Marie-Helene Bertino - Safe as Houses

“I’ve seen it before,” he said. “In my particular line of work, I see people like you all the time.”

His tone annoyed me and I was beginning to feel light-headed. “What am I, your fifth girl this week?”

“No.” His voice was earnest. “More like twenty-fifth.”

“I liked you better when you were sweet, Foster. Then I could project my own feelings on you and you could never be wrong. I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but I want to think you are showing me things you don’t normally show people because you have an innate sense that I am special.” I can be a real snake when I’m angry.

He said, “Calm down.”

“Even if you’re not showing me anything you wouldn’t show Jane Smith down the street, you’ve got to make me believe you are. I give you permission to snow me. Only, do a good job, will you?”

On the last word, I slammed my hand down on the table, making everything on it shake. The jaw of the miniature salesman unhinged. The day I helped my father carry two-by-fours , it said. The salesman reached for it and tried to close the lid. But it was stuck and went on saying, The day I helped my father carry two-by-fours, The day I helped my…

“Understood,” he said.

“I’m going to ask you again. Think before you answer. Am I your fifth girl this week?”

The figurine said, The day I helped my father carry two-by-fours — I helped my father carry two-by-fours — my father carry two-by-fours—

“No,” the salesman said, struggling with the jewelry box, looking scared. “This is my first time.”

He got the lid to stay down, and the voice stopped.

“Good.” I knew he was lying, but I felt more peaceful. “Better. Now, I don’t believe your crystals, so let’s move on.”

He took a long time finishing the last cookie, keeping his eyes on me as he swallowed. Then he asked if he could use the plate. I knew whatever was next was going to be a real firework. Salesmen save the best for last.

“By all means,” I said. “I feel like this is about to get good.” He took the plate and for a moment held it in the mouth of the suitcase, a place I couldn’t see. When he put it back on the table, there was something on it.

“Is that what I think it is?” I said.

He sounded sad. “Yes.”

“I’m only going to ask you this once,” I said, not looking down. “Do you offer this to everyone?”

“No.” His tone was soft again, little-boy sweet. “Promise.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Everyone needs different things, Elaine. I adjust my pitch accordingly.”

He used my name, so I believed him. I looked.

He said, “This is my heart.”

If it wasn’t a heart, it certainly looked like one, or pictures I had seen on grade school science walls. A bruised-looking, swollen red apple that moved in increments across the plate. I could make out each ventricle, pulsing with pride or strain. The connecting arteries and veins were snipped and grasped at the air like tiny hands.

“How are you breathing without your heart?” I said.

“I get by.”

“We’re quite a pair. Mr. No Heart and Miss Ribbon Wrists.”

He didn’t laugh. His heart was on a plate, after all. He pushed it toward me, for my review.

“Your heart seems to have blackened here and there (I pointed with a pencil); are those blockages?”

“I am not a healthy man,” he said. “I smoke. I eat terribly. I don’t exercise. I am pessimistic. When an old woman needs directions on the train, I don’t help. I want to, but I’m shy. By the time I gather courage, someone else is already helping.”

“You’re betting on a maternal instinct,” I said. “Why would I want to buy an unhealthy heart?”

“I’m not betting on anything, Elaine. I’m just making an offer.”

We sat for a moment, his heart between us, beating.

I thought of my own heart, which had always been a traitor. Abandoning me at night to lay bets on cockfights and smoke filterless cigarettes. Hoisting me up the legs of whatever man was nearby. Holding in itself dangerous canals and thruways. Clogged or pessimistic, his heart would be trading up.

He must have sensed the tenuousness of my decision. “I think you need it,” he said, to kick it toward yes.

“I probably do,” I said. “Is this really your heart?”

“Are you really going to kill yourself?”

“Sure,” I said. “Yeah.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.” Now his face was betraying him. He leaned forward and stared at me, willing me to be a normal person. “Don’t,” he said.

I said, “Are you in love with me yet?”

He pushed himself back in his chair, disgusted.

The phone rang. I went into the kitchen, yanked the cord from the wall, and threw it like a snake into the corner.

When I returned, he was standing to leave.

“Are we done?” I said. “I haven’t made up my mind.”

He took out one packet of bath salts, my will to live, and showed it to me. Then he laid it where his suitcase had been. “This is free with consultation.”

“This was a consultation? Who was consulting who?”

He took his sob story and his heart, the jewelry box, the plate, and placed each delicately back into the compartments of his suitcase. He snapped the lid shut and crossed to the door.

“Nice flower,” he said, pointing to the geranium.

“Hey,” I said. “How did you do that? Hey,” I said. “Hang on. Foster.”

He turned around and we regarded each other. I wanted to give him something — an insult or an apology. I felt he had come for one thing and was leaving with another. I am used to doing that to people.

He extended his hand and I shook it: true equals.

“Where will you go next?” I said. “Be honest.”

He said he had a list of people.

“That’s so sad,” I said. “So damn sad.”

He shook his head, “It’s important.”

“You can come back and visit if you want.”

He gave me a sorrowful look.

“We could be friends.” My voice sounded desperate.

He said, “You should get that. You can’t cut people off forever.”

“Get what?” I said.

“Your phone.”

I listened. Nothing.

I said, “That would be a fancy trick, considering I just unplug—”

Then the sound of the phone ringing.

“Good-bye, Elaine.” he said. “Try to get outside. You deserve part of this beautiful day.”

He walked down the path and turned on his heel. Behind me the phone rang, possessed. Each time it did, I felt more lonely. In front of me, I watched Foster Grass stop to let a little girl on a tricycle ride by. As she passed, he gave her an approving nod. She looked back at him to accept this nod and reward him with her full face. Then Foster straightened and continued down the sidewalk. He had long legs but walked in slow, shuddering steps. For a moment, I was filled with a sense of deep regret and thought of calling him back. But I know how that goes. You can scream until your throat is bloody. You can never call anyone back.

I was the one without powers, the keeper of notes, but I was the one with a car. Back then it was a gleaming Toyota, given to me by my father upon acceptance at Vanilla University, a leafy and religious school whose students were voted best-looking every year in Hot magazine.

Now it is a pile of tin with no back bumper and a broken headlight. On the morning of the hummingbirds, Charles for the umpteenth time insists I junk it. Next to his BMW in the garage, it is an ugly scraping thing — a pirate with one bad eye. We live on Dorothyville Road near Vanilla University. There are two Dorothyville Roads in Vanilla; ours is the wider. Charles says he will buy me a new car; I insist I need that one. We argue on the way to the mall.