Bob Fingerman - Pariah

As he daubed on small touches of roseate-hued pigment he felt a light touch on his shoulder and flinched, causing the brush to skate across the surface of the canvas, marring the work he’d done.

“Jesus!” he barked, spinning on his heel to see who’d caused this accident.

Ellen was there, looking guilty, her eyes cast down. She bit her lower lip, her expression conciliatory-until she noticed the bulge in Alan’s pants. Then her expression hardened almost as much as the business in Alan’s drawers.

“You asshole,” she hissed.

“What?” he asked. “What? I’m the one who should be mad. You just made me…” Once again his words trailed off as Ellen looked up and locked eyes with him. He feebly gestured at the canvas, a Francis Bacon-like diagonal streak across the painted Mona’s face. “I mean,” he sputtered, and then his face assumed Ellen’s previous expression of guilty conciliation.

“I should have known,” Ellen spat.

“I’m just painting her portrait,” Alan said, defensive.

“Yeah, with a fucking hard-on.”

“It happens,” Alan stammered. “It’s sometimes an involuntary action, like breathing and the beat of one’s heart. Autonomic. I wasn’t even thinking about sex. It just happened, honest.”

Mona, eyes shut and oblivious to this exchange, kept time with her tunes.

“Yeah, a pretty young thing comes to model for you.”

“With all her clothes on,” Alan added. “ With. All. Her. Clothes. On .”

“Yeah, for now. This time.”

“Don’t be crazy. I’m just painting.”

“You get wood when you paint the zombies outside? If you do, then all is forgiven. But look me in the eye and tell me you get hard when you paint them. Go on, tell me that.”

“I can’t. I don’t. But that’s different.”

“Yeah. You don’t want to fuck them. Well, that’s fine. This is fine. Go ahead and fuck that little girl on the couch. Get her pregnant, too. See if I care.”

“ You’re the one who wanted me to paint again,” Alan whined, his words chasing her out the door. “ What, I’m only supposed to paint zombies and you ?” Ellen stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. The room shuddered and Mona’s eyes opened.

“What?” she asked, looking at Alan.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh. Okay.” Mona closed her eyes and Alan began to correct the pink streak.

Wait a minute.

Get her pregnant, too?

“It just bugs me is all,” Eddie said. “She gets to go out and we’re cooped up in this dump forever. And I’m sick of her stock answer: ‘ I guess they don’t like me .’ ” Eddie affected a nasally effeminate voice. “The fuck is that shit? No, she’s onto something and she’s too selfish to share the secret with us. This is some kinda bullshit power trip.”

“That’s crazy,” Dave said. “What could possibly motivate something like that? She doesn’t seem the type. That’s too, I dunno, devious.”

“Bitches are all devious, bro. All of ’em . I don’t buy the whole brain-damaged thing she’s putting over on us. The whole veggie thing. She knows what she’s doing and I don’t like it . Everyone in this lame building should be pumping her for how the fuck she does it.”

“She’s our savior, dude,” Dave said.

“Yeah. She’s our savior, dude. We’re her fuckin’ pets . She goes out and walks around and what? She’s touched by an angel or something? Yeah, right. She’s a person , same as us. She’s got some kinda secret and I wanna know what the fuck it is and I aim to find out.”

“And how do you propose doing that?”

“You know, sometimes you talk all fancy and I just wanna flatten you, Mallon. You pull that lawyery shit on me one more time- one more fuckin’ time -and I’ll lay you out. Count on it.”

“Jesus Christ, Eddie. What’s gotten up your ass?”

“Not you. Not ever. Look, just get the fuck outta here, okay? I wanna be alone for a while and sort some shit out.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“And thus endeth the nagging,” Abe said, sitting on the edge of the bed, holding Ruth’s wrist. No pulse. No breath. Dead. Abe sighed and moved his grip from wrist to hand, his fingers meshing with hers, his posture defeated. He didn’t look at her face, just stared ahead at the floor between his feet, nudging ruts into the pile of the carpet with the toe of his slippers, then smoothing them with the flats of his soles. “Ai, yaaaaaaah ,” he sighed again, stretching it out. He tightened his grip on her hand. It had been years since he last held her hand, just held it. They used to walk hand in hand all the time. They even had correct and incorrect sides. It never felt right when he held her left hand; something seemed unbalanced. With his free hand he stroked his freshly shaven chin, a small scrap of toilet paper stuck there by a dot of blood. He plucked it free and neatly placed it on the bedside table.

“Oy, Ruthie,” he said, then sighed again. In place of tears a lot of sighing was in the offing, Abe not being given to displays of emotion, even when there was no audience. No living audience, at any rate. With reluctance he turned to look at Ruth’s visage; her eyes were still open. He hesitantly placed his fingertips on her eyelids and attempted to press them closed, but unlike the movies they wouldn’t stay shut. Even in death Ruth was contrary. He pulled the sheet over her, debating what to do next. Tell the others? He supposed he’d have to. It seemed unlikely that Ruth would be springing back to life-or unlife , take your pick. She died the old-fashioned way, free of zombie molestation. She was clean. Well, sort of. Abe wrinkled his nose. Ruth had, as it was euphemized, “voided herself,” filling the air with yet another bad smell and the sheets with something worse. How very un-Ruthlike. “Oy, Ruthie, Ruthie, Ruthie.”

So much for the family plot, he mused. Ruth had made such a to-do over her desire to be buried alongside her parents and sister. She also figured he’d predecease her-so much for woman’s intuition, too. What was he supposed to do now? She’d want a eulogy, a service of some kind. She’d expect the Mourner’s Kaddish, in Hebrew, no less, and since his bar mitzvah he’d forgotten pretty much everything. Did she have a prayer book tucked away somewhere? Probably. He seemed to recall her filching one from her sister’s funeral. Hopefully it was phonetic. He’d look later. But if he was to respect her wishes, which seemed the right thing to do, silly though it may be-pointless, even-so be it. She wouldn’t be getting the whole megillah , but he’d do his best to accommodate her superstitions as best he could. He stared across the room at his reflection in the mirror of Ruthie’s dressing table.

“ Avel , vhat can you do?” Abe said in comic Yinglish inflection. In Judaism the mourner was called an avel . It was a self-admittedly bad pun. It brought him no comfort. “There goes that second Social Security check.” Again the joke didn’t help. He was bombing to an audience of none. Miriam, Hannah, and David had never laughed at his jokes, nor did their kids. Ruth had seldom laughed at them. It had been ages since he’d even attempted mirth, except for the lame waiter joke at the celebratory dinner on the roof. Everyone else in the building was listening to music again, and watching TV. Those little screens hurt his eyes. Most of Abe’s music was on vinyl. And what he wouldn’t do to be able to listen to some of his comedy records right now. The best medicine there is.