by Brad Graber
She headed to the cafeteria with the books she needed for her afternoon classes, a brown paper bag perched precariously on top, pressed to her chest. Navigating her way down the steps to the basement, she kept her eyes cast downward, only looking up when she heard the clanging of metal utensils against casserole-sized serving dishes of lasagna and meat loaf. She gagged at the funky smell: warmed-over spices—cumin, pepper, paprika—mixed with what she thought was a hint of wet dog. Students shuffled in winding lines, trays sliding along. The air squeaked with the high-pitched sound of chairs, metal tips scraping against the linoleum floor.
On the other wall of the cafeteria, she spotted a stack of trays on a conveyor belt. There were remnants of lunches half-eaten—browning apple cores, juice boxes and milk cartons, plastic wrappers entangled with empty chip bags. She swallowed hard, numbing herself to her surroundings as she walked past the cafeteria and into the noisy lunchroom. Mouths moved, bodies twisted and turned; the room was a snake pit of pulsing energy. She was desperate for an open spot in which to settle.
“Rikki,” Barbra’s voice called, “I’m over here.”
Barbra waved Rikki over to a table at the back of the room.
Rikki experienced a terrific sense of relief. She no longer was lost in the crowd. She had escaped the middle of the room, found a place on the periphery.
“I don’t see why your grandmother can’t also drive me to school,” Barbra complained. “I promise to be on time.”
Rikki picked at a BLT on white toast as Barbra ate out of a plastic container. Some sort of salad which emanated a strong smell of Italian dressing. “You kept her waiting,” Rikki reminded her. “She doesn’t like to wait.”
Barbra wiped her mouth with a napkin. “That happened once. And it was weeks ago.”
Rikki shrugged. There wasn’t much point in discussing it any further. Once Rita made up her mind, there was nothing she could do.
“You should see me in the morning,” Barbra said as she speared a large piece of lettuce and shoved it into her mouth. She continued to talk. “I run all the way to the bus. I keep looking over my shoulder for that man. Tell me again?” she said with a great flurry of drama. “What did he look like?”
Rikki put her sandwich down. She didn’t want to think about the assault.
“You should have waited for me that day and there wouldn’t have been a problem,” Barbra said emphatically. “I’d have kicked him right in the balls.”
“Well, good,” Rikki said, annoyed that Barbra seemed to view her nightmare as a form of lunchtime entertainment. “Then you should be totally safe walking by yourself in the morning.”
“God, Rikki.” Barbra rolled her eyes. “What’s the point of being best friends if we can’t ever talk? You always get mad at me when we talk about this.”
Rikki shrugged as she bit into her sandwich. A stringy piece of bacon slid out and dangled from her lips. She quickly pushed the bacon into her mouth, hoping no one other than Barbra had seen her.
Barbra leaned forward, her voice lighter. “So how was homeroom? Did you see him? What was he wearing?”
Rikki pretended innocence, even though she knew darn well what he had worn. A pair of denims and a tight pink shirt, slightly open at the collar. She and Barbra were fixated on the same boy. But she didn’t want to appear quite as silly. For Barbra, he wasn’t any boy. He was the boy. Barney. The boy who made most of the girls in school ignite with excitement.
Rikki had giggled when she first learned his name. “Really? Barney? Is he purple? Can he sing and dance? Does he have dinosaur friends?”
Barbra hadn’t laughed.
Rikki wiped her mouth. “Yes, I saw him. Tall, dark, and handsome as ever. Nothing’s changed since you saw him yesterday.”
Rikki and Barbra had been friends for three years . . . ever since Barbra had moved from Sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn to Queens. A friendship formed less by choice and more by proximity.
“You should get to know her,” Rita had suggested. “She just lives three floors below us. You’re practically new here. She’s new here. It seems that you two girls are destined to be friends!”
But Rikki hadn’t wanted to befriend Barbra. Not because Rita had made the suggestion, though that alone could be grounds for resisting, but because Barbra seemed too weird. And, being keenly uncomfortable with her own lowly social status among the kids who lived in the building, Rikki had no interest in being friends with a new girl who looked even odder than she did. For Barbra had frizzy, bright orange hair, before she discovered black dye and an iron, and her clothes were desperately in need of replacement, patched here and there. Her elbows and knees appeared darker than the rest of her skin, and there were some days when Rikki picked up an unsavory scent emanating from the new neighbor. In short, Barbra was the perfect dork. A walking, talking carrot stick, in need of a good bath. But Rita was not to be put off, and in her typical boisterous way, she bullied her granddaughter into befriending Barbra. It wasn’t until later that Rita changed her mind. But by then it was too late.
Barbra stopped eating, again wiping the corner of her mouth with a napkin. She focused her attention on Rikki as her voice began to rise. “Did Barney talk to you? Say hello?”
Barney Appleton rarely talked . . . a fact Rikki knew only too well, since she sat next to him in homeroom. She’d made a study of his poor communication skills, often wincing at the way he handled himself. He seemed to struggle with a devastating shyness, surprising in someone so good-looking. He frequently glanced down, offering one-word answers when one word was the least he could say. His favorite utterance seemed to be yes, delivered so softly that Rikki was certain she’d mistaken his merely taking a breath for saying the actual word.
Barney hardly spoke to anyone.
He sat quietly, brown wavy hair falling angelically about his ears, framing the angular face with its strong jaw line and high cheekbones. His blue eyes seemed to peek out into the world, oblivious to the powerful effect of his physical presence.
When Barney focused his attention on Rikki, which was rare, she became instantly uncomfortable, desperately wanting his admiration while praying he’d look away and not see the blemish on her nose, or her mismatched sweater and blouse, or an uncontrolled eye twitch, or the one-hundred-and-one flaws she imagined herself to possess every morning when she awoke. Ugh. I should be in a freak show, she’d think, all the while desperate to attract Barney’s attention.
And though it was hard work to get Barney to talk, it was even harder to sit next to such a handsome boy and say nothing. So Rikki engaged in small talk. She asked questions. Endless questions. And though it was awkward, Rikki soldiered on.
“Isn’t it a nice day?” she’d say.
He’d look over and smile.
“Did you walk to school this morning?”
He’d nod affirmatively.
“Would you like a mint?” She blushed. She didn’t have any mints. She breathed a sigh of relief when he declined.
It was hopeless. Dull questions followed by uninterested head nods peppered with a yes every now and then, before Barney Appleton finally appeared ready to say something. Rikki’s heart swooned as Barney smiled, the corners of his mouth lifting upward to reveal the most beautiful pair of dimples as he formed his precious words. Rikki’s world seemed brighter. Time stopped as she glanced at those perfect lips, watched as they parted. She held her breath.
“Aren’t you nosey,” he said, head slightly titled, before turning to look away.
Rikki winced at the memory. “We didn’t talk this morning,” she lied to Barbra.
“Oh, Rikki . . . if he was sitting next to me—” She twirled her long black hair about her finger. “—I’d be unable to control myself. He’s so freaking gorgeous. I’d probably sit in his lap.”
Rikki wondered what that might be like. “No. I don’t think I could ever do that,” she said, somewhat disappointed in herself.
Barbra sighed, and then offered up a half-eaten powd
ered donut as the bell rang. It took a moment for Rikki to grab it out of Barbra’s fingers. The dusty sugar coating stuck to the roof of her mouth as she gathered up the remnants of her lunch and her book pack and headed off to her next class.
◆
In Phoenix, Lil finished a second cup of green tea, seated at her kitchen counter. The warmth of the liquid calmed her as she closed the newspaper and stared out onto the patio and her small garden filled with potted plants and hanging baskets, where a gray dove perched atop a brown wicker chair. In the summer, Lil enjoyed her tea outdoors before the heat of the sun achieved its full effect. Only recently had she opted for the warmth of the house, as the mornings had grown decidedly cooler with the onset of November.
She checked her cell phone. No new messages. That was good. Her first yoga class was scheduled for eleven o’clock. She still had a few hours.
She wondered if her business partner had arrived on time to open up the studio. The summer morning when Julia had overslept, the place was blazing hot. Lil couldn’t help but laugh at the memory of her middle-aged patrons, stretched out in the downward-dog pose, sweating profusely. She had to admit, it seemed like the appropriate punishment for those adults who had let their bodies go to hell. But then, that was back in August when triple-digit temperatures plagued Phoenix.
Yoga had become her second career after working as a grade school teacher in the Phoenix inner city. Eight years of standing in front of a room of seven- and eight-year-olds had proven to be more than she could handle. There had been too many moments when she felt more like a referee than an educator. She hadn’t realized until her final year of teaching that she didn’t particularly like children. It hit her hard one day when she was struggling to maintain order. Sweet cherubic faces, arms outstretched, vibrating little bodies with mouths constantly moving, desperate to release their pent-up energy. There was no impulse control in the room, and instead of being the person in charge, she’d grown weary of the struggle. Tired of the little hands, the little eyes, and the constant talking, she realized if she didn’t do something different, she’d go completely mad.
And so she’d found yoga. And then Julia. And then the yoga studio. And that had been fifteen years ago.
She wiped down the counter as the doorbell chimed. “Who could that be?” she said aloud, tossing the sponge in the sink. She opened her front door in time to see the UPS driver pull away.
Why, she thought, couldn’t it be Ed McMahon with Publisher’s Clearinghouse? If it were, she’d be on her way to the vineyards of Italy or France. Soaking up the beauty of the countryside. Enjoying everything the world of travel had to offer: wine, food, and adventure. And men. Handsome, dark, swarthy men.
She shouted out a “Thank you!” even as the UPS truck disappeared around a turn.
She picked up the small package and pressed it close to her chest as she thought, At least there are still available men in Phoenix. Like that delicious Harry Aldon.
The mere thought of her sexy neighbor put a smile on her face.
◆
“We’re back,” Harry called out as Beetle lumbered over to his water bowl. The house was still. Harry opened the fridge and peeked inside. “Geez,” he said, eyes scanning the empty shelves. “I’ve got to get to the supermarket. There’s nothing here.”
Check the bin. There’s fruit.
It was Richard’s voice. Deep, warm, and reassuring. The voice in Harry’s head. A voice that he’d used to comfort himself through all the years of loss.
“Oh yeah,” Harry answered. He’d put on a few pounds as of late. A healthy choice . . . until I get back to the gym.
The voice. If you don’t take it off now, it’ll be harder later.
Harry had no doubt.
“Beetle’s okay,” Harry said as he pulled out a Gala apple from the refrigerator and inspected it. Beetle searched the kitchen floor for fallen scraps.
That’s good news. It’s not his time. But when it is, I’ll be there.
Harry was suddenly frightened. I don’t want to think about that, he thought emphatically, his eyes glistening as he glanced out the kitchen window and spotted a dove waddling along the flagstone around his pool. “Gosh, I love this time of year,” he said, changing the subject.
Beetle looked up and cocked his head as if Harry were talking to him.
Harry washed the apple. He reached for a napkin in a large blue bowl decorated with lemons that he and Richard had purchased on a trip to Italy in 1987. Harry fingered the bowl. We bought this in Portofino? It was a beautiful day. Afterward, we went up to the roof of the hotel and sunned ourselves. And all those European men were wearing skimpy bathing suits. Harry smiled at the memory. “That was a lot of eye candy.”
Harry reflected as he took another bite of the apple. They’d been young, invincible. Nothing could stop them. Not long before, he’d thought he’d never find anyone to share his life with. Then Richard had come along and taken hold of him.
You were innocent. I couldn’t resist.
Harry leaned against the counter as he savored the last of the apple. Beetle was nearby in a sit position, staring up at him. His brown eyes seemed to search Harry’s face as if waiting for a word he’d recognize, like eat, treat, or play.
Innocent, Harry thought. You certainly brought me out of my shell.
Hey, I didn’t bring you out . . . I launched you out.
“You were never ashamed,” Harry said. Never wished to be anything but who you were.
Who else could I be? It’s too silly to even imagine.
Harry nodded. You’ve always been a mystery to me, he thought, as he tossed the apple core into the trash. “How did you manage to be so confident?”
It helped that I’m not crazy like you, the voice echoed.
I suppose so, Harry agreed, as he added water to Beetle’s bowl. “There you go, boy. How’s that?”
Beetle lapped at the bowl, splashing liquid on the floor. Harry grabbed a paper towel and wiped it up.
“Okay . . . come on, boy. Let’s get to work. We can’t stand around all day talking if we ever expect to finish that novel.”
Beetle looked up, giving Harry his full attention.
“Come on,” Harry repeated, and with a wave of his hand, Beetle charged down the hall and disappeared into Harry’s office.
2
Rita waited impatiently for the dryer to enter its final spin cycle.
She hated laundry day.
Why an eight-story apartment building with twenty apartments per floor had a laundry room with only four washing machines and four dryers was a maddening mystery. To beat the rush, Rita arrived at six-thirty in the morning, and even at that early hour, one or two loads were already up and running. Even so, she refused, unlike many of her neighbors, to sit on the hard, wooden bench near the door, reading a novel, and waiting to move the laundry from the washing machine to the dryer and then onto the folding table. And now that she drove Rikki to school in the morning, she had to be on the road somewhere between adding the fabric softener and the final rinse. Neighbors left angry notes in her laundry basket, complaining about her inattention to the timing of the chore. Lately, she’d found wet clothes sitting in the white plastic laundry basket atop a commandeered washing machine, waiting to go into the dryer.
“Don’t these people have anything better to do?” Rita had complained to Rikki as she prepared dinner. A hot rotisserie chicken from the grocery store sat on the counter, waiting to be carved.
Rikki held the offending note in her hand. “This says you left the laundry sitting for over forty-five minutes.”
Rita sniffed. “You know Tuesday is my day off. I get distracted. Regis and Kelly were on.”
“Well, that doesn’t seem right,” Rikki confessed, siding with the neighbors.
Rita snorted as she hacked at the chicken. “It’s like living in China or India,” she declared, though she’d never been to either place. “People on top of people.”
Rikki crushed the n
ote into a ball. “And they’re all going through our laundry.”
“Oh?” was all Rita could manage, her eyes wide with the sudden realization. “They are!” She held the carving knife in the air. “Examining our dainties. Touching our clean clothes with their grubby hands.”
And so Rita made a decision. She would pay closer attention. Perhaps bring a magazine with her.
The next Tuesday, she was there early. God, it’s hot in here, she thought, as she scanned a Reader’s Digest and waited for the dryer to go into a final spin. The intense floral smell of detergent permeated the place. This is Seymour’s fault, she groused as her eye settled on a Holland America Line advertisement to cruise the Caribbean. We could have had a house, she raged, still thinking of her former husband, even though they’d divorced decades ago and the poor man was long dead.
A stray voice broke her inner tirade.
“Rita?”
It was Helen Winer from 3L.
In her early forties, Helen was dressed like a teenager in tight blue jeans, sparkly red sneakers, and a high-necked top that hung loosely about her emaciated frame. Dear God, Rita thought. Eat something, for Christ’s sake! I’m nauseated just looking at you. But instead she said, “Oh, Helen. I didn’t see you there.” Smiling to herself. You must have slid under the door.
“I only just came down,” Helen answered, laundry basket in her veiny hands as she scanned the room. “Not one machine free? Can you believe this?”
“It’s a full house,” Rita intoned in her most charming voice. “I’m in dryer number two.”
Helen lifted the basket and placed it atop one of the running washers. Turning to Rita, she smiled. “There, now I have a reserved spot.”
Rita let out an awkward laugh, all the while wondering if it was Helen who’d been leaving her those nasty notes.
“So how’s Rikki doing?” Helen asked, taking a seat next to Rita. “Are you still driving her to school?”
“Oh, she’s doing just fine,” Rita answered, dismissing the topic with a wave of her hand. “That happened ages ago. You know how kids are. They adjust.”