Close Your Eyes

9

The Cleveland Greyhound station was located on Chester Avenue, which sounded quaint but was not. From a grimy booth (why—really, why, did people feel compelled to stick their used chewing gum on pay phones?), Sylvia decided to call her own cell and check for messages. If she dialed the number and hit the pound key and her password, she could hear the messages without making the phone ring on the kitchen counter. What was Ray doing now, she wondered—had he gone to the club to look for her? Most likely, he was fixing a drink, settling into his La-Z-Boy recliner and flipping through the channels, resting his drink on top of his large belly. It was disgusting—revolting! A stomach big enough to rest a cocktail on!

As she dialed, Sylvia watched a throng of people smoking. They were confined to a glass-walled smokers’ area but seemed genial enough, lighting each other’s cigarettes and smiling. Sylvia smoked sometimes after a few glasses of wine. But that was over, too: the smoking and the wine both, for a while. There was a woman with a baby in the smokers’ area. The woman held the baby with her free arm. It was wearing a blue outfit, so perhaps it was a boy. If Sylvia had a girl, she’d let the girl wear blue, too, whatever she wanted. But the child would have to eat healthily. And not too much TV, for sure. Books, lots of books. Sylvia smiled at the thought of a plump child in her lap, pointing to pictures of animals in a book.

As promised, Victoria had called back, full of apologies and empty promises (“a girls’ weekend” probably wasn’t what she needed, Sylvia thought). Sylvia’s boss had checked in, wondering if she had swine flu.

Sylvia erased both messages. She decided she was hungry for a midnight snack. There was a Bob’s Big Boy adjacent to the station, with a plaque reading PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF. When a sleepy waitress with lots of mascara came over, Sylvia said, “I’ll have the Brawny Lad burger with onion rings. And just some lemonade. No, you know, make it the Super Big Boy. I’m really hungry, because I’m with child.”

“Are you, now?” said the woman.

“Yes,” said Sylvia. “Is that how you say it? ‘With child’?”

“I don’t think so,” said the waitress. “But I don’t know, I guess you can say it however you want.”

“You’re the first person I’ve told,” said Sylvia.

“Okay,” said the waitress.

“I don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl,” said Sylvia.

“I’d say boy,” said the waitress.

“Really? How can you tell?”

“I’m just guessing,” said the waitress.

“A boy,” said Sylvia. Wonder ran like water from her scalp to her toes. “A boy,” she said, more quietly.

“I’m going to give you a slice of pie on the house,” said the waitress. “As long as nobody sees me take it.”

“Thank you,” said Sylvia. “That’s really nice of you.”

“I can just say I dropped it on the floor and threw it out,” said the waitress. “It’s no big deal.”

“I appreciate it,” said Sylvia.

“There’s this thing you can do with a wedding ring on a string,” said the waitress. “It’ll tell you boy or girl for sure. But I guess neither one of us has a ring at the moment.”

“Right,” said Sylvia. “That’s true.”

“I was married once,” said the waitress. “But anyway.”

Sylvia couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so she looked down at her place mat.

“I’ll put your order in,” said the waitress.

“Thanks,” said Sylvia. She looked out at the rain and thought about a boy. Charles, she thought. Benjamin. Scott. Jennings. She had never been so happy in her life.

When she was so full she could barely speak, Sylvia went back to the station and boarded the next bus, for the last leg of the journey. Thankfully, there was a row she could claim for herself, and she stretched out, yawning.

She daydreamed about her mother. Pauline would come home from work at Tiffany and put on her bathrobe. If Sylvia rubbed her feet, Pauline would stay still and talk to Sylvia. In the overheated bus, seven hours from Manhattan, Sylvia remembered her mother’s favorite story. “I was so young, so full of hope,” Pauline would begin.

Pauline bought the green dress during her lunch hour, eating her ham and cheese sandwich as she walked back to work. She had stored the sandwich in her handbag; the slice of American cheese and the butter were soft. After she finished, she shook the waxed paper and folded it, slipping it into her bag to use the next day. Then Pauline thought about Izaan Mahdian and what she had to tell him, and she threw away the waxed paper, letting it fall to the sidewalk, thinking that perhaps she’d never have to pack a sandwich again.

Some of the girls were standing outside as Pauline approached the store, and red-haired Carole said, “Well, la-di-da! Who’s shopping at Saks?”

“Special occasion,” Pauline said, giving them what she hoped was a mysterious smile and slipping into the building. All afternoon, as girls like her (or not like her—girls like she wanted to be, girls who’d never been to Brooklyn or Queens, never even been south of the Empire State Building) chose engagement rings, and men like Izaan bought cuff links and gold watches, she allowed herself to dream of being on the other side of the glass counter.

Izaan was meeting her at the Carlyle Hotel at six. She had told him it was very important, and he had raised his eyebrows and said couldn’t she tell him important things right there, in his bed? He was brash, proud of his body, unashamed of sex, though he was betrothed to a woman in Egypt—an arranged marriage—one that would unite two powerful families.

Pauline and Izaan had met when Izaan had bought the girl—her name was Dalia—a diamond solitaire and had it sent to Cairo, Egypt, insured for the full value, nestled in a midnight-colored velvet box. Now that Pauline had triumphed, she felt sorry for Dalia. And she wanted to deliver the news to Izaan over cocktails at Bemelmans bar, her collarbones exposed in a green silk dress.

There was no time to return home to Brooklyn; Pauline waited nervously for everyone to leave so she could change her clothes in the employee bathroom. Usually, she left as soon as her shift was over, and a few girls glanced at her curiously as she read The Waves in the corner of the smoker, uncomfortable in a folding chair. Her heart was racing and she could barely concentrate on the words before her: “I love,” said Susan, “and I hate. I desire one thing only. My eyes are hard.”

Carole was the last to depart. “What are you doing here, Pauline?” she said rudely, her hand on a cocked hip. She had put on a new outfit, too: a miniskirt and a tight poorboy sweater.

“I’m reading,” said Pauline, staring at the page. Izaan was probably finishing up his last call of the day, stacking his papers, rising and taking his hat from the coat tree in his office. Was he thinking of her, anticipating their kiss?

“Bookworm,” said Carole jovially. “Want to join me for a drink at P. J. Clarke’s? Me and some of the girls.”

“No, thank you,” said Pauline. “I’d better get home.” She turned the page. “I just want to finish this chapter.” She thought of Izaan putting on his overcoat, wrapping a scarf around his neck. He was tall, with wiry brown hair. He dipped his comb in lotion in the mornings, slicking his hair back, pressing it into place with his palm. Like Pauline, he was a product of the fifties. He wasn’t growing a mustache or wearing bell-bottom pants. He wanted a wife in a bra, a wife who would happily stay home and cook for him. He’d complained about Dalia. “She wants to go to university, but what the hell for?” he’d said. Pauline had nodded mightily, sipping her root beer.

“Well,” said Carole at last, “see you.”

“Yes,” said Pauline, “see you.” But in her rib cage she held the hope, warm and fragile as a new-hatched bird, that this would be the last time she ever saw Carole, that after tonight she would move into Izaan’s apartment and he would not allow her to set foot in Tiffany & Co. again. He would buy her jewelry from somewhere else—Cartier, maybe, or Bulgari. (And what would her mother do without Pauline to care for her? She’d have to make the best of it, Pauline decided definitively, grimly.)

In the small employee bathroom, which reeked of hair spray and Bon Ami, Pauline took off her panty girdle and sensible shoes. The Saks bag was filled with tissue paper; it rustled as Pauline drew the silk from its trappings. The dress slid over her skin as it had in the store, settling perfectly into place. It was sleeveless, with a jewel neckline and a small bow at the center. The skirt flared out from her still-small waist, and there were two slanted pockets covered with fabric buttons. It had cost a month’s salary—an expensive bet, and the first real gamble of her life. Pauline reached behind to grasp the metal zipper. She tugged, but could get it only to her shoulder blades. “Damn it to hell!” she whispered, yanking, but the zipper did not rise.

In her stocking feet, Pauline pushed open the bathroom door a few inches. Maybe someone still remained, someone who could keep a secret. It would be a relief to confide in one of the girls, to have a friend. An only child, Pauline had always held her thoughts—and her suburban fantasies—secret. The world she read about in books, a sunlit world, clear, full of loving glances, fresh-cut flowers, and new appliances, seemed more real to her than her mother snoring a paper-thin wall away, the clank of their ancient heater, the musty blankets on her bed.

But the smoker was empty. Pauline gathered her things and jammed them in her locker. She put on her coat and opened the box that held the emerald shoes she’d bought to match the dress. She took a last look in the mirror (she wore hardly any makeup; Izaan had told her he liked “a fresh girl”) and shut her eyes, saying goodbye to the Pauline who stood barefoot on dilapidated tile, her beautiful future in front of her, a shining road to the Upper East Side or even Westchester.

The door banged open, and Pauline screamed. “Jesus!” said one of the cleaning crew, a heavyset man with wide brown eyes. He held a mop in one hand; the other he put to his chest. “You scared me,” he said.

“I’m so sorry,” said Pauline. She bit her lip.

The man nodded warily. “I’ll come back,” he said.

“Is there any way …” said Pauline, taking her coat off. “I can’t zip this.”

“I don’t think so, miss,” said the man.

“Please.” Pauline grabbed his upper arm; it was firm and strong. He smelled of toothpaste. “Please,” she said. “I’m late. It’s very important. Please, just zip me up!” She let go and whirled around. She could hear him exhale, and she felt the cool touch of his fingers. Carefully—tenderly, even—he raised the zipper, then latched the clasp at the top. For a moment there was silence. Pauline could not bring herself to face him. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

“You’re welcome,” said the man, not moving.

For the first time since the moment when the doctor first told her, his brow creased, his gray eyes both worried and sad, Pauline felt ashamed.

“There she is!” cried Izaan in his elegant accent, standing up but not relinquishing his drink. Pauline walked toward him, hoping she looked radiant. He embraced her, then set down his glass and put his cigarette in his mouth to help her remove her coat, which he handed to a passing waiter. “Let me look at you,” he said.

Pauline tilted her head as she had practiced in her childhood bedroom, peering at him sideways, letting her hair fall forward, a glossy curtain. “You’re beautiful,” said Izaan.

Still silent, she sat down, moving her shoulders back, exposing the hollow of her throat. A waiter appeared, and Izaan ordered a Dubonnet on the rocks for Pauline and another Manhattan for himself. Then he sat back in his seat. “So what’s the big occasion?” he said.

“Do you like my dress?” said Pauline.

“I already said,” said Izaan, lighting another Gauloises Brunes with a match, “you look beautiful.”

Pauline glanced around the bar, pierced with a sudden terror. It was too late, the doctor had told her, and she would have to go through with it, whatever happened.

“See the ceiling?” said Izaan. Pauline looked up. “Twenty-four-karat gold,” he said, exhaling smoke. “Can you believe it?”

Pauline nodded amiably. She was immune to gold, sick of the luxe and shiny. She just wanted to put her feet up and relax. Around the bar, Ludwig Bemelmans had painted playful scenes—bunnies smoking cigars, giraffes in Central Park, even a few portraits of his most famous creation (and Pauline’s favorite character), the impish Madeline.

Izaan followed her gaze to the row of Parisian schoolgirls painted on the wall. “They say he did all this to pay for his hotel tab.”

“I wish I were talented,” said Pauline.

“You are, honey,” said Izaan, but he did not elaborate.

The waiter brought their drinks, and Pauline took a small sip. “I bought this dress at Saks Fifth Avenue,” she said.

“Did you, now?” said Izaan.

She looked at him, his clean jawline, features sharp and distinct, unlike the melted features of her mother and their neighbors. At first his dark coloring had seemed dangerous to her, but now she thought he was perfect. “Something has happened,” she said. She took another mouthful of the Dubonnet, fortification. “Something wonderful,” she added.

“Hmm?” said Izaan, though Pauline was sure he had heard her. From the Café Carlyle, on the other side of the hotel, she could faintly hear Bobby Short playing Cole Porter songs on the piano. “Hmm?” repeated Izaan.

“I’m going to have a baby,” said Pauline. She tried to infuse the words with joy, and gripped his hand tightly. She heard the faint notes of “In the Still of the Night.”

Izaan stared at her. He stubbed out his cigarette. He appeared to gather his thoughts, and then he said in a honeyed tone, “No, Pauline. No, you’re not.”

“I am,” said Pauline, her voice quavering.

“It’s okay,” said Izaan soothingly. “Just stay calm. We can work this out, don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. Of you. I’ll take care of you.”

Pauline felt the bird in her chest begin to stir. “Really?” she said. “Really, Izaan?”

“It’s a medical procedure,” said Izaan. “It’s very safe.”

At first, Pauline thought the sound in her ears was a drum, pounding out a beat. She looked around to find its location as it thudded too loud, causing her head to hurt, an impending migraine. But then she realized it was just her own slow heart.

“It’s too late,” said Pauline. “We’re having a baby.”

Izaan stood. “You’re having a baby,” he said. He patted her on the shoulder, turned his gaze from one side of the room to the other, coughed. “I’ll give you money,” he said quietly. “I’m a good man. But that’s all I can do.”

Pauline watched him as he walked to the bartender, handed him a fold of bills. She felt drugged, immobile, her head pounding. By the time the bartender turned back to give Izaan his change, he was gone.

Pauline stood up and ran to the hotel lobby. Through the glass windows, she saw Izaan hail a taxi. “Izaan, wait!” she cried, pushing open the heavy door.

The taxi was still for a moment, and Pauline thought that he would get back out, turn to her.

“I thought he would break off the engagement with Dalia,” Pauline would whisper. Sylvia’s mother stared into the Eleventh Street living room, but Sylvia knew she was seeing Madison Avenue as the cab pulled away.

Pauline watched until Izaan was out of sight, she told her daughter. “It was then,” she’d say to Sylvia sadly, “that I understood how it would be.”

Sylvia’s father had sent the antique jade earrings from Harry Winston the following week, along with a check. Pauline showed Sylvia the yellowed card: I wish I could be the kind of man you deserve, lovely Pauline. These are to match your green dress. Best wishes, Izaan.

The bus veered to the edge of the road, and the loud sound of the rumble strip woke Sylvia. She sat up, blinking. The bus headlights illuminated the Pennsylvania welcome station, but the driver did not stop. Sylvia put her hand on her stomach. As her baby grew, there was less and less room inside Sylvia for secrets.