The Girl of His Dreams Page 3

  A couple of the older guys on the floor, Vinnie and Wolpe, weren’t doing much of anything but watching him horse the pallets around. “Hey, kid, come here.” Wolpe motioned him over. “Slow down.” Wolpe had a square, hard face that looked like it was spattered with pepper. “Take it easy, kid. You don’t have to move that stuff by hand. Wait for the lift truck.”

  Willis pulled a steel bin around, then started sweeping. Vinnie and Wolpe were a couple of pals, old crows who had been at Consolidated forever. They liked ordering Willis around, telling him he was doing things wrong. They wanted him to know that he was new and they had more rank than he did.

  Vinnie, who had a sad, fat face, took the broom. “Like this, Willis. Nice, easy strokes. In between you rest and look around. You don’t strain your heart. If you don’t see the big man, you rest some more.”

  “And when we get to the heavy stuff,” Wolpe said, “we have a long-range point of view. We think of our backs. We think of the future. We think about who’s going to hire us if we break our backs. We get the forklift. We call Benny over.”

  When they gave him advice, he listened. You had to listen. When he first came here, he hoped he’d find a friend, a guy he’d stand with before the whistle blew. They could talk about what they’d seen the night before on TV and eat lunch together and share the newspaper. They’d laugh about Wolpe and Vinnie and say what a royal pain the two of them were.

  “Will-ass!” Wolpe had a voice like sandpaper. “I told you to take it easy. You’re killing the job. Get Benny over here.”

  Benny Rinaldi was sitting nearby on the lift truck looking bored. He was around Willis’s age, a smooth-looking guy, hair combed back, and dark, shiny eyes.

  “Move the bin, Rinaldi,” Wolpe yelled.

  Benny started up the lift truck. Willis guided the forks under the bin. Benny nodded, lifted the bin and drove off.

  Lunchtime Willis sat on a pail at the edge of the loading dock. He ate slowly and took his time reading the newspaper. Occasionally he’d look up to see what was happening. The younger guys were by the overhead doors. Benny Rinaldi was standing up, gesturing and talking, telling dirty jokes.

  Willis turned to the sports page and read about the Big Peanut Run down in Atlanta, Georgia. A half marathon. He never read about a race without imagining himself in it. Which was odd, because he never competed. His choice.

  In the inside section there was a picture of a dog who had found its way home across thirteen states. The picture showed the dog reunited with its owners, a man and a woman, the dog between them. The dog looked happy. Not like the dog he’d found. Nobody was waiting for that poor sucker.

  After lunch, Miholic sent Willis and Benny over to TR Two, where the women worked, to crate up a machine and get it ready for shipping. When Willis and Benny appeared there was a lot of head turning and calls and whistles. Benny rolled his shoulders. The attention was all for him. Willis thought Benny looked like a movie star.

  The machine they had to crate was a monster. They had to build a box around it, tie it and brace it. They worked with framing lumber, steel bands and cinching pliers. They didn’t talk a lot. They worked well together, fast and clean.

  When they had the machine boxed and crated, Willis signaled for the overhead crane. The crane operator waved her scarf. Benny nudged him. “She’s got her eye on you, man.”

  Willis and Benny grabbed opposite pairs of chains and hooked them to the four corners of the crate. Willis signaled the crane operator to take it away. She tooted as the crane went screeching down the bay.

  They killed some time hanging around the Coke machine. It was too early to go back. “You see that girl over there?” Benny nodded toward the assemblers. “The one with the big hoop earrings? I know her. You want me to fix you up with her?”

  “Why don’t you fix yourself up with her?”

  “I’ve got more than I can handle, man. Look, I’m not kidding. Just say the word.”

  When guys started talking about girls and women, Willis was on guard, not knowing what to expect or believe, afraid they were waiting for him to talk about the women in his life.

  Confession: He didn’t have a girlfriend, had barely talked to a girl since he left high school. He’d gone out with one girl in junior high, Sue Tyson, but that was so long ago it didn’t count.

  “How about her?” Benny pointed to a shiny-faced girl in a pair of belted coveralls.

  “You know anything about dogs?” Willis said.

  “My mother knows a lot about dogs. She raises toy terriers.”

  “This is a no-breed dog. A sick dog.”

  “Shoot it,” Benny said cheerfully.

  Willis finished his soda. “You want another?”

  “You buying? Sure. You want to see a picture of my girlfriend?”

  “Not especially.”

  “You know, you’re a funny guy.” Benny wiped his hands carefully, then pulled out a packet of plastic-covered photos from his shirt pocket. “This is Lee, my girlfriend. I love this girl.” He handed a photo to Willis, holding it by the edges like it was a precious record. “Careful. Let me see your hands. These are professional photos.”

  In every photo, Lee was on a bed, either sitting up or lying down, or leaning on one elbow. In some shots she wore a nightie, in others it could have been a bikini, but Willis had a feeling it was her underwear. Willis had never seen pictures like these outside of magazines. They weren’t exactly dirty, but they weren’t the kind of photo passed around the family, either.

  “They call that boudoir art,” Benny said. “We had those taken specially.”

  Willis went through the photos fast, then handed them back.

  “So what do you think?” Benny said. “Isn’t she gorgeous?”

  What did Benny want him to say? “She’s your girlfriend?”

  “She sure is.” Benny kissed the photo. “She’s the greatest girl in the world.”

  Willis couldn’t figure Benny out. What was he showing him those pictures for? If you had a girlfriend, that was something private. If Lee were his girlfriend, he sure wouldn’t show her half dressed this way.

  Benny took a cigarette and offered Willis the pack.

  “I run,” Willis said.

  Benny lit up and inhaled deeply. “I’ll tell you the truth, man. Even with Lee, I envy you single guys. All those girls. All the good times. Once you get a steady girlfriend, that’s all over, man. Lee keeps me on a short leash. No more roaming the range. She says look, but don’t touch. Sometimes I think I should have stayed single. You’re smart, man. You think, keep things close. I observed that about you. You’re a deep thinker. That’s a plus, man, you know what I mean?” Benny leaned close to Willis. It was noisy and he was talking into Willis’s ear. “You have a girlfriend, Willis?”

  “No, I have a dog.”

  “Ah, your sick dog. You two going steady?” Benny laughed. “I never know if you’re joking or serious.”

  “Serious,” Willis said, and got another laugh out of Benny.

  Seven

  Sophie left her jacket at an empty table by the window of the diner and went to wash. Handling newspapers and money all morning had blackened her fingers.

  When Martin had told her there might be an outdoor job on Spring Street, Sophie had gotten really excited. She imagined an old-fashioned street with green lawns and flowering trees. The old part was right. Spring Street was just off East Broadway in the oldest part of the city. There were still stepping blocks on the curbs and cast-iron posts for tethering horses. Once, there must have been orchards and farms here, but now it was just a short, dirty street lined with a sub shop and Wallman’s Army-Navy Store and a jewelry store, a unisex barber shop and four bars. Just opposite the diner, in the middle of the block, was Carl’s newsstand.

  That’s where Sophie worked. Carl had hired her this morning and put her right to work. From the newsstand, she could see the long gray factory sheds at the end of the street. The first couple of hours she didn’t think s
he would last. The pace! The people rushing at her, demanding papers, magazines, cigarettes, change. Hands grabbing newspapers, hands thrust out with money, hands waiting for change.

  “What can I do for you, young lady?” George, the counterman, was waiting for Sophie to make a decision.

  She looked up at the menu board. “Vegetable soup and a corn muffin.”

  “And what else?”

  The chocolate cake made her mouth water. Too rich. “Do you have anything else?”

  George indicated a tray of dark, sweet-looking cakes near her. “Baklava,” he said. “Honey and nuts rolled in a thin dough. My wife makes them.”

  “I’ll try one.” She felt self-conscious as she walked back to the table. The place was full of men. A man was sitting at her table, and her jacket was on the floor. She picked it up and looked around for another table. They were all taken, and she sat down. “Crowded,” she said. The man nodded. She took a spoonful of her soup and buttered her corn muffin. It didn’t seem right to sit at a table with another person and not talk. “Enjoying your lunch?” she said.

  “Um-hum.”

  “You left your cole slaw. I don’t like cabbage, either.”

  The man was looking at her. “You new around here?”

  “I work over there,” she said proudly, pointing to the stand. “This is my first day. That man with the bald head is my boss.”

  “Uh-huh.” He went back to eating.

  She had never thought of herself as a talker, but here she was, talking a mile a minute. When had she ever talked like this before? Maybe on the farm. She’d always talked to the animals.

  It gave her a pang to think of the animals and the farm and her brother—her rotten brother. He was coming into the house about now for his lunch and kicking off his boots and looking at the mail. Was he thinking about her? Not likely. He and Pat had the farm to themselves now. That gave Sophie another pang. Everything she loved was back there.

  She glanced at the man next to her. She couldn’t get comfortable. How could that large man sit there and eat so easily? She had to eat with one hand in her lap. She felt pinned against the wall. The table, the chair, the space she was backed into, everything seemed scaled to people half her size.

  On the farm it was good to be big. Her strength counted for something. She was big across the shoulders, her arms and legs were firm and round, and she was agile getting up ladders and jumping off wagons. She wasn’t clumsy. She didn’t fall. She didn’t hurt herself.

  But here, it seemed as if she was always stumbling, running into things, bumping into people, getting hard looks. She kept having to draw herself in, suck in her breath, apologize. It was as if her body wanted to go one way and the city wanted her to go another.

  From the diner window, she saw Carl outside the stand, arranging the magazines. He had a bald head and dark glasses. He had stayed with her all morning, but starting tomorrow, she was on her own. The first thing he told her this morning was how busy he was. He had newspaper stands and a newspaper delivery franchise, plus houses he rented out.

  “I have to have someone dependable at the stand,” he said. “Someone who can take charge and likes getting up early and isn’t afraid of hard work.” He showed her how he wanted her to lock up at the end of the day, then he handed her the key. “Don’t lose it.” She put it on her key chain. Now she had a key for the newsstand, a key for the outside door of her house, one for the mailbox and two keys to open the door to her apartment. Nothing was ever locked on the farm.

  “And you’ll be here at six on the dot tomorrow morning? If you’re going to stay up all night with your boyfriend, you’ll be too tired. Tell him you’ll see him on the weekend.”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Good. Remember, the papers are always here at six. You gotta be here or they’ll steal you blind. I’m counting on you, Sophie.”

  At the end of the day, she took her time going home. It was warm and she carried her jacket over her arm. She was hardly tired. You had to pay attention when you were selling newspapers, but it wasn’t like farm work. The wind blustered and blew. It was a playful wind that pushed her from behind, then caught her as she rounded the corner.

  As she continued up East Broadway there were buildings and the sky opened up. She saw a small plane flying low overhead. She stopped and watched it until it disappeared. She saw the plane, but the people in it couldn’t see her. Up there, they saw something else. They saw the city and past the city to the horizon and beyond the horizon.

  That was part of the free feeling she had when she flew. The world was bigger up there, bigger than she had ever imagined. It was the same feeling she got when she looked at the stars at night. In one way it made you feel smaller, because you were just a little part of all that, but in another way it made you feel bigger and freer—and happier.

  Eight

  Near the tunnel entrance to the plant, Willis grabbed his usual paper at the newsstand. The news girl was alone this morning and slower than molasses. He handed her a ten-dollar bill and she was stymied. She was looking at her hands; her lips were moving. “Just give me nine dollars and seventy-five cents,” he said.

  “I know that.”

  “So what’s the problem? You think the ten is counterfeit?”

  She gave him a dumb smile. “I don’t know if I can make that much change. I mean, I can make it, but I might need it for later. Do you have anything smaller?”

  “No.”

  She handed him back his money. He tossed the paper back. “No, take it,” she said. “You can pay me later.”

  “Later? What makes you think I’ll pay you?”

  “Oh, you will.” Her face broke out in a smile. She trusted him. He grabbed the paper and ran.

  Later, when he went by, he had the quarter ready, but she was gone. So she was wrong, he didn’t pay her.

  That night he made supper for himself and hand-fed the dog a scrambled egg. This was her third day with him. He never thought she’d last this long. Now that she was feeling better, he could see she was a pretty dog, with a pointed, foxy-looking muzzle and white eyebrows. White markings on her legs, too, like stockings.

  He’d called his mother the night before last to ask what to feed somebody who was sick. “Who?” she said. “Who is this person?”

  “Did I say it was a person, Mom? It could be a cat or a dog.”

  “Okay, this person, this cat, what’s she got?”

  “She’s not feeling good. She’s kind of beat up.”

  “Beat up? What kind of girl is she?”

  “Did I say she was a girl?”

  “Where’d you meet her?”

  “Mom, what should I feed her? She’s really weak. She needs to build up her strength.” He didn’t want to say he had a dog in the house, a sick dog. His mother didn’t like dogs.

  “You didn’t meet her in a bar, did you?”

  “Ma. Me in a bar? Are you kidding? This is your son you’re talking to.”

  “Egg,” his mother said. “For someone weak, soft things that are easy to digest. Milk, soft bread, toast and rice, well-cooked, nice and soft.” And then, just before she hung up, she said, “Am I going to meet her? You know, we’re coming this summer.”

  “If she’s still around, you’ll meet her.”

  He opened a jar of baby vegetables, made a mash of it with the egg. Disgusting-looking stuff. He squatted down next to the dog. “Now eat.”

  When she finished eating, he rubbed olive oil on her swollen legs, then poured it right over the wounds. It was his father’s remedy. Olive oil in your salad, olive oil on your skin, olive oil for whatever ailed you.

  “So when are you going to start walking, Zola?” The name just popped out. Zola, after Zola Budd. Maybe the name would help her run again. “If you run a tenth as good as Zola Budd, you’ll be a great dog.”

  In the middle of the night, the dog crept over to his mattress and started whining. “What do you want?” He was only half awake and pulled h
er up next to him. In the morning she was there, curled up behind his knees. “You’re not exactly the girl of my dreams,” he told her.

  The next day at work, he checked the phone book and found the address of a veterinarian on Central Avenue. When he got home, he wrapped Zola in a blanket and took her to the vet. Every seat in Dr. Goldman’s waiting room was taken. Across the room, a Doberman sat watching him alertly. A woman was holding a Persian cat, and sitting next to her was a man holding two sleek, blue-eyed Siamese. Willis felt like he and Zola were a couple of mongrels.

  “Can I help you?” the receptionist asked. She was wearing glasses with tiny little cats etched on the lenses. “Your appointment?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Oh, you need an appointment.”

  “My dog is really sick.”

  “May I see her?” She raised a corner of the blanket. “Oh, the poor thing.”

  He started to explain. “Somebody—”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Zola.”

  “Zola? Is that a first name or a last name?”

  “First name.”

  “Last name?”

  “Mine or the dog’s?”

  “Yours will do.”

  “Pierce.”

  “Zola Pierce. Sit down,” she said. “Doctor will see you soon.”

  Dr. Goldman was tall, with bright round eyes and a bushy, ginger-colored mustache. He examined Zola on a stainless steel table. Back here, the dog smell was stronger and the dog chorus was louder. Willis kept patting Zola, who cowered on the table.

  The doctor looked into her eyes, then listened to her heart. He examined her legs carefully. Zola winced a couple of times, but she didn’t cry. “Sorry, pet,” the doctor said, “this will only take a moment more. How did this happen?”

  “She was tied with wire. Somebody threw her away to die.”

  The doctor sighed and rubbed Zola’s head.

  “Is she going to be all right? Is she going to walk?”

  “She’s young. That’s on her side, but her legs are badly infected. I’m going to give her an injection, and there are some antibiotics I want you to give her orally. No broken bones, but these two back legs, the muscles and tendons are in bad shape. You better bring her in again in a couple of weeks and let me have another look at her.”