Buy Me Love Page 7

It’s on a full stomach, not with.

  No, with!

  Another flurry of poking.

  You be the tiebreaker, said Roy to Ellen.

  Hate to tell you, Ennio, but Roy’s right.

  Ennio mock-pouted, then asked: What’re you having for supper?

  Depends what my cats want. I have two.

  Due gatti! You eat what they eat?

  No, she laughed, but I try to take their wishes into account. Um, I think we’ll have . . . leftover salmon.

  Ennio grinned. D’you ever try putting napkins around their necks?

  Nah. My gatti are greedy, they gobble their food. It’d be a waste of napkins.

  What if they choke on the bones?

  Cats never choke on fish bones, said Roy.

  You’re right, said Ellen. But I did, once.

  Ennio’s eyes widened. Really? What happened?

  Well, I got a small fish-bone stuck in my throat, and I couldn’t cough it out, so I went to the doctor and he made me open my mouth and say ahhh. Then he reached in with a pair of teeny-tiny tweezers and pulled out the bone. I had to sit very still while he got it out.

  Whoa! Like playing pick-up sticks!

  That’s exactly what the doctor said.

  On the sidewalk, Roy and Ennio thanked her for their drinks.

  You going down Ninth Street? Roy asked.

  Yeah.

  We’ll walk with you for a bit, then.

  At Fifth Avenue she stopped.

  We’re taking the R, said Ennio.

  He pointed toward Fourth Avenue.

  I’m gonna peel off here, Ellen said. Have a safe ride to Bay Ridge.

  Ciao! said Ennio.

  Ciao . . .

  She turned left, walked a few yards, and glanced over her shoulder. Man and boy stood at a halt on the sidewalk. They waved at her, then pirouetted and took off, hand in hand.

  Boom!

  1

  Approaching the top of Ninth Street the next morning, Ellen paused to extract a pebble from her shoe. Straightening up, she palmed the base of her bag to redistribute its weight.

  What the hell was in there, a cinderblock? And that lottery ticket, where had it gone? It must be buried under the usual junk. No point searching now; it’d turn up eventually.

  How crazy, though, actually buying it. Go on, indulge, cue a daydream . . . What could Win use? A new life, basically. Starting with an interview with a fancy-ass author who’d write a magazine profile on him. Everyone would be fascinated by this guy who’d been a composer for over twenty years, lost his girlfriend in the Madrid train-station bombings in 2003, then started drawing music instead of notating it in the usual way. Art galleries in Williamsburg would beg to represent him. He’d be a new enfant terrible with a second career as a visual artist. Everyone would applaud him for having jumpstarted a fresh conversation about musical-visual creativity. Recomposition would become a buzzword.

  Or else he’d get bored by all that, and go back to regular notation. Whichever, it didn’t matter, so long as he pulled himself out of his pit.

  Phase two? A house for him somewhere in Brooklyn. Kensington, maybe? One of those nice mansions on a quiet side-street. With a housekeeper, of course. So he’d actually eat.

  And he’d have a new wardrobe, too—all the cashmere sweaters and socks he’d ever want. And racks of shoes. Since Madrid he hadn’t bought a single new pair, even though he’d always liked shoes.

  Therapy as well. An hour-long daily session with a trauma-and-grief specialist, so he’d finally start reclaiming the person he’d been. Assuming that person still existed, and gave a rat’s ass about self-reclamation. Or would ever get past the fact that his girlfriend had been drinking a café con leche at the station when the first bomb went off.

  The problem with lottery-induced daydreams? Exposure of the winner’s flaws of character.

  Distractability, for instance. Flightiness. Sloth. Lack of self-trust.

  One chapbook of prose poems published fifteen years ago, and right after the book’s release, the publisher’d gone under, so the book flopped. And since then, what had she managed to put on paper? Perhaps a half-dozen poems. Three of which were published in a decent lit-mag a while back. But nothing new recently. Like, for the past seven or eight years.

  Ridiculous the waste sad time. Thanks, T. S. Eliot, for that reminder.

  Yet why not be a no-longer-writing poet? Was it such a bad thing to be a poet with an out-of-print chapbook, a has-been who read tons of poems and produced none?

  Go to, you’re a dry fool; I’ll no more of you. And thanks to you too, Shakespeare.

  2

  The skateboarders were at it again, bouncing off the pedestal of Admiral Somebody’s statue at the top of Ninth Street.

  Well, at least they were doing it—playing the game, not just sitting on their hands in the dugout.

  As for herself, were any other games being played at the moment? Not much since Paul. A few affairs, none torrid, with undemanding men, usually married. And always that sense of standing outside, detached . . . well, at least aloneness was real, not projected or imagined. Sometimes it felt awful, but pretty soon it went back to being normal again. And daily life was busy, the city a constant feast of distractions.

  Of course there were constraints, as in feeling just barely solvent most of the time. In the money department, all the nearest-and-dearest had done well. Their mortgages were paid off, kids’ college tuitions in hand, careers squared away or traded in for something fresh, like Anne’s new acupuncture practice in Paris. Everyone was in fine budgetary fettle. Health-wise, too, they’d all been lucky; nobody had come down with any of the really bad stuff yet. Giselle had had thyroid cancer in addition to depression, but she was cancer-free now, and out of the woods emotionally. There’d been no heart attacks; nobody’d gone mad; nobody was addicted to pills; nobody alcoholic.

  Except Win.

  3

  Prospect Park’s Long Meadow: the fastest route to the museum. No traffic, just a bunch of undisciplined cyclists.

  Edging the park’s bandshell, she jogged along the path by the pond at the meadow’s southern end. A few large trees near the pond swayed, leaves upturned, glinting . . . the sky pearl-gray now, emulsified. There’d be rain soon.

  At a footbridge on the pond’s far side, she slowed, out of breath. The path branched; one limb proceeded toward Grand Army Plaza, the other descended to the Ravine. Continuing northward, she entered a short tunnel beneath another footbridge, then scampered across the busy intersection at Grand Army Plaza and headed down Eastern Parkway. At the Botanic Garden’s entrance, the sidewalk dipped abruptly toward the museum. There it sat, a kingly edifice with a glass-and-steel façade that jutted out at the front, taunting its critics.

  The staff entrance was at the museum’s rear. Several curators and a large crew of janitors stood in line; she joined the queue.

  What’d be on the docket for the day? Updates for the employees’ manual. A speech to edit for the museum director, some mumbo-jumbo for a consortium of nonprofits. Not poetry, any of it, though it did get her out of the apartment. At least she still had her hooks in the world. Unlike Win, that hoarder of misery.

  Though not always . . . once upon a time there was Mel, who’d always been able to help him make light of things. She hadn’t been in the least intimidated by his success. If you compose during the day, doesn’t that mean you decompose at night? Wry, straight-talking Mel. She’d had a few nice friends, too, people Win actually enjoyed, though they had nothing to do with music. And a sibling as well, a sister she’d rarely been in touch with, whom she’d gone to visit in Madrid on an impulse. Win had wanted to give Mel a surprise birthday present when she returned. Even though he hated musicals, he’d bought advance tickets for a My Fair Lady concert to be held that August, at the Hollywood Bowl. That musical was one of her favorites. She used to sing Wouldn’t It Be Loverly in her funny high voice.

  She also sang “The Rain in Spain.” And “
Without You.”

  4

  The queue inched forward. Someone in line was talking about the Coney Island boardwalk, how kitschy it’d become.

  That boardwalk was where Win and Mel had met. Win had taken a bike ride out there, pedaled a few hundred yards along the boardwalk, and then wham, a flat tire. Out for a stroll, Mel had watched him try to fix the tire. She’d introduced herself, taken the pliers from him, and told him he was ruining a perfectly good rim. Then repaired the thing in a matter of minutes.

  My metalworker, he’d called her after that. Which was true: she’d been the only female designer at the ironworks in Cobble Hill where she worked. There hadn’t been much made of metal that she couldn’t fix. She’d fixed Win, too. Iron Man, your brother? More like Tin Man. Don’t worry, if he falls apart I’ll solder him back together.

  Win’s best commissions had arrived while he was with Mel. The preludes, that chorale piece for the orchestra in Melbourne . . . he’d done a lot of arranging as well, and made decent money. Best of all, he’d stopped drinking so much. It used to piss Mel off, so he’d learned to settle for a bit of wine at dinner, no more vodka. After he got his shit together drinkwise, she’d left her studio in Cobble Hill to join him in Sunset Park.

  Three years of it, they’d had. Happy madness, Win called it—like Joe Henderson playing that gorgeous tune on tenor, or Sinatra crooning the silly-sweet lyrics.

  Then over, not with a whimper but a bang.

  The queue came to a standstill as dark-gray clouds scudded overhead. A small group of janitors went through; one of them set off the metal detector. What was he carrying—dozens of keyrings?

  Dropping her bag to her feet, Ellen laced her fingers together and cracked her knuckles.

  Ever darker, the sky. The rain in Spain . . .

  Skinny, Mel’d been, with long auburn hair. She always wore cool hoop earrings and bangles she created for herself. Her style was simple yet sexy: straight-legged black jeans, pointy-toed boots, loose white cotton shirts, long cabled wool pullovers in winter. No makeup.

  How absurd, Win the composer falling for a woman named Melody. Like a poet hooking up with someone called Sonnet. Or a painter with a guy named Gesso. She’d called him Winsome; he’d liked that, and everything else about her. Look at these fingernails, he’d say, spreading her hands open. What a screech on a blackboard they’d make . . .

  Crack of thunder. Any minute now, the skies would open.

  Boom: the only word Win had been able to speak after the news came from Madrid—for days on end, just that one word. As if in his head he had to keep detonating the bomb over and over, so he’d believe it.

  Meeting the coffin at JFK had been the hardest part. All those hours of paperwork, then standing around waiting for the plane to arrive. Mel’s sister hadn’t flown back to the States for the funeral; she couldn’t handle any of it, didn’t even want to talk on the phone. Win had to work out the logistics with her by email. She and Mel hadn’t ever been close. Those few days in Madrid were the first they’d spent together in a long time.

  According to the sister, Mel had liked the Atocha station. That was why they’d been having coffee there—so Mel could observe the ironwork, take photos, make sketches. Her camera’d been killed, too, so there were no visual clues as to what had made Mel happy that morning. Win was left hearing it in his head: boom, glass crashing, sirens.

  5

  A final janitor walked up to the metal detector. It let out a whistle. Fishing two keychains and a small St. Jude medal from his pocket, the janitor presented them to the guard, who waved him through.

  Two curators remained in line. Closing her eyes, Ellen waited for them to proceed.

  St. Jude: patron saint of hopeless cases.

  After Madrid, Win had refused to answer his phone and shunned all visitors. She’d had to pound on his door every few days to make sure he was still alive. Finally he’d resumed talking a little, though never about himself, only about practicalities: filing paperwork, closing Mel’s bank accounts, getting rid of her clothing. He’d sent her sister the information for Mel’s life insurance company. The sister was the only remaining family member; both parents were dead. Mel’s money went to her, not much, maybe forty grand.

  When the bureaucratic work was behind him, Win got right back in the drunk’s saddle.

  The guard was waiting; she fumbled for her ID card.

  Miss? You okay?

  Yeah, I’m fine.

  Her lips tasted salty; her eyes burned. Was she crying, for Christ’s sake? Groping in her bag, she produced a handkerchief, wiped her eyes, and stuffed the handkerchief into her back pocket. Wait, what else was in there?

  Her ID card.

  Here, she said, handing it over.

  All set, said the guard. Placing a hand on her forearm, he added: You take care now.

  Raindrops falling hard, pelting now. And rumbles followed by flashes, a true thunder-and-lightning storm.

  Holding her bag over her head, she skipped to the museum’s entrance. Inside, she gave the bag a shake. Several coworkers dashed by, umbrellas splattering the hallway’s marble floor.

  Win would be slumped on the sofa in his apartment, listening to thunderclaps, imagining himself in Madrid. He’d be contemplating the absurdity of Mel’s being in that city’s train station on that morning, at that hour, having coffee. A knapsack left aboard an incoming train, and a clock, ticking.

  All luck, good or bad, was absurd.

  The ladies’ room was down the hallway. Ducking into a stall, she locked the door, held a wad of toilet paper over her mouth, and wept.

  Euphemisms

  1

  Blair stared at the subway map taped to her wall.

  Prospect Park was a large blotch of green. A good place to hide.

  Camus got it: every moral system started from the same incorrect notion that actions’ consequences made the system right or wrong. The truth was that each person had to consider their actions’ consequences without reference to any moral system. And had to be ready to pay up. That’s how Camus put it. Pay up.

  The night before, that boy in the park—she’d left a few scratches on his face. On his chest, too? Probably.

  Annul the memory. Pay up.

  That boy could’ve simply done to her what she was doing to him, fingering his ass. But he wouldn’t stop there, kept wanting to fuck her instead. Kept wheedling, pushing. So the scratches were compensation. He hadn’t realized how strong she was, much stronger than him. He’d whimpered but didn’t really cry. And why would he ever speak of it—not even to other boys his own age, eleven, twelve at most? Of course he wouldn’t talk about the scratches. Wouldn’t recount how he’d begged her to quit using her fingernails. He’d want to appear tough in front of the others, a rooster who’d fucked his first chick in the park.

  So he’d keep his mouth shut about what she’d done to him. And the chances of running into him again? Very low.

  Best to avoid crap like that, though. Stay away from boys his age.

  2

  Which would be the right subway station?

  Eastern Parkway wouldn’t work. Its ceilings weren’t good enough—too pockmarked. The surface area had to be smooth. Bergen, Carroll, and Smith-Ninth were too busy. Fourth Avenue was a dump, and its indoor space was too narrow.

  The best station would be Seventh Avenue. It had little traffic in the early-morning hours, and no surveillance camera on its mezzanine level, where the MTA booth, fare-card dispensers, and turnstiles were located. The mezzanine’s ceiling was coffered with seven steel beams in parallel rows. On each, she’d stencil a pattern identical to that of the Nethermead Arches—a repeating series of clover shapes. Within each clover she’d arrange her letter-magnets in bright colors. Glancing upward, viewers would experience something like one of those billboard series on a highway—IF-YOU-LIVED-HERE-YOU’D-BE-HOME-BY-NOW. The clovers, each filled with words, would read like a poem composed entirely of euphemisms:

  extraord
inary rendition

  to black sites

  where stress positions

  enhance the coercion

  of high-value targets

  neutralized

  under clear skies

  Not everyone would know what to make of those phrases. But perhaps a few dozen people would recognize what was being referred to: Clear Skies, the military program that managed US detention sites overseas. Men were extradited and held in soundproof rooms where interrogators got them to cough up—not just teeth or blood but something else, which the US government called confessions. Of course the men would say whatever their torturers wanted them to hear. They’d be broken, and they’d be lying.

  By definition, said Camus, a government has no conscience. Words were fair game, and warmongers assigned them new meanings. High-value targets meant suspects jailed indefinitely without trial. Black sites: invisible torture chambers. Enhanced coercion: water dousing, waterboarding, stress positions, cramped confinement, insult slaps, facial holds, forced nudity, sleep deprivation during vertical shackling, dietary manipulation. After a while, not just the victims but the perpetrators, too, could get used to anything, Camus claimed. It was a matter of language.

  At first, only a few people would notice her Euphemisms. Gradually, though, more and more subway riders would look up and realize they were staring at something like a coded message. And a few would start behaving differently. It wasn’t important how many, or what they’d do—if they’d go out to vote for the first time, or take a nap at work, or give money to beggars, or have sex with a stranger. It truly didn’t matter. Only that they’d perform some unexpected act of rebellion.

  Leave a mark, a scar. Derange orbits. Otherwise art was pointless.

  3

  Subway personnel wore bright fluorescent vests. But the station cleaners didn’t—they wore navy-blue uniforms and rubberized work-gloves.

  Her MTA badge was a passable imitation of the real thing, and her trashcan was suitably scruffy. She’d scraped it with a rock to make it look beat-up.