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Love and
Pancit By Tom Meek (2005) |
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Erv Meany was already unhappy to be
working on his fiftieth birthday, let alone having to wear an oversized Kris
Kringle hat. The day had not gone particularly well. Earlier, two girls with
pierced midriffs had gotten their kicks by dropping four pair of lacy red
Spiderman thongs on his register stand. They were seeking a refund. When he
directed them upstairs to the women’s boutique, they giggled coyly and
insisted on his aide, citing that they were in a rush and that the line
upstairs was far too long. Begrudgingly Erv complied and when he scooped up
the mound of feathery light undergarments, one of the girls, immediately
ecstatic, informed him that she had worn a pair that very morning. The two
exploded into laughter and fled. The holidays had drawn miserably near for
Erv Meany and now, despite his efforts to spend as much time in the solace of
the stockroom, an agent of agitation named Rufus was telling him what to do. “The price on them all says four ninety-nine,” Rufus said, pointing through the web of tricked out Christmas lights
that included blinking Black Santas and Grinches with satchels of Budweiser
beer. Erv
glanced across the sandy red washed concrete, beyond the racks of cheap
leather flight jackets, fake fox fur stoles and a rotating tower full of
party games and gag gifts, to the pyramid of lava lamps and then took stock
of his tormentor. Everything about him—his spiked, jet-black hair, the “Beat Bush” T with a gonzo green imp clubbing the 43rd
President of the United States with an oversized mallet and the tattoo of a
transmogrified Cerberus on his arm—screamed
degenerate. Erv would never let his son grow up to be like that. “You really didn’t think that was going to be four ninety-nine, did
you?” “That’s what it says.” Erv
looked down at the credit card on the glass countertop. “There’s obviously a mistake. It’s forty-nine ninety-nine.” In the upper left hand corner, the identity theft-proofed card bore
a miniscule laminated rendering of Rufus, which was far different than the
incarnation before him. In the picture Rufus had a boyish face and natural,
sandy blonde hair that lay flat against his scalp. “Do you want me to run it?” “I’ll tell you what I want,” Rufus said as he
leaned onto the glass encasement that housed ersatz Native American jewelry
produced in a Thai sweatshop. “I want to see the
manager.”
“He’d tell you the same thing I’m telling you.” The
last thing Erv wanted was to see his manager. At one point they had been
agreeable, but not anymore. The doughy man-boy was controlling in demeanor
and fastidious in appearance. Erv often wondered how much time he spent
before the mirror each day. The spiked hairs were always cropped to the same
uniformed length and the rotund belly—which Erv had the privilege of seeing jiggle under a tight T one
afternoon in the stockroom—was tidily
concealed behind baggy, double-breasted gray suits and a crimson red or
violet-blue oxford, that clashed with the bright, patterned bowtie. He went
by the name of Stephano, though his given name was Stanley. Erv loathed his
job and Stephano went out of his way to make his employment at Urban Chic a
Jobian nightmare. “Well, grandpa,” Rufus said,
rapping his fingers on the glass, “are you going to
page him?” “Excuse me?” Erv said, raising a brow into the fluffy
trim of the sagging Santa hat. Rufus
stuck his face within inches of Erv’s, and spoke in a slow, deliberate
manner, over articulating each syllable. “I said, are-you-going-to-page-the-manager?” Erv
could taste the stale cigarettes and spearmint gum on his breath. “No, before that.” “Oh that,” Rufus said, drawing back with a smirk. “It’s kinda creepy that someone like you works here. What up with
that?” It
was true. Erv was old enough to be most of the clientele’s father or even
grandfather. The personnel, too, were largely a reflection of the customer
base: students, rockers and other young urbanites who were pierced, inscribed
and branded with the trappings of the “alternative” lifestyle that the store targeted and
thrived upon. Everything Urban Chic sold was meant to look worn (ripped
jeans), deformed (melting clock faces), hip-hop or retro-hip, and always
street wise. The store too was no exception. The large glass panes that abutted
the sidewalk were webbed with fractures as if a gang of malcontents had
bricked them. It was all intentional, conceived by a designer, as part of the
master contrivance to conjure a minimalist post-industrial atmosphere. The
interior was nothing but concrete and steel with a smattering of pressboard,
as if a factory had been sterilized after the last shift and prepped for a
rave later that evening. The music, which Erv loved to hate, got lost in
corners, echo eddies and distortion, making it nearly indecipherable. As much
as Erv despised the concept of and the clientele at Urban Chic, he admired
the slick moneymaking machinery that made it hum, and at this juncture in his
life, he was thankful to just be a lynchpin anywhere, even Urban Chic. “It’s of no concern to you.” Rufus
slapped a hand down on the glass counter. The glass rattled in its metal
sleeves. “What does concern me though, is the price
on this tag.” Erv
wanted to leap over the counter and put Rufus in the figure four wrestling
hold he had honed to lethal perfection in high school. Then he thought about
the long arduous process of finding work again and how disappointed his wife
would be. Besides his son, she was the only thing good in his life. She would
have his favorite dish, chicken pancit, waiting for him when he got home. For
a fleeting moment he could taste the spicy noodles and succulent shredded
chicken accented by cabbage, soy and spring onion. Charlie would be there
too. His ex-wife had promised. Then he wondered if Racine would have the
audacity to have Scoop Webster drop Charlie off again. He didn’t think she could be that
unkind, but on the phone when he protested, she rebuffed him, telling him
that they were all adults and that he needed to get over it for Charlie’s
sake. Before
Erv could realize what was going on, Rufus had seized the phone alongside the
cash register and was punching away at the buttons. The grunge rock Christmas
carol that filled the store was replaced by Rufus’s scratchy voice. “Paging the manager,” he said. “Will the manager please come down to the front desk, I need to report
an act of extreme incompetence. Please report to the front desk. Over.” Erv
hit the kill button on the base and held his hand out. “Give me that.” “I’ll give it to the manager when he gets here.” Erv
could feel the muscles around his temples tighten. The impulse to give a
mighty rip on the cord was assuaged by the tangy aroma of pancit, his wife serving
him a Manhattan and Charlie bounding into his arms. He took a deep breath,
let it out slowly and disconnected the receiver from the phone. The coil
sprung free, bouncing wildly before it came to a sedate dangle below Rufus’s
clenched hand. Erv disconnected the base of the phone too and slid it into a
cubbyhole at the back of the cashier stand. His well-worn snorkel jacket and
other employees’ paraphernalia filled the top shelves, so he had to bend far
down to get at the vacant bottom row. It was a task his son, Rufus or any of
the store’s clientele could perform with ease, but at his age, the strain to
bend the knees and the pressure on the lower back stabbed at him like teaming
piranhas. As he rose, the Santa hat slid down over his brow. All he could see
was a white fuzziness and a smattering of distant blinking lights. When Erv
finally whisked the hat from his head, Stephano was standing there next to
Rufus, his arms crossed, a bulldog scowl on his face, his neck red and
bulging over a tight collar secured by a spring yellow bowtie that bore a
pterodactyl motif. “What is going on here, Meany?” Stephano demanded. Erv
blinked blankly for a moment. The refracted glare from the German track
lighting on Stephano’s glasses made his eyes indecipherable and insect-like. ”He wants to pay five dollars for a fifty dollar lava lamp.” “That’s what the price tag said,” Rufus interjected with a trickle of politeness that had not been
afforded to Erv. Stephano
picked up the lava lamp box and rotated it his hands, scrutinizing each of
the six surfaces. “Who marked these?” The
question hit Erv like a hammer.
Instinctively he shrugged. “You don’t know?” Erv
stared down at the sand colored concrete between his Timberlands. “Me, I guess.” Stephano
placed the lamp back down on the counter. “You guess? You don’t know what you did
two days ago?”
He glared at Erv as if that might force a response, but when none
came, he half turned away and then quickly pivoted back, shaking a hand in
the air. “ I knew this wouldn’t work. I just knew it! I told Isabelle that,
but she insisted I give you a chance.” Stephano his arms
spread in a wide-opened V. “And now look at
this!” Isabelle
was Stephano’s stepmother and childhood friend of Maria Soledad, Erv’s wife
of twenty-eight months. Isabelle possessed no telltale accent and was fluidly
conversant in English, unlike Marisol who nodded and smiled incessantly. At
first Erv didn’t think she comprehend half of what he said, but whenever he
instructed her as to what to purchase at the supermarket, how to get places
on public transportation or where to pick up Charlie, she always produced the
correct result. As they had planned in simple sentences over the Internet,
they were married three weeks after she got off the plane from Manila. She
was everything Erv had hoped for and more. Fifteen years his junior and more
stunning in person than her digital renderings. He had never dated a woman of
color before, and while he harbored some reservations about appearances and
the cultural differences, her exotic features—the olive-tan complexion, the tiny snub-nose, the dark, thick lips
and her almond-shaped eyes—and childlike
innocence erased any concern. Erv took great joy in watching her flutter
about their tiny basement flat, bringing order and shine to where there had
been grunge and decay. After Racine he never imagined that a woman of such
unequivocal beauty would ever again earnestly bear her naked body before him.
She restored his manhood, his sense of pride and she could cook too, but he
often wondered if she truly loved him, as she professed to, or if it was a
well-performed act to secure a green card. The only thing she ever asked of
him was to bring her ailing mother to the states. He was slow to take up the
cause once it had been divulged, but after she sulked around the apartment
for a week, void of the effervescence that ignited him, he promised her he
would do as she wished as soon as they saved up enough money for a bigger
place. Before
Erv lost his first wife to Scoop Webster, he lost his job as a computer
operator. It had been a lucrative profession when he first graduated college,
but as technology evolved and his skill set became less specialized, the job
was eventually shipped overseas. Erv was arduous in his pursuit of new paths
to remain financially viable, but after several starts-and-stops, his wife
delivered the unpleasant news. She got the house in Roslindale and custody of
Charlie. Scoop Webster, the
successful contractor who had remodeled their kitchen under cost, took over
Erv’s side of the bed while Erv moved into a shabby basement apartment in the
part of city known as “the student slum.” Out of necessity he took nowhere jobs doing data entry, night
security, bar back, mailroom clerk and less. None of them stuck. The Lexus he
so cherished—now rusted and dull—was repossessed. Erv’s only solace came from the bottle, a revelation
Racine use in court to challenge his visitation rights. The infidelity hurt,
but the prospect of losing Charlie was insufferable. Wanting to give them
nothing more, Erv retreated and withdrew, keeping to himself, hovering in the
cold glow of the computer, sipping cheap scotch and surfing the Internet,
praying that a click of the mouse would change his fortunes. Erv
first met Stephano at a Filipino styled barbeque at Isabelle’s townhouse in
Back Bay. She and Marisol had
set the whole thing up. He balked at the notion of working for his wife’s
best friend’s stepson, but eventually need and Marisol’s pleas outlasted his
pride. Stephano was cordial at first, but as Erv began to spend less time in
the stockroom and more time behind the register, Stephano took greater
exception with his appearance. “Dressing like a
lumberjack or Wally Cleaver is okay, if you can do it with style,” Stephano said, “but we’re trying to
sell an image here, and we want to present that image to our customers. Put
some mousse in your hair, clash a little, but be fresh.” Stephano later presented Erv with a silky, white and chartreuse
striped oxford and a bola tie, telling him it matched his personality and
gave him the “righteous” image to interact with the clientele. What he didn’t tell Erv was
that he had deducted the cost of the shirt and from his paycheck—applying the employee discount of thirty-three percent, of course.
Erv accepted the shirt with sincere humility. It almost made working for
someone younger and doing work he believed beneath him, palatable, but later,
after he discovered his paycheck had been cropped, he tore off the shirt in a
middle of a shift and gave it to Old Harold, the wino who loitered about the
storefront. Erv even went so far as to tell Harold that the shirt was in fact
a gift from Stephano and that he should thank him for his kindness. The big bear hug that Harold laid on
Stephano one morning changed everything. “It’s been what, six months, Meany?” Stephano said. “You’d think in that
time, you’d have learned how to mark items correctly. I don’t think that’s
asking too much. Do you think that’s asking too much?” “I dunno,” Erv glanced down at the credit cared and
lava lamp floating above the silver and turquoise jewelry. He could feel the
perspiration build on his brow and dankness well up under his arms. “I could just re-mark them,” he finally
mumbled. A
single brow rose up into the furrowed, pasty expanse of Stephano’s forehead, “That’s not the problem, Meany. Do you know what the problem is?” Erv
shook his head apprehensively. Rufus was now beaming confidently over
Stephano’s shoulder. “I didn’t think so!” Stephano bellowed, and then quickly aware
that his outburst had drawn shoppers away from the business of buying,
stepped closer to the stand to burke the burgeoning spectacle. “The problem is,” Stephano said in a
less acrid, less audible tone, “I have a customer
here that I need to satisfy. We told him one thing and now you want to charge
his a different price. How do you propose I rectify that?” Erv
shrugged. “Tell him there was a mistake and that the
lamp costs forty-nine, ninety-nine.” “Not acceptable, Meany! Not acceptable!” Stephano croaked on the brink of a shout. His face was now bright
red and spittle danced from his lips. “I’ll tell you what I am going to do, I am going to sell it to him for
four forty-nine, and you are going to cover the difference out of your own
pocket and then, after the store closes, with no OT, you’ll re-mark them.
That’s my solution, Meany. What do you think of it?” “Chicken shit,” Erv muttered under
his breath. Srephano
cupped a hand to his ear. “I’m sorry, I didn’t
hear you.” Erv
snatched the lava lamp off the counter. “If that’s all Meany, please ring it up as discussed. A line is
forming. People are waiting. Let’s get things moving.” Erv
could feel the eyes and murmurs from around the store hone in on him. Rufus’s
smirk had freed itself from its tight, restrained press and was now a
wide-faced grin. The weight of the lamp in his hand called to him. In the
mounting humiliation of the moment, it was his only ally. Slowly, as if
unsteady or unsure, he shifted his weight to his back foot and cocked the
lamp above his head like an old-school quarterback like Fran Trakenton,
Johnny Unitas or Sammy Baugh that he idolized as a youth playing Pop Warner.
The posture felt good and familiar, his arm suddenly strong and able. He
could see it all so clearly, the lamp hurtling across the room in a neat,
tight spiral, the surprise on the faces as it zipped by and the pyramid of
boxes collapsing after an exact strike. The
tintinnabulation of the sleigh bells above the door killed Erv’s impulse. “Dad!” a voice called out from somewhere in the
store. Erv
was in cold disbelief. Standing at the storefront, insouciantly swiping a
plaid cap from his head, was Scoop Webster. Even though they were the same
age, Scoop still had a full head of hair and the toned body of someone half
his age. Erv’s
ten-year-old son pushed his way between two wholesome coeds with a card in an
outstretched hand. “Happy birthday, Dad.” the boy exclaimed. “Charlie, what are you doing here?” “Surprising you.” “Surprising me? What?
Whose idea was that?” By now Scoop had made his way over to
the counter. He was happy to see his son, yes, that was the day’s one true
redemption, but not Scoop Webster, not the man who had taken so much from him,
not the man whose actions had placed him in a personal purgatory. Erv couldn’t think of a worse
scenario to mark his half-century. “Happy birthday, “ Scoop said,
extending a hand. Erv
disregarded the gesture. “What are you doing
here? What’s he doing here?” “Racine and Marisol thought it would be a nice thing. I wasn’t going
to come in, but there was this weird guy out front and I just wanted to make
sure Charlie got in okay.” “That’s just Old Harold,” Stephano
interjected. “He’s harmless. No need to sweat it. Now can we get things moving?” “Racine and Marisol talk?” Erv said in
staccato, his voice cracking. “Yeah, every now and then, you know, as much as can be.” Erv
stood there blinking with celerity, trying to digest the information Scoop had
just fed him. “Can I just go to another register?” Rufus asked, the glee long gone from his face. “How long have Racine and Marisol been in communication?” “Meany,” Stephano asserted. “Dad,” Charlie said, holding the card higher. Erv
ignored his son and manager and continued to gaze at Scoop, hoping to shake
some shred of rationale that would explain the backroom dealings that had
submerged the day that was supposed to be his. The more he thought about it,
the more it made his head hurt. “Meany, what are you doing?” Stephano said as
he tried to pry the box from Erv’s grasp. “Get this line moving or you’ll end up on the street.” “Can we go now?” the boy pleaded. “Just a minute Charlie, I’ve just got to finish up.” He could feel Stephano’s fingers digging into his fingers, working
at the box. It was a battle of wills waged by sixteen digits and four
opposable thumbs. He was fighting for his manhood and his pride, or that’s
what he wanted to believe, but then a sense of shame and helplessness
suddenly filled him. He was at a loss as to what to do next. All he wanted
was to be at home with Marisol and Charlie, his son’s respect intact and a
full plate of pancit before him. “Lay off,” Scoop said, placing a hand on Stephano’s
shoulder. Stephano’s
eyes suddenly filled his moon shaped head as if he had been doused by a
bucket of icy water. “Don’t touch me!” he snorted. “Show a little respect, that’s all I’m saying.” “Let’s just calm down, OK?” “Get off me!” Stephano said as he tried to push Scoop
away. Scoop
didn’t budge. “You don’t want to get into that.” Stephano
then slammed a palm into Scoop’s sternum. “You get your hands off me or I’ll call the police.” This
time Scoop rocked backwards, to the point of almost losing his balance, but
quickly snapped back, gripping even deeper into Stephano’s padded shoulder. “I’m telling you, play it smart.” Stephano
tussled in frustration. The older man owned him. As hard as he wriggled and
contorted, there was nothing he could do and when he finally reached his
breaking point, Stephano struck his captor in the face with an open hand.
That was all the invitation Scoop needed. The fifty-year-old without a trace
of gray in his strawberry-golden locks cocked his elbow by his side and
released a crisp uppercut. Stephano’s head jerked back cleanly. A spurt of
blood arced upwards and rained down on the glass above the silver and
turquoise jewelry. The manager staggered a half step backwards into the
register stand and slowly slumped to the floor, blood flowing freely between
fingers clamped around his nose. “Fucking cool,” Rufus commented,
looking like a cackling hyena over recently discovered carrion. “Sorry ‘bout that,” Scoop said to
nobody as he placed the Scottish cap snuggly on his head. When he had it
adjusted to an agreeable position he extended the hand that had just
dispatched Erv’s boss. There was a thick droplet of dark red blood on the
freckled mid-knuckle of the index finger. “What the hell did you do that for?” Erv demanded. “Do what?” “Everywhere you go, you f—, screw up, my
life, and what kind of an example does it set for him?” “Hey, I was just trying to help. The guy had it coming.” “Don’t you think that’s my call? If you want to help in the future,
just don’t do anything. Stay away from me.” Scoop
held his hands half way up in a mock surrender. “Ok buddy, you have a good night, and happy birthday.” Erv
watched as Scoop snaked his way through the store, casually whistling through
puffed cheeks. The bell chimed his departure and Erv turned to his son who
had held the manila envelope in an offering posture throughout the entire
fracas. “Thanks,” Erv said taking the card and rubbing the top of his son’s blonde
head. The light buoyancy of the
hairs under his palm nearly brought tears to his eyes. “Let me get my jacket and we can go.” The snorkel was the kind of retro-hip relic that had gone in and out
of style at Urban Chic. Two years prior it had been the store’s hottest
selling commodity, but to Erv Meany, it was just a cold weather necessity
that he had owned for seventeen years. Erv
leaned over the counter. “Are you okay?” he asked of his former manager. Stephano
dabbed at his face with a scarf he had pulled from a nearby display rack and
responded with a defiant, limp-wristed flail of an arm. The
palm of Erv’s hand pressed down on Rufus’s credit card. “Okay, have it you way.” As Erv retracted
across the countertop he whisked up the birthday card and credit card in a
single, quick scoop and slid the rigid flat forms into one of the snorkel’s
cavernous pockets. “Come on Charlie.” He took the boy’s small smooth hand in his and walked out into the
cold night air. Erv drank in a deep breath of liberation. The prospect of
looking for a job in a down economy, at the time of year when no one was
hiring, didn’t seem as hopeless and monumental as it had been in the past. They
walked down the street, around the corner and to the bubble glassed
encasement where a mass transit bus would pick them up and deliver them to
Marisol and the small basement flat. The streetlight above the stand was out
and the building façade behind them offered nothing but black rectangles of
nothingness. Besides an occasional passing car, they were alone together in
the dark. “Dad, will Scoop get in trouble with the police?” “He shouldn’t have done what he did. It’s not right hitting people,
you know that right?” “Sure Pa, but will he have to go to jail?” “I really don’t think so.” “Are you sure?” “I’m pretty sure, but it still doesn’t make it right.” “Ma said Scoop was going to get me an X-Box for Christmas if my grades
are good.” Erv
instinctively dug into his pocket, feeling beyond the manila envelope and to
the small plastic rectangle. “Really?” His dislike of Scoop Webster had waned since Marisol had come into
his life. Scoop eased financial pressure and he was polite and respectful of
boundaries, but Erv was leery of Scoop’s relationship with his son. Racine
was one thing, but Erv would be damned if anyone would try to unseat him as
Charlie’s father. There
was a sudden commotion in the alleyway behind them. The hollow thud of empty
boxes being flung against a wall was followed by chaotic rustling and
shuffling that moved towards them. Just as it seemed ready to announce its
source, it stopped. They waited in silence, anticipating, but nothing came.
Finally there was what sounded like a belch and a groan. Erv instinctively
pulled Charlie behind him. And again nothing, then, just as Erv was about to
write the ordeal off as an alley cat or a projection of his own paranoia, a
dark figure lurched out onto the sidewalk. Adrenaline stiffened Erv’s body.
The hair on the back of his neck bristled. His forearms tightened. But then a
passing car gave him cause to relax. It was only Old Harold. “Evening folks,” Harold said,
taking an awkward step forward as if the joints in that leg we incapable of
bending. He rolled a hand across his matted noggin and bowed faintly as if he
were a member of aristocracy saluting his queen. “Spare any change? Coin is good, green is better.” Erv
wasn’t particularly in the mood to humor Harold, though he felt sorry for him
and often saw the gangly stick of a man as his worst nightmare realized: a
laid off computer operator without a Marisol or Charlie in his life and
little to live for. Even so, Erv admired Harold’s resolve. The man whose
beard bore greater mass than his bones was always polite and never intrusive
in his pandering, and seemed outwardly happier than most with a roof over
their heads. “That’s a nice looking boy you got there. Bet he grows up to be an ace
pitcher or maybe President.” Harold let out a
hoot. “How about that? I’ve met the President!” Erv
valued Harold primarily because Stephano loathed him. He always threatened to
call the police whenever Harold panhandled outside the store, but many of
Urban Chic’s customers were bemused by Harold’s silly street rants and often
hung out with him, smoking cigarettes, just beyond the fractured panes of
glass, plainly in the store manager’s sight. It drove Stephano nuts and Erv relished
every moment of it. Charlie
tugged on Erv’s jacket, “Dad, can we give
him some money? He doesn’t have a home or anything to eat.” Harold
laughed. “I got plenty of homes. I got homes in
Alston, one next to Mass General, down by the Charles and even Beacon Hill. I
got them everywhere. I got more homes than I know what to do with.” Erv
pulled his hand from his pocket and Harold likewise, in Pavlovian response,
held out his palm. Erv looked at the credit card and then at Harold, wanton and waiting.
After a quick deliberation he folded the card in half and then into quarters
and tossed the broken pieces into the alleyway. “Why’d you do that?” Harold asked. “Ain’t nothing but trouble for you or me.” Erv dug into his pant pocket and extracted fourteen dollars and
sixty-nine cents. It was two-forty to get home. He handed the ten to Harold. Harold
smiled a big dirty-toothed grin. “You manager types,
you’re always full of surprises, aren’t you? Much gratitude, thanks and God
bless.” Ever
since Erv gave Harold the silk oxford and bola tie Harold called him Mr.
Manager. He dropped an arm over his son’s shoulder and watched as Harold’s
cockeyed form bobbled down the street, moving from one pool of light to the
next until he was eventually consumed by the night. “Dad?” “Yes Charlie?” “Ma said Marisol is making pan sit, what’s that?” “It’s something very yummy and very special.” “Mom says it’s like weird Chinese food.” “What’s a green card?” “Why do you ask?” “Because one night Ma told Scoop, Marisol was all about the green
card.” A
car passed, illuminating the boy’s face. His features were angelic and frail,
yet there was determination in his eyes, Meany determination, a determination
Erv had put there, a determination he had nearly lost. The question was a
good one. Erv wrestled with it every day. At first he was oblivious, roiling
in the bliss of having such a woman and the ablution of new beginning, but as
time wore on the issue began to weigh on him. If his marriage was based on
trade offs, then so be it. It was far more fruitful than his first marriage,
and she never swayed in her affections or loyalty towards him. She was legal
now. Nothing bound her to him anymore. She could go, yet she stayed. Even
after her mother got critically ill and all he could do was to borrow money
from Isabelle’s husband to send her home to burry her mother, she returned to
him fast and true. He felt guilty and inadequate in the matter, especially
since he had not being able to make way for her mother, but she assuaged his
burden, telling him “Across the whole sea and computer, we are
two people who make a whole. It is very special. Many people come together,
but not many make a whole.” She kissed him on
the forehead with her fleshy lips, the smell of lilacs and baby powder
engulfed him as she pried a highball of scotch from his hands and led him
into their windowless bedroom. “As I said before,” Erv said, “ your mother is entitled to her own opinions, even if they are
unfounded.” Somewhere
in the darkness the hum of the bus’s engine announced that their ride was
neat. As a young man, Erv never depicted his life as it was now. For his
fiftieth, he thought he’d be on a cruise ship with Racinie in the Bahamas. He
also thought he’d have all the answers too. It was a humbling and refreshing
realization that he didn’t. |
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