They stood in the middle of the empty floor, looking a little awkwardly
around them.
"Not a bad location, considering. Upper Lower Eastside. Close to the rich
people, but still absolutely trashy."
"Hey, this isn't Friends. Loft apartments decorated by Pottery Barn don't
come cheap at anytime you need them."
"Good point."
She fingers the ratted curtains.
"Well, these are the first things going down. Matter of fact, everything's
going down. Start ripping."
"Whoa, whoa. Hold fast," he replies quickly, grabbing her wrist. "It might
take some time before we can afford new stuff."
She shrugs.
"My mom's renting a truck and bringing some junk over- some of my old
furniture, a few pieces she found at a rummage sale, an extra refrigerator
Jackson donated from his kumquat hatcheries....."
He raises one eyebrow, and shakes his head. He doesn't even bother to say I
won't ask.
"Besides," she continues, "I found this great little retail store that
sells the cast-offs of the high and mighty. There was some pretty Ralph
Lauren print material for curtains. They have a coffeestain on the bottom,
not very noticeable."
He shrugs, a little bored.
"Whatever. It's ours, do as you like."
She cocks her head, staring around speculatively.
"Fine. You can wander around making a mental list of all the good places to
have sex."
His mouth hangs open for a second.
"Don't say that."
She smiles.
"Why not?"
"Because it's dirty."
"So what, I'm Snow White? If you recall correctly, Mr. Mariano, you had a
rather considerable part in that semi-transformation."
He sighs, defeated.
"If I had known moving to New York would have made you go all Gertrude
Stein the Sexual Revolution on me......"
"Empty threats," she grins, batting her eyelashes.
"Let's christen our new apartment. Consecrate it," he says playfully, but
his eyes beckon, inviting, hopeful, playful, distrusting, dark.
"Dirty."
"Yes, I know," he whispers, slinking over to her, coming close, but holding
her at bay, ducking his lips, wiggling out of his grasp.
"Evil."
"Come here and I'll show you evil," he laughs, lifting her up, sitting her
down on the kitchen counter, opening her legs the slightest fraction of an
inch. Her face is quite serious now. "You would like to kiss me, wouldn't
you."
She nods a little shyly.
"All talk and no action," he teases. He loves the way she can bullshit with
the best of them, but everytime he comes close like that, she hangs her
head a little, and smiles that little contrite, shy smile, that little
paradox of a smile that begs but defends. She closes her eyes demurely,
like the clean little girls she's always been, the snowy debutante. He
always gets this feeling......of something illicit.......does something to him......
"Hey," he whispers roughly. She pushes back against him, opening her legs a
little wider, letting him stand between them. His hands are on her thighs.
"Yes."
He licks his slightly dry lips.
"Ok."
Sometimes, things like that happen. Other times he is tired when he comes home, so tired. She hates the business part of him. It's cold, austere, rational. He counts bills and stacks them with a practiced ease that makes her uncertain. On those days, he does not touch her much, only absently. It's almost as though he doesn't see her. Some days he's particularly moody. She sits beside him on the worn couch, snuggled up on his chest, but he stares at the wall and forgets to stroke her hair. "Tell me the problem." Her question is forward, blunt. She knows there are questions a woman should not ask. How are you feeling? What's wrong? Can I help? Can you talk to me? Can we discuss this? Did I do something wrong? These are all questions she has stored away in her mental file of Do Not Utter. He considers her words for a second, and something about their business sounding tone and their driving, rational point makes them less intrusive. "Here's our problem. I'm selling small time shit that makes us small time money. I spend so much time....peddling this junk....I mean, it's not crap you can really get off the internet, for the most part. The horse tranquilizers, pain medication and contraband highs. I even do a little weed, which brings in more. I hate doing this for days on end when I'm watching guys selling a couple of ounces of coke and making ten times what I make in a day. If I just sold something pricey for just a little while, you wouldn't have to do this, you could go to Yale next semester." She sits up, straight as a rod, deathly pale. "You must be joking." His face hardens. He has anticipated this response. He reminds himself this is why he never tells her anything. "With two shipments I could have one year paid off." "No!" "Why not?!" She shudders, on the verge of tears. "Because if anything happens to you I'll die! You will have killed me! I won't let you take the chance. I'll find out what you're doing, I will, I'll talk to Ricky!" "Calm down," he hisses. "Damn straight I will. And then I'll leave. I won't take a goddamn single dollar. I'd rather turn tricks at a truck stop than let you do this." He blanches. "You won't," he says feverishly, grabbing her by the arms. "You wont' do anything like that. You have to promise you'll never try to help, just do your job and stay here with me. Promise!" She sobs. "So you're allowed to jeopardize everything for me and I'm not? Jess, you didn't do this! You are not at fault for what happened. It was my choice, and I made it, and you can't fix it! All you can do is let me stay here with you!" He lets her go, and stands up, stumbling around blindly. He groans. "Oh God. What have I done?" "Jess! Stop!" she cries, grabbing her hair, biting her lips. Sobbing, she stands up. Silently, he grabs her arms, holding her steady. Leading her back to the couch, he lays her down and lays down next to her. He buries his face in her chest like a small child. "Don't cry Rory," he begs. "Don't cry. Ok?" She nods, sniffling a little. They lay there, letting the anger and sadness evaporate. Ouside the streetlights click on, bathing the small, dark room in orange shadows. "We have to draw a line," she says in a hoarse whisper. "I'll find out and I'll leave. Do you understand? And I won't go home either." He nods, giving in. He's too tired.
The small stacks keep piling up. She counts them sometimes when he's not home. A thousand today. Five hundred tomorrow. Two hundred the day after. Five hundred again. One hundred. It's unsteady at best. He only does it four days a week, that's all Ricky has for him. He knows anything outside those boundaries is unsafe. He thinks of her, how she puts her black shoes and black skirt on every morning over her slip, bringing home the three hundred dollars a week that they use to pay the monthly rent. Rory takes her showers at the Park Avenue apartment to save water, since the apartment is mostly empty during the daytime. She also pilfers stuff to eat, or just eats there during the day, period. They turn the light on only when necessary, rarely cook, and live on weird combinations of white rice and whatever. Sometimes he wonders, with a pang, if this is what she really wanted, really expected. She's always been so pampered. Sometime she wonders if he resents for making him do this. She goes into Bendel's in the afternoon sometimes, looking at all the pretty, sparkling things. She tries on makeup and takes home samples. Often, Margaret Anne, who throws things away as soon as wears them, gives Rory a little something. But there is something about it. She can feel it in the morning when she wakes up next to him. She can feel it when they make love. She can feel it when she walks down Park Avenue, feeling the wind whipping between the buildings, taking a spare moment to look at the furs in the window, sipping a good cup of coffee or taking half an hour to browse in a bookstore while she waits for Margaret Anne to get out of school. It's a feeling she can't identify, really. Something like freedom, although she isn't sure what that feels like. She feels it when they count the money at night. She feels it when she picks up the ringing phone and hears a silence on the other end, a silence she knows is Emily.
Sometimes, things like that happen. Other times he is tired when he comes home, so tired. She hates the business part of him. It's cold, austere, rational. He counts bills and stacks them with a practiced ease that makes her uncertain. On those days, he does not touch her much, only absently. It's almost as though he doesn't see her. Some days he's particularly moody. She sits beside him on the worn couch, snuggled up on his chest, but he stares at the wall and forgets to stroke her hair. "Tell me the problem." Her question is forward, blunt. She knows there are questions a woman should not ask. How are you feeling? What's wrong? Can I help? Can you talk to me? Can we discuss this? Did I do something wrong? These are all questions she has stored away in her mental file of Do Not Utter. He considers her words for a second, and something about their business sounding tone and their driving, rational point makes them less intrusive. "Here's our problem. I'm selling small time shit that makes us small time money. I spend so much time....peddling this junk....I mean, it's not crap you can really get off the internet, for the most part. The horse tranquilizers, pain medication and contraband highs. I even do a little weed, which brings in more. I hate doing this for days on end when I'm watching guys selling a couple of ounces of coke and making ten times what I make in a day. If I just sold something pricey for just a little while, you wouldn't have to do this, you could go to Yale next semester." She sits up, straight as a rod, deathly pale. "You must be joking." His face hardens. He has anticipated this response. He reminds himself this is why he never tells her anything. "With two shipments I could have one year paid off." "No!" "Why not?!" She shudders, on the verge of tears. "Because if anything happens to you I'll die! You will have killed me! I won't let you take the chance. I'll find out what you're doing, I will, I'll talk to Ricky!" "Calm down," he hisses. "Damn straight I will. And then I'll leave. I won't take a goddamn single dollar. I'd rather turn tricks at a truck stop than let you do this." He blanches. "You won't," he says feverishly, grabbing her by the arms. "You wont' do anything like that. You have to promise you'll never try to help, just do your job and stay here with me. Promise!" She sobs. "So you're allowed to jeopardize everything for me and I'm not? Jess, you didn't do this! You are not at fault for what happened. It was my choice, and I made it, and you can't fix it! All you can do is let me stay here with you!" He lets her go, and stands up, stumbling around blindly. He groans. "Oh God. What have I done?" "Jess! Stop!" she cries, grabbing her hair, biting her lips. Sobbing, she stands up. Silently, he grabs her arms, holding her steady. Leading her back to the couch, he lays her down and lays down next to her. He buries his face in her chest like a small child. "Don't cry Rory," he begs. "Don't cry. Ok?" She nods, sniffling a little. They lay there, letting the anger and sadness evaporate. Ouside the streetlights click on, bathing the small, dark room in orange shadows. "We have to draw a line," she says in a hoarse whisper. "I'll find out and I'll leave. Do you understand? And I won't go home either." He nods, giving in. He's too tired.
The small stacks keep piling up. She counts them sometimes when he's not home. A thousand today. Five hundred tomorrow. Two hundred the day after. Five hundred again. One hundred. It's unsteady at best. He only does it four days a week, that's all Ricky has for him. He knows anything outside those boundaries is unsafe. He thinks of her, how she puts her black shoes and black skirt on every morning over her slip, bringing home the three hundred dollars a week that they use to pay the monthly rent. Rory takes her showers at the Park Avenue apartment to save water, since the apartment is mostly empty during the daytime. She also pilfers stuff to eat, or just eats there during the day, period. They turn the light on only when necessary, rarely cook, and live on weird combinations of white rice and whatever. Sometimes he wonders, with a pang, if this is what she really wanted, really expected. She's always been so pampered. Sometime she wonders if he resents for making him do this. She goes into Bendel's in the afternoon sometimes, looking at all the pretty, sparkling things. She tries on makeup and takes home samples. Often, Margaret Anne, who throws things away as soon as wears them, gives Rory a little something. But there is something about it. She can feel it in the morning when she wakes up next to him. She can feel it when they make love. She can feel it when she walks down Park Avenue, feeling the wind whipping between the buildings, taking a spare moment to look at the furs in the window, sipping a good cup of coffee or taking half an hour to browse in a bookstore while she waits for Margaret Anne to get out of school. It's a feeling she can't identify, really. Something like freedom, although she isn't sure what that feels like. She feels it when they count the money at night. She feels it when she picks up the ringing phone and hears a silence on the other end, a silence she knows is Emily.
