Anybody Out There?
Page 65

Oppressed as I was by heat and grief, the seconds inched by and eventually I said to him, The grief doesn’t seem to be killing me but the heat might. So I made myself stand up and look for the AC. It was on the highest shelf in the room. Even standing on a chair, I couldn’t reach it, and even if I could, it was too heavy for me to move.
Ornesto would have to help me get it down. I knew he was home because for the last ten minutes he’d been singing “Diamonds Are Forever” at the top of his lungs.
He opened the door in gold lamé shorts and flowery Birkenstocks.
“You look lovely,” I said.
“Come in,” he invited. “Let’s sing a song.”
I shook my head. “I need a man.”
Ornesto opened his eyes wide. “Well, where are we going to find one of them, honey?”
“You’ll have to do.”
“I dunno,” he said doubtfully. “What does this ‘man’ have to do?”
“Lift my air conditioner down from a high shelf and carry it over to the window.”
“You know what? Let’s get Bubba from upstairs to help us.”
“Bubba?”
“Or something. He’s a big guy. With bad clothes. He won’t care if he sweats all over them. C’mon.” Ornesto led the way upstairs and knocked on number ten’s door.
A deep voice called suspiciously, “Who is it?”
Ornesto and I looked at each other and got an unexpected fit of the giggles. “Anna,” I called, in a strangled voice. “Anna from number six.” I nudged Ornesto.
“And Ornesto from number eight.”
“Whaddaya want? To invite me to a garden party?” Pronounced “gooah-d’n paw-dee.” New York humor, see. That gave us the excuse to laugh.
“No, sir,” I said. “I was wondering if you could help me move my air conditioner.”
The door moved back and a saggy fiftysomething man in his vest stood there. “You need a bit of muscle?”
“Er, yes.”
“Long time since a woman said that to me. Lemme get my keys.”
The three of us trooped down the stairs and into my apartment, where I pointed out the AC high up on the shelf.
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Bubba said.
“I’ll help,” Ornesto promised.
“Sure you will, son.” But he said it nicely.
Bubba climbed up on the chair, which Ornesto made a big show of holding steady. He also provided a stream of encouraging stuff, like “You got it. Yip, yeah…nearly, that’s iiiit, just a bit further…”
Then the AC was down and was hefted over to the window, plugged in, and—like a miracle—mercifully cold air was blowing into the apartment. The gratitude!
I thanked the man effusively and asked, “Would you like a beer, sir?”
“Eugene.” He stuck out his hand.
“Anna.”
“A beer would be appreciated.”
Luckily I had one. One. Literally. God knows how long it had been there.
As Eugene leaned against the kitchen counter and sucked down his possibly out-of-date beer, he asked, “What happened to the guy who lived here? He move out or something?”
A stricken hiatus followed. Ornesto and I looked at each other.
“No,” I said. “He was my husband.”
I paused. I couldn’t bring myself to say the D-word: it was taboo. Everyone sympathized on my “tragedy” or my “sad loss,” but no one would say “death,” which often filled me with a terrible compulsion to say loudly, “Actually Aidan died. He’s dead. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, DEAD. There now! It’s only a word—nothing to be frightened of!”
But I never said anything; it wasn’t their fault. We get no lessons in dealing with death, even though it happens to everyone, even though it’s the only thing in life we can depend on.
I took a deep breath and flung the D-word into the middle of the floor. “He died.”
“Aw, I’m so sorry, kid,” Eugene said. “My wife died, too. I’ve been a widower for nearly five years.”
Oh my God. I’d never thought of it like that before. “I’m a widow.” I started to laugh.
Strange as it may seem, it was the first time I’d used that word to describe myself. The image I had of “widows” was of ancient, gnarled crones wearing black mantillas. The only thing I had in common with them was the black mantilla, except that mine was pink.
I laughed and laughed until tears ran down my face. But it was the wrong sort of laughter and the boys were clearly aghast.
Eugene gathered me to him, then Ornesto put his arms around the two of us, a strange, well-meaning group hug. “It gets better, you know,” Eugene promised me. “It really does get better.”
47
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Job!
Ashamed to tell you, Anna. Trailing Detta Big, most boring job of all bloody time! You could set watch by routine. Every morning, ten to ten, she leaves house to walk to ten o’clock mass. Every shagging morning. Can’t believe it—she’s from crime dynasty, up to her neck in extortion and God knows what else and she goes to mass every morning. Then goes to newsagent, buys twenty Benson & Hedges and assorted other stuff. Sometimes bag of cola cubes, sometimes new Hello!, once bag of rubber bands. Then she goes home, puts kettle on, makes tea, and sits in front of telly, smoking and staring into space.
One morning after mass, she went to newsagent’s AND chemist, where she bought corn plasters. Thought excitement would kill me.
One afternoon, she went out in Beemer and I was praying she was meeting Racey O’Grady. But only going to the chiropodist, obviously she has trouble with corns, then home, kettle, tea, smoking, staring into space.
Another afternoon, went for walk on pier. Fast walker, despite corns. When she got to end, sat on bench, smoked cigarette, stared into space, then came back. Nothing sinister. Just getting exercise. Although some might consider that sinister.
Looks like she’d be good at cards, like she’d fleece you. Loads of feathery lines around her mouth, from all the fags. Spends fair amount of time renewing lip liner. Fond of the sun, she’s got that leathery look. But don’t get me wrong. Attractive woman, considering her age and all.