< Apart From Love: Chapter 25 >

The Naked Bulb

Since the wedding, only a few weeks ago, and even more so since the bleeding began, I’ve been missing my ma more and more. If she was here I could ask her, like, How come I feel so alone. How come I can see now, all of a sudden I can see how my youth is wasting away in this place. Like, I have no air. I’m wilting here. And Lenny, he don’t even pay no attention, because he’s back to his usual thing, which is: Comb his thinning, gray hair—sleek it back, real slow and careful—and then work all day, write all night, either out or away. 

Me, I thought getting married was meant to change things—but then, if things are changing it’s not for the better.

It’s funny how now—when she’s out of my reach forever—I feel so close, so terribly close to her. At least now ma don’t push back, and she don’t get in the way no more; I mean, in the way of me doing what I’ve been wishing for so long I could do, which is just cling, cling real close to her. I so miss the smell of her face: A pungent mix of sweat, cheap eau de cologne and cigarette smoke. I try to dream up this smell, which gags me, and stings my eyes, and brings me close to tears.

If she was here I could ask her, like, when did she have the hunch, the first clear hunch that pa was gonna leave us; and how long after that did it happen.

At this point I don’t know how much longer I can go on relying on Lenny, because even when he’s here, even when he fixes his eyes on me, there’s something in them lately, something hard, even furious, which I swear, I don’t really get.

Last night I was so worried—worried to the point of getting mad—because Lenny wasn’t even here. For some reason he didn’t come home at all, even though I got all ready for him, all prettied up with my little black dress, which for the first time I had trouble zipping up, because my belly had just started to get more rounder than it used to be.

He wasn’t there—but to me, it felt like he could watch me through them walls. I felt choked. I even cursed him in my heart. I told myself it was just a dumb, crazy feeling, and to stop fighting for a breath.

Still, it felt like Lenny could spot, somehow, the sudden blush that—in spite of myself—started flaming on my skin, the moment I passed by kitchen and laid eyes on his son. In a blink, the air felt steaming hot all around me. This was something new to me, because so far I didn’t much care for Ben, I don’t think—even though from this angle the slant of his shoulders looked just the same as his pa’s. My heart went pit-a-pat, which didn’t happen never before, and if my husband was here, if he hadn’t left me, it won’t have happened now.

No matter how much I tried to cool it, here I was burning up, like in shame, on account of the fact that I’ve just blushed.

And Ben, he was sitting there, lost in dreams in the corner, leaning back so that his pale face and his mussed up hair fell just outside the light, the dim, fuzzy light which had no clear border when it fell on the kitchen table, because like, there wasn’t no lampshade over the bulb, on account of the fact it had been broken and removed years ago, and never replaced.

I bet you would have me turn away, which was the right thing to do—but it was already too late, so I didn’t. Anyway I could already tell that Ben could tell, by the swish of my hair, that I was here, just about to cross the threshold. His nostrils flared, like, to breathe in my scent, the faint scent of my shampoo, mingled with perfume.

I could’ve walked past that door—but then, this I knew: Even so, whatever happened, in your eyes it would always be my fault. The boy wants me, and for that, I pity him. He would soon kill himself if he can’t have me—but you would blame it on me, saying it was me, me who seduced him. You would call me a bad girl—so then, why shouldn’t I be?

For ten years I tried, as best I could, to be squeaky clean. It’s too damn hard, and you don’t never trust me anyway. So instead I could really go wild, and take my revenge on my husband, by giving him a reason—a real reason this time—to be jealous, so he don’t need to go searching for one.

I beg you, Lenny, I whispered. Come back to me, or else... From this point on, things won’t be the same never again. I swear, I’m gonna do something bad, gonna hurt you, so you won’t never leave me like this, without even saying one word.

So I came in, hips swaying, and looked down at the boy, saying, “Help me, Ben.”

Which startled him. The features of his face contorted, like he couldn’t make up his mind weather to be troubled by the surprise or not. Either way, he sprang to his feet and with a shaky voice, said, “Sure, what—”

And I turned my back on him, and tugged at the zipper of my black dress, pulled it as high as it would go, so now it reached the level of my waist, and then I just stood there, waiting for him to make his move. And with trembling fingers Ben brought the two edges of fabric together—barely touching the back of my neck—and managed, somehow, to pull the thing all the way up.

“There,” he said, with a catch in his voice. “It is done.”

And then he stepped back, away from me. I bet he was thinking about the late hour, and about his pa, who should’ve been here already, and about not being able to face him, because like, how can you think of robbing the old man of his woman, and how can you win any fight—let alone dare to stay in it—while having to carry, somehow, the terrible handicap of being young.

I licked my lips, so they would be real red and shiny, and smiled at him. Inside I was praying that the light in the bulb would blaze so bright, so fiery it would burst. And them walls, pressing awful tight all around us, would just melt away. And the pane of glass would sizzle, and the window frame, it would turn to ashes—poof!—like dust into thin air, so anyone out there in the street could watch us, as if we didn’t have no shelter. Then there would be no secrets no more. Nothing left to hide.

Here, Lenny, I cried inside, take a good look! Here I am—not only for your eyes, but for all eyes to see!

And for the first time in our ten years together I thought, he’s old. He’s the old man passing out there, somewhere in the dark, limping stiffly on his way to some other woman, some fake blond, I bet. At the sound of my voice he would shiver, and look up. He would be unable to take his eyes off the boy; and the boy, he would just freeze there, in his seat, unable to take his eyes off me.

I hoped, with every bit of bitterness, that Lenny won’t miss the look, the shy look his son flashed at me, when I slid into my chair and—real slow and naughty—began crossing my legs. At once Ben tensed up. I met his eyes, and could feel my look shooting through him, like it was a poisoned arrow. Now my legs was crossed knee on knee, and my lips was wet and parted, ever so slightly, and I began lowering my eyelids. Slowly his face dimmed, like, it fell into a black nothing, and I went back to thinking about Lenny:

As a husband, he would lose his temper with me, from time to time—but as a writer, he would let me talk, talk, talk for hours on end, keeping himself out of the way, like, real nice and discreet, so as not to stop me from pouring my heart out in front of his tape recorder.

Me, I had put my faith in him, knowing that Lenny would keep his word, he won’t listen to nothing I said, because some words, they rattle in your head, and their sound, it can be jolting to anyone, anyone but you, because they’re yours. So you should hide them real good, keep them hushed up, like, under a blanket. Them words, they shouldn’t be heard by no one—especially not those you hold dear.

Which made me trust the distance between us. It kept me safe—but at the same time, it held us apart. So at this moment—when I started punishing him by raising my eyes, and giving Ben that which he craved, a cruel little smile—the best thing that could happen would be this: Lenny would come bursting in.

I could just see it in my head. He would be breathing hot fume straight into my eyes, making me step back and blink. His forehead would be, like, swollen with rage, and that pleat in its middle, which used to remind me of my pa, would grow deeper than ever. And the vein by the side of his neck would seem to be knotted. With an awful screech Lenny would shove the table off to the side, and flick the naked bulb hanging over its place, till it swung violently to and fro, to and fro.

To his son I bet he would say nothing, because if he did—if he said, like, Stop that! Stop staring at her, she’s fucking mine!—things could soon come to blows. Instead, he would just fix his eyes on Ben, scaring him right out of the kitchen. Then, not being able to hold himself back no longer, Lenny would like, explode. He would rip my dress in two and shout at me, and I would shout back, even cry. And then, then it would be all over.

The air would be cleared between us, and we could start fresh, almost.

I should be so lucky—but no; sadly, that didn’t happen. Instead I raised my hand—like I was him—and pushed the table, and flicked the naked bulb. Under it—right there between the boy and me—stood Lenny’s chair. It looked so empty, so bare that it glowed, like, real bright against the shadows. There was a splotch of light that danced over the seat, like a dance of triumph, almost. It darted wildly from one edge of the seat to the other, and after a while it started slowing down, swinging only a bit, then only a tiny bit, till at last it stopped right there, right in the center; at which time I felt a little something, a little pang in my heart. Perhaps, remorse.

All the while, Ben went on sitting there, in his chair, real stiff and silent. He lowered his head, staring quietly at his own hands, so as not to goggle at me. Nothing else stirred. Me, I glanced out the window: Nothing stirred out there, either. You couldn’t spot no one in the twilight—but in my head I pictured the old man turning away from me, and in that second I sensed his heart turning, turning against me.

Which is when I snapped my fingers, right there in front of my face, and told myself in a sharp voice, a voice that wasn’t even mine, Enough already! Snap out of it, girl! What’s the matter with you, anyway?

So, your man hasn’t come home? Too bad, really! Who knows where the hell he is. Who cares with whom he’s sleeping tonight. Jealousy is a tough thing, Anita. It’s taken a bite out of you. It hurts. Yes, I can see the pain. So now, he hasn’t come home—and the thing you worry about is what, exactly? Crossing your legs? Really? You out of your mind?

I slapped my own cheek thinking, I so wish ma was here.