I think if I weren’t writing this down, I would have lost my mind by now. Carlos is still gone; he did not come back last night, or the night before. I can see now how ridiculous it was for me to expect him to. But expect it I did: every time Mason or Roger turned or coughed downstairs, I listened for the next sound, which I was sure would be that of a lock turning, a door opening, Carlos in the kitchen, up the back stairs. Sounds that never came.
[click here for the first episode and here for the previous one.]
By Saturday afternoon I’d recovered from Carlos having left for a while After all, the man had to go home. Put on fresh clothes, check his mail, check his phone machine. And by eight that next evening, serving college kids coffee and brownies to fuel their resumed studies, I was telling myself it was good he’d left when he did. After five straight days and nights, we needed a short spell to take stock of ourselves, clear our heads. Carlos had trusted me to understand the situation tacitly—and I did. (And I’m still telling myself this—with one slight alteration: that what happened during the storm was so earthshaking we need an unspecified amount of time, rather than a short spell, to take stock, etc.)
By nine o’clock last night I was absolutely convinced he was on his way here. Friday, Saturday, Sunday, that’s long enough. Carlos was going to show up any minute. To get myself ready, I closed the shop early. A picture was stuck in my mind of myself posed nonchalantly in the narrow arch between entranceway and bedroom as Carlos rushed to explain where he’d been.
Mason and Roger tapped on the front window.
Letting them in, I said, “One false move and you guy’s are on your butts in the snow. No, fuck that: one false thought, if you guys still have thoughts.” One of them mumbled something at the floor. The one I think of as Mason clutched his crotch and winced.
“All right, all right, I said, furiously, “But hurry.”
Then I stood outside the men’s room, holding the door open and yelling, “Come on, come on, Jeez.” I made sweeping motions with my hands. “Wash up and let’s go.” Then I kicked the air near where they lay their heads.
Upstairs, I took a long shower. If Carlos should arrive while I was in the middle of luxuriating under the spray, he could just wait on the landing until I was done. Twice while drying myself, I thought I heard him there. Half-naked, I opened the door and peered down the chilly dark—empty—stairwell. Oh well, better really if his first glimpse of me was while I was busy, fully clothed, hair dried. I put on an ironed white shirt, a sweater vest, and jeans that were tight before the storm.
At ten-thirty I was happily finishing Friday night’s wine. He’d arrive in an hour or so, which would be perfect—there’d still be time for him to circle the floor in my robe, iron balls chiming in his dexterous hands. At midnight I was still telling myself he’d come any minute. At one and two I was listening to every creak, every rustle and sigh. At three I was praying. Preparing myself for four, when he’d arrive for his shift downstairs, turn on the lights and the radio, as if nothing, nothing, nothing had ever happened.
I promised myself I’d wait until seven, as I always used to—before the snow. But at five when he still hadn’t come, I raced downstairs and rushed the bums out. No food, no bathroom. I screamed curses, berated their mothers, and locked the front door behind them. Then I turned on the fryer and started a huge batch of cake donuts. In twelve years Carlos has missed work three times.
At six-thirty I sold eight large cappuccinos to go and a dozen of my inferior donuts. Unlike Carlos’s, mine made grease spots on the white paper bags before I’d even finished ringing up the sale. What if something terrible had happened to him? At the cash register, I had a cinematic vision of myself behind the wheel of a car. The speedometer was stuck at the far right; the brakes did not exist. And I had to fight the impulse (as a customer had entered) to throw my arms up over my face. . . I sold an old man a cup of Lipton’s and a plain cake donut and then hurried back to the kitchen, where I found Carlos’s unlisted number scrawled in a tiny, ancient address book tucked among the old ledgers. Twice I dialed the number but hung up mid-ring.
I made four pans of brownies, because my brownies if nothing else are as good as his. The third time I dialed, a man trying to sound like a woman (or vice versa) said, “This is Venus. How may I help you?”
Then Stephanie burst in, cursing before she’d even gotten her coat off. Where the fuck was Carlos? “Liked I’m supposed to serve your lard logs and—hope people tip out of pity?”
Where was Carlos; where was Maggie?
“Isn’t Maggie,” I asked Stephanie, “supposed to waitress with you?”
“That’s not what she does. Maggie the waitress; what a laugh.”
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