couldn’t help but see damage: the nick of missing ear, the thin lines that ran along the backs of his hands, and others that pull down the side of his neck and past the collar of his shirt.
He had never known what to say to those looks. Sometimes he said cheerfully “Car accident,” or some other lie. Sometimes he just smiled.
Take a good look.
He hadn’t decided what he would say to the wife of the building superintendent when she showed him the apartment. Sometimes it was better to gauge people face-to-face, to study their expressions, get a fix on them. But he knew he’d have to tell her something. He had called her beforehand and was prepared, he thought, for the kind of look she would give him. Even over the telephone there was an abrupt European-accented suspicion in her voice that made him act guilty. “Hello!” she said when she answered the phone, snapping through the receiver in a sharp, alarmed voice, as if addressing a shadowy figure who was slinking out of an alleyway toward her.
Jonah hesitated. He was calling from a pay phone, holding the folded and pen-marked newspaper in his hands while keeping an eye on his illegally parked car. Her voice unnerved him, and he tried to affect a very mild, harmless tone. “Yes,” he said, and cleared his throat.
Don’t mumble
was one of the items on his list. “I’m calling about the advertisement that was advertised in the
Chicago Reader
. There was an advertisement for furnished . . . eff-efficacies?” He winced. The newspaper actually said “EFFCY’S,” which he knew was an abbreviation but he couldn’t imagine for what.
“Efficiency?” the woman said in a booming foreign voice.
“Yes,” Jonah said quickly. “Efficiency.” He tried to imagine why people would use such a word to refer to an apartment, but all he could picture was the manager’s office in the old folks’ home where he had worked back in Little Bow. He pictured Mrs. Blachley, with her look of perpetual and almost painful delight, with her neatly arranged desk, the aligned display of in/out box, stapler, memo pad, pink paper clips, her hands folded restfully over each other.
Efficiency.
“Of course we’re sorry to see you leaving us, Jonah,” Mrs. Blachley had said, and beamed brightly, her eyes glassing with the effort of looking directly at him and pretending she didn’t notice his scars.
——
The superintendent’s wife, on the other hand, made no such attempt. She was already frowning when she opened the door, a small, thin, bedraggled woman with a mole like the head of an emerging earthworm at the corner of her eyelid and a pelt of gray-black hair on her head. Her jowls and lips were turned down in an exaggerated arc, which nevertheless deepened when she saw him standing there. She stared at him hard, her lower lip protruding and her nostrils widening as if she were furious, as if he were an enemy she were preparing to defend herself against. “Yes?” she exclaimed.
“How do you do?” he said. Despite his determination to the contrary, he found himself starting to adopt that slouching posture he hated so much, hunching, knotting his arms across his chest and tucking his fingers into his armpits. In high school, teachers would always ask him if he was cold, and other students used to imitate him, contorting themselves as if they were in the early stages of multiple sclerosis. “Yes,” he said. “ I called about the eff-eff-” and then he couldn’t get the word out. “Apartments?”
“Efficiencies?” she said, and seemed to glare at the scar on his face. “Furnished efficiencies?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jonah said. He put his arms carefully to his sides, and tried to decide whether he was standing up straight. “I called you this morning,” he said, and smiled at her, as he had told himself he would.
The woman paused grimly. Her name, he would later learn, was Mrs. Marina Orlova, and she had grown up in Siberia. Later, she would tell him that she
He had never known what to say to those looks. Sometimes he said cheerfully “Car accident,” or some other lie. Sometimes he just smiled.
Take a good look.
He hadn’t decided what he would say to the wife of the building superintendent when she showed him the apartment. Sometimes it was better to gauge people face-to-face, to study their expressions, get a fix on them. But he knew he’d have to tell her something. He had called her beforehand and was prepared, he thought, for the kind of look she would give him. Even over the telephone there was an abrupt European-accented suspicion in her voice that made him act guilty. “Hello!” she said when she answered the phone, snapping through the receiver in a sharp, alarmed voice, as if addressing a shadowy figure who was slinking out of an alleyway toward her.
Jonah hesitated. He was calling from a pay phone, holding the folded and pen-marked newspaper in his hands while keeping an eye on his illegally parked car. Her voice unnerved him, and he tried to affect a very mild, harmless tone. “Yes,” he said, and cleared his throat.
Don’t mumble
was one of the items on his list. “I’m calling about the advertisement that was advertised in the
Chicago Reader
. There was an advertisement for furnished . . . eff-efficacies?” He winced. The newspaper actually said “EFFCY’S,” which he knew was an abbreviation but he couldn’t imagine for what.
“Efficiency?” the woman said in a booming foreign voice.
“Yes,” Jonah said quickly. “Efficiency.” He tried to imagine why people would use such a word to refer to an apartment, but all he could picture was the manager’s office in the old folks’ home where he had worked back in Little Bow. He pictured Mrs. Blachley, with her look of perpetual and almost painful delight, with her neatly arranged desk, the aligned display of in/out box, stapler, memo pad, pink paper clips, her hands folded restfully over each other.
Efficiency.
“Of course we’re sorry to see you leaving us, Jonah,” Mrs. Blachley had said, and beamed brightly, her eyes glassing with the effort of looking directly at him and pretending she didn’t notice his scars.
——
The superintendent’s wife, on the other hand, made no such attempt. She was already frowning when she opened the door, a small, thin, bedraggled woman with a mole like the head of an emerging earthworm at the corner of her eyelid and a pelt of gray-black hair on her head. Her jowls and lips were turned down in an exaggerated arc, which nevertheless deepened when she saw him standing there. She stared at him hard, her lower lip protruding and her nostrils widening as if she were furious, as if he were an enemy she were preparing to defend herself against. “Yes?” she exclaimed.
“How do you do?” he said. Despite his determination to the contrary, he found himself starting to adopt that slouching posture he hated so much, hunching, knotting his arms across his chest and tucking his fingers into his armpits. In high school, teachers would always ask him if he was cold, and other students used to imitate him, contorting themselves as if they were in the early stages of multiple sclerosis. “Yes,” he said. “ I called about the eff-eff-” and then he couldn’t get the word out. “Apartments?”
“Efficiencies?” she said, and seemed to glare at the scar on his face. “Furnished efficiencies?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jonah said. He put his arms carefully to his sides, and tried to decide whether he was standing up straight. “I called you this morning,” he said, and smiled at her, as he had told himself he would.
The woman paused grimly. Her name, he would later learn, was Mrs. Marina Orlova, and she had grown up in Siberia. Later, she would tell him that she
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