I'm with Stupid (21 page)

I tell her that I don’t think it had anything to do with the neighborhood or my marital status. The neighborhood is perfectly safe. And my marital status, like my nonexistent kids, is not something I want to discuss.

“Then what did it have to do with?” she challenges.

I don’t know. An idiot waving coffee cakes and change in the air, I want to say. I reason that it was just a bit of bad luck. My mother suspects this is more than bad luck. This is senseless violence. She recommends alerting the police. I protest: We are not calling the police. What would we call the police for?

William is following our conversation as if it were a tennis ball. Henryk, meanwhile, is at my bookshelf, examining the novels. He pulls down Kazuo Ishiguro’s
The Unconsoled
and opens it to page one.

My father interjects that he hates the fuzz. He wouldn’t call a cop even if we were being slaughtered right now. This comment only infuriates my mother. She turns to me: “There’s been a mugging and a madman is on the loose. That’s why we should call. The police would want to know about it. You don’t keep this kind of thing to yourself. People like that can’t be running through the streets high on drugs . . .”

Oblivious to the noise, Henryk flips to page two. Page two is even better than page one. I really should reread that book. I wish Kazuo Ishiguro would give me my groove back, and if not him then the guy who gave me the novel in the first place. What was that guy’s name? He was cute. He should give me my groove back. He knew how to spell. I know that because I didn’t sleep with him after two minutes.

I tell my mother that it was just a bum. It’s not a big deal. She gets huffy: Now I’m rich all of a sudden? I can afford to lose ten dollars? I remind her that I’m not the one who lost it. She points at William: “Are you blaming him because you live in a bad neighborhood?” I throw up my arms and emphasize that I’m not blaming anyone. I just think we should forget about it. It’s over now. “He’s lucky he wasn’t stabbed or gunned down,” my mother continues. “He could have been seriously injured. These bums just wait for people to leave their homes. They work in groups.” William smiles to signal that he’s doing just fine. She turns and orders me to get the coffee cake: The bums know me, I’ll pass without incident.

I grab my purse off the kitchen table. Amuse yourselves in my absence, I need to buy cigarettes. “Kasia!” she shouts as I turn the door handle to get out of there. Now what? I turn around. She points a finger: “Clutch that purse. Sometimes they use scissors or razor blades to cut off the handles when you’re not paying attention.” I frown. Doesn’t she think I’d notice if someone was using a razor blade to cut my purse? It sounds like a long process during which I might need to pull up a rocking chair. She calls out again as I open the door. I turn around once more. “Where’s your hat?” she asks. “You’re going to get an ear infection!” I pat the pocket of my coat. Right here. “Put it on!” she says as I close the door. I don’t even own a hat.

I walk to the corner store and buy two packs of cigarettes. I light a cigarette in front of the outdoor flower stand and inhale deeply. These things are the best . . . but they stink. I begin walking quickly down the street (it’s almost a jog), toward nothing in particular, while puffing away. I move so fast that the cigarette smell can’t possibly attach itself to me. After tossing the cigarette I make two more laps around the block for good measure, then return to the store for an assortment of coffee cakes and rolls. I’m happy to report that no one mugs me. As I walk back up the stairs I reach into my purse and pull out a tube of scented hand lotion, which I slather generously. Before opening the apartment door I pat my cheeks with my scented hands as if applying aftershave. All pretty! And all this so as not to get caught smoking. By now I’m used to it. I’ve been pulling this stunt for a decade.

I open the door to find that all of a sudden my mother is William’s biggest fan—or at least his biggest fan in the room. I race into the bathroom to wash my hands and spray perfume. I hear him telling her how easy it is to make honey out of flowers. (Been there, done that.) When I come out of the bathroom she gives me a studied look. What? Can she smell the cigarette from across the room? I wouldn’t be surprised. “You didn’t tell me he was a writer,” she says. She begins to size him up like she’s fitting him for a wedding tuxedo. William modestly informs her that he’s just started. “You have to start somewhere,” she nods and promptly suggests that I write a children’s book. William chimes in that he adores children—they are so pure and good. My mother beams when he says this. I give him a dirty look. I don’t need him giving her any ideas related to her favorite topic. William gets up and finds the binder that contains his collected works—he’s no longer limping but thankfully no one comments, even though both Henryk and my father are staring intently at his legs. He asks my mother if she would be interested in seeing the first chapter. She admits that this would be lovely then mentions how important children are. This time I give her the dirty look.

William opens the binder to the first page and hands it to her. She tells him she’s not wearing her reading glasses and asks that he pass the binder to my father, who would be happy to read it to us.

I ask if anyone wants cake, hoping to distract them. My mother puts out her hand like a crossing guard: “Not right now. We’re having a book reading.”

I pull the chair into the living room so my father can finally sit. He takes the binder and I take his crutches. I liked this day more when I was contemplating hiding William under a lamp shade. “Go on and read it,” she urges my father, “let us hear all about the political situation in Monaco. I’m told it’s terrible.”

“Who told you that?” I ask.

“He did.” My mother points to William.

William sits back down and points at the binder in my father’s hand. “It’s terrible,” he earnestly says with a nod. He shakes his head and blows out some air. “Really, really awful.”

My father puts on his glasses-on-a-rope and silently examines the page. He looks like he just smelled dogshit. After squinting at the page he inquires whether the thing is written in some sort of shorthand. He can’t make it out. I need another cigarette. My brother closes
The Unconsoled
and stands up. He leans over, glances at the page, and announces that it looks like gibberish.

“I’m a fast typer,” William explains.

My father gives him the hairy eyeball: “Then slow down,” he says deliberately.

My mother pats William on the knee: “I know what you mean. I’m fast, too. I can type a hundred words per minute.” William smiles. He’s a fast typer. A fast, fast typer. She turns to my father. “So what’s it say?” she asks him. “Read a paragraph.”

My father frowns. Seems that all he can make out are the words
chapter one
. After that he’s lost. Henryk leans in again. “It’s definitely a foreign language,” he concludes and sits back down.

I take the binder from my father. “Who wants cake?” I try again. My brother agrees to cake. I set it next to him on the floor. Eat up. Good doggy.

My father breaks an uncomfortable moment of silence by announcing that there’s going to be a family get-together. I ask what he has in mind. He explains that we are going out to dinner to commemorate two very special events. It’s his mother’s birthday (my grandmother, naturally) and it’s the twenty-five-year anniversary of the deli. A big deal, he adds, on both counts. “I figured we’d do one big dinner instead of two, it will be more cost-effective.” Ah, a two-for-one special, just his style. “We’re getting your mother drunk to celebrate the day she helped me start our little business,” he cracks. My mother, legendary partier that she is, makes a motion with her hand like she’s swatting a fly in front of her face. She’s not getting drunk, trust me. She’s still recovering from the white wine spritzer incident of ’94 when she kept telling everyone that she was going to fall and crack open her head because the drink was too strong (this thing was weaker than a teardrop of Children’s Tylenol).

I ask when this event is taking place. Thursday, it turns out, at Leona’s. My mother nods. “You remember Leona’s,” she offers. “It’s that Italian restaurant where all the Catholics go.” You would need to hit me upside the head with a brick to get me to forget Leona’s. Of course I remember it. It’s a Catholic-themed Italian restaurant for overeaters. Each table has its own lazy Susan at the center of which is a replica of a pope’s head. Kill me if I’m lying. Patrons sit around and eat off plates as big as their heads while surrounded by religious iconography. I like to think it was Leona’s that turned me into an atheist.

William addresses me: “Are you very Catholic?” he asks.

My father winks at me. “She’s very Polish,” he happily points out.

William considers my family tree. He’s over it. He’s a fast typer. “Why do all the Catholics go to Leona’s?” he asks.

My father laughs: “To see the pope.”

“The pope goes to this restaurant!” William exclaims. Yes, and so does Tom Clancy. I tell him not to get excited, he isn’t there, and proceed to explain the conundrum that is Leona’s.

“They have all the popes,” my father enthuses, “including, of course, my favorite, Pope John Paul the Second, born Karol Wojtyla in Kraków, Poland, in 1920. He took over the Vatican in 1978. What a man! The first non-Italian pope in four hundred fifty years.”

William asks my father if he knows a lot about the popes and their lives. I shake my head, fully aware of my father’s passionate interest in popes—and Italian food for that matter. He wouldn’t even be mentioning this if Pope John Paul II weren’t Polish. My father loves anything Polish. Anything. He even likes nail polish. He just likes the word
Polish
.

“Yup,” he says to William, as if reading my thoughts. “Poland is a great country.” It is. Because South Africa and Monaco are not.

William thinks the restaurant sounds like a lot of fun. My mother pats him on the back and asks if he’ll still be in America then. I tell you, getting mugged was the best thing that’s ever happened to him. And it just gives my mother more fuel. Now she can remind us how important safety is and when I tell her to calm down she can cite the day that that nice South African boy I befriended was mercilessly robbed twice. William grows uneasy: “I think so. Yes?” I just stare at him. As long as my mother is involved this is a runaway train. There’s no need to agree or disagree. I just stare. Stare, stare, stare. Blankly. “Good,” she decides. “You can come. Bring the novel. It’ll give me something to do.” William reminds her that it’s not a novel. It’s nonfiction. “Come anyway, the more the merrier,” she offers.

“Since when?” my father asks. “Are you sure you haven’t been drinking?”

“I’m in a good mood,” she says cheerily in her defense. “The more the merrier.”

“If you’re planning to pick up the tab it will be,” he points out.

I ask if I can bring Libby and Max. I beg. Please, please, please. (I mean if my mother gets to bring a friend I should be allowed, too.)

“Bring them,” my father finally says. He looks at my brother. “Don’t bring anyone,” he tells him. Henryk looks up. The cake box next to him is now empty.

Having secured an invite for Thursday, William regains confidence and grins at me. Leona’s here we come! I try to smile back. How could he be so dumb and so good looking? It’s like getting a piece of candy and not being able to open the wrapper. He is certainly no S. Konrad.

My father points to the flag on the wall. I can’t believe he didn’t notice it sooner. It’s not exactly small. What kind of apartment inspector is he? He asks why my Polish flag has been turned upside down. My mother looks behind her and flinches. “Oh, what is that ugly thing?” she asks. William informs her that it’s his flag of Monaco. It inspires him to write. My father doesn’t take his eyes off the flag. “Inspires you to write how?” he wants to know.

I have to keep my father away from the subject of William’s book. I ask if he’d like something to drink. Water, milk, soda . . . “Uh-huh”—he turns to me—“beer.”

My mother frowns. “Beer?” she asks. “In your condition?”

“I’m not pregnant,” he responds. “I have a broken leg.”

My mother points out that I don’t have beer because I don’t drink. My father tells me to hand him his crutches. He moves over to the fridge and takes out a beer. My mother is shocked all over again. Since when am I a drinker? How often am I drinking?
And why?
People who keep alcohol at home turn into alcoholics. This could be an indication of bigger problems. Pretty soon I’ll be off in a ditch somewhere . . .

She goes on like this for a good five minutes longer.

When it’s time for them to leave my mother digs through her purse. She almost forgot. She brought me something. “What’s that?” I ask, knowing it’s something I don’t exactly need, like cheese and potato soup. I wish she’d buy herself a present with the money she wastes on stuff I feel too guilty not to accept. She pulls out a pair of red earmuffs and explains: “These are for you, I got them on sale. They’re to keep your ears warm when you walk around. Wear them over your hat.” I nod. Man, if she knew I didn’t own a hat she would never leave this apartment. I look down at my new ear warmers. Oh great. What I don’t need most, another demoralizing gift. This will go perfectly with my new necklace. All that’s missing from my life is a cane and top hat—the crucial pieces I’ll need to take part in the Vegas lounge act I’ve had my eye on all winter.

My father pats me on the shoulder before they file out. He asks if I can come to the deli tomorrow and work the afternoon shift. I tell him yes, anytime. “Come at noon,” he tells me. William, meanwhile, gives my mother a long hug good-bye. When she’s halfway down the stairs he calls after her. “See you at Leona’s!” he screams. “I can’t wait to have a one-night stand with you!” I push him out of the way and slam the door.

William spends the afternoon polishing his glassware. I read and smoke until dinnertime. When I ask if he’s hungry he pats his stomach: “I’m starving!” Staaaving. The accent is cute, I’ll give him that. Even though I don’t want to see his binder for as long as I live the accent is something I can handle. I suppose it’s one of the things I fell for. I thought it represented something loftier, like common sense. He’s staaaving. I’m staaaaaving, too. William suggests that I let him cook the evening’s meal. Is he going to set fire to himself and run around screaming? I’m not sure what he’s capable of creating or destroying. Additionally, I don’t own an extinguisher. “I’m a good cook,” he confidently says. “I’ll make burgers.”