"What about William?"
Teena paused from pasting the back of the teddy bear wall-paper strip and grimaced at her husband, shaking her head.
"You don't like my name?" Bill gasped in mock injury.
"William is nice, but I don't want to have a junior."
"But my father and grandfather were Williams. We can't stop now!" he insisted jokingly, though she knew he was at least in part serious.
"Well my child is going to be unique," she replied, "Maybe William for a second name?"
"Oh fine, I'm defeated. How about a compromise? If we have a little girl, I'll name her, and if it's a boy, you pick. Agreed?"
"That all depends; we have not yet discussed names for a girl."
"Samantha? I've always thought Samantha was a beautiful name," he suggested.
"Of course. I read somewhere that all men love that name. But I agree; it is very pretty."
Teena dragged a chair over from the corner of the room and stepped up so she could smooth a sheet of paper just below the ceiling. When Bill glanced up to see her work, he quickly dropped the section of the crib he'd been hammering and rushed to her side.
"Darling, step down from there right this minute! It isn't safe for you to reach like that. I told you I would do that part."
She merely glared down at him over her shoulder, not moving an inch, and replied resolutely, "Bill, I am an intelligent adult and I will not stand to have you coddling me. Trust that I would not do anything that could be dangerous."
"I know honey, I'm sorry, but you're making me nervous. Everything I love in the world is balancing up there precariously. I just want to protect you both."
"Yes, I realize it's out of love now, but you have been doing it for years, and I don't like it. Those pet names you always use seem to be a means of dressing me down. We are equals in this marriage, you and I, and I wish to be treated as such."
Bill looked at her in hurt, stunned silence, before he seemed to collect his thoughts, and then replied softly, "I'm sorry, Teena. I never knew that bothered you, but that isn't—it isn't how I meant it. Dressing you down, I mean. I don't want you to feel that way. I know I haven't been—I'll work on that, if you just tell me when I say or do something that offends you…I love you, and I want to make you happy. Do I make you happy?" his voice dwindled to a whisper almost as if he were frightened of the answer.
She thought for a moment, and realized that after spending so much time with him, getting to know him over the past few months since he'd vacationed from work just to be with her, she knew the answer. "Yes," she responded honestly. Maybe he wasn't the only one who'd been emotionally detached, unwilling to give a fair chance, refusing to communicate. She didn't love him the way she loved Chris; she never would. Her relationship with Bill was more pleasant than passionate, and though he would never understand and connect with her in the way that Chris had, at least now for the first time he was making an effort. What she felt for Bill was a lesser love, but it was a breed of love nonetheless and it was comfortable. She could live with just being comfortable.
Bill smiled warmly as he passed her the bucket of paste. Before returning to his job at hand, he embraced her around the waist, his head gently resting on the heavy swell of her belly. With one hand she lightly stroked her fingers through his hair. Yes, she thought, I can live like this.
--
The sand felt pleasantly warm under the soles of her bare feet as she leisurely strolled toward the surf. She unfurled her quilt after choosing the perfect spot and eased herself awkwardly to the ground. Bill had gone for the weekend to work on the neglected summer house at Quanochontaug, and though she'd come to enjoy his company, she was looking forward to a couple days of relaxing silence. He'd honestly been trying not to go overboard with his worries and desires to wait on her at every moment, but it had still been more pampering and fussing than Teena could take. Now she could simply sit and enjoy the mid-afternoon July sunshine without any interruptions. She flipped through her journal in search of a blank page, eager to freely express the images that danced in her mind. It had been so long since she'd had a moment to write. But as she breezed through the pages, she came across the message he'd left her.
Her fingers gripped the book until her knuckles turned white while she stared blankly at the words she already knew by heart. The man who had left this note in bittersweet parting was not the man that had nonchalantly and coolly spoken his farewell merely a month later. The sting from that wound had faded quickly, because she knew he had his reasons to lie and she knew their remaining distant was for the best. It was time for a new beginning; a new chapter of her life was unfolding. Deliberately she gripped the corner of the paper in preparation to rip it out of her precious book and fling it into the sea, but she found that she was unable to do it. Fluttering, light jabs of little feet from inside reminded her of the gift he never intended to give. Gently she allowed the pen to flow across the page.
I keep having this nightmare. In my dream I'm talking and talking like it's for the first time and I'm pouring out my heart and soul so that I can breathe again. And then I'm finished and I feel like I accomplished something, except suddenly I realize that no one heard me. There are people all around, thousands of people and I'm standing in the midst of them, talking. They're silent and watchful, but they can't hear me. I reach out to them, my arms open, but no one takes my hand.
--
"Jesus, Chris. You should lay off those things. There are new studies out that say they can cause cancer," Ronald mumbled as Chris lit up another.
"I'll take my chances…They aren't nearly as good as they once were."
"Then why don't you quit?"
"Because if I smoke more maybe the comfort will return."
"Interesting logic."
Chris brushed a piece of ash from his book and continued reading. Diffused sunlight spilled from the canopy of the umbrella above causing patches of the text to illuminate before him; and in the distance, the monuments of Washington D.C. shone in a blue haze. He'd agreed to meet at the café at Ronald's request, but the two had exchanged few words. Ronald was probably waiting for him to speak up and discuss his thoughts as he'd often done before or to share details of his last assassination mission. Naturally Chris intended to do neither.
"Well…how was the island job?" Ronald asked.
Ah yes, Chris thought. Now we come to what he wants to know.
He would never forget the power, the ecstasy of pressing both barrels of a shotgun into the forehead of Dominican dictator Trujillo. Looking down onto the enemy of western democracy, a wry smile had curled over Chris' lips before he pulled the trigger. He knew it would be easier than the first time, but he'd never expected it to be this…simple. A new power had begun to embrace him: the power of indifference. Seeing himself as an instrument of justice and order had completely overridden any moral objections he might've once had.
"I heard you were the strategy coordinator and chief operative. That's quite a promotion."
"Listen to this, Ronald. It's the most beautiful passage I've ever read.
'As if that blind rage has washed me clean, rid me of hope; for the first time, I that night alive with signs and stars, I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world. Finding it so much life myself - so like a brother, really - I felt that I had been happy and that I was happy again. For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with cries of hate.'"
"Camus? That isn't beautiful, it's pathetic. Since when did you become an Existentialist?"
"I'm not anything."
After a long pause, Ronald attempted further prodding.
"Have you heard from Mulder? He and his wife are expecting their first child."
"Yes, I had heard that. He told me some months ago. How lovely."
"…I'm assuming you had nothing to do with it?"
Chris raised an eyebrow and snorted. Digging into his wallet, he fished out a wad of bills and flicked them on the table.
"I'll catch you later, Ronald." He discarded what was left of his cigarette in the ashtray before standing casually, leaving Ronald staring after him in great perplexity.
--
The smell was the first thing to hit her. She'd forgotten it when she'd left years ago, vowing never to return. Perhaps at this particular time she was more sensitive to strong smells than she'd once been. It wasn't necessarily a foul odor; it was just strong and specific—home from a different lifetime. Sweat from the players on the basketball courts, steam rising from the pavement, smog billowing from the buses and taxis, hotdogs cooking at the fast-food stand on the corner—a mélange of all these things became something that might have once been familiar. She hooked her fingers in the holes of the rusted chain-length fence—the same fence she'd brushed her mittined palms across nonchalantly on daily walks to school. High above the basketball court was the small picture window where she'd reclined to write her first journal entry. While she gazed up into the past, players on the court threw curious glances her way, and she knew she looked out of place as a clearly upper-class, heavily pregnant woman strolling by herself in a poor neighborhood in Queens.
She walked on—a stranger to this world, an observer. Her grammar school breezed past on the left, followed by the Temple where she'd attended Shabbat every Friday evening and Hebrew school on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Finally on the corner lounged the ugly brick high-rise with a sign out front that read "The Jewish Home: nursing care for the elderly and mentally disabled." She didn't want to do it; she longed to leave forever and never come back, but this was the end of the road.
If the smell of the city had seemed strange and foreign, the atmosphere inside the building assaulted her senses much more so, making her choke in disgust. The musty, rotting odor of death, old age, and neglect flooded the cold green-tiled corridors. She quickly asked for the room number at the nurse's station and hurriedly moved forward on her journey, needing to escape the rows of wheelchairs with their pale, dazed occupants gaping at her menacingly. The door stood open a crack. She knocked lightly, and receiving no response, pushed it open hesitantly. A hunched figure in a faded pink bathrobe, her salt and pepper hair hanging down her back in a long, limp braid, sat in a wheelchair propped in front of the window. Teena wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes and quietly took a seat on the foot of the bed. The woman stared out at the street below with sad, glassy, grey eyes. When Teena lightly placed a hand on her shoulder, the woman turned and acknowledged her blankly.
"Are there peaches today?" she asked hollowly.
"I—I don't…What do you mean?" Teena asked softly.
"Lunch is better with peaches. I don't like canned prunes. Or the pears. They're all mushy."
"I'll bring peaches if you want them."
"Can you get them now? Please? I'm very hungry."
"Sure. I'll be right back." After some finagling with the nurse staff, Teena managed to retrieve a can of peaches and a spoon before returning to the room. She popped open the can and handed the woman the spoon, though soon discovered that the older woman couldn't support the utensil in her shaking hand.
"Let me do it," Teena murmured.
Gently she took the spoon and offered the woman a mouthful, which she accepted tentatively, obviously unsure of Teena. The soft grey eyes studied the younger woman's face intently.
"You're pretty," she said, after swallowing a spoonful.
"Thank you," Teena answered absently.
Her eyes swept lower until she caught the glint of silver at the hollow of Teena's neck.
"I used to have a necklace just like that one when I was a girl. It's David's Star," the woman said.
"Yes, I know…You gave this to me when I became a woman. Remember?"
The woman furrowed her brow in confusion. "No, no that's not right. I lost it. I lost it a long time ago. It fell off and I never found it."
"You didn't lose it."
"Isaac will buy me another one after the wedding. He was just here. Can you find him for me?"
"Isaac—Isaac was in an accident. Do you not…I mean I—I'll tell him to come back the next time I see him."
She held her hand up against Teena's offer of another spoonful of syrupy orange fruit.
"I'm tired. I'm always so tired. Tell him to come find me and wake me when he gets here."
"Mama, it's… I'm Teena. Do you know me? Please Mama, look at me. Isaac was my father, but I never knew him. He died before you got married. Mama, I miss you, please…"
The older woman turned and peacefully gazed outside into the smog-ridden sky as though she didn't hear. Teena leaned over to rest her head on her mother's shoulder.
"I'm sorry I didn't visit. It was so hard for me to see you like this. I was afraid to see you like this. I just wanted to remember the way you were and then go on and build a new life. Can you ever forgive me, Mama? I—I want you to know that everything turned out okay. I'm married. I'm happy. You'll be a grandmother soon," she said, running a hand over her belly.
She lifted her head to study her mother's eyes, but they remained blank and lifeless.
"I have to tell you something, Mama. You're going to be ashamed of me, but I have to tell you. I fell in love with a man that is not my husband, and we…we were together. I broke one of the most important commandments. He's the father of my baby. My husband is a good man, and I love him. I lied to him, because I don't want to hurt him. Chris just…Chris is more. I didn't mean for it to happen, but it's almost as if…Do you remember how you always used to say that God splits each soul in two halves before putting them into separate bodies? You said Isaac was the other half of you, that God made you together and helped you find each other again. When he died, you said there could never be anyone else, because half of you was gone. Well, if that's true, then this other man—Chris—he's part of me. We just didn't find each other soon enough, I guess. It's funny, I've been thinking about this quite a bit lately. Now that I'm going to be mother, I think of my child and I wonder, is there someone for you? I hope you find happiness in a way I never could…I do love my husband, and I'm trying to be a good wife…But I'm confused. I'm just confused, Mama, and I'm lost, and I wish you could help me. Tell me what to do."
"Life doesn't stop unless you let it. Everyone thinks they know, but they don't know." Teena jumped at the instant response. In truth, she'd believed that she was only talking to herself. The woman paused a moment before continuing, "And you can spend forever worrying about the end, but you'll forget where to put your feet. Keep the baby. You'll need him just as much as he'll need you. Let him set things right."
"I don't understand. I don't understand what you mean."
A light, a shift, a familiarity, passed over the older woman's eyes, and for a brief moment, they didn't seem as clouded. But after she finished speaking, she was once again a bent, broken stranger.
"I'm tired. Will you help me to bed?"
"Yes, Mama."
After Teena had pulled the bed sheet up to her mother's neck, she kissed the woman's forehead, promising to visit again soon. But she never did.
--
Chris sat on the bench, frozen, his elbows propped on his knees, his chin resting on his folded hands. Silently he watched a group of Negro children playing on a slide, barefoot in the center of a cement jungle that some people might call a park. Their innocent, shrill laughter blended into the monotonous noise of the city. One of the boys fell from the ladder as he tried to race another to the top, and his small face crinkled and collapsed before he called for "Daddy."
Just then, his focus shifted as she walked out of the front door of the old building. He sucked in his breath when he saw her; it had been several months since he'd been this close. She didn't see him; he'd known she wouldn't. By chance, he'd spotted her hailing a cab in Brooklyn, so naturally he'd chosen to follow her. After she'd entered the building, he'd waited a few minutes before confidently striding inside, flashing his government I.D. to the front desk, and learning that the pretty young woman in the lavender dress was on her way to pay a visit to Edith Hirsch. Then for some reason that he couldn't fathom, he'd crossed the street to the park to wait for her. Now he watched her from a short distance as she purposefully strode back the way she'd come, her eyes on the ground in front of her. Her gait was slower and much altered; her back swayed to support the new weight of her midsection, and she pressed a fist into the curve of her spine. Chris berated himself, for he realized that he was on the verge of tears.
