Invisible as Air

by Zoe Fishman

  “Great book,” said David, before spearing half a chicken breast into his mouth.

  How in the world was she going to get over to his house? Sylvie wondered.

  “Are you excited about Teddy’s Bar Mitzvah, Mrs.— I mean, Sylvie?” asked Krystal.

  “I am. Our little boy becoming a man.”

  “Mom!” Teddy grunted.

  “Sorry, I can’t help myself. But yes, I am. A rite of passage. That reminds me, before you leave, I need your address, Krystal. I hope you’ll come,” said Sylvie.

  “Thank you,” said Krystal, blushing slightly beneath her freckles. She was pretty, Sylvie thought. If she could just scrub that mascara off her.

  “Yeah, thanks, Mom.”

  “Sure, of course.” Sylvie took a bite of the chicken.

  “How many people you having here?” asked David.

  “For the brunch? Let me think,” said Sylvie. She did a quick tally in her head. “Maybe fifteen?”

  Teddy looked up, his eyebrows furrowed.

  “Oh, Teddy, relax. No more than fifteen,” she repeated to David.

  “Well, you’re gonna need some extra tables. I have some at my place. I made ’em for a client a while back, but she decided she didn’t want ’em. They’re wicked nice too, if I do say so myself. Collapsible wood. Nice. You could use them instead of those ugly card tables I always see around. I got a couple of chairs too. They’re all in my storage unit in the basement.”

  “David, that would be perfect!” said Sylvie, overjoyed by the offer—she hadn’t even thought about the seating yet—and also about the access into his apartment. Into his medicine cabinet! It was almost too good to be true.

  “I can pick them up, David, thanks a lot,” said Paul.

  “No!” yelled Sylvie, startling everyone. “Oh God, sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. It’s just that I need to see them first, to make sure they’re right. You understand, don’t you, David?”

  “No sweat off my ball—my back. I can bring them by after you see them,” said David. “If you like them, that is.”

  “I’m sure I’ll like them,” said Sylvie. “You do beautiful work.”

  “Cool,” said David, smiling from the compliment.

  “Does tomorrow work, David? In the morning?” she asked.

  “Tomorrow I got a job, but Sunday works. Let’s say around eleven?”

  “Great,” said Sylvie. She could make it. She could make it through the next day on one pill and then on Sunday, she could make it until eleven. She wasn’t really an addict, for God’s sake. She could do it.

  “Sunday it is,” she confirmed, depositing a bite of chicken into her giant smile.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Paul

  Thanks for having me, man,” said David as Paul escorted him to his enormous truck.

  “Our pleasure. Glad you could make it.” The night air was warm and humid; an incoming storm hung in the air.

  “Hey, you want to get a drink?” asked David. Even in the dark, Paul could see the loneliness in his eyes. Paul did not want to get a drink; he wanted to watch a Shark Tank rerun and go to bed.

  “At a bar?”

  “Yeah, at a bar. There’s one a mile or two away, not far.” There was a heavy pause as Paul considered all the ways David had been a good friend to him and all the ways he had been a mediocre friend at best in return.

  “Sure,” said Paul. “Let’s get a drink. I’ll just tell Sylvie. Be right back.”

  Paul hobbled back up the stairs, onto the deck and into the kitchen, where Sylvie was doing the dishes at the sink. It had been a long time since Paul had done the dishes, even before he broke his ankle, he realized, and immediately felt bad.

  “Hey, Syl,” he said.

  She turned her head, still scrubbing, the hot water steaming as it poured from the faucet. “What’s up?”

  “You mind if I go get a drink with David?”

  “Like a drink drink?” she asked. “At a bar?”

  “Yeah. It’s just, he seems really down, and he asked me to go, so—”

  “Sure, go,” she said, and swiveled her head back to her task.

  “Are you mad?” he asked.

  “No, I’m not mad,” said Sylvie. “Why would I be mad? Go have a drink.” She looked back at him. Her eyes did not look mad.

  “Okay. I’ll be back soon,” he added.

  “’K,” she said. “Have fun.”

  As Paul walked back, he considered the fact that he had no male friends to speak of, other than David. He never had, really. Sure, he’d had the requisite buddies on the sports teams he’d played on in high school, basketball and soccer, but for the most part, throughout his life, he’d kept his head down and worked hard. From a young age he knew that his parents didn’t have the money to send him to college and that he did indeed want to go, so that meant a scholarship, and a scholarship meant hard work. Paul Snow was a rational guy. Probably too rational, which explained the lack of friends. A party pooper, one might say. And whatever was what Paul would say to that.

  He’d had quite a few girlfriends, though, once he’d gotten himself to college on the full scholarship he had worked so hard to receive. For whatever reason, women seemed to like him. He was all right looking, and he could fix things, but really, Paul figured his own apparent lack of interest was the real draw. Was it sexist to say that women liked a challenge? Probably.

  “You good?” asked David.

  “Yep, let’s go.”

  Paul hoisted himself up into the passenger seat. His ankle throbbed. He wondered if it would throb for the rest of his life, a constant dull reminder of his mistake. Grief was like that, he thought. Just when you thought you were out of the woods, the ache of missing or what could have been started to pulse with its incessant emotional demand.

  David made the short drive to a sports bar, the kind of place that Paul hated: televisions broadcasting myriad games everywhere, the stench of beer and chicken wings permeating the canned air. He took a deep breath and told himself not to be an asshole. It was one drink.

  “So how are ya?” asked David, once they were settled into a booth, two frothy glasses of beer placed in front of them.

  “Eh, you know. Fine,” said Paul. He took a sip.

  “Things with you and Sylvie good?”

  “I wouldn’t say good, necessarily,” answered Paul. “But better lately.”

  “Better is better than worse,” said David, taking a lengthy gulp from his glass.

  “Better is better than worse,” repeated Paul. “That’s true. I’ll drink to that.”

  He raised his glass and took another sip. All around them, other men—some alone and some in groups, some with women but most without—sipped the same lukewarm beers, their eyes glassy from the glare of the dueling televisions.

  “You come here a lot?” he asked David.

  “Enough,” he answered. “It’s something to do.”

  “What’s up with the ladies?” asked Paul, regretting the question the moment it came out of his mouth. “Jesus, sorry,” he said. “I’ve lost any modicum of coolness I ever possessed. Eighteen years of marriage will do that to you, I guess.”

  David whistled. “You’ve been married eighteen years? That’s a lifetime.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Paul.

  “Wow. Cheers to that.” David raised his glass again, but it had little more than a sip left in it. He gulped it down and motioned to the beleaguered waitress. “Want another?”

  “I shouldn’t,” said Paul. “And what about you? I don’t want you to drive home drunk.”

  The waitress appeared with two more glasses of beer, her perception of David’s order eerily accurate despite the fact that he hadn’t uttered one word.

  “What are you, my mom?” asked David. “I’m fine. Beer is like water to me. And since you asked about the ladies, as you called them, I’m in a bit of a drought. Such is life.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Paul.

  “What do y
ou have to complain about? You have a wife for sex.”

  “Uh, think again,” said Paul. He was feeling the effects of the beer but started in on his second one anyway.

  “Oh yeah?” asked David.

  “I can count on one hand the times we’ve had sex in the past two years.”

  “Get the fuck outta here,” said David, aghast. “That’s torture. What’s the problem?”

  “The problem?” Paul took another gulp.

  “Is it— Can you not get it up or something?” whispered David.

  “God no. It’s Sylvie. She has no interest. It’s like I’m forcing her.”

  David raised his eyebrows.

  “Not, like, forcing her forcing her. But she just has no sex drive. Not since Delilah, anyway. Or hell, maybe before that even, I honestly can’t remember at this point.”

  David raised his hand to signal the waitress again, but Paul waved him off. “No more for me. I’m like a goddamn preteen, going on and on.”

  “Nah, man, it’s good to get this stuff off your chest. Or else you go nuts. Listen, after Jeremy died, Brooke and I never had sex again. And we didn’t divorce until three years after the fact, so. You do the math.”

  “Damn,” said Paul. “How’d you endure it?”

  “Not very well. We got divorced.” The waitress magically appeared to set another glass in front of David. “Also, you know, she was having an affair.”

  “A minor detail,” said Paul.

  “Sylvie’s not—”

  “Oh, no way. No way in hell.”

  “You did say she was happier lately, though,” said David. “Maybe it’s the—” He made an obscene bed-creaking noise to illustrate his point.

  “What are you, fourteen?” asked Paul. “That’s offensive. And trust me, she’s not having an affair. She’s just not. She’s on Prozac.”

  “What’d you say? Ball sack?”

  Paul punched him in the arm. Hard. “Hey, man, take it easy. I mean it.”

  “Sorry. I’m sorry,” said David. “I’m an asshole. Forgive me. Seriously.” He put his glass down on the wood table, which was covered with what looked like centuries of beer rings, and stared at Paul until he met his eyes.

  “We’re good,” said Paul.

  “So, Prozac, huh? That’s great if it’s making her happier. I mean, that shit is poison, but whatever works.”

  “What do you mean, it’s poison?” asked Paul.

  “I mean, all of these antidepressants and antianxiety and this and that. Have there ever been any real studies on how they affect the brain? How do we know they’re not, like, filled with cancer or some shit?”

  Paul stared at him in disbelief. “Let me get this straight,” said Paul. “Here’s a guy who chews pain meds like they’re gum and suddenly you’re Dr. Oz? Come on, man.”

  “That’s not fair,” said David, his eyes narrowing. “Watch your mouth.”

  “You watch your mouth,” said Paul. “Is what I just said not the truth?”

  “I don’t chew them like they’re gum,” muttered David.

  Paul was grateful for the shift in conversation.

  If there was a physical fight to be had, David would kick his ass, no question. And then where would he be? Bum ankle and broken ribs?

  “And listen, we all know that shit I take is poison,” David continued. “I’m just making the point that this other stuff that’s supposedly good for us, where’s the research on that? They’re all doing the same thing, which is screwing with the chemicals in our brains.”

  “I’m sure there’s lots of research, actually,” said Paul, although he wasn’t sure at all. “Anyway, man. How are you? With the pills?”

  “Eh. I take too many,” said David. “But I function. So what’s the problem?”

  Paul looked at his friend: his gray pallor, his tired eyes, the veins bulging out of his bony forearms. There were a lot of problems.

  “Some chick over there is staring at you,” declared David.

  “What are you talking about? Do I have something on my face?” asked Paul.

  “Just, you know, your face. No, she’s really checking you out.” David kept his eyes on the woman in question, but Paul refused to turn around. He was sweaty, very sweaty. “And now, yep, now she’s walking over here.”

  “Get the fuck outta here,” said Paul, just as he felt the table move slightly.

  “Paul?” He knew that voice. He couldn’t believe that he was hearing it, but he knew it.

  “Tobi?” It was her, all right. Five foot three of sinuous muscle in a black tank top and very short white cutoffs, white sneakers on her feet. She was energy and fitness and fun and light. And trouble. A lot of trouble. Paul felt nauseated.

  “What are you doing here, gimpy?” she asked, her voice raspy and flirtatious.

  “Just out with my friend David here.” He motioned to David, who gave a small wave.

  “Hey, David, mind if I sit?” She sat.

  “So how are you, Paul? No more crutches! That’s great!” She was the human embodiment of an exclamation point, Paul realized.

  “Yeah. Slowly but surely.”

  “Will you be back on your bike soon?”

  “I hope so.”

  She was not wearing a bra. He wanted to run from the table and never look back. But he also wanted to stay. Sylvie had given him her undivided attention once. In the beginning. But now it was like a distant memory, like the dinosaur cake his mother had baked him for his fifth birthday. He had loved that cake.

  “It’s good to see you, Tobi,” said Paul. “But I should really go. Sylvie will be worried about me.”

  “What?” asked David, looking at him incredulously. “You’re leaving?”

  “Yeah, I should go.” Paul rooted in his back pocket for his wallet, pulled it out and threw two twenties on the table.

  “Wait, wait,” said David, chugging the rest of his beer as Tobi looked on, her brow furrowed in confusion.

  “Do I smell?” she asked, sniffing her armpits.

  “Not at all. You smell fine,” said Paul.

  “Like roses,” added David. “But if my man says he has to go, he has to go. I’ll drive you home, Paul.”

  “Well, nice seeing you,” said Tobi as Paul got up, David right behind him.

  “You too,” called Paul over his shoulder as he rushed out.

  In the parking lot, he traveled as fast as he could, narrowly avoiding falling flat on his face. Quickly, he scrambled into the cab of the truck.

  “For Christ’s sake, man!” said David, getting in and slamming his door. “What in the hell? Who was that?”

  “Just a girl from my triathlete group.” Paul struggled to get his breath.

  “You’re running from her like she’s a demon from hell or something,” said David, starting the engine.

  “She is.”

  “She’s into you, man.” They pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road.

  “I know,” said Paul. “I can’t be around her. It’s not right.”

  “Whatever you say,” said David. “It’s all good, Paul. I’ve got your back.”

  They drove through the night, back to Paul’s house, back to Sylvie and Teddy. When he got home, Paul would buy something. Anything.

  The void was real, and it needed to be filled. Immediately.

  Chapter Twenty

  Teddy

  When Harry Met Sally, huh?” Jackie sat behind her desk, extracting almonds from a tiny Tupperware container with a baby blue lid.

  “Yes ma’am,” answered Teddy.

  “Why the change from”—she rustled through some papers on her desk to find the flyer she’d printed up with his initial schedule—“Jurassic Park?”

  “Verna told me she wanted a romantic comedy,” he explained.

  “Ah, Miss Verna.” Jackie smiled before placing her last almond on her tongue, as if it were a vitamin. She chewed it efficiently while dusting the salt off her fingers. “Well, shoot, I’m with her. I’ll take that
over dinosaurs any day. You know what, I might just show up tonight. Don’t feel like going to spin class anyway.”

  “Have you seen it?” asked Teddy.

  “Of course I’ve seen it,” she answered. “A million years ago. But that’s the kind of movie you think, You know what? I want to see that again.”

  “Oh good,” said Teddy. “And again, I’m sorry about the late notice.”

  “You mean, the last-second notice,” said Jackie, arching her eyebrow. “What’s up with that? I hope we don’t have a riot in the hallway, a bunch of octogenarians expecting to see T. rexes all up in arms over Billy Crystal.”

  “Tiny arms,” said Teddy.

  “Do what now?”

  “You know, tiny T. rex arms?” He folded his own arm in an attempt to demonstrate his point. Jackie did not smile.

  “Sorry, bad joke. And I know it’s no excuse, but this week has been pretty hectic. I had to rewrite my Mitzvah Project paper—well, get it off the ground at least. It’s in three weeks.” Even as he said it, Teddy couldn’t believe it.

  “What’s in three weeks?” asked Jackie.

  “My Bar Mitzvah.”

  “Mazel tov. And I mean that sincerely, but listen up, Theodore. Rewriting an essay does not a hectic week make. Don’t forget your responsibilities, now. Make a list. Check it twice. You feel me?”

  “Yes ma’am,” answered Teddy.

  She was right, of course. And the truth was that although he was working a little bit on his paper, he was mostly spending a lot of time with Krystal. The day before they’d sat on his deck for two hours, playing Jenga and checkers, eating cold Popsicles in the muggy heat, not thinking about his mom or his paper or the fact that his father rode his exercise bike fifteen feet from them, his eyes maniacally focused on some imaginary finish line. “He okay?” Krystal had asked more than once.

  “What time is it?” Jackie asked.

  “Six,” answered Teddy, looking at his watch.

  “Oh, so we got a whole hour before the movie comes on? You goin’ home and comin’ back?”

  “No ma’am, I figured I’d just stick around here, maybe work on my paper in the lobby or something, if that’s okay with you.”