Apart From Love (22 page)

I raged on, “Don’t you dare say nothing to me now!”

And he said, like he didn’t even hear me, “How I missed your voice.”

And I said, “So listen to me, and listen good: I can get food, and I can get a place to sleep, and on a good day I can get a job, even! One day, Lenny, one day I’m gonna get back on my feet, I swear I will—and for sure, I’m gonna do it without you.”

And he said, “I know it. I have no doubt about it.” And then he added, “But Anita, I need you—”

“For that,” I countered, “you can get that girl. I bet she’s gonna come back to you, like, in the flick of a finger, and be fucking nice, Lenny, and spend the night.”

“No,” he said. “Now, you listen: it is
you
I need. I miss you.”

“Don’t,” I said.
 

To which he said nothing, but his eyes did his pleading for him.

And I said, “You can’t beg a beggar.”

And he said, “You may not believe it. I do not believe it myself, when I hear myself saying it—but really, I even miss the way you speak.”

And I said, “I ain’t gonna talk fancy no more, Lenny.”

And he said, “Not to worry: you never did.”

So I had to make it extra clear to him, “I ain’t gonna
enunciate
them words, like you told me to, Lenny.”

“I understand,” he said. “This is so incredible. I can listen to you all night long.”

And I said, “You can?”
 

He took a step closer. “I should learn it from you, Anita.”

“Learn what?”

And he wrapped his coat around me, even gentler than before. “Like, your way to say it.”

“Say what?”

“Them words,” he said, winking.

“You making fun of me?”

“No,” he said, serious now. “It is so cold. Let us go now, Anita. Let us go home already.”

In the five years since then, I’ve noticed a change in him. There wasn’t that feeling no more, like he was waiting for something to happen, or for his wife to knock on the door, any moment now. Somehow, she wasn’t there, which made me grow edgy. I couldn’t fight her, ‘cause how d’you fight air? How d’you crush it? How d’you know when to duck, or even, when you’re open to attack?
 

In my mind, she’s become a threat, an unseen presence, about which he refused to say a word.
 

And the heat between us has cooled off. I would dab some perfume on my wrist, and light a candle next to the bed—but instead of coming in, Lenny would stay out there, on the balcony, perhaps to write, or to press them keys on his tape recorder. Some evenings he would call me to join him, and we would just stand there, watching the sky getting dark as the sun went down behind the opposite building.
 

At times, Lenny would bring out his typewriter and let me play with it. I would set my fingers in place, and spread them on the keys, like I could type. He would ask me to talk about my ma, like, what she had told me before the accident, or what had happened to me during the lost time, out there on the street. He wanted me to tell all this, not to him—but to his tape recorder.
 

And once I started, I could say anything—any damn thing—without him cutting in, or getting angry, or making a sound, even.
 

I would be in a different place then, so far away, as to forget he was there, listening.
Record
. I would talk and talk. And if it was too much for him, Lenny would surprise me by taking himself elsewhere: he would go inside, and sit on the bench, and wait till I was too tired to go on.
Stop
.

After such a night, it would be hard for me to fall asleep. And if I did, I would soon open my eyes with a feeling of dread in my heart, and like, trying to break out of a bad dream. It’s always the same dream, too, and it’s been coming back, over and again, to haunt me.

Just yesterday—when I laid there in bed, bleeding all day, not even knowing where I was—that was when at last, the dream found me.
 

In it, I find myself in a public place, which is strange to me—even though I know, somehow, that I’ve already been here. I’ve visited this place, perhaps the night before.
 

It’s raised like a stage, and flooded with light: a harsh glare, which blinds me. For a minute I can’t see nothing in the dark, beyond that ledge—but I know that them faces are out there, blank and blurry. They’re all there, hushing each other, gazing at me.
 

I see myself standing there in front of them, naked.

Red-faced, I hunch up as tight as I can. I fold over my thighs, trying to hide, to cover my body, my shame—but my hands, they’re way too small, so my nipple slips out of my fingers. And there it is, circled by light, for all to see, and to jeer at me, and to lick their lips, which is like, glistening out there, tiny sparks hissing in the distance.
 

For a little while, my sleep is light. And so—even as I’m looking straight into that spotlight, or like, reaching down to touch the ledge of that stage—I can tell that all this is false, it’s nothing more than a dream. But then I fall deeper, even deeper into it, and now I really believe what I see:
 

Some thread is crawling on my skin. Laying across my knees is a strap of fabric, which is frayed and stained, here and there, with my blood. When I pull it in, trying to drape it around me, or use it for a blanket, it resists. It don’t hardly give in, ‘cause it’s tied to something—no, somebody—standing right here, directly over my bare back.
 

Me, I don’t want to turn, but I take a peek over my shoulder. Wrapped in layers of rags and straps and loose ends, all of which is tattered and like, drenched in reds and browns, the figure seemed shaky. He lifts one leg, and tries to balance himself, teetering—this way and that—on one foot. His hand tries to touch the back of my neck—and misses it, grabbing a handful of air, instead.
 

And his blood-red lips, they’re curled up, in something that looks an awful lot like a smile. A mocking smile, one that don’t change.
 

In my dream, my feet must have frozen. I can’t move, can’t run away from him, or even climb off the stage, because at that point I’m weak, and too scared to even breathe, and because of that thread, which binds us. And so, rooted to that spot, I look up at him. At this close range, our eyes meet, and my heart skips a beat, ‘cause at that second, his are empty.
 

Suddenly I catch sight of someone else, someone standing way over there, in the distance, behind him; behind the curtains, even. Except for her hand, which is caught in the light, it’s hard to even notice her, ‘cause at first she’s like, real shy, even modest, and keeps herself in the shadows, out of the spotlight.
 

But then, she changes. Her long fingers, they’re gathered, one by one, into a fist. And twisted around her little finger, you can find—if you focus—the ends of the rags, and the straps, and the thread, all of which extend from there to here, where he stands; all the way, to the joints of his wrists and his elbows, tying them like, real tight.
 

And from backstage, she’s pulling him—raising, dropping, tightening, loosening—making the puppet move, shake, jiggle, even dance on the tip of his toe, and like, bringing him, somehow, to life. I gasp, thinking:
she can twist him around her little finger, if she wants to.

Me, I cringe as he puffs, breathing something in my ear. “Go, go back home, go,” says the puppet, in a voice that is not really his. “Go to the place, the place where you came from, you came from. Go back to your ma, ma, your mama.”

And to the sound of teeth gnashing, I force my eyes open, and in one rip I tear the thread and break out, out of this dream, and find myself back here, like, in a safe place again.
 

And the last thing—just before the stage falls away, and things seem to blur out, and other things become solid, like the ceiling above my bed, which is finally all clear—the last thing I do is wonder, Is she playing us all? Am I being twisted here, twisted around her finger, like he is? Am I a puppet, too?
 

Like, how can I be sure that I’m not?
 

I wake up. The first thing I do is move, ‘cause I ain’t frozen no more. I move them joints—the joints of my own wrists and elbows—every which way, to make sure I can do it at will. I look at them from this side and that, to check that they ain’t tied, or pulled by something, like some blood stained thread.

And the second thing I do is say aloud to myself, “I told you so. I told you so, didn’t I?”

As Told by Anita

I
’m here, and this is amazing. Crumpled in front of me is his first attempt at telling my story.

Last night was real special for me. He came back from work, and after his son had moped about the place and finally, gone out for a drink or something, which was right after dinner, Lenny stepped out to the balcony, and instead of pressing them keys on the tape recorder, he opened his notebook—the thick one, with the worn cover, which must have seen better days—and said, “Come over here, Anita. Let me read you a little something.”

I did. I plopped down and made myself comfortable on his knees.
 

The page rustled in his hand and he said, “This here, it is one of my early stories,” and out of his notebook he started reading, like,
Leonard was first introduced to Lana at his boss’s house...

At once I thought,
Leonard?
Why
Leonard?
The name sounded too important, to formal to my ears. Plain
Lenny
would have been so much better, because after all it was his voice, and the story was clearly about him.
 

Them writers, sometimes they play these kinds of games, and use code names, I reckon, to distance themselves from themselves.

Anyway, I didn’t hardly say anything, ‘cause me, I was glad, so glad that this time, he let me in, and here I was, awful close to him. I’d known him, on and off—more off than on—for ten years, and in all that time I’d never, ever heard him read from his notebook for me. Strange: since the beginning he’d been a bit vague about his writing, slippery even. And I didn’t mind. No really, I didn’t, because... Well, because I accept Lenny. He is what he is: the keeper of secrets.
 

As it happened, I didn’t hear his story last night either. This time, it was my fault. Right after the first few words I relaxed, and felt so at ease, and so warm inside, that I caught myself yawning.
 

My head lolled to one side, then another, and I think I dozed off—but anyway, Lenny didn’t mind this time, not at all, “Because,” he said, “it must be because you are pregnant. And the bleeding, too, must take a lot out of you.”
 

He let me slip off his knees, and then moved aside so I could share the seat with him. “Your eyes,” he said, “they are glazing over. Lean on me, right here. My God, Anita, you look so pale, so tired. Well, who can blame you?”
 

Which was kinda good, ‘cause he didn’t have a clue that it wasn’t just me being pregnant, and tired, and what not—but on top of everything else, it was his writing, and all them words, the fine words he used, which confused me and made me drowsy.

Lenny was like, delighted by his own writing, and by me being there, silent, without butting in, because according to him Natasha, his ex-wife, had laughed at him more than once, in the early years, the years of her success, during which he was out of a job. He hadn’t forgotten the insult, but managed to swallow it, somehow—only to spit it out now, so many years later. She would say, like, Who does he think he is, Dostoyevsky?
 

Unlike her I just clung to him, and took in the moment, and tried to listen, as best I could, first hearing the sound of his voice and then, deep inside, the throbbing of my heart.