Cosmo's Deli (25 page)

“You know what I hate most?” Gaby asks. “Regret. I've never lived with it before and it was eatin' me up, bite-by-bite. Until last night. And you know what?”

They shake their heads.

Gaby smiles. “She came.”

“Who?” Renny asks.

“Mama,” Gaby says, feverishly searching their faces for validation. “You think I'm crazy, don't you?”

Sara takes her hand. “It's not crazy, not at all.”

Renny nods and squeezes her other hand.

Gaby continues talking like one placed in a trance. “She was here. I felt it, but in a way that you don't feel a regular dream. We were sitting together, kind of like how we are right here, on a bed. Yet I couldn't quite place where we were. It wasn't my apartment, but it wasn't the house I grew up in either. I told her, Mama, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to disappoint you the way I always did.” Gaby pauses. “And she said, ‘Gabrielle, I'm so proud of you and I've always been proud of you. You never compromised what you wanted, or your independance. You know the underwear was not my favorite thing, but you built yourself a life, a company.'” Gaby jokes, “And I knew it was her, because Mama never could hold her tongue about something she didn't like. I asked her, what about Stan, you liked him so? And she said, ‘Honey, I may have liked him, but you're my daughter and I love you. And that's all that ever mattered.'”

Gaby looks between Sara and Renny, obviously struggling to hang on to her composure while a tear streams down her right cheek. “Then she hugged me.” Gaby's voice falters. “And y'all have to know that hugs are like full body fingerprints—no two are alike. Each body has its own curve and the way it feels when pressed against another. I know it was Mama hugging me in a way that only she could.” Gaby wipes a tear, and chuckles. “I sound nuttier than a tin a pralines, but it was real.”

Sara sniffles.

And Renny can't deny the transformation in Gaby, making her thankful for whatever it was—a dream or a vision—which has wondrously pumped the life back into her friend.

Gaby sucks in a deep breath that makes her shudder. “Then Mama said, ‘It's time to go.' And that was that. Except I know that if I ever really need her to come again, she will. Right after, I woke up in the emergency room. Todd told me that after I left Griffin's apartment, he called to brag about being with me. Todd and I met last week at their jewelry store. We flirted a bit. Whatever Griffin told Todd, worried him enough so that he used my credit card receipt to find my address. When he came by this mornin' he said my door was open and my keys were still in the lock. Do you believe that? I must really be screwed up to OD in New York City with my apartment door wide open. Poor Todd, he saw the pills on the floor and couldn't wake me, so he called 911.”

“You should stay with me when you get out of the hospital,” Sara offers.

“I appreciate that,” Gaby says, shaking her head. “But you have a new baby and I, I think I'll be fine, eventually. My shrink cut his vacation short and wants me to come twice a week for a while. And of course Daddy's driving up. Says he's going to stay with me and take care of me.” She waves a hand. “Well, we'll see how that goes.”

“Do you want me to call your editor for you?” Renny asks. “I can explain everything to him.”

Gaby shakes her head with a devilish glint in her eye. “The hell with him. Todd told me he has a friend at a cable channel who is looking to hire a host for a new bargain shopping program. He's going to hook us up. Whatta' y'all think? You think I can make it on the small screen?”

“Definitely,” Renny says.

Sara agrees, “Television will never be the same.”

“And next week, I'll be going on a trip,” Gaby declares. “A big return shopping trip. Anyone care to join me?”

Renny raises her hand. “Count me in.”

“I see you found my surprise,” Gaby says pointing to the red mini dress. “I'm glad you wore it, but it wasn't free like I told you. I paid for it and it's got to go back.”

“You paid for it,” Renny sputters, “how much was it?”

“More than I can afford, but I wanted you to have something special for your big night with Georgie. Just don't wrinkle it.” Gaby gives Renny a playful shove. “Did you end up having that date with him?”

“That's why you're so dressed up,” Sara teases. “And I thought it was for us.”

Renny waves them off. How can she tell them everything that has happened? But they are her friends and they are there for her, just as she is for them. Where should she start? Georgie? Work? The words fly out, “My mother has cancer.”

Stunned silence fills the room until a gutteral cry breaks from Renny and gives voice to a level of despair she didn't know she was capable of feeling. True to their tendencies, Sara, mother of two, holds Renny's hand, while Gaby reverts to her no-nonsense ways by jerking a thick wad of tissues from the box.

The next few hours pass with Renny cradled in the spotlight of their concern. The three of them curl up together on Gaby's hospital bed, just as they had so many times before in either a dorm room or one of their apartments. Wrapped in friendship, Renny safely explores the crossroads her life has come to, her search ending only when the on-duty nurse informs Sara and Renny it's time to leave.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The city lights ricochet off the windows of the taxi speeding down West End Avenue. Renny realizes that Saturday night has passed into Sunday morning. What a night! No, she corrects herself, what a couple of weeks! Oh, to be clairvoyant, Renny thinks, and know where she will be in six months. Questions torpedo her mind in rapid succession. Will I have a job? An apartment? On which side of survival statistics will my mother fall. Renny rests her head back on the seat and closes her eyes, longing for a cosmic sign that she can ply like silly putty to make sense of everything that has happened to her.

A horn blasts, sending the cab jerking and Renny vaulting against her seatbelt.

“Watch where you're going,” the cab driver, a woman, screams out the window.

Some sign. Renny stares outside, wired yet exhausted and wishing for somewhere to go beside home. In her apartment, all she'll do is curl up alone in bed with her uncertainty. Suddenly, Renny lunges forward on the vinyl seat. “I need to change where I'm going,” she tells the cabby.

“Huh?” She asks.

“Take me downtown to Bear Grunt. It's on 15th Street, between Fifth and Union Square.”

“But we're at seventy-fifth and Amsterdam.”

“I know. It's okay.”

“It's your dime.” The cab quickly changes lanes, narrowly missing being hit by a delivery truck.

Even if Marty Toezoff is straight from the reject pile, she tells herself, I will put up with him for a few hours tonight. If nothing else, he'll be an addition to her repertoire of blind date from hell stories. They're always good for a laugh, in hindsight that is.

“$43.50.” The cabby tells ten minutes later as she pulls up in front of the darkened restaurant. The meter gyrates before spitting out a receipt.

“What'd you do, cut through New Jersey?” Renny cracks. She reaches in her purse, sending her stomach into acrobatics. After the taxi ride to Mt. Sinai Renny realizes she has only three dollars left. She springs from the cab. “Wait here.”

“Hey!” The cab driver yells opening her door.

Renny's tugs at the front door of Bear Grunt. It doesn't budge. She sees through the crack in the doorway that the deadbolt is firmly locked in place. “Damn!” Peering through the windows, a dim light shines from the back and Renny bangs on the glass, but no one comes. “Shit!” Even Marty Toezoff isn't waiting around for her. I'm definitely swearing off men.

“I should have known you were a deadbeat when I picked you up at the hospital. I almost didn't stop when I saw that dress. You're an addict, right?”

Renny twirls around and is face to face with the angry cab driver. She is about a foot taller than Renny. In fact, she may be one of the tallest women Renny has ever seen. A thick silver chain with a padlock is wrapped around her neck. Her stark white skin tone is contrasted by her jet black hair. The cabby's hand fingers the heavy chain necklace, which reminds Renny of bicycle lock she had back in high school. “I'm not a deadbeat or a druggie. I'll pay you.” Renny fishes through her bag and whips out her cash card. “There's a cash machine right over there. I'll be back in a minute.”

The woman blocks her, “Not so fast. Do you think I'm stupid?”

“I forgot my money in my other bag. I'm not going to stiff you. You can walk me there if you want.” Renny smiles, trying to project an air of honesty.

“I can't leave the cab.” She looks Renny up and down, her eyes stopping at her shoes. “I'll wait here. You give me the shoes.”

“I'm not giving you my shoes.” Renny steps back.

“Then I'm calling the cops.”

“Fine!” Just when she thought things couldn't get any worse, now she's being threatened with jail time. She steps out of the Princepessas and shoves them at her. “Be careful with them, they're special.”

“You think I don't know that? I've seen those advertised on the side the crosstown bus,” the cabby says as if that were the equivalent of reading
Vogue
. “What size are they?

“Five and a half.”

“Shit, I'm an eleven. You're like a midget.” Shoes in hand, she gets back in the cab.

Renny tiptoes to the cash machine, grossed out at having to tread barefoot over pavement that's probably been urinated on more than most public toilets. Slipping her cash card into the machine Renny coasts through the menu—language, PIN, withdrawal, amount, $100 fast cash.

INSUFFICIENT FUNDS flashes on the screen.

“Can't be.” She sneaks a glance at the cab driver, who sits tapping her $600 shoes against the steering wheel. Renny punches in a request for $50, just enough to cover the cab fare.

INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.

“Damn,” Renny hisses. It asks if she would like another transaction. She requests $20. The machine spits back her card and a receipt, but no cash.

She jams the card back in, and the machine beeps at Renny's roughness and rejects her pin number. Frustrated, she deliberately punches in a neat row of six asterisks that spell out F-U-K-Y-O-U.

A receipt spits out.

Your balance, -$425.

Renny looks at the screen, which has gone back to its Welcome to Chase greeting as if she just walked up. “My card!” Renny bangs on the buttons and the screen in a futile attempt to get her card back. Nothing.

Skulking back to the cab she decides to beg. “Listen, the machine ate my card. If you drive me home, I have cash there.” Reaching in her purse, “I have three dollars. Take it and I'll give you the rest, including a huge tip when we get there.”

CLICK
.

“You're locking me out of the cab?” she exclaims. “What good is that gonna do?”

“You're not getting back in my cab unless you give me $43.50.”

Renny throws up her hands. “If I don't have it, how can I give it to you?”

“No money, no ride!”

“If you don't let me in then how are you ever gonna get your money? Did you think of that?”

She holds up the shoes. “I'll keep these.”

“But they're not even your size,” Renny argues.

“Then I'll sell them on eBay.”

“You can't sell my shoes,” Renny yells. “Besides they're worth a hell of a lot more than what I owe you.”

“Consider yourself a big tipper.” The cab screeches away from the curb.

Renny gives chase, items flying out of her purse onto the sidewalk. “Stop, stop! Those are my shoes.” Renny trips and stumbles to the ground. “Shit, shit, shit!” Sprawled out on the pavement, Renny feels like road kill.

“Do you need help?” A voice from above asks.

She looks up. He is about her age, wearing jeans and an untucked blue oxford shirt with a white tee shirt underneath. His outstretched hand is in front of her. Not bad-looking, she notes.

He smiles.

No, good-looking. Renny takes his hand, letting him help her to her feet.

“I think these are yours.” He holds out her cell phone, driver's license and lipstick. “I saw them fall out of your bag when I came out of the bodega.” He points to the store on the corner.

“Thanks.”

“Are you all right?”

“I think so.” Renny stuffs her things back in her purse, dropping the phone, which cracks open like an egg and spills its guts as it hits the sidewalk.

He bends to pick up the pieces.

“This is not my night,” Renny laments. “I was coming to meet someone and he's not here. I'm better off though. Hellish blind date stuff, he's probably a loser.” She shakes her head, “God, why am I telling you all this?”

“I have that kind of face,” he says. He hands her the pieces of her phone and she puts them in her bag. For a moment he looks at her as though he's going to say something else, but instead he just gestures toward her bare feet. “No shoes?”

“The cab driver stole them.” Looking down, Renny spots her bus tickets still lying on the ground. She picks them up.

“Wow, if I haven't heard that one a hundred times,” he says.

Their eyes meet and his grin warms her like a roaring hearth in a dank room. She quickly looks away, but is left wearing a layer of tingles like a new coat. “I've got to go.”

“Let me put you in another cab,” he offers.

“Not a good idea. I don't have enough cash on me and I am not playing strip-payment.”

“I'll give you the money.”

“I'm a shoeless stranger you just found on the street.” The moonlight reflects off his eyes and she can feel the heat rising in her face.

“I'm sure it's a good investment,” he says.

Renny starts to walk. “It's dumb.”

He follows. “I can't let you just walk off.”

She whirls around, walking backward. “Why not?”

“It wouldn't be chivalrous.”

Did ‘chivalrous' just spill from the lips of a twenty-first century male, a Manhattanite at that? Renny deems him either a modern day knight in shining armor or a complete psycho. The latter of which would no-doubt chop her into itty-bitty pieces, dump her remains in the East River and leave her poor family to plaster Renny flyers on poles throughout the city. The way her week has unraveled, the safer bet is on psycho. “Chivalry is dead,” she says turning away, thinking better that than me.

“I can't let you walk home alone, not at this time of night.”

“What makes you think I'm alone?”

“Wishful thinking.”

She smiles, he's corny but cute. Renny restrains her desire to look back at him, inadvertently tightening her grip on the bus tickets that are still in her hand. “Ow!”

“What is it?” He steps toward her

“It's nothing, just a paper cut.” She brings her hand to her mouth to suck the pain away, when her eyes shift to the tickets. Is her mother at home jabbing pins in a look-a-like Renny voodoo doll? She looks up at him. Normally, Renny would be more than happy to let him walk her home, on the chance of parlaying a middle of the night walk into future happiness. He's a complete stranger, she thinks, am I that desperate. Not anymore, not tonight. Tonight, Renny realizes her future needs to take a different direction, one that demands she face alone.

“Listen, you seem nice enough. But, I have to go home.” She clenches the bus tickets in her hand and starts up the street.

He keeps pace behind her, his steps in sync with hers. She looks over her shoulder, “What are you doing?”

“Following you. I don't want to open my
Times
tomorrow and see that some nut got you. For all I know, the shoe stealing cabby is coming back for you.”

She narrows her eyes and points with her chin. “How do I know you're not a nut?”

He ceremoniously shifts his face from side to side as if posing for a mug shot, but his high wattage smile and boyish face make him more of a poster boy for the take me home and love me foundation.

“Suit yourself,” she finally concedes. And just like that an agreement is reached, she will walk and he will follow. Through the sleeping city they tread, him about six feet behind her block after block. Only at a red traffic light does he walk up next to her, still keeping a wide distance between them. With the sidewalks empty of other pedestrians, the only thing separating them is the cool night air. Waiting for the light to turn, Renny becomes aware of his height. He must be at least six feet tall. Normally this disparity in their heights would feel imposing. But she finds his stature comforting and when the light turns green she steps off the curb feeling safeguarded from the phantom bogeymen that lurk in the city alleys. After she is a few steps out, he follows, ensuring her the same generous lead she had before.

A few blocks later, he suddenly runs up beside her and grabs her arm by the elbow. Startled, she yelps and tries to pull away, but he gently jerks her left. “Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.” He glances down.

Renny follows his eyes to the shards of glass littering the patch of sidewalk she was about to step on had he not guided her unprotected feet out of the way. With danger past, he removes his protective touch and retreats to his now familiar post behind her. Renny's arm feels naked.

She glances back and tries to read his face, searching for the braggadocios that would surely follow this act. Only there is no swagger in his walk, no pretention in his eyes. His same shy smile tells her he is sure she would do the same for him. Turning back she can't help wondering if he isn't a figment of her overexhausted imagination. If she brought her hand to his face, would it glide through and erase him like a mirage in an urban desert? Renny turns away, finding reassurance in the
clop-clop
of his feet landing on the pavement behind her.

When they land at a red light on 39
th
Street, Renny sees the Port Authority to her right. Stealing a glance in his direction, she notices his soft features and brown rumpled hair. He turns toward her allowing her to glimpse the kindness that colors his eyes. Renny stares at the light waiting for it to turn, sensing that he is studying her too, their gazes having woven over the same path in the air as though part of a larger fabric binding them together.

Crossing the street, he remains at her side. “Is that where you're heading?” He nods toward the transportation building.

“Yeah.” She expects him to ask what part of Jersey she lives in, or better yet, what exit. He doesn't. Instead when they reach the door to the building, he pulls it open for her. “Chivalry?” she asks.

“You could call it that,” he says.

Entering the building, she realizes that they've barely spoken, yet are familiar, as if their walk was a romantic slow dance and their music was the sounds of the city. They travel up the escalator, the bus tickets that began this nocturnal journey still in her hand.

She is going home to be with her mother. Over the past few years she has been worn down by the demands of city life. And though she hates to admit, it is time to leave it behind, at least for a while. She steps off the escalator and rounds the corner, finding the number 41 Lakeland bus waiting behind the glass partition. The idling engine signals to her that it is time for goodbye.