Chapter 18C

When I opened my eyes Saturday morning the sun was shining with a brightness that told me it had been daylight for hours. The little fan on the window whirred steadily, streaming air toward the bed. I glanced at the clock. Eight twenty.

Martha was half on me, using my chest for a pillow. I stroked her hair. She didn't stir. I kissed her hair and caressed her shoulder. On my other side, Ronnie had turned away and slept curled on her side, her tush against my hip, my arm still cradling her head. My balls ached, empty. My heart ached, full.

I sat up very, very carefully. Martha slipped off me, stirring but remained asleep on her side. I kissed her lips, her warm, clingy lips like puffy silk, cottony with sleep. I looked at her. How could she look so girlishly innocent and so devastating at the same time? There were times when I would look at her, as I did then, that made my eyes feel they were expanding to take her in.

Carefully I uncurled my legs from Martha's and turned toward Ronnie. I laid my palm on Ronnie's hip. I kissed her temple and then her shoulder. She didn't move. I kissed the tight skin at the edge of her shoulder, melty flesh over bone, my lips feeling as if they touched a warm, white-chocolate coating over candy.

I eased off the foot of the bed and stood up. My head swirled; it felt like a hangover without the pain. I crept into the living room. The candle there had burned down to a bumpy orange pool. In the kitchen I wanted coffee, but I feared making it would wake the women. I drank a glass of milk, then I crept into the bedroom again and quietly got my running clothes out of Martha's dresser.

Outside, I jogged sluggishly toward Second Avenue, my feet leaden and my knees straining. The air was sticky and humid. By the time I reached Central Park I was sweating profusely. I broke into a run across the small meadow beside the Metropolitan, but was gasping hard when I reached the street behind the museum. As I sped across the roadway I lifted my legs higher to clear the rise of the curb and began to stumble. I let myself go into a roll into the grass beyond the road and flopped into my back. I lay there flat, panting crazily.

Shit, I thought. I'm wiped out. Getting lazy again. Getting angry, flustered.

It took several minutes for me to feel rested again. Along the nearby road the cyclers and joggers passed me. I gazed at the sky. It was clear beyond the limbs of the surrounding trees. Blue. I recalled the day, long ago, when I was a toddler, when I lay that way on the side of a small hill near the Big Buildings in the Lauderdale Courts, looking up at that sky and thinking that the world was an open, unlimited space, waiting for me, beckoning, promising. I remembered telling myself, then, that I would do anything, face any task to see it all, do it all. I hadn't figured on weak ankles and short wind. And the cigarettes. Why the hell didn't I just quit?

I told myself: Get up, you sorry piss ant, and get to Fiore's class.

It was too late for breakfast. I broke the rules again and bought a coffee at a deli on 86th Street, gulping it as I walked. I began to understand something about the New Yorkers I saw everywhere as I trudged under my own weight back to Martha's.

When I hurried into the front door, Martha was in the kitchen shower. I rushed into the bedroom. Ronnie lay on her tummy, looking unconscious. I tugged off my sweaty t-shirt and got a new one out of the chest of drawers and pulled it on. I got a shirt from the closet and was standing in front of the mirror buttoning it when I saw Ronnie's reflection in the mirror. Lying face down, flat and listless, she turned her head toward me and opened her eyes drowsily, then closed them again.

Getting in more of a hurry, I tugged off my running pants and grabbed my jeans off the floor and started putting them on. As I zipped and buckled, I saw Ronnie open and close her eyes again.

I said, "Good morning, Ronnie."

She said with her mouth against the sheet, "Ronnie died. Come back on the third day."

I chuckled, and bent down to kiss her. She raised her head and I gave her an affectionate smack on the lips. When I did, she began to turn over and started snaking an arm around my neck. But I hurried away, stepping into my loafers.

"I gotta go to Fiore's."

"Ah, you guys. Eat and run."

I paused at the door. "Don't forget, we're going shopping with me when I get back."

She had closed her eyes again. "Yeah. Right."

I hurried into the kitchen. Martha had stepped from the shower and was drying off. I rushed to her and she looked at me, surprised and confused. I grabbed her around the waist and kissed her, holding her tight. She was damp and naked against me, her waist firm and narrow, and I wanted to fuck her. She kissed back, but I had to let her go. She wobbled on her feet a bit as I moved away.

I rushed to the front door. "I gotta go to Fiore's. I love you." I hopped downstairs, three steps a time.

My cash was running low. I wasn't broke; I had money from Memphis and from my short lived posing career. And thanks to my step-dad's and Martha's insistence, I still had money in the bank in Memphis. But during my last ten days in New York I couldn't afford Fiore's special classes without going broke. At least I'd learned enough about physical culture to get a good workout on my own.

Before the class began I told Fiore that it would be my last visit.

He grinned and put his arm around me. For once, I didn't fall all over myself when he slapped me on the back. "My friend, you've worked hard. You've done well. Your friend Martha tells me your spirits have much improved. You are not so shy as you were, hah? Not so worried about how you look!"

"You definitely made a difference, Mister Fiore."

He squinted at me. "Why you keep calling me Mister Fiore? Hah? 'Mister'? Ha-ha! It is Fiore to you, my friend, Martha's friend. Fiore!" Another slap on the back. He stood back and looked me over. "You haf a good frame, good proportions. You would make a good professional, Hah? Maybe a good instructor one day, hah? Eh, this is not work for everyone, but you could be good! And in the meanwhile --" He extended his big, red, warm hand. "In the meanwhile, my friend, good luck to you."

He shook my hand, shaking most of my body with it, and then he walked away quickly with two of his assistants. And I went to the class and struggled through it. My heart wasn't really in it; it was the end of the classes, the end of Fiore, and nearing the end of everything.

Ronnie guided me through the shoving crowd in Bloomingdale's. In many ways the horde at the one-day sale was like the subway: nose to nose and elbow to elbow. There was female flesh and female chatter everywhere, of all sizes and ages.

Ronnie stopped in the outerwear department. "Okay, what are we looking for?"

"Where are the overcoats?"

"Overcoats? Steven, this isn't Woolworth's. This is an expensive place, even with a sale."

I said firmly, "Martha needs an overcoat."

"She needs a dressy one, though. She could always wear mine, it's almost brand new."

"Yeah, but what if you need to wear yours, too?"

She looked at me, reluctant. "Okay. Let's look over here."

On our way through the racks of clothes she led the way, winding through the squabbling shoppers, saying "Excuse me," or sometimes shouting "Excuse me!". Suddenly she stopped at a table piled with sweaters. "Oh my god, look at this."

"What?"

"This sweater. It's beautiful. Do I need this? Oh, how I need this." She lifted it and draped it across her front. "Wow." She fished for the price tag and found it. Her smile faded in an instant. She exclaimed, "Ninety-nine bucks! On sale? Thirty-five percent off, and it's still ninety-nine?" She dropped the sweater on the pile. "I don't need it any more. C'mon."

I followed her. "You want that?"

She mumbled, "Cashmere. They always do that, they make something one-of-a-kind gorgeous and make you want it, then they stick it to ya."

I insisted, "You want it?"

"That's what ticks me off. I need one. I have this ratty, tweedy thing. It's warm, anyway."

"Hey, do you want that sweater?"

"Oh, I can't afford that. Makes me so mad..."

She led me a few yards farther. "Okay. Overcoats and raincoats, carcoats. And more coats. Look at 'em and weep."

I glanced around. We were surrounded by hundreds of coats in disarray on the racks. A couple of women bumped against me. I asked Ronnie, "Where are the dressy ones? You have to show me what women wear. I don't know how to judge this."

"Martha said you had good taste, so I'll leave it up to you. Here, take a look at these. They're fairly dressy."

"I don't want fairly dressy, I want dressy."

"But, honey, these won't cost that much. This is 1957, you can't buy a really dressy fifty dollar coat anymore, not a nice one."

I said, unflinching, "I want dressy. Nice dressy."

Ronnie sighed. "Oh, all right. Let's see..." She scanned the racks quickly, and we moved two racks over. "Here. But I'm warning you."

I looked through the coats, shoving them aside on their hangers along the steel rod, one by one. "What am I looking for?"

She shrugged. "Whatever catches your eye. Hope they have something left in Martha's size."

I found one I thought I liked. But, no, it was tan. Tan wouldn't go with everything. There was a navy blue, with a belt. I went on and on. I saw Ronnie moving away. I said, "Don't go far. I need you."

She glanced back at me. "I'll be right over here."

I looked and looked and looked. I noticed Ronnie at the sweaters again, and she was holding the same black cashmere sweater she had handled before. I saw her look at it, hold it away from her, put it down, look at something else, and go back to it again.

Then I found the overcoat. *The* overcoat! It was wool, dark navy blue, almost black, black-buttoned, not too heavyweight, with a removable liner inside. And I knew enough to know that the interior silk lining was good stuff. I pulled it out and held it up. It was slender, soft looking. It had a luxurious look and feel to it. And it didn't weigh a ton but seemed it would be warm enough. I held up one sleeve and crunched it tightly in my hand, then let go; the fabric sprung into shape perfectly.

I called to Ronnie, but she didn't hear over the noise. I called louder, "Ronnie!"

She looked up and then sauntered toward me.

I held the coat high by its hanger. "What about this?"

She looked it over, and her eyes seemed to glow. She murmured, "Oh, Steven. Damn. It's..." She checked the collar, quickly. "But it's not her size. Phooey, I'll bet they don't have her size." She hunted through the coat rack hastily, complaining, "I don't believe it, there's a half dozen of that coat here, but..." Then she jerked out another one just like it and checked the label. She said, smiling, "Ah, our size. Martha's size. We both wear the same size in a coat, but Martha's shoulders are broader. Just a little broader."

"Try it on."

She checked the orange sale label. She said in dismay, "Steven, this thing costs a hundred and eighty bucks."

I said, my voice firm, "Try it on."

She looked at me, insisting, "A hundred eighty? I mean that's not so much by New York standards, but for you and me it's a disaster. One eighty, you can't afford that."

"Ronnie. Veronica. My love. Can you try it on, please?"

She blinked at me. "Your what?"

"Well, try it on, and we'll see if that's a good size and style for her, and look for something else."

"Well, all right." She looked around for a mirror. "Not a bad idea, I guess..."

Ronnie led me to a mirror on a nearby wall and she removed the coat hanger and donned the coat. She looked at herself in the mirror, and she seemed unable to take her eyes off her reflection. She said, pleased, "Oh, this makes you look so tall and chic. It's so European. Looks kinda French, I think." She buttoned the coat all the way, put her hands in the pockets and turned this way and that. "Steven, you do have a great eye." She bent over, straightened up. She tried to yank the collar out of shape. Then she just stood there looking at herself in the mirror.

She said quietly, "Damn."

"What's the matter?"

"It's gorgeous. It's... it's a... It's gorgeous. It is just goddamn gorgeous. And it'll fit her perfectly. It's gorgeous, that's all there is to it."

"Okay. Let's get it."

"Oh, my. Steven, dear, it's a hundred eighty."

"Okay. I have the money on me."

She frowned at me in the mirror. "That's money you worked for. For Memphis. For you!"

I pointed my finger at her. "Ronnie, I'm buying Martha that coat."

She whined feebly, "Don't argue with me."

"No argument. I'm buying it."

She stared at me, wagged her head a moment, and gave up. She conceded, taking it off. "All right, Steven."

"You're sure it'll fit."

"Oh, yeah. Exactly. We wear a lot of each other's clothes. She'll look terrific in it." She removed the coat and draped it over the coat rack. "God, feel this. This feels so nice. Now, wait. Let's check it out. Missing buttons, crooked seams. Let's take a look. My god, look at this old tag. The original price was three seventy-five. Steven, you picked a winner. From the tags, it looks like one of last year's. Nobody would know that, though."

I waited patiently while she looked it over in detail. She looked and looked and looked.

After a minute I complained, "What are you doing?"

She said absently, "Checking it out. Surely there must be some way I can keep you from growing broke on this coat."

"I don't care if I go broke. I don't buy ugly clothes. Martha needs a good coat. She needs a coat that'll do her justice. Maybe a coat she'll look good in when she looks for a decent job."

"Oooh, this will do it. You know, you're gonna need a scarf with this."

"So we'll get a scarf."

She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye and smiled as she put the coat back on its hanger. "You'll have to pay to wrap it. It's on sale."

"We'll have it wrapped."

"Real go get 'em type of guy, huh?"

I shrugged and blushed a little.

She held the coat by its hanger and walked to me, and then grabbed my cheeks and gave them a tight squeeze, her face close to mine. "Awww." She grit her teeth playfully and whispered, "You look so good when you get steamed up." She kissed my cheek. "C'mon."

She led us out of the coat department. She passed the sweaters and I stopped at the sweater table and found the one she'd looked at earlier. I called to her. "Ronnie."

She turned to me.

I picked up the sweater and held it toward her. "Try this on again."

Her eyes widened and she seemed nettled, her mouth firmly set. She said decidedly, "Steven, no."

"Come on, try it on."

"No!"

"Oh... Come on. Please?"

She looked at me, scowling. Being so miffed seemed unlike her, but if I ever wanted an aunt to get pissed at me, I would want the aunt to be Ronnie.

I held the sweater out to her. "Come on. Be a good girl and try it on, I'll buy you an ice cream cone."

She smirked, her eyes still glaring. She walked to me and reached out for the sweater, and as she grabbed it on her way past me she muttered, "Ice cream. Go away."

She put the sweater on and stood in front of the mirror looking at it. She buttoned it. She played with the sleeves. She had no expression on her face, but I saw that her eyes were pleased. She turned left, right, walked around. She looked at the sweater and checked out the inner folds, linings, the pockets. She mumbled, "This thing is just a masterpiece. It feels so..." Then she stood still for a moment, and then sighed. Then she turned and walked past me, taking the sweater off. She grumbled, "Okay, that's enough of this. Don't do this to me. You know you can't afford this."