The Black Widow (10 page)

Located in a busy strip mall a few miles from the medical office, the drugstore is bustling as usual when Alex arrives at half past noon.

She makes her way directly to the pharmacy counter at the back corner of the store. Predictably, there’s a long line, and several other customers are sitting in chairs along the wall waiting for their orders to be filled.

The tall, gray-haired woman is behind the register. Good. She’s always all business, unlike the bubbly blond chatterbox who’s sometimes on duty at this time of day.

As Alex waits her turn, she avoids looking at a nearby shelf that holds over-the-counter pregnancy tests. It’ll be almost another month before she needs to buy more of those, though it never hurts to stock up in advance. Not that she’ll be doing that on Mr. Griffith’s dime.

Disappointment over last night’s negative test seeps in, but she reminds herself that it’ll happen eventually.

Years ago, when she and Carmen were trying to conceive, she—

“Next!” The woman behind the register beckons her forward. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m picking up prescriptions for my father, John Griffith. There should be four that were sent in this morning from Dr. Patel’s office, including the insulin. One won’t be covered by Medicare so I’ll take care of that separately.”

The woman nods and turns away to fish through the bin of filled orders. After a few moments, she plucks a white bag from the rest and returns to the register.

Alex holds her breath. This is the part where it might get tricky. So far the process has always worked like clockwork, but you never know.

“Okay, I have one, two, three that are covered, and one that is not.”

“Right. I’ll write out the check for the co-pays on the first three and pay for the other one in cash.”

Moments later she’s on her way with the white bag in her hand. Walking right past the deli—the one she pretended to be so eager to visit—she waits until she’s safely back in the car before opening the bag.

First, she tucks the register receipt for the three medications inside, along with Mr. Griffith’s Medicare card.

Then she takes out the orange bottle of medication that wasn’t covered—the one she paid for with cash from her own wallet—and tucks it into the glove compartment.

Poor old Mr. Griffith. For all she knows, he really does suffer from erectile dysfunction. Too bad he has no idea that Viagra has been prescribed for him.

But that’s all right,
Alex thinks as she tucks the orange bottle into the glove compartment.
I promise I’ll put it to good use
.

She weaves her way from the strip mall to the highway on-ramp and drives a couple of miles, exiting into a neighborhood far different from where she works—or, for that matter, lives.

This, too, is residential, and the houses are old as well—but not charming old. These are shabby old, set so close together that they’re separated by mere alleyways instead of yards, fronted by more weeds than grass. Shady-looking characters lounge on porches and corners where storefronts are scattered. Some are boarded up and covered with graffiti. Bodegas that are still open advertise the usual beer and cigarettes, lottery tickets and ATMs, along with the fact that they cash checks and accept food stamps.

Hearing an explosive bang as she drives past a group of kids in an empty parking lot, she’s relieved to see that they’re only setting off fireworks. Dangerous—not to mention illegal here—but less disconcerting than gunfire.

Halfway down a pothole-pocked block, Alex pulls up in front of a house that’s covered in faded salmon-colored siding, with a dented white metal awning hanging crookedly above the small concrete porch.

Mr. Griffith told her that it was damaged by a tree branch a few years back during Hurricane Sandy, and he hasn’t been able to get anyone to fix it.

“But that’s all right. It looks like it’s going to fall on someone’s head. Maybe it’ll keep people away—the wrong kind of people,” he added with narrowed eyes.

Carrying the bag from the pharmacy, Alex makes her way up a cracked sidewalk dotted with bird droppings and littered with seed pods that dropped from trees high overhead. She climbs the uneven steps and knocks on the gray aluminum storm door.

There’s a large Beware of Dog sign taped to the glass—another measure to scare off unwanted visitors, the old man once told her with a chuckle. “A sign is all you need. It’s a lot cheaper than a watch dog—and a whole lot cheaper than one of those burglar alarm systems.”

She’d warned him that he might not want to keep a key to the house hidden under the back doormat, but he told her not to worry about that. “I’ve got a Beware of Dog sign on the back door, too. And if that doesn’t keep intruders away, I’ll take care of them myself before they get very far.”

It takes a full minute, maybe two, before Mr. Griffith appears, just as she’s wondering if she’s going to have to go find the key and let herself in.

He breaks into a grin when he sees her.

“Well if it isn’t my good Samaritan.” He opens the door wide. “Come on in. The coffee’s hot. I could use some myself. Been snoozing since I got home.”

“Oh, thank you, but I can’t. I have to get back to work. I just wanted to give you this.” She holds out the bag. “Your Medicare card is inside, and so is the receipt for the check amount.”

“Thank you, my dear. Are you sure I can’t—” He breaks off as a car passes by on the street, hip-hop music blasting through the open windows.

Mr. Griffith scowls. “Thugs. Didn’t used to see them around here. When I bought this house, it was all families. Real nice.” He shakes his head. “Now . . . well, you know.”

Alex shrugs. Her mother-in-law used to complain about the neighborhood changing, too. But it was the opposite there. She’d bemoan the loss of all her down-to-earth old neighbors who’d passed away or moved away, and criticize the families who’d moved in to take their place. She called them, collectively,
el esnobismo
—as if they were filthy rich snobs living in vast mansions instead of ordinary upper-middle-class families who could afford the skyrocketing suburban real estate prices in a town where a high six-figure sale price would buy a modest fixer-upper.

Mr. Griffith goes on venting about how unsafe his own neighborhood has become.

“Maybe you should move,” Alex says, barely keeping the snap from her voice. She used to say the same thing to her mother-in-law, praying the woman would take the advice.

Naturally, she never did. She had to be near her precious son and grandson.

“Bah,” Mr. Griffith says, with a wave of his gnarled hand. “I’m not going anywhere. This is my home.”

“But if it’s not safe anymore—”

“Bah. I’ve been sleeping with a loaded gun in the drawer of my bedside table ever since the neighborhood color scheme changed from white to brown and black. A legal gun, by the way, registered and official. It’s my right to have it, and you can be damned sure I’ll use it on these thugs if I need to.”

From white to brown and black . . .

Oh, really?

“My husband and son are Hispanic. Or, as you might say, ‘brown.’ ” Alex smiles sweetly. “Don’t know if I ever mentioned that.”

Gratified by the startled expression on his weathered face, she sees him glance down at her left hand.

“I didn’t even know you were married.”

“Oh, I am. Have been for years. I just don’t wear my rings when I’m working. All those diamonds . . . well, you know. They get in the way.” She turns on her heel. “Take care, Mr. Griffith.”

“Wait—”

She turns back to see him fumbling with his wallet, holding out a bill. “Here,” he calls. “Take this, for your trouble.”

“It was no trouble. Just my good deed for the day.”

Back in the car, the forced smile gives way to a clenched jaw as she starts the engine.

“Don’t worry,” she says aloud, to Carmen and Dante. “I’ll make sure he pays for that little remark. I’ve still got your back, even after . . . even now.”

At five-thirty, Ben’s phone vibrates with an incoming text. He glances at it, closes his office door, and picks up the phone to call Peter. Ordinarily he’d just text back, but right now he needs an ear and some advice from an old friend who knows him well.

They’d met on their first day at M.I.T. and easily bonded, the way college kids do, over the pleasures of Frisbee and beer and the mysteries of the dorm laundry room.

Though they came from different parts of the country—Peter is from a tiny midwestern town and his parents are farmers—they shared quite a few similarities. Peter, too, was the younger of two brothers. He, too, had been on the high school swim team, had also won academic scholarships, and was working his way through school. He, too, was majoring in engineering. He originally planned to move to Chicago and design skyscrapers once he got his degree. But after visiting Ben in New York over their first Christmas break, he changed his mind.

He lives in Manhattan and designs bridges; Ben is the one who designs skyscrapers. Their offices are five blocks apart, their apartments—now that Ben has moved to an Upper East Side high-rise—a mere twelve.

Peter answers his own cell on the second ring. “So are you good to go?”

He’s referring, of course, to the invitation he just extended via text: to go for a run in the park, then grab burgers at the Stumble Inn afterward to watch tonight’s ball game.

“Can’t,” Ben tells him. “I already have plans.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going back to the stadium and you’re calling to explain why you didn’t invite me this time either?”

“Luis is the one who got the tickets last night. There were only two. I couldn’t invite you.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, whatever. So either you’re going to the game again tonight or you’re watching it someplace without me. Which is it, son?”

“None of the above.”

“Come on, I know you, Duran. You’d sooner cut off your you-know-what than miss a Yankees/Red Sox game.”

Ben winces. “Yeah, well . . . maybe I cut off my—”

“Stop. What the hell, you forgot about the game and made other plans?”

“Yeah. I don’t know what got into me.”

“It involves a woman.”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?”
Peter echoes. “What, it involves a transvestite?”

Not in the mood to trade quips, Ben explains how he ran into Gaby last night at the Stadium—with another guy—and somehow convinced himself, and her, that it would be a great idea to get together and talk. Over dinner. Tonight.

“You’re nuts.”

“I know.”

“You’d be better off with a transvestite.”

“Peter. Come on.”

“Benjy. What the hell are you doing?”

“I don’t know. When I saw her, something just . . . clicked. I miss her.”

“Yeah. I missed Leslie, too, at first. But you get over that eventually. It just takes time.”

“I’ve had time. I’ve done—I’m
still
doing—everything I can to move on. But it just—”

“Listen, as long as you’re not thinking of getting back together . . . you’re not, are you?” Peter asks. “Because that would be a huge mistake.”

Ben is silent, toying with a pen.

“I understand what this is about,” Peter goes on. “Leslie and I ran into each other at happy hour at Dos Caminos on Third one night. It was a few months after we separated—but before the divorce was official. We were both drinking those Cosmo del Diablos they make . . .”

Ben thinks of his recent date with—what was her name? Camilla. That’s right. With the pink lipstick and the pink drink. Plural.
Drinks
.

“
You
were drinking Cosmos?”

“Del
Diablo
,” Peter clarifies.

“Yeah, that makes it manly.”

“Hell, yeah, it does. Stop interrupting me. So Leslie and me—we hooked up. You know—for old times’ sake.”

“You never told me that.”

“I never told anyone that. I wanted to forget it and move on. But maybe I shouldn’t be saying it was a huge mistake. Maybe it was the best thing that could have happened.”

“Why?”

“Because I thought I still wanted her, you know? She looked great, and we had a lot of laughs the way we used to . . . but then the next morning, she was right back to bitching at me about some stupid thing. Nagging, complaining, criticizing . . . and I remembered all the reasons we weren’t together anymore.”

“Wow. That’s . . .”

Depressing
, is what it is. Ben doesn’t bother to complete the sentence.

Peter goes on, “Maybe we just had to get it out of our systems that one last time. So that we’d know we’d made the right decision. Maybe you and Gaby need to do the same thing.”

“That’s not why I’m seeing her. We know we made the right decision. And,” he adds, before Peter can elaborate, “that’s not what’s going to happen. We’re not going to hook up.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re just going to talk, right? Okay, Ben. You go have dinner with her and have a nice heart-to-heart and then go your separate ways.”

“I plan to.”

“Or you go have dinner and a heart-to-heart and then take her home and sleep with her. One for the road.”

“It’s not like that. It’s—”

“Sure it is, and there’s nothing wrong with it. You do what you have to do. I’ve been there, remember? I know what it’s like.”

He does . . . and he doesn’t.

For all their similarities, Peter has never been a one-woman man in all the years Ben has known him. Besides, he and Leslie were mismatched from the start. They fought constantly, like Luis and Ada.

Peter’s marriage lasted a little over a year before they mutually called it quits.

Luis has often said that he and Ada probably would have done the same thing if they hadn’t had children. “The kids are the glue that’s kept us together,” he’d say.

Yeah, well . . . Ben can’t relate to that.

A lump rises in his throat.

He doesn’t usually allow himself to think about his son in the middle of a workday, much less a conversation. If he allows it, the tears come, and tears . . .