Thirty-Six
Simone
“Out of ink.” I frowned down at the blob of blue on the notebook paper. It was a telltale sign, the last little spurt of ink before the pen became completely useless. But I wouldn’t give up hope. I let the ink dry and then started to write.
The rollerball scratched against the paper, but no more ink was forthcoming. I was officially down to four pens, and the day’s inventory was ruined. I tried to look at the bright side. The first couple of lines were a bit uneven, so I could build from there without having to start over again.
I’d been awake since before dawn, the power of sleep failing me when I’d needed it most.
The memory of that rat, heavy on my shoe, made my stomach turn, but even that was preferable to thinking about Rubin.
The bargain had been simple and clear. I’d held up my end; Rubin had held up his.
But still, that weak, soft part of me that I hadn’t yet killed had cracked open the slight possibility that maybe, possibly, the depth of Rubin’s hate had an end.
But it didn’t.
I was a miu, a rat. Vermin to be exterminated.
I’d never let myself forget that again.
I held tight onto the now useless pen as I walked through the hallway.
I could hear those things outside, scrapes inside the wall that I refused to analyze, and the noise of the men.
Some working out, surprisingly heated conversations—some in English, others in Albanian—the yells of disappointment or happiness, the sound of cards smacking metal.
After two weeks, these had become the soundtrack of my life.
“I got your ass next time.”
Aaron’s voice for sure. In a tone I recognized. He was down, but knew for sure he would win. I wished him luck and turned to the office. I opened the bottom drawer, space I had claimed as my own, and pulled another blue ink pen out of the wrinkled cellophane package.
I neatly creased the plastic and put the pen back, and grabbed another legal pad—yellow, because that was all they had, but any port in a storm.
Three Christmases ago, Rubin had gifted me bespoke stationery.
I remembered the day I had opened the box.
It was Christmas, a day like any other in Rubin’s business.
I’d made Aaron and I Cornish hen, dressing, macaroni and cheese, and lima beans with sweet potato pie for dessert.
Then I’d watched the first half of the football game before heading to work.
The box had been on my desk and Rubin stood beside it, clearly waiting for me to arrive.
“Is that for me?” I’d asked, too shocked to smile but undeniably delighted by the box.
“Open it,” Rubin had said.
“I don’t want to. The paper is so beautiful,” I’d said, rubbing my hand across the package, which had bold black and gold wrapping and a matching bow.
Rubin had cleared his throat. “It’s nothing.”
I’d smiled then. “Did you wrap this?”
He’d adjusted his tie. “Open it.”
I had and revealed beautiful, heavy, one hundred and six pound cream-white paper thick enough to absorb the ink from the jade fountain pen that had accompanied it.
Strange that I remember that, but given the state of things, what could I call strange anymore? Strange would have been the fact that all of my worldly possessions had been reduced to the bottom drawer of a cheap office desk in a city jail.
Two weeks ago, I had lived in a modest condo that I’d managed to pay for in cash and had even convinced myself that using Rubin’s money to do so wasn’t bad. I liked the place enough. It had great windows, even in the kitchen.
But as I walked back to the common area, I tried to think of what I might miss from there. All I could come up with was a picture of Nana, Aaron, and I at my high school graduation. And then the back of the closet…that pen that I’d never been able to discard.
It didn’t mean anything, but even knowing that didn’t kill the little stab of sorrow at the fact that I’d never see it again.
“Oh, you sorry son of a bitch!” I heard Aaron yell.
I shook my head. His victory and comeback were apparently delayed. When I went back to the common area, Besnik was there, Arben at his side.
“Good morning,” I said.
Besnik smiled, Arben said nothing, and I went back to work. Felt a presence and looked back.
“Mornin’, Moni,” Aaron said.
I smiled at him, stood, and pulled him into a hug. “How’s it going?” I asked, a brow arched.
He chuckled. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what, Aaron?”
“You know, Moni. Like that,” he said.
“Oh, you mean like you’re losing at cards,” I said with a little smile.
“Baby, I never lose. I’m just down for the moment. Was hoping I could get a little advance on my rations.” He glanced furtively at Arben and Besnik.
“Aaron,” I said, my voice laced with warning.
“It’s mine, and I’m gonna win it back,” he said.
“So what happens when someone else wants an advance on theirs?”
He smiled, his eyes twinkling. “You know I’m one of a kind, Moni. It’ll be fine.” He spoke with a certainty I didn’t understand, but I never had. He’d told me it would be fine when my mother left and didn’t come back. He’d been right then too.
“Aaron…” I dragged out his name in that way he hated.
“Your face is gonna get stuck like that,” he said with a smile as he tweaked my chin like I was ten years old. “Don’t worry about it, Moni. It’s just something to pass the time. No big deal.” He gave me another hug. “All right, they’re about to start up another game.”
He walked away and I looked at Besnik, who thankfully said nothing.
“Damn it,” I said as I stared down at the paper. The lines this time were even more crooked than the ink-splotched one I copied. I pressed the ruler against the paper, the pen in my hand flimsy and cheap, and drew the lines again, eager to lose myself in the task.
When I finished, the lines were still crooked.
I dropped the pen and ruler and stood and went to the kitchen. The honey bun and cup of noodles felt like polonium in my hands.
Aaron spotted me when I emerged from the kitchen and stood quickly. I pushed the items into his hand with a warning. “That’s coming off yours tomorrow.”
“Moni, you didn’t have to,” he mumbled, his head down, voice apologetic.
I shook my head. “Forget about it, Aaron. But you’re not getting any more,” I said. “And that is coming off yours tomorrow.”
His smile lit his whole face as he hugged me, but his gaze was firmly fixed on the card game. He kissed my forehead and then jogged back over to the table, slamming the noodles and honey bun down with a look of triumph on his face. “Deal, motherfucker.”
I looked away from Aaron, pretending every exchange of cards didn’t fill me with dread.
“Besnik,” I said a few hours later.
He smiled at me. “Yes, Simone.”
“Can you come help me in the kitchen?” I asked.
He looked over at Damian, who was sitting at a table with Arben.
“Never mind, it’s all right.” I had hoped to get a moment with him, but that didn’t seem to be in the offing. So instead I leaned closer. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” he said. His bushy eyebrows furrowed with curiosity.
“What does ‘miu’ mean?” I asked.
Besnik blinked. Then shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
“No, Besnik, it’s definitely something. It’s a word.”
He shifted in his seat, then glanced over at me, almost evasive.
It was low-key hilarious. After all, I knew exactly what kind of work he did for Rubin, and it definitely wasn’t a role a shy, retiring person would take.
But the way he looked now suggested he’d rather be literally anywhere else.
I followed the direction of his gaze and saw Damian staring at us.
“Never mind, my friend,” I said. I reached over, about to pat his hand, but then thought the better of it, which I could tell he appreciated.
“I didn’t answer your question, but might I say something?”
“Of course,” I said.
He looked away, toward where Aaron had been and then looked back at me. “Be careful. Just be careful.”