by Brad Graber
“Me?” Rikki answered, stalling for time.
Rita stood, hands on her hips, giving Rikki an odd look.
“I’ve just been lying here thinking about how much I’ve come to love Queens.”
Rita’s face broke into a smile. “Really? Oh, I’m so glad. I knew we’d eventually win you over.” She pulled out Rikki’s desk chair and sat down. “It’s such a relief,” she continued, giving her neck a twist. “Everyone told me, just give her time. She’ll adjust. But I have to say, waiting for you to come around hasn’t been easy.”
Rikki shifted her position, sitting up and pulling her knees into her chest, wrapping her arms about her legs. “So, what about breakfast?” She wanted Rita out of her bedroom so that she might hide the album in the back of the closet. Somewhere Rita would never look.
“You seem so jumpy,” Rita said, narrowing her eyes and inspecting Rikki. “What’s going on? Is it school?”
“Oh, course not,” Rikki answered, her patience running short. “I’m just hungry,” she said matter-of-factly.
“No, it’s more than that.” Rita looked about. “Everything seems in place. Nothing’s wrong?”
“Of course not. Let’s eat,” Rikki said, leaping to her feet as black specks from the pages of the album fell from her lap.
“What’s this?” Rita asked, suddenly alarmed. “Oh, my God. It’s snowing ash.”
Rikki wiped her lap. “It’s nothing. Just some dirt.”
Rita fell to her knees to examine the carpet by the bed. Her fingers lifted some of the black specks. “What is it?” she asked again, looking at her granddaughter. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Rikki’s heart raced. How to escape Rita’s intense inspection? “It’s nothing,” she repeated, this time standing in the doorway. But before she could say another word, Rita lifted up the bed skirt and ran a hand under the bed.
◆
“How did you get this?” Rita asked. Her stony face seemed impervious to emotion. Rikki had seen her mad before, but this was different. “I asked you a question.”
Rikki wasn’t sure what to say. She just stood in the doorway and, for the moment, felt as if she were holding it up.
“You went through my things, didn’t you?”
The answer seemed obvious. Rikki saw no need to confirm Rita’s conclusion.
“Well, I just don’t know what to do with you.” Rita held her head high. Her eyes were cold. “I do everything I can and you go behind my back. Now tell me exactly what you’re trying to find out.”
Rikki had no answer.
“It must be something,” Rita shouted, now up on her feet. “A young girl doesn’t sneak around for no reason.”
Perhaps it was the accusatory tone of Rita’s voice, Rikki wasn’t sure, but suddenly Rikki’s lips were moving and her voice was rising to meet Rita’s pitch. Fear had morphed into resentment, and then anger. There was no holding back as the words spewed forth. “Why did you get rid of my mother’s artwork? Why have you tried to obliterate her memory? Why can’t I ever mention her name without you changing the subject? And why,” Rikki asked, wildly gesturing, “are there no pictures of my mother in this apartment?”
Rita jumped up and pulled Rikki back into the bedroom. She closed the bedroom door. “Lower your voice. Do you want everyone in the building to know our business?”
“I don’t care who hears me!” Rikki shrieked “I don’t care!”
Rita gave her granddaughter’s shoulder a shake. “I won’t be spoken to like this. You lower your voice and talk to me plainly or we aren’t going to talk.”
“But that’s the problem,” Rikki said. “You don’t talk. You don’t tell me anything. You want me to forget my mother, don’t you? You never loved her. Never. And you don’t love me.”
Rita’s eyes flashed. “How can you say that? Do you know what it’s like to lose a child? Can you ever know what kind of pain a mother goes through? You’re too young. God willing, you’ll never experience it.”
Rikki had heard it all before. The twist of the screw. How Rita was able to turn a conversation and make it all about herself. She was a pro when it came to manipulation. “I’m not listening to you,” Rikki yelled, covering her ears. “I don’t want to hear how this is all about you. Your daughter. Your loss. I’ve heard all I’m going to hear.”
“You’re ungrateful,” Rita said, opening the bedroom door. “An ungrateful, spoiled, little girl. I deserve better than you,” she announced as she gave Rikki the harshest glare yet. “I’m going out. You can manage on your own to get to school. You won’t be bothered by my company. And when you’re ready to apologize, I’ll be waiting.”
◆
“I caught him limping this morning,” Harry explained. “I have a deadline coming up, but I thought I’d better bring him in.”
Dr. Newbar watched Beetle walk, the left rear leg held up in the air as he hopped along. “Okay, I see. Let’s get him on the table,” he instructed Harry. “Now hold him below the belly and lift him up slightly off the table.”
Harry did as he was told. He could feel Beetle’s heart beating intensely, the terrier’s chest expanding broadly with each breath as Newbar manipulated each of the rear legs. Harry looked away, unable to bear the thought that Newbar might be hurting the dog.
“Yup. Here it is,” Newbar said. Harry turned his attention to the leg. “Right here,” Newbar declared. “He’s got a torn anterior cruciate ligament.”
Harry thought he’d faint.
“Okay,” the vet said as he released Beetle to Harry, who whisked the frightened animal into his arms, gently rocking him. “It’s age. Wear and tear.”
“But what should I do?” Harry asked, his heart already in his throat. “He loves to walk and play ball. How can he do that now?”
The vet was writing a note in the medical record. “Well, he can’t do that now. For the time being, he’s going to need to rest. No jumping, no running. You’ve got to keep him quiet. With luck, the joint will calcify and repair itself to some degree. But that will take months. Until then, he’s going to have to take it easy.”
“What about surgery?” Harry asked.
Newbar shook his head. “Not with congestive heart disease. It’s out of the question.”
“Congestive heart disease? What are you talking about?”
Newbar stopped his scribbling. “Harry, that heart murmur is the beginning of congestive heart disease.”
“But you never told me that,” Harry said indignantly.
“Well, it doesn’t always happen . . . I didn’t want to worry you. But the signs are all there. He’s at the very earliest stages of it.” Newbar offered Harry a sympathetic face. “I’m so sorry, Harry.”
“And now he’ll be limping?”
“Dogs under thirty pounds can do quite well, given time. My advice is, let him be thirteen. That’s his age; that’s how you need to be caring for him.”
Harry didn’t like the vet’s implication.
“You’re a great doggy dad, Harry, but Beetle is a senior dog.”
In front of the vet, with Beetle in his arms, Harry completely lost it, breaking into a loud wail.
◆
“Oh, Harry, how awful,” Lil said upon hearing the news.
A pizza box from Babbo’s Italian Restaurant lay open on Harry’s kitchen counter. She’d brought it over after hearing Harry’s voice on the phone.
“Now, you’ve got to eat something,” she implored as she lifted a slice and placed it on a plate. She set the plate down on the coffee table in front of Harry.
“I don’t know,” he said, pushing the plate away. “I just can’t. To some people it might seem ridiculous, but I love Beetle more than I love myself. I just can’t imagine my life without him.”
“I understand,” Lil cooed, coming over to the sofa and sliding in next to Harry. She gently glided her hand over Harry’s lower back and up to his shoulder blade. She gave him three good squeezes.
“That
feels good,” he said as he started to relax.
“Now, you just sit back,” she said, moving her hand away so that Harry could sink down into the sofa. “There you go,” she said, giving him a pat on the inner thigh as she pivoted to offer his forehead a gentle rub. “You’re so tense. No wonder you’re all upset. You’re holding all that negative energy. You have to release those toxins,” she said, “or it’ll damage your organs.”
Beetle, lying in his bed nearby, whined, causing Harry to sit right up.
“What is it, boy?” he asked, sliding off the sofa and onto the floor to be next to Beetle. “Does it hurt?”
“Oh, Harry,” Lil said. “Don’t be ridiculous. He just wants your attention.”
Harry pressed his head next to Beetle’s. The terrier’s eyes closed as Harry rubbed up against him. “He’s the most important thing in my life. I love this dog.”
Lil stood up. “I’ve got to go.”
“Don’t leave, Lil. We still have the pizza to eat.”
“What’s the point, Harry Aldon?” she said, hands in the air. “What does a girl have to do to get your attention?”
Harry sighed, oblivious to Lil as he continued to pet Beetle.
“I’m out of here,” she announced in an exasperated tone as she headed for the door.
◆
I thought she’d never leave. Richard’s voice was back. Boy, she’s pushy. Pizza? Like that’s supposed to cheer you up.
“It was nice,” Harry said. She’s nice.
But does she know about you? What you’re like? That you have a voice in your head? That you’ve been with men?
“That’s my business,” Harry said to no one other than Beetle.
You’re gonna ruin your life for that yoga yahoo. She might be able to touch her toes with her nose—but she’s not good enough. You deserve a sweet guy who will look after you.
Harry made a face. “I’m a successful author. I don’t need anyone to take care of me.” I’m perfectly capable . . . I’ve lived alone all these years without you.
You’ve had Beetle.
“Yes,” Harry agreed.
You’re really a child. A sixty-year-old child.
I’m fifty-four and a half, Harry defended himself.
What are you, in kindergarten? Adults don’t describe themselves in half-years.
“I do,” Harry said, giving Beetle another kiss on the head. Now, if you don’t mind, Beetle and I have work to do. I need to wrap up a few scenes before I finish the next chapter.
Come on, now, Richard said. I’m following that story of yours and it makes no sense. Face it, you’ve lost yourself in that convoluted plot.
Harry rose to his feet. “Don’t you worry. I’ll figure it out. You know my books come to me as I write them.” He reached down and lifted Beetle into his arms.
You’ll never write your way out of that mess if you marry Lil.
“Marry?” Harry let out a laugh. How did you get there? I barely know the woman.
She has designs on you, Harry. Any fool can see that.
◆
That evening at dinner, Rita remained aloof. No matter how Rikki tried, she couldn’t engage her grandmother. Yes, no, maybe had been the limit of Rita’s contributions to the dinner conversation. Frustrated, Rikki found herself unable to finish the baked chicken on her plate. She slumped in her seat as she watched Rita bite into a tater tot. “Okay, I give up,” Rikki acquiesced. “I’m not doing this anymore. I’m not going to sit here and try to make conversation. What’s the point?”
Rita took a sip of water. “I’ll have you know that I returned that album to where it belonged.”
Rikki clenched her fists, trying to control her intense frustration. “I don’t understand,” she finally said, unable to silence the voice inside her head. “Why are my mother’s things stored away? And why would you give away her paintings?” And before she knew it was coming, Rikki blurted out, “And who was that little boy in those family pictures? Do I have an uncle?”
“That’s none of your business,” Rita snapped.
Incredulous, Rikki pushed back from the table and stood up. “Why? What are you keeping from me?”
“This conversation is over,” Rita declared as she picked up her plate and walked over to the sink.
“No,” Rikki said boldly. “It’s over when I say it’s over.”
Rita’s eyes flashed. “You’ve turned into quite the teenager. Sneaking around and lying.”
“I never lied,” Rikki insisted. “But you have. You won’t discuss my mother and now you won’t talk about that boy in the pictures.”
“I don’t owe you an explanation!” Rita shrieked so loudly that Rikki was certain her voice must have carried at least two floors below. “I’m the adult. I decide what you need to know.”
Rikki suppressed the hot flash of tears. I’m not going to cry, she told herself. You can’t win if you cry.
“Now if you’re done with your dinner, you can go to your room,” Rita stated flatly.
Rikki sat on her bed clutching her pillow. The confrontation with Rita played over and over in her mind. It all seemed so senseless, so unreasonable.
What can possibly be going on? What had happened to her mother and uncle? She struggled to understand how her relationship with Rita had so quickly fallen apart. And then there was a knock on her bedroom door. Rita came into the room, appearing to have calmed herself since their last interaction. Rikki noticed the dark lines under her grandmother’s eyes. She looked tired.
Rita sat on the canvas sofa. A bullfighter’s sweeping red cape hung on the wall within inches of her head.
“I’ve given it some thought—and I think we need a time out.”
Rikki stared at Rita. “What do you mean?”
“I think we need some time apart,” she simply stated. “You’re beginning to wear on my nerves. I’d like to take a break.”
Rikki’s heart lurched as she considered the implication of Rita’s words.
“After all,” Rita began, “we haven’t been getting along, so maybe we need some distance.”
Rikki struggled to catch her breath. “But how?” she stammered.
“You want to go with Barbra to Toledo. I think you should go.”
Rikki could hardly believe her ears.
7
El Goldenbaum hated her job at Macy’s. Working nine to five at the perfume counter was a soul-crushing schedule for an artist who, against her better judgment, had followed her mother’s advice and graduated with a Master of Fine Arts in interior design from Pratt Institute in New York City. Sharing a two-bedroom flat in an East Village walk-up with five other girls had become too much for El. The mess and filth of six human beings stuffed into such a tight space wore on her nerves. And though she prided herself on being an independent adult, she often returned to Aguilar Gardens to settle back into her old room, allowing Rita to baby her. It was during one of those hiatuses from the East Village that El shared the news about Haney & Lewis Interior Designs. She’d been recommended by Lee Rator, one of the celebrated professors at Pratt, to interview for an intern position. H&L, located in the heart of lower Manhattan at 7th Avenue and Broadway, was one of New York City’s most exclusive interior design firms, with a roster of high-end commercial and residential clients.
“I knew it.” Rita clapped with glee. “I knew this day would come,” she said after El explained the opportunity with H&L. “This is just what we always wanted.”
El eyed her mother suspiciously. Rita was overwhelmed with joy, bouncing about the kitchen as she prepared Sunday brunch. She’d never understood El’s passion for painting. Even at this moment, with the internship at her fingertips, El couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to match Rita’s excitement. As El sat at the kitchen table watching Rita pull a tray of corn muffins from the oven, she felt as if she’d given up on her dreams. Surrendered to the inevitable.
“Will there be a lot of money involved?” Rita asked, as El sipped her coffee. Rita stood
in front of an open refrigerator.
“A stipend comes with the internship. But it’s not much. Lee says I really should be paying them for this chance.”
“Lee?” Rita asked. “Is that a man or a woman?”
“A man, mother,” El answered, amused that anyone would ever consider a six-foot-three former high school quarterback a woman.
“Well, it could be a woman’s name,” Rita defended herself, retrieving the butter dish and placing it on the table. “Lee Remick. Lee Grant.”
“Or Lee Marvin. Lee Majors . . . The Six Million Dollar Man,” El said.
“Talk about confusing a child,” Rita said. “It reminds me of that Johnny Cash song, ‘A Boy Named Sue.’”
“Mother, really, you should read a magazine every now and then. There are lots of names that are interchangeable. Sandy. Leslie. Dana. No one but you seems confused.”
Rita took a seat. “Now, don’t get fresh,” she said as she sliced a muffin in half and covered it in butter. “I read. Do you think I live in a hole in the ground?”
El looked about. “No. Last I checked this is the sixth floor.”
“Don’t be funny,” Rita answered, clearly not amused.
And then El took a chance. It was a blind shot. “Have you spoken to Richard?”
“Why are you asking me that?” Rita asked defensively.
“Just wondering.”
“You know we don’t talk.” Rita leaned in and bit into the muffin. Crumbs cascaded across the plate.
El had not interfered in months. She thought it hopeless to try to get her mother to reconcile with her younger brother. Besides, she thought, that isn’t my job. Yet she couldn’t help but be disappointed in Rita.
“You should bury the hatchet. How long do you plan on punishing him?”
Rita bristled. “I’m not punishing him. He’s punishing me.”
“Okay, okay,” El responded, hands in the air. “Keep your cool.”
“God, I hate when you do that,” Rita barked. “You bring it up and then you tell me to keep my cool. Maybe you should mind your own business.”
“Oh, Mother,” El sighed. “Really! You should give it a rest. He didn’t do anything to you. Being homosexual had nothing to do with you.”