The Lullaby of Polish Girls (14 page)

Soon Ben and Anna had to move out of their $2,000 a month rental and settle for a cramped railroad apartment in Greenpoint. It was a steep step down, and it had happened so quickly that nothing seemed certain any longer.

At the restaurant, Anna gathers her coat, hat, and shoulder bag, stands up, and tips her chin toward the drinks.

“Thanks for lunch,” she mumbles. “I lost my footing. I just lost my footing,” and she shuffles out, tripping on the carpet and knocking into a waiter.

On the way to the subway, she wipes away angry tears. “They chew you up, they spit you back out,” her father had said when she first told him she was going to be a star. Perhaps he’d been right. Maybe she doesn’t want to do this anymore. Maybe she’s done with fads and fasts, with cattle calls and climbing the ladder. Once upon a time she’d been sure that she’d stand at the Oscar podium one day. Maybe now she’ll just give it all up, marry and have babies instead. She could find Sebastian Tefilski and settle down.

By the time Anna gets to her apartment on Lorimer Street, she is sweating and fuming. There is vigor in her step. She has a plan now, hatched between the Third Avenue and Bedford subway stops. She fumbles for her keys and takes the stairwell, two steps at a time.

She yanks her apartment door open. Ben is at work. As she hurries into the bedroom, she catches a glimpse of the dirty dishes in the sink, a wet towel on the bathroom floor, it’s a total mess, her mess of a life. It takes her seven minutes to fill up her duffel bag, throwing in underwear, clothes, and books as if she has only a few moments to gather her belongings before a fire consumes everything. She has to run. This doesn’t feel like escape, it feels like survival, and Anna is comforted by the difference. Bag by her feet, she briefly settles into a chair with her notebook in hand, and the words pour out like lava, hot, quick, and full of all the secret, ugly truths.
I’m going back. I’m going back to the beginning
, she scrawls and quickly signs her name.

Kamila Detroit, Michigan

In the dim light, past the white shafts of cigarette smoke, it feels as though Kamila is eyeing the man through a fog. It’s like the last scene in
Casablanca
, though Kamila is no Ingrid Bergman and he’s no Bogart. The bar is empty except for a few businessmen, their ties undone, and there’s a bachelorette party in a girly, tiara-clad heap at the tables in the back.

From a distance, he looks a bit like Montgomery Clift, who happens to be Kamila’s favorite. Oh, tortured, closeted Monty, with his angelic face torn in half and sewn back all wrong.
It’s ironic
, she suddenly realizes.
I’ve been with a Monty my whole life
. She laughs out loud to herself. The man looks at her. He’s probably in his forties and has a nice American face, even though his hairline is receding.

Kamila hasn’t seen or talked to her parents since the morning, since she yanked herself free from Zofia and left her standing there. When she knocked on the Levickys’ door, Jan opened it immediately. “Kammie! Your mother’s called here six times. She desperately wants you to come home. I hope everything’s all right, but I’d love it if you would stay and help me decorate the tree.”

“Eet’s okay,
Pani
Jan. My friend in Poland, there was an accident to her husband. But I okay.” Kamila didn’t want to explain anything. She didn’t want to think about Justyna or Paweł. It was cruel, but that morning, hanging glass ornaments on the Levickys’ fake tree, and trying not to cry, she thought only one thing: maybe it would be easier for Justyna to move on than it was for her. At least death was final.

The American man is now staring. Kamila wonders what he sees. Is it possible that in this forgiving light she looks beautiful? Her red hair is dyed black, cut into a Betty Boop bob and weighed down with Frizz-Ease. Her body is all bone and ninety-degree angles. She can count her
ribs, and does often; it’s like a nervous tic, like cracking knuckles. A few years ago, she got a nose job in Warsaw. Her nose was slim now, like the rest of her. She got the operation done the summer Emil had proposed, out of the blue, one day pre-op, on his knees. They got married in the fall, in a lavish, romantic ceremony. The party went on till two
A.M.
When they got back home, Emil said he was too exhausted to make love to his new bride.

The bartender pours another shot and she sips it, ladylike, very aware of this man’s eyes on her. The vodka heats up her insides. Her suitor lights a cigarette, and then he’s on his feet, his cashmere coat slung casually over his arm, making his way toward the empty stool beside her. She notices his stomach, drooping slightly over his belt, which seems like it’s cinched a few notches too tight. He sits down next to her and takes a drag. She can smell his woodsy cologne.

“Can I buy you a drink?” His voice is not what she expected, nasal and flat. Kamila motions to the empty shot glass and nods. The bartender appears, as if by magic, and refills it without a word. “Do you work around here? I haven’t seen you before, and I’m what they call a regular.” He grins, showing off sparkling white teeth—American teeth.

“I visiting from Poland,” Kamila shares in her broken English. She is just this side of tipsy.

“Poland?” The man smiles wider. Kamila notices that even his molars in the back sparkle. “Poland, huh? I worked with a guy from Lodz a few years ago. Tomek Cieslak. Had the worst body odor, but a good guy.” He pronounces it
Tahmik Cheese-lak
. “Lots of Poles in these parts. We’ve got a few over at Schleifer now. I’ve always wondered why. Maybe you can tell me, Mrs.…?”

“Figura. Kasia Figura.” There is no way this man can know that Kasia Figura is the Demi Moore of Poland, famous now not so much for her long, somewhat scandalous movie career as for her gravity-defying 34DDs.

“Kasha Feegoora. So tell me, Kasha, why are you here?”

It’s a good question. If she were fully drunk, maybe she’d answer it honestly, admitting she was here because she couldn’t face her parents, that she’d quit her job at Mrs. Levicky’s that afternoon, and that she had taken the bus into downtown Detroit and had gotten off at a random
stop because once again, she was on the lam. She would tell him that her husband was a homo and her mother was obese; that her father was a loser. Not to mention that her childhood friend’s husband had just been murdered and that she had just made herself throw up in the ladies’ room. She would tell him she was here because the Christmas lights above the entrance were so pretty.

Instead she says, “I on my honey month,” and hopes she remembered the word correctly.

“Your honey month? You mean honeymoon?” She glances down, embarrassed. She notices the man’s nails, bitten down to the quick.

“Honey month, huh? I barely lasted a week when my ex-wife and I flew down to St. Thomas. God knows what an entire month would have done! We’d have probably flown back with divorce papers ready. It would have saved us a few years.” He laughs and puffs on his cigarette. “So where’s Mr. Feegoora?”

He’s back in Poland with his boyfriend
. Oh, how she wishes she could channel Justyna right now. Poor Justyna, poor Kamila. The only one who made out good after all these years is Anna Baran, with her champagne life and caviar dreams.

“My husband, he no likes to go out to the bars.”

“But he has no problem letting his wife go? Tsk, tsk, tsk. I’m no fortune-teller, but that isn’t a good sign.”

“I only marry him for the moneys.”

The man lets out an uproarious peal of laughter and finishes off his martini.

“Well, at least you’re honest.” Neither of them says anything else for a while. They sit and stare into their empty glasses, exchanging small glances from time to time. The bridal party stumbles past the bar, singing “A Thousand Miles” as they head out into the cold, their lacey tops and leather minis covered by overcoats and bomber jackets.

“I suppose one of us should take that girl aside and warn her, right? I’m Kevin, by the way.” He sticks out his hand and waits. Kamila tries to give him a quick handshake but he ends up holding the grip for a long time. His hand is big and warm, like a paw.

“Warn is useless. I get warn too, but it no matter. When heart says you do something, the brain is listen. This is the life, Keveen.”

He stares at her and puts his other hand over hers. “You have a very sexy accent, Mrs. Feegoora. Has anyone told you that before?”

Kamila blushes crimson. How can she tell this man that no one in her life has ever used the word
sexy
when referring to her? She doesn’t say anything.

“They’re gonna kick us outta here soon, it’s a school night, you know. I’ve got a very hungry Dalmatian waiting for me at home. And I bet you’ve got a very hungry husband waiting for you.”

“No. My husband he don’t eat what I offering him. He no have the appetite. But I … starving.” Kamila can’t believe the words are out of her mouth, and in semi-coherent English at that. But Kevin smiles.

“I bet,” he says, signaling the bartender for their check.

He kisses her in the backseat of the taxicab, and she can’t get enough. By the time they are in the elevator going up to the twenty-third floor, she is a puddle, melting almost. For a minute a morbid vision of her mother identifying her naked, bruised body flashes in her head. But if this is the end, she’s ready to take the risk.

The sex is strange and surprising. Kevin is in turn rough and tender, biting her nipples, stroking her thighs, brushing away years of neglect. He urges her to talk dirty in Polish and she does, because at this point, why not? She arches her neck, recalling the few X-rated movies she’s seen and groans,
“Więcej, dalej dalej …”
He pants in her ear that she is the sexiest girl he’s ever fucked, that he’s going to cum all over her face, which he does. It stings and she asks for a paper towel.

Later, he brings a Tupperware of cold cuts to bed and they sit up, naked, eating slices of prosciutto and salami in silence. Kamila swallows the meat with gusto, forgetting to chew. They don’t talk much even though Kamila wishes she could tell him everything. Kevin’s dog wanders into the bedroom, and Kamila throws him bits of ham, which he catches in his mouth every time. “I got full custody of Pepper and my wife got the house. A fair trade, don’t you think? What a bitch.” It’s the last thing he says before he falls asleep. He sleeps with his mouth open, breathing heavily. Kamila stares at him for a long time, and then gets dressed. Pepper follows her to the door, and she nuzzles his neck before leaving.

It takes her a while to find a taxi, but when she does, she throws
herself in the backseat, suddenly exhausted and spent. The cab makes its way through the slush, toward Wyandotte. Kamila is no longer afraid to face her mother. Just this morning Kamila had felt close to killing herself over Emil, but now it all seems petty. She must go back to Kielce. She’ll give herself a week or two to sleep off the remnants of her fear, and then she’ll go. It’ll be easy to change her return ticket. Easy to pack up her belongings, most of which she’ll leave behind anyway.

Kamila leans her head back and closes her eyes, replaying the night in her head, from the moment she first spotted Kevin ordering his martini, to the last glimpse of his glistening torso heaving softly in slumber, his penis limp, slumped on its side. Kamila wonders if the Pakistani driver can smell the sex on her. She hopes that he does.

Justyna Kielce, Poland

Most people get wasted for one of two reasons: to forgive or to forget. Justyna never had much reason to do either; she drank because it was fun. Other girls needed half a bottle of hard liquor to abandon their inhibition. The boys Justyna grew up with needed half a bottle to forget about their deadbeat dads and their alcoholic moms. But Justyna had always been content with her lot, simply sidestepping every pitfall that came her way. Since Paweł died, she hadn’t touched a drop, but when her neighbor dropped by with a bottle of white wine to see if she was doing okay, Justyna replied, “I’m doing fine,” and went to get two glasses.