Tara Ison - Ball - Stories

One morning LouAnn calls me early, distraught, to tell me a swastika has been carved into our most recent posted notice.

“A swastika?” I repeat. I have never seen an actual one, in my own actual life. “Who here’s going to creep downstairs in the middle of the night and put up a swastika?”

“I don’t know. Bev’s totally freaked. You know about her grandparents, right?”

“Yeah. . I can’t believe this.”

“And Mrs. Steinman saw it. She was hysterical. She started babbling in Polish.”

“Oh, no.”

“I’m going to call the cops. I’ll call you back afterward.” She hangs up.

CHAS IS INtherapy. He is turning over a new leaf. He told me about this several months ago, sitting on the balcony of my new condo, wearing the sweater I once knit for him. He’s ready to settle down, make a commitment. He has just been made the chief trial attorney for the public defenders’ office and spends a lot of time in court, yelling at judges, Doing Something. He is interviewed on radio and television, his liberal dervish energy much in demand, and is earning one-fourth of what he used to make as a corporate litigator. He tells me about the new girl he is seeing and uses the unfortunate metaphor of Musical Chairs to describe how he is now at a certain age, there is a certain point, there comes a time, something about the empty chair presented to you at the exact moment you feel compelled to sit down, how you take that chair. Like when the time comes, in life, I think, to just go ahead and buy yourself a condo. It is all about Timing.

She is bright and pretty and her SAT scores were higher than his, he tells me, although he doesn’t give me the actual number. She is trying to make it as an actress and is really very, very talented. They have just found an apartment together — crappy, but with his pay cut and, you know, her money situation, it’s not too bad.

We are at the edge of the evening where we usually either turn to sex or we do not, and at this exact moment he gets up to call her, to tell her he will be home soon. It’s after two in the morning. Zosia looks at him, at me, hopefully, ignoring the impending implication of his empty chair. I pick her up. I’d always wanted a dog — this is the first home where I could have one. She has come into my life at just the right time.

“CHUCK SAYS YOUguys talked to the police?” Missy asks me in the kitchen; she has followed, helpfully, to help me pour the white wine.

“Yeah. After the fourth time they finally came and took a report.”

“Wow. . and this is such a nice neighborhood.”

“This place is fucking great!” Chas yells from the living room. Missy and I join him, Zosia trotting after us. “I told you this place was great,” he says to Missy as she hands him his wine. “Thank you, sweetie.”

“It really is. It’s beautiful,” she says to me.

“Thanks.” We sit on my new couch, my new chair. Missy leans over to run her veinless, tendonless hand along the gleaming hardwood floor. Their ratty new apartment, I know, is in a lesser area of Santa Monica and has shag chartreuse carpeting.

“Chuck says you looked at, what, like over a hundred condos?”

“Oh, thanks,” I say to him. “Sure, make me look like that.”

He shrugs. “You’re selective. You’re persistent. It paid off, you got the right place.”

“Except for Nazi vandals.”

“Dyslexic Nazi vandals,” he says.

“Oh, yes,” Missy says, “Chuck told me the swastikas are wrong?”

“They’re backwards. I want to post a notice that says ‘Learn to draw a proper swastika, you fascist prick’.”

“You stupid fascist prick’,” he adds.

“Oh, come on. I can just hear you, pleading this guy’s case. ‘Your Honor, this isn’t a Nazi swastika! This is the ancient Aztec symbol of peace!’” I tell him, and he laughs.

“Is that really what it means?” Missy asks him. He nods. Zosia pushes a ball toward her; Missy pats her gingerly, then looks like she wants to wash her lovely, lotus-like hands.

“We’re installing a surveillance camera,” I tell them. “In the lobby.”

“Is that legal?” Missy asks Chas. He nods again. “Okay, doggy, go on,” she says.

“The cops suggested it to us.”

“Sure, they don’t have to pay for it,” he says.

“It’s going to cost the Association a few thousand dollars.”

“Go on, doggy.”

“Hey, come here, puppy. . ” Chas picks up Zosia, to distract her from Missy.

“It’s worth it. The whole building’s terrified. We’re the Jewish Home for the Aged here.”

“It is terrifying,” Missy says.

“It’s a felony,” he tells her.

“Really?”

“Four felonies,” I point out. “Each one’s a separate charge. Hate Crime Unit took the report. Of course, the detective made a point of telling me he didn’t believe in ‘hate crime’ legislation. ‘Why should burning a black church be any worse than burning anyone’s home?’”

“Cops. . ” Chas shakes his head.

“Excuse me, darling, you’d be the first to claim we violated the Nazis’ civil rights by making the building too difficult to break in to,” I tell him.

“You’re actually denying him freedom of speech. Freedom of expression.”

“You’d get this guy off?”

“Nah. I want to fry the bastard.” He rubs Zosia behind the ears. “Woodja woodja woodja.”

“You’re the voice of the downtrodden. The defender of the oppressed, the victimized, the unwashed masses.”

“Oh, you guys,” says Missy, smiling.

“Yeah, but you’re a dear friend,” he says. “You catch him on video, I say screw the trial. Crucify him. Howsat? Howsat feel?” Zosia loves him madly. “I’d love to get a dog. Missy is not a dog person.”

“Well. .” she hedges, glancing at me. She is even more beautiful, I think, than Chas’s earlier, dumped fiancée, the Senator’s Wife in the looking-down-on-me photo. “This one’s really cute, though,” she says. “I could have one like this.”

“There isn’t another one like this,” he tells her.

“That’s very true. She’s ethereal,” I say.

“Terribly ethereal,” he agrees.

“I’m knitting her a sweater,” I announce.

“You are? That’s so adorable!” Missy smiles at him, smiles at me. She is happy at becoming dear friends with Chas’s dear friend and her dear little dog.

Chas follows me into the kitchen for more chips, the entire basket of which he and I have devoured but Missy hasn’t touched. He hops up to sit on the counter while I tear open a fresh bag.

“You know, the comps on this place have already gone up,” I tell him. “It’s already worth maybe thirty thousand more than I paid.”

“The perfect time to buy,” he says. “You are very wise. You made a fucking brilliant choice.”

As I pass with the basket he catches me within the V of his legs; I stop, and his knees tighten slightly at either side of my waist. I look down at the chips and he tugs me forward, rests his chin on top of my head. We stay this way for a moment, but I don’t know what this is. Other than exactly a moment I wanted, and another thing to hate him for.

“Hey, you guys?” we hear Missy call. He takes his time releasing me, then lets me go ahead of him into the living room.

“OKAY, SO, THEnext thing, you gotta set the timer right,” Cliff tells us. Cliff is our surveillance specialist. He has installed a fake fire detector — we had been given a choice of fake fire detector, fake briefcase, or fake teddy bear — in the lobby, its tiny hidden camera cued on the bulletin board and wired to a monitor hidden in the storage room. “It tells you the date and time, shows it right on the video. Important for when you go to court.” LouAnn and I nod, take notes. “How many times this goon show up?”