Kathleen Tessaro - Innocence

‘Believe me, there are not lovely men where I work. Quite the opposite. And besides, you’re forgetting that I have a perfectly marvellous man of my own. How was he tonight?’

She smiles. ‘As always, the best. Although his diet is appalling, my dear. I made some borscht tonight. Did you see it? There’s a little left over in the fridge. I thought it might be nice, for Piotr, you know.’

‘But borscht is Russian, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, well, close enough. But Alex wouldn’t touch it. Can you imagine?’

‘Who in the world would turn down your home-made borscht?’

‘Well, Harry didn’t think much of it.’ She smoothes away a crease in the sheet. ‘But then, Harry had no taste. No taste buds, even. Too many cigars. Never allow Alex to smoke, promise me!’

‘I’ll do my best.’ I rise to leave and then stop. The mention of Harry reminds me…‘Bunny forgive me if this is in any way inappropriate and you don’t have to answer me if you don’t want to, but…’

She laughs. ‘My goodness, Evie! So formal !’

‘I’m sorry. It’s just…’ How to put this? ‘Do you ever see Harry? I mean, now?’

She looks at me. ‘He’s dead, dear.’

I feel foolish. ‘Yes, I know, I was just wondering if you ever…I mean, if you believe that people can come back, you know, once they’re…’

‘Gone?’

I nod.

‘Well.’ She thinks a moment. ‘He sometimes makes an appearance in the mornings. Shuffles in wearing that dreadful old dressing gown and carrying a copy of The Times. Wants help with the crossword. Stuff like that. Chit-chat, really’

My heart dives forward in my chest. ‘And what do you do?’

‘Well, the shit knows I’m not speaking to him.’ She picks up her copy of Proust again. ‘I just ignore him and he goes away. It’s the cheek of it that’s so annoying; the fact that he thinks he can just pick up where he left off.’

She speaks without a trace of irony or insincerity…can it be true? At any rate, she’s begun reading again—her hint that our conversation is over.

I drift over to the door; still full of questions, but unable to arrange my tangled thoughts. ‘Sleep well, Bunny’

‘You too, darling.’ She looks up. ‘And honestly, if Harry starts hassling you for clues, just tell him to piss off. Never could spell.’

‘Right.’

She goes back to her book and I close the door. Like so many conversations with Bunny, I have absolutely no idea if she’s serious or just having me on.

As I pass by Allyson’s room, I hear her humming softly. Something lovely. Something I don’t know. Probably something German.

I climb the last flight, twisting the doorknob very carefully. Slowly, I creep through to the next room.

And there he is, sleeping. In his Thomas the Tank Engine pyjamas. Alex, my lovely, gorgeous, perfect four-year-old son. I lean down, softly kissing his forehead. And he shifts, brushing away the clinging attentions of his watchful mother, even in sleep.

I could spend all night staring at him, at the gentle curve of his forehead, the soft, smooth pink of his cheeks, the angelic (at least in repose) set of his mouth. Every day he grows more and more beautiful.

Like his father.

A cloud trails across the night sky. Cold white moonlight floods in through the window. Everything’s illuminated, the countless toys scattered across the floor, the second-hand rocking chair in the corner, the brightly painted toy chest…Here is a world where nothing’s lost for very long; where everything’s retrievable. A fragile, temporary universe.

I settle quietly, as I do so many nights now, in the wooden rocking chair and watch.

He’ll be bigger tomorrow and yet I’ll have never seen a glimpse of him growing in the night. But I’m here, nonetheless. A sentinel, standing guard against a whole, impossible, unknowable future.

And here, in the stillness of my son’s room, with the soft, sighing rhythm of his breathing for company, the thought enters again, uninvited.

Would I do it differently?

If I had to make the choice again, is this the fate I would choose?

I look out at the silent street below. At the daffodils bowed by the wind and rain.

It’s a fragile, temporary universe.

And always has been.

‘This is it,’ Robbie says.

We’re standing outside a pub in Camden Town called the Black Dog. The throbbing bass of the music inside pulses each time the door opens.

I waver.

‘Come on,’ she says, swinging the door wide. She’s a New Yorker; nothing can scare her. She gives me a little smile and I follow.

It’s crowded, heaving. A Friday night mix of drunken Irishmen and City boys straight from the office. Jesus and the Mary Chain are wailing on the sound system. The bar is three deep. We find a corner at one of the low round tables.

‘Do you mind if we join you?’ Robbie asks. It’s a group of girls, mid-gossip. They nod and wave their cigarettes at us. ‘Go ahead.’ We perch on the edge of our stools; I’m clutching my handbag in front of my chest like an old lady waiting for a bus. Robbie pushes it down on to my lap.

‘I’ll get us a drink. What will you have?’

I fumble for my wallet. ‘Ah…I don’t know…a beer, I guess.’

She puts her hand over mine. ‘How ’bout a pint? On me.’

And then she’s gone, engulfed in the crowd. I smile at the girls across the table. They ignore me. Can they tell I’ve never been in a pub before? Does it show that I’m American? I readjust the embroidered vintage cardigan Robbie lent me and my Guess? Jeans. Everyone else seems to be chicer, more convincingly put together. With bigger hair, shorter skirts and sharper shoulder pads. I’m the only one with a ponytail. Slipping the band out, my hair falls round my shoulders. I check my Swatch. Almost nine o’clock.

Robbie comes back, carrying two overflowing pints. ‘Here.’ She hands me one. I take a sip and almost immediately spit it back out.

‘Jesus, Robbie! It’s warm!’

The girls across from us stare at me like I’m a freak. Robbie giggles. ‘Yup,’ she says, settling onto the stool next to me. She whips out a compact and reapplies her lip gloss. I marvel at her poise. This is probably the sort of thing she does all the time back home in the Village.

I take another sip of my warm beer. ‘How will we recognize them?’ I feel childish and stupid even asking.

‘Well’—she pouts at herself in the mirror—‘Hughey will be wearing a white shirt and carrying a copy of the Evening Standard.’

I look around the bar. All the men are wearing white shirts and carrying copies of the Evening Standard.

‘Robbie…’

‘Just kidding.’ She slips her compact back into her bag and crosses her legs. ‘He’s bringing me a bunch of flowers, so all we need to do is spot the sap with the bouquet and we’re in business.’

I’m impressed. ‘How romantic!’

She makes a face. ‘I told him to. Start as you mean to go on, Evie. I may be easy but I’m not cheap!’

I laugh and we sit, side by side, staring at the door. It opens and closes. More men in white shirts. More copies of the Evening Standard. Not a single petal in sight.

The girls across from us are laughing loudly, opening a fresh pack of cigarettes, flirting with the guys at the table opposite.

‘How ’bout another?’ I’m feeling brave.

‘Sure.’ Robbie hands me her glass and I weave my way towards the bar.

‘What it’ll be?’ the barman asks.

‘Two more pints,’ I say, proud that I’ve mastered the lingo.

‘Yeah, what kind, luv?’ He points to a vast array of pumps.

I blink.

‘Are they all the same temperature?’