And the gardening she’d taken over from Karen. He admired Junie’s color sense and how she grouped the flowers, which was fairly sophisticated. He’d gradually become aware of her taste in music, and he found himself curious about what she’d play each day. Just recently she’d begun to play Einstein on the Beach quite a bit, and Stan discovered, against his better judgement, that he liked it. And he’d just requested that she lower the volume. That had caused her to turn it off. He did that. And he now felt an uncomfortable regret—a nagging feeling of pulling away from another, or of controlling another person for his own whim. He asked himself why. At that moment, Stan had no answer, but he felt a shift. He wanted the air in the house to move continuously. He needed that indication of life, something he now realized he’d been missing terribly. Sometimes you don’t know what you need until it is right in front of you. Even thinking this cliché revolted Stan, but he had to admit, it was true.

  Stan returned to the stairway to obey Karen’s instructions—to “check it out with Junie.”

  “Junie! Karen’s not coming home tonight. Let’s go to Henry’s for a steak.”

  “Really? Sure! Give me a few minutes. I’ll be right up,” she called from the bedroom.

  Stan dug his feet into the slippers that were lined up with his other shoes along the wall. He tentatively stepped onto the first tread to the lower level. The stair slat creaked, and The Doodles appeared at the bottom of the stairs, curious. Stan steadied himself with his hand on the railing.

  “Junie! I’m coming down, okay? Was that the Chicago Symphony?”

  Junie’s head poked around the corner, a hairbrush in her hand. She stared at him with her mouth open. “Yes. Chicago. Wow. You could hear that? Sure. C’mon down.”

  Slowly, a step at a time, Stan descended to the lower level, counting each step, his heart beating, his breath steady, his eyes adjusting to the dark, and then the light.

  36

  THE EVENING BEGAN LIKE SO MANY IN THE PAST: Pickle and Karen wrapped tight in a sheet at the big window, imagining
the bodies traversing below on the bridge, back and forth, maybe toward love, perhaps away from sadness. Either way, their night would proceed, quietly and with tenderness. Memories comforted Pickle, yet a new certainty rattled him. He would soon lose this expansive seclusion forever, because words had been spoken, secrets revealed, a building was changing, and finally, dollars had changed hands.

  Pickle pulled Karen to the bed. As they stretched, naked, across the covers, he examined her face—nude of makeup, her skin flushed. He scanned her body, now marred with a terrible healing beauty. He traced the edges of her eyes, her nose, and her mouth. His hand then landed on her neck, her waist, her hip. He realized right then that as close as Karen had always been, he’d never really had her. Not in the way that meant anything.

  The first night Karen came back after the wedding, she’d floated in, careened out of her shoes, tossed her clothes on the floor. And cried. He’d stroked her hair and mopped her hot tears. He’d kissed her mouth to quiet her. That night they lay across this same bed, where Pickle had remained for the previous week. His pillows and sheets still smelled of his sweat and hard dreams, as he’d tried to accept a sad future he could not imagine. But there she was, in his arms again. No words were spoken, because the truth and certainty of their love could not be set aside by a prim wedding ceremony. And now there were new truths living between them and he wanted to figure this out, not only for himself, but for her, as well.

  “Remember, Karen? I can honestly say that you are just as beautiful tonight as you were the night you came back to me. But it’s more than that. Every part of you is precious, outside and inside. It has always been there. And that is astonishing. I know this now. I see it and feel it. And there’s not a thing in the world that needs to change. Nothing.”

  She began to weep.

  “Don’t,” he whispered. “I want you without any sadness. Can you give that to me? Tonight?”

  “I can.”

  Finally, Pickle understood that he owed Karen something. He owed her himself.

  EPILOGUE

  Dear Jacob,

  It’s been three years since you jumped. I can still see your face in the few seconds before you went over—when you pulled away from my hand. I see that red fury in your eyes, a look I didn’t understand then. I still don’t, completely, but I think I’ve come to accept your pain and what I saw raging in your face that night. And how I really wasn’t the cause of it. But for so long I had thoughts of “what if.” If we’d not argued. If I’d truly understood you. All of it. The list could wrap around the planet. On many nights, I’ve dreamed of you being alive now, and with me. And you can be sure it’s been an aching throb to wake up every day feeling, knowing, that I should have done something. But what would that have been?

  I think back to the way we lived in Brooklyn—in a cocoon of sorts—carefully woven for us to hibernate within until we were ready to push out, toward death. You flew out of that cocoon into the river, and left me half alive. Oh, they were nice to me, these people in the brownstone. But what could they do? And how could they really understand? So, I tried to make believe and rise to meet their level of caring. Just to ease their worries. I was a good little actress. The days went on, and they included me in their lives; they watched me and listened as carefully as they could. Some better than others. And I fooled them for a very long time. I was surprised how easy that was. I was not okay.

  Now I have a baby and I’ve named him after you, Jacob. We call him Coby. That was okay with his father. I thought I’d never have a child, but that’s what angels do—save you and bring you a future. Now, my little Coby, who looks nothing like you, but did come from you in a way, made his Herculean effort to be born, in spite of all you and I did to kill his future existence.

  I’m spending all my time caring for Coby and am grateful that I know how to love again. Coby makes that so easy. There are no questions from him, no holding back. My boy is pure love and is adored and protected by us all.

  By “all,” I mean everyone living here in the brownstone. Karen took a leave from her job to help me through the pregnancy and with these early months. Coby’s father is still working and so is his twin brother. I feel supported by them and anything I want is okay. Which is so different than when I was with you, Jacob.

  But I want you to know it was worth it—being with you. Because I know that however deep my pain was, however much I wanted to end my life—well—the joy of this baby shows me how high a love can bring me. I’ve learned that love comes in all guises, and some not so pretty. But it’s love all the same—even terribly disfigured like yours and mine was. Now I pick up the veils when I can and try to be brave enough to look under and see what love looks like, day after day.

  I’ll marry Stan soon. I saw his beautiful face underneath many thick veils. We’ll raise our baby to recognize and live within this wide-open world, and our love.

  END

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Endless thanks to my agents, Paul Feldstein and Susan Dalzell Feldstein, for their tireless support. And to Paul, particularly, for wading through multiple drafts of Pickle. Massive gratitude to my publisher, Michelle Halket, for believing in my writing and ushering my debut novel into the world with close attention and fine business acumen. Thanks to the sales team at IPG, who distributed my novel with more bells and whistles than I ever expected. My deep admiration for Liz Van Hoose, who reviewed early and late drafts of Pickle, providing feedback which proved pivotal. And last but never least, my incredible publicist, Nicole Dewey, has shown the patience of Job and the kindness of a saint. I am honored to have her in my corner.

  The Catto Shaw Foundation granted me a month-long residency, where I managed to complete the first draft of this novel. Many thanks to Aspen Summer Words, Community of Writers at Squaw Valley, Tin House and One Story for the opportunity to workshop nascent pages of Pickle’s Progress.

  I am very grateful to early readers who took the time to read Pickle and say just the right things to boost my confidence: Keren Blankfeld, Helene Brenkman, Adrienne Brodeur, Kathleen Flynn, Geeta Kothari, Louise Marburg, Ralph Olsen, Simone Grace Seol, Don Shaw and Howard Welsh.

  Writing is a solitary act and at times gives rise to loneliness. But I have not been alone and many have supported me, including dear friends far and wide. I fear that if I began a list, it would necessarily go on for many pages, and even then, I’d leave someone out. Please know that I have learned so much from each of you, on the page and in life. I love you all. Madly, truly, deeply.

  Photo: Matt Dine

  Marcia Butler has had a number of creative careers: professional musician, interior designer, documentary filmmaker, and author. As an oboist, the New York Times hailed her as a “first rate artist.” Acclaimed interior designs include projects in NYC, Boston, and Miami. The Creative Imperative, her documentary film exploring the essence of creativity, will release in summer 2019. Her memoir, The Skin Above My Knee, was one of the Washington Post’s “top ten noteworthy moments in classical music in 2017.” Pickle’s Progress is her fiction debut. She lives in New York City.