Deena Goldstone - Tell Me One Thing

Jamie figures Ellen is out for the night. He’ll see her in the morning before he leaves for school, waking her up if he must to tell her he’s going.

He heats up some leftover soup for his dinner and sits at the dining room table to tackle the rest of the Miracle Worker essays. It’s a Sunday night like countless other Sunday nights he’s had since moving to San Diego. If he had stayed in Buffalo, he’d probably be at some neighborhood bar right now with friends from high school or one of his brothers and they’d be spending the evening watching whatever game was on TV, probably basketball this time of year, and there’d be a good deal of drinking and boasting and storytelling and betting on the game. Does he miss all that? Sometimes, mostly the easy companionship that asks little and expects only that he stay the same Jamie they’ve always known. That last part, that was the part he couldn’t fulfill. The Jamie who drank too much in order not to feel, the Jamie who was quick to argue as a defense against being steamrollered, the Jamie who needed to constantly declare himself lest he feel like he was disappearing — that Jamie was abandoned in Buffalo. The Jamie who settled himself in San Diego needs far less from the world and wants only quiet, predictability, and the safety of no demands.

ELLEN STRUGGLES THROUGH THE SLUDGE of her exhausted sleep and pushes herself awake. She has no idea how long she’s slept. The bedside clock tells her it’s 10:35, but she’s not sure if it’s nighttime and she’s just napped a bit or whether it’s the morning and she’s slept right through. She opens the door quietly and pads in bare feet to the archway that defines the living area of the condo. Immediately she sees her brother, bent over, elbows on the dining room table, writing copiously with a red pen. A pendant lamp hanging straight down in the middle of the table illuminates its surface but casts shadows on her brother’s face. The lighting, the sparseness of the room décor, the intensity with which he’s writing remind Ellen of one of those cop shows where the accused is being forced to hurriedly write out his confession in a tiny room with a single bulb hanging overhead.

“I hope you’re staying home because I’m here and that this isn’t your normal Sunday night routine,” Ellen says as she walks in. Her face is creased from sleep and her difficult hair is now flying about her head like exclamation points.

He gestures at the stack of essays. “I teach five classes of English. This is pretty much where I am most nights.”

Ellen sits down, points to the empty soup bowl. “And that was your dinner?”

“Mexican black bean soup from Whole Foods.”

“Pitiful.”

“Actually, it’s quite good.”

“Is there more?”

• • •

ELLEN EATS HER SOUP. Jamie grades his papers. There’s the companionable silence of siblings who have spent thousands of hours together. If Jamie weren’t such a tight ass now, Ellen thinks, she’d reach for a cigarette. Instead, she begins to talk. No preamble. She simply continues the story she had begun at the café.

“Miguel was supposed to be my savior.”

Jamie looks up at her, puts his pen aside, settles back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, content to allow Ellen to spool out her story as she can.

“Spain is good for me. I love the pace of it all. The sense that time isn’t demanding anything of you, simply that you are passing through it. The weather is wonderful — no more Buffalo winters. That’s enough to lift my spirits permanently. And Tracy is there, you know. Do you remember Tracy Keppinger?”

“Donnie’s older sister?”

“Yes, she was in my class at Immaculate Heart. Do you remember her? Tiny with all those blond ringlets? She sort of looked like Little Orphan Annie.”

Jamie nods. He does remember her hanging around the house when they got to be teenagers. He had thought she was kind of cute but never acted on it.

“When she was in college, she went to Malaga for her junior year abroad, met Rafael, and never came home. They’ve got four kids now. All of them have those curls. Anyway, she’s been telling me for years I had to come over, and when I hit thirty-five and looked at my life in Buffalo, I thought, ‘Why not?’ Things couldn’t get any worse.”

“What was so bad?” Jamie asks her.

“What wasn’t? I had been working at the same kind of deadend job for over ten years. It didn’t really matter what construction company it was — it was essentially the same job. Bob Wardlow called me his bookkeeper. Keith Lutz called me his right-hand man. Tony Stradello called me his office manager. Whatever, all it meant was that I had to sit in a filthy office, or worse, a construction trailer that was an oven in the summer and an icebox in the winter, answering the phones, making sure the bills were paid and that the guys got to the right job site on time. Hardly taxing on my mental abilities.”

“No,” Jamie agrees.

“No chance for advancement.”

Jamie nods.

“And putting me in close proximity to exactly the wrong kind of guys for me.”

“Which were?”

“Guys who drank too much. Guys who were married. Guys who thought an endearment was ‘Fuck me harder.’ ”

Jamie laughs out loud and Ellen smiles back at him. Now she can make jokes about it all.

“In other words,” Jamie says, “guys we grew up with.”

“The very same.”

Ellen puts her forearms on the table, laces her fingers together, and looks at her hands. It’s quiet for a minute. Jamie feels Ellen shift into another, more somber, gear. “I somehow found a way to pick the very guys who would infuriate me. Who would scream at me so that I could scream back … A lot of yelling … A couple of smashed car windows …”

“Someone deliberately shattered your car window?”

“No, Jamie, I did the smashing. I was always so angry … and there wasn’t any way to get rid of it.… Oh, of course, if only I hadn’t picked guys who treated me so badly, who disappointed me before I even learned their last names …” She trails off, doesn’t finish the sentence.

Jamie nods. He understands the “if only” part of it. “If only” their father hadn’t beat the crap out of them. “If only” they didn’t wake up every morning with that worm of fear twisting in their intestines. “If only” victimhood hadn’t been fed to them with their Lucky Charms and Jell-O Pudding.

“Remember Mickey Fogarty?”

“Big guy with that eagle tattoo running down his forearm?”

“Yep. He was the last straw.”

“I never really liked—”

“He was a pig. I was sleeping with a pig.” Ellen says it with such fierceness that Jamie has nothing to say. He doesn’t disagree.

“And then Tracy called from Spain just to check in and asked me again when I was going to come visit and I said, ‘This weekend.’ Just like that. It popped out of my mouth and I didn’t take it back and so I packed up all my clothes and flew to Malaga.… I was thirty-five and I thought it was my last chance.… I thought if I stayed in Buffalo I would either have killed some guy or he would have killed me.”

“Come on, Ellen,” Jamie says, standing up now. He doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want to believe his sister could have had so much violence in her. “You always exaggerate. Can’t you just say you went to Spain for a fresh start?”

She looks at him as he gathers up his papers into a neat pile, clears the dishes off the table, and loads the dishwasher. When he comes back to the table with a sponge in his hand to wipe it down, she puts a hand on his wrist, stopping him and forcing him to look at her.

“I’m not exaggerating. I’m telling you what my life was like then and what I was afraid of. You need to believe me.”