Nestlings, p.22
Nestlings, page 22
“Like a week. Last Friday.”
“A week.”
“I didn’t plan on it! It just … I knew you’d be upset.”
“If you knew I’d be upset, that means you knew you were doing something I’d be upset about.”
He blinked, no response. That was pure Wife Logic: unsparing, withering … airtight.
“And why won’t you fucking eat?!” she suddenly snapped at Charlie.
“Hey, hey.” Reid took over with the spoon, having equally little luck.
Ana moved away from the table. She ran her hands through her hair. “Look. Reid. I’m happy you quit, okay? You hated that job. And I love your music, you know that. That song you played today was beautiful. I have always told you I’d support it if you wanted to pursue your music full-time.” For the briefest of seconds, he thought that’d be it. “But—”
“I knew there’d be a ‘but.’”
“Of course there’s a fucking but! You lied to me! You didn’t let me in on a huge decision!”
“There wasn’t a decision, it just happened!”
“There was absolutely a decision when you decided not to tell me. And, like, what do we do about money now? My audio stuff alone won’t—”
“I’m getting paid, Ana. Jesus, it’s fine! We’re gonna be fine!”
“Great. And how much are you getting paid? How often? Are taxes being taken out? Are there benefits? I’m not making enough to get SAG health insurance yet. Did you forget you were getting health insurance from the firm? Are we on COBRA now? What about our savings? School for Charlie?”
“I—we will figure all that out! Jesus!” He felt overheated. He suddenly understood that hack comedian pantomime of tugging on your collar when you’re in trouble.
“Maybe I could take on a few more audiobooks, but I can’t even count on you to fix my fucking booth, so we’re gonna have to call someone to come and repair it—”
“I will fix your booth! I’ll call Home Depot right now!”
“Do you not understand how quickly money disappears? We barely have any savings left and things happen. Emergencies. Moving expenses—”
Reid had joked about record-scratch moments in the past: where the needle suddenly skips the groove and everything screeches into silence. This was one such moment, but there was nothing funny about it.
“Moving expenses? What are you talking about?”
Now it was her turn to squirm. “We … we can’t live here forever, Reid.”
“What do you mean?”
“Charlie’s going to grow up, remember? Like, physically get bigger and need more space?”
“There’s plenty of room here, Ana.”
“And, I don’t know…” She dropped her voice to an almost whisper. “Can’t you feel how weird things are here?”
“Weird.”
“I don’t like this place, Reid. I … I feel like I’m losing my mind here. It’s awful.”
She bit back the urge to tell him about the courtyard. Her dreams.
Meanwhile, he flashed on the basement. The rooftop.
Charlie sat in her chair, staring into space.
Then Reid dropped the spoon onto the kitchen table harder than it needed. It gave an outraged clatter. He got up and moved around the kitchen with manic aimlessness.
“See, that’s what this really comes down to. That’s why I didn’t say anything.”
Now it was her turn to ask him what he meant by that.
“I really don’t want to say it, Ana.”
“Say it. What are you talking about?”
It was a dare. He stopped himself. Took a deep breath.
“Look,” he said slowly. “We’re both stressed. Our sleep schedules have been fucked. You know how you get when things are bad.”
“How do I ‘get’?”
“Ana.”
“Jesus, Reid! Fucking say it—!”
He kept his voice infuriatingly calm. “Do you have any idea what you were like at the doctor’s? Or in the hallway the other day? Or after the courtyard? It’s like, every day I come home from work and, What new disaster is waiting for me?”
“That’s really rich considering you haven’t even been fucking coming home from work.”
“Okay, great, act like I’m the problem here. Let’s just keep pretending like things don’t get really fucking scary when you get pushed too far. Like that one night didn’t hap—”
He stopped himself.
But there it was.
They stared at each other, waiting to see who was brave enough to finally drag that conversation into the light.
Before that could happen, there was a knock on their front door.
“Ignore it,” Ana said, eyes filling with frustrated tears. “Please.”
Another knock.
Reid straightened his spine and said, almost cheerily, “No.”
He moved past her and opened the front door.
Ana stayed where she was. She heard an unfamiliar, vaguely Eastern European voice come from just beyond their threshold.
“Reid, golubchik, I’m so sorry to bother. I hope the birthday girl is doing well.”
4
Camilla left a moment later, but in that short time, both Reid and Ana realized they stood at the edge of something. The sort of night where the wrong thing is said and everything changes.
Reid shrugged on his jacket.
“I’ll be back in like an hour,” he said. “Then we can keep talking.”
Ana hadn’t moved from the kitchen. “So this is how it’s going to be? She’s just gonna come down at all hours to give you tasks, and you’ll jump to it?”
“Which is it, Ana, do you want me to have paid work or not?”
“Is it paid? Have you even gotten a paycheck? I mean, what kind of arrangement do you have with this woman?”
“Jesus. Are you jealous?”
“I’m curious about your fucking job. I’m your wife!”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Ana. You’ve got all the information you need. I have to run down to the jeweler’s and pick up an earring for her. Okay?”
“But why now? Why does she need it now?”
“Did you hear me? Do you want me to invite her back in? She said she was sorry to ask, so…!” He spread his hands out and then let them slap against his thighs. “If you hadn’t gotten lost in the fucking courtyard, I could’ve done this yesterday.” He stopped. Reassessed. “I’m sorry. That was shitty of me.”
She looked at her hands. “Kacey was right, you are a dick.”
That was bait. Reid decided not to take it.
“I will be right back. I need a fucking breather anyway.”
He headed for the door before he could stop himself.
As he rode the elevator down, the day replayed over and over in his head. How unfair Ana was being. How unfair Charlie was being. How perfect the timing had been for Camilla to give him an excuse to take a break. This was all so fucked up. He stepped out of the building and onto the sidewalk, deep in thought. He was about to head toward Columbus when—
“Ey! Reid!”
A familiar voice, slurred and strident, sent a palpable chill through him.
No, couldn’t be …
“Yeah, I see you, you frickin’ sneak!”
There in the usual small crowd of tourists and picture takers, pointing right at him … was Frank.
PUSHOVER
1
Frank wasn’t much of a beer drinker—highballs and wine, sure, the sweeter the better—but today, he was. It felt appropriate. His dad had liked beer, and Frank had always wanted to kill his dad. So today, Frank spent most of the day perched at the bar of O’Donoghue’s Pub on Seventy-Second and Broadway, downing pint after pint.
Frank’s buddy from the post office had gotten back to him last night. When Frank learned where Mr. and Mrs. Fancyass, he of the eminently punchable face, she of the wheelchair and the tight body that was undoubtedly plumping up at rapid speed, lived now—not in Iowa or wherever they said, but the frickin’ Deptford!—Frank fumed all night, and then, bright and early this morning, stormed outta his house and onto a train. He didn’t know what he was going to do, just that he was going to confront those lying, lease-breaking frickin’ scumbags.
When he got to the luxury building, he looked up, up, up, feeling the eyes of the gargoyles looking down. He looked at the strange doormen waiting outside the black wrought iron gates. Frank was an old-school New Yorker who’d worked in construction, so he knew a bit about the history of this building, how people had tended to disappear back in the day. Maybe that was why he felt a nervous rumble in his gut being here.
Or maybe it was something even simpler. This goddamn frickin’ building made him feel small. He hated feeling small. His pops had been small. A pushover.
Then Frank noticed people about Ana and Reid’s age going into the building, bringing kids about the same age as that little maggot who’d pissed on his floors.
They were here. Had to be. Probably throwing some sort of fancyass party. Inviting fancyass friends to ooh and ahh, this place is so much better than your last place, where your disgusting landlord made everything so working-class, so Brooklyn.
Frank decided he was going to go get a drink and come up with a plan. He walked over to Broadway, found a bar not crawling with other fancyasses having fancyass brunches, ordered some brews, and nursed his aggrievements.
It was an impressive list. After Marla had taken her cottage cheese ass and left him, his resentment at the world grew. Tucker knew. Tucker spoke for men like him, men who the world was trying to break down, make weak and apologetic for existing.
They day grew late. One more beer. Frank swallowed it with a grimace, pushed himself off his barstool, left just enough cash to cover the beers—didn’t need a frickin’ tip to pour—and stumbled back to the Deptford. He didn’t know what he was gonna do next, but he knew someone was gonna get hurt.
And, would you look at that? Just as he approached the Deptford, Mr. Fancyass himself was walking out.
Sometimes the universe played ball.
Frank felt his hands curl up into fists.
Time to frickin’ push back.
2
“Hey, Frank.” Reid sighed, annoyed, as if he’d expected to run into him. “Can’t really talk.”
He tried to keep walking, but Frank got in his way.
“So you’re a rich-ass fancy-pants now, huh? Well, you owe me frickin’ money.”
That stopped Reid in his tracks.
“Excuse me?”
“You owe me frickin’ money! For repairs! For what you did! To my building!”
Spittle flew from his lips. Spittle and the warm barn-stench of beer. Christ, he was blitzed out of his walnut-sized brain.
Reid had to hide a laugh at how pathetic this was. Frank had found out where they’d moved, gotten on a train, and then had to drink up some courage to come yell at him. “Fuck you, Frank.” He stepped off the curb and tried to cross the street, but Frank juked into his way.
“Yeah, fuck me. You done messed up my floors! You frickin’ moron! I laid that wood by hand! You know how many nails that took? I don’t use no glue. That’s nails, you understand?” Frank swayed on his feet, staring at Reid with half-lidded intensity. “And the tile in the bathroom. What’d you do to the tile? You shoulda called me to do it, I coulda taught you! That’s the problem with people like you, you think you know everything and now look at my hand—” He held up a bandaged paw. “Look at what happens when you—”
“Oh my gooooodddddd, shut the fuck up!” Reid shouted at the top of his lungs. “You unbelievably annoying piece of shit!”
It was like the whole world stammered to silence. Frank’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened. Like a fish trying out the air.
People were watching now. Reid didn’t care. He threw his arms open dramatically.
“I know, Frank! You’re smarter than everyone else! You know more about houses and construction and politics and world affairs than anyone else. Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you think you’re smart because people have learned it’s completely pointless to try to correct you?”
Frank blinked, trying to process this. Then he puffed his chest. “I don’t need correctin’—”
“Because arguing with you is like arguing with a goat getting its dick electrocuted! You’re just, Naaaah! Naaaah! You just make noise! You’re not smart. You’re just—Naaahh! Naaaaaaah!”
Frank was too drunk to be quick or articulate—he wasn’t those things even in the best of times—so he spoke slowly and deliberately, squeezing his eyes shut like a little kid trying to recite Latin.
“You listen to me and you listen good.”
“Oh, goody! What new lesson shall I learn today?”
“You—you listen to me. Nobody talks that way to you. I mean, me. Nobody.”
“No, they wait for you to be gone, Frank. Then they talk about you this way. Everybody hates you, my guy!”
“Maybe everybody hates you! Ever thought about that?”
“Great point, Frank. We done here?” Reid patted Frank on the shoulder and tried to finally move past him. It had been fun for a minute, but now—
“You listen to me, you kike sonofabitch.” It shot out of Frank’s mouth with the muscle memory of someone not unpracticed in saying such things. “You don’t know how lucky you had it. I let you live under my roof. You and your slimy frickin’ family. I gave you a good home. You don’t get to disrespect me.”
Reid turned around to face him. He had never before become so instantly, tremblingly furious. “What did you call me?”
“Yeah, see? You think I don’t know? I know. I know your little rituals. You and your frickin’ kike wife. And, hey, whatever happened to her? She used to be hot, but now she’s like a frickin’ shopping cart, right? How do you even look at that thing? Seriously. Man to man. Can she even feel anything anymore? Or was that always a problem with your little yid prick, huh? Your little frickin’ kosher sausage?”
Reid’s fist connected with Frank’s jowled chin. He felt Frank’s teeth scrape against his knuckles, and somewhere, angels sang.
Frank staggered back, his gummy eyes bright with shock. There was definitely a crowd now. People probably taking pictures. Let them, Reid thought and immediately on the heels of that: Oh shit, I’m gonna go viral as the guy who beat up an old man.
Or maybe not. Frank seemed to be recovering. Raising both his fists. Honest to God preparing for a bare-knuckle brawl.
“That’s how you wanna be, college boy?” Frank blinked a few times and spat blood onto the sidewalk. “Okay, let’s go.”
Reid heard himself hissing curses back at Frank. It made him think of when Ana made fun of him for putting on some sort of fake, tough-guy Noo Yawk accent. Was this authentic enough? This street brawl in the gutters of Eighty-Second Street?
Reid raised his own fists, elated at the idea of finally venting some fury, when a calm, velveteen voice piped up beside them.
“Gentlemen, please.”
No real urgency in the voice. Might as well have been strolling up to someone at an office party, asking about the dip.
Frank jumped all the same. “What the frick?!”
The concierge stood there, flanked by two imposing doormen. “This is more of a scene than we’re comfortable with outside the building. If you could please—”
“I ain’t gonna please nothing for nobody,” Frank spat—figuratively and literally. “This goddamn Jew bastard owes me money.”
The concierge, turned to Reid. “Mr. Greene, I do apologize for this, but—”
“What’re you apologizing to him for? I’m the one getting robbed! And lookit my hand! Lookit what he did to my hand! How’m I supposed to—”
Smiler grabbed Frank’s arm. Suddenly, but gently. Then he leaned toward Frank and began whispering something into his ear.
Reid couldn’t make out what was said.
All he could hear was a low, harsh buzzing coming from Smiler’s lips.
All he could feel was the pain in his fist.
All he could see was how Frank’s expression changed from his usual beleaguered, half-lidded sneer … to wide-eyed, open-mouthed disgust. Or was it terror?
The front of Frank’s pants darkened. His bladder had let go. It puddled around his right foot.
Smiler let him go and took a small step away. When Frank could find his voice again, he began to whisper:
“You’re … you’re … frickin’ crazy. You’re all frickin’ crazy! I … I ain’t gonna, I ain’t gonna…”
Frank didn’t finish his threat. He backed away and bolted down the street in a loping, bowlegged trot, like some primate not quite used to moving on two legs.
Just like that, the adrenaline turned off, and Reid began to shiver. The air must have dropped ten degrees in an instant. It was dusk already. That awful, winter dusk that comes on way too early, when it should still be a bright and sunny afternoon—
“Mr. Greene. Are you all right?”
Smiler turned to him. Reid wanted nothing more than to keep his distance.
“I’m fine. He just … started harassing me.” He made a weak gesture toward the tiny crowd that watched the proceedings. “Anyone here can back me up, I bet—”
“I witnessed the encounter myself,” the concierge said, smiling.
“I didn’t want to hit him. But he called my wife—”
“I understand. Absolutely.”
“My hand hurts.”
“I expect it does.”
“I … I should go back inside and tell Ana. Get some ice.” He suddenly felt embarrassed. Vulnerable. He wanted to be with his family and process what had happened. He wanted to be far away from this strange man who could make a belligerent drunk piss himself in fear with a whisper.
Smiler stopped him with a low, raised hand.
“But I believe Miss Varné requested you complete an errand for her, yes?”
“Huh? How did you—?”
“I’m sure she would appreciate this task being completed before the evening gets too late. The store might close.”
