Almost a year has passed since I met Valerie at Saks Fifth Avenue in New York City. I had been waiting for a client who wanted to meet me there and then find a place to discuss a project.
I was in my finest three-piece Brioni suit, leaning against one of the endless cosmetic counters, when two women approached me.
“Can you help us?” the older woman asked. She was over fifty and strikingly pretty. The younger woman, the spitting image of her, had to be her daughter.
“Yes, of course I can help you. I would be delighted, but you will have to pay cash.”
“Why?” the mother asked, as surprised as her daughter.
“Because I don’t work here,” I said, unable to contain a smile.…
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Clyde was cleaning out the closet. There was always too much stuff, and he knew he shouldn’t keep it. There were old papers, and only God knew what they were or how long they had been there. Then there was the camping gear. He used to like to camp. He went out several times a year. But that was before he had met Daisy, before he fucked her, before he asked her to move in.
“Will you open the other window?” Daisy called from the living room. “It’s hot.”
She was pouting. He could hear it in her voice. She was pretty even when she pouted. That window, the one that stuck, it upset her beyond reason, the fact she couldn’t open it, that she couldn’t have her way. …
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The thin man was done. He smirked and turned, whistling as he strolled down the tiled floors and hallway. He pushed through the double doors, and I did as told: the important parts were bagged, and the loose edges were joined with needle and thread. Then came the sponge and the scrubbing. The refuse was incinerated, the knives and pans cleaned with soap and water, and the whole thing rolled away under a sheet.
On my way back from the cooler, I saw Harvey walk into the tiled room, stopping at the long countertop. He made an entry in the log book, his dark brown forearms bulging above blue latex gloves as he wrote. After closing and replacing the book, he looked over. “Got another call; it’ll be here soon.”…
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Her mother had made her promise that she wouldn’t quit. But as she sat amidst the other kids with their instruments listening to the cacophony, it was like the cacophony was of its own life, its own blood, and had nothing to do with the students making it. “Get me out of here,” she thought to herself. She was useless at these times, and muttering the same words made no difference to her, only made her feelings worse. She vowed to quit band, even though she enjoyed going to band camp in the summers, where there was mostly silence before rehearsal, except kids talking. Including herself. She had band camp friends. They were all friends at band camp. After band camp, they all went their separate ways, back into the stream of life. …
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Jim Henderson was trying to concentrate, but couldn’t. He was supposed to be studying for a test on “Julius Caesar” tomorrow, but was brooding about Eileen Robertson’s having dumped him for the senior class president. Caesar had been stabbed in the back by the conspirators and he’d been betrayed by his girlfriend, a greater tragedy.
As Jim sat at the desk in his bedroom, the Folger text of the play, with all the arcane Elizabethan words helpfully explained on the left-hand pages, shimmered before him like a desert mirage. Eileen was gone, no girl would ever love him, he was going to flunk the Caesar test, drop out of school and spend his life stuck in the jerkwater town of Sierra Groves.
He put the book down and called Eileen, but it went straight to her tantalizingly breathy voice mail.…
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“A fun and funny girl,” you start, flecks of ash falling from your cheeks — an oddly calming visual in stark contrast to the last couple of horrifying hours. “She just…” A fresh wave of sadness crawls down your face as you try to continue, burying your chin into your chest as you try to hide your embarrassment.
I start to tell you that everything will be okay but stop, fully aware of the devastation unfolding mere feet away, and instead allow the silence to stretch in the narrow space between us. Before it gets too loud, though, I reach over and carefully grab your hand. This prompts you to glance up at me. But only through your eyebrows, and only briefly. “She sounds lovely,” I probe softly, trying to keep you talking, doing what I can to keep you distracted from the fact that I’m addressing a large wound on your head.…
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In my living room, near the wall closest to the tiny front hall, there was once a large piece of furniture, wooden and black and heavy, with varying shelf space of multiple heights and widths. The delivery men, when they were moving it in, hated it because it was immense. It really was a challenge and they struggled mightily and I felt bad for them but only briefly because I don’t imagine anyone forced them to become movers and, according to some philosopher who was much smarter than me, if you’re living the life you choose, you can’t complain. Anyway, for a few minutes, the unit was actually stuck in the entranceway and the movers didn’t know what to do. It just sat at an odd angle, wedged, while they looked at each other and swore. …
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