The desk took up most of the room. Benny had found it in the Garment District — it had a built-in ruler along its front for measuring bolts of cloth, and was covered with invoices and order forms and oversize Hebrew books, their titles stamped in gold on leather bindings. Also a newish-looking copy of Vita Nuova, an industrial stapler and, in the back, an ancient computer with a scrolling screensaver that read, Breathe! Breathe! On top of the keyboard, my email, printed out, with the words Shir haShirim written on top.
Benny was doodling my name?
I was saved the embarrassment of searching for other evidence of interest by the plaintive mewling of a kitten. One of Marla’s brood, hidden by Marla for reasons of her own, and forgotten. For a cat with so much practice, Marla was one lousy mother. I put the donuts down and searched between boxes, in boxes, and finally under Benny’s desk … where amid the dust bunnies and crumpled bits of paper, a decaying cherry pit and something that might have been mouse droppings, I saw a photo propped against the wall, of two fat men laughing, their arms around each other. I reached for it, looked at it in the light.
Topeka.
Benny was wearing the black beret he’d favored during his Santa Claus phase; Romei was holding a book in the air as if it were a trophy. In purple ink in the right-hand corner, an inscription:
To Jellyroll,
Without you, who knows?
Yours, Romei
I didn’t notice if Marie watched me as I left.
21. GHOST IN THE ANNEX
Benny called. Strange, he said. I seem to have a ghost in my annex.
Why didn’t you tell me you knew Romei? I asked. On my way home I’d slammed his millennial madness window with my hand, which earned me jeers from the boom box — bearing boys in Slice of Park.
It was you! Benny said. Donuts are a novel calling card, but you might have left a note.
Why didn’t you tell me you knew Romei?
I published his first English translations in Gilgul—I thought you knew.
Why would he think I knew that?
Why would you think I knew that?
Didn’t I say?
Never mind, I said. For some reason, Benny wasn’t telling me the truth.
Isn’t that why you asked me about him?
Never mind, I said.
Where did you find the photo?
I didn’t answer. It had been so plainly hidden under the desk. And recently: the photo was clean despite the dust bunny convention. I thought about this a moment and hung up. Fuck him.
When the phone rang again, I let it go to voicemail.
We seem to have been cut off, Benny said in his message. Or maybe not. Listen, I published Romei long before he was famous. We can talk about Shir haShirim whenever you want — I’ve put together some commentaries and … Oh, shit, he said, and hung up.
Shir haShirim—it wasn’t a play on my name! I should have known. Shir was song—I knew that: Benny’s name for me was shir chadash, new song. Shir haShirim was the Song of Songs. I’d thought Benny had been doodling my name, when in fact he’d been lying — about what I couldn’t guess.
He knew Romei. No wonder Romei had asked him for my number. He wasn’t just an editor who’d published my stories, he was Romei’s dear friend, without whom who knows!
I have a problem with duplicity. If I’d been Dante’s wife, I’d have kicked him out the minute I got wind of Beatrice. What’s a second chance but license to repeat the offense?
I splashed water on my face, grabbed my purse, and slammed out the door. Real people have it out, they say what they mean! I’d give Benny what-for. I’d been happy to have him in my life again, but I couldn’t imagine what he might say to convince me to stick around.
He didn’t have to: through his window I could see the back of his cherry-red bodysuit, his arms wrapped around Lila-cum-Marie, who sat facing me on the counter like a child, her short legs entwined around Benny’s waist, her flat eyes looking at me over his shoulder. Her expression didn’t change, or maybe she smiled.
What was I to do? Interrupt them? Pretend I didn’t see? Would Marie tell him I’d been there? I didn’t think so. I’d never mention it — what would I say? I chose not to enter your store because I realized you were boffing your salesgirl? So I moved on, in the direction of Cohn’s Cones, as if that had been my destination all along.
So what if Benny wanted the narcoleptic Marie, with her tragically torn fishnet stockings and her Pop Tart art, what concern was that of mine? So what if he wanted to be with someone whose firm, young body helped him forget he was hurtling like a locomotive toward death, what did I care?
Idiot.
22. THE ALL–IMPORTANT COUPLET
I woke up Friday to find more pages from Romei and an email from Benny:
I have the feeling I’ve angered you. I’d like to apologize, but I don’t know what I’ve done. This happens rather a lot: please give me another chance. I’ve enjoyed having you around. Call before sundown if you can.
Yeah right, I thought, and shut off my computer.
That afternoon, we witnessed Andi’s camp graduation. Ahmad gave her a Nancy Drew, wrapped in silver paper, which made me angry — we’d joked about the silliness of camp graduations. He also said he’d cook a special Friday Night Dinner.
To recapture ground, I offered to take Andi to the park. She asked if she could get ice cream, and pointed east across Broadway, between the Love Drugstore and the Dollar Store.
Huh? I said, since Cohn’s Cones was north. This place was new: Nice Cream. Damned if I could remember what had been there before.
Can we, Mom? Can we? Andi tugged my arm.
It was a stinky, sticky end-of-summer day, the kind that insults you with its heat, so Andi may have had a point, had she not had cake and cookies and stevia-sweetened brownies at camp. Knowing that the you-don’t-want-to-spoil-your-dinner argument didn’t cut it with Andi, who always wanted to spoil her dinner, I said, You can’t swing and hold ice cream at the same time, right?
She considered this, then nodded in sage agreement. Then, as I tried to remember whether that particular play on words, Nice Cream, had a name — or Cohn’s Cones, for that matter — she told me about someone named Ovidio. A boy nobody wanted, not his father, not his mother. He lived with an auntie who wouldn’t let him watch TV.
You know, I said, walking her across Riverside Drive, Ovidio is the name of a famous poet, though he’s usually known by his Latin name, Ovid. His full name was Ovidio Nasone, I guess because he was nosy.
Ovidio isn’t nosy, she said. He may have a broken nose, though.
That’s sad! I said. She nodded. You’ll need to be a good friend to him, then, won’t you?
Andi looked at me funny, as if to say, Why do you say such weird things?
When we arrived at the park, I covered her with sunscreen. Then we Eskimo-kissed and she scampered off in her pink Marimekko to join two girls from science camp.
Have fun! I shouted, as if she needed my blessing to enjoy herself, and marveled that she could run in this heat, when I felt brave just for breathing. I sat on my usual bench in the shade in front of the fountain, took off my Birkenstocks, and buried my toes in the sand that drifted from the sandbox. Then rummaged for my MOM! hankie and used it to mop my brow. Andi was already leading the girls in an intricate game that involved running in concentric circles: they could dizzy themselves while tagging each other out — a twofer where everyone got to be “it.”