Wanting Rita (5 page)

I felt a bead of sweat race down my cheek. My voice cracked. “No…no. I haven’t seen Rita in 15 years.”

Ellen quickly scanned the room. Suspicious eyes were now watching us.

“She works here, you know.”

I lifted an exaggerated eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

“Yes. You wouldn’t know her. She’s…well, she’s…” Tears returned and glistened. “She’s in the back somewhere. Sometimes she has to stop and rest, but I heard that her doctor said she should work, and Jack’s son, Dean, God love him, runs the place now. Jack O’Brian retired to Florida. Well, anyway, Dean gave her a job. I think it was real nice of him, don’t you think so?”

I nodded, looking hesitantly toward the closed kitchen door. I felt the slow crawl of a shiver.

“Are you going to see her?” Ellen asked, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

My attention snapped back to her face. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Ellen touched my arm, squeezing it gently. “You won’t know her.”

“Have you talked to her?” My voice sounded urgent, despite a struggle for calm.

She gave a quick shake of her head. “Rita doesn’t talk to anybody. I mean, she’ll take your order, you know things like that, but no real conversation to speak of. She lives with her mother, you know, the same house over on Marion Street. Never goes out. The damned reporters were over the house for the longest time. Betty Fitzgerald said they nearly drove them crazy. She tore the phone out of the wall finally. Just couldn’t take it anymore.”

I saw the scene clearly. The boiling, frantic energy around that broken down house, the invasion across the driveway and scrap of lawn, the greedy, taunting calls for a picture, a word, a statement. I’d never even given it a thought. “Are the reporters finally leaving them alone?”

“Pretty much. It’s old news now, but they squeezed every last bit of life out of it and Rita. Rita just went inside of herself and I don’t know if she’ll ever come back to us. I’ve gone over to see her so many times but she won’t talk to me. Just won’t talk about nothing.”

I shifted my weight and passed another glance toward the kitchen door. It swung open. My heart kicked, forcing a sudden breath. But it wasn’t Rita. It was my waitress.

Ellen continued. “Rita just stays by herself in her room when she’s not working, her mother says. Sleeps, reads, writes. She comes to work three or four days a week and goes to her therapist once, sometimes twice a week, over in Eden Grove. I’ve said hello to her so many times right here at Jack’s, but she barely even lifts her head to me. Acts like she doesn’t know me now.”

I let out a slow exhalation through my nose and scratched my head. “Maybe I shouldn’t see her. Maybe it would be best for her if I didn’t.”

Ellen’s face softened. “She really liked you, Alan. She did.”

I reached for the napkin and mopped my forehead. “Long time ago.”

“You know what she told me once? We were out by Crystal Lake, both of us smoking, eating potato chips and drinking beer. It was one of those perfect days with so much sun and brightness. It was late autumn. She hadn’t dated Dusty yet. We were so relaxed and happy, so sure our lives would be all lightness and adventure, you know, just like all kids who think life is going to be wine and roses or whatever that expression is. Anyway, I sometimes think about that day and cry.”

I waited, with some impatience, wanting her to continue.

“Anyway, Rita said she wanted to marry you.”

I felt as if I’d just fallen into an icy pond.

Chapter Three

After Ellen Tucker left and I’d finished my third cup of coffee, I sat with my elbows propped on the counter, playing back her words. I was startled by their lingering impact. Fifteen years of experience, including school, work, relationships, travel and a marriage, had all suddenly receded to some deep part of my consciousness. It was as if I’d hastily bundled them up in an old sack, dropped them into a deep well and walked away without regret or reflection. Rita’s words “wanted to marry you” aroused me—brought a new longing to see her again. I looked for her, expectantly, feeling a strange sense of loss and yearning. Then I suddenly remembered my wife, Nicole, with unease.

I pictured her spread out on the soft brown Italian leather couch, an elegant long stemmed glass filled with OJ in her small hand; a trial folder on the floor, next to the scattered sections of the Saturday
New York Times
. It was her oval hazel eyes I saw first, then her smooth olive skin and brown hair wet from a recent shower and combed tight to her head. Most likely, she wore the thin blue satin robe I’d bought her on her last birthday, naked underneath, because she was always naked on Saturday mornings; and her fingernails and toenails were an electric red after a Friday afternoon visit to The Nail Boutique on 2
^nd
and 62
^nd
.

Though petit at 5’ 2”, and weighing a mere 105 pounds, Nicole’s skillful intelligence, half-French blood, and refined, resolute features gave her stature. She was seldom intimidated by anyone—including prosecutors, judges or colleagues.

“What time are you leaving?” she had asked, the night before I left for Hartsfield. We were having dinner at our neighborhood French Bistro.

“Early in the morning. God, I hate getting up early on Saturdays.”

I was eating the striped bass and she the lamb shank, with boulanger potatoes. I sipped a glass of Condrieu and, she, a glass of Cahors. We sat wrapped in aloof solitude, eating with a sheen of sophistication. Nicole wore a black spaghetti strap blouse and designer jeans. I had dressed in brown khakis and a salmon cotton shirt. The room was dimly lit and cozy, with brown wood-cut tables and red leather banquettes.

“Are you sure you want to sell that place?” Nicole asked, her eyes distracted by a passing fire truck. “It’s valuable real estate.”

“I’m sure. I’m beyond sure. I want to close the door on that house and on that town forever.”

“Maybe the town should buy it,” Nicole said. “They could turn it into a historical tourist thing or something.”

I leveled my doubtful eyes on her. “They don’t have the money and anyway nobody would ever go there. It’s off the main highway and Hartsfield’s practically a ghost town.”

“Well it’s up to you,” she said, indifferently.

“The money could go toward a place in the Hamptons. Maybe we should go away next weekend,” I said. “Shelter Island or someplace and look around?”

“Maybe,” she said, half-heartedly.

And then after a long silence, I said, “Want to see a movie tonight?”

Nicole took a long thoughtful sip of wine. “I always forget how full-bodied this is. We should get a case of it.” Then as an afterthought. “I don’t think so. I’m going to do some work tonight.”

“Come on, Nicole, it’s Friday night. We should do something. Do something together.”

She looked at me, with discontented eyes. “Yes, we should…What’s playing?”

“I don’t know. We can find something.” I took out my phone and began to search.

She sighed a little. “It’ll be so crowded... I hate fighting for a seat. Maybe we should just go home and find something on HBO. Why did we cancel Netflix?”

I sighed, heavily, glancing up. “I always chose the movie and you never liked it.”

“Not never.”

“We haven’t watched a movie together in weeks.”

“I’m sure we have.”

“We haven’t.”

Nicole nudge her plate forward. “Okay, just choose any damn movie and let’s go!” she said, irritated. “I’ll probably fall asleep in the middle of it anyway. I mean, it’s not a big deal.”

I snatched my wine and drank generously. “No, Nicole, it’s not a big deal.”

“Let’s just not make every thing a problem, okay?”

“Whatever.”

“We’ve both been busy, Alan. That’s what happens when people grow up and have careers. They have responsibilities and they get busy.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” I said, refusing to look at her, eyes unfocused.

For the rest of the dinner, we spoke in a monotonous agitation.

We took a cab to the Lincoln Plaza Cinemas. Our first choice was sold out. We stood in a long line for the second; in silence; in a snappy wind. Nicole was bored and indifferent. I was feeling the calcification of thought, as if I hadn’t had an easy thought—an inspired thought—in months. How had we come to this? I thought back to our wedding.

Nicole was a gorgeous, sexy bride. A storybook princess in her white cake-like frosting wedding dress, garlanded with lace; delicious to look at, ecstatic to make love to; and we did make love at the hotel before the reception: her in that cream puff dress and sheer veil, enticing me on with puckered lips, and me in my tux, tie still on, pants gathered at my knees. We fell into each other, mad with love, our bodies soggy with sweat when we finally sank after that glorious frenzy.

Everyone said we were in love—they could feel it—see it in the photos. I saw Nicole’s tenderness in those photographs—a vulnerability that did occasionally emerge and blossom. I saw me—a little reserved—but eyes fixed on her, grinning.

On our wedding night, as we sipped Champagne, naked in a king-sized bed, Nicole turned to me, shining with love, “Alan,” she said, “I want to be there when you grow your first gray hair. I want to be there to pull it out.”

“Of course you’ll be there. But don’t stop there! Pull the others out too!”

“I will. Just as soon as they pop out of your head.”

“You’ll be the gray hair police. If they pop out, you pull ‘em!”

“Even on your chest?” she asked, yanking a black hair from my chest.

“Ouch! That hurt!”

“Love hurts, baby doll,” she teased, grabbing for my pubic hair.

I broke free and sprinted away—she pursuing—cackling like a demented witch.

By the time Nicole and I reached the ticket window, the movie was sold out. Nicole lashed out at the ticket person, a wizened woman with blank eyes. “Why don’t you people know how many tickets you have?! You can see the line. We’ve been waiting for 10 minutes!”

Nicole stormed away from the ticket window, striding uptown. I followed. We went home and blamed the whole event on the woman in the ticket window.

Nicole had once said, “I want our life to be a romantic comedy. Then after we have two or three kids, we’ll switch from romantic comedy to family comedy.”

I’d made an ugly face. “Too wholesome. Too hokey. When have you ever seen a really good family comedy? They’re all forced or silly. I want to see the hard reality of family life,” I said. “Family drama!”

“Oh, like you had such a rough childhood,” Nicole said, shoving me gently.

“Well, it was definitely family drama and not family comedy.”

I suddenly remembered one particular family drama that had concerned Rita, and I privately grinned at the thought.

“Are you going out with Rita Fitzgerald, tonight?” Mom asked, casually.

We were seated at the oak dining table, under a gleaming chandelier, my father and mother at opposite ends with me in the middle. I was cutting into a baked green pepper, stuffed with hamburger, onion and peas. Our black cook and housekeeper, Delores, had cooked one of my favorite dinners. But it wasn’t Dad’s favorite. He thought it too humble, although the word he often used was “noncommittal.”

I watched as he dissected and examined the pepper, squinting in toward it, as if doing exploratory surgery. He finally lifted his fork and knife in mild exasperation, looking up at my mother. “I don’t know, Catherine, didn’t we ask Delores to try to be more adventurous?”

“She tried a new recipe today and it failed,” Mom said. “So, she fell back on what she knew and is comfortable with.”

Dad sighed. He would never fire Delores nor even consider it. She’d been part of the family for over twenty years and he loved her, although he never said so. He loved her jokes, her honesty and her hard work. He also loved her applesauce cake. So he sat properly erect, resigned to his fate, and made the best of the pepper, chewing in a slow, deliberate rhythm, swallowing only when the food had been ground to fine paste.

His charcoal eyes became focused on the TV in the living room, where the evening news flickered. The sound was muted, a compromise my parents had made some years back. Mom wanted dinner to be on the table at 6:30. Dad wanted to watch the national news. So after various debates and hard stares, it was finally agreed that dinner would begin at 6:45, allowing Dad fifteen minutes of news in the living room with sound, and 15 minutes in the dinning room, without.“So, are you?” Mom asked me, more forcefully.

“What?” I asked, playing dumb.

“Going out with Rita Fitzgerald?”

“Yeah…” I answered, head down.“How many times have you been out together?”I took a bite and swallowed. “We meet at Jack’s sometimes.”“Where are you going?”I shrugged.“Alan, you must know where you’re taking her.”Mom was attractive, petit and prim, with long burnished auburn hair and deep brown glittering eyes. She walked briskly, spoke fast and laughed at things no one else thought was funny and didn’t laugh at jokes or stories when everyone else did.