Five #2
“I’m afraid, okay?” she said, shifting positions so that she sat cross-legged. “I’m scared shitless most of the time, and the booze... it makes me less afraid.”
Her answer stunned me. We were kindred spirits. “What are you afraid of? What’s your story, Alex?”
Jumping down from the island, she said, “Aren’t we supposed to be focusing on Nick?”
“There’s nothing we can do about the asshole but wait. Oh, and there’s an open bottle of Riesling in the fridge.”
I knew a guy whose wife was addicted to prescription painkillers.
Kenny was often away on business trips which made it easier for his wife to hide the fact that she was abusing drugs to numb her emotional pain.
They were unable to conceive and unable to adopt.
Questioning Alex wasn’t about shaming her.
It was about wanting to protect her from whatever demon she was battling.
“My uncle’s in jail for first degree murder.
” With her head in the fridge, I could barely hear her.
“When they asked him what he wanted for his last meal, you know what he told them?” She emerged with the wine in her hand, pulled the cork, and chugged from it like Nick does after he closes the bar for the night.
“That he lost his appetite?”
“No. He told them he wanted oden stew broth. But not just any oden stew broth,” she added, wiping her mouth with her shirtsleeve.
“He wanted the last bowl from The Otafuku restaurant in Tokyo that’s been reheating the same broth since the second world war.
Since they couldn’t deny him his last meal, a prison guard volunteered to jump on a plane to Tokyo. ”
She was taking swigs from the bottle between each absurd sentence. I wanted to kiss her. “This is your story?”
“It’s my uncle’s story. Anyway, when the guard arrived, the restaurant owner, who was a friend of my uncle, told him that he’d have to wait until they were ready to serve the last bowl. It’s been a decade now, and my uncle is still waiting. What’s this? Your little black book?”
Alex sat on the opposite end of the couch and picked up my journal. I had left it on the coffee table, and since I’m so used to seeing it, I didn’t think to hide it.
“Can you hand me that, please?”
“Please? It is your little black book.”
“No. It isn’t. Come on, Alex. Give it to me.”
“Fine,” she said, tossing it in my direction.
“Thank you. Aren’t you supposed to be telling me about your book idea?”
“I just did,” she said, draining the bottle. “My uncle’s married. He ordered the decades-old stew so he could buy himself time... to visit with his wife, my aunt. Isn’t that romantic? I’ll make you my Uncle Pete, and I’ll write myself as my Aunt Susan.”
I was transported back to 1976 when Valeria Sorrento asked me to be her date for our school’s Sadie Hawkins dance.
Valeria was a strange girl who often quoted Hemmingway, even in casual conversation.
Since ma was a friend of her friend’s mother’s sister, she insisted that it would embarrass her if I didn’t accept Val’s invitation.
The night was cloaked in awkward silence.
When I asked Val if something was wrong, she told me that she didn’t really want me to be her date, but my mother was a friend of her friend’s mother’s sister.
It was the least romantic thing that I could imagine. Until now.
“Do you have a smoke?”
“I’m a boxer. I don’t smoke.”
“I see. But you’re a boxer who drinks and eats canned ravioli,” she stated, smiling.
“Guilty.”
I once heard my nonno say that a woman’s smile was like a veil. She could hide behind it to disguise her thoughts or conceal her true intentions. “La Donna Velata”, or “Veiled Lady”, as nonno put it. Since Alex playfully blew me a kiss, I decided that sometimes, a smile is just a smile.
“Well? What do you think of my idea?”
I patted the empty space on the couch next to me.
I could smell the wine on her breath when she sat down.
“When I was seven years old, I cut my hand. I don’t remember how, I only remember that it was deep.
I grew hysterical, so my mother poured me a glass of red wine and ordered me to drink it.
She said it was to replenish the blood I lost, but I knew it was to help calm me down. ”
“What the hell does that have to do with the story?”
“Nothing. I’m avoiding the subject.”
As if being saved by the bell, the phone rang. I lunged for it. Somehow, I knew it was him. I greeted him without greeting him.
“Brenda is losing her mind.”
Alex walked towards me and positioned the receiver between us so that she could listen.
“I know. I talked to her.”
“And?”
“She said she’s not talking to me.”
Me and Alex both rolled our eyes. Having her so close to me ignited a dormant fire. “What the fuck happened?”
“I was at Joe’s.”
“The mechanic?”
“Yeah. The Jeep needed new brake pads.”
“So? You couldn’t tell your wife that?”
“I left my cell in the glove compartment. Joe said it wouldn’t take long. The bastard took his time so he could charge me more. Jesus Christ, has everyone lost their minds today?”
Quietly, I thanked the Big Guy upstairs. “Ungrateful bastard. I’ll see you later.”
“Fine. Ciao.”
“Well,” Alex said, “at least he’s alive. Bathroom?”
“Next to the front door,” I told her, dropping the receiver back on the hook.
“Seriously?”
“My mother hates it too.”
“She sounds like a good woman.”
I envisioned Alex and ma in the ring going twelve rounds except they’d share recipes between punches.
Alone, I stood at the main window and watched as a grandmother pushed a child on a swing – the kind with a protective bar across it to keep a toddler safe.
Life should always come with that kind of security, but it doesn’t and I envied that kid.
Then I thought about Alex who was part butterfly, part Praying Mantis, and I wondered if she was taking her role as author seriously.
While I did want to help her get back on her feet, there was something in her eyes that suggested a secret was buried deep inside of her and I needed to decide if I wanted to unearth it.
Her signature scent perfumed the air, and then, she was standing next to me. “Is that my house next door?” she asked, jutting her chin towards the “For Rent” sign on its front lawn.
“We’ll see.”