City of Boys Page 18

  —I don’t know, I say. Teddy has gone back to putting apples in neat rows, but in the mirror his eyes meet mine. Donny watches him for a moment, then smiles at me.

  —Here, he says, and hands me the apple. It is perfect, without a bruise.

  As Donny walks away, Teddy’s eyes follow, his hand resting on a bank of pale yellow apples.

  —So, he says, —what were you talking to Donny about?

  —Nothing, I say, and he wipes his hands on his white apron.

  —What’s wrong with your neck? he asks. —I saw you rubbing your neck.

  —Nothing, I say. —It itches.

  —Well, he says, —okay. Here. He hands me one of the apples he has arranged. —These green ones are better than the red. They’re not so big but they taste better.

  Donny looks at me from his corner by the avocados, and as I leave, I can feel his eyes on me all the way out of the store.

  —Look, Teddy says when he comes home, and he pulls from his grocery bag a loaf of store bread, a few spotted bananas, and finally, carefully, an avocado. He smiles.

  —We can have this for dinner, he says, —in a salad or something. The avocado is perfectly ripe and green, and we eat it with salt.

  —When I’m promoted, Teddy says, —we’ll eat like this all the time. As he gently peels the skin away from a piece of avocado, the buzzer rings. We look at each other and at the door; finally Teddy puts down his avocado and answers the door. It is Donny, smiling, holding a six-pack of beer.

  —Hey, he says, and looks past Teddy at me. —Hey, he says to me.

  —We’re eating, Teddy says. —We just started eating.

  —Oh, Donny says, and looks past Teddy again, at the table. —And eating pretty well, too, he says, —huh? He winks at me, and Teddy turns to look at the avocado.

  —Well, Donny says, —I was just in the neighborhood, and I thought I’d come by to, you know, watch the game.

  —It’s over, Teddy says. —They played this afternoon.

  Donny steps forward. —I thought you recorded all the games.

  —No, Teddy says. —Not all of them. He backs up a step, starts to smooth his hands down the front of his shirt, then looks down at his green fingers and stops.

  —Well, says Donny, —okay. I was just in the neighborhood. Anyways, he adds, —they lost. He winks at me again. —See you later, he says, and turns.

  Teddy locks the door behind him and pulls the chain across, even though it is not yet fully dark out. He sits down and gazes at the avocado on his plate.

  —You know, he says. —I don’t really like him.

  —I thought he was your friend, I say.

  —He’s not my friend. Seems like he’s more your friend, Teddy says.

  He mashes his avocado with his fork and we watch as it squeezes greenly through the tines. Finally he stands and takes his plate to the garbage and scrapes it clean. The avocado leaves a green streak across the white plate.

  —You know, Teddy says, and turns to the sink to wash his plate, —I might like to have a friend too.

  —You could have friends, I say. —At work. There are lots of people there.

  —No, he says, —I don’t have time. I have responsibilities. I salt the last piece of avocado. —What responsibilities? I ask.

  —To you, he says. —I have responsibilities to you.

  He turns from the sink. His shirt is wet where water has splashed on it, and through the cheap white cotton I can see the skin and the few dark hairs of his stomach.

  He turns on the television and the VCR, then sits down, patiently waiting as today’s game rewinds. By now Donny will be entering the subway, pushing money through the window for a token, pressing against the turnstile. Teddy finishes rewinding the tape and settles back on his knees to watch the game, though Donny has spoiled it for him by telling him the outcome. As the first batter comes to the plate, Donny is staring out the dirty window of his train and the Yankees are flying back to New York. Teddy watches each meaningless play without expression, and I open my magazine. Finally he leans forward and snaps the television off.

  —Shit, he says. He goes to the window, then comes to sit beside me on the couch. He stares down at the article I’m reading, about young girls with anorexia nervosa.

  —Why do you read that stuff? he says. —It’s not learning anything.

  —Well, I say. —It is, kind of. This article, for example, is about girls who starve to death.

  He looks at me. —I know what anorexia is, he says. —I can read. But so what? What do you know that you didn’t know before? How is that going to get you anywhere? He stands up and walks to the television. —I mean, he says, —it’s not really important.

  He lies down on the floor in front of the television and holds his hands above his head. —You want to learn things that are important, he says, gazing up at his pale palms, —not that stuff from women’s magazines. He looks at me. —You’re not even a woman, he says. —Not really.

  Finally he gets up and pulls down one of his books, a red one on cost accounting. He sits at the table and opens it, but I can feel his eyes on me. I put my hand on the mouth of a beautiful woman in an advertisement for French champagne. I imagine myself drinking champagne, speaking French. I imagine myself slowly starving to death. Teddy leans over his book and stares at me; from time to time he bats at one of the bugs circling in the white light above him. He bends his head to read, but he turns the pages too quickly, page after page until he snaps the book closed and pulls down another.

  By this time Donny has reached his home, and sits vacantly in front of his television. When I go to bed, Teddy stands just outside my door. I can hear his fingernails click against the coins in his pocket. The Yankees have arrived safely at LaGuardia by now, and for a long time Teddy stands in front of the dark screen of the television, listening to the men move restlessly from room to room below him. Once or twice before I fall asleep, I hear the occasional quick clamor of a crowd, as Teddy turns the game on, then right back off.

  When Teddy comes home from work, his face is pale and his eyes look like pieces of bruised fruit.

  —Well, he says, glancing at the VCR to make sure it is still recording today’s game. —Well, I got transferred today. He stands at the sink and watches me put spaghetti on the table before he sits down.

  —To the meat department, he says. —Now I’m in the meat department.

  He tries to twirl his spaghetti around his fork, but ends up with either too large or too small a bite. Finally he gives up twirling and begins to cut the spaghetti with his knife.

  —I guess, he says, —I wasn’t stacking the fruit right. Donny told me today. See, he says, and puts down his fork, leaning forward, over his plate. —See, if you put bananas, for example, too close to something, they make it get ripe too fast. They emit some kind of gas.

  —Gas? I say.

  —Gas, he says. —At least that’s what Donny says. He says if you put a banana next to an apple or something, one of them gets ripe too fast.

  He stares for a moment at the tiny arrows running forward on the VCR. —I don’t know, he says. —I think it sounds kind of weird. I never heard of any gas.

  He sighs and sinks his fork into the spaghetti on his plate. —You know, he says after a minute, glancing up at me, then back down at his food, —Donny never said there was anything wrong with my work before. There is something suspicious in his voice, and his eyes flicker up to me again, then back to his plate, then to me.

  —Well, I finally say, —maybe you’re looking at it wrong.

  —Looking at it wrong?

  —You could be, I say. —Maybe there are more opportunities for advancement in the meat department.

  “Opportunities for advancement” is one of Teddy’s favorite phrases. In fact, he tells me, the key to our eventual success in the Safeway is going to depend on his ability to take advantage of opportunities for advancement.

  He moves his spaghetti around in a big clump on his plate, then l
ays down his fork. —You know, he says. —Maybe you’re right. Maybe Donny’s doing me a favor. I’m not so sure I was going anywhere in the produce department.

  He looks at me almost hopefully. —Maybe it’s a lateral move, he says and pushes his plate away, nodding. —Yeah, he says, —a lateral move. Maybe this is what I’ve been waiting for. I just have to make something of it.

  He carries his plate to the sink, and turns. —I don’t know, though, he says. —I kind of liked the produce department. I wish I’d known that thing about the gas.

  He goes to the TV and squats in front of it, watching the arrows. The game he is recording started in late afternoon. It should be over now, so he flicks the television on, just for a second, to check, but at the moment the picture appears, the score flashes on the screen.

  —Shit, he says, and snaps the television off, but it’s too late: he’s seen the score. —Damn, he says. He sits on the floor and stares at the VCR, while I clean the rest of the dishes.

  —You know what we need? he asks, then answers: —Cable. If we had cable, we could watch games all the time. They have that twenty-four-hour sports channel, and all those teams have their own stations. The Cubs. He stops for a moment to think. —The Braves. There would be baseball games all day.

  —Isn’t cable expensive? I ask.

  —I don’t know, he says. —It would be worth it. At least we could see some teams that win once in a while.

  He rewinds the tape and turns on the game, but I can feel him watching me clean up the kitchen. When I turn back around, he is on the couch, flipping through my magazine, while in front of him the Yankees are laboring to lose another game. Downstairs the door to Madame Renalda’s opens, and he looks up. On the television, the Yankee first baseman hits a long fly ball to knock in a run, but Teddy watches for only a moment, then looks back at the magazine. As he reads, his feet shuffle against the floor, and his hand taps the back of the magazine. After I dry the dishes, I join him on the couch, but he ignores me, staring down at the article on anorexia.

  —There might be something on TV, I say. —Maybe another ball game.

  He looks up. —I don’t care, he says. —You can turn it to something else.

  —Don’t you want to study? I ask. He looks up again and stares at me for a moment, then puts the magazine down and goes to the table. He sighs as he sets a pile of books on the table, then opens one and begins to read. Tiny insects crawl across the pages of his book, insects fly in front of his eyes, and downstairs insects crawl in and out of the mouths of men.

  —Well, says Teddy when he comes home from his first day in the meat department, —my first day on the job.

  He looks hopefully at the television, though the Yankees did not play today, then puts his bag on the counter. He pulls out store milk, store bread, and, from the bottom, a package of hamburger.

  —A bonus, he says. —A first-day bonus.

  He puts the hamburger on the table, and stands back to admire it. The meat is covered with a skin of plastic, stretched tight except where it is caught and bunched up by the label.

  —I wrapped this, he says. —I didn’t grind the meat, but I wrapped it.

  He squares the package of meat with the corner of the table, lining it up neatly. —I guess the label’s a little messy, he says.

  —It looks good, I say. —Really great.

  He smiles. —I’m a natural, he says, and pokes at the tight plastic. —Look at that. No slack.

  He looks into the bag. There is nothing else there, so he folds it neatly and slides it into the space between the counter and the icebox.

  —You know, he says, —there’s really a lot to learn at this job. This is just the start. Tomorrow I learn how to grind it up, cut steaks, all that. He runs his finger across the smooth surface of the plastic that covers the meat. —This is just the start.

  He turns on the television and switches through the few channels we get; the screen casts a faint glow against his face, turning it green, then red, then blue. I unwrap the tight plastic from the hamburger, and underneath the cellophane the meat is soft and smells of blood. When I fry it, bits of grease pop up out of the pan at me, and when I’m done, a fine brown spray covers the back of the stove.

  Teddy touches his hamburger gently with his fork, as if he had expected it to look different. We seldom have meat, and the hamburgers are overcooked, shriveled little tough things next to the yellow wax beans on our plates; I thought the beans would make a nice balance with the meat, but Teddy only pushes them about with his fork, making a little circle around his hamburger.

  —You know, he says, —I kind of miss the produce department. He puts a bean on top of his hamburger. —I don’t really know if I’m going to like working with meat. —All those knives and things. He looks at the blank television screen. Somewhere a baseball game is being played.

  —Well, he says, —I think I’ll go get a paper or something. He carries his food to the garbage, and as the hamburger slips into the bag, it leaves a dark, shimmering trail on the plate.

  I watch him from the window, but he walks straight to the newsstand on the corner; after he buys his paper, he stands for a moment, looking up Broadway. Around him men stir, young women buy fresh whole pieces of fruit at the stands, couples rotate in and out of the light, but he turns and comes back to our apartment, looking neither to the left nor to the right. He walks right past the men on the sidewalk downstairs. When I put the plates and the pan in the sink, the water turns brown and oily. The smell of meat lingers in our apartment, and all evening as Teddy stares at his books, I can feel a thin layer of grease on my hands, coming between me and everything I touch.

  I wake up from my nap on the couch to the sound of the buzzer.

  —Cable, says a voice from the door, and a young black man with a toolbox smiles at me when I open the door. He comes in, looks around the apartment, pats at the walls.

  —So, he says, going to the window, —you want cable.

  —No, I say. —My brother does.

  —Uh-huh, he says, and begins to pull out tools. —What do you want, better reception, probably, huh?

  —No, I say. —My brother wants the twenty-four-hour sports channel.

  He walks to the window and looks out. The men on the sidewalk look up with mild interest, but he pays them no attention. They watch as he drills a hole in the wall, runs a white cable through it, then attaches the white cable to a black one outside the window.

  —You’re lucky, he says, and turns away from the window. —A lot of these old buildings aren’t wired for cable. I guess they don’t want people putting any more holes in the walls.

  He pulls out a long stretch of cable from a box, cuts it off, and begins running it along the wall, stapling it every foot or so, until it runs out, more than a yard away from the television set. He looks at the end of the cable, looks at the television, then at the window and back to the cable.

  —Shit, he says. —Goddamn. He looks at me. —Sorry, he says, and laughs. —I can’t believe I did that. I’ve been doing this job for over two years. He shakes his head and smiles as he goes back and undoes everything he’s just done. The men on the sidewalk look up and watch him.

  —You know, he says, —I’m having a day like this. Ever have a day like this, where you just make a lot of stupid mistakes?

  I try to think of mistakes, or even opportunities for mistakes in my days. —I guess so, I say. —All the time. But he is threading more white cable through the hole again.

  —I don’t know, he says. —Maybe I’m just tired of this job. He looks at me. —I’ve been doing it for two years. Know what I mean?

  —I guess so, I say. —Two years is a long time.

  He winds out cable again, and begins the process of stapling it to the wall. —You got that right, he says. —Two years is a long time. Maybe too long. He attaches the cable to a little box, hooks up some wires, and stands back.

  —You know, he says, —maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m just tired of
this job. Stale, you know? Got to move on to something new.

  He pulls a lever on the cable box and the unused cable snaps in, winding like a snake across the floor. The man pulls a little book from his bag.

  —Okay, he says. —Here’s your book. He flips through it and stops at a page full of numbers and letters. —This tells you what your channels are, see?

  —Which is the one with sports all day? I ask, and he runs his long finger down the page.

  —Okay, he says, —this here’s your sports channel. He looks up at me. —That’s a lot of sports.

  —It’s for my brother, I say. —He wanted it.

  —Uh-huh, he says, and hands me the book, then looks around for his things.

  —Oh man, he says, and turns back to the television. —We got to try it out and see if it works.

  He crouches in front of the television and turns it on, tapping the top of the set as he waits for the picture. —Okay, he says when a picture appears, and he flicks the dial of the cable box from one end to the other. —Okay, he says again, and stands, turning off the television.

  He stops at the door. —Hey, he says, —nice talking to you. Thanks. And who knows? Maybe I’ll be doing something different next week. He laughs. —You never know, he says. —I could do anything.

  He walks out into the bright light of the city and I turn to the television. When I put it on, the room darkens and the city fades away. Downstairs the women pause, listen for a moment, then turn back to the men in front of them. Madame Renalda stops and waits as I run through all the channels. She is quiet a moment, then looks into the eyes of the man in front of her. —Don’t marry, she says to him. —Never marry.

  I find a game between the Cubs and a team whose uniform I don’t recognize, and I turn down the sound. Silence settles again over our apartment, and in the bright Chicago afternoon, fans smile as they watch their team.

  When Teddy comes home, he looks immediately at the television, and smiles at the cable box on top.

  —Great, he says, turning it on. —This is going to be great. He looks at me with shining, hopeful eyes. —Now we can watch games all the time.