STARS: Ben wipes his eyes with the hand that is not holding the phone. The conversation has ended. Across the street a dog sniffs a signpost. Connected to him via leash is a little boy. Connected to the little boy via hand is The Dad. Ben wants to call to them and wave. He wants the man to nudge his son to wave back. Then Ben could yell hello over the empty street. “What’s your dog’s name?” “Jeb,” the man would yell. “Jeb?” Ben would say, laughing. The man would point to his son. His idea. That man could be him, Ben thinks, that little boy could be his, the dog, too. He could be the one yelling “Jeb!” across the street to the man wincing through a phone call with his estranged wife. If she had ever liked dogs. Or kids.
Michael stumbles on a wrong note. He tries again. Still wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
In the first week of their marriage, Ben and Annie made three decisions: to install a home security system, to never have children, and to never, ever take salsa lessons. All three were meant to preserve what they owned.
The salsa lessons were Ben’s hard line. There was a dance studio on his walk home from the law office. At night it was filled with desperate, churning couples, wagging themselves across the floor.
Whose idea was the kids? Ben wonders, turning to walk inside. He recalls the subject of children being lobbed into the air, Annie saying her flat stomach was her greatest achievement, then taking a call in the other room. The following day the security service arrived to measure the walls.
Ben halts at the window. Inside, Sarina scratches the ears of an earnest-looking cat. Pretty hands, Ben thinks, pretty lap. His breath makes clouds. How long had she been divorced? What had she said about sending a child home for having lice? How was lice the child’s fault?
Michael has found the right note and, la-la-la-ing, rejoins the melody.
Claudia returns to the family room and drapes herself over a chair. “I’m sorry Bella is being such a bitch tonight.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Sarina says.
“You’re sweet.”
Georgie and Bella return holding plates and forks, with Ben following, clapping warmth into his arms and legs.
My arms won’t free you, Michael sings.
“Michael!” Georgie yells. “Quit the piano!” She unveils the key lime pie.
“Extraordinary!” says Sarina.
Michael pats his belly. “Full.”
Claudia says, “Couldn’t eat one more bite.”
Bella gazes at the pie. “Me too. Not another bite.”
Georgie frowns. “Sarina?”
“I’ll have a piece.”
“Me too!” says Ben. “Biggest slice you can.”
Sarina and Ben eat the pie. Those who want coffee drink coffee. Occasionally someone sighs. After everyone is finished, Georgie says, “Let’s dance.”
Bella and Claudia exchange a glance. Michael digs his hands into his pockets and Sarina scrutinizes the carpet.
“It’s late,” Ben says.
Michael adds, “And we’re old.”
Georgie thinks about the dishes, the joint she will have after everyone leaves. The quick hush of the extinguished candle.
Bella, Claudia, Michael, and Ben pause on the cold stoop, each considering his or her immediate future. For Bella and Claudia, it is a short walk to their South Street apartment. For Michael, a car ride to the suburbs during which he will have the option of looking at the moon through one of two sunroofs. Ben also has options: he can take a five-minute cab ride to his brownstone in Olde City or he can walk one of the tree-lined streets that connect this part of town to his. It’s a good night for a walk. The air is crisp. His wife is staying with her parents indefinitely. His scarf feels good around his neck and his coat is lined in down. Speaking of, where is his scarf?
Inside, Sarina insists she will help with dishes. She wants to avoid good-byes with the others. But Georgie refuses. She reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind Sarina’s ear. “I’m glad you came.”
“Me too,” Sarina says, coating up. She opens the front door and collides with Ben, who has forgotten his scarf. He disappears inside as she lights a cigarette on the stoop. When he returns, the rest of the party is blocks ahead, too far to run or call out. His forgetfulness and her fear of good-byes have deposited them into this private moment.
Sarina says, “I’m going …” and Ben says, “… this way,” and they point to different directions.
“Please tell Annie I hope she feels better. The flu is going around. Everyone is dropping like flies at school.” It is a lie. For once, no illness is circulating the school, though every day she prays something will render Denny absent.
They descend the steps. She thinks his elbow will touch hers but they reach the sidewalk, separate. The brief holiday is over. She says good night and follows the rest of the party.
Behind her, Ben says, “Good night, Sarina.”
Good night, Sarina, she thinks. Because that is my name. She wants to turn the sound of him saying it into a SEPTA card she can use to get around.
The city is in a perpetual state of being not quite ready to talk about it. Instead it lashes its wind against the banners of the art museum. Moody light changes down Market, the cars bitch toward City Hall. Puddles yearn toward the sewers. The unrequited city dreams up conspiracies and keeps its buildings low to the ground. You are never allowed to dream higher than the hat of William Penn. Dear World, you think you’re better than me? Suck a nut. Yours sincerely.
A slip of a woman, trench coated, dips in and out of the shadows on Pine Street, toward the train. Restless wind dissects her.
Good night, Sarina. Good night.
10:00 P.M
The woman on the phone identifies herself as Diannarah from The Courtland Avenue Club. Her voice is fancy/chintzy.
“I do not wish to disturb you,” she says, when Lorca answers. “We have a gentleman here who we ask you to kindly pick up. I want you to understand I am using the term gentleman sarcastically as he is feeling up the girls and in general acting like an asshole. We’ve asked him to leave several times. He says he is an Olympic gymnastics coach, but the license I lifted from his wallet says Max Cubanista. Is he yours?”
“Yes.” A new headache blooms at the base of Lorca’s skull. “He’s mine.”
Sonny tells the cold to screw itself. He and Lorca walk to his mustard-colored Buick he thinks can fit into every parking spot in Fishtown. It is crammed between two trucks, its enormous front sticking out into traffic.
Lorca slides into the front seat. “You use a shoehorn?”
Sonny reverses, spins the wheel, accelerates, spins, reverses. Lorca adjusts knobs on the console so heat sighs through the vents. Finally the car is free. Sonny smooths his hair in the rearview mirror and beams.
They ride in silence. Streetlights scan them. What Louisa said about Alex turns in Lorca’s mind but doesn’t allow him to pinpoint its exact shape or form. “Louisa said Alex is going down a bad road. You know anything about that?”
Sonny’s eyes dart from Lorca to the road. He checks his rear view and changes lanes. Light slants in, making him glow. “He’s looking skinny,” he admits.
“What does that mean?”