The History of Soul 2065

by Barbara Krasnoff

  “That’s my older sister Myra,” explains Mrs. O’Neill, not bothering to look at her sibling. “She’s staying with me for a couple of days while her house is painted.” She sniffs. “Of course, if it were me, I’d want to supervise their every move. You never know what painters are up to.”

  Myra doesn’t seem bothered by her sister’s apparent contempt. “My husband Joe is perfectly capable of watching the painters,” she says. “No reason why I need to put up with the mess and smell if he’s willing to.” She looks back at Julie, inquiring.

  “They laid me off,” Julie tells her.

  There is a general murmur of sympathy. “That’s too bad,” says Mary. “You were there a long time, too, weren’t you?”

  “Seventeen years. They said that they had to cut back on the payroll in my division.”

  “I hear a ‘but’ in there,” says Myra, a knowing tone in her voice.

  Julie smiles ironically. “Sam, my boss, hired an ‘assistant’ for me about two months ago—young woman, right out of college—and somehow she is being kept on while I’m being let go. He said it was because they had to eliminate some of the higher salaried workers.”

  She pauses. This is where her listeners usually change the subject or offer vague reassurances. “But you don’t think that’s the whole story,” Mary prompts. The others look on expectantly, their faces friendly, sympathetic. Julie feels something rise to her throat.

  “No,” she finally says. “The company is one of the major PR organizations around for technical corporations. When we started out, we were small, taking whatever clients we could get, but now we’ve got offices on both coasts, and handle a lot of the biggest companies around. We had a meeting last month and Sam told us that we were going on to the next ‘plateau of success’—he talks that way—and that we were going to have to refine our image in order to pick up more Fortune 500 firms.” She takes a breath. “I think that a size 16 PR representative doesn’t quite fit into that image.”

  There is a moment of silence.

  Mrs. O’Neill snorts, something between a laugh and a sneeze. “Well, never mind,” she says, and launches into a long explanation of how the oldest son of a distant relative was fired, found another job through some kind of vaguely illegal connection, and was eventually rehired into a higher level of his former company. Julie soon loses the gist of it, but the sound of the narrative, and the murmurs of the listeners, is strangely soothing in the fading light. It’s as if all of them are caught in some old-time photograph that will never change—just the ladies, and the street, and the summer evening.

  Mrs. O’Neill finishes her story. “You don’t think that something like that could happen to you?” she asks. Julie, startled into awareness by the question, shrugs.

  “No. A friend of mine said that she’s going to ask around, see if there’s anything she can find out that might get me back in, but we both know that it’s pretty useless. And in today’s market, not too many other firms will have openings either. I’ll probably have to look into relocating.”

  “You know,” calls out Bev, whose considerable girth is comfortably ensconced in a loud muumuu, and who has been concentrating on filing her nails, “It’s too bad that companies like yours consider a few pounds to be some kind of crime against humanity. When I worked for that Greek travel agency, they were grateful to have somebody as good as I was.”

  “I remember that agency,” Jackie says. “Went out of business, didn’t they? Something about the Department of Immigration?”

  Bev scowls, and returns her attention to her nails. Mrs. O’Neill cackles, and turns to Norma. “What do you think?” she asks. “Is this a wine occasion?”

  For a moment, the ladies are quiet. Julie looks at each, but they all seem otherwise occupied, pulling at stray threads or lighting cigarettes. Norma finally shrugs. “Why not?” she says. “It’s been too long since we treated ourselves.”

  Jackie clears her throat. “I have a box of wine that I picked up today,” she says. “I’ll just go and get it.” There is a general murmur of approval. Jackie stretches and ambles down the block to her house.

  Rusting metal squeaks as Mrs. O’Neill pulls herself awkwardly from her wheelchair. “These bugs are driving me crazy,” she announces. “I’m going to get that bad-smelling candle that my son sent me. He said that it would keep the mosquitoes away.” She shuffles back to the door that leads to her ground-floor apartment.

  A car bounces along the street, its suspension badly in need of repair. “I hope he breaks an axle,” Bev says, irritated. “That’s what he gets for going so fast. On a block with children, too.”

  “Do you have any children, Julie?” asks Myra. Julie shakes her head. “But she still could,” says Mary. “Couldn’t you?”

  Julie hates conversations like this. “I could, I guess. It’s not very likely though. I mean, I’m nearly 48. It’s not as though I’ve got much longer to go.”

  “No.” The listening women nod noncommittally.

  “Don’t worry,” Mary tells her. “The menopause isn’t so bad. At worst, it’s a pain in the butt for a few years. Then you don’t have to worry about it again. And there are other things you can do then. New things.”

  Julie nods again but looks away. It’s fine for her, middle-class woman with a house and a 13-year-old son. I’ve got nothing. Nobody. Unless you count my mother’s elderly ex-housemate, her grown kids who have their own lives to live, and friends who constantly try to set me up with jerks.

  Just cut the crap, she reminds herself sternly. Your friends mean well. And what does Mary have that you want so much? A divorce, a mortgage, and an adolescent? So stop pitying yourself and get on with it.

  “Here we go, ladies.” Jackie ambles back up with a large cardboard box labeled Chablis. She places it on one of the steps, while Mary gets up and goes into the house, returning a couple of minutes later with a package of paper cups in one hand, and a large bag of popcorn in the other.

  Jackie takes the paper cups, and starts filling them and handing them around, while Mary offers Julie the popcorn bag. “Open this, would you?”

  “So,” asks Myra, “what was the name of that company of yours?”

  “Caesar Communications,” says Julie through her teeth, trying to pull the stubborn plastic apart.

  “Interesting name,” says Mrs. O’Neill, lowering herself back into her wheelchair. She is holding a small candle in a jelly jar, which she balances on the armrest. “In the city?”

  “Yes,” Julie mutters. The bag finally splits open. “Midtown.” She takes a handful of popcorn and gives the bag to Mrs. O’Neill.

  “It’s too bad that you might need to move. But you should find something.”

  Julie accepts a cup and sips cautiously. Not as bad as she expected.

  A small gray cat ambles out from under one of the parked cars on the street and stops, regarding the group of people with a surprising lack of fear. Julie, who is still standing outside the area railing—and who likes cats—kneels down, trying not to alarm the animal, and holds out the hand with the popcorn. Above her, the conversation goes on.

  The cat stops, and stares at her for a few moments. It then cautiously ventures forward, bright green eyes flickering warily from her face to the food.

  “Do cats eat popcorn?” Jackie asks above her.

  “My sister had a cat once, would eat lettuce,” Bev says. There is the quiet flick of a lighter and a faint acrid smell—the candle?—tickles her nose slightly.

  “You had a cat once, didn’t you?” asks Mary. Julie nods carefully, trying not to alarm the animal. “Yes,” she says. The cat doesn’t seem to mind her voice; it continues to edge closer. “Darwin. He died about four years ago.”

  “Why didn’t you get another?” Norma asks.

  “Mrs. Golini doesn’t like cats. She told me once that she couldn’t ask me to get rid of the one I had, but after Darwin died, she didn’t want any more in the house.”

  “Pity,” Mary com
ments.

  Julie nods. “Come on, cat,” she whispers as the animal edges up to her hand. “Come on. I won’t hurt you.”

  It stares up at her, down at the popcorn.

  “It would be a pity if you left the neighborhood,” says Mary. “Just when we were starting to get acquainted. We would miss you at our little gatherings. We’d like you to sit with us regularly.”

  “We would, indeed,” says Jackie.

  “We would,” echoes Myra.

  “It would be a blessing if your company decided to keep you on,” says Norma.

  “A real blessing,” Bev agrees.

  “A blessing,” Mrs. O’Neill whispers, and then hums, a strange, singsong murmur that Julie can’t quite catch. Her attention turns back to the animal.

  It stretches out its neck, sniffs at her fingertips. “That’s it, cat,” says Julie as, having decided that her offering is acceptable, it begins nibbling at the popcorn. Julie, charmed, places her cup on the ground, reaches over, and gently scratches the animal’s soft head. For a few seconds, there is nothing in Julie’s world but the quiet purring of the cat trembling against her fingers.

  A sudden hiss from behind her. Startled, Julie looks up. A small gray wisp of smoke curls up from the extinguished flame. “Oh, dear,” said Mrs. O’Neill. “Now look what I’ve done. Spilled my wine. And right on the candle, too.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Jackie says. “Plenty more where that came from.”

  The cat quickly turns and scoots off. Julie reaches for her cup and stands with some difficulty, feeling unexercised muscles protest. She takes another sip of wine.

  “I’ll bet you miss having a cat,” Mary says.

  Julie smiles. “Yes, a bit. Things are a lot cleaner now without the cat litter and fur balls, but I do miss having a pet around. They seem to know exactly when you need somebody to caress.”

  “I’m allergic to animals,” Bev complains. “Cats make me break out in hives.”

  “I’ve told you that you should get a bird,” Mrs. O’Neill tells her.

  “Birds are dirty,” Bev grouses.

  “Only if you don’t clean their cages,” Julie tells her. “I had a parakeet when I was a kid. It was nice. I trained it to ride on my shoulder.”

  Suddenly, her beeper chimes at her. “Better check that,” Mrs. O’Neill says.

  Julie pulls it off her belt and checks the screen. Clients in revolt. Expect a call. Demand a hefty raise. You owe me dinner. Ginnie.

  Julie looks up wordlessly. “Good news?” Mrs. O’Neill asks, accepting another cup of wine from Jackie. “Maybe that Sam found he needs you after all?”

  Julie stares at her. But the woman just brushes some popcorn crumbs off her housedress and smiles.

  “Good,” Mary says. “It would be a pity for Julie to have to leave just when we were getting to know her.”

  “You know,” says Jackie, “That cat really took to you. Maybe you should adopt it.”

  “If you do, get it fixed,” Norma says. “Too many wild cats around here.”

  Julie looks at her neighbors. “Mrs. Golini won’t let me have any pets,” she says slowly.

  “Maybe,” Mrs. O’Neill says. “We can change her mind.”

  Escape Route

  Julie Jacobson’s story continues

  2016

  Escape had become necessary. But Julie wasn’t sure it was still possible.

  Time had not slowed, even for her. For several years, especially after she retired, she sat with and learned from the ladies who gathered on the stoops of her Brooklyn neighborhood. But then, one by one, they disappeared into nursing homes or the care of their children. Their houses were sold and occupied by prosperous, polite but distant young families who were too busy finding private schools for their children to be interested in sitting and gossiping on stoops.

  The stoop ladies weren’t the only people Julie lost. Her mother and her mother’s friend Isabeau were both long gone. Other relatives moved away and forgot her—or died. Friends, displaced by rising rents or simple restlessness, also left, to become online ghosts, untouchable and far away.

  She even lost touch with Isabeau’s children, Mark and Eileen, who still lived in the city. Every spring, they sent her a newsy letter along with an invitation to their Passover seder. But Julie had never been close to them—she was over 15 years older than they were, and even when her mother was alive, she had only seen them occasionally. So each year, when the letter came, she assumed that the invitation was made out of politeness and would, with equal politeness, decline.

  And then one day the second-floor apartment that she had rented for 30 years was claimed by her landlady’s daughter, now grown and visibly pregnant, who gave her a month to vacate. Unable to find anything nearby that she could afford, Julie gave her cat to a willing neighbor and moved to a small apartment on a noisy street in a neighborhood where she was completely unknown.

  Her life crashed. Circumstances and her own body had finally betrayed her. The expenses and tensions of the move—exacerbated by a nasty case of arthritis, for which she had to visit several doctors—drained her retirement savings. She was old, and slow, and lame—and alone.

  Even her former energy and power—the power that had been taught her by the small community of stoop ladies—had ebbed away, stolen by time and isolation. All she had left was a locket that Mrs. O’Neill had given her. And that wasn’t something she wanted to use. Yet.

  Each night, Julie would sit and stare out the window at the people passing, feeling as though she were watching life from a distance. “I understand now, mom,” she told the framed photo that sat on a side table. “It all goes away in the end, doesn’t it? Everything just fades away. Maybe you were luckier than I am. You forgot what you once were.”

  Existence narrowed to the daily grind of surviving one more week, one more day. Her main avenue of escape became the worlds of fiction, and she was starting to lose even those. The local movie theatre went out of business and became a large and unneeded drug store. Her old TV stopped working, and she couldn’t afford a new set (never mind a cable subscription or Internet feed). Finally, the only place she had left was the public library.

  Unfortunately, the nearest branch was several miles away, and the way to get there was neither short nor simple. So she had to limit her trips to once a week; the rest of her days were spent in anticipation and hope.

  Each week, when the day came, Julie planned carefully. The night before, she laid out her clothes, the books she had to return, a sandwich for lunch and everything else she would need. In the morning, she got up early so she could shower, dress and breakfast—none of which could be done quickly—and still be able to leave in plenty of time.

  When she was ready to go, Julie first had to navigate her way down from her tiny apartment to the street—assuming the elevator was working. Then there were the three blocks to the bus stop, which could take anywhere from 15 minutes to half an hour, depending on the weather.

  Luckily, today was easier than usual; it was a cool, sunny autumn day—“sweater weather,” as Julie’s mother used to call it—and that would make things a little more pleasant.

  Once she got outside her apartment building, Julie made sure her pocketbook—large enough to carry her keys, wallet, medications, a small bottle of water and two library books—was slung around her shoulders, and that her locket was securely fastened around her neck. She then began to make her way down the sidewalk, her walker tapping a slow, steady rhythm against the cement.

  She usually timed herself so that there was no chance she would miss the bus. Today, however, she must have left late, or taken longer to walk, because the bus pulled up only about five minutes after she arrived.

  As soon as the bus driver spotted Julie, she hit the switch that would sink the front of the vehicle down so there would be less need to step up. “Do you need help?” the driver asked, and Julie shook her head.

  She folded her walker and clutched it in one hand as she
pulled herself up into the bus using the handrail. She dipped her senior citizen card into the slot, smiled at the driver, and made her way down the aisle to the first available seat, ignoring the irritated glances she was getting from the riders who obviously resented the time she was taking (and the fact that driver was waiting until Julie was seated to resume the trip).

  The bus ride itself was about 20 minutes. When she reached her stop, Julie began to climb down from the bus; the driver squeezed out of her seat, took Julie’s walker, carried it easily out of the bus and then unfolded it for her.

  “Have a good day,” the driver said to her, smiling, and then yelled, “Okay, just a minute, for chrissakes!” at somebody in the bus as she went back in. The door shut with a pneumatic whine and the bus continued down the street.

  Julie took a breath, made sure all her belongings were where they should be, and started the four blocks to the library.

  Pedestrians strode around her quickly, trying not to look, impatient with her sluggish pace and terrified of what she implied about their own mortality. A group of teens knocked into her and ran on, laughing, as she stopped to collect herself, clutching desperately at her last treasure: The locket at her throat.

  It had been given to her by old Mrs. O’Neill as she lay dying, shrunken and immobile, in a hospital bed. “When this was given to me,” Mrs. O’Neill whispered to Julie all these years ago, “I thought I would use it at a time like this, when I was old and bedridden and with not much time left in my body. I thought that I would be prepared to be part of two selves in a newer, more healthy body. But I can’t.”

  “Use it with me,” Julie begged, terrified that she was about to lose a woman who had become one of her closest friends. Mrs. O’Neill smiled.

  “That’s sweet of you, darlin’. But I’m too used to being on my own. And I’m tired. I’m ready to leave. You take it. Use it if you ever need to or want to. But if you do use it,” she said, so quietly that Julie could hardly hear her, “choose someone who might not mind sharing.”