Pete Hamill - Tabloid City

— Aquí, señor, she says, taking his painting hand and placing it on the handle of his cup.

— Qué milagro, he says, chuckling. What a miracle! Coffee in a cup! Not cardboard! A true miracle.

— Sí, señor, she says. Y bagels también!

— Watch out for that dog. He might think they’re for him.

He feels for the plate, takes a bagel, and pulls it into halves. Then pauses.

— Okay, what kind of help, Consuelo?

— A job, Señor Lewis.

— Start from the beginning. When you went home to Oaxaca.

She tells him the short version of the long tale. Huajuapan. Raymundo. Marriage. The two of them slipping across the border west of Laredo. The long ride north in a bus. New York. Cleaning houses, then cleaning offices, studying English in the church, teaching English to Raymundo, who found work in a coffee shop, first delivering orders and washing dishes and cleaning grills. Then cooking. Getting paid more each year. Not a lot. But more. After little Eddie was born, they moved to a one-room studio apartment in Brooklyn, and after the second child, the girl Marcela, they found this house in Sunset Park. Two floors. Parlor floor and basement, the Irish woman called it. Pretty high rent, for a place that was a wreck, but with Consuelo and Raymundo both working, they managed. They fixed up the rooms. They made the little back garden bloom with flowers. Then, three years ago, the Irish lady died and they started sending the rent money to some company. Money orders. Then everything started to collapse two years ago, and now she had lost her job. Now they could be evicted. With three kids now. Eddie, Marcela, Timmie.

— I thought you might know about a job. Maybe I could even work here. Clean your place once a week, and the halls, and other apartments. Maybe you know other places, señor. That’s what I thought. Businesses, offices. Anything. Well, not anything. Nothing with… cómo se dice, vergüenza?

— Shame? Never, Consuelo. Never with you.

He is quiet for almost a minute. Maybe longer. She hopes he can’t hear her heart beating. He still holds the bagel. His face says nothing.

— Let me think, Consuelo. You know, this goddamned recession…

— Sí, yo entiendo. I understand, señor. That’s why I lose, uh, lost my job.

He bites the end of his bagel, gnawing it, chewing intently, then swallowing. Thinking.

He says, Do you know the computer?

— Sí. My son, he—

— Good. I don’t have a clue about it.

He leans back, staring at nothing he can see.

— The people I know, he says, the people who buy my paintings — they’re all very quiet right now. Como se dice, laying low. Waiting. The very rich ones don’t give a rat’s ass. The money keeps rolling in. But others, they’re cutting back. They’re afraid. One of them just died. Yesterday. An awful death. A wonderful woman. I guess it’s on television too.

She feels herself going limper, softer. He’s trying to say that he can’t help. Pues. Ni modo, ni modo. No surprise. And looking at the mess of the studio, she is certain that a loan is impossible.

— Even here at the Chelsea, they’re cutting back. Some people, they lived here for years, they can’t pay the rent. Painters give the hotel paintings instead of rent. Others, they just pray, even the atheists. None of them want to live in a homeless shelter.

Consuelo sees his eyebrows tense as he sips his coffee, both hands wrapped around the cup for warmth. She can’t bring herself to press him, and begins to feel regret about coming to see him.

— I need to make some calls, he says.

— Gracias, señor. But don’t, please don’t, uh, go out of your way.

— No, no, it’s no bother. It’s just, you know, it should be a job with a future. You’re young, mi vida. You’re beautiful. You speak English real good, Consuelo. You know the computer. You’re smart as hell… I don’t know… You don’t have to clean up after people. Maybe—

— I’m illegal, señor, she says, in a flat voice.

— What the hell? Half the guys I grew up with were illegal — and they were born here!

He laughs out loud.

— And those malcriados from Wall Street, that Bernie Madoff — what the hell are they? Legal?

Consuelo smiles. She knows three women who worked on Wall Street.

— Sí, pero—

His face is flushed now, the way it used to be in Cuernavaca when something on TV set him off about politicians and the pendejos of the world.

— Your kids are Americans, right?

— Sí, Señor Lewis.

— Well, they ain’t going anywhere. And neither are you. You already cleaned enough offices to make sure they never have to clean them. You need a job that helps you get them into college … I have a lawyer friend. Specializes in immigration cases, Irishmen, Chinese, Mexicans… Named O’Dwyer. I think he can help straighten this out, this illegal stuff…

He sips his coffee. She sips hers too. A slight bitterness lies in the dark liquid at the bottom of the cup. She looks at him, his knotting brow, his slackening jaw. Pity rises in her. A man who loves pictures and cannot even see his own work. A man who loves poetry and cannot read. A man who loves friends and company and women, and is here, in this place, alone.

She places the cup on the chair.

— I mus’ be going, Señor Lewis. My children…

— Of course.

And then, almost urgently, he touches her forearm.

— Consuelo, mi vida. I want to say something. Just to you… I truly loved you… I did… I was way too old for you, even then, but you made me feel younger. More alive. It showed in my work. In my eyes… When you went away, I thought, I should have married her. I should have married you.

— You were married, señor, she says softly.

The sentence hangs there.

— Yes, I was. And the truth? I loved her too. I loved my wife, Gabrielle. And you. Most people don’t understand how that’s possible. Except in some goddamned telenovela… If I could have had both of you, I’d have been happy… In the same house. At the same table. But she would never go for that and neither would you. Pride is always stronger than love. Or maybe love is impossible without pride. I don’t know… But there was another thing. She was sick. The doctors in New York, they said, she… Ah, ni modo. Never mind… I was too old to follow my heart. And all these years later, I still think of you. And here you are.

She tries breathing softly, relieved that he cannot see her face.

Forrest drains his cup, lays it down gently, feeling for the edge of the chair before him. Then he rises, pushing on the arm of the couch, and stands. The dog stands too. So does Consuelo. She wishes she could begin cleaning now. Send him to the lobby with the dog. Open the windows. Call her friends. Bring brooms and pails and soap and mops, bring Pledge and Windex, make everything shiny, make the air as sweet as the house in Mexico, give him a new clean life. Bring music. Bring Don Cuco with his harp. Bring José Alfredo with his cantina songs. Bring him joy.

— You gave me many gifts, Señor Lewis.

— And you… did that for me, Consuelita… After you, I did my best work.

— I’m sorry for coming here to bother you.

— No, no. It’s been a delight. Corazón…

He turns his head to where her voice is.

— Now, mi vida, go to that desk. Write down your married name, your husband’s name, the three children and the years they were born and where. Write your address and telephone number. And what do they call it? E-mail. I want to talk to this lawyer, O’Dwyer. And I want to start calling my friends about work.