Shadows, page 8
He put his hands above his head as if in surrender “What’s this about?”
“I’ll tell you what this is about. Since we don’t talk and we don’t touch, maybe we should start thinking about a divorce. That’s what this is about.”
“Is that right? So it’s all my fault?”
“It doesn’t matter whose fault it is,” she said. “I’m sick and tired. I’m sick and tired of the whole situation. We should be talking about us, about our problems. But you won’t. All you think about is your father. That damned diary. Your dead sister. Your new sister. Essentially, all you think about is yourself.”
He put his cup down hard, spilling coffee. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should get a divorce.”
She fought to keep the tears back. “Go to hell!”
Chapter 17
He’d spent the entire day thinking about what Miriam had said. She’d shaken him up, no doubt about that. Was that her intention, or did she really want a divorce? He hated the idea of it. For some reason, he’d always considered divorce a dirty word. He didn’t know where that came from. It certainly wasn’t his parents’ marriage, one that he’d considered more an unemotional contract rather than a marriage. Divorce meant failure. It meant giving up, admitting that you’d screwed up something very important. He felt that he and Miriam had had a good life. He knew he wasn’t wrong about that. They’d had some wonderful times together. They’d produced a beautiful son whom they both loved. But he acknowledged that in the past year their relationship had changed. The intimacy they’d shared had vanished. He had felt himself withdrawing from her. It never used to bother him that she made all the decisions, but now it did. He felt she was bossing him around. It made him feel like a wimp. So why didn’t he say anything? Why did he keep his annoyance hidden instead of bringing it out in the open? Maybe he was a wimp, or maybe he was just trying to avoid confrontation, to avoid scenes like the one this morning. He knew he ought to sit down with her and discuss their marriage. Perhaps they should see a marriage counselor. If he suggested it, she might be willing. But maybe it was already too late.
At the end of the workday, he was tired, confused, and felt another headache coming on. He was sure of only one thing, he did not want to go home. The idea of facing Miriam and trying to deal with all that was going on was just too much for him to handle. You’re a miserable coward and a weakling, he told himself. But if he wasn’t going home he needed to call. It wouldn’t be fair to have Miriam waiting for him, not knowing where he was.
He picked up the phone and dialed the number at her store. His stomach was wobbly when she answered the phone.
“Hi,” he said. He spoke in a low voice, not wanting anyone to overhear.
“Hi yourself.”
“I wanted to let you know I won’t be home for dinner. Something’s come up here. I have to work late. I’ll grab a bite in the city.”
“Fine.”
He hesitated. There was dead air between them.
“Is that all?” she finally said.
“Yes.”
She hung up the phone.
Now that he’d done it, he was somewhat relieved. He looked across the office at Wanda. He didn’t allow himself to hesitate. He wrote a note asking her to stay in the city with him for dinner, clipped it to some papers, and put it face down on her desk. “Take a look at these,” he said, in an all-business voice. “It’s important.”
She gave no indication whether she agreed to do as he asked. He left the office last and headed towards the newsstand two blocks away where he said they should meet. He wondered for a moment whether he’d done something stupid. Miriam had mentioned divorce. Did he want that? Was this the first step toward adultery? Then he saw Wanda, facing away from him. He felt a rush of pleasure he hadn’t experienced in a long time. Traffic was already backing up from the Holland Tunnel, the cars fretting and honking as if they were cattle on the way to the slaughterhouse. The sidewalk was filled with moving bodies but Wanda stood out as if she were spotlighted on a darkened stage. She wore an amber-colored jacket with wide shoulder pads, a man-tailored style she favored.
She turned towards him and he could see the whiteness of her neck framed by her hair. When he reached her, on impulse, he put his arms around her. Before she could say anything, he kissed her. When she didn’t resist he tentatively explored her mouth with his tongue. She responded, entwining her tongue with his.
When they broke apart Alex said, “Just like the movies.”
“Like a soap opera if someone saw us.”
“A lot of people saw us, my darling girl. Didn’t you hear the applause? That was my best Rhett Butler imitation.”
“Are you cracking up?”
“Probably. Come on. I’ve got a lot to tell you.”
They walked in the direction of Chinatown. She put her arm through his, and occasionally as they walked, he felt the softness of her breast pressing against him. “I didn’t even ask. Do you feel like Chinese?”
“I love Chinese food.”
He hadn’t known that. But why would he? He didn’t know much about her. He knew she was divorced, had a daughter, Judy, in her first year in college. And, of course, a mother who had just been diagnosed with cancer. Was there a father? He wasn’t sure if she had ever mentioned her father. He knew nothing about her ex-husband.
The sidewalks in Chinatown were clogged with people. Walking was like playing dodgeball. The stores never seemed to close, except for the banks, and who knew if they weren’t working behind closed doors? The windows of the shops were filled with ivory Buddhas, painted bamboo fans, jade jewelry, and other tchotchkes. Food stalls sold strange vegetables. Unfamiliar odors came out of fish stores and butchers whose windows had ducks strung up like decoys that had been stripped of paint. They passed a wedding in progress, saw congregants lighting candles through the open doors of a Buddhist Temple.
“How’s your mother doing?” he asked.
“Okay, I guess. They’re going to start treatments soon.”
He didn’t pursue it. He felt it was morbid and upsetting to ask the questions everyone asked: How far had it spread? Were they doing chemo or radiation? How was it being tolerated? He thought he still had the old attitude that even a mention of the Big C. would bring doom upon the person uttering it as well as upon those hearing it. When Aunt Bessie was dying, he was sent out of the room whenever they talked about her illness.
His favorite restaurant of the moment was a storefront on Pell Street. It held about forty people, mostly Chinese. The only English spoken was unintelligible and the menu was only in Chinese. The place was family-run—a mother, father, and two elderly men, probably relatives. What he liked was they were too busy to smile at him and treat him as if he were a wonderful round-eye doing them the honor of eating in their establishment. It was more that they tolerated his being there as well as his stupidity for not understanding their language.
He ordered by looking at what was on other tables and pointing at what looked good, or else by pointing at the menu, hunching up his shoulders and holding his hand’s palms outward in a pleading manner, hoping this would get him something good. Mostly, it worked.
He watched her maneuver a dumpling into her mouth with chopsticks. “Listen…I didn’t tell you this before, I don’t know why I didn’t…I guess I just didn’t want to get into it…”
“Tell me what?” she said.
“About my father. He kept a diary. My mother found it and gave it to me to read. And—” he stopped.
“And?”
“It’s complicated. I don’t know where to start.”
“You mean maybe you still don’t want to get into it. It’s okay. You don’t have to.” She reached for another dumpling.
“It’s not that. It’s…complicated like I said. It has to do with my sister. I told you about her.”
“Yes. I know you still miss her.”
“Exactly. That’s part of what’s bugging me. It seems my father had an affair. The woman got pregnant. There was a baby. A girl. So it means I have another sister somewhere.”
“Wow. That’s some kind of news.”
“I was playing with the idea of trying to find her. What do you think about that?”
She held up a hand. “Hold on. Back up a little. Give me a minute to digest all of this.”
One of the elderly relatives brought a platter of vegetables. Steam and a smell of ginger floated upwards. Alongside it, he placed another platter and two more bottles of beer. Alex saw pieces of something floating in a brownish liquid. He had no idea what it was.
Wanda drank from the bottle. Alex liked to pour his into a glass and watch it foam. “Let me ask again. What do you think about my trying to find this woman who’s my sister? I want your opinion. It’s important to me,” he said.
“Who else have you asked?”
“My mother. She’s dead set against it. Thinks it’s a bad idea.”
“Why is that?”
“Thinks it’ll open up a can of worms.”
“What about your wife? Didn’t you ask her?”
“Also against it.”
“What’s her reason?”
He paused to think. “The woman, if I find her, might be devastated. I think that’s what she was saying.”
“They may both be right. But this person out there is, after all, your sister.”
“You think I should do it?”
“If that’s your gut feeling, sure. Everything depends on how strongly you feel about it.”
“I’m not sure myself,” he said. “I’ll have to think about it more.”
Wanda used her chopsticks to take something from the unknown plate. She held it up. “What is this?”
“Not a clue,” he said.
She popped it into her mouth and chewed. “Well, it tastes good, anyway.”
“I’m glad,” he said. “And I think you are a very smart lady. I also think it might be possible to fall in love with you.”
Wanda’s response was a tight smile. “That wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Probably not.”
“I’m not kidding,” she said. “I like you. I’d like to go to bed with you. But that’s it. No ties. No commitments.”
“You know exactly what you want, don’t you?”
“I guess so.”
“Do you really believe you can stick to ideas like that? Things happen. Sometimes they happen even though you don’t want them to happen.”
She didn’t answer. After a while, Wanda put down her chopsticks and patted her mouth with her paper napkin. “I’ve had it.”
“Me, too. There’s a lot left. You might as well take it home.”
“I don’t feel like carrying a paper bag full of leftovers,” she said.
“How about if I carry it?”
“All the way to my place? Is that what I think you mean?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“How will that play at home?”
It came out with surprising glibness as if he’d been rehearsing it all day. “I’ve been thinking about getting a divorce.”
Chapter 18
He felt strange as if time had stopped as if they were alone at a table somewhere in a place without walls, the light a photo flash, everything frozen into stillness. Then sound intruded, voices of people talking, laughter. They were still in the restaurant, still across from each other.
Wanda’s head swiveled toward him, her eyes showing points of yellow like a cat. “Wait a minute.”
“I didn’t know I was going to say that.”
“Why did you? You never once even hinted at it.”
“Things have been happening at home. Not good things.”
“Let’s get this straight,” Wanda said. “What did I just say? No ties. No commitments. First, you talk about love. Now divorce.” She shook her head, the movement causing her hair to cover one eye. She brushed it away. “The last thing I want to do is break up a family.”
“What if it’s already broken up?”
“I don’t know about that.” She held her napkin tight and began twisting it. “Look. I think maybe we’re going too fast here. I’m not ready for this.”
“Wait a minute, I’m not asking you to do anything. I’m not trying to pressure you.” He reached across and touched her hand. “Let’s just see how it goes.”
Outside, they decided on a cab to Penn Station. They began walking toward Canal Street where there was the best chance of finding one.
He held the bag of leftovers in one hand and reached to take her hand with the other, then abruptly, changed his mind. Coming towards him was the suddenly familiar and now unwelcome sight of his son. He only at this moment realized how stupid it was of him to have brought her to Chinatown. Richard lived fewer than a dozen blocks away.
“That’s my son ahead of us,” he said.
“Isn’t that nice,” Wanda said.
They stopped and waited. Alex watched his son’s face go through a cycle of surprise, puzzlement, and eventually, understanding.
“Dad. This is a surprise.”
He held out his hand and Alex gripped it. Richard’s hand was larger than his, as was the rest of him, and the handshake was a crushing one. Richard worked out in a gym because he believed a fit body might help his career. “You never know when they might want me to take my clothes off for a part.” And indeed, if it were only physical attributes that were required, his son would already be a star. Alex was in awe of how his and Miriam’s somewhat ordinary genes had intermingled to produce in Richard the looks of a supermodel. Health, vitality, and charm seemed to flow out of him in a tidal wave.
“My son, Richard,” Alex said to Wanda. Then to Richard, “This is Wanda Folsenlogen. She works in my office.”
Richard shook Wanda’s hand.
Alex tried to sound casual. “Wanda and I just had dinner together.” Then he added, “We were working late.”
“That sounds nice,” Richard said. “As a matter of fact, it’s my night off. I’m meeting my roommates over at The Chin Palace. Do you know it? Big portions and cheap.”
“No,” Alex said.
Richard shared an apartment with two others. One was a young, strikingly handsome black man, whose name was JaMarcus Young. He had ferociously white teeth and a nose, mouth, and chin that looked as if they’d been stolen from a Greek statue. The other was an Asian girl who called herself Li Ling. She was tall, very thin, hair cut short like a boy’s. When Alex first met her she had on a black body stocking, with a loose white sweatshirt over it, thick black eyeliner, and bright patches of color on her cheeks which made her look like a beautiful marionette. They made a dramatic trio.
Richard acted unconcerned and unaware of his father’s distress. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and came out with several pieces of paper. “You know I’m opening Friday night, don’t you? Mom said you were coming, right?” He separated one of the papers and handed it to Wanda. “This is a flyer we made up. Why don’t you come too, Miss Folsenlogen? It’s a terrific play. You’d enjoy it.”
“Thanks,” Wanda said. “I’d love to. But I’m busy this Friday.”
“Too bad.” Richard shook hands with her again. “Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m late. Nice meeting you.” Then he looked at his father, not smiling now, the contours of his face hardening like cement. “See you.” He walked away from them with long strides.
“Why do I feel like shit?” Alex asked.
“Because your son caught you with another woman.”
“We were having dinner. What’s wrong with that?”
“Don’t be silly. He thinks you’re fucking me.”
They began walking again. They did not touch. When a taxi stopped for them, they sat apart from each other.
“Your son is gorgeous.” She looked at the flyer Richard had given her. “What kind of a play is it, ‘Iago’s Dance of Death?’”
“No idea. But you know these avant-garde theater groups. It could be a comedy.”
“Is he any good?”
“I don’t know. The only thing I ever saw him do was high school stuff. There was no way to tell. Not that I’d necessarily know, anyway.”
They rode farther in silence. Then Alex said, “I think he’s gay.” He had always been aware of femininity in his son, who had preferred putting on his mother’s lipstick and earrings, wearing her clothes and high heels, to playing with cars and train sets. He had tried not to let it disturb him, but it had. The ultimate irony, of course, was that his father had always thought of him the same way.
“There are worse things,” Wanda said.
“Actually, I don’t care if he’s gay. I don’t mean that. I do care. I don’t want him to be gay. But I can live with it. Only I’m afraid for him. It’s dangerous.”
“Life is dangerous.”
“Sure it is. You can get mugged anywhere but if you drop into Central Park at 2 AM you’re asking for it.”
They didn’t speak again until they got to Penn Station. Then Alex said, “I think we ought to take a rain check on tonight, don’t you?” He held out the bag from the restaurant.
“You keep it,” she said, turning to leave. “I hate leftovers.”
He waited until she got on the train, then dropped the food into a trashcan.
Chapter 19
The surgeon’s office was in a medical building on Union Turnpike, not far from Long Island Jewish Hospital. Like every medical building Miriam had ever been in there was a faint smell of antiseptic as well as an atmosphere of dread. The information board noted that the doctor’s office was on the second floor. She took the elevator and walked along a seemingly endless corridor. She heard strange sounds and imagined they were the buzzing of x-ray machines, or dentist’s drills, or people’s souls crying in agony.
In the office two women sat behind a glass enclosure. One of them slid the window open. She didn’t smile or greet her, just asked her name, and told her to sign in. When she did she was handed a clipboard.
