ON THURSDAY I SLIPPED OUT before seven o’clock to avoid Rick. Just as I stepped into the office, he called.
“I am very sorry to bother you, miss, but there’s a woman here and she just asked me to leave.”
I was surprised he even had my number, or a phone.
“Excuse me, she would like to talk to you.”
There was a bang, the phone was dropped, Clee came on.
“He just walked onto your property, no car or anything.” She turned away from the phone. “Can I see some ID? Or a business card?” I cringed at her rudeness. But also maybe I wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore.
“Hello, Clee. I’m sorry I forgot to mention Rick; he gardens.” Maybe she would forbid him to return and there would be nothing I could do about it.
“How much do you pay him?”
“I—sometimes I give him a twenty.” Nothing; I’d never given him anything. I suddenly felt very judged, very accused. “He’s practically family,” I explained. This wasn’t true in any sense—I didn’t even know his last name. “Can you please put him back on?”
She did something that sounded like tossing the phone on the ground.
Rick was back. “Perhaps it is not a good time?”
“I’m so, so sorry. She’s not well-mannered.”
“I had an arrangement with the Goldfarbs . . . they appreciated . . . but perhaps you—”
“I appreciate it even more than the Goldfarbs did. Mi casa es tu casa.”
“What?”
I had always thought he was Latino, but I guess not. In any case, it probably wasn’t a smart thing to say.
“Please keep up the good work, it was a misunderstanding.”
“The third week of next month I will have to come on a Tuesday.”
“Not a problem, Rick.”
“Thank you. And how long will your visitor be staying?” he asked politely.
“Not long, she’ll be gone in a few days and everything will be back to normal.”
CHAPTER THREE
The ironing room and bedroom were my domain, the living room and the kitchen were hers. The front door and the bathroom were neutral zones. When I got my food from the kitchen I scurried, hunched over, as if I was stealing it. I ate looking out the too-high ironing-room window, listening to her TV shows. The characters were always shouting, so it wasn’t hard to follow the plots without the picture. During our Friday video conference call Jim asked what all the commotion was.
“That’s Clee,” I said. “Remember? She’s staying with me until she finds a job?”
Rather than take this opportunity to jump in with accolades and sympathy, my coworkers fell into a guilty silence. Especially Michelle. Someone in a burgundy sweater sauntered across the office, behind Jim’s head. I craned my head.
“Is that—who was that?”
“Phillip,” piped Michelle. “He just donated an espresso machine to the staff kitchen.”
He walked past again, holding a tiny cup.
“Phillip!” I yelled. The figure paused, looking confused.
“It’s Cheryl,” said Jim, pointing to the screen.
Phillip walked toward the computer and ducked into view. When he saw me he brought his giant fingertip right up to the camera—I quickly pointed at my own camera. We “touched.” He smiled and moseyed away, offscreen.
“What was that?” said Jim.
AFTER THE CALL I THREW on my robe and strolled into the kitchen. I was tired of hiding. If she was rude, I would just roll with it. She was wearing a big T-shirt that said BUMP, SET, SPIKE IT . . . THAT’S THE WAY WE LIKE IT! and either no bottoms or shorts completely covered by the shirt. She seemed to be waiting for the kettle. This was hopeful; maybe she’d reconsidered the microwave.
“Enough hot water for two?”
She shrugged. I guessed we would find out when it came time to pour. I got my mug out of my bin: even though the sink was full of dishes, I had continued using only my set. I leaned on the wall and kneaded my shoulders against it, smiling lazily into the air. Roll, roll, roll with it. We waited for the kettle. She poked a fork at the layers of calcified food on my savory pan as if it were alive.
“It’s building flavor,” I said protectively, forgetting to roll for a moment.
She laughed, heh, heh, heh, and instead of growing defensive, I joined her, and laughing somehow made it funny, truly funny—the pan and even myself. My chest felt light and open, I marveled at the universe and its trickster ways.
“Why are you laughing?” Her face was suddenly made of stone.
“Just because—” I gestured toward the pan.
“You thought I was laughing about the pan? Like ha ha you’re so kooky with your dirty pan and your funny way of doing things?”
“No.”
“Yes. That’s what you thought.” She took a step toward me, talking right into my face. “I was laughing because”—I felt her eyes move over my gray hair, and my face, its big pores—“you’re so sad. Soooo. Saaaad.” With the word sad she pressed her palm into my chest bone, flattening me against the wall. I made an involuntary huh sound and my heart began to thud heavily. She could feel this, with her palm. She got a revved-up look and pressed a little harder, then a little harder, pausing each time as if to give me a chance to respond. I was getting ready to say Hey, you’re about to cross a line or You’re crossing the line or Okay, that’s it, you’ve crossed the line, but suddenly I felt that my bones were really being harmed, not just my chest but my shoulder blades, which were grinding into the wall, and I wanted to live and be whole, be uninjured. So I said, “Okay, I’m sad.” The kettle began to whistle.
“What?”
“I’m sad.”
“Why would I care if you’re sad?”