see that; George always got me home by nine at the latest.
But none of that was true. That first night and every night…three guesses. We never really needed the truck because we never went anywhere except to his shop. In the back was a couch with an itchy green afghan his mother had finished crocheting the month before she died.
“Come on,” he said, and started to unbutton his shirt.
“George!” I couldn’t believe what he wanted me to do, and boy, did I ever let him know it.
“Come on ,” he insisted. I shook my head no. “Hey, Linda, you’re so pretty. I wanna see a pretty figure to match that face.”
He turned on a light bulb hanging from an old electrical cord.
And I let him see.
Me, who had never let a boy in high school do more than kiss me good night, and after high school, not much more. I let George take off all my clothes in that dim, flickering 44 / SUSAN ISAACS
light. He was trying to unhook my brassiere, and I was looking at the light bulb and thinking: Some lousy electrician, some rotten connection. Me, who had the guts to tell one of the senior partners in the first law firm I’d worked for, Listen, Mr. McCal-lister, I’m not that kind of girl. Well, I was.
For a little more than twelve weeks, I let George Armbruster do anything he wanted on a couch that smelled like it had gotten rained on two years before and never really dried. Not that George’s anything was such a big deal. I thought: This is what people make such a big to-do about?
What went on between men and women seemed like Thanksgiving turkey: Everyone always says, “Great!” even though it’s invariably dry and disappointing.
And then one night he stopped coming around. George has a real bad cold, I told my mother. He called me at work, still has a fever, I said to Olga. George is getting better, but he has a big job in Brooklyn. I kept it up for nearly two weeks.
I stopped because one night I came home from work and Olga pulled me aside and said, “The butcher took me to the back room, with the sink.”
“What?” I figured, Oh, God, now we’re in for it. It’s bad enough with three fourths of the neighbors. Now the butcher’s going on about my mother’s being a drunk. Maybe she took off her panties again.
“He feels bad about you.”
“About me? The butcher?”
“About you and that George Armbruster.”
“What about George Armbruster?”
Olga kept her head down. She chopped an onion. She muttered, “About that he’s married.”
“Married?”
“Ten years.” She chopped. “Right after school. He got married then. When everybody else did.”
Olga died the next year. Her heart gave out. So many times in those two years since she’d been gone, I’d thought: Maybe she would have managed to hang on if she’d just had SHINING THROUGH / 45
George Armbruster to believe in. She could have been alive, believing in me and George, except for that damn big-mouth butcher.
Instead, she left me alone with the mop and my mother.
3
J ohn Berringer could hardly bear the loss of his wife. He looked terrible, and boy, did that make me feel good. Dark gray circles appeared under his eyes, and their glorious deep blue glint died.
His glow faded. It’s not that he wasn’t still gorgeous, but he was now gorgeous and in pain; you could see it. His skin was chalky. His lips were almost white. And you know what I thought, watching him suffering? Wonderful.
I know I sound like a monster, but I really wasn’t that bad. I think I was just hoping that as John got closer to the end of his rope, he’d need someone to grab on to. And who better than me? There I was, only four feet away, in my good white blouse with the soft, floppy bow at the neck.
He rubbed his face. “We have about another hour,” he said.
“Can you manage?”
“Yes, Mr. Berringer.”
It was after seven, dark, silent. Nothing is deader than Wall Street at night and—sure, corny—it was as if we were the only two people left in the world.
But none of that was true. That first night and every night…three guesses. We never really needed the truck because we never went anywhere except to his shop. In the back was a couch with an itchy green afghan his mother had finished crocheting the month before she died.
“Come on,” he said, and started to unbutton his shirt.
“George!” I couldn’t believe what he wanted me to do, and boy, did I ever let him know it.
“Come on ,” he insisted. I shook my head no. “Hey, Linda, you’re so pretty. I wanna see a pretty figure to match that face.”
He turned on a light bulb hanging from an old electrical cord.
And I let him see.
Me, who had never let a boy in high school do more than kiss me good night, and after high school, not much more. I let George take off all my clothes in that dim, flickering 44 / SUSAN ISAACS
light. He was trying to unhook my brassiere, and I was looking at the light bulb and thinking: Some lousy electrician, some rotten connection. Me, who had the guts to tell one of the senior partners in the first law firm I’d worked for, Listen, Mr. McCal-lister, I’m not that kind of girl. Well, I was.
For a little more than twelve weeks, I let George Armbruster do anything he wanted on a couch that smelled like it had gotten rained on two years before and never really dried. Not that George’s anything was such a big deal. I thought: This is what people make such a big to-do about?
What went on between men and women seemed like Thanksgiving turkey: Everyone always says, “Great!” even though it’s invariably dry and disappointing.
And then one night he stopped coming around. George has a real bad cold, I told my mother. He called me at work, still has a fever, I said to Olga. George is getting better, but he has a big job in Brooklyn. I kept it up for nearly two weeks.
I stopped because one night I came home from work and Olga pulled me aside and said, “The butcher took me to the back room, with the sink.”
“What?” I figured, Oh, God, now we’re in for it. It’s bad enough with three fourths of the neighbors. Now the butcher’s going on about my mother’s being a drunk. Maybe she took off her panties again.
“He feels bad about you.”
“About me? The butcher?”
“About you and that George Armbruster.”
“What about George Armbruster?”
Olga kept her head down. She chopped an onion. She muttered, “About that he’s married.”
“Married?”
“Ten years.” She chopped. “Right after school. He got married then. When everybody else did.”
Olga died the next year. Her heart gave out. So many times in those two years since she’d been gone, I’d thought: Maybe she would have managed to hang on if she’d just had SHINING THROUGH / 45
George Armbruster to believe in. She could have been alive, believing in me and George, except for that damn big-mouth butcher.
Instead, she left me alone with the mop and my mother.
3
J ohn Berringer could hardly bear the loss of his wife. He looked terrible, and boy, did that make me feel good. Dark gray circles appeared under his eyes, and their glorious deep blue glint died.
His glow faded. It’s not that he wasn’t still gorgeous, but he was now gorgeous and in pain; you could see it. His skin was chalky. His lips were almost white. And you know what I thought, watching him suffering? Wonderful.
I know I sound like a monster, but I really wasn’t that bad. I think I was just hoping that as John got closer to the end of his rope, he’d need someone to grab on to. And who better than me? There I was, only four feet away, in my good white blouse with the soft, floppy bow at the neck.
He rubbed his face. “We have about another hour,” he said.
“Can you manage?”
“Yes, Mr. Berringer.”
It was after seven, dark, silent. Nothing is deader than Wall Street at night and—sure, corny—it was as if we were the only two people left in the world.
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