short story – Page 3 – three good words

October 7, 2016May 16, 2020

Ellen, revised

Hello, all you lovely people. I don’t know how many of you remember this short story, but I thought I’d rewrite it again, see what I can do with it. I’m in a bit of a revising mood. Oh, and here’s the original – actually, a first draft – if you’d like to compare :)
j.d.

It was ridiculous where they met again.

Ellen was shopping at the deli for a dinner she’d promised her friends. She had most of what she needed at home except the ciabatta and two or three cheeses to round off the menu, her friends were picky like that. Scanning a selection of blues, Ellen heard someone not far off start an order very precisely – ‘. . . ten slices of the Dijon one, please, yes thank you, and fifty grams of the St Aubrey, no make it a hundred.’

Ellen looked over to observe this particular specimen of wealth. It was the voice: it was soaked with the certainty of real gold and genuine diamonds. The woman was, unsurprisingly, a tall blonde with perfectly done hair. She was over forty by a few years, maybe more, but she’d kept herself very well. Quite the looker actually, stunning in the right light. Her makeup was perfect, her clothes of the best quality. The jewellery flashing at her ears, around her neck and on her fingers was not tacky, and her handbag was that particular kind of smooth dusty blue that whispered bespoke. She was beautiful and rich, quite likely the CEO of something, or a therapist, maybe an attorney. There was a self-assuredness about her that spoke of genuine . . . power. Ellen saw how other customers glanced at her admiringly, the shop assistants behind the counter standing to attention like the rank and file, smiling brightly.

‘Honey, what do you say? A little Beluga or would Salmon be enough?’

Wait, they sell Beluga here? Ellen had always wanted to try some, just to see if it really was worth the preposterous price. Ellen tried to concentrate on which of the blues she should pick, but couldn’t help herself, she looked again. The blonde was talking to a man who must have turned up at one point. He was tallish with perfectly cut dark hair and wearing a suit of course. There was something in the way he moved that made Ellen look again. He had to be older though, never mind the dyed grey. Maybe a little discrete Botox around the eyes – no, that neck was too young for early, maybe mid-fifties, unless surgeries were getting really good lately. By the smoothness of that neck, and something in the way he moved, he had to be at least ten years younger than the blonde, maybe even fifteen. Then again, you could never tell with these people. Fork over fifty grand and suddenly you looked twenty years younger and fooled everyone.

Say, the blonde. She could have been fifty already, but she did look great. Round breasts too, possibly with the help of an enhancement. Her legs were slender and very long. Her whole body looked firm, all the gentle curves in their right place. She probably went jogging every day, yoga, some cardio – or she had a personal trainer, some super-encouraging Chris or Tyler with a six-pack and a health plan. Ellen turned back to her blues, full of carbs and lactose and bacteria. Health plans weren’t all that bad, really. Lucia was a nutritionist wasn’t she? At least she was working on her portfolio. Got everyone in their circle started on almonds, honey, and kale, though Ellen tried not to overdo it with the quinoa, she was more of a couscous person anyway. They did say it paid off later if you took care of your ‘intake saturation’, whatever that meant. Ellen felt it was bit like a down-payment for a house you’d later be living in. Make sure the walls didn’t cave in and all the furniture was in place once you were set to go. And anyway, who knew what would be around when she was past her 50s? Look at the world now, avocados everywhere.

But she liked avocados, long before it was fashionable to obsess about them in online photo-shoots where the poor things always ended up de-stoned and half-naked, sliced, baked, cubed and sprinkled over sauteed eggs. The blonde was ordering again. And really, if she had the means to keep herself really well, why not use them? Ellen wasn’t one to say no to a stint in a day-spa either. The blonde really did look good, not just pretty: beautiful. Was it all that surprising then that she was with someone far younger than herself? Men did that all the time. Suddenly they got their prescribed crisis and started shopping for ‘new and improved’. Now women were catching up too, and this woman actually looked really good, so why not? Ellen picked out a Belgian blue.

While the shop assistant sliced away, Ellen witnessed a short discussion between the blonde and her companion. It was too low for Ellen to hear and she anyway had to figure out how much Gruyère she wanted, the shop assistant was already smiling very helpfully. Ellen decided for the usual, a nice wedge that showed goodwill to her guests and wouldn’t make her hate herself next time she checked her bank statement. The rich blonde chose Beluga after all, wow, a whole tin of the stuff, Christ – but then, what was a fortune to Ellen was probably just peanuts for that beautiful woman. Ellen tried not to care.

The smiling shop assistant packed up Ellen’s cheeses in perfect wraps of brown paper and string, they looked as ‘no filter’-worthy as ever. Ellen couldn’t help think that the rich blonde would have been able to buy a piece of everything, not just the Belgian blue, the Gruyère, and some excellent Cheddar that her friends loved and somehow never could find on their own. The rich blonde would have bought enough to put together one of those fantastic cheese platters with grapes, figs, pine-nuts, and artsy sprays of aceto balsamico online folks kept on posting to the vast envy of everyone who knew how much the damn slices actually cost . . . But, Ellen wasn’t the blonde. She had a good life though, she really couldn’t complain. It just wasn’t as richly expensive, as glitteringly affluent as the blonde’s – that had to be Prada, surely. Then again, wasn’t it nice to see that a woman had such money and power, and not just status. She was definitely no Mrs. let alone the-wife-of. Everything about her told Ellen that she had worked hard to get where she was now, that she owed little to others and really owned herself. It was in a way reassuring. The possibility, at least, was there.

The cheeses were wrapped. Ellen smiled a thank you at the shop assistant and took the bag with Deluca’s Delicatessen curled across the pistachio green paper, showing the world once more that Ellen was an adult now, with money to spare. She actually went shopping in delis and knew what to buy there. She probably shouldn’t have felt so . . . satisfied by that fact, but she wouldn’t deny herself the pleasure either. She just finished a very adult kind of shopping – cheese for crying out loud. She was definitely a grown up.

Due to a sudden crowding at the second sale’s counter, Ellen had to walk the other way, past the rich blonde and whoever she was with. Still riding on the pleasurable wave of proven adulthood, Ellen said ‘Excuse me’ graciously, and moved past the other customers as best as she could, avoiding the stacked wheels of Gouda, the slim glasses of black olives, and the exotic olive oils. Maybe it was curiosity that made her check, but Ellen did take a closer look at the beautiful blonde, Mr tall, dark, and possibly handsome at her side – really, they looked Hollywood-cast.

It was only a glance, a glimpse of his face, just as they too turned to leave.

There was a second of genuine shock. Not surprise, but something equal to the sudden snap and crackle of electric when she put on her favourite rainy-day sweater: a jolt that was almost painful, making her whole body jump inside her skin. Heart racing, Ellen finally stopped at a shelf full of chutneys and breathed in deeply. Maybe she had seen wrong. Yes, maybe she had seen wrong. She must have. It would be ridiculous to meet in a place like this, especially if he was with that blonde. And who would she be anyway? But she had called him ‘Honey’. Maybe she was his mother? Even before thinking it, Ellen knew that was wrong. If the blonde had children at all, they would not be older than ten.

A row of chutneys glared back at her in oranges and reds. She must have seen wrong. It was probably a trick of the light and it was really only a glimpse. Anyone could look like anything in a second. Yes, exactly. Ellen exhaled and went to pay her cheeses and ciabatta. She had to wait in line and couldn’t help it, she looked along the other queue, Deluca’s was a middle sized place, maybe a quart smaller than that Trader Joe’s she went to in New York. They were there. She was in her open Burberry, marine sheath and Prada handbag, and he was in that suit. There was no way he bought it himself, he’d been a ripped jeans, vintage shirt, and beanie kind of person. She was talking to him and he was nodding. Ellen recognized the movement. It was in the shoulders and the turn of his head. It was in the way his hair fell and the angle of his face, showing a profile she could not forget. Just as the blonde moved to pay, he turned and their eyes met. Three things happened at the same time. Ellen’s mind forgot all the words. Her mouth remembered, ‘Fuck’. Her ears heard she actually said that out loud.

The older lady in front of her launched a baleful stare. Ellen couldn’t care less. It was him. Denying it was impossible, she knew it deep down, possibly on a molecular level. And he knew it was her, she could see it. ‘Miss?’ the young man at the cashier asked. Ellen heard herself say, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ She almost dropped the bag of cheeses, her hands had forgotten how to hand. Blushing such a flaming red the heat radiated off her skin, Ellen paid, not without dropping her card, then punching in the wrong number. Everything was going wrong, falling apart. Finally her fingers remembered what they were supposed to do. Payment accepted, receipt, a generic ‘Have a nice day’.

They walked past her just as she was done. He did not look. They left Deluca’s as a new couple came in and were gone. Ellen thanked the young man at the cashier and walked out into the rest of her evening.

Ellen tried, but denial was not possible. She had seen. He was not a figment of her imagination after all, as she had come to believe over the past year, ok, seven months. Six and half. And three days. Four.

It had been too perfect, suspiciously so. Those weeks had been too wonderful to be real. She must have read it or seen it somewhere. It could not have happened. Probably some rom-com Beverly made her watch. It could not have happened if she woke up that Monday morning and it was as if nothing had ever happened. Ellen had come to believe that, since it made it easier. She could live with it if she believed it was a dream, a hallucination, something she made up. If it did try to creep in, she’d act like it was a snippet from a movie. Easy questions like, Where did she read that? Probably a blurb or magazine somewhere. A fiction, that was how she could live with it, bear it. By believing it never really happened, she could smile ‘I’m fine’ and type out a ‘thumbs up’ and various species of smiley faces. Now that was impossible. It was him. She would have recognized that face anywhere.

Home. Ellen climbed the stairs, trying not to think further than that she got the cheeses she wanted and that the ciabatta was fresh – ‘Oh. Hi.’ Tara, one of her best friends, was waiting in front of her door with bags of shopping, grinning, ‘I got bored waiting and decided you need some help.’ Ellen smiled gratefully, opened the door to her apartment and stepped back into her life. Once in her tiny kitchen she started preparing the dinner she promised her friends, laughing with Tara who had new office stories to tell, Tara’s work was basically Parks & Rec. She really was a great friend. She somehow always knew when to turn up in time, almost as if she had a radar for when Ellen was about to ‘fall off the deep end’ as she called it. Once again, Tara lassoed Ellen back in, Ellen who smiled and laughed and was just grateful.

A week later. Ellen came home feeling exhausted. The whole week had been one giant drain. She had managed her dinner quite well, what with Tara making her laugh the whole time. Once Jeff, Leon, Beverly and whoever she was seeing again, Ellen always forgot his name, joined everything was great again anyway. But even after they left the memory was there, waiting like a bear-trap under pretty maple leaves, snapping shut the moment Ellen walked into her bedroom. The tears were back, but she refused. She would not. She refused to. It would not happen. No tear would pearl and slide, she would not reach for any Kleenex, she would simply brush her teeth, change for bed, and sleep.

Ellen managed very well until she was in bed, turned on the TV and found one of those sticky-sweet movies, the one with that young woman who had a face like a sweet young puppy – and just got kicked like one by the bastard friend she had, shouting gleefully, ‘He’s just not that into you!’ or something like that. The jerk of a friend was really relishing it. Ellen saw the tears slide down the pretty face on-screen and clenched her teeth. She would not. She would not. But she did. Awfully. She cleaned out her whole box of Kleenex, she just couldn’t stop.

Somehow Ellen fell asleep. When she woke up she saw the massacre of Kleenex on her bed and floor. That was the beginning of the end. Saturday was . . . not good. It was so bad, she called Lucia, because she’d already annoyed Tara enough with the mess, Tara who told her, ‘You sure about this?’ back then, adding, ‘He’s a bit too, y’know.’ She never said what ‘y’know’ was. Anyway, Ellen couldn’t tell Tara because Tara would inevitably be very sensible and sane about it and Ellen didn’t want sensible and sane. She wanted, ‘I’m so sorry, honey, that must have been awful,’ because it was. Lucia was very patient when it came to midnight sobbing. Except Lucia was ‘detoxing from connectivity’ again and never took her calls. Sunday turned up all shiny and bright like it didn’t care, and it might have gotten much worse if Lucia hadn’t come over after all. She’d gotten an ‘emergency vibe’ from her blanked phone and so switched it on. ‘That’s when I saw your calls, sweetie. I grabbed some stuff and came over, you poor thing.’ Ellen just nodded and sobbed and let her in.

Lucia had with her almond milk because cows were sacred, Ecuadorian coffee straight from the farmer whose barista cousin she met personally, ‘Angél is such a dear’; vegan carrot cake ‘from that place Olli talked about? They’re really good at this, trust me’, and two bottles of organic wine that she swore ‘was really good, I promise, Ellie, really, I checked this time, you’ll love it.’ Most importantly, she also had a jute bag of DVDs with her, because one thing about Lucia was that she was a die-hard rom-com fan. This always surprised Ellen because, to her knowledge, Lucia had been a Gender Studies post-grad in another life, one that was full of steaks, milkshakes, and chilli cheese fries. She didn’t like talking about it. Ellen was not going to argue this time either, made room for Lucia on her bed and thus the rest of her Sunday was spent watching all kinds of ‘love-drenched screen-treacle’ as Tara called it, eating vegan carrot cake that wasn’t half bad actually, and drinking genuinely excellent coffee. Ellen remembered to give compliments to Angél. Lucia smiled proudly as if she’d picked the beans herself. Ellen reminded her snide side to be kind, Lucia was being a genuine friend.

They watched one rom-com after the other, the worse the better. Lucia was convinced it was all cathartic reverse therapy. Ellen had no idea what that meant, but it did help in some way, since at one point they both had enough of loud orchestras, spectacular sunsets, and gliding shots of longing stares, and just sat and talked and laughed like friends, drinking the organic wine that was better than ok but not actually fine. They ended up falling asleep on Ellen’s bed, chuckling sleepily at the awful quotes they still remembered from their rom-com binge.

Monday showed up without asking and Ellen had a headache, a bad one, but she didn’t mind too much. Lucia was gone by the time her alarm went off, but she had taped a post-it to Ellen’s forehead, Lucia liked to do things like that. It was hugs and kisses and Need to talk? Call me! :), which made Ellen smile a real smile. Lucia had her ways, but she really was a very sweet friend, she really was. Ellen crawled out of bed, showered, dressed and went to work, lying that she felt a bit under the weather when someone asked her what was wrong. It was pouring outside so they believed her.

Even so, each day was a trial. By Thursday, Ellen was exhausted all over again. She didn’t want to remember anymore. The memories didn’t care and invaded everything. Kicking them out was a constant effort. By Friday, though, she began to feel that anger she loved, that anger that was her friend, that anger that she had met him – in a delicatessen of all places! He’d made fun of such places. He’d called them pretentious, ‘Just another way any basic urbanite can show off.’ And she foolishly believed he meant it. That anger Ellen wanted returned, the fury that she listen so avidly, answered so truthfully, and actually believe everything that happened meant something was happening. That rage that she had been stupid enough to give herself away like that, as if she didn’t know about the games people played. Ellen loved that anger, it brought her back into the life she knew, the life that was hers again. By Saturday morning Ellen knew her anger was real. Soon, very soon, she would spend her hours and days furiously living her own life, relishing her own peace of mind. She would, however, wait a few more weeks until she went to Deluca’s Delicatessen, she wasn’t particularly interested in being a full adult again.

October 19, 2014May 16, 2020

midnight menu

Not PG rated

She didn’t talk very much, but she always said thank you with a smile. Every Tuesday and Thursday night, after the late-night shift, he would go to the diner, sit at the counter and order the Midnight Menu that was made almost entirely out of fat and cholesterol. It tasted heavenly.

Oliver, or Oil as his colleagues called him – it was that one lunch break where he listed reasons why extra virgin olive oil was healthy that did it. He couldn’t help it, it was the kind of trivia he knew. So, he would walk into the diner at sometime past 2 a.m., sit down at the red-leather stool and start off with a coffee to wake him up, then continue with some nuts or crackers in the small dish someone always set before him, and finally go for the Midnight Menu, greasy and heavy in his stomach, the perfect thing to carry him home and send him to sleep the moment he undressed and hit the pillows.

Sometimes he didn’t undress at all. It all got into a muddle once he passed his door. Somnolence thickened his fatigue halfway up the five floors, and by the time he opened the door, he was sleep-walking. Every now and then he woke up in his shirt and tie, his pants unzipped. He somehow always remembered to remove his shoes, the fruits of rigorous childhood training where one step into the house with muddy shoes was accompanied with the siren-like shriek from his mother. And he always had muddy shoes. Since then it had become almost a reflex to remove his shoes the moment he closed the door. The rest, however… Oliver couldn’t say how often he’d woken up drooling on his jacket, but only ever on Wednesday and Friday mornings, after the late-night shift and endless jokes about olive oil.

There was no reason why he went to the diner so religiously. It had nothing to do with the interior, which looked like a bad copy of a 50s’ family eatery. It wasn’t the music which was always this side of mediocre, let alone the clientele that looked just as half-dead as he usually felt. It was the food at first, greasy and delicious and so unhealthy he ate up with glee. And when she suddenly turned up, he had another reason as well. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but she had a nice face, the kind you could watch and watch and watch and not get tired, unless you were drifting off into the land of nowhere like he often was. She moved gracefully, like a dancer, never talked louder than necessary and always said thank you with a smile. He liked her, though all the conversation they had was a hello and goodbye, except his usual order and how she jotted everything down as if she’d heard it for the first time.

He at first thought she was a little slow. He never changed his order, so why all this writing? Then he saw her reading that French woman they’d had in school and changed his mind. He got a little cautious too. She was working the night shift at a slightly seedy dig, looking prim and proper like a neatly trimmed garden, without any sign of unease. The moment he realized this, Oliver got curious. Very quietly, over the space of weeks of Tuesday and Thursday late-night shifts he started wanting to know who she was, why she read that French book on the graveyard shift, and what the rest of her life looked like. She had to have something of a rest of her life. He had a rest of his life, though it didn’t amount to much. If he wasn’t sleeping he was working, if he wasn’t working he was sleeping. Weekends just drifted by, and there was Terry who insisted on drinks on Friday night, usually spent listening to Terry talk about his boring life. He’d had a girl once, ages ago. Pretty thing, bright, with plans for her life that did not entail the likes of him. Oliver didn’t mind. Thinking about her and them and us and everything else had proven to be unnecessarily complicated, he kept on messing up the one steady thing in his life, his job. So he wasn’t too shocked when she called it quits. He hadn’t seriously seen a woman in… years.

There was Stella from down the hall though. He’d found her crying on the stairs one day, crying so hard she could hardly move, so he helped her up, opened her door for her and made her some chamomile tea, why did women always have camomile tea? Then he listened to how she walked in on her boyfriend fucking another woman, got her box of Kleenex for her and hugged her awkwardly across the corner of her kitchen counter. He tucked her into bed fully dressed, except her shoes of course, slipped a tacky white teddy into the crook of her arm, a gift from the man she just fled from. Oliver made sure she was ok, Stella told him twice she was all right, so he left.

A week later, some drab Sunday night, the doorbell rang. Oliver opened it and saw Stella standing there with a bottle of wine, saying she wanted to say thank you. They drank the wine in his kitchen and fucked on his couch, and since then it was kind of an arrangement that he turned up at her place on Sunday evening with a bottle of wine. They rarely drank any of it because Stella was a riot in bed. She knew some surprising things, and liked talking about the men she met while they were fucking. Oliver got to know about a lot of people this way, it was way better than the Sunday night special on TV.

That was his life really, the late-night shift on Tuesday and Thursday, a few drinks with Terry on Friday, maybe a trip to the gym on Saturday, and sex with Stella from down the hall on Sunday evening. It was easy, there were no complications, and Oliver lived rather contentedly this way. He didn’t want anything to change really, though sometimes he did dream of faraway places where he would live a different life altogether, where he might have something close to ambition, but those were just dreams anyway.

September 12, 2014May 16, 2020

hugh’s corner

It was a warm Saturday morning when Carol Jones knocked on the door of Hugh’s Corner 75. She just flew in from Hawaii and took a cab. Now she was standing in a narrow street, trying to follow the directions her sister Liz had given her over the phone. ‘It’s between Ocean Park and Sea Drive. Just take a cab, the driver should know,’ but the driver did not know.

Liz had never been on the accurate side of things. When she broke off college in her junior year to marry Seth Hayne, all she told Carol and their parents was that Seth came from Chicago and was the sweetest man on earth. She never mentioned he was already an attorney in one of the leading law-firms, and came from what was called old money. Now, ten years later, Liz was Miss Jones again, and all Liz had told Carol so far was that their lifestyles had diverged. Liz liked to use words like that when she didn’t want to tell you anything.

Carol finally found the 75, walked up the stairs and knocked on the door. No answer. She looked at her watch, it said nine thirty five. She tried again.

‘That’s not Red’s boy.’

Saturday afternoon, late, the sky was overcast. There was a haze on the sand in front of Hugh’s Corner 75. Liz Jones was standing with her back against the balcony, smoking, a cup of coffee on the railing next to her.

In the morning, she had opened her front door groggily to incessant knocking. Carol, her sister, stood before her with an overnight bag and a sleeping baby in her arms. She looked exhausted. There had been a brief exchange, nothing important. Liz had pulled out the couch in the spare bedroom and watched her sister and the baby sleep for a while before going back to bed. Now, she was wide awake, wearing her usual frayed shorts and white shirt, waiting for her painted toe nails to dry. Carol was in the kitchen, mashing some bananas for the baby. The baby was only in diapers, sitting on a blanket a step away from Liz’ feet, playing with a toy. Liz had never been the motherly type. She liked watching mothers, and sometimes envied the satisfied laughter of their children, but the moment one started screaming she knew why she’d been careful all these years.

‘What?’ Carol asked, still stirring the mashed bananas in the bowl. She looked haunted in a way, as if she’d seen several ghosts at once. Her dark hair hung in loose curls all the way to her shoulders, making her face look thinner than it actually was. Her eyes were wide, a lighter blue than Liz’, and a little too bright. Liz remembered how readily Carol used to smile, how her face had beamed when she got accepted, and so could head to Berkeley. And how dreamy her voice became when she talked about Red, the often-proclaimed Love Of Her Life. Red, that was Stuart Montgomery, nicknamed Red due to his flaming red hair. He was a History professor who decide midway through his tenure-track that life was too short to waste in between books and classrooms, quit his job and moved to Hawaii. Carol, not exactly his best student, but his most enthusiastic, followed him in a moment of rashness, found him in a cottage on Maui and decided she’d found Heaven.

Liz had smiled when Carol sent her a picture of Red and herself a few weeks later. They were on the beach near their little house, sitting on the sand, Red holding a bottle of beer and smiling at Carol who was adjusting the spangle in his hair. They looked happy, and Liz had felt envious. She never regretted leaving college, but marrying Seth Hayne had proven to be less of the Heaven she had thought it would be. The first two years had been wonderful, but then they bought the House near the Lake, and Seth lost all interest. He held her hand, and kissed her good-morning and good-night, but that was all she ever got. He worked all day and half the night, and was always busy on weekends – if not with work, then with making the House a perfect Nest, as he always called it. And so she didn’t complain. How could she, if he was working his hind legs off to make her life comfortable. He felt guilty enough for having plucked her out of her college life and fairly plunged her into the real world of marriage and responsibilities.

In any case, by the time Carol’s photograph of bliss fluttered into her mailbox, Liz and Seth had already been married seven years. Five of which were long and lonely, though she had a nice life, a perfect life, full of dinners, parties, friends and holiday trips to Europe and Maine. That was her life two years ago. Now she was divorced, living in a small apartment between Ocean Park and Sea Drive, trying to come to terms with the fact that all the while, Seth had not been straight. He had never been, he simply saw her as a fantastic alibi, one his whole family would accept without question. She was ‘steady’ he said, and ‘sensible.’ After the shock and the tears, after the humiliation, Liz had hated him most for that.

‘K.J. no, don’t do that,’ Liz heard Carol say.
‘Why K. J. actually?’ she asked, watching Carol sit down cross-legged on the blanket before lifting the baby onto her lap.
‘Kahoku Jones,’ Carol replied, feeding the baby.
‘Kahoku? You’re kidding.’
‘No. It’s actually Kahoku Manaki Jones, but that’s too long. K.J. suits just fine, don’t you think?’

It was how she said it, defeated. Liz just looked at her sister and wondered what had happened. Carol looked crushed, as if a part of her, a large part, had broken to pieces. And yet, she was very gentle with the baby, absolutely loving, cooing and cajoling, praising the little thing’s success in eating well. Kahoku Manaki Jones. Liz exhaled. She was right. K.J. suited just fine.

‘Is there a meaning to those names?’ Liz asked.
‘Would you mind not smoking while he’s here?’ Carol asked instead.

Liz just shrugged, pinched out the cigarette and flicked it off onto the pavement below. The small street circled Hugh’s Corner, separating the wood from the sand without blocking the ocean view. There was a tall palm tree to the right of the house, but next to a few haphazard azaleas that was the only greenery in sight. Liz didn’t have any patience for plants.

‘So, is there a meaning?’
‘Kahoku means star. Manaki means wind.’
‘Star Wind Jones,’ Liz said laughed. Carol said nothing.
‘Ok. Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry, we won’t be staying long,’ Carol said, speaking to the baby.

Liz felt a sudden pang of guilt. It was probably why she said, ‘We should go to Disneyland then.’‘He’s too young for that,’ Carol said, finally looking up at Liz. She looked close to tears. The guilt grew thicker, stronger. She’d known something wasn’t right for a while now, but she could never put a finger on it, Carol was always so vague. Then again, she didn’t like phones. She preferred letters, but Liz was a bad letter-writer, she always forgot to answer.

‘We can just walk around and enjoy the view,’ Liz said, picked up her cold coffee and walked back in. She had to get away from that cloud of guilt that was growing thicker, darker, on the balcony. Carol looked like she genuinely needed help, only Liz didn’t know what kind. What was she to give a mother and a child? The baby was a sweet thing with black curls and large dark eyes, but that wasn’t what made Liz watch the little thing for so long. It was his face. It had Maui stamped all over it. He definitely wasn’t Red’s child.

* * *

Someone once asked me where I come from and at first I wanted to say L.A. but then I thought that wasn’t enough. Venice Beach was the next option, but that really wasn’t all that right either. I grew up between Ocean Park and Sea Drive, in a small stretch of apartment buildings that’s Hugh’s Corner. Don’t ask me why it’s Hugh’s Corner, and not Paul’s or Andy’s. It’s Hugh’s Corner, a world of its own.

Ok. So, there’s Ma and Q, Ben, of course, Master An, the wise man, Ray the Monk, the Bernardis, Jamie, Little Miss Tinkerbell, Nova, Mac, Molly and Skip, Cappy, oh my Cappy, Tins in No Ming and Miss Liz. That should be it.

Now, if you knew about me, you’d ask: What about K.J.? And a couple of weeks ago, I’d have said: He left some time back. He’s history. But now with Miss Liz in a coma, I can’t say that anymore.

K.J. and Miss Liz are our neighbors. We, that’s Ma, Q and I, live in Hugh’s Corner 73 and 74. We used to live in the Palisades with my Dad, but after the second time Ma found him in bed with another woman, she filed a divorce and started a new life. No Prince of Bel Air for us. Ma gets alimony, but it’s all put into a trust-fund for Q and myself what with college and all.

There was a time when I believed God existed and miracles could happen. I used to sing in our church just a block away from Marina del Ray. I was a ‘mezzosoprano’ and could hold a note long enough to get a satisfied smile from Pastor Williams. Then Patricia, his wonderful daughter, found me kissing Louis DeJean (tenor) in the backroom, and through her lies and Louis and my own shame, Pat convinced Pastor Williams that we were fornicating under the eyes of God. May I add that Pat had been doing exactly that since Louis moved with his Pa from Dallas. All through our trial in Pastor Williams’ office, I prayed to God that He may exercise his omnipotence and make Pastor Williams understand that Louis and I had only succumbed to the heat of the moment, and only kissed, really, truly, honest to God kissed. He did not. I was expelled from the Choir and Louis cancelled from the next Thanksgiving concert. He stayed on though, as Pat somehow managed to weave the Adam and Eve story into her whole web of lies, which made me the sinner and Louis the victim. What hurt most was that Louis never said anything, he just stopped talking to me as if I had a huge A on my chest.

In any case, by my sixteenth birthday, I’d stopped going to church all together and Ma never said a thing. But this is really about K.J., not me, K.J. who’s got the summer triangle inked under his right ear, what’re they called – oh yeah, Vega, Deneb and Altair. He told me that night, Skip’s birthday barbeque, Miss Liz didn’t mind that he got them. Apparently she said his body was his body, as long as he could deal with the consequences. I wish Ma would say stuff like that.

Anyway, K.J.’s on Maui now. People think he’s surfing, I know he’s looking for his Dad. I don’t know if he’s found him yet, nobody here’s seen or talked to him a really long time, but I have to talk to him now. I just can’t find him. I’ve tried everything save flying over, and I can’t fly over, I don’t have the cash ready and Ma won’t budge. Apparently, I’ve gotta finish school first. Ma always calls college school. I still need to do something though. Miss Liz is in a coma and K.J.’s basically fallen off the face of the earth.

Which is why I’m talking to You, yes, You, up there. Bring him back. Whatever it is, do it. If you’re there, this is your chance. Do something. Now. I’m not gonna pray about it, I’m just sayin’ what needs to be done, so do it. Please. K.J. really needs to come back home now. Like, right now. Not in seven days or forty days or forty years or some weird stuff like that. I mean now, ok? Have him come back home now, really, now, coz Asha Carol’s not about to fly out of India soon and do something about it.

August 22, 2014May 16, 2020

throwback thursday

Livy.

She stopped. This was Bloomingdales. Nobody knew that name. No, she must have heard wrong. She continued but then, again.

Livy. Livy.

In a second she was twenty-two again, young and hopeful and proud of her job, how good she was. She’d managed to prove that she didn’t only have the looks, she also had the skills. She really was good at her job. She remembered when he first walked in, young, brash, angry at the boss, asking her sharply Is he in? She had asked him firmly but politely to wait. He had paced, hands in his pockets, flashing her quick, impatient looks. After the call she told him, He’ll see you now and he went in. There had been shouting. He stormed out and she didn’t really think of him again until a week later when she ran into him at the Xerox, and he asked her for a favor. A file he needed copying, he’d pick it up later, he was on the run. He was charming and sweet, so she did it. He came after his lunch break and small talked with her about music and movies and how he’d like to see the latest one, she forgot which one. The second time he did that she knew her hunch was right, he was looking for reasons to see her. It amused her. It was flattering. But they were all flirts so she never took it seriously. Until he asked her out. She should have said no. She was foolish and hopeful though, and said yes. And now someone was calling her Livy.

She stopped at the watches and acted as if she was looking. She felt someone stop next to her and ask if he could look at the something Phillip. The clerk was eager and polite. She dared a glance. No. Yes, but… No. Please. He was talking to the clerk and then said, She has slim wrists. Much like the lady here. Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, but could I ask you for a favor? She looked and looked and swallowed. He had aged well, very well. She asked, Pardon? And he said. My wife has about the same slim wrists as you do. Do you mind if I borrowed you as a mannequin? And she knew then, clearly, it was his old trick again, finding excuses to talk to her. She wanted to say no, but the clerk was surprised and expectant and she didn’t want to look mean-spirited or worse. So she stretched out her hand and the clerk fastened the watch around her wrist and he looked at it, nodding approvingly before saying Gold or silver? And the clerk asked, What does your wife usually wear? Both, he smiled and suddenly she was speaking. I think this one is very nice. It was beautiful, white gold and polished gold intertwined, with stones sparkling around the dial. It had to cost a fortune, but then he looked like money. He always had. The clerk smiled graciously and asked if he would take it. He said, I think I’ll look some more, and the clerk asked her politely if she could remove the watch. She watched her unfasten it and put it back on display. She moved to leave, saying a polite Goodbye. He turned, sharply, and there was something in his eyes and face that she hoped she was just imagining. He said, Thank you for your help, and she just nodded and walked down the aisle. She already passed the perfumes when she heard, Livy wait.

She stopped this time and turned. He was walking towards her, hands in his pockets, just like he used to. I’m sorry about that, he said once he stopped. Can I – can I ask you to a coffee? She just looked at him. Thirty-seven years and he wanted coffee. It’s only a coffee. Please. I know a place just round the corner. Unless you’re busy. He didn’t want to say the last part, she could see that. He still had his hands in his pockets. And she couldn’t deny that she was curious about his life.

The coffee extended to a dinner. He talked about himself and asked her questions. He had three children, she had two, all of them doing well in their own ways. They laughed more than she expected. He never looked anywhere else, his eyes fixed on her, that look becoming clearer and clearer. She knew she should stop this even before she agreed to the dinner. It wasn’t right. She knew that look on a man, she knew that feel of him. But she couldn’t deny how much she liked it, how nice it was, how simply nice it was to be looked at like that again. He began touching her over dinner, or rather, half way through, he took her hand and looked at her ring and brushed his thumb over it, looking serious, maybe sad. It was a sudden and very intimate gesture that broke down all the politeness they had been floating on till then. He said, I was such a coward. Then he let her hand go.

The tears just happened, she never saw them coming. She did what she could to stop them, smudging her napkin with her mascara, and finally the tears stopped. She looked at him and saw what she had dreaded, what had made her so furious back then, what had hurt her so much. She had known he loved her. She had known it, felt it, her whole body and senses, every single part of her knew it. And then he told her he’d met someone else and that he’d fallen in love with her and all those other horrible things that made her slap him and throw things and kick him out of her flat. The worst was how he took it, how he never defended himself, as if he knew he deserved it. She couldn’t face him after that. Just hearing his name was too much. And then she saw them, a year later, walking down some street, near here. She saw them together, saw how happy they were, and something broke and couldn’t be repaired again. She met Arthur soon after and started a new life, a good life, but that was always there, a shadow in her heart she could never get rid of.

And now, thirty-seven years later, he said I was such a coward. She got up and left the table, left the restaurant and hailed a cab. He caught up with her before she could get one, holding her back, making her yank herself free. He said Livy, please and she snapped, My name is Olivia. Olivia, he said, I’m sorry if I said something stupid – but she interrupted him with a Don’t apologize. You made your choice and I respect that. Just don’t come along now acting as if you cared. He looked hurt, but said nothing. I never forgot you, he said then, but she just scoffed, looking to the sky, trying to hold back the goddamn tears. Her Moma had warned her, the nice ones were the worst. I don’t know why you’re doing this, she finally said. You don’t look divorced so it can’t be that – Livy. Olivia. I understand if you hate me, but at least let me apologize. For what, she asked. Almost past her fives and she felt like twenty-two again. He pulled her closer to the restaurant, out of people’s way, and she had no way to fight it. I shouldn’t have cared, he said, I know that. I always thought it was the time, but I know that was an excuse. There was no excuse for what I did. I just wanted you to know that. That, and that I never forgot you, and that I’m sorry for what happened. I can’t make it un-happened. I want to, but I can’t. It’s not like I don’t love my family. I love them, all of them, my wife, my kids and yet – I regret every day that I just threw it all away. I – I never wanted to hurt you. Livy. Olivia. I never wanted to hurt you. I was just – I know you’ll probably never forgive me, but I – I couldn’t let you walk away like that, without letting you know – I never meant it to be this way.

She just looked at him. Did he think this would change anything? He didn’t look like it, nor did he sound like it. He looked and sounded like someone who was saying I’m sorry and meant it. It took him almost four decades, but at least he got around to saying it. She nodded, Ok. He looked hopeful, but she stopped that when she said I should go home. Thank you for dinner. And without waiting, she walked to the next cab, got in without caring who hailed and drove home.

Three weeks later she received a huge bouquet of roses and a small gift-wrapped box with a bow. She opened the box and found the beautiful wristwatch in it, with a small card saying For a different time, Don. She had no idea what to think of it, except that he didn’t go by Donavan anymore. She looked at the watch. It was exquisitely light and very beautiful. She could never wear it. How explain it to Arthur, let alone the kids. She kept it hidden in her desk drawer and went back to the showroom, happy to entertain the next client. If she learnt one thing from what happened back then, then it was to stick to her ambition and start her own business. And now she had it, the kind of PR that was solid and ran really well, and it was all her own.

He kept sending flowers. Every Thursday, as if to commemorate their second meeting. Her assistant thought she had them ordered, she always put them in a tall glass vase on the round table she used for meetings. Once at her own desk, she couldn’t avoid seeing them. Every Thursday, a beautiful bouquet of flowers, very often roses, red, pink, cream, in all shades and always beautiful, filling her room with a perfect scent. Six months passed this way, every Thursday a bouquet of roses, and then she received an invitation to a fundraiser. It was too good to let pass, all she was thinking about when she accepted was the people she could meet there. New clients meant more business, and you could never have enough business. So she went with Arthur and saw him standing there with his wife, smiling, and she knew it, she just knew it. This was not going to end well.

August 18, 2014May 17, 2020

the list

Caden looked at the number. If he took the call he would not say no. If he didn’t take the call the noise would never end. The song wouldn’t stop, the screen blinking madly. He really didn’t want to. But if he didn’t, Joan would call and he didn’t need to hear, ‘What’s wrong, darling, why’s Steff so cross?’ He took the call.

He was shaving when he heard it, ‘Oh come on! Are you serious?’ Next, three knocks, quick, loud. Caden said, ‘Yeah?’ and Sunny opened the door, waving a piece of paper in her hand. It looked like the list. Well, no wonder.

‘What’s this?’
‘What’s what?’
‘I thought you said you wouldn’t do it again.’

He cut a long swath through the shaving foam, flicked the razor in the water and started again. Three more to go.

‘Caden. You said you wouldn’t do it again.’

Another clear broadway through the white. Fred had shown him first. Matt wasn’t too happy, but Matt had nothing to shave off. It’s not like he pressed a button and started earlier just to spite him. Caden stopped a second. He hated how that still could annoy him, even now.

‘It’s good money,’ he said, after finishing the last stroke.
‘Yeah and they’re complete arseholes.’

Caden unplugged the sink, and watched the soapy water drain out. He remembered, clearly, the first time he forgot to rinse out the sink. Joan saying, really loud, ‘Who did this?’ as if he’d firebombed the house.

‘They talk down to you, Caden,’ Sunny said. ‘Like you’re some kind of… some kind of… I don’t know! Something they can just order and stare at. I hate that.’
‘It’s just an evening, Sunny,’ he said, bent down and rinsed the last of the foam off.
‘That’s a whole day, Caden. A whole day. Catering.’

She said it like it was something way below his dignity. Caden kept down a smile. Sunny had this thing that, if it wasn’t helping bands build a fanbase, or seeing the pub didn’t run dry, it was nothing.

‘You don’t have to if you don’t want to. Mike’ll be there and Becca and Siobhan’ll –’
‘Oh, I’ll do it. I just don’t see why you have to give in all the time – and don’t say it’s good money. I don’t care about the money. We don’t need it anyway.’
‘Yeah and I don’t need the noise.’

Sunny just stood there pouting. Sometimes she was sixteen all over again, Caden wondered if that would ever stop.

‘Look, you know how it’ll be if I say no. I don’t need that right now, so – it’s just an evening. There’ll be a band and an open bar, she said you can have what you want.’
‘Oh, how generous! M’lady deigns to let us drink her precious wines which are ours anyway for fuck’s sake. How can you put up with that?’

Caden smiled. It was nice, seeing her annoyance. It was genuine too.

‘I know it’s a pain, kid, but I don’t have the time for arguments. We’ll set up everything by five and you can leave by nine, so that’s just four hours, five max if it takes longer.’
‘Yeah, but what about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘Caden, that’s a whole evening with those twats, why’re you doing that to yourself?’
‘I’m not doing anything to myself,’ Caden said, flicked a towel off the heating rack and dried down.
‘It’s still –’
‘I’m just delivering some drinks, Sunny. You really don’t have to join up if you don’t want to, but it’s done anyway.’

Sunny just made a face and shook her head, strutting off like he was an idiot to give in again.

He’d have preferred not to do it, but if he said no he wouldn’t just have Steff all up in a miff, it’d be all of them breathing down his neck again. They’d been quiet for some time now, he didn’t need to change that for no reason. It’d be ok, he’d drive over, drop off the drinks and glasses and pick everything up the next day. He’d probably have to stop for a tumbler and palaver about something, anything. It was dull, but bearable. Steff had some chef on for the food, she just wanted the right wines, so it wasn’t a big deal really. It was strange though, how none of them ever got the hang of wines.

Adam had taken him to the South of France back then, Sunny in tow, fourteen and pissed off all the way until she saw the beaches, then they hardly saw her for the three weeks they were down there. It was business really, Adam was visiting some people he knew, a few microbreweries were staging an event, trying to break into new markets and Adam wanted to know what they had. There was that pavilion with smaller distilleries showing their latest single malts and single casks, they ended up buying a crate full of several different bottles. After that there were the wine cellars and the vineyards they went to, Adam speaking his seriously awful French, everybody winced when he started talking, telling Caden, ‘Try it son, try it,’ so he tried what was offered. He got the hang of it after the third cellar, and with Maurice adding the meals, it made sense.

Maurice lived in Nice and was a dictionary on food, wines and several obscure schnapps. They spent a week at his house, Sunny at the pool day and night, Adam and Maurice talking about their days working for Citroën which was how Adam could save up for the pub, he’d had enough of desk jobs and office life. Adam’s former office was one of Citroën’s suppliers, and Maurice was usually the one on the other end of the line. Over the years they started talking about more than car parts, velocity, pressure valves and tires, and finally became friends. They’d been visiting each other for years by the time they went over that summer, and it was nice seeing Adam laugh so much. That was about a year before the heart attack.

Now Caden had a pretty good list of whiskeys and wines, though he only used it for ‘The von Arseholes’ as Sunny called them. Sunny at sixteen was a full-out Goth. It was a phase, but the wrong phase to meet the Corrigans in. Steff was derisive, Joan horrified, and Fred just stared at her, asking, ‘Is something wrong with her? Why’s she so pale?’ Matt cackling out loud. Sunny heard it all and hated them ever since.

Sunny was convinced he was selling out, to Caden it was just business. The Corrigans had acres of friends and acquaintances who needed good drinks for their dinners and parties, they seemed to have one at least once a week. They knew to get the food right, but they were hopeless with liquids. So Caden got that sorted, and from the calls he was getting, he was doing a good job about it. The best part of it was that the more ridiculous the price, the more willing they were to give him the job. Nowadays, one evening catering to Steff and Joan’s friends was enough to stock up O’Connor’s for a month. Matt’s people were no different, and Fred’s could buy out all his whiskeys if Caden didn’t watch out. With all that, Sunny could huff all she wanted, business was business, and they weren’t all bad either. Well. Some were ok. So there was really nothing to worry about.

Caden was just done with his coffee when the front door opened and Marla walked in. Now there was a real problem. He still didn’t know why he agreed to it. She’d looked harmless. Pretty, yeah, but nothing to worry about, at least not like that. Turns out he was as wrong as he could be. She smiled, ‘Hi’ and said, ‘Going down?’ Caden nodded, and left it at that. He knew he didn’t say much to her, but it was a conscious avoidance. It was her breasts. There were a bit too there. And those clothes. They showed off everything. And in general the fact that she was everywhere. The house was tidier since she moved in. He kept on finding things quicker. Sunny didn’t leave all her stuff lying around anymore. And she was always cooking, it wasn’t bad either. And she smelled good, which was something Caden did not want to notice.

It was annoying actually. He didn’t want the changes. He’d start getting used to them, and then what? This was temporary for her, he knew it. Women like her only stayed a few months in a place like upstairs. And he knew Sunny had no clue. He’d have his work cut out for him once Marla moved out again, Sunny grew so attached to people. Moped for three months when Ella stopped coming over, like he purposely fucked up her life. Granted she was seventeen, barely out of school, still undecided. With Adam gone and Ella out of the house… he got that, but still. Caden wished he’d thought about that before he agreed to have Marla move in, but now it was too late.

Sunny loved having her around though, he hadn’t seen her this happy in months. She kept on giving him updates of whatever Marla was doing, ‘Marla’s on the hill right now, but she’ll be back by seven.’ ‘Marla lived in India for five years, crazy isn’t it?’ ‘Marla’s out with her girls, they’re really nice.’ ‘Marla used to work in New York, I wonder why she moved back here.’ ‘Marla’s going shopping, she asked if you needed anything.’ ‘Marla’s really quiet, don’t you think? I thought she’d be the louder sort.’ ‘Did you see Marla’s sari? It’s gorgeous isn’t it?’ It was constant and there was no way to make her stop. Caden didn’t want to know anything about Marla. The less he knew the better. She’d be moving out soon anyway, so why bother, but Sunny didn’t care.

It really was annoying. Coming up to the flat used to be a way to wind down. Now closing up the pub just meant having to face her afterwards. If she was awake that is. Caden was actually relieved when she wasn’t. She was still up there though, and it didn’t help knowing that. She had this really bad habit of running around in her bathrobe in the mornings. It was quick, yeah, she only did it to grab some toast and tea before she ran back up again, but he still had her right there, in front of him, and it was… fucking irritating. She’d looked harmless. Pretty yeah, but nothing to worry about. At least not like that. Pleasant, that was it. He remembered thinking, ‘Yeah, she’s fine.’ Sane, put together, someone who’d mind her own business. And she was sane, she was put together. She really did mind her own business. She still ran around in that tacky bathrobe where you saw everything. Not on Sundays though, thank God. It was weird, sitting with her at the kitchen table, having her flip through a newspaper or some magazines left over from the week, telling him something completely random she found in the pages. Sometimes he was sure she just wanted to start a conversation, but he wasn’t starting that. He didn’t want any habits to grow, any traditions to spread. It’d be hard enough dealing with Sunny once she moved out again, he didn’t have to get used to things as well.