yardsticks & valuables: the ruth persico story

The day after is always the hardest and usually spent in delay; breakfast, writing, walking the Pomeranian whining behind the laundry room door, everything, postponed until sunset. She eyes the old playbill, an invitation to Cynthia’s baby shower, and the neatly stacked leaves of her manuscript resting on the bedside table. “You need to get up,” She groaned. Her body doesn’t budge.

She focuses on the congregation of sweat pooling above her upper lip, and is annoyed by it. Fear of a head on collision with several of the things she hates in his wake, like her fingers, dripping with the musk of her lady folds, and the memory of his hand forcing hers between them, keeps her palms at bay. Gently she rolls over, swipes her face against the pillow, then gazes at the industrial façade of her ceiling.

The vibration of her cell phone mildly muffled by the chaos of clothes and shoes strewn across the floor, distracts her. She doesn’t plan to locate it or take the call. Instead, she shifts her attention to the sprays of crimson spilling across her bed like graffiti on whitewashed walls. And welcomes it; sunset. The Who’s Baba O’Riley replaces the vibration. “That’s right, leave a message.” She grumbled.

Soon it will be nightfall and the day after will be no more. She’ll come alive like cherry blossoms and the other colorful things in the height of Spring. These kaleidoscopic images are abruptly interrupted by the obscene ringing of her home phone. She grabs a fistful of bed sheet and screams, “Go away!”

The ringing, like her body, is disobedient. Its incessancy plucks at her nerves. Rising before the city lights ignite is a chore she loathes more than ironing. And she’d rather bleed than iron. Each movement out of bed, and down the hall to her home office for the neon green receiver of the rotary phone, is forced. Her sister’s three octaves above C-note voice can be heard before the receiver is to her ears.

“Yes Dana?”
“Geez Ruth! Are you in bed already? Why didn’t you answer your cell?”
“Is mom alright?”
“Yes. Why didn’t you answer your cell?”
“Because I don’t want to be bothered.”
“I see. Did you get Cynthia’s invitation? And have you heard Karensa is getting married?”
“Yes and no.”
“Well she is, to Paul Mentore. You remember him right? I think you guys dated in grad school.”
“I wouldn’t call it that.”
“What would you call it?”
“Dana, did you call for something?”
“Well I’ll be damned, one must have a reason to call their sister? How about to chat Ruth?”
“I’m going back to bed. Love you.”

She unplugs the phone from the jack, looks outside her loft window at the East River, and the Manhattan skyline beyond it. The Empire building bathed in orange, blue and white; the Knicks must have a game at home. Ships drift. Lights flicker. People are going and coming. She is in limbo.

It’s 5:15pm. The discarded clothes are in the washing machine, the pair of shoes back with their color coded counterparts, and amaretto flavored coffee brews while she’s in the shower. The almost scalding water whips against her mocha stained flesh. She vigorously rubs the loofah against her fingers, then her neck to chase the markings of his lips and teeth. The Jasmine scented body wash flushes her lungs. Tears and sudsy water slide down her body.

She feels the stinging of her inner thighs and knows he has left with a souvenir. Some men are known to take panties. He demands flesh and blood, like memory in indelible ink. She grabs a robe, scrambles two eggs, makes a pancake, lights a candle, says a prayer, eats, then gets dressed.

She walks the dog, purchases Cymbidiums, a few used books, stops at a quaint café on Bedford Avenue for their brand of overpriced tea and a brief observation of humans. A singular moment spent in the undertow. Her phone rings. It’s him. He isn’t due to call again, not until next month. She sends it to voicemail and heads back home.

Effortlessly, she prepares amuse-bouche for 20, then glides through the remaining courses. She slips into a vintage LBD, a drizzle of Christian Dior, her grandmother’s diamond studs, gulps some wine, squares her shoulders and steadies herself for the euphoria. Guests trickle in pairs and groups. The waltz begins; she dips and swirls with each change of topic, glass of wine refilled, and shift of background music. He calls again. Irritated, she excuses herself to answer in the bedroom.

“This better be good!”
“Can we meet?”
“Next week.”
“I’m up for partner, well, pending the outcome of this account.
“Congrats. See you next week. I’m in the middle of my life.
“You don’t understand. I need a tune up.”
“Look, I don’t do impromptu requests, demands or…”
“Mommy, please…”
“Shut up! I’ll see what I can do.”

She cuts the call, exhales and returns the ever gracious hostess. For the next three hours, she forgets him and the cell phone stuffed beneath her pillows. They discuss the future of publishing, independent films and documentaries. She requests their thoughts on her favorites; Favela Rising, Entre Nos, Pray The Devil Back To Hell, and The Price of Sugar. A petite redhead from her alma mater asks for her thoughts on professional women, love, and motherhood.

Her answer would reveal more than she wishes to . So she lets the words fall like broken strands of pearls in the silence of her larynx. Then offers a segue, “I’m not sure that I want it all, what about you?” This ebb and flow of thoughts continue until the last bundle of guests leave. She strips down to her underwear, powers up her notebook, checks on the articles for the next issue of the magazine and contemplates how entertaining him tonight will affect going to the office tomorrow.

Against her rules, she calls. And as if waiting all night for that call, he answers upon the first ring, then arrives 30 minutes later. “Thank you for seeing me before the…”
“You’re infringing on my time. Please don’t do it again. I’ll meet you in the tub.”

He fills it with water, undresses, submerges his body and battles the need to take a breath. She gazes at his fetal form and remembers the flutters of the life she once carried. The memory carries no warmth. She unplugs the tub and the water flushes like it did from her womb. She covers him in tarpaulin. He writhes, pushes, and registers a punch to her gut in the process. She sits on him. Birthing is painfully hard for both baby and mother.

She coaxes him to find the cervix, commands him to wait until it is fully dilated, then travel down the birth canal. They wrestle until she finally opens the tarpaulin. He’s out- wet and crying on the bathroom floor. Just like it happened many moons ago. She gently brings him to a breast and he suckles. She closes her eyes and thinks, a woman should not have to. Then gets up and heads for the bathroom door.

“Wait.” He begs, “What happened to the rest of infancy, and childhood, adolescence and discovering my sexuality?”
With her hand on the knob and her back to him, she answers, “Not tonight. I’m exhausted and I have to work tomorrow.”
“Please.”
She stiffens in remembrance of her own pleas.
“Shut up!” was the screamed response. She offers the same.
“Mom, I won’t make partner if…”
“If you try to manipulate me one more time with that ‘mom,’ you’ll have to find someone else. Put on your clothes and leave.”

After the door clicks, she runs towards it, seals the dead bolt and punches the lock key into the security system. She slides down the door sobbing. The memories are a stampede. Sleep won’t come easy tonight. The thumping grows louder until it crashes against her cranium. The migraines begin. She’s once again a little girl with unruly tendrils, bare feet and running with innocence. Replaced by a teenager with the mannerisms of a tomboy and a body sprouting with the glories of estrogen. Chinua Achebe was right, things do fall apart. Like nights when father figures uncover the nakedness of little girls who eventually become host to the prey that is both their sibling and offspring.

She staggers against the onslaught of memories, lifts herself off the floor, and begins cleaning. The tears tumble, the dishwasher rumbles, the vacuum cleaner too. She’d wanted an abortion. They said the womb is not a sepulcher. Its presence fed off her soul. A fraction desiccating with every passing month in gestation. The at birth adoption came and left sans sadness. Just a vacuum where normalcy resided. This is what she mourns. It is this black hole that hurts the most.

Scanning the expanse of her home, she observes its spotlessness, hard earned luxury, and the little things that disclose her penchant for creativity. It’s 3:00am. She remembers a Matchbox 20 song with the same name, and Rives’ Ted Speech about that hour. Cues both, sets her alarm for 7:00am, pops a valium, slips into her pajamas and finally her bed. She is a long way from getting it together. She knows this. But a wholesome moment with her faculties is her most prized possession, and when that slips, another to gather it again. Moments. That’s all she desires. They’re her yard stick and valuables.

~ by Renatta on January 7, 2011.