City of Margins

by William Boyle

  “Tomorrow night,” Nick says. “I’m yours tomorrow night.”

  “My hand’s between my legs,” Alice says in a hushed voice.

  “Alice.”

  “Just listen. Okay? Can you listen at least?”

  He doesn’t say anything, and he listens as she moans like a porno and talks him through what exactly she’s doing, how she’s slowly butting out her cigarette in a clean, clear ashtray she stole from the diner on Fourth Avenue, where she’s putting her hands, what her skin feels like, saying how wet she is for him. He can’t take it. If he had a car, he’d drive there now. Maybe he should just call a car service. But the thought of Ava trying to get through is keeping him from fully enjoying Alice’s show. She’s fine.

  “This phone belonged to my grandparents,” Nick says, interrupting Alice. “I can see my grandmother wiping it down with rubbing alcohol when my grandfather had a cold.”

  Silence on the other end. “Is that you talking dirty?” Alice finally says, laughing a little. “Should I continue?”

  Nick gulps. What happens if Ava comes marching in with bags of groceries or something and he’s got his hand down his pants, stroking away like a champ? Twenty-nine years and she’s never once caught him whacking off. He doesn’t want to start now, even if phone sex with his girlfriend is a way less devastating scene than a lonely bathroom tug or living room pillow hump.

  “Okay,” he says.

  “I’m on my bed. I’m really not wearing anything. I’m not lying. I’m so hot. You know I get hot easy when the AC’s not on.”

  “Put on the AC.”

  “You’re really fucking bad at this.”

  In the front of the house, the door bursts open. “Nick?” Ava calls out.

  He hears the sound of a bag being put down in the hall. “I’ve gotta go,” Nick says to Alice.

  “Really?” Alice says. “I’m really naked. Like really. This is real, what I’m doing. This isn’t just talk.”

  “Ava’s home.” Nick hangs up the phone and nudges his boner under his waistband, hoping it’ll deflate before he sees Ava. Nothing’s worse than standing in front of your mother with wood.

  “Nick?” Ava says again.

  He goes out to the foyer, his hands crossed over his midsection. Ava’s standing there in her pantsuit with a Macy’s bag at her feet. A man is behind her. Nick doesn’t know him, but he looks familiar.

  “What happened?” Nick asks. “I was worried.”

  “The car broke down on the Belt,” Ava says.

  “Goddamn. Again?”

  “This is Don. He was nice enough to stop and give me a ride home.”

  Nick’s wood has shriveled up, but he can’t shake thinking about Alice on that bed. He goes over to Don with his hand out. “Thanks so much for helping my mother.”

  Don smiles. They shake. “It was nothing. It was a tough spot. I’ve been there myself.”

  “I know you from somewhere?” Nick says, letting go of Don’s hand.

  “I don’t think so,” Don says.

  “We’ve got to call Triple A,” Ava says. “The car’s just sitting out there.”

  “It’ll be okay,” Don says.

  “Come in, Don,” Ava says. “I’ve just gotta make this call and then I’ll fix you something to eat. I can defrost gravy. It’s dinnertime. You must be hungry.”

  “I should go.”

  “You got a wife?”

  Don shakes his head.

  “So you’ve got nothing to eat at home. Let me make you a nice home-cooked meal. After that, coffee and cookies. It’s the least I can do.”

  Don hesitates and then says, “That sounds great.”

  Ava leads Don into the kitchen. Nick follows behind. He studies the guy. Work boots and jeans and a T-shirt. A certain kind of guinea swagger specific to the generation ahead of him. His face is familiar, but Nick can’t quite place it.

  Ava calls AAA. She seems relieved that the truck’s on its way to tow the Nova. They’ll bring the car straight to Flash Auto, they say, and Sal and Frankie will deal with it first thing in the morning. She manages to catch Frankie in the office before he leaves for the day, and Nick can tell from their conversation that Frankie’s being highly apologetic and saying that they’ll figure out what’s going on with the car.

  Nick sits across from Don at the kitchen table. When she’s done on the phone, Ava sets plates and napkins and forks in front of them.

  Don studies the summery tablecloth first and then the picture of the Virgin Mary up on the wall.

  Ava moves to the stove. She goes to work, defrosting an icy block of gravy in a saucepan with a burnt black bottom and a dangling handle. She puts water on to boil for spaghetti. “You divorced, Don?” Ava asks over her shoulder.

  “Oh, leave the poor guy alone,” Nick says. And to Don: “You give the lady a lift, I bet you weren’t expecting Twenty Questions.”

  “It’s okay,” Don says. “Yeah, I’m divorced.”

  Ava pauses, stabs at the gravy as the ice begins to melt away. “My husband died. Pancreatic cancer. Nick was in college. I don’t like being a widow. The men at church, they want to go for a walk or take me for coffee. Doesn’t sound appealing to me. I get hit on a lot at the place where I work, too. All these old farts.”

  “I’ve had an on-again off-again girlfriend for a couple years now,” Don says.

  “She must want to get married. Second marriages are tough. I mean, that’s what I hear.”

  “We’re off-again.”

  “Ava,” Nick says. “Drop the third degree.”

  “My son doesn’t want to get married,” Ava says. “He’s got a nice girlfriend. Gorgeous. She’s got the guys lining up. He still doesn’t want to get married. I tell him, ‘You better be careful. She’s not going to be young forever. You’re not going to be young forever.’”

  “What can I say?” Nick says. “I like living at home with my mother. I like the home-cooking.” He thumps his belly with his hands.

  “He can eat, God bless him,” Ava says, “but he stays so skinny. How about you, Don? You like to eat?”

  “I could take or leave it,” Don says.

  “Take or leave eating?” Nick says.

  “You know, I do it. I grab a roll here, a slice of pizza there. I don’t really think about it.”

  “To each his own,” Ava says.

  “You want a drink?” Nick asks Don. “I think we’ve got some leftover scotch from my old man. I like bourbon. I went to Kentucky once, and I came back a bourbon fiend.”

  “Now you’re talking my language,” Don says. “Scotch sounds great.”

  Nick winks at him. “I’ve got you covered, my man.” He goes over to the liquor cabinet and grabs a half-full bottle of Johnnie Walker Red and a brand-new bottle of Maker’s Mark he picked up at Liquor One a few days ago. He puts the bottles on the table. “Ice? Soda?”

  “Little ice maybe,” Don says.

  The tumblers are in the cabinet over by the stove. Nick gently elbows Ava out of the way and grabs a couple, rinsing them in the sink. He gets ice from the freezer and drops a few cubes into each glass. He puts one in front of Don. Don pours the scotch for himself. Nick sits back down, peels open the wax on the Maker’s Mark, and fixes himself a hefty glassful.

  The boiling water hums on the stove. Ava takes out a box of spaghetti and empties it into the water, stirring it with a wooden spoon so it doesn’t clump up or stick to the pot. She spoons a little gravy into the water.

  “You said you went to Kentucky once?” Don says to Nick. “What for?”

  “What do you think?” Nick says.

  “A woman?”

  “Right. Mallory. I met her in college. We hooked back up a few years later when she was living in Park Slope. Then she split for grad school in Lexington. I chased her down there. It only lasted a week. But I got turned onto bourbon for good. Kentucky’s pretty nice. Bluegrass, that’s a real thing. Like, the grass is really blue.”

  “I’ve never been ou
t of the city,” Don says.

  “Me neither,” Ava says. “Except Jersey. But that doesn’t count.” She stirs the gravy dramatically, tastes it off the spoon. “I always wanted to go to Italy.”

  “My grandparents on both sides were off the boat,” Don says.

  “Same here. We’ve got a lot of family over there. Calabria. Naples. Sicily.”

  Don downs his drink and pours more. “My old man’s side is from Potenza. He was a bricklayer. He came from a family of bricklayers. My mother’s side is from Bari.”

  “Did you bring your cigarettes in?” Ava asks Don.

  “I sure did,” Don says. He takes the case out of his pocket and sets it on the table, opening it to a neat line of Pall Malls.

  “I forgot my Viceroys in the car,” Ava says to Nick. “Don’s been nice enough to share his cigarettes with me.”

  Nick takes notice of the case. It’s silver and old-looking. Engraved on the outside with a floral motif. “That’s a nice case you’ve got there,” Nick says.

  “I like it,” Don says, holding it up.

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “Picked the pocket of some stiff,” Donnie says, and he smiles.

  Nick laughs. This guy’s got character. “‘Some stiff.’ That’s good.”

  Ava comes over to the table. Don passes her a cigarette and she leans over and he lights it for her with the yellow Bic. She thanks him and goes back to the stove, blowing her smoke away from the gravy and the spaghetti.

  “I think I smoke because I like carrying around the case,” Don says, taking one out for himself and lighting it. “You don’t want one?”

  “I don’t smoke,” Nick says.

  “It’s a new habit for Don,” Ava says. “That’s the way to do it. Go your youth without smoking and then take it up in your forties. Nothing to lose.”

  Something about Don itches at Nick. “I don’t know you from somewhere?” Nick asks.

  Don blows smoke at the ceiling. “I don’t think so,” he says.

  Ava takes the strainer down from over the stove. She wraps a piece of spaghetti around the wooden spoon and blows on it and then slurps up the strand to test it for doneness. “Good,” she says. She puts out her cigarette in an empty Cento can on the counter and strains the spaghetti over the sink. She puts it back in the pot and mixes in the gravy. And then she serves them a bowl each with more gravy on top and some fresh grated Parmesan from Pastosa. Nick’s in his glory. He’s sorry to say this might trump sweet Alice. Don puts out his cigarette and digs in.

  MIKEY BALDINI

  The teller at Williamsburgh Savings Bank is Russian, beautiful in a weary way. Mikey noticed her last time he was in to get something from the safe deposit box for his mother. He swore he’d come back and ask her out. He’s standing right in front of her now, looking at her through the glass panel between them. She’s wearing a light red shirt. The two top buttons are open. Her skin is pale. She’s got freckles on her nose. Blue eyes and blond hair. Her name tag reads LUDMILLA. She’s waiting for him to say something. He’s got a deposit envelope on the counter in front of him. He writes on it with the pen chained to the counter: Would you go out with me? He passes her the envelope.

  She laughs. “You don’t talk?”

  He shrugs.

  “What’s your name?” she asks.

  He takes the envelope back and writes his name.

  There’s an old lady with a shopping cart behind him in line, getting impatient. Another old lady has strutted through the revolving front door with a bag of groceries. The guard is yawning, sitting on a folding chair by the stairs down to the safe deposit boxes. Other official bank people are doing official bank shit.

  Ludmilla shakes her head. “Sorry, man.”

  He sighs.

  The old lady behind him says something in Italian. He’s throwing her whole day off, he can tell. She’s got people to feed, other stops to make. He’s an inconvenience.

  He turns. “I’m sorry, miss,” he says, holding up his hand. “Just give me a minute here.”

  “So, you do talk,” Ludmilla says.

  “You get a smoke break?” Mikey asks. “Come outside with me. Give me five minutes. I don’t convince you to go out with me, forget we ever met. I’ll leave you alone.”

  Ludmilla takes him in. He’s wearing a wispy thrift store T-shirt and has holes in the knees of his wrinkled jeans. He hasn’t shaved in about two months, and he’s got a beard now. He mostly wanted to cover up the chin tattoo he got from some crust punks his freshman year of college at SUNY New Paltz. His earlobes are ruined from the gauges he wore for two years. He can stick his fingers in the holes the gauges left. It feels weird. But, he knows, he’s not an ugly dude. He’s got a shot. He bets Ludmilla is thinking he’s cute.

  Ludmilla calls out to another guy roaming around behind the counter. “Jimmy, take over for me! I’m going out for a smoke!”

  Jimmy nods and trudges over.

  Ludmilla comes out from behind the counter and guides Mikey through the lobby. They go through the revolving door together, standing close.

  Outside, Eighty-Sixth Street is alive with shoppers. It’s midafternoon, and people are going from store to store with their bags and carts, hauling fruit and bread and vegetables. It’s nice out, not that hot, low eighties maybe. Cars honk under the El, fighting to double-park.

  Ludmilla leans against the wall of the bank and fishes a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of her slacks. She offers him one, and he shakes her off. “You invited me out for a smoke but you don’t smoke?” she says.

  “Right,” he says.

  “And your name’s Mikey? You don’t look like a Mikey.”

  “What’s a Mikey look like?”

  “I don’t know. Silly.” She blows smoke at him. “You’re a mess, but you’re handsome. How old are you?”

  “Twenty?”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “I’ll be twenty-one tomorrow.”

  “Happy birthday.”

  “So, would you go out with me?”

  “I thought you had a plan to convince me.”

  Mikey shrugs.

  “Where will you take me?” Ludmilla asks.

  “I don’t know. There’s a Chinese place I like on Bath Avenue. It’s called Sixth Happiness. Or we could go to Spumoni Gardens?”

  “Chinese or pizza?”

  Mikey hadn’t thought this through. Truth is he never thought he’d get this far. Ludmilla’s classy. She probably dates rich guys who take her to steakhouses.

  “You’re not in college?” Ludmilla asks.

  “I dropped out.”

  “You should get your degree.”

  Mikey can’t tell how old Ludmilla is. She’s probably only twenty-five or thirty, but she’s got this mature thing going on, like she’s crossed an ocean and seen some hard shit and lived to tell the tale.

  Ludmilla continues: “You flunked out? Someone broke your heart?”

  “Little of both,” Mikey says, trying not to think about Ginny, who’d busted his heart pretty good and then hightailed it to Maine on a whim with a hippie she met at a fucking Phish show. People really like that Phish shit. It makes them happy, and they’re probably fine in the head, rarely as down as him, doing their goddamn hippie dances and making fucking flower crowns. Ginny was okay. He misses things about her but not the way she says certain words because she’s from upstate or the way she refuses to call him Mikey, only Michael.

  “Do you even have any money to take me out?” Ludmilla asks.

  “I’m between jobs right now.”

  She digs around in her cigarette pocket and takes out a couple of crinkled twenties. She presses them into his palm. “It’s not much, but consider it a gift.”

  He looks at the money. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Ask another girl out, someone your age. Take her somewhere decent.”

  “Really, no. I don’t need pity.” Mikey tries to give her the money back.

 
She refuses. “Do you have a family?”

  “I’m not an orphan!”

  “You have such sad eyes,” Ludmilla says and then she drops the cigarette to the sidewalk, crushes it under her heel, and heads back into the bank.

  Mikey holds the bills up to his face. They smell like they’ve been in a beautiful woman’s pocket all day. He wonders what they’d smell like if they’d been in his pocket. Probably sour sweat.

  He walks away from the bank and crosses Eighty-Sixth Street, dodging a bus. He couldn’t have anticipated a therapy session with Ludmilla. He also couldn’t have anticipated a handout from her. Usually his handouts only come from his mother or Uncle Alberto, not strangers. He must really look like a bum today.

  He goes straight to Spanky’s Lounge on Cropsey Avenue for a drink. Spanky’s isn’t his favorite dive bar in the neighborhood, but it’s the only one he’ll go to since he discovered that the cop who thwacked him with the bat that night in the schoolyard a couple of years back hangs out at the Wrong Number. He found that out the hard way. He was drinking there one night with his friend Matteo—they were about six or seven beers in—when the cop and his two other pals showed. Donnie Parascandolo, the guy’s name is. He read about him in the papers last year when he got kicked off the force for punching his captain. Nothing happened that night at the bar. Mikey saw him and left out the back door. Spanky’s is closer to his house anyway.

  Antonina was out of his life forever after that night in the schoolyard. He figured Donnie had a thing for her and that was at the root of his going apeshit. She was too young, anyway. That was also the night his father went missing. His mother freaked out for about thirty-six hours before they got a call from the police. He’d washed up in Dead Horse Bay. He’d jumped from the Marine Parkway Bridge, which Mikey had never even heard of. Initially, they didn’t know why he’d jumped. They knew he liked to gamble and there’d been trouble with him draining the savings, but they had no idea he was in the hole to Big Time Tommy Ficalora for twenty-five thousand bucks. That debt fell to them. Mikey went to the funeral with the fat purple shiner he got from the cop’s bat. He stayed with his mother for the rest of the summer before heading back up to New Paltz for college. He skipped classes, drank and smoked weed a lot, tried any other drug he could get his hands on, including heroin, opium, shrooms, and cocaine. He lasted into his junior year, when he dropped out altogether, and then he couch-surfed for a while before coming back to Brooklyn in May.