The Intermediary

By C.S. Clugston

A small domestic novel about life in New York city in the early 2000s.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781312291553

Book preview

The Intermediary

Chapter 1  The Intermediary

Keys.  Wallet.  ID.  Child.  Petra said all of this aloud as if checking off a list.  Charlotte twirled in her red jacket by the door.  You say that every morning, Mom, she said. 

Yes, I do, and every morning I believe I have forgotten at least two of them.

You need to be better prepared, mother, Charlotte said.  Remember the time when you forgot your keys and we had to break into the apartment?  The eight-year-old had stopped twirling and was looking sternly at her mother.  She laughed first when Petra met her look and held it in the same manner.

Yes, I do, said Petra, putting on her gloves, then taking the one on her right hand off again as she remembered that it was impossible to turn any of the door knobs in their succession of front doors while wearing gloves.

Homework?  Lunch money?  Gloves?  Charlotte? Petra continued.  Charlotte was carefully removing petals from an arrangement of dried hydrangea by the front hall door.  Charlotte?  Petra asked again.

What?  Charlotte looked up at her mother.  She had not heard anything Petra had said.  Are you ready?  Petra asked.

Yes, I’m just waiting for you.

A final pat to her coat assured Petra that her keys and work ID were available and that they were going out the door with her.  A tangle of arms, coats, book bags, and backpacks emerged through the hall door to the street door of their small, ground floor apartment.  Opening this second front door, they found their way blocked by three slightly wet and smelly garbage cans.  A neighbor, and Petra was never sure who, always returned their empty garbage cans from the curb early in the morning of their garbage collection day but it was this morning that the gusty November wind had blown the empty cans from their usual position at the right of their door into their two-step stairwell.  Charlotte stared at the cans as if they posed an insurmountable obstacle and refused to move until her mother reached around her and grabbed the handle of one of the heavy plastic cans and shoved the can up and over to its proper place.

Honestly, Charlotte, Petra said as she maneuvered around the girl. Just move it out of the way.  It’s not going to bite you."

I didn’t want to get my hands dirty.

Charlotte stood looking at her hands to reassure herself that the garbage cans had not contaminated them.  Petra arranged the cans and placed their lids on securely.  Good Lord, she said, sometimes it is just a battle to get out of the house in the morning.

Petra opened and went out of the gate that separated the small yard in the front of the brownstone that housed their apartment from the street.  Charlotte followed her out then stood looking at her mother as if the child did not have the slightest idea in which direction her school was located.  Another strong gust of cold wind blew past them making Charlotte burrow into her coat.  My hands are cold, she said.

Where are your gloves?

Inside.

Petra shook her head.  It would be too much to go back to retrieve the missing gloves as they were already pushing being late.

Come here, she said to Charlotte.  Petra reached down, grabbed the end of Charlotte’s coat sleeve, and shook her arm further into her coat.  Do that to the other sleeve, she said, That will be good enough for the walk today.

Charlotte laughed delightedly at the official sanction to wear her coat like the big kids.

Charlotte’s elementary school was only several blocks from their apartment.  Petra had thoroughly scouted the neighborhood before they had moved in to make sure that the schools within walking distance would be good enough for her to stand sending Charlotte to one of them.  Charlotte had been in preschool when Petra walked away from her marriage and Petra had known that it would be important to make mornings logistically possible.  Charlotte was now in second grade but even so, the school only went to the fifth grade and Petra was already beginning to worry about where Charlotte would go for sixth grade.  This worry appeared every morning right on schedule in much the same way that neighbors walking their dogs appeared at the same time each day.  By the time Petra and Charlotte reached the bakery on the corner, the next several items on a long list of daily concerns replaced the worry about where Charlotte would attend middle school.

At the corner, Charlotte poked her hand out of her sleeve and slipped it into her mother’s.  Holding hands with her daughter as they crossed the street was one of the comforting daily events that balanced out the worries.  Charlotte always trusted that her mother’s hand would be there and Petra loved the feeling of the small hand in hers.  Petra and Charlotte often would be talking, and lately arguing about small points of contention, but when they reached the end of a block, hands would automatically be extended and then taken.  If they crossed a street during a disagreement, Charlotte had taken to throwing her mother’s hand away in disgust once they were safely across.  The first time this occurred Petra felt as if she had been struck.  The vehemence of the action also affected Charlotte who immediately returned to her mother’s side and took her hand again.  That argument soon concluded and a few others had since followed with much of the same behavior.  Petra hoped that Charlotte would outgrow this, or become bored with it.  She did not want to be one of those mothers who resented their sweet babies growing into moody preadolescents, but she was beginning to see how fast this part of their life was passing.

The gothic architecture of the school was another comfort to Petra.  This is what a school should look like: red brick, casement windows, heavy front doors, a flagpole, and PTA announcements in English, Spanish, and Arabic, taped to the front door.  Another gust of wind came up from the harbor bringing the smell of the ocean as it pushed against the door of the school when they both tried to open it.  It slammed the door behind them as they walked through the small lobby to the doors of the cafeteria where the before-school program children were in the process of removing coats, talking, and waking up.  The morning program allowed working parents to drop their children off at school early so that the parents could get to work on time.  Petra did not know how she would have managed without it.

Charlotte moved through the door to her friends without as much as a backwards glance to her mother.  Another developmental step, noted Petra.  It was not that long ago when Petra would drop Charlotte off at pre-school and the she would desperately cry at her heartless abandonment.  It had always been Petra’s firm belief that her child would never have to get over crying and she would stay and comfort her daughter until something more interesting than her mother would attract her at which time Petra could slip safely out the door and go to work.  All of that terrible need seemed to be gone, at least for Charlotte.

Hey, Petra said, aren’t you forgetting something?

Charlotte turned and laughed.  Oh, yeah.  She had been testing to see if her mother had been paying attention.  She came back to where her mother stood and hugged her.  Petra kissed her cheek and said, I love you.  Have a good day.

You too, Mom, came the reply which was already made faint by the rapidity at which Charlotte was moving away from her. 

Once outside the school, Petra took a deep breath and started the next leg of her morning routine.  The morning was divided into sections, with the drop off at school as the declared middle.  The commute to work was the last leg.  Petra used this time to shed her role as mother and turn into what Charlotte had termed a work girl. The growing strength of the wind and the noticeable drop in temperature made Petra wish she had worn a hat.  She burrowed into her coat with the same movement used by Charlotte earlier that morning.  She adjusted her bag, turned the corner, and walked into the wind.

The morning sky was dark, even for this time of year.  The leaves had all blown down earlier in the week and were slippery underfoot.  Petra always preferred to walk into downtown Brooklyn to catch the subway as all of the trains that made their way into the city had stops at this point in the borough.  She had grown adept in interpreting which trains were not running smoothly by the size of the commuter crowd on the stairways.  It was a small victory when she could instantly change her route to her office to maneuver around whatever it was that halted a particular subway line on a given morning.

The longer walk also gave her time to be alone.  She considered the walk in the morning and the return trip in the evening, her only free time during the entire day.  She was beholden to no one during this time and could think about what she wanted, rather than what someone else, such as a child or a boss, demanded she address.  There were some days though when it was all she could do to keep those types of thoughts out of her head for these few minutes.  Other days allowed her to notice the things she did not know if anyone else saw.  She believed that she could tell the difference between flocks of racing pigeons, for instance, from flocks of wild ones.  Sometime she would see the long V’s of geese flying over to Jamaica Bay.  During the trip home, she noted the appearance of planets and bright stars in the evening sky.  It was one of her secret pleasures to identify these stars using the weekly guide given in the Sunday papers.

Today it was easy to tell that a storm was coming.  The wind, the scuttling clouds, the drop in temperature, all made the impending inclement weather apparent to even the most brick-bound city dweller.  Petra began to walk faster.  If she were lucky, she could avoid the rain and get a seat on the train.

It was not until she was almost half way up the block that she realized that she was on the fringes of yet another movie set.  Her neighborhood was often used as New York settings although it was rare that she ever saw the finished film or television show.  She never slowed her pace through these encampments and viewed the catering tables, trucks, wire, and equipment as minor obstacles in her daily routine.  This was not to say that she did not take an interest in what she was passing.  It was always informative to see how equipment was set up and what the caterer was serving for breakfast.  It was rare to see any of the actors but she was beginning to recognize the names of the various trucking firms that hauled to these sets.

Cross the street, please.

A self-important production assistant with a headset clamped over a baseball hat held out his arms to prevent Petra from continuing on her way.  His voice startled Petra from her observations.  He held out his arm like a school crossing guard and indicated that she should make a left turn in the middle of the block to cross the street.  She did as she was told, as maybe she would get to see them shoot something.

It was harder to see what was going on from the other side of the street.  Petra had to get to work but she did slow down just a bit.  What little she could see seemed to center around the steps of a brownstone upon which stood a beautiful young woman.  People hovered around the actress lightly touching her face and her hair.  It looked like technicians were making adjustments for lighting.  Petra did not recognize anyone so she returned her attention to her walk to the subway.  She idly wondered what it would be like to make a living as a movie star.  The money worries would still be there but they would probably be different.  She also supposed there would be lots of worrying about one’s looks.

Petra continued with these thoughts as she began to pass a man standing at the curb looking intently at the activity across the street.  For a moment, she considered saying hello to him, as he seemed familiar, a neighbor perhaps, or a parent from the school.  It was not until she was right next to him, did she realized that he was Robert Florissant.  She decided that it would be wise not to say anything.

As she passed him, she turned to see what he was watching.  He was watching the beautiful woman who was now standing alone on the stoop evidently waiting for the signal for her to do what was required of her.  The young woman took no notice of Florissant.

Now that’s something you don’t see everyday, Petra said to herself.  This would be a fun story to tell someone today.  Guess who I saw on the way to work, she would say and there would be a discussion about what Florissant, a man as famous for his personal life as he was for his business life, was doing in Brooklyn early in the morning.  He was the head of an intricate amalgamation of real estate and other business holdings, not to mention a constant fixture in the society and gossip pages that regularly ran many column inches about him, some of the articles, it was rumored, were even true.  Petra idly wondered what he was doing watching a young woman walk up and down a stoop.

A strong blast of wind blew down the street and hit Petra so hard that it spun her around.  As she turned, she saw the wind begin to topple a tall tripod attached to a large, silver-colored reflecting screen.  Partially because of the wind, she ran towards Florissant who was oblivious of the falling screen and the impending damage about to be done to him.

Hey! she yelled and gave Florissant a strong push as the equipment fell right where he had been standing, hitting Petra instead.

The force of the wind, the weight of the equipment and angle at which it fell caused the equipment to graze the side of Petra’s head and crash full force into her collarbone, driving Petra to the sidewalk.

Florissant, surprised by what he feared had been an attack, turned to see Petra take the full hit of what was eventually termed a freak accident.  People appeared from out of nowhere and encircled Petra with the same solicitude she had just seen being given to the woman across the street.  Petra lay on her right side on the sidewalk.  Her first thought was that it was dark.  Then she was aware of people around her.  The second thought was that something was not right.  As she grew more aware, she could feel pain.  She tried speaking but could not move her jaw to get her mouth open.

She could hear people talking to her, asking her questions, but she was too far away to answer them.  The cold came as a surprise when the reflector was lifted off her as it had been blocking the wind that steadily blew now.  It had also started to rain.  Before she knew it, strong hands were moving her, making her shoulder burst into pain.  She was only vaguely aware of the new noise the people made as she was turned over onto the stretcher.  Her face felt wet and now cold.  She tried again to move her jaw again but could not.

"Where is it?’ someone said, and another murmur went through the crowd.

Over there, next to the curb, came another voice.

Several feet from where Petra had been on the sidewalk lay her ear.  A police officer stood guard over it while the EMS crew was told of the ear’s location.  Petra was being settled into the ambulance as a technician came and relieved the officer from his responsibility over the find.

Nice earring, said the tech, and put the ear into a plastic bag.

XXX

Petra woke but before she opened her eyes, she tried to figure out what day it was.  Sometimes, especially when things were bad, she would have dreams where she would be sure that it was Thursday when it was Monday.  Keeping her eyes closed she tried to remember what day it was or at least, what the last thing was she could remember.  She could only remember colors, first red, and then lots of white.  She wondered what that meant.

She started to roll over on to her side but found that not only was that impossible but that it was painful as well.  The pain made her open her eyes.

Good afternoon, sleepy head.

Petra opened her eyes slowly making sure that the pain was only on the right side of her head and in her shoulder.  The face that came into view was that of her friend, Julie.  Petra instantly relaxed as she recognized her.

You’re in the hospital, Julie said, as she pulled her chair up closer to Petra’s bed.  It’s Tuesday.  You’ve been asleep, off and on, for close to an entire day.

Petra tried to speak but while no sound came out, her jaw did move a bit.

There were loud voices in the hallway.  Petra closed her eyes.

Yes, said Julie, that is Ronald.  He's shown up twice, each time for about twenty minutes, and then makes a big stink about everything.

Petra closed her eyes again as if Ronald were a pain equal to that in her shoulder and head.  She opened her eyes again, cleared her throat, and croaked Charlotte?

Julie smiled.  Not to worry.  She’s at school right now but she’s been with Ronald.

Petra’s eyes filled with tears.  She slowly began to form her next question when a short, barrel-chested man burst into the room. 

This hospital is shit, he yelled.  Absolute shit.  The doctors don’t know a damn thing and the nurses are idiots.

He took off his coat and threw it on the end of Petra’s bed.

Your insurance is shit.  I can’t believe this is happening.

He made a move to remove a cigarette from the pack in the pocket of shirt but then thought the better of it.

Petra looked at Julie who just rolled her eyes.  A nurse came into the room who looked extremely competent to Petra.

Thank you for pulling yourself away from your busy day to check on my wife.  Ronald was twitching at the opportunity to vent sarcasm in an attempt to assert his authority in a crisis.

Petra took a deep breath and croaked Ex-wife.

This brought Ronald up short.  All of the air, along with all of his authority, flew out of him.

Petra pushed herself up a little higher in the bed.  How’s Charlotte? she said again.

Ronald looked to Julie who said, She’s fine.

Petra nodded.  Again, Ronald looked to Julie as if he had no idea what to do next.

Petra exercised her jaw a little bit.  It still hurt but she was getting more motion back.

I want Charlotte to know that I’m ok and that I’ll be home soon, she said slowly.  "And I want you to fucking remember that we are divorced.  Got it?’

Oh, nice, Ronald’s tone grew combative.  After all the work I’ve done over the last two days.  It hasn’t been easy you know.  I had to take two vacation days to do all of this for you.  He grabbed his coat from the end of the bed giving the bed a good jolt with his hip as he did so.  You are bitch and you will be until the day you die.

Very nice, said Petra.  Thanks for taking care of Charlotte.

It’s the least I could do after all I am her father.

He turned and left the room with a flourish. 

Petra snorted.  How did he get involved in this? she asked Julie.

After the accident, they called your office and your emergency contact was, of course, me.  Julie patted Petra’s hand.  I’m sorry, but I figured that Charlotte should be with her dad, that way I could be at the hospital with you.

Petra smiled.  That was the right thing to do.  Ronald is an asshole but Charlotte loves him.

There was a moment of silence between them.

So, said Petra, tell me.

Julie took a deep breath.  Your collarbone was smashed in two places.  They operated on you and welded you together with pins and stuff.

What else?

Your right ear was ripped off and they weren’t able to reattach it.  The doctor said you might have trouble talking because of all of the torn muscles but, she looked firmly at Petra, he said that the damage, while serious, could be eventually compensated for and that a little further down the line, a good plastic surgeon would be able to create a new ear for you.

For the first time Petra reached up with her left hand and gingerly touched the bandage wrapping her head.  Her jaw was sore but it was moving.  Her right arm was folded against her chest and she was encased in a hard plastic device to keep her shoulder immobilized.

Good lord, she said, quietly.

Julie began to laugh.  That’s not even the half of it.  You’re a hero.

She held up copies of the daily tabloids Florissant Pushed—Woman Maimed in his Place and She’s my hero each featuring a smiling photo of Robert Florissant. 

Petra tried to laugh.

Don’t start, said Julie, it just gets worse.  He wants to see you.

Petra said What?  Ow! as the idea of Robert Florissant coming to see her made her open her mouth a little too wide in surprise.  What should I do?

I say let him come, Julie replied.  Let’s see what he has to say.

How do you know he wants to see me?  Petra said.  It was hard to get her foggy mind to grasp just what all was happening.  The immobility and the loss of an ear were now unpleasant facts to be dealt with later.  The impending visit of Robert Florissant could be interesting.

He has, or rather his people have, also inquired after you a number of times.

Well, said Petra, next time you talk to him, please let him know that I will be free tomorrow morning.

XXX

At nine fifteen in the morning, Robert Florissant stood next to Petra’s bed.  Both displayed a thumbs up as the photographer took their picture.

I want to express my gratitude to you for such a generous gesture.  While he said this to Petra, she had the distinct feeling that he was actually talking to the reporter who was busy taking down everything Florissant said as well as to the crowd of hospital workers standing around the door.  In the corner of the room stood Florissant’s assistant, a young woman with some type of clipboard who looked busy although not with what was going on in Petra’s hospital room.

How are you feeling Ms. Hewitt? the reporter asked.

A little sore, Petra said.

I pay back my debts—I never forget anyone who’s been good to me.  Is there anything I can do for you?  Florissant said, again more to the reporter than to Petra.

There is actually, she said quietly.

The fact that she had spoken up seemed to take all of the people in the room by surprise.  Surely, she must know that when something like that is said it is meant as an empathetic statement rather than a task request.  Their surprise amused her.  Yes, she said again, there is something.  Or rather, there is something I would like to ask you.

The softening of her statement relaxed Florissant a bit but only a little.  It may just be a question, but it was he was on his guard.  Petra looked up at him.  She knew she looked like hell but with her head encased in gauze and her upper body encased in plastic, and the fact of that reporter taking in everything like a sponge, Florissant knew she had him.

Anything, he said.

Could you leave us alone for a moment?  Petra addressed the assembled crowd.  Florissant’s assistant was making bug-eyes and shaking her head at him as if to signal bad idea.  The reporter made it clear that he was not moving.

Petra turned to look at Florissant and motioned with her hand that he should lean down so what she had to say would not overheard easily by everyone else.

I want to ask you something in private, she said.  It’s not bad and it’s not greedy.  I would like to ask you while we are alone as this could give you the opportunity to decline.  Either way it would just be our secret.

Florissant pursed his lips and remained quiet.

Really, Petra continued, it’s not a bad thing and either way I’m glad I did what I did.  It will just take a minute.

Florissant straightened up and said, Please, ladies and gentlemen, just give us a minute.  Thank you much.

Florissant’s assistant hurried to his side and made hissing sounds, evidently about a schedule.  Florissant nodded and showed everyone out.  He closed the door.

Lock it? he said.

If you wish.

He left it unlocked.

Now what is it?  He said it kindly but Petra could tell that such kindness was momentary.  She collected herself.

‘You asked if there was anything you could do for me."

"Yes, I remember.  What is it?

Petra realized that he must spend a lot of his time listening to requests from people who needed him to do things for them.  Her nerve slightly wavered.  Florissant saw this but he said nothing.

What I want, Petra began, is an intermediary.

He clearly had something else in mind, maybe some sort of shake down, for money maybe, or a job.

Are you in some sort of trouble? he asked.  That was the only thing he could come up with, other than the original notion of extortion.

No, she continued, I would like someone, a young man perhaps, to act as a go-between between myself and a third party.  Surely there’s someone on your staff you could assign to me just for a little while.

She pushed herself up on the bed.  The bandages around her head made her look lopsided.

I don’t understand.  What do you require an intermediary? he said.

She smoothed the blankets in front of her with her left hand.  I believe I have a chance at love with someone but I need to know what my odds are.

You don’t need an intermediary, Florissant said just ask him

And you’ve found that works for you? she said, not without a bit of anger.  You have more money than God and you ask a blonde with nice tits whether she loves you and you seriously expect an honest answer?

I’m not looking for love he said, that’s all just nonsense.  This business about love is just that—business.  A relationship is only a protracted negotiation, that’s all.  The only thing that matters is what you can get out of the deal without your opponent realizing what you are doing until it is too late.

Exactly my point she said, except the part about screwing the other person.  She paused for a moment.  I’d like to think of this staffing request as a method of discovery.  I believe I have found a suitable partner and I not only want some deep background on him, I want someone to be in a position to advocate for me in a discrete manner.

What’s your plan?  It was not clear whether Florissant was buying any of this, but his interest level was increasing.

I would like you to assign me a man, say in his late-twenties to early-thirties.  I will provide him with the information on the third party—name, address, etc.  He is to befriend the third party and find out exactly how the third party views me.  If he views me favorably, I will continue with my current plan of being there and being just a friend—for now.

So what?  Florissant said, What do you get out of that?

I will know that if I have patience, I will eventually be involved with a man I believe is appropriate for me.

What does that mean?

It means I will know whether or not I am wasting my time.  If the intermediary returns with a negative report, I will cut my losses and move on. She winced as she adjusted herself in the bed.

What’s the catch?

No catch.  You offered.  This is what I want.

What do I get out of this? he said.

Good press?

So what, he said.  I already got that this morning and he made the ‘thumbs up’ sign again.

What you get, Petra said, is good press about guardian angels—I’m yours and I'll be whatever your PR person wants to make up.  I will agree to do anything you ask regarding this topic.  Additionally, there is a pronounced aspect of fun about all of this.

Florissant scowled.  How so?

Well, for one thing, this is one deal that probably won’t cost you much.  I have insurance so all of my bills are, for the most part, paid.  You’d be paying that employee any way, regardless of the assignment.

Florissant was still unsure.

OK, try this, Petra began again.  On the day we met you were standing alone on a curb in Brooklyn, in the cold wind and rain, at seven-thirty in the morning, looking at a woman who had no interest in you at all.  Who was she?

That’s none of your business.

True.  But it is safe to assume that it wasn’t your daughter, right?

Florissant nodded.

Frankly, neither one of us is what we used to be—some of us even less.  Petra paused, Don’t you want to know why you were standing in the rain?

What’s the timeframe for this, he said shortly I don’t want to tie up an important member of my staff for long.

His time was up.  The assistant was at the door motioning at her watch.

That completely depends on the person you assign to the job.  A somewhat friendly guy would get the job done faster than a sullen one would.

I’ll give you someone for two weeks, he said.

I’m sorry, but it can’t be any less than ten weeks.

Eight.

Deal.

Chapter 2  Men

It was Petra’s opinion that Ben Gordon was a handsome man and, she had noticed, the other mothers in the neighborhood agreed with her.  The differentiation between mothers and women was made in this neighborhood because women did not come to the park in all weather, in various forms of food-stained dress and sleep deprivation, to sit on benches anchored in a circle the way mothers did.  These mothers, once all had jobs, careers even, and in Manhattan no less.  They had been young, cute, and some, easily beautiful, each with an individualistic sense of style.  They had attracted mates and then had made their way to the edge of New York harbor to spawn in this little Brooklyn enclave.  Long talks in restaurants, in bed, and over coffee in the morning, had resulted in a decision to remain at home, at least for the first year or two, so that their baby would only know a mother’s love.  Their men were proud, and somewhat relieved, that they were able to provide for the bearer of their offspring in such a comfortably retro way.  They would not fall into the same traps as their parents had and, after all, this was only for a short time, just while the children were young.  The men would provide, and the women would bear, and all was well until each couple reached a certain level of decay, in hope and expectations, based on the incessant demands of young children, the small size of the apartments, which allowed no privacy, and the grinding familiarity of daily family life.  While it was unclear what the men thought about this, the women, these mothers, all sat on the benches in a park surrounding a monument to dead soldiers and watched as Ben brought his kids through the circle of benches and into the playground.

The first time Petra noticed the effect he had on these mothers, she did not see it so much as feel it.  Charlotte had been younger, but old enough to run with her own friends in the playground without demanding that her mother follow her everywhere.  Petra hated the park.  She had given that job to Ronald or rather he had taken it on after they left him, as the park population gave him a good audience for the terrible stories he had to tell about the break-up of their marriage.  Ronald had reneged on his parenting duties that weekend, as he often did when he saw that Petra needed to be taken down a peg.  He had said that he had his own life to lead and that Petra should understand that he was not comfortable merely babysitting his daughter.  He said he was going away for the weekend and that he would not be around at all.  Petra actually did not mind this, as she only felt comfortable in the park when she knew that he was not in the immediate vicinity, for any number of reasons.

It was the first almost warm Saturday in spring.  Petra was too nervous about Charlotte running around so she could not lose herself in the book she had brought with her.  The sun felt good but the breeze still smelled of snow and winter.  She could only stand being in the park for short periods as it combined boredom with the feeling of terror that Charlotte would fall from some contraption and seriously injure herself.  Charlotte, of course, was one of the more adept children at climbing to the top of, and all along the outside, the various equipment formations offered in the park as entertainment.  The words Watch this, Ma, made Petra’s heart shrivel and she would exclaim, That’s great!  What a big girl you are! and then a little less loudly, That’s enough, sweetheart, it’s time to go.

That day Charlotte was busy on the swing and had been occupied by that technology for a good few minutes.  Petra closed her eyes and allowed herself to breathe.  With her eyes closed, Petra became aware of a tremor, an electric current surging through the mothers sitting on the benches around her.  It was as if all of these women simultaneously adjusted, straightened, and began holding themselves up and in.  Petra opened her eyes, looked to her right, and noticed that all eyes were looking at something in the middle of the circle.  Petra looked to her left and noticed that they were also looking into the center of the circle.  As she turned back, Ben and his kids came around the monument and Petra, along with the others, took a quick gulp of air.

It could have been the way the sun seemed to illuminate him, or the grace with which he moved, or how at ease he was with his children and they were with him.  To Petra’s mind, as she thought back on that day, it was his red shorts.

The only bench with space left was Petra’s.  He made straight for it.  Petra felt blood rise in her cheeks as she watched both Ben advancing on her and the eyes of all of the other mothers in the circle follow him and eventually focus on her.  Petra had seen those looks before.  Each of these women were taking inventory, of themselves and Ben, and tallying up whether or not they could still attract what Ben seemed to offer.  They watched intently as Ben sat down next to Petra and nodded hello to her.  Petra was fascinated by their reactions.  Slowly, each of the women removed their gaze from Ben and returned to their cluster of friends or to baby needs.  Petra could see those who felt they would never again have such a man as Ben ease over them.  Petra knew what that realization felt like.

What are you doing here?  He seemed curious that she would be in the park.

Petra indicated her book and then Charlotte.  Just sitting in the sun, she said.

Ben had finished fastening the kids’ skates.  His daughter, Aimee, was, at that time, eleven. She was smart and beautiful.  James was nine. He was starting to either grow into, or cultivate, scowling good looks.

Oh, she’s yours?  I‘ve only seen her with her father.  My name is Ben.  He extended his hand to her.  We know each other, don’t we?

From a long time ago, she said shaking his hand.  Petra Hewitt.  We used to work in the same building.

They had temped for the same firm on Wall Street several years back where they had been the technical equivalent of menial laborers, culling financial data from the various stock exchanges on the direct orders from investment banking junior analysts.  Petra could remember the first time she saw him and how she would then watch him walk past her without ever seeing her.  At the time, she had not minded as she was consumed by the faltering of her marriage and the plans she had begun to make to leave it behind.

She had also watched as he flirted with the other women in the office.  Eventually she heard stories about what it was like to go out with him and, more to the point, what he was like in bed.  He never stayed with any one woman very long and she had, on several occasions, listened to women attempt to reorganize themselves once he left.  Petra felt that it was safe to assume that he was a handsome snake.

After that meeting in the park, Petra, Ben, and their kids, began to run into each other in the neighborhood: at the grocery store or on the street.  As luck would have it, they lived less than two blocks apart but this being New York, they had never seen each other before that Saturday.  At first, Petra had been shy about approaching him, but she grew increasingly bolder when she noticed that other women were shy with him as well.  The checkout girl at the grocery store, for instance, would fumble and give him the wrong change.  He would graciously correct her and the girl would blush a deep rose red.  Walking down the street with him, Petra would notice, and then began to look for, the sweeping up and down look that all women, young and old, gave him when he passed.

One Sunday, she ran into him at the laundromat at the corner of her block.  It was crowded and there were no seats.  You can wait at my place, she had said.  He was reticent about imposing but she had insisted.  Soon, Sundays became a habit with them and something that Petra would look forward to all week.  He would arrive with his kids and the kids would disappear into Charlotte’s room, at least for a while.  Ben and Petra would sit in the kitchen, or in the small backyard when the weather was nice, read the Sunday papers, have a beer, and wait for the laundry to finish.  Sometimes they would send out for pizza and their visit would last long after the clothes had been retrieved and folded.

Slowly, they had begun to talk to each other.  They each asked questions about the other but never pushed for specifics.  Petra learned that they were the same age and that an Ivy League school recruited him to play lacrosse, but nothing about how, or even where he had grown up.  He never spoke about his parents, or his marriage.  He only spoke obliquely about what he now did for a living.  Petra noticed this and asked him nothing assuming he would tell her what he wanted her to know.  After he had left, and then during the week, she would come up with questions to ask him or try to figure out a way to turn the conversation to a certain area or topic and hope that he would provide more pieces.  Her lack of conversational inquiry into Ben’s life was not passive or shy as it was more like quiet fascination with everything about him, especially how his mind worked.  She would sit as quietly as she could, trying not to watch him too closely, and wait to see where he would take the conversation.

It was difficult for Petra to get used to a man who wanted to sit and talk with her.  In the past, and especially in relationships, men had always lectured her, pointing out her faults, and how her taste in music, or art, or movies was inferior because it did not match their own.  She had sports explained to her a number of times, also bebop, crime novels, and arcane Brooklyn street games as if it were imperative to the relationship that she knew these things.  She listened to them, and was sometimes even interested, but it was one-way.  Her assertions of likes or dislikes, of which there were many, were dismissed and, if she pressed her point, she was often attacked as being a controlling bitch.  After a while, Petra had learned to keep her thoughts to herself.  When the hectoring got bad, as it always seemed to, she would leave.  When enough time had passed after the end of a relationship, when the sting of the disappointment was no longer like that of a paper cut, Petra would muse that something about her scared and intimidated men.  This saddened her but, at the same time, the knowledge made it much easier to get through the days and weeks alone with her daughter.

Ben did not seem to be afraid of her and Petra appreciated that.  They would talk about their week or news topics found in the paper.  The kids would join in their conversations and soon it did not matter to them which adult had an arm around them or had pulled them onto a lap.

It had been a couple of months before Ben started talking about his band.  When he introduced a new aspect of his life in these Sunday conversations, he would often start with what had happened yesterday or the day before, as if he took it for granted that Petra knew all these things about him.  It took her several weeks to figure out that he played the drums and that while he had one band that held his heart, he often played in several others as well.

One Sunday he handed her a tape.  Tell me what you think, he said.  Petra was surprised and relieved at how good they sounded.  She had found that few things were worse than watching a friend put heart and soul into an endeavor only to have disappointing results.

This will work, he had said.  We just have to get a better singer and we’ll be gone.  Petra believed him.

Every now and then, they would tiptoe around the subject of relationships.  They worked out a method of asking a generalized question such as How do you start dating without it bothering the kids? or What do you do when your ex- starts seeing someone?  On one of his first visits, Ben made it clear that he was not interested in having a girlfriend.  Petra thought it was an odd statement to make out of the blue but she understood what he meant.  Her marriage had been horrible and the one or two men she had seen since her divorce eventually balked at dating someone whose schedule contained so many child-centered activities and responsibilities.  The last one had told her that they needed to have more spontaneity in their relationship.  Petra told him that she could be spontaneous, but only on alternate Saturday nights, as this was when Charlotte was at her father’s.  Petra never saw him again.

After about a year of Sundays, and some Saturdays, all of which were spent at Petra’s apartment with at least one of the kids present, Ben asked Petra for her email address at work.  Topics not spoken of around the children became frequent emails, such as how terrible the ex’s current behavior was or the increasing cost of babysitting fees.  His messages spoke of how eviscerated he had been by his divorce and how gun shy he had become.  They would talk about their jobs, and how no matter where the temp agency assigned him, it was always with the same type of person.  Sometimes he would add a compliment about her, like what a good friend she had become, or what a nice smile she had.

It slowly dawned on Petra that she was in love with Ben and that she wanted to become his lover.  This horrified her as she had seen him in action years before.  It also horrified her because she knew that while he was comfortable enough in her kitchen, he was probably equally, and currently, comfortable in someone else’s bed.  One Saturday night in the early fall before her accident, she had taken a deep breath and decided that it was time to gather her courage and take the plunge again.  She decided that somehow, before too much more time had passed, she was going to tell him how she felt about him.  Yes, he had made the speech about being friends but that was over a year and a half ago already and while he was not the most talkative person, he was at her apartment every weekend with his kids.  That had to count for something.  For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to hope that maybe she would learn what it felt like to be in love with someone who loved her in return.

XXX

Dominic Catalano lived in the same house in Carroll Gardens where his father had grown up.  Dom was the only boy out of six children and the youngest, which had marked him as the prince of that family.  Nothing was too good for him.  Adored by his mother and his sisters and worshipped by his father, Dom grew up never having to work or think too hard about the world around him.  He knew, for example, that he could depend on one of his sisters to help him with his homework, or even do it for him if it proved too difficult.  As he got older, he knew that his father, and separately, his mother, would always slip him some money when he left the house to go out