Stop Here (8 page)

“Me? I'm an ex-marine; reality's my specialty.” He wants to tell her how lovely she looks, that her red blouse is exciting, but she's focused on the details of his day. And how often does that happen?

“You get in your own way,” she says a bit too soberly, as if she is about to reveal some gruesome truth about him.

“I'll get us refills.”

At the bar, he catches the bartender's eye, holds up the empty glasses. Who else in this place is agonizing over a son or daughter? He studies a few faces that reveal nothing but lines. Is it that he can't bear being apart from Glory? He understands the order of things. It's time for her to leave him, but not gunned down or kidnapped by some lunatic. “It's a worthy deed, Dad, better than serving pancakes. There's something big at stake here.” It's what she'd said, and not just once.

With a cold glass in each hand, he studies the very real woman waiting for him, has an urge to say thank you, but she won't know what he's talking about.

Setting down the drinks, he asks, “My place or yours, as the saying goes. We have two hours before our shift.”

“Yours . . . but—”

Is this the first of the excuses? He waits.

“After, I want to spend time alone with Bobby at home, arrive at the diner in my car.”

“I couldn't agree more.”

• • •

Sheets of rain splash against the sides of the car, hard pellets of hail drum the roof, the windows fogging. It feels like he's inside a plastic bag. The meteorologist drones on about high meeting slow-moving front, and sounds baffled. He switches off the radio. Only a few miles from his house to the diner but the deepening puddles force the car to a crawl.

The imprint of Ava's slim, strong body still warms him. They made a decision together. If there's no e-mail from Glory in the next three days, he'll phone the State Department, find out the protocol for locating a missing person. Not a solution but it's something—waiting is driving him under. He's on the two-a-day antidepressant now, his mouth dry, nightmares, and worse, sometimes he can't get it up. Thank god that didn't happen this evening.

Is it mist circling a tree? An apparition? He can just make out a figure walking the edge of the road. He swipes the side window with his forearm, cracks it an inch. Peers out. Christ, what's he doing? “Hey,” he calls, sliding the window all the way down, water splashing his face. “Bruce!” He stops the car. “Get in, for god's sake.”

With a black woolen cap pulled low on his forehead, his round, dark eyes blazing, Bruce stares like he doesn't know him. Water drips off his nose, chin, everywhere. “Get in,” he orders, leaning over to open the passenger door. Bruce delivers his bulk.

“Where are you going?”

“That way.” Bruce points in the opposite direction.

He's wearing an army jacket, backpack in his lap now. “What, you running away?” He tries for the smile it's impossible to get from Bruce on a good day, and this isn't one of them, of that he's certain.

“Need to get to the National Guard office.”

“It's not open this time of night.”

“That's what I want.”

“Bruce? What the fuck?” Silently, he ticks off possibilities: flashback, sleepwalk, hallucination. Does he want to know?

“National means in the US,” Bruce spits out each word as if it's laced with poison.

Drive him home. Let Shelly deal with him.

“I'm going to set fire to the office.” Bruce pats the backpack.

“Yeah, well . . . not a great idea with all the water coming down, is it?”

Suddenly he feels nauseous.

“Take me there now.” Bruce sounds determined, and worse, he's wearing that mind-blanking expression that hears no reason.

“It won't be raining tomorrow night. If you still want to do this, I'll help you. It's always easier with two, remember?”

“They lifted him out of his life like a stuffed animal.”

“Who?”

“They took my boy.”

“Michael's in Iraq?”

“Just a baby. Sent him to be killed.” He's seen broken and it looks like Bruce.

“Michael's in Iraq?” he asks again.

Bruce doesn't answer. So he puts the car in gear, begins driving him home.

• • •

He nearly walks past the hospital. A small gray brick building with three floors that could be anyone's house, except for the barred windows. He drove here straight off his shift. A few hours' sleep might've helped. His head feels spacey; he's not too thrilled with his balance either. Damn pills. Ava offered to drive him to Manhattan—he was touched. But he can think of better places to take her. The front door is the first of several leading to reception, the architect offering a change of mind at any turn. A baby-faced receptionist who has to be in her fifties gives him a paranoid stare before releasing information. Then she tells him outer doors remain unlocked only during visiting hours. In short, he'd better watch the time.

Shelly's in one of the dayroom's orange plastic chairs, a handsome woman with enough energy to run a country. Now she's thinner than ever; dark pouches beneath her usually curious eyes. It seems as if she's crying without tears. She offers up a ragged face and he pecks a quick kiss.

“I got your message. What happened?” he asks. A man sidles along the wall. Three women stretch their necks to watch a mounted TV. He can't figure if they're in or out. Again, he spots the barred window. The tic on his eyelid is back.

“After you dropped him off, wetter than a seal, right, I got him to bed. Wouldn't get out next morning. Kept saying, I don't care . . . isn't worth it . . . what's the difference . . . things like that. Had to get my oldest to help bring him here. The psychiatrist will evaluate him for seventy-two hours. They mentioned shock treatments. I said, wait. Bruce said it wouldn't make a difference. It's as if he made a conscious decision to stop caring—about anyone. Michael, our baby, is in Iraq, you know, but the way Bruce talks, it's not our son but himself he's seeing, young soldier that he was. The memories of then filling him now, god knows what it is he fears.”

“They'll feed Bruce antidepressants. They work.” He wonders if he should just lie down like Bruce.

“Yeah, hope so. Do you think Murray will keep Bruce's shift open till he's back on his feet?”

He doubts it, but nods because the desperation in her voice alarms him.

“I've brought up three children. A kitchen holds no surprises. I could work two days of his shift till he returns. Would you put in a word?”

“Sure.” Murray won't allow her in his overmanaged kitchen, though he'd welcome Shelly's help.

“He's down the hall, last room on the right. I came out here for a break. Wanted my first cigarette in years, but you can't smoke anywhere. Damn.”

• • •

The hallway is too long, too narrow. He passes a man in a robe talking to something invisible in his hand. The guy reminds him of the time Glory asked him to serve Thanksgiving dinner at a shelter. She found the experience uplifting. The scene depressed him for days. Now, too, the wish to turn around and depart is strong.

No bigger than a walk-in closet with one small barred window and a twin-size bed, which is way too small for Bruce, who's curled up facing the wall.

“Bruce, hey. It's Nick.” The pajama-clad backside and bare feet scare him.

“Hey,” the voice barely audible.

“So . . . how do you feel?”

Nothing.

“We all go through these dark patches . . . a couple days, you're up, better than new.”

Bruce shifts around slowly to give him a who-are-you-kidding look. His face is pale, waxy, lips in permanent frown. “I'm not in the mood for chat.”

“I thought you'd have a couple of words for me.” He glances out the window at a small square of gray sky. Could they make these places any more discouraging?

“Nick, go home.”

“Yeah, in a minute.”

Bruce closes his eyes, which is a relief.

He pulls a chair from the wall to the bedside. A few more words, then he's out of here. “I know you're worried about Michael. His tour will end and—”

“He could be dead right now.” The sharp words stab his gut. He takes a deep breath.

“You and me, we made it out. So will he.”

“You don't know that. Horrible things happen there every day.”

“You have two other kids waiting for you to pull yourself together.”

“Their lives are their own,” his voice barely audible.

“You mean if they're not in danger you don't care about them?” His own voice louder than necessary.

“Something like that.”

He flashes on three-year-old Glory riding his shoulders. Each time they reached a doorway, she'd yell, “duck.” And he'd quack. She thought that was hilarious.

“My daughter's in the Middle East.”

Nothing.

“She's a witness . . . for peace.” Sounds ridiculous, like some religious calling. Even with Ava he doesn't talk about what Glory's actually doing there. Does he know? He wants to believe in her bravery, her expectations, but how can something good hurt him so much?

“She wants to make a difference,” he continues, but this too sounds stupid. It doesn't matter. Bruce isn't listening, his eyes still closed, his face expressionless. He could be dead, but he's alive. No mistaking the stone finality of dead: it's the first thing that hits, even before the smells.

“I'll see you soon. Try and get it together.” But even as he says this he wonders if Bruce is finished trying. He wants to give his arm a brotherly pat but is afraid to touch him, a man stalked by doom. He heads out but doesn't stop to speak to Shelly, because what can he say?

The receptionist eyes him suspiciously. “Forget it,” he calls over his shoulder. “I'm not moving in.”

• • •

It's a few streets to reach his car. He walks quickly, Bruce heavy in his head, the hospital's sour smell with him as well. Not a hint of sun, the air thick, punishing. Heat and traffic noise follow him. He could do with a cold beer. The whole world sucks is what.

Triborough Bridge or Midtown Tunnel, which one to take? He's already having trouble breathing, being underwater won't help. Before he can stick the key in the ignition, Bruce's open-eyed face appears in the windshield. Not a good sign. He switches on the radio. Bruce's face refuses to disappear. He fiddles with the dial to get conversation. Bruce stares at him.

He shuts his eyes. It's a visitation, a warning, the kind Scrooge received. Only it isn't about time past, it's about now, maybe the future. “Anything can happen to anyone anywhere, we know that, man.” He's talking out loud. To Bruce. That's crazy. But he can't stop himself. “Our kids want to live. They'll take care same as we did. You and me, Bruce, we share the doom, but that's it, man. Things are changing for me. I'm beginning to get a life here.”

He opens his eyes: the grimy windshield holds only a vision of a narrow street of small shops, garbage cans along the curb. Taxis whiz through changing lights. People rush by. Destination is all. He has one, too. He's taking Ava to a late afternoon movie. When was the last time he'd done that? The film could make Ava late for her shift. Rosalyn will stay an extra hour, friend that she is.

The voice on the radio sounds serious. He ratchets up the volume. The man's selling prepaid funerals. He laughs.

 

6

Butter and Ketchup

Getting out of the shower, she hears the phone, grabs the towel robe, and hurries to the living room.

“Yes? Hello?” A little breathless.

“Dina? It's Rosalyn. You sound funny.”

“It's unusual to get a call this early.” Actually, phone calls alarm her whatever the time.

“I knew you'd be leaving for Ava's and—”

“Yes, well, what is it?”

“You do sound strange.”

“An incident in the shower. It's nothing.”

“Did you fall?”

“I didn't.” A woman enters her sixties and it's the first question.

“I have to get a pair of shoes for a wedding. I hate going to the mall alone. Do you need anything?”

Since leaving her job she buys only essentials. “No, but I'll keep you company.”

“Meet me in front of Baker's shoe store at ten-thirty.”

“Okay.” An ER nurse, an ICU supervisor, a world within which she functioned for years at high speed, now she is a woman with time on her hands.

Returning to the steamy bathroom—her mug of coffee cooling on the rim of the sink—she stands for a moment remembering. It was nothing. But there's a tug at her insides, not a stomach problem. No, it's a tug of panic, the second one this morning. The first was brought on by seeing the new rubber mat in her tub, which she placed there last night. It's a surprising state, getting older, the limitations, bodily insults, odd sense of both urgency and mortality. But no one can stop the process. The fading beauty thing bothers her least. When she peers in the mirror, the face of yesteryear still meets her eyes. What she can't hold onto is that step-lightly kind of go. The way Ava wills her limber body to comply without complaint, Mila's seemingly never-ending energy, Rosalyn's jaunty step with no thought of tripping.

The clock on the shelf tells her she has thirty minutes to wake Bobby. Her black slacks and pink blouse hang outside the closet door. Pancakes, Bobby loves them. Now that she has time, he's growing up and soon won't need her. Caring for Bobby—so different than her son—is never a chore. Tim insisted on attention. As soon as she stepped through the door he was all chatter and need. Maybe if her husband had lived . . . her son was so young . . . but who knows? She saw Tim during the last snowstorm. He arrived wearing sneakers. She offered to buy him boots and he wanted cash. She gave him what she could. He stayed less than an hour. She was relieved to see him go, something she can barely admit to herself.

Taking a sweater, though it's a strangely hot spring, she checks for her car and house keys, confirms the toaster and coffeemaker are unplugged.

• • •

Driving to the mall from Ava's house, Bobby's on her mind. He was quiet during breakfast, unusual for him. Moodiness is a given at his age. Maybe he's upset about the kitchen guy his mother is dating, not that he'd say so. He's double-digits now, things are happening to his body. Would he talk to her about it? She passes a row of renovated houses with new roofs, landscaped lawns. Beginnings.

Pulling into a parking space, she notices the indoor mall is bustling. Shops, restaurants, and offices occupy two tiers that circle up and around. People dressed for work hurry by, reminding her she's a lady of leisure. Not quite. Still, her recent scheduled-by-the-minute life is done with. The alarm clock is no longer set, but she wakes early anyway. She bought lots of plants, a tomato box she tends daily. There must be more to retirement. Maybe she'll buy a book about it, though she doesn't believe in experts.

Rosalyn waves, a gremlin all wire and vigor, jeans and a short-sleeved shirt like it's already summer. Rosalyn's thick, dark hair frames a face that will always contain beauty. Some faces are like that but she'd never noticed before.

The shoe store is surprisingly crowded for a weekday. Balancing boxes, salesmen scurry back and forth, making her seasick. She finds a seat while Rosalyn studies the display shelves.

“I want to dance, so the heels can't be too high. On the other hand, I need fancy.” Rosalyn holds up a black suede pump for her to see.

“Nice, try them.” The salesmen interest her more. She searches for one who'd be around thirty, Tim's age. It wouldn't be a job he'd consider. He isn't a server.

Rosalyn, wearing two shoes with different-sized heels, limps across the carpeted floor to sit beside her. “Which one?”

“The left.” Even if Tim took a job selling, she doubts he'd hold on to it past the first paycheck. And she remembers all those years ago when he first disappeared, she and the principal searching the empty classrooms. Bobby would never disappear that way.

“How well do you know Nick?” she asks.

“He's not much of a talker. Why?” Rosalyn slips on another pair of shoes, raising one leg to admire the fit.

“Ava's dating him.”

“She's a big girl.”

“A kitchen guy's not exactly a model for her son.” Again she flashes on Tim, wonders if he's working anywhere.

“Model?” Rosalyn laughs a harsh sound. “A cushy job makes a noteworthy man, is that it?”

“A man Nick's age should have a more relevant position.”

“What's relevant? Cop? Pencil pusher? Stockbroker? Like that guy Mark, the big business owner from Colorado?”

“Oh don't play that game. You know what I mean. I guess Ava's tired of being alone,” she hears herself concede, though she isn't sure she believes it.

“Poor lonely Ava. Comes home from the diner and doesn't have to deal with a man's moods, criticisms, demands. Peace.”

“A relationship is more than a list of problems.”

“Companion, lover, hand-holding in the dark? How much of that is real, Dina?”

“How cynical,” she says.

“It's experience.”

“You've closed down, is what.”

“With all due love and respect, my past isn't written on my face.”

“There are truths in life,” she insists.

“The trouble is they keep changing.” Rosalyn slips off the shoes.

“You always have a quip.”

“Sorry, but I can't sympathize with looking to a man to change life for the better. It's never that simple.”

Rosalyn's words resonate, but something in her won't give in. “Of course not. One has to work at it, together.” Is that what she did? Filling the few short hectic years of her marriage with all she wanted to accomplish: a new house, furniture, child. Then Howie dies, just like that, and she, too stunned to grieve.

“Dina. You've been a widow how long? Aren't
you
lonely? Why didn't you join Parents Without Partners like so many people around here? Have you slept with anyone since?”

She did have a brief affair with a kind man who sold medical supplies, but it was complicated. Having to build a relationship, meet Tim's needs, work a high-powered job. It was too much. She ended up wanting simplicity more than companionship. “My true love died,” is all she says.

“I see.” Rosalyn lines up four pairs of shoes.

“You don't see a thing.”

“Are we arguing?”

“Of course not. We're just two women talking.”

“I'm sharing, you're talking.” Rosalyn gazes at the shoes.

“You're goading me.”

“If you say so. Listen, Nick's a sweet, respectable guy who's done well as a single dad in these last years, even if he is too quiet.”

“Ava talks to you about the relationship? She hasn't said a word to me.” Last year she would've been too busy to notice.

“Well, you know. We share different things with different friends.”

“How very kind of you to explain,” she mumbles, with no attempt to hide the sarcasm.

Rosalyn glances at her. “I need your help. Please tell me which of these shoes I should buy.”

She points to the suede pumps.

• • •

The sun has ducked behind a cloud revealing the grimy glass dome overhead. The first time Tim went missing, she covered every inch of the mall looking for him. The police were sure he'd return once he saw how miserable the streets could be. He did, but not for a month, a month in which she barely slept, traipsing the neighborhood peering into boys' faces. She blamed herself for his absence. But he didn't come home to stay. Money, he needed as much as she could offer. He cajoled, cried, swore he'd go to rehab. Now when he comes he always wants something from her. She began to pray he'd stay away. What kind of mother would do that?

“Dina, it's nearly twelve. Let's have a drink.”

“And forfeit my free lunch at the diner?”

“Ava's not there. She's on full night shift now, though Murray feels no shame in shifting her hours whenever he wants. If I were Ava—”

“You're not. But it's weird, no one gives me a check anymore. I've become a fixture of sorts.”

“Murray can afford to be generous. Sylvie's gone back to work, you know. Mila told me gleefully that Murray's not happy. Smart move, I say. A woman needs to have her own money. I said as much to Murray. He looked at me like it was my fault. Anyway, he's fond of Ava and knows what you do to help her.“

“That's not the reason for the free meal.”

“What then?”

“Older woman, invisible or stand-in for Mom. It's revolting.”

“No one sees you that way.”

“Not yet,” she murmurs. “A drink it is. Where?”

Rosalyn turns her dazzling eyes in her direction. “I know a café.” They cross the main floor of the mall, a buzz in the air like dying neon lights.

• • •

The café is blessedly quiet. They sit at a small round table near the window. As usual she takes in the ketchup in its easy-squeeze dispenser. Tim added butter and ketchup to everything he ate. It nauseated her. Sometimes he'd make a sandwich of the two ingredients. And she'd have to leave the room to contain her disgust. She wonders now if it indicated some chemical imbalance, perhaps a lack of potassium or sodium? Even as a nurse she'd never thought of it before. It was simply a stupid, even outrageous combination, the way children can pick out clothes that don't match.

The waiter slogs toward them. He seems exhausted, bloodshot eyes, swollen fingers, pasty skin—either a hangover or untreated diabetes. They order two glasses of wine, a grilled cheese sandwich for her, warm apple pie with ice cream for Rosalyn.

“Strange being served . . . I leave huge tips. Ruined by my profession.” Rosalyn glances out the window.

“What did you do before being a waitress?”

“You don't want the list.”

“I bet it's colorful.” She's fond of this woman's spunky refusal to conform; fond, too, of their talks about anything and everything.

The waiter brings their wine, setting each glass down carefully. She notices the slight tremor in his hand, decides his symptoms are alcohol-related.

“To the good life,” Rosalyn says, and takes a long drink.

“So?” she persists.

“File clerk for Revlon, very young . . . free makeup, boring, boring. Go-go dancer . . . had its moments, definitely more lucrative. Affiliated escort service and travel agency.”

“Who did you escort?”

“Foreign visitors. Men.” Rosalyn takes another big swallow, nearly emptying the glass.

“Exotic?”

Rosalyn gives her a half-smile. “Depends how you define the word. And you, always a nurse,” but it's not a question.

“Yes, interesting but no spontaneity. The job was about order and control. The right dose, not just of medicine, but of time with patients. Everything doled out with the next task in mind.”

“And grateful people? And the god-docs, they were a trip, I bet.”

“True.” So many years carrying out duties without making any major mistake. She wonders now whether that counts as success.

• • •

Her house sits between two identical small white clapboard structures with black trim, one belongs to Ava, the other to a family newly arrived from India. She sees a light in her upstairs room. Bobby has a key. Why did he lock the door? “Bobby?” She walks past the orderly kitchen to the living room. Why would he be upstairs? “Bobby,” she calls again, and climbs the well-worn steps. Before reaching the top, Tim appears.

“I thought I heard you.” His voice is deeper than she remembers.

“Oh my.” Her hand presses her chest.

“Didn't mean to scare you. I have a key.” But the smirk on his face doesn't reassure her. He looks awful, just awful: skinny as a pole, pale, too, shabby clothes, torn sneakers. Has he been sleeping in the streets?

“I put my gear in my room.”

“Yes, good,” and she turns to go back down because a sudden dizziness threatens her balance.

He follows her to the living room, drops into the club chair, his feet up on the chipped leather ottoman. “I'm in trouble, I need to hang out here. My partner's picking me up tomorrow.”

“What kind of trouble?” Her jaw so tense a pain shoots up the side of her cheek.

“You'd be an accomplice if I told you.”

“An accomplice? Tim, what have you done?” She's not shouting, but her voice echoes in her head, the way it sometimes does when she's at the beach treading water.

“Don't get wormy. Stay calm.”

“Where have you been since I last saw you?” He seems tired, his eyes red-rimmed. But he's not high, which is something.

“Around. You're looking good, Ma. How's the job?” He reaches up, switches on the floor lamp. In the circle of light, his skin pulled tight over delicate bones has a bluish tinge. There's red in his dirty-blonde hair. Has he been in a sunny climate?

“I retired.” That's a word she rarely uses. Left, finished, no more nursing, is her usual description.

“What do you do for money?”

“I have a pension. I get along. You needn't worry.” His question, though, is self-serving, and a spark of anger ignites inside her.