Apart From Love (7 page)

He came in and stood in line, real patient, right behind her. So now I noted his eyes, which was brown, and his high forehead and the crease, the faint crease right there, in the middle of it, which reminded me all of a sudden of my pa, who left us for good when I was only five, and I never saw him again—but still, from time to time, I think about him and I miss him so.

I could feel Lenny—whose name I didn’t know yet—like, staring at me. It made me hot all over. For a minute there, I could swear he was gonna to ask me how old I was—but he didn’t.
 

And so, to avoid blushing, I turned to him and I said, boldly, “It’s a crime?”
 

And he said, “What?”
 

And I said, “To be sixteen. It’s a crime, you think?”
 

And he said, “Back in the days when I was young and handsome, that was no crime.”
 

And I countered with, “Handsome you still are!”
 

He had no comeback for that, and me, I didn’t have nothing with which I could follow it up. So I asked, “So? What kind of cone for you?” but that woman cut in, ‘cause I was still holding her three-scoops tower of pistachio nut on a sugar cone. And she started to cry out, and like, demand some attention here, because hey, she was first in line and how about whipped cream? Or some of that shredded coconut?
 

So I smiled at her, in my most cool and polite manner, and squeezed out a big dollop of whipped cream, which was awesome, ‘cause it calmed her down right away.
 

And I scattered some of them coconut flakes all over—quite a heap—and went even further, adding a cherry on top. At last, I raised the thing to my lips, because at this point, it was starting to drip already.

Then, winking at him, I passed my tongue over the top, and all around the ice cream at the rim of the cone, filling my whole mouth and, just to look sexy, also licking the tips of my fingers. Then I came around the counter, swaying my hips real pretty, and steadying myself over the wobbly high heels. I came right up to him, and before he could guess what kind of trouble I had cooked up in my head, I kissed him—so sweet and so long—on his lips, to the shouts and outcries of the offended customer.
 

The manager was like, outraged, not only because of this incident—but also because pink shoes wasn’t allowed, no way no how, only black uniform shoes. She grabbed my ice cream hat, that thing made out of white paper, and pulled it right off my head, and threw it to the floor, smashing and crashing it. I was fired right there, on the spot.
 

He came out right away after me. I bet he figured it was his fault, ‘cause it was over him that I’ve lost my job.
 

So he said, “Hi. My name is Lenny.”
 

“Anita,” I said, licking my lips, because they was still kinda sticky and tasted sweet, and because I think I look hot when my mouth has a shine.
 

It was getting awful dark already. And he said, like, “So, where do you live?”
 

And me, I figured that tonight, it would be good to hang out at home, ‘cause ma was gonna be working late again.
 

We lived in the same one-bedroom place ever since I was five, when pa had paid the first month rent—but then he forgot, somehow, all about sending the second. Sometimes, things may fly right out of your mind. I totally get that.
 

Because of Santa Monica’s rent control, the place was kinda cheap. Still, ma said that paying it was hard for her, ‘cause without a high school diploma—which she never got, on account of never going to no high school—without that, no one wants you, and there is no way nowhere to get a decent, well-paying job.
 

For the last couple of years she worked as a cleaning lady by day and an unarmed security officer by night, both at the same place, a local clinic. Tonight, I figured, would be her night shift. So when Lenny asked, “Would you like me to take you home?” I said, “Yes, take me.”
 

“But,” he said, “no more kissing, I mean it now. I do not want any trouble, and you are too young, you know, much too young for a man my age.”
 

He had a fine way of talking, like no one else I knew. He talked, like, with such a clear cut enunciation. I’m awful proud of this word. It was from Lenny that I learned it.
Enunciation
. For my part, I could teach him a thing or two about
trouble
.
 

So later, while sticking the key in the door, I turned to him and said, “Trouble, that’s my middle name,” which was a line I used sometimes, ‘cause it sounded so clever.
 

“No, really?” he said.
 

To which I replied by asking, “What, you think it’s a crime? Like, kissing me, I mean?” And he said, “It’s just... I do not want to start something which can lead nowhere, really.”

What could I say to that, except, “There’s no one home. Stay a minute. Is that a crime, too?”
 

I handed him an old record, something slow from the sixties, which years ago used to bring tears to ma’s eyes, because—in spite of looking so tough—she still had a soft spot somewhere in her, even if most of the time you can’t find it. She used to play it often—but now not so much no more.
 

So I thought he might like it. Lenny put it on the record player, so in a second the mood was better, even though the thing squeaked from time to time.
 

He turned to me the minute I untied my pony tail, and told me I reminded him of a girl he used to know, and would I like to dance.
 

I stepped out of my shoes and into his arms, and before he could say anything I slipped out of my dress, too. I thought I looked, like, a little too slender in my panties, so I told him to close his eyes—but at this point, because of being so aroused, and trying so hard not to show it, I forgot all about them tissues at each side of my bra, which now and again, made a slight swoosh.
 

Later I wondered if he wondered about that.

I rose to the tips of my toes, feeling the touch of his shirt and the pleat of his pants, right against my bare skin. And I placed my hands on his shoulders, and felt his hands on my hips.
 

And so he held me there, a long, long time in the dark. And me, I got to touch his lips, and that crease up there, on his forehead, and we swayed back and forth: I clinging to him, he—to that one girl, the girl he used to know.

Then he moved away abruptly, saying that he was too old for me, and anyway, what was he doing, he had a child, a boy just a year older than me. So I took a step closer, like, to close the gap again. And feeling lost, like a stray kitten out in the cold, I said, “Just hold me, Lenny. Just hold me tight. I need you so bad.”
 

And the minute I said it, I knew he needed to hear these words, needed to know that he was really needed.
 

After a while I whispered, like, “Just say something to me. Anything.” And I thought, Any other word apart from
love
, ‘cause that word is diluted, and no one knows what it really means, anyway. Then he kissed me—even without the ice cream—and said my name, like, he tasted it in his mouth, and rolled it on his tongue, which made me awful happy. And we started our dance again:
 

I came as he backed away, and then in reverse, I backed away as he came, and we came and went, went and came this way for a long while until, all of a sudden, the front door opened and there was ma, standing there with a new boyfriend this time, a guy whose name I didn’t even know.
 

She opened her fist—I could hear the bong of the keychain as it dropped to the floor—and before she could slap me, I ran as fast and as far as my legs could take me, right out the door.
 

Then, yelling
Bitch
at the top of her voice, ma picked up my dress, which had been left there, in the middle of the floor, and threw it. She threw it flying down the staircase after me—but for some reason, them pink shoes stayed behind.
 

They stayed until the next day, when Lenny went there for me, to get some of my stuff. Perhaps he figured he was in charge of me now, and so he paid for a motel room, and went on paying it, ‘cause it was on his account that I lost my job and the roof over my head, both on the same night.
 

Who’s there? What was that, just now?
 

I can feel, like, a slight breath behind me. I can hear the click of the knob, on the bedside lamp up there, over my shoulder. It’s made the light stronger, and the shadows—sharper. I need to know who it is—but at this point, I don’t barely feel like turning around.
 

And I can’t decide if this is so because I’m still pretty dazed, or because lying here on my side feels better, so much better for the cramps. I bet I can figure who it is simply by spotting the reflections, right there in the mirror.
 

It’s a freestanding mirror, tilted over its feet, set in an ornate oval frame, which is so classy, and like, fit for a queen, and which used to be hers. I mean, his ex-wife. But then, just the thought of it—I mean, the thought of catching sight of myself in
her
mirror—is like, strange. It gives me goosebumps.
 

And it isn’t just old wives’ tales, or just my nerves. I’ve seen images of Natasha. Lenny keeps them old pictures stashed away in the drawer, next to his side of the bed, and—like, quite by chance—I found them one day. If not for the age spots spreading over the pictures, and if not for the yellowing, you could swear that face is mine.
 

So whenever I find myself passing there, by that mirror, I close my eyes, or turn my head away. And I ask myself then, What on earth did he find in me—a simple girl, with no high school diploma, who at times can’t help but making him bored stiff?
 

What did he need me for—me and my lousy
enunciation
—when he had already married this woman who, by everything I’ve learned about her, was so fine and so talented, and came from an awful long line of musicians?
 

And why, why did he tell me, that first time we danced, that I reminded him of a girl he used to know?
 

Lying here, in what used to be
her
side of the bed—a side which isn’t mine, at least not yet—I’m thinking about her, worrying, like, Is she gonna come back here, any time soon, to claim her place?
 

The other day, standing there behind the kitchen door, I could hear Lenny. He lowered his voice when he told his son that yes, she’d been there, in the hospital, visiting him. And I think he said that he’d shut his eyes, just to be focused, to feel her; which is a bad sign for me.
 

I’m wondering now how much time I’ve lost, and where Lenny might be, ‘cause if not for his injuries, and being stuck now in a wheelchair, I can picture him in my head real easy, pacing back and forth somewhere else right now.

As Told by Anita

I
can hear a noise of some kind, clicking awful close to my ear, on the other side, I mean, Lenny’s side of the bed. I try to stay still, because of this dull pain, and because of wondering if, somewhere deep inside, my baby can feel it, too.
 

Then I turn my head—just a little—and take a peak over my shoulder. I glance real quick at that standalone mirror, which is facing away from me. And what do I see reflected there, if not something that’s, like, so strange to my eyes, so unusual, that it makes me want to blink, or wipe them in awe.

Three squares of fuzzy wool are being held there, suspended in midair. Directly behind them hang three shadows, under which you can see three chubby old women, crinkling their noses—long, longer, longest. They’re straining their crossed, beady eyes with great focus, under three pairs of glasses, and clinking, clinking, clinking three pairs of knitting needles, like, all together now!