Read Online Ordinary Life by Elizabeth Berg - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Berg
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rapid move toward an unearned intimacy. After a moment, though, Richard lay back down, closed his eyes, and pulled up his shirt. I nodded at Laura, and she stood back, leaned against the doorjamb. I worked quickly, quietly. I finished in seven minutes. I said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, same time,” and left the bedroom.
Laura followed me to the front door. “I’m sorry. He’s not himself.”
“Oh well, how can he be?”
She smiled, a weary thing. “You know, three weeks ago, he was jogging every day. Five miles. He did real well for a whole year after he was diagnosed. But all of a sudden …” She looked down, then raised her head back up. “This shouldn’t be a surprise. But it is anyway. I feel like I’m going crazy. I really feel crazy.” She opened the door, sighed quietly. “See you tomorrow.”
I walked down the steps. They creaked. And I thought,
Richard won’t hear this anymore. He’ll never walk down these steps again
. But I was wrong.
Ida Brazinsky lived with her boyfriend, Frankie, in a falling-down duplex in Chelsea. Most of the time they sat at the kitchen table watching a tiny black-and-white TV and drinking whiskey. I knew Ida was seventy-four, and I put Frankie at several years older, although when people set about ruining themselves at an early age, it’s hard to tell. I’d stopped at a convenience store for something quick to eat, and the only thing that looked decent was a shrimp cocktail—the kind in a little glass, with a white under-the-sea motif painted on the sides. I asked Ida for a church key and a fork, so I could eat before I examined her. “Oh, sure,” she said, and shuffled over to where she kept the silverware. I saw something streak out of the way of the light when she opened the drawer. I wanted to ask her if I could rinse the things off before I used them, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. I needn’t have worried—Ida washed them off herself, muttering, “Goddamn roaches!” Then she handed the utensils to me.
“Take your time,” she said kindly, and Frankie roared, “Pull up a chair, for Christ’s sake!” He was already drunk, he leaned uncertainly toward the left. He watched me eat. I smiled at him a little after every bite.
Wrestling was on, two impossible-sized men circled each other like dogs intent on an introduction. Ida was glued to the action. “I love that one,” she said, pointing. “He’s my boyfriend.” She fingered the pink foam-rubber roller above her ear. This got Frankie’s attention for a moment. “
I’m
your goddamn
boy
friend!” he said. “
I’m
the one sits here with you every goddamned day!”
“Oh, Frankie.” Ida smiled and waved her hand at him in a way that was—you could see it—flirtatious. And she had her head down, blushing a little. I have admiration for people who can take tenderness where they find it. I excused myself and went to wash my hands in Ida’s bathroom. As usual, she had laundry hanging to dry on a wooden rack that she kept in the tub. There were several pairs of her underwear, all the size of sails, and there were some of Frankie’s, too, stained hopelessly but draped with care next to hers. Sometimes the door to Ida’s bedroom was open and I would see that the covers were pulled back, and I’d think about them sleeping together, uttering boozy, outrageous words of love to each other. I have to say this: I think Ida was happy.
When I came back to the table, Frankie was holding my empty shrimp cocktail glass, turning it around and around. He looked up at me, one eye squinted against the brightness coming from the window. “Can I have this?”
Ida inhaled sharply. “Frankie! That’s a
fan
cy glass! I’m sure she wants it for herself!”
“Oh,
no
!” I said, and then, seeing their two sets of eyes, blue and trusting, on me, I said, “I mean, yes, it is a very nice glass. It’s perfect for juice in the morning. But I have so many already, and I’d be pleased for you to have
Laura followed me to the front door. “I’m sorry. He’s not himself.”
“Oh well, how can he be?”
She smiled, a weary thing. “You know, three weeks ago, he was jogging every day. Five miles. He did real well for a whole year after he was diagnosed. But all of a sudden …” She looked down, then raised her head back up. “This shouldn’t be a surprise. But it is anyway. I feel like I’m going crazy. I really feel crazy.” She opened the door, sighed quietly. “See you tomorrow.”
I walked down the steps. They creaked. And I thought,
Richard won’t hear this anymore. He’ll never walk down these steps again
. But I was wrong.
Ida Brazinsky lived with her boyfriend, Frankie, in a falling-down duplex in Chelsea. Most of the time they sat at the kitchen table watching a tiny black-and-white TV and drinking whiskey. I knew Ida was seventy-four, and I put Frankie at several years older, although when people set about ruining themselves at an early age, it’s hard to tell. I’d stopped at a convenience store for something quick to eat, and the only thing that looked decent was a shrimp cocktail—the kind in a little glass, with a white under-the-sea motif painted on the sides. I asked Ida for a church key and a fork, so I could eat before I examined her. “Oh, sure,” she said, and shuffled over to where she kept the silverware. I saw something streak out of the way of the light when she opened the drawer. I wanted to ask her if I could rinse the things off before I used them, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. I needn’t have worried—Ida washed them off herself, muttering, “Goddamn roaches!” Then she handed the utensils to me.
“Take your time,” she said kindly, and Frankie roared, “Pull up a chair, for Christ’s sake!” He was already drunk, he leaned uncertainly toward the left. He watched me eat. I smiled at him a little after every bite.
Wrestling was on, two impossible-sized men circled each other like dogs intent on an introduction. Ida was glued to the action. “I love that one,” she said, pointing. “He’s my boyfriend.” She fingered the pink foam-rubber roller above her ear. This got Frankie’s attention for a moment. “
I’m
your goddamn
boy
friend!” he said. “
I’m
the one sits here with you every goddamned day!”
“Oh, Frankie.” Ida smiled and waved her hand at him in a way that was—you could see it—flirtatious. And she had her head down, blushing a little. I have admiration for people who can take tenderness where they find it. I excused myself and went to wash my hands in Ida’s bathroom. As usual, she had laundry hanging to dry on a wooden rack that she kept in the tub. There were several pairs of her underwear, all the size of sails, and there were some of Frankie’s, too, stained hopelessly but draped with care next to hers. Sometimes the door to Ida’s bedroom was open and I would see that the covers were pulled back, and I’d think about them sleeping together, uttering boozy, outrageous words of love to each other. I have to say this: I think Ida was happy.
When I came back to the table, Frankie was holding my empty shrimp cocktail glass, turning it around and around. He looked up at me, one eye squinted against the brightness coming from the window. “Can I have this?”
Ida inhaled sharply. “Frankie! That’s a
fan
cy glass! I’m sure she wants it for herself!”
“Oh,
no
!” I said, and then, seeing their two sets of eyes, blue and trusting, on me, I said, “I mean, yes, it is a very nice glass. It’s perfect for juice in the morning. But I have so many already, and I’d be pleased for you to have
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