A Long Island Story Read online

  She resented the fact that he didn’t ask, first, about her work. Career? Professional life? His account of himself left matters of relationships trailing in second place behind career advancement.

  ‘It’s been difficult,’ she said. ‘I was so politically active when I was at Penn . . .’

  He looked up from the rim of his glass, surprised.

  ‘Politically active, you? I wouldn’t have guessed that. How come?’ The implication was also clear: following the lead of some guy, no doubt, politics at second-hand, commitments too. She was never that sort of girl, thought entirely individualistically: psychology, therapy, social work. Picking up the wrongs and the wronged one by one, applying bandages but never staunching the bleeding.

  ‘It was exciting. It made me feel alive . . .’

  ‘But now?’

  ‘Less alive, I guess.’

  How much should she tell him, how little? She couldn’t blurt out the whole story, it would make her new contact with him seem as pathetic and regressive as no doubt it was. Best keep him in the dark. Best avoid personal matters, both of them, for a time.

  Maybe a third Bloody Mary might just be tolerable. They were eating a heavy meal, all that food would sop up the alcohol. She didn’t feel drunk after two, just heady and a little excited. She raised her hand and waved to the waitress, pointed to her glass. Ira, surprised, pointed to his as well.

  ‘Virgin,’ he said.

  ‘Fallen,’ said Addie. The waitress looked at her blankly.

  ‘Real!’ explained Addie. ‘Spicy!’

  The waitress looked at Ira, the lightweight.

  ‘You spicy too?’ she asked.

  ‘Nope,’ said Ira a little ruefully.

  ‘Coming up!’ said the waitress.

  The third drink quickly imbibed, Addie got the short story from Ira. An ex-wife, no kids. A few relationships, some lasting a few years. Not seeing anyone at the moment. Didn’t mind, not too much, so much work to do in his job.

  And her? What brought her to town?

  Addie hesitated almost too long, suppressing a strong desire just to blurt out the whole sorry story, the hell with it, it would chase him out the door pronto.

  ‘Doing some shopping, as I said, just for the weekend. My husband Ben and the kids are on the Island at my folks’ bungalow . . .’

  A look of fond reminiscence entered his eyes and he bowed his head.

  ‘How are they?’

  ‘Same as ever, I guess, getting on a bit. My dad’s as young and vital as ever . . .’

  Ira smiled.

  ‘I loved him, you know.’

  ‘Yes. Everybody does!’

  Why’d she say that? It diminished his attachment, made him seem just another of Morrie’s casual admirers. He’d been more than that, a lot more.

  He lowered his eyes.

  Addie put her hand over his.

  ‘I’m so sorry, stupid me, always putting my foot in my mouth. Of course you loved him, and he loved you, he wanted . . .’

  He took his hand away, slowly.

  ‘I know he did.’

  There was a pause as they recollected themselves, reconnected, carried on.

  ‘Anyway, Ben’s just up for the weekend, works for the government as a lawyer, so you can guess . . .’

  Ira’s eyes met hers, and held.

  ‘I’m sorry, it must be hard.’

  ‘Very! We have to leave DC, make a new life. The kids are only ten and six, they’ll adapt, but Ben will have to pass the Bar, start a practice. And I’ll try to find work, it’s been a while . . .’

  ‘Where will you move to?’

  She paused for a long time, yearning for a cigarette to extend her thinking time.

  ‘Probably the city,’ she said. ‘I’m going to look for an apartment, I’ve been going through the real estate section in the Times, not sure we can afford anything halfway decent . . . But this is the only place where I feel like myself!’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  She paused for a moment, wiped her mouth unnecessarily.

  ‘I dunno. But when I look at the lives most women lead, it makes me sick . . .’

  He looked doubtful, or perhaps it was disapproving. He’d had ample experience of Addie’s rage for self-determination, and what had it led to? Was she happier now than she would have been with him? In the city!

  ‘It’ll be nice to have you back in town, and I’d like to meet Ben. I’m sure . . .’

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘And I don’t want you to, things have gone dead between us, all this pressure has more or less squeezed the last juice out of the orange. Or do I mean lemon? Anyway, there’s nothing left except raising the children together, pursuing our own ends.’

  Pursuing her own ends? Did that mean what it might have implied? Was that why she’d got back in contact, to see if he was available, if only on a part-time basis?

  If it did, he was, probably he was, going to have to think about it . . . Why not?

  After his haircut – he had to return shorn, to justify the lie – Ben looked at his watch, and decided that ten of five wasn’t too early for a drink at Finnegan’s on Wall Street, where he and Mo sometimes had lunch and a beer, watched the baseball on the TV behind the bar, stayed out till the enemies squawked. Came home happy, laughing, not having been missed at all. The bungalow was a steadier ship without men in it.

  He ordered a martini on the rocks with a twist, found a table in the corner and, twirling his finger round the rim, contemplated not so much what he had just done – the audacity of which surprised and rather frightened him, when he wasn’t admiring it – but how he might get away with it. Addie would be home by Sunday afternoon. She would have to be told. Why not? She might detest the very smell of him for the moment, but she’d get over it, she’d have to. And wasn’t he providing what was best for the family? She’d reluctantly agreed to just that only a week ago, how could she fail to see that he had acted in all their interests, provided the platform on which they might re-establish themselves and move on?

  By the time he’d downed the second martini, he was secure in his self-belief and increasingly angry that Addie would be unable, or unwilling, to see sense. OK, he’d made a mistake, people do sometimes. And sometimes, often, good things come of such incidents. It was only an incident after all, had only lasted a few months, during which he had known it would not last, nor should it. Rhoda had played her cards as well as possible, not very subtly but compellingly, offered him what she presumed he wanted and needed. But they both knew he had the winning hand, and it was called children. He would explain that to Addie, maybe even add something about her, she would understand.

  No. She wouldn’t. He looked round the dimly lit room, filled with afternoon drunks, a hunched and bulky one who was blowing smoke rings from a large cigar, watching them rise, then blowing another through it as it expanded. A few late lunchers, or perhaps they were early dinners-ers, were spotted round the tables. Ben noticed a payphone on the rear wall, with no one at the table beneath and a cord long enough to talk while staying seated. He picked up his drink, nodded to the barman and relocated himself, searched his pocket for change, found a few quarters. It would be enough for a ten-minute call, that would be plenty. It would be heartless simply to disappear, leaving Rhoda lounging round the building hoping for a glimpse of him as he was towed away like a broken-down car. Anyway, in a few days, on his return to the office, there she’d be. It was impossible to contemplate reconnecting like that, in a hallway. Not that there was a connection still, not really.

  The operator directed the call to her office and the phone rang four times before she picked up, as if she knew it would be him and didn’t want to seem anxious.

  ‘Lo,’ she said, unusually. She usually made a formal response, gave her full name, sometimes even her title.

  ‘Rhoda? It’s me.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you. All of a sudden you don’t even have a name?’

  This wasn’t going to b
e easy, but at least she hadn’t hung up, recognising, as he had, that even this stilted call was likely to be better than any alternative.

  ‘I just wanted to say . . .’ – Just wanted to say? For Christ’s sake! So say it already – ‘. . . that I am so sorry. That was a terrible scene, wasn’t it? I’m in Huntington now, but I will be coming back to DC in the next day or two, not quite sure when . . .’

  ‘You mean, when she lets you.’

  ‘But I will certainly be in the office by Tuesday, say. I have a lot to catch up on, a lot of things to do, it’s a bit of a nightmare.’

  ‘Are you asking for some sort of permission? Or just giving me your itinerary?’

  He looked round the bar. Smoke rings were gathering round the ceiling, it was hard to breathe, hard even to see. He sniffed, closed his eyes.

  ‘Look, Rhoda. All I am asking is to see you, to talk. There’s no sense ending up this way. Can we have a drink after work on Tuesday?’

  ‘Oh, you’ll be allowed to see me? What a treat.’

  A sudden anger approached and threatened to overtake him. She had no right to such contempt. They’d had a fling, she’d pretty much initiated it, it was going nowhere, it was over. Why make a goddamn fuss?

  ‘I don’t need this,’ he said, intending to be firm, sounding loud. For someone who never raised his voice, it was surprisingly strident and had attracted the attention of Bill the bartender and the corpulent ring-blower, who turned and looked at him quizzically. Things happened at Finnegan’s, if you kept an ear out. Nobody spent a prolonged time there because they were happy, only because they were hoping to be so after a few drinks.

  ‘Rhoda, it’s up to you. Tuesday, say at six? I’ll be ready. If you’re not, fine, I will go home. And I won’t be asking again.’

  He put the phone down gently, rather proud of himself. He’d had a good afternoon: arranged things neatly. The lease for the apartment. The fare-ye-well with Rhoda. And he still had two quarters left. Efficient, and cheap. He took out his cigarettes, lit one delicately, leaned so far back in the chair that it teetered. The folks at the bar looked at him admiringly, he thought. A real man’s man.

  The thought lasted a second or two, quickly replaced by its lurking shadow: How pathetic: what a goddamn mess.

  Dinner was on the table when he got back to the bungalow. Some meal or other was always on the table, the table was never empty. How did that figure? Were they supposed to be eating all the time? Yet he was grateful, for food did not prompt but prohibit conversation. He was rather pleased to have a reason not to talk. He chewed slowly twenty times, as some magazine had suggested, good for the digestion – his certainly needed all the help it could get, the heartburn had been particularly severe the last few weeks. He was practically keeping the Tums company in business, ought to buy shares.

  Everyone was looking at him. The kids, heads down, gazing upwards under their eyelashes, frightened to say anything lest he get up and leave the room.

  Maurice, unable to tolerate silence of any duration, remarked that the haircut looked good. ‘Got those curls at the back of his neck, didn’t they, Perle?’

  Unable to see, Perle got up from her chair and walked behind Ben, peered sceptically.

  ‘They did, but Ben is always so well-groomed.’

  Which was to say – as she reclaimed her dining chair – that he hadn’t needed a haircut at all, and who did he think she was, some sort of dope? And why did his breath smell of mints? Ben didn’t even like mints, never had one, even after dinner.

  Something was up, sure as shooting, and she was going to find out, no sense them all sitting round like bumps on a log. She’d already helped the children, taught them something about life, how to get things in perspective. They’d be better for it, you could tell; they were a bit more thoughtful, not so restless. Taking things in.

  She’d helped Maurice too, set him straight. She smiled a smile of self-satisfaction, which felt funny on her face, she wasn’t used to them. It was a good thing no one was looking, they’d have thought she was choking on an orange fruit slice. Mo had been surprised, chagrined, felt out-something . . . manoeuvred? Or maybe just outplayed, as if in a game of canasta. Snap!

  It was like that story Ben told him about. Dead, something Dead. ‘It’s by Joyce,’ he’d said, and paused, soliciting the ignorant response ‘Joyce who?’ Mo had stayed shtum. The story was about a wise guy who thinks he’s superior to everyone in his family, but who discovers at the end that he’s just another schmuck. He ends up staring out of the window at the snow. In Ireland, was it? Doesn’t matter, yeah it was. Joyce, James Joyce. Pretty smart guy.

  He was a schmuck too, Mo the big shot with his sandwiches, the centre of all the attention. And Perle was right, all it did was make them take him for granted, and resent it when he didn’t deliver, as if he were an inefficient delicatessen.

  ‘Enough already,’ she’d said firmly. ‘It is bad for them. They need to stand on their own two feet, it’s about time. Already Frankie resents Ben and Addie, he wants more for his new offices! When’s it going to end?’

  He didn’t pause, he’d made up his mind, or she had.

  ‘Now!’ said Mo. ‘It’s over.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said Perle, dangerously close to hugging him. ‘Now they can just love you because you’re you.’ He had refused her offer – of a loan, she’d insisted – to pay off Sal from some money she’d salted away when her mother died, and invested wisely. Never said a word. Still wouldn’t say how much she had. Enough.

  It astonished him to know so little, and to have been known so much. He should have been ashamed, but he was unfamiliar with the feeling.

  He shrugged his shoulder. ‘I’m a small man,’ he said.

  Just another schmuck. No better than the others, no worse. Just me.

  And as for Ben? You just had to corner him, pin him down, offer a few words of wisdom. He was teachable, Mr Smarty Pants, if you knew how. Addie didn’t. Perle paused for a moment, went into reverse. Where was Addie anyway? Shopping in the city. What mishegas! And why wasn’t she back yet? How long does it take to buy a dress?

  Perle shook her head and aimed a significant look in Morrie’s direction. I am moving into action. But he was eating latkes obliviously, his mouth dripping a blob of sour cream at the corner. He wiped it with the side of his wrist, didn’t even look round to see if anyone was looking, didn’t care if they were. Only a man would do that; women used napkins or handkerchiefs, women were civilised. Not a term she would ever have applied to men, though they had their virtues, only Perle couldn’t remember, just at the moment, what they were.

  She’d leave the dishes for the girl to unset and wash, she was lazy this one, it would be good for her to do more, mooning about in her room most of the time, you hardly knew she was there, and when she came out, surly and unresponsive. ‘Time to send her home!’ Perle thought. ‘Causes more problems than she solves.’

  She suggested coffee to Ben, offered to bring it out to him, but unusually he declined, though he took his place on the corner lounger pacifically enough. If you looked him in the eye, which he resisted, he was a bit glassy. He could hold his drink, that one, had plenty of practice, but you could always see it in his eyes. Drunk, near enough drunk, ate too much to try sop it up, try to get away with it.

  It didn’t take an Einstein, did it?

  ‘Ben,’ she said, ‘can I make a suggestion?’

  He knew better than to flinch, or make a funny face. Here they come, he thought. Perles of wisdom.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s obvious something is up. I think you ought to talk about it. Get it out in the open.’

  ‘Well, Mother . . .’ he began. He seldom called Perle ‘mother’ and when he did what was intended was the opposite of intimacy. The term made things formal, unaccustomed, stilted. She was not his mother. Not that he called his mother ‘mother’ either. He rarely called her at all.

  ‘. . . as you kn
ow, we are under a lot of pressure – about work, where to live, when to move, how to make a living – all at the same time, and there’s not much time to make the right decisions. Things at work are very delicate, and it’s a strain.’

  He knew better than to play the Red card, which would not elicit sympathy: when Perle thought of Russia, she thought of Cossacks dressed in red, with sabres for killing. Russia was the homeland of vile oppressors, not of the intellectual saviours of mankind. What narishkeit: Communism! Ben was too young to understand.

  ‘I guess we’re all showing it, the kids . . .’

  ‘Don’t you worry about them,’ said Perle firmly. ‘They know they have to move, they won’t be any trouble at all.’

  Ben looked at her quizzically. First he’d heard of it. They’d been nothing but obstreperous when talk of moving had been raised. Last he heard they were planning to live with that schlepper Neddy.

  ‘But,’ Perle continued, ‘I am worried about you and Addie. She’s gone off. I don’t believe this shopping malarkey for a minute. So tell me what’s going on. Where is she?’

  ‘At your apartment, like I said. Call her up if you don’t believe it.’

  ‘I did,’ said Perle grimly. ‘Believe you me. Three times. No answer.’

  Ben was not entirely surprised to hear it, though he didn’t know where she might go. She was unlikely to be mooning about that tiny, depressing apartment.

  ‘And,’ said Perle, firmly, pointing a finger as if accusingly, ‘please tell me when she is coming home?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Ben.

  Late on Sunday morning the phone rang and Becca beat everyone to it.

  ‘Hello, this is Becca speaking.’

  She listened for a few moments, and smiled, a big one.

  ‘That’s great, Addie,’ she said. ‘I missed you!’

  She listened for a moment to the reciprocal missing-you-too response.

  ‘Do you want to talk to Ben?’

  He was directly behind her, reached out his hand, put the receiver to his ear, listened.