The Glass Factory (27 page)

“Thanks. I already feel better.”

“Good.”

“Except for the searing pain in my lungs.”

“Say ah.”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.”

“Yes, the passage is quite irritated. Have you been breathing in a lot of—”

“Chemical fumes? Yes.”

“Well, that’s part of your problem. You’re going to have to move to a cleaner neighborhood.”

“That’s funny, that’s why I left New York City.”

“It can’t be doing her any good, either,” he waves at Antonia.

“Daddy,” she says.

I can feel my face flushing involuntarily as I quickly explain that she doesn’t mean that, she calls every man with short, dark curly hair “Daddy.” Although Mommy is sure starting to feel like she’d
like
to play Daddy with him. I don’t tell him that.

He starts cleaning the scuff marks from my face, neck and shoulders with antibacterial towelettes soaked with alcohol and disinfectant. “I really think you should go back on chemotherapy. Why are you resisting it?”

“Because sometimes it seems like the therapy is only prolonging my suffering.”

“Filomena, why do you have this attitude towards me? I’m trying to help.”

“Yes, you’re trying to help, but … I’m sorry. I just—well, I know you’re different. I feel you’re different. But, you know, I had one of the most beautiful moments of my life ruined by an asshole male doctor, a condescending, chauvinist obstetrician from hell who spread my legs and reached in as if he were pulling a hair clog out of a drain or something.”

“I’m sorry to hear that—”

“And when he bends down to perform the episiotomy, he tells the support staff, ‘Will you look at this? She’s been hit up more times than a prostitute.’“

“God, I really—”

“Then when it’s over and he’s going to sew me back up he turns to me and says, ‘What size does your boyfriend want?’ That kind of sums up a lifelong dislike for male docs.”

And yet I get such a jolt of adrenaline when I’m with him. Or maybe it’s not adrenaline.

Nervous energy. Tension.

Attraction.

No.

Yes …

I crack and confess: “Whenever I’m with you, I feel like I’m holding myself back. As if I’m keeping myself from letting go with all I have in me. I feel myself holding back.”

“From what?”

I can only imagine. Well, he hasn’t run away yet. He’s still here. I don’t know what I’m going to do but it feels good to picture it. A warm surge is welling up inside me. Confession feels good. It’s healthy, like how your eyes feel clean after you cry.

And I’m going to cry. I try to suppress it. But the warm surge mixes with a cold stream. He’s about to form an explanation or an apology and I just burst out with, “Please, Stan you’ve got to help me. I can’t die and leave her alone,” meaning Antonia who’s there and gets real upset herself. So Stan’s stuck with two weeping women.

Eventually I recover. I tell Antonia everything’s okay. I wipe her eyes, blow her nose, then do the same for myself.

Stan asks a teenage community service volunteer to take Antonia to the daycare area for a few minutes.

“I feel ridiculous. I shouldn’t
need
to turn to a ‘strong male’ to save and protect me.”

“Our needs aren’t always rational, Filomena.”

“Are you saying I’m not rational? Maybe it would be better if I weren’t. After all, rationalizing got us thrown out of the Garden of Eden. Maybe then I wouldn’t deserve this punishment.”

“Oh not that again. We have
very
different viewpoints on that.”

“What do you mean, ‘Not that again’?”

“That pat Catholic-school answer to explain why innocent people suffer.”

“Go on.”

“Well, traditional Judaism is a lot more mysterious than your standard eighth-grade catechism. There is a great gap between ourselves and the Almighty, and no one claims to know the mind of God. And you can’t tell a post-Holocaust Jew that physical suffering is a just punishment for sin.”

The atmosphere in the room gets heavy and still.

“Yes, Stan. You’re right. You can’t.”

I breathe for awhile. Nice to know I can still do it. “But—” It’s hard for my recently addled brain to form these complex thoughts into words. “But, tell me—”

“Yes?”

“Hitler planned to take over Europe, meet the Japanese halfway, somewhere around India, and then move on to Africa, the Americas, and Australia, too, I suppose.”

“Yes?” His intonation skirts the edge of irritation, but he keeps it in check.

“The Holocaust cost Hitler the war in some ways, didn’t it?”

No answer.

“He was being battered on two fronts, but he chose to pursue a suicidal devotion to seeing his Final Solution through to the very end. And so his plans to dominate the world went up in—in the same smoke that carried away the souls of the cremated.”

Silence.

“I just mean that their deaths may have meant something in the sick, mysterious working of things. Just as you
could
say that Jesus died to save humanity, you
could
say that the Jews of Europe, and the other victims of the Holocaust, died to save the world from Fascist takeover.”

Silence.

Then: “So you’re saying—” Stan can barely say it. “The Holocaust—could have served some—some ‘good’ purpose—by saving the rest of the world?”

“It’s just something to consider.”

“Meaning—in your interpretation—that God so loved the world that he sacrificed his only son, and then his beloved chosen people, to save it?”

Somewhere outside this room, time is flowing by. Not in here.

“You’d think he could come up with a new method,” I say.

Stan stares at me, through me, then rubs his eyes. “God knows, I never thought of it like that.”

“It’s not the only answer,” I say.

“But you’re saying such suffering
could
be part of God’s ‘larger’ plan.”

“Something like that.”

Some more time flows by. “So my question is, Why is God doing this to me?”

He puts his arm around my shoulder. “You just said it yourself, who is to say what God is doing?”

“But there must be a reason. Why can’t I see it? Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m a doctor, not a mystic philosopher.”

An involuntary chuckle escapes from the prison of my tears. He looks at me, his face close to mine. I look up into his eyes.

“You sound just like Dr. McCoy on the old
Star Trek.”

Something comes out of him, rippling through the brooding waters of his dark mood. A smile.

He smiles and I get tender. So tender. I know I’m not supposed to be doing this but maybe there’s just something about guys in baby blue V-neck scrubs. I kiss him. On the neck. When nobody stops me I kiss him again, higher up—hmm, carotid artery: I can feel it pulsating—then higher: the chin, the cheek, then the lips. He kisses back. We kiss. It gets real.

It gets good.

And we are not ashamed.

Normally I’d go on a few dates with him, make him dinner, meet his folks. Who’s got time for that?

Soon after I suggest we go visit his house.

Stan says no, he’s got enough landlord problems.

“You don’t take your forensic work home with you, do you?”

“I’m just absentminded about paying the bills.”

There’s a knock at the door, and two seconds later Antonia wants to know what on earth’s going on, so I tell her, “Stan is coming home with us.”

She says, “Yayy!”

“Hoo-hah,” I say. “You’ve made a hit.”

Dark. A nice manly chest. And not too hairy.

“This old thing?” he says. “I’ve had it for years.”

Sex in the age of condoms: “Whatsamatter? Can’t get it up?”

“Oh, I can get it up—I just can’t get it on.”

“Here, let me help.” Mmmmmmmmm. Not bad for a white boy.

He says: “I’ve heard of small, but you have
no
breasts!”

“That’s my
back.”

“I knew that.”

“Ouch! Watch my wound.”

“Sorry—”

Knock knock.
It’s Antonia. She’s crying. We’re making too much noise. She was sleeping next door in Rosita’s bed, she woke up in a strange room and I wasn’t there with her so she got scared. I try to calm her down and get her to go to sleep but she wakes right up and jumps into bed with us.

“So much for—”

Stan bursts out laughing, and hugs Antonia. I knew it already, but it’s further proof of what a truly nice guy he is. She sits up and talks with us for nearly an hour and it takes us another hour to get her into a deep enough sleep so that we can carry her back to the other room and dare to try again.

I whisper,
“Ven, hagamos dulces recuerdos.”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. Let’s make some memories.”

The first time is awkward and unsatisfying. But the second time feels like the cold rock under the soil has come back to life, cracking open and filling the streets with waves of hot magma that melts everything in its path.

And the two become one.

Oh, what a wonderful statement.

Three
A.M.
? Four
A.M.
? God, why do I always pray for special favors? Salvation isn’t enough for me? I’ve been brought up to believe that’s wrong. But is it? Or isn’t it the way You made us?

Morning.

“Ready to face the world?”

“I’m up for anything that doesn’t require
moving.
I need some painkillers, doc.”

“Believe it or not, right now, that would be the worst thing for you.”

“Can I get a second opinion?”

“Sure, I’ve got to be on call in twenty-five minutes, but I’ll come back later tonight to see how you’re doing. Don’t do anything strenuous, or exert yourself in any way.”