< Apart From Love: Chapter 26 >

She Deserves Better

It’s awful nippy here, inside and out, even though this is only mid-fall. Shut tight in front of me is the glass door, which I can’t hardly open, on account of being tired, and a bit wobbly on my feet. Even so I can hear a sound, a muffled sound from the other side, out there on the balcony. 

From this angle I can spot him, kinda: At least his outline, bent over the desk, and the slant of the shoulders. And I can’t barely see a face, but somehow I can tell it’s a familiar voice out there, saying, like, “Here is one thing I hope she knows: She deserves better.”

The man, he presses one button, then another, tapping his fingers tensely on the edge of the record player, which brings up that voice, saying, louder now, “She deserves better,” and again, “she deserves better,” then, “better.” It’s Ben’s voice, but the old man’s fingers. Then he hits Pause, which is when my doubts go away, and like, I know who it is.

So I don’t even need him to turn around, and I don’t even want to ask him, like, Where was you, because I don’t want to hear no lies, and no long stories either, and above all, I tell him in my heart, I don’t want to admit how lonely I am here, in this place, which isn’t my home, Lenny, without you.

Still absorbed in his work with his back to me, he tries to slide open a drawer, which must be a secret drawer, because I haven’t hardly noticed it in his desk before—not even the other day, when I went through the jumble of his papers, looking for clues, any clues of where Lenny had gone, or with whom he might be staying, or how he expected me to pay all them bills, because, like ma used to say, money don’t come cheap.

I hope he finds things in place now, still in the right state of disorder. I hope I didn’t mess up no pages of his writing—or else, his stories will make even less sense than they already do.

The drawer is damn clunky. It rattles a bit under his hand, like, the slides under it may have gotten rusty. Then it comes to a full stop, hanging in midair. He leans in to put his hand right there, inside the mouth of it, and his fingers is swallowed up by a deep shadow, which kinda scares me, like I’ve seen all this before, in a dream or a movie or something.

So in distress I turn pale, I gulp for air, ready to cry out to him, Stop! Pull out, Lenny! Your hand—no, don’t talk, don’t even breathe a word now—it’s about to be bitten off, like, if you tell me a lie.

Which is the moment he freezes, like he’s just caught a sound, the light sound of my footfall. There’s a chill in the air, which I can see right here, in front of my nose, because like, the vapor of my breath starts rising, curling in the air and clouding the partition between us.

Lenny turns over his shoulder, and even before he can sense who’s standing here, watching him, you can tell he’s jolted, real shaken even, on account of not expecting no one here, at this time. He screws up his eyes, so I bet he’s looking for his own self, mirrored back to him—only to catch sight of me. In a flash he spots my outline, like, through them spots on the murky glass.  

Lenny gets up from the chair, awful stiff, and in one limp he comes to a stand right there, opposite me. My God, he looks strange today, not only because he’s kinda naked, I mean, without them reading glasses. His gray hair isn’t even combed, like he’s awakened right this minute, after a fierce fight with a pillow or something—or else, he hasn’t slept a wink last night, just like me.

Only in his case it happened who knows where.

Me, I look straight at him. His eyes, they have something wild in them: Tender one second, mad the next, with skin sagging under them, like squashed, hollow bags. He leans, kinda heavy, into the glass, laying his hands left and right of me, but I can’t be sure if he wants to plead with me, knowing that I will soon forgive him—or else, wring the life right out of my throat.

But he don’t try to do neither one nor the other. Instead he says, “Anita,” kinda gruff, “where is my son? You must know where he is, don’t you?”  

And me, I shrug, because like, what am I, his keeper?  

So again Lenny comes, “Look, I checked his bed. I know he did not sleep in it.”

And I say, “So? Neither did you!”

His eyes flutter for a second, like he tries to ignore what I’ve just said, and how bitter it must feel to be dumped, even if it is only for a night.

So I say, “Ben isn’t a baby, anyhow. And he didn’t sleep in my bed, if that’s what you’re saying, even if you ain’t saying it, exactly.”

And he says, “Listen, dear—”

And I say, “Stop calling me that! This word, it sure don’t have no meaning to you.”

He steps back, all the way back to his desk, as if slapped all of a sudden by a gust of cold wind. So at once—in spite of my anger—my heart goes out to him.

“I am dead serious,” he says. “For the life of me I cannot find certain papers. The boy cannot have them, Anita. Not yet. Not while I am still alive. Where is he?”

And I say, “Last thing I know, me and him, we was like, playing the piano.”

“From what I am told,” says Lenny, “the two of you were playing, if one can call it that, like a pair of lunatics.”

And me, I shrug, which in a flash, ignites the fury in him. I know Lenny: He can be terribly jealous. He claims that jealousy is almost like a compliment, the most honest compliment a man can give, so I should be happy, happy that he loves me so crazy, so deep.

But never did I see him like that: Torn.

When it comes to his boy, Lenny is usually so steady, so ready to give. He’s been longing for him for so many years. I wish I had a pa like that. And even if he has some secrets, and things he don’t share, still, I’m sure that as a father, he has an awful big heart—but now that Ben is back home, a change has come over the old man. He can’t make up his mind between trusting his son—or suspecting his rival.

Lenny comes forward—nearly going into a skid—and with full force he bangs the glass door, like he wants it to crack, to fall down in pieces, and to scatter all over the floor, with sharp shards ringing, pinging around me, because like, he can see something in me, something that no one else can see: A see-through mark, a stain that’s been left there, on my neck, like, from the touch of the hand of his son.

So he demands, “I need to talk to him. Now you tell me, where the hell is he?”

Which brings a little voice into my head, whispering something ma used to say, which is, “Charm the snake and then, real slow, back away.”

So I say, real soft and gentle, “You know, Lenny, you have two sons—not one. Right now, I know where one of them is.”

And I unbuckle my pink belt, and open my winter coat—just enough to let him see how my dress clings to my belly, which looks kinda puffy, because it isn’t exactly flat no more. And from the inner pocket of my coat I bring out a picture, which I must admit is kinda confusing, because at first glance it’s like, nothing more than a mishmash of gray, so you can’t exactly get it—not all at once, anyhow.

So you must learn to be awful patient, and take your time to study them lights and shadows here, in the picture, like, real slow and careful—or else, have someone else come to your help, and point out that, like, this is the inside of me, and this here, see, is a nose, and this, the lips of my sweet baby boy.

I bring the picture up and hold it for him, pressing it right here, against the glass, just above the smudge, which his hand has just left there, on the other side. I bet he can tell, by the glint in my eyes, that this here is like, real special, because looking at it you must also imagine the beat, the heartbeat going blip, blip, blip across the screen, from left to right, which means the baby is doing fine, real fine. For a second Lenny is drawn to me, to the smile on my lips—but then, just before he can take a good look at the picture or say nothing, the phone rings.

So with a long screech he slides open the door, and passes me by on his way to the hall, in a rush to answer the thing.  “Hello,” he says. “Aunt Hadassa!”

And after a long pause, which means she’s going at him real good, he slumps against the wall, saying, “What? What did you say?” And then, “Is there something wrong, I mean, at your end of the line? No, I am fine. Really, I am. Thank you for asking. What? My hearing? It is just as fine, aunt Hadassa. It is just... Just, I am a bit surprised. I cannot believe what you have just said.”

Then he says, “Let me see now, do I remember correctly? You used to hate her, didn’t you? My God, how you cursed, how you laid out all the reasons why I shouldn’t, under any circumstances, have married the girl—even if she is pregnant! And after the wedding, you would not even return my calls. I got a whole week of silence—thank God—after which it was back to the same old thing: There was no stopping you on the phone, lamenting what you called, the sorry event. Why, just yesterday you gave me an earful—didn’t you?

“What?” he cries. “Can you repeat that, now? Anita, she deserves better?”

His lips tighten. “Hell,” he says, this time under his breath, so I can’t barely guess the words, “what is the matter with everybody today?”

And back to his usual voice he tells her, “Yes, I am listening, aunt Hadassa, of course I am. Yes, I know I should be careful, much more careful with her. Really, I promise. Yes, I realize she is still dizzy. Of course, I will do that—”

And to himself Lenny says, like, “Everyone is telling me, lately, just what she deserves. Some even care so much about the two of us as to say it behind my back. My own son...”

Now he bends down, as if aunt Hadassa is weighing him down, somehow. “Well, fine,” he tells her. “I will talk to him, too—but really, I can assure you—”

By now, his hand is well on its way to put the phone down, but then he jerks it up, just to say, “No, you are quite wrong. Really. I find him to be a well adjusted young man. As happy as can be expected, of course, under the circumstances. No, I am not at all worried about him.”

“And no,” he gasps, “there is none of that. As far as I can tell. No. Absolutely nothing. No trace of jealousy.”

And then, at last, the old man drops the thing in its cradle.

*

When he finally comes to bed that night, Lenny lays there for a long time without even stirring, as if he can’t bring himself to close the gap, or even to try to reach over it, somehow, and touch me. I bet that in his head it’s like, a ceasefire, and so me and him, we must build what so far, we’ve managed to destroy—by which he means, our defenses.

For all I know, Lenny may see some freaking danger lurking here, in the shadows, in and out of them folds, which are crisscrossing the sheet, swishing like swords between us. And so he figures that we can, perhaps, be safe from injury—but only if we hide from each other, like, down here in the trenches. I swear, this isn’t no way to end a battle.

Lenny’s kinda silent, except for heaving a sigh from time to time, which means he’s still tied up at trying to hide feeling guilty—but anyhow, he isn’t quite ready to forgive, or to be forgiven.

Then, out of the blue he says, not exactly to me but to the dark ceiling over us, “I have thought about aunt Hadassa, what she said.”

And me, I say, “Oh Lenny, just forget it,” real soft.

And I roll away from my edge, a little closer to his side of the bed, like, half the distance to him, hoping he’ll come halfway too and just, just hold me. Instead, he’s holding his grudge.

In a dry, guarded tone Lenny says, “I’ve left you an envelope on the kitchen table. First thing tomorrow morning I want you to take it, count the money, and then,” he don’t even say, Anita, “then go open a bank account in your name.”

And I go, “What’s that for, all of a sudden?”

And he goes, “Let it not be said that I am not giving you that which you deserve.”

And in my aching heart I’m telling him, like, What I deserve is not to be made to feel like some fucking bitch. I’m your wife now. Before the wedding we used to have something, like, some good moments, some places where we was happy together. Can’t you fight, Lenny, to get us back there?

Which is when he turns over, in a big hurry, to the other side, like there’s something real exciting to be found over there. Then—before I have a chance to say nothing to him—his breathing gets awful deep, so I know he’s fallen asleep.

Meanwhile, a distant rumble can be heard from outside. It comes in fits, and from time to time reaches closer, rattling the window pane. I lay there wide awake, listening to the thunder, dreading what I know is sure to come next. I count the seconds in my head till finally, here it is: A fork of lightning comes tearing through in the night sky, zig zagging across the half-turned blinds.

And in a blinding flash my wedding dress, which is hung right there, opposite me, in the corner of the bedroom, comes alive. The heavy satin rustles like it’s just about to breathe. The lace trembles in the cold air. And for a moment the beading glitters. It blinks, like, to bring back a memory: So bright, so dazzling! Then the dress sinks back into the dark.

So I slip off the bed, and feel my way, somehow, to the window to bolt it, and to turn them blinds, so Lenny won’t wake up to the sound of the storm, because clearly, you can tell that he needs his rest.

Now I touch something. It feels kinda round. Must be the oval frame, the frame of the standalone mirror, which used to belong to his ex-wife, Natasha. I turn my head away, so as not to catch sight of the face—the pale, wide-eyed face, which I try to tell myself, is mine—but already, it’s too late to believe that. Piercing me, out of the black void of the glass, is her sad, heart-rending look.

Which brings a thought into my head: Natasha, she isn’t my enemy no more, because at this point it’s over, I ain’t a threat to her. Like, now I ain’t the other woman. Instead, I’ve grown to become what she used to be. So it shouldn’t scare me so, I mean, the fact that we look so much alike, because at last I’ve come full circle, just to learn—like she did, at the time—how bitter it feels, to find yourself betrayed.  

I can’t change none of the things I’ve done to get here, and none of what it takes to be here, in her place—but I this I swear: Never before did I feel this sorrow, this dark, crushing sorrow for what happened, and for how she ended up.

Like ma used to say, The only hope you have, Anita, is to look at yourself in the mirror, and find regret.

I cross to the window, which is the moment I begin hearing the sound. On the surface it seems to be blend with the howling of the wind—except it isn’t coming from outside, and it’s just a whimper at first.

Even so, it takes me by surprise, because Lenny don’t dream—or so he says. And for sure, he don’t never talk in his sleep, because no matter if it’s day or night, his jaw is set firm. And them muscles, they’re always tight around his lips, which looks funny with his eyes closed, but also a bit stern. Anyhow you can see, just by looking, that at this moment he isn’t hardly his usual self. I rush to his side—but can’t get nothing, not a word of what he mumbles, because now that he’s in the grip of some fear, he don’t hardly make sense.

To my amazement Lenny feels awful helpless, like a baby, almost. After a while he starts whining—not from his throat but from an inner place, deep down in his guts. From there he wails, wrapped up in his nightmare, as if he’s about to be cut away, like, lose someone dear to him.

Me, I bet it’s something you might expect, like, when you’re expecting: My heart pounds with great worry inside me, so much so that it hurts, even, like I’m already a mama—and not only to my little one. So the fact that Lenny, he’s like, twice my age, flies right out of my head. I cuddle him, real gentle at first, and feel his big body trembling here, in my arms. And I rock him back and forth, back and forth, like he’s a child, and I try to calm him down, whispering, “Sh... Sh...” And I hug him, even tighter now, because he’s shaking like a leaf. “What is it, Lenny?”

By now his voice is so intense. It’s rising, rising to a shriek, “Taaa! Taaa—”

Which is when I figure, like, he’s trying to call someone, call her back, real urgent, to make her stop somewhere there—before she reaches the edge of what he sees in his dream—so he don’t end up losing her. So I murmur, close to his ear, “Here I am... All’s fine, I promise. I’m here, by your side, my dear, dear Lenny. Don’t you worry. I’m here.”

And again he calls, only softer this time, “Taaa...”

I let his head lean on me, on my bare shoulder, and the chill is gone, both inside and out, because I kiss him—so long and so tender—right here, in the middle of his forehead. And I hope I can take on his burden, that burden of guilt, and the pain too, because in the end I don’t really mind, I don’t care any more if the name he’s calling is mine—or else, if it is Natasha.