< Apart From Love: Chapter 4 >

Any Other Word But Love

I’m lying here on my side, with the bedside lamp shedding its dim light behind me, sensing that his side of the bed is empty. Why am I here? How did I get here?  Why am I so dazed, so confused? Did I stumble over, somehow—or was I carried? And where’s Lenny?

I pass my gaze across the ceiling and along the walls, trying to pick out every shade, every detail. And there, opposite the bed I spot my wedding dress, which as I recall, I’ve hung on the coat rack, right there in the corner.

The corner of the bedroom is the only place here which I consider truly mine. Strange, no? I still feel that way, despite having slept here with him, on and off, for, like, the past ten years. I keep telling myself that I must claim this space, claim it as mine, right away; and maybe I will one day, when the baby is born. I try to picture a crib here, next to me, and at once everything looks so much brighter. I hope the baby can soon feel something of what is in my heart—but not the confusion.

Staring at that corner I know one thing, and I know it real clear, at once: This lovely dress, made of heavy satin and trimmed with lace and beading, which I’ve dyed, the morning after the wedding, orange at the top and purple at the bottom, so it can still be used in the future—at dance parties and what not—this dress isn’t gonna to fit me no more.

Up to now I’ve pictured it shining real brilliant, just like a rainbow, and swirling all around me; and with every step, billowing between my legs, and like, making me adorable, so adorable in Lenny’s eyes—but now that I touch my belly and feel the beginning, the very beginning of change, right here around my waist, what is the point of all that.

On the floor, under the hem of the dress, I can see two pairs of shoes: One is my new, white satin shoes, which Lenny has bought for me, like, two weeks ago, just for the wedding. When he wants to, he can be real kind. He knows so well how to spoil a woman.

He gave me a ring with a pink sapphire; also a gold chain with a locket, which at the last minute, just before coming in to say, like, “I do,” I decided not to wear. I wanted to look kinda classy and worried that maybe, it would be too much.

The other pair is my worn out, first pair of high heel shoes. They’re still kinda bright, and chipped only a little. To this day I’m totally crazy about the color: Hot pink. Ten years ago I spotted them in a store window, and for a whole month I stared at them every day, on my way home from school, knowing I couldn’t afford them.

I liked how the side of the strap was spruced up with a plastic rose, which has since fallen off. So cute, it was. Then I found a job at this ice cream shoppe, down there at the Santa Monica pier.

I got my first week’s pay, and was so happy, so thrilled to buy them, because they wasn’t only pink—but glossy too; and because now I was just like an adult. Ma took one look at them and slapped me, which made me figure that now, I would have no choice but to apply plenty of makeup, so that this side of my face, which was flaming red, won’t stand out all that much.

Then she slapped me again, this time on the other side, which turned out to be just as stinging—but at least, it solved the problem for me, because now I found myself, like, perfectly even; you know, balanced on both sides.

Ma said I looked like a bitch in them shoes; but I didn’t care, really, because it was my sixteenth birthday and it was my own damn money, for me to do as I please, and because I had to fight her, like, tooth and nail to keep the little I had, so that she won’t take it from me, for my sake of course; and because most of all, I thought them shoes made me look just fine.

Now I can see one pink shoe standing lopsided, held up somehow in between the two white shoes; and the other pink one lying there, turned over, like some openmouthed baby whale, trying to rise for a breath from a sea of dust.

Me, I still remember the first time I wore them, which was also the first time I met Lenny.

*

He was standing out there, on the other side of the pier.

The lights on the Ferris Wheel had just started to come on; now they was gleaming there, behind him. And I could spot his outline in the distance, in between the swirly, painted letters, which I couldn’t read, because from where I was standing, they was in reverse; but I knew they spelled the name of the place. Them letters, they seemed to drip and melt—but really they was just, like, floating on the pane of glass between us.

It was a hot summer evening, and the place was kinda packed. I paced back and forth behind the counter, serving the customers, dishing out fresh smiles, scooping Dutch chocolate here and vanilla there, and trying to get a beat going, trying to sway my hips and at the same time, steady my step over my new, hot pink high heels, which isn’t near as easy as you might think—at least, not on the first try.

After a while I noted that he started pacing too, back and forth, and with the same beat, too. I liked the bounce of his step. Right away I thought he was gonna make a fabulous dance partner; and I knew, really I did, it was gonna to be a wild night.

You won’t believe how wild it turned out to be—but in a different way than you might expect; like, an entirely different way. He was so handsome, too, with that slicked-back hair, just like them stars in the old movies. And there was something about his walk, about the way he carried himself, that reminded me of Johnny, mom’s previous boyfriend, the one who confessed to her that he couldn’t get no respect from his wife.

Just like him, Lenny seemed to be in his early forties, and like, he was talking to himself from time to time, perhaps rehearsing some excuse; which made me bust out laughing, laughing so hard that my hat—that ice cream uniform hat, made of white construction paper folded in half—nearly flew off my pony tail. I mean, if you find yourself in such a bind, having to come up with a new story for the old wife, you might as well just find yourself a new girl.

The minute our eyes met, I knew what to do: So I stopped in the middle of what I was doing, which was dusting off the glass shield over the ice cream buckets and stacking up waffle cones here and sugar cones there. From the counter I grabbed a bunch of paper tissues, and bent all the way down, like, to pick something from the floor. Then with a swift, discrete motion, I stuffed the tissues into one side of my bra, then the other, because I truly believe in having them two scoops—if you know what I mean—roundly and firmly in place.

Having a small chest is no good: Men seem to like girls with boobs that bulge out. It seems to make an awful lot of difference, especially at first sight, which you can always tell by them customers, drooling.

I straightened up real fast, and it didn’t take no time for him to come in. I was still serving another customer, some obnoxious woman with, like, three chins. She couldn’t make up her mind if she wanted hot fudge on top or just candy sprinkles, and what kind, what flavor would you say goes well with pistachio nut, and how about them slivered almonds, because they do seem to be such a healthy choice, now really, don’t they.

He came in and stood in line, real patient, behind her; and now I noted his eyes, which was brown, and his high forehead and the crease, the faint crease right there, in the middle of it, which reminded me all of a sudden of my pa, who left us for good when I was only five, and I never saw him again but still, from time to time, I think about him and I miss him so.

I could feel Lenny—whose name I didn’t know yet—like, staring at me. It made me hot all over. For a minute there, I could swear he was gonna to ask me how old I was—but he didn’t.

And so, to avoid blushing, I turned to him and I said, boldly, “It’s a crime?”

And he said, “What?”

And I said, “To be sixteen. Is it a crime, you think?”

And he said, “Back in the days when I was young and handsome, that was no crime.”

And I countered with, “Handsome you still are!”

He had no comeback for that, and me, I didn’t have nothing with which I could follow it up. So I asked, “So? What kind of cone for you?” but that woman cut in, because I was still holding her three-scoops tower of pistachio nut on a sugar cone. And she started to cry out, and like, demand some attention here, because hey, she was first in line and how about whipped cream? Or maybe some shredded coconut?

So I smiled at her, in my most coolest and polite manner, and squeezed out a big dollop of whipped cream; which was kinda good, because it calmed her down right away. And I scattered some of them coconut flakes all over—quite a heap—and went even further, adding a cherry on top. At last, I raised the thing to my lips, because at this point, it was starting to drip already.

Then, winking at him, I passed my tongue over the top, and all around the ice cream at the rim of the cone, filling my whole mouth and, just to look sexy, also licking the tips of my fingers. Then I came around the counter, swaying my hips and steadying myself over the wobbly high heels. I came right up to him, and before he could guess what kind of trouble I had brewed in my head, I kissed him—so sweet and so long—on his lips, to the shouts and outcries of the offended customer.

The manager was like, outraged, not only because of this incident—but also because pink shoes wasn’t allowed, no way no how, only black uniform shoes. She grabbed my ice cream hat, that thing made out of white paper, and pulled it right off my head, and threw it to the floor, smashing and crashing it. I was fired right there, on the spot.

He came out after me. I bet he figured it was kinda his fault, because it was over him that I’ve lost my job.

So he said, “Hi. My name is Lenny.”

“Anita,” I said, licking my lips, because they was still sticky and tasted sweet, and because I think I look prettier when my mouth has a shine.

It was getting awful dark already; and he said, like, “So, where do you live?” And me, I figured that tonight, it would be good to hang out at home, because ma was working late again.

We lived in the same one-bedroom place ever since I was five, when pa had paid the first month rent—but then he forgot, somehow, all about sending the second. Sometimes, things may fly right out of your mind; I can understand that.

Because of Santa Monica’s rent control, the place was kinda cheap. Still, ma said that paying it was hard for her, because without a high school diploma—which she never got, on account of never going to no high school—without that, no one wants you, and there is no way nowhere to get a decent, well-paying job.

For the last couple of years she worked as a cleaning lady by day and an unarmed security officer by night, both at the same place, a local clinic. Tonight, I figured, would be her night shift. So when Lenny asked, “Would you like me to take you home?” I said, “Yes, take me.”

“But,” he said, “no more kissing, I mean it now. I do not want any trouble, and you are too young, you know, much too young for me.” He had a fine way of talking, like no one else I knew. He talked, like, with such a clear cut enunciation.

I’m awful proud of this word; it was from Lenny that I learned it. Enunciation. For my part, I could teach him a thing or two about trouble. So later, while sticking the key in the door, I turned to him and said, “Trouble is my middle name,” which was a line I used sometimes, because it sounded so clever.

“No, really?” he said; to which I replied by asking, “What, you think it’s a crime? Like, kissing me, I mean?” And he said, “It’s just... I do not want to start something which can lead nowhere, really.” What could I say to that, except, “There’s no one home. Stay a minute. Is that a crime, too?”

I handed him an old record, something slow from the sixties, which years ago used to bring tears to ma’s eyes, because—in spite of looking so tough—she still had a soft spot somewhere in her, even if most of the time you can’t find it. She used to play it often; but now not so much no more.

So I thought he might like it. Lenny put it on the record player, so in a second the mood was better, even though the thing squeaked from time to time. He turned to me the minute I untied my pony tail, and told me I reminded him of a girl he used to know, and would I like to dance.

I stepped out of my shoes and into his arms, and before he could say anything I slipped out of my dress, too. I thought I looked, like, a little too slender in my panties, so I told him to close his eyes; but at this point, because of being so aroused, and trying so hard not to show it, I forgot all about them tissues at each side of my bra, which now and again, made a slight swoosh.

Later I wondered if he wondered about that.

I rose to the tips of my toes, feeling the touch of his shirt and the pleat of his pants, right against my bare skin; and I placed my hands on his shoulders, and felt his hands on my hips. And so he held me there, a long, long time in the dark, and me, I got to touch his lips, and that crease up there, on his forehead, and we swayed back and forth; I clinging to him, he—to that one girl, like, the girl he used to know.

Then he moved away abruptly, saying that he was too old for me, and anyway, what was he doing, he had a child, a boy just a year older than me. So I took a step closer, like, to close the gap again. And feeling lost inside, like a stray kitten begging for some warmth, I said, “Just hold me, Lenny. Just hold me tight. I need you so bad.”

And the minute I said it, I knew he needed to hear these words, needed to know that he was really needed. After a while I whispered, like, “Just say something to me. Anything.” And I thought, Any other word but Love, because that word is diluted, and no one knows what it really means, anyway. Then he kissed me—even without the ice cream—and said my name, like, he tasted it in his mouth, and rolled it on his tongue, which made me awful happy; and we started our dance again:

I came as he backed away, and then in reverse, I backed away as he came, and we came and went, went and came this way for a long while until, all of a sudden, the front door opened and there was ma, standing there with a new boyfriend this time, a guy whose name I didn’t even know.

She opened her fist—I could hear the bong of the keychain as it dropped to the floor—and before she could slap me, I ran as fast and as far as my feet could take me, right out the door. Then, yelling Bitch at the top of her voice, ma picked up my dress, which was left there, in the middle of the floor, and threw it. She threw it flying down the staircase after me—but for some reason, them pink shoes stayed behind.

They stayed until the next day, when Lenny went there for me, to get some of my stuff. Perhaps he figured he was in charge of me now, and so he paid for a motel room, and went on paying it, because it was on his account that I lost my job and the roof over my head, both on the same night.

*

Who’s there? What was that, just now?

I can feel someone, like, a slight movement behind me, because the knob, on the bedside lamp behind me, has just been clicked. So now the light is stronger, and the shadows—sharper. I need to know who it is; but for some reason I don’t barely feel like turning around.

And I can’t decide if this is so because I’m still a bit dazed, or because lying here on my side feels better, so much better for the cramps. Maybe I can figure who it is simply by spotting the reflections, right there in the mirror.

It’s a freestanding mirror, tilted over its feet, set in that ornate oval frame, which is so classy, and like, fit for a queen, and which used to be hers. I mean, his ex-wife. But then, just the thought of it, the thought of catching sight of myself in her mirror is like, strange; it even makes me kinda frightened.

And it isn’t just old wives’ tales; not just my nerves. I’ve seen images of Natasha. Lenny keeps them old pictures stashed away in the drawer, next to his side of the bed, and—like, quite by chance—I found them one day. If not for the age spots, and the yellowing of the photograph, you could swear that face is mine.

So whenever I find myself passing there, by that mirror, I close my eyes, or turn my head away. And I ask myself then, What on earth did he find in me—a simple girl, without no high school diploma, who at times can’t help but making him bored stiff?

What did he need me for—me and my lousy enunciation—when he had already married this woman who, by everything I’ve learned about her, was so fine and so talented, and came from a long line of musicians. And why, why did he tell me, that first time we danced, that I reminded him of a girl he used to know? 

Lying here, in what used to be her side of the bed—a side which isn’t mine, at least not yet—I’m thinking about her, worrying: Is she gonna come back here, like, any time soon, to claim her place?

The other day, standing there behind the kitchen door, I could hear Lenny; he lowered his voice when he told his son that yes, she was there, in the hospital, like, visiting him. And I think he said that he shut his eyes, just to be focused, to feel her; which is a bad sign for me.

I’m wondering now how much time have I lost, and where Lenny might be; because if not for his injuries, and being stuck in a wheelchair, I can picture him, real easy, pacing back and forth somewhere else right now.