Don't Make a Scene

by Valerie Block

  He looked crestfallen. He touched the hair softly, sadly, briefly as if all he'd wanted was to be told no. The Italian she'd spent the night with the previous evening had been gorgeous, charming, and, yes: married. Come to think of it, European men were no picnic. But Catherine was right: there was nothing to keep her in New York. Everything had turned sour when she'd cut her hair.

  Of course, things hadn't been going so well before that, either.

  When she got to the theater, Javier was pacing the lobby in excitement.

  “Diane! Look at it!” He held a summer calendar. “This is my mail! How this happen?”

  “Remember how you stuck mailing labels on the new calendar? Well, one of them had your name and address on it.”

  “No, I mean, how it happen?”

  “I put you on our mailing list.”

  “No, I mean, who brings it to me?”

  “The mail carrier.”

  “How do you mail it?”

  “You put a stamp on the envelope, then you put it in a mailbox or take it to the post office.”

  He waited.

  She pulled a sheet of stamps out of her desk drawer to show him.

  “I'll take you to the post office sometime. That may be a nice field trip.”

  The phone rang.

  “Where are you living now, sweetie?” asked Estelle DeWinter.

  “I just moved into a noisy sublet in a Yorkville tenement that is invaded by vile cabbage-y cooking smells every day. Near you, actually.”

  “Come for a walk tomorrow morning. We can talk about the benefit.”

  Another day, another random invitation. Not particularly what she wanted or needed, but who was she to turn down invitations?

  She looked up: Javier was on her sofa, carefully examining the sheet of stamps. She'd never seen anyone touch anything with such reverence.

  “Did I ever tell you about working in the second musical unit at MGM, Diane?” Estelle asked her as they strolled up the East River esplanade the following day. “One week it was medieval France. The next week, a Moroccan harem. But it was the same every time: if you were an extra, you were in the way.”

  Diane watched as a barge overflowing with garbage floated up-river.

  “We made B pictures that sank without a trace. The leading lady was nobody at the box office. She knew her place in the commissary. But on the set, she was the star.”

  The wind was blowing the stench toward them. Diane tried to ignore it.

  “I learned something very important at MGM. In my own life, I'm not an extra. Diane, you may not be Ann Miller, but you have power to take charge of your own life.”

  This was the second time in as many days that she'd heard this idea. What were these women talking about? Vladimir, obviously.

  She had power over what, exactly? She got back to her noisy, humid, smelly tenement sublet and exchanged leggings for the no-longer-new turquoise swirl Capri pants. She was sick of them. She found a pair of wrinkled jeans to wear instead.

  She had power over her dry cleaning.

  AUGUST

  VLADIMIR OPENED HIS E-MAIL and found a letter from his sister's e-mail address.

  “Dear Javier,” it began.

  He read on.

  “I am writing to you because I want to remember you on your birthday and tell you that because of the evil, inconsiderate American regime, I cannot send you a present. Nadia and her husband ask after you. Your mother has been crying every day since you left! I have been awarded a Citation for Excellence for my work organizing the hotel staff for the July 26 protest in front of the American Special Interests Section.

  “It is imperative now that you join the Communist Youth. You really should have done it last semester, as I arranged. You will acquire more responsibilities and demonstrate that you are combative for the Cause. This will go over well next year at El Cotorro. Assuming you work hard and behave yourself, you would move on to Cadet School the following year.

  “You are eighteen. I would say that you are an adult, except for the thoughtless, impetuous behavior that you have not learned to control. Paco's father told me what you told Paco the day after your ridiculous episode at the police station. Forget about how you put my position in jeopardy when you talk shit like that. You have obviously been influenced by an undesirable element within the family, someone who already had a thick file for Individualism and Ideological Diversion when he was your age. In spite of all my efforts to educate him. My advice to you is to take notes and photos of the lack of humanity and selfish consumerism that corrodes the society in the US. My contact at the local Committee can arrange a slide-show talk for you at the monthly meeting when you come back, so that we can expose ‘the American Dream’ together.

  “We miss you, and hope you are taking good notes for when you come home. Remember your daily pledge: Be like Che!

  “Your loving grandfather, Pucho.”

  Vladimir shook his head, laughed once and printed out the letter for Javier, who was waking up slowly in the living room.

  Every time he walked into the apartment lately, Vladimir cringed, wondering what science experiments he might find. An avocado pit pierced with toothpicks perched above a mayonnaise jar on the win-dowsill. Javier had started creating necklaces out of gum wrappers, and had made a workshop out of the dining room table. A red goldfish now orbited in a small glass globe on top of the toilet.

  “Shouldn't we discuss having a new roommate before we invite him to live with us?”

  “I won it at a fair!” Javier crowed.

  Every day, Vladimir asked Javier to contain his junk, and every day the junk multiplied and spilled over into the common space.

  But perhaps today was not the day to bring it up.

  “Happy birthday,” he said, and presented Javier with the electronic game that he'd found for him the night before. Javier ripped open the wrapping and immediately began playing the game with enthusiasm in bed. When Vladimir emerged from the shower fifteen minutes later, Javier was still at it.

  “I hope you don't mind, I read this,” he said, giving him Pu-cho's letter.

  Javier ignored him and continued playing.

  “Don't you want to read it?”

  Javier put down the toy and scanned the letter. He scoffed at one point, laughed at another and threw the letter into the garbage when he was done.

  The weather had turned sulfurous. Vladimir was already sweating as they went down in the elevator, and when they hit the street, which smelled of sewers and steam, he was reminded of Havana in August.

  “I don't see how I can go back there,” Javier said as they made their way up Hudson Street. “Not after seeing all the selfish consumerism and lack of humanity around here!”

  “You've decided to stay.”

  “I don't want to be a burden to you.”

  “We'll figure something out. We have to start working on school for you now. Let me do some research.”

  They entered the sweltering subway.

  “Thank you. He was like this with you?”

  “Always. He's a cockroach, Javier.”

  Javier cackled. “He is, isn't he?”

  “He's an opportunist, a sadist, and a son of a bitch.”

  Javier laughed long and hard. “Listen,” he continued in a chatty mode, “the last time he started his business on me, I flipped him over onto the floor in front of Mom, Nadia, Hanoi, and Mercedes. He was flat out on the dining room tiles!”

  “Where did you learn how to do that?”

  “I started karate when I was eleven. You knew that.”

  He should have known that.

  “This last year, I was working on aikido. I hadn't tried anything on him until that day. But it was just too much. I should have done it years ago.”

  “Maybe you'll teach me.”

  “Sure! Let's go to the park!”

  “Javier, it's a heat wave. Another time.”

  Javier sagged slightly. And went back to the electronic game.

 
There really wasn't enough time for all the bonding he should be doing with his son. But if Javier stayed, they would have more time. It was hotter on the street than it had been in the station. The Chelsea Piers sports complex had teen programs—basketball, rock climbing, and so on—that Vladimir kept meaning to check out. But now he would have to investigate schools immediately. It was August 1.

  Diane showered in the corroded Yorkville tenement bathroom, worried about generations of unchecked bacteria infecting her feet. Perhaps Bedford Street was a dead end; perhaps New York was old hat. But Chamonix couldn't possibly be the answer: she had turned down Catherine's job. The following day, she'd received another job offer from a former colleague, this one in Rome. Perhaps the wall-to-wall lack in her life—home, furniture, clothing, man—was liberating. A temporary situation in Rome was no worse than a temporary situation in New York. Why had she turned the offer down? Wasn't everything a temporary situation?

  Diane emerged from the bathroom just as the front door opened.

  A balding man in his late fifties dressed for the beach and holding an overweight spaniel on a leash stood gawking at her.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, pulling the towel higher.

  He closed the door. He wasn't leaving. “I could ask you the same thing.” He walked to the kitchen as if he owned the place. “This is my apartment.”

  “You could have rung the bell.”

  “I didn't think you'd be here.”

  “That's no excuse. You owe me the courtesy of ringing the doorbell.”

  She picked up the phone and called Paul. “Paul? There's a man in the Yorkville sublet harassing me. He came in with the key.”

  “You're still there? Today is the first.”

  “The first what?”

  “August first. Your contract ended yesterday.”

  “Ah, shit.”

  She hung up, sick again of her circumstances. “I'm very sorry. Could you give me ten minutes?”

  He exited with an impatient look. She closed the door behind him and fastened the chain lock. She dressed and packed, cursing the dingy halls, rickety stairs, narrow corridors, panic-inducing elevators, lousy wiring, repulsive smells, grimy corners, aging fixtures, deaf neighbors and unpleasant surprises that subletting entailed. With all her worldly goods in a ripped shopping bag, she stood on Second Avenue in shimmering heat, trying to stay cool and hail a cab. Even bad hotels were two hundred dollars a night in Manhattan.

  In the cab, she called her parents.

  “Come home,” said her father.

  She almost cried. “That won't solve anything.”

  “Maybe not, but it doesn't smell here, and the price is right.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You don't need to sign a contract, or be out by a certain date.”

  “Tomorrow night,” Diane said, wondering why she didn't just say yes.

  The series “Savoir Faire” had segued, seamlessly into “Endless Summer,” a selection of films about childhood. She was cheered that the first person she saw at the theater was Javier; she deflated slightly when he handed her a green wool sweater that seemed to be covered in fine gray hair.

  “So that's where it was.”

  She sat down at her desk, unsure of what she should do. Javier watched her. What would happen if she just left for the day, right now? What would happen if she didn't repackage everything anew each year? What difference would it make if she showed Amarcord (Federico Fellini, 1973) in a Fellini festival or a childhood festival, or if she showed the same childhood festival every year? What if she just showed the Miramax catalog? Would anyone even notice?

  The phone rang: Dorothy. Estelle had broken a hip at LaGuardia.

  “Oh my goodness. How?”

  “I don't know. Doing handsprings on the baggage carousel? She's at her apartment. She's not doing well.”

  “I'm so sorry to hear that. How's Herb?”

  “Like a child in his mother's sickroom. I'm going over there in half an hour to cheer her up.”

  The idea of Dorothy cheering anyone up was a bit of a joke.

  “I'll meet you there.”

  Javier asked to tag along.

  “Wait: Isn't it your birthday?”

  He smiled and ducked his head.

  “Don't you want to do something fun?”

  “It's fun to be with you.”

  How she yearned to run her fingers through his hair. “What are the birthday plans?”

  “I don't know what my father is planning.”

  Knowing Vladimir, nothing. “Let's go ask him.”

  She found Vladimir measuring something in the dark.

  “I was wondering how you intend to celebrate Javier's birthday.”

  “I hadn't made specific plans, but I thought we'd go for steak, if that suits you,” he said, glancing at Javier.

  “Yes!” Javier shouted.

  “Could you go on the early side so he can be back for the nine-thirty show?”

  “Yes, we can do that.” He thought a moment. “Would you like to come?”

  Javier nodded. “Yes, Diane must come.”

  “I'll come to dinner, if you come to the movie. We're showing one of my favorites, the one that made me want to devote my life to film.”

  “What is it?”

  “Small Change.”

  “About money?”

  “About children, and growing up, and crushes, and senseless cruelty.”

  “Ah. I think I might be working.”

  “He either wants to do it or no,” Javier said. “You can't make him do nothing.”

  “ Anything,” she said.

  “ Anything.”

  Vladimir looked at Javier and then turned to her. “Shall I pick you two up at seven?”

  As they walked east on Eighty-sixth Street, Javier grilled her about the two-party system, the popularity of rap and the history of the slogan “Just do it,” while she pondered what to get him for his birthday, and when she would have the time to buy it. They passed three shoe stores in a row. She looked at his feet and had her answer.

  “What's The Velvet Cove?” he asked as they passed an adult toy store.

  “That's a good question.”

  He came to a complete stop. “You always say that and then you never answer.”

  “Not so. I answer all your questions.”

  He stood still on the sweltering pavement. “I am not a child, Diane.”

  She turned around. “The Velvet Cove is an adult toy store.”

  His face lit up. “Let's go in!”

  “You are an adult, but that's not something you do with me.”

  He turned on an electronic game and played as they walked. She bought flowers and cookies at a bodega and had them wrapped. He offered to carry them and she gave him the packages. At East End Avenue, a man and a woman with a soccer ball cut in front of them and ran into the park. She sensed his excitement.

  “You want to hang out in the park?”

  He gave her a sheepish look.

  “Javier, it's a sickbed visit. I have to do it, but you don't. Go ahead. I'll come find you when I'm done.”

  He unloaded the cookies and the flowers and trotted off into the park.

  Herb answered the door dressed like a twelve-year-old boy on the tennis circuit, in a navy nylon tracksuit and sneakers, with a visor; everything had white racing stripes. He greeted her and led her down a hall into a highly air-conditioned bedroom decorated in shades of peach and pale yellow.

  “I hate these old-lady problems,” Estelle snarled in greeting. “I feel totally useless.”

  Diane kissed her cheek and gave her the cookies and the flowers, which looked tatty in the careful opulence of the room. Dorothy was sitting in an armchair near the bed; Diane kissed her, too, and sat down by the window.

  “My trainer is coming tomorrow,” Estelle said.

  Dorothy gasped. “Is that wise?”

  “For the arms!”

  “What can you do with your arms
?”

  “Plenty. Weights, resistance, stretching.” She played a piano on the blanket in front of her. “Plenty to do with the arms and the hands.”

  “So, fine, you're in great shape,” Dorothy said.

  “Let me tell you about dancing to Tito Puente at the Palladium,” Estelle said. “Then I was in great shape. I was seventeen at the time.”

  “You were not,” Dorothy said.

  “I was seventeen,” Estelle maintained. “And I had dropped out of high school to be in the chorus of Paint Your Wagon on Broadway the year before.”

  “She was twenty-seven if she was a day,” Dorothy told Diane.

  Diane let the talk flow over her and glanced down at the park. Javier was standing by the edge of a large field, watching the couple with the soccer ball kick the thing back and forth. She saw him enter the field, walk around the side, and sit down on the grass halfway between the man and the woman to watch. Diane sensed a ripple of wordless communication between the couple as Javier followed the ball back and forth with his eyes. He's not a creep! He just wants to play with you! After a few minutes, the young woman made a hand gesture; the two players met in the center of the field, kissed, spoke briefly, picked up the ball, and walked off. Laughing.

  All he wanted was to be asked to play! She felt like his mother.

  Javier could go in any direction. You could see it on him, the malleability, the curiosity, as well as the stubborn layer beneath, the part that would not be led. Any encounter he had now could be the decisive one for him.

  Herb tottered back into the room, dressed now in a pressed powder blue polo shirt tucked into neat little khaki pants with perfect creases. He had powder blue socks to match. He looked like a clean turtle on his way to school.

  “I'm going to play cards at the club,” he announced. “Nice to see you, ladies.”

  “Bye, darling! Don't forget your pills!” Estelle called with a bright face. She slumped visibly when he was gone. “He can't find the dry cleaner,” she whispered. “He can't make coffee.”

  “He can't make coffee?”

  “She's too young to understand,” Estelle said to Dorothy.

  “Men of a certain age don't have the aptitude,” Dorothy explained.

  “Did he make coffee when he was younger?”