Chapter 10
She woke rested and expectant. Sitting in front of the small vanity she hurried through her simple make up. It felt strange to want, almost need to go to work - even if it was only to spend time at the canal. To think of the bench was like champagne to her. It was a crazy way to describe a park bench but to go and see him there or his poetry excited her, raising her pulse like bubbles in champagne. She would meet him soon. She felt it. She knew it. They would have so much to discuss – maybe not the ice cream in the gallery right away - that would be a future option.
She found it scrunched in the back of the drawer. It was a crime really. Her sister in law had given it to her years ago. She said on the farm she would never use it so it might as well go to Jenny. But Jenny had never been bold enough to wear it and stuffed it in the back where it remained until today. The weather was warm enough and would allow her to cycle as well. Her sister in law had been a buyer in New York before she fell in love with her brother and traded the bustle and taxis for bullshit and teats. Jenny never understood that. But she had been good enough to pass on some of her wardrobe, which was far too flash for Jenny, except maybe this one.
It was an Issey Miyake skapan - amazing design really. It was made of his famous pleated material and had one leg as a long below the knee skirt and the other leg as an ankle hugging trouser. She slipped it on. The fabric seemed very thin. She checked in the mirror. It was alright, you couldn’t see through them. The skapan was fun, it was a kind of safe, sexy, sophistication. She should have worn it before. It was black so she cold wear her dust pink curry cardigan. Thank God it had come clean. Then she needed a satin camisole, she had one somewhere and she was ready to go. She couldn’t find her hair bob nor a clip so she just combed it out, letting the sandy brown mane fall across her shoulders.
She cycled at her own pace and was surprised as a few of the lycras said hello and smiled, one even gave her a theatre pamphlet. He was passing them out as he rode. She rode past Benedetto’s and by chance Tony was outside.
“Hi ya Jenny.”
“Hi Tony,” she waved as she rode by. “Thanks for the bagel yesterday it was great.” He said something but she was too far to hear clearly. Nice guy Tony, always polite to her, well, except for yesterday when for some reason his tongue took the day off from his brain.
She ran for the elevator and someone held it for her. Thankfully it was not Robert Coley. In fact it was full of women. Jenny recognized a few of them but didn’t know anyone.
“Excuse me are those Miyake pleats?”
“Yes.”
“They’re fantastic, I have a couple. Where did you get yours?”
“Tokyo.” She had no idea why she lied but to say it was from a milkmaid in Wyoming seemed just as far fetched.
The woman wanted to speak more but Jenny’s floor arrived and she was able to escape.
As she stepped out and moved toward her desk she heard Cindy immediately from behind. She was standing there with a coffee. “Mm, mm, mm. You look nice today girl.”
“Thanks, I ah, never wore these before. Got them from my sister in Wyoming.”
“If they wear clothes that expensive on the farms, I am in the wrong trade. Bernadette, come have a look at our little Jen.”
“Would that be Jen the ass kicker?” She appeared behind the tall black girl with her morning coffee in hand. Both of them drank way too much coffee.
“Hi Bernadette, look sorry about the other day.”
“Don’t be, we love to pry.” Bernadette grabbed the skapan and rubbed it between her fingers. “I love that, what is it? It’s half skirt, half pants. It’s so cool.” Bernadette had knelt down to examine the cut of the outfit.
“Bernadette it’s by Miyake, it’s like a months salary.” Cindy said. “They wear them on the farms in Wyoming.”
“What?” Bernadette was totally confused.
“It’s a joke.” said Jenny.
Cindy waved a finger as she crossed away. “Only the Wyoming bit, not the salary.”
The morning passed swiftly and Jenny left a few minutes early in the hope of seeing him. The elevator stopped at the ground floor and she dashed out bumping right into Robert Coley and two other young suits.
“Whoa, it’s supposed to be floats like a butterfly stings like a bee not rages like a tank.”
“Sorry, sorry Robert. I was going to-” Jenny wanted to slip away from him as quickly as possible.
“Guys this is Jenny. Jenny, my squash partners Vince and Peter from the fourth floor.”
“We’ve already met,” said Vince. “I recognized the pink top, though without the flower basket it was difficult.”
“Flower basket?” Jenny said.
Robert jumped into the conversation. “You know, on your bike, the silly little plastic things stuck on the front.”
“It’s a bit retro.” Vince admitted.
“You mean Granny.” Robert said.
“There is nothing Granny about it Robert.” she said tersely. God, she wished he would piss her off!
“Oops sorry.” Robert held his hands up in submission. “Look we’re going to Claudio’s for lunch. Will you join us?”
“What a bumblebee that drives a granny tank? I don’t think so.”
Peter stepped forward. Both he and Vince were quite handsome. “Please Jenny, we’re not all idiots like him and it would keep Robert’s arcane sense of humor at bay.”
“Well I’d love to save you from that –”
“Hey, hey” Robert protested.
“But I am meeting someone, sorry.”
“Another time perhaps?” Vince asked hopefully.
“Yes.”
There was an odd pause as the men tried to casually size up Jenny as well as discreetly leave. The three of them left but Robert took one step back toward her. He pointed first to himself then to her. “Caterpillars and a butterfly, you sure you won’t join us?”
She thought he was trying to be nice but wasn’t sure. It all seemed a bit like yesterday’s set up. “I’m quite sure, thank you Robert.”
He nodded, obviously disappointed and the men hurried off without a second thought.
She walked down to the bench. What if she missed him again? Perhaps she should have gone with the three guys. She never got asked to lunch, maybe twice in five years.
She looked down the slight slope toward the bench as soon as she crossed the street, hoping to see someone drop off the letter down at the bench. Again there was no one around the canal path - no one at all. She hurried down the slope to the canal.
Like a car stalling her pace jolted to a stutter when she neared her favorite spot. There was no letter on the bench. The weight of her heart increased as it sank pulling her jaw down and tight, her throat tightened slightly. How could he not come, today of all days? Everyone said she looked nice and he was nowhere to be found. She searched under and around the bench but there was nothing. She'd actually arrived on time even with the delay caused by Robert and co.
Her mind searched for answers and she realized that this might be an opportunity to see him. He could also have been late. She backed off about twenty steps to a tree and leaned against the trunk. She waited at least ten minutes, but nothing happened. The canal was getting busy and she didn’t want to leave the bench, at the same time she didn’t want to scare him off by sitting or appearing to wait. Maybe he wasn’t coming anymore. She wandered down to the bench, one last glance and turned left, away from her bench. She walked the twenty meters toward the next bench. Once so high, she now felt everything plummeting around her. It had all been folly. Perhaps Charles was right, a ‘cold fish’. She looked up from the gravel path, she wouldn’t cry. There could be lots of reasons. Ideas flashed by, panicked images crossed her eyes closing in her mind. It was a dusty swirl of pressure to find something to hold on to. She was always shafted like this.
About ten steps away she s
aw it - there was no mistaking the rumpled paper. It was positioned exactly in the middle the same as the last. A middle aged, portly man, reading a newspaper, was moving toward her and the next bench. It looked as if he might sit on the bench and then she would never get the letter. She had to beat him. He was only half the distance away. She sprinted for the bench and slid onto it snatching the letter as she rocked to a halt in the middle of the bench. She had it! She looked up with victory at the startled suit.
The shocked man straightened and looked at her as if she were a lunatic. "No need to fear dear, there are many benches, it’s a big park.” Jenny said nothing, just held tightly onto the letter and stared defiantly at the rotund suit. Bemused at having to find another bench the portly man moved off and Jenny relaxed. She took out her UHU glue and notebook.
She pasted the poem into the book. The poem was like the last with a haiku to start followed by some verse but this time there was a set of six rhyming quatrains. It seemed the street poet wrote as he felt without due concern to structure.
LOVE ON APARK BENCH 8
The paths of numerous breezes
Pass by the willow, never broken,
So spirit grows on in doting respect.
My steps have been so many but I can only honor those taken with you, for it is through your unbending purity of spirit that my soul was allowed to blossom to a fruition of knowing love, supported by the strength of a dignity as quiet and awesome as the oceans depth yet as light and playful as the sunbeams dancing on the ocean’s waves, therein my efforts to care for your visage will never be adequate. I will never be adequate to honor the love you have given me.
You have been my crystal stream,
You have been my joyful brook,
You have fulfilled my every dream,
You filled the pages of my heart’s book.
You came to me in beauty’s silence,
You came to me softly like wind on sand,
You came to me in sun cast brilliance,
You came with love’s open hand.
You held me through my dark fears,
You held me through the pain filled night,
You held me, stopping all doubt’s tears,
You held me till all was right.
You made me want to live,
You made me want to learn,
You made me learn to give,
You made me for you to yearn.
If you should leave my soul will not grieve.
If you should leave my heart will not die.
For in my heart, yours I did weave,
For in my eye your beauty shall ever fly.
Leave me not in sadness,
Leave me not in pain,
Leave me washed in gladness,
For soon we shall join again.
There was a sting in her thoughts as the leather cover slapped closed. It was obvious to her beyond any doubt that she was a voyeur to another love. She was an intruder on someone else’s special sharing. Was she not pathetic? She could not get a man to ask her out. No date for five years. Was she a bookworm, a termite, happily ingesting a library of books?
She stood staring at the hot gravel of the path. Why did he leave them for her to find? It was on a different bench but that was just today. Other times they had been left specifically for her, well sometimes blown, but otherwise for her. They must have been.
Dazed she listened to the crunch of the hot pebbles as she walked the canal. She could feel men looking at her. She seemed almost distraught. She wasn’t crying, she had no right to cry and yet she felt very alone. She was more alone now than before they met. They met? She had never seen him, not even glimpsed a receding figure and yet she was sure he had wanted to speak to her. Her wandering took her back to her office and she went up the stairway. She didn’t want to meet anyone. Her thoughts, conversation and gaze were consumed by the cold cement tiled steps, they were the only ears to hear her. She moved quietly not wanting anyone to see her. It was funny she thought, everyone had commented on what she wore, yet she was a wasteland, a desolate solitary bench. She wondered if her life would forever be a cold empty glass. She returned unnoticed to her desk perhaps everyone was still at lunch. She hunched over her desk. Who had she been kidding? The image of being a caterpillar inside a butterfly outfit crossed her eyes. You could not be a butterfly just by putting on a few clothes. It was such a mistake. She laid her head on her arms.
It was a touch on her shoulder that made her lift her head. She must have fallen asleep. Her eyes felt puffy, perhaps she had been crying, she wasn’t sure - she hoped not because it would be more ammunition for that prat Charles.
The touch was from Terry. He had a cup of tea in his hand. “Two sugars right?”
She nodded. “Thanks.”
“Did you have any lunch?”
She shook her head. “I don’t feel like eating anything.”
“I’m not going to get something for you to eat. I’m going to get some chocolate. Food is crap when there are tears involved.” He was actually a really dear guy. Of all the men she knew, this one guy, the only gay on the entire floor, was the only one who never made fun of her, mocked her or leered at her. He leaned closer and whispered. “Stay here, no one even knows you’re back. Just relax and sulk. Every love has to flow somewhere. Love is like the sun.” Jenny looked at the little man, her eyes felt like lemons. “You know, goes down, but comes up again. No biggy. Wait ‘til you’ve had some chocolate before you try to think too much.” He left. She took out the notebook and opened it to the last page she had pasted. She stared at it unthinking.
A Snickers bar and a Reese’s Pieces appeared at her elbow but no Terry. He must have slipped off. She would thank him later. Now she wanted to review the poems.
She had stayed late to make sure everyone had gone. No one noticed she was there all afternoon. Things were back the way they used to be. Her colleagues left one by one and called out to each other but nothing was said to her. Only Terry came by. He leaned over the partition and squeezed her shoulder. She looked up at him.
He made a frightened face and gestured to her eyes. Her mascara was everywhere. “Don’t stay late. Make sure you get home before the off license closes.”
She smiled and he left. The office was very, very quiet. She slipped the notebook into her bag and headed for the ladies room to repair what little make up she wore.
Terry was right, her face did need repair. She wasn’t aware of having cried so much but the mascara had blurred into a ghoulish circle leaving her looking like Morticia from the Adams family. But then Morticia at least had Herman. The way things were going she would have to settle for the hairy creature ‘thing’ or was that ‘it’? No she was sure ‘it’ was the hand. Even the hand would be okay. It would speed up her typing skills. She’d have to change the name though, maybe she’d call it ‘Lenda’. She smiled to herself - life goes on. She left for the bicycle park.
It stared back at her like a sick rubber sneer. “Shit.” Jenny spat the word downward. The one day that she really wanted to get home and dissolve into a bath of either water or self-pity, either would do, she had a flat tire. She tried to angrily throw the piece of junk back into the stand when he reached around and pulled the other bike blocking hers out of the way.
“Hi Jenny, back at work already. Shouldn’t we go home at the end of the day?”
She looked up at the voice, not that many people knew her outside of work. It was Vince, Robert’s friend. “Hi.”
“So you do love your job - if you’re not going home.”
“Can’t.” She wasn't in the mood for sarcasm but smiled meekly at him anyway. “I have a flat.”
“Let’s see.” He looked at it and then at his watch. “I can fix it if you want. It’ll take about fifteen minutes.”
“No, that’s ok, thanks anyway.”
“I have the time. What are you going to do, push it
home?”
“I,uh, hadn’t really thought.” It was the truth, at the moment he arrived she had felt like a crumpled brown paper bag.
“Get a big cup of water or even a pot from the security guard and I’ll start.”
“Really? Thanks Vince.” She hurried off back to the front of the building.
He had already half removed the tube from the tire and was pumping it full of air when she arrived with the small bowl. “Is it sparkling water?”
“Sorry?” Jenny couldn’t understand the importance of sparkling water. She turned back but his voice caught her.
“No, no wait. Forget it, bad joke. I have to find the hole in the water, looking for bubbles and- forget it.” She really had no idea what he was going on about. He found the small hole and patched it in a few minutes then replaced the tube and inflated it.
“There good as new. I hope.”
“I can’t thank you enough. Really Vince can I buy you a drink or something. This old bike is a lifeline for me.” He held his hand up.
“Tell you what next time Robert asks you to join us for lunch, please come. We need to fatten him up cause Pete and I keep getting creamed in squash.”
“Creamed in squash – sounds like lunch to me. You’re on. Next Tuesday?” She couldn't believe she'd said it when it blurted out.
“Yeah sure, that would be great.”
He agreed! Keeping rolling she thought. “I’ll arrange it.”
“Sure.” He held her bike out to her to take and she put her bag into the flowery basket. Jenny didn’t know what else to say so she just smiled and waved goodbye as she pushed it to the exit.
She jumped on her bike and pedaled out across the forecourt still slightly stunned at her own audacity. Vince passed her with a wave at an outrageous speed a few minutes later. Nice guy but with a death wish she thought. As she watched his lycra suit recede it dawned on her. He knew all her movements, even her boss and where she worked. Maybe.
She could hear them as she ascended the first flight of steps. The Viallini’s had no sense of volume when it came to the hallway. Their greetings and goodbyes echoed throughout the building, but at least their words were usually filled with love not anger. Mrs. Viallini had to say goodbye to her granddaughter, who had obviously been with her for the day, at least judging from the enormous bag that Leana was saddled with. Why was it that such small beings always required a huge amount of paraphernalia?
As she approached the last flight of steps she paused and hoped that the departure would soon take place. The babble of Italian and English raged on. Jenny knew that if she tried to cross behind them it would necessitate a 'hello' to the baby. She didn’t mind that, she loved babies, but Mrs. Viallini had a sixth sense. She would know of Jenny's unhappiness and pry out of her that she had somehow lost a love she never had. Jenny decided to slide down the wall and wait near the door. What was a five-minute wait, she had no plans. The cement wall on her bum was cold but welcome. It struck straight through the thin pleated material of the skapan. She had no thoughts, no ideas or fears, she just leaned back against he wall, blank in her disillusion.
After almost ten minutes there seemed to be a summation of sorts and Mrs. Viallini’s door clicked shut. Jenny stood up just as Leana came around the stairs.
She paused and Jenny peered through the bundle of clothes at the blue eyes.
“Can you make it on your own? Let me carry that bag.”
“Thanks, the last thing I need is to fall.” Leana said.
“No problem.” Jenny hoisted the bulky bag off Leana’s shoulder and they went down the last few flights of stairs.
“Sorry for making you wait.”
“No, no I just got home –“ Jenny started.
“I heard the front door click. It must have been fifteen minutes.”
“Ten.” They both laughed. Leana peered down the street for the cab she’d called, but there was no sign of it. She turned back to face Jenny, still holding her bags. “Mama worries about you all the time. She says you need a man. Is that true?”
“I suppose.” Jenny didn't really want to discuss the desert that was her love life on the street with a sexy teenage mother. Life was so cruel sometimes.
“She said she thought you found one, but maybe not eh?”
“Well, it’s difficult.”
“Well mama thinks all young women are her daughters so be quiet going up the stairs or she’ll talk your ear off.”
“That’s okay, but it’d be better if your father would choose a better team than Napoli, they're always losing.”
“You follow football?” Leana's interest seemed to perk up.
“No, just your father’s mood swings, as charted by how desperate your mother is to talk to me.” The cab arrived. Jenny lifted the bags into the trunk.
“Bye Leana.”
“Don’t let her corner you. Italian mother’s, all they do is talk about how much you do or don’t need a man.”
“Thanks Leana.” The cab pulled away and the girl, a mother, almost ten years younger than her faded with a wave. Jenny walked quietly up the stairs.
Jenny was just pushing the key in the lock when Mrs. Viallini poked her head out of her apartment door. Damn, Jenny thought, didn’t quite make it inside. She smiled at the panda like frame. “Hello Sacha.”
“Thank you for helping Leana with the taxi.”
“My pleasure.” Jenny pushed open the door to go in.
“Why are you unhappy.” She waited. Jenny leaned back and tried to look baffled by the question but Sacha wasn’t buying the half-hearted attempt. “Don’t Jenny. Never deny feelings. Enjoy them, drink them, they are what tell us we’re alive.”
“Well, my boyfriend, no that's not true, I have met a poet and he-”
Mrs. Viallini held up her hand to stop Jenny. The round old woman walked slowly down the hall to her. “I’m Italian, you know this. In Italy we do many great things, paintings, buildings, art, football, food but we leave the English to play with poetry. In this, even I, can not help you.”
“Why? There are Italian poets.”
“Poetry makes mush of your brain. It mixes brains with your heart and it comes out like the thing the Scottish eat... what is it?”
“You mean haggis?”
“Yes, terrible stuff. Who eats brains unless you don’t have any.”
“It’s not actually brains it-” Mrs. Viallini waved her quiet again.
“The problem with poetry is it is a love of one to another but made for many. It muddies your heart. You must a find someone new.” She turned away and walked back to her apartment.
“Thank you Sacha.”
“Thank you Jenny,” the older woman turned at her doorway and faced her young neighbor. “It is good to meet a heart bursting with emotion.” Sacha went in and closed the door behind her. The old woman had seemed tired and so was Jenny. The hall was lonely. Perhaps the jar was empty, she thought - no egg for the baboon.
Once inside Jenny tossed her keys beside the massive Shakespeare that waited by the door for her. She was about to pick it up and read a few sonnets but thought better of it and affectionately tapped the cover. She poured a glass of red wine and took her notebook to the balcony. The street below was busy, couples going to movies, some kids playing basketball. Jenny opened her notebook to the recent poem and read the last two quatrains again. Something else had upset her about this last poem. The fact that it was directed to someone else devastated her, the words of Sacha rang in her ears, ‘poetry is the love from one to another made for many’. But there was another aspect to the last line that upset her. It was as if the poet was saying goodbye to the object of his desire. So was that Jenny or someone else? How cruel if she could not respond?
She took her glass of red wine, a pen and small notepad and went for a bath. She would not give up on this love. She would write a response.