A Couple
by
Fred Bubbers
Copyright © 2010 by Fred Bubbers
All Rights Reserved.
Smashwords Edition 1.7, August 2011
Cover photograph: Shalom Ormsby/Digital Vision/Getty Images
This story originally appeared in Cantaraville.
No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced or shared by any means, via recording, photocopying, electronically, or in print, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, including blogging, email, or text messaging, without the prior written permission of the author and/or the publishing company, except by a reviewer or reporter who may quote brief passages embodied in a review or article to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, or journal of sorts, including online versions of said publications
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Debbie and I had been fighting all week long. She dragged me everywhere. We ate rubber shrimp at an over-priced restaurant with stone-age decor. We visited an authentic Seminole village where they sold authentic stuffed baby alligators. We paid twenty-five dollars apiece to watch a blonde ride a killer whale. And on the night before our last full day, we drove down to North Miami to visit Debbie's grandmother.
"Be careful what you say," Debbie warned me as we drove down A1A. "There's only one thing worse than my parents finding out, and that's my grandmother finding out."
"It can't be much worse than if your parents find out."
"Oh yeah? If my parents find out from my grandmother, she'll make them feel guilty, especially my mother."
"Never approved of her, eh?" I asked.
"Something likes that. If my grandmother lays it on my parents, can you imagine how my parents will lay it on me? Not one, but two layers of guilt."
"You mean three instead of two," I mumbled.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Never mind," I said. "I just don't see why you make such a big deal out of it. What they don't know won't hurt them."
"I just don't like walking around knowing that I'm lying to them."
That way she had of constantly accusing herself always annoyed me. Her parents were difficult enough without her helping them along. "If you don't tell them anything, you don't have to lie."
"They ask questions. What's the matter with you? Don't WASPS make their kids feel guilty?"
"Of course they do," I laughed.
"How come you don't show it?" Debbie chuckled and added, "I'm sure you have plenty to feel guilty about."
I most certainly did. Just several weeks earlier, I had taken Debbie down to New York to meet my parents. My father didn't say very much, but I knew what he was thinking. It was just one of the thousand ways he was disapointed in me. I had gotten past caring about it enough to even have a fight.
"WASPS work silently," I said. "They don't say a word and just let the guilt build up silently. Psychological warfare. That way they can't be blamed for anything. We always cover our asses."
"Not a bad idea," Debbie said thoughtfully. Then she turned abruptly and said, "And don't smoke, whatever you do."
"Of course."
Mrs. Sussman lived in a senior citizen's condominium, inland from the coast on Miami Gardens Drive. Debbie had a little trouble remembering which twenty-five story building in the complex her grandmother lived in and it took some time for her to remember some old landmarks. We drove slowly around the man-made lake, around which the towers were built. Finally, something caught her eye. "There it is," she said, pointing to one of the floodlit concrete structures. "They planted some new palm trees since I was last here." They all looked the same to me.
We found a parking slot marked VISITORS, locked up the car and walked slowly toward the entrance. Debbie put her arm around my waist, sliding her hand down into my back pocket and whispered, "Don’t worry. Relax. I love you, you know." I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, trying not to worry. With Debbie, however, worrying was a way of life. As we entered the lobby, I began breathing deeply, filling my lungs with the cool, purified air.
On the elevator ride up to the fourteenth floor, I grabbed Debbie, embracing and pressing her back into the wall of the elevator car, kissing her mouth powerfully and deeply. It was something we had always done during our first year together in the high-rise dormitory at school. Making love on an elevator, if you could call it that, had always been one of my more bizarre fantasies. The scintillating sense of danger was heightened by the fact that we were in Debbie's grandmother's elevator.
Suddenly we felt the elevator slow down and as always, I jumped away from Debbie and we composed ourselves, preparing our faces to feign innocence. The elevator stopped on the seventh floor and an elderly couple stepped inside. The man wore white shoes, plaid slacks, a polo shirt, and a golf cap. His wife, although she was on the heavy side, was an attractive woman in her late sixties, wearing a print skirt and a lavender blouse.
The man pressed nineteen and turned to me. He grimaced and said, "Who are you?" The skin under his chin flapped when he spoke.
I stuttered for a moment and then Debbie said, "We’re visiting Golda Sussman on fourteen."
"Oh, you must be Debbie," said the woman, smiling. "Your grandmother told me all about you and your brother."
Debbie smiled nicely at the woman and then glanced at me as a warning to be pleasant.
"And who is this handsome young man?" her husband asked, giving me a smile. A small one.
"He's a friend of mine from college."
"Rob Dickinson," I said shaking his hand.
The elevator slowed down and stopped at the fourteenth floor. We said goodbye and as we stepped off the elevator, the woman said, "Tell your grandmother that Rose and Milton send their regards and that she has a beautiful granddaughter."
The door of Mrs. Sussman's apartment opened and Debbie fell away from me into her grandmother's arms. There were tears in her grandmother's eyes as she said softly, "five years, five years." Then Mrs. Sussman stepped back, composing herself, looking Debbie up and down. "See how you've grown up. You're a young woman now. A beautiful young woman."
The dinner table was to the right, just off the kitchen as we entered the living room, exquisitely set with silver and crystal. The entire room was decorated in off-white. Across the room was a velour apholstered couch and love seat positioned around a glass-topped coffee table. Beyond that was a terrace that overlooked the moonlit lake. Mrs. Sussman closed the glass door and switched on the air conditioning. Debbie introduced me and I shook Mrs. Sussman’s hand.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," she said. "You don't have to wear that tie just for me. Take it off, make yourself comfortable."
"It's all right, it doesn't bother me at all," I lied. Debbie and I sat down on the couch, making sure we were at least six inches apart, and Mrs. Sussman took the loveseat. I sat back momentarily and felt a small pillow at the small of my back, which I suddenly had noticed was damp, so I crossed my legs and leaned forward, clasping my hands around my knee, trying to look comfortable. I glanced to my right and saw that Debbie had adopted almost the same position.
"Can I give either of you a drink?" Mrs. Sussman asked. "I have plenty of liquor in the house. I don't drink it myself, but I like to have some in the house just in case."
"No, thank you," Debbie said.
"And you, Rob?"
"Oh no thank you, Ma'am."
"Are you sure?"
Debbie and I both shook our heads earnestly. If Debbie had said yes, I would have also had a drink. Normally, Debbie would never turn down a drink before dinner. When she said no it was for a very good reason. I guess it was bad enough for her, bringing her goyisher boyfriend to her grandmother's for dinner, she didn't want to worry about what her grandmother would think if she saw the two of them drinking together. I decided that it would be best if I played along with her.
"Maybe you would like some soda," Mrs. Sussman offered. "I have Cocoa-Cola."
"No, thank you," I said. I hate Coke.
"Are you sure? I went out and bought five bottles when I heard you were coming?"
"I'll have some, Nanny," Debbie said.
"You two stay right here and relax from your drive," Mrs. Sussman said, getting up. "Are you sure you don't want anything Rob?"
Following Debbie's lead, I finally gave in and said, "I guess I'll have a Coke."
"I won't be a minute," Mrs. Sussman said as she scurried into the kitchen.
Debbie and I sat quietly in the living room listening to bottles open and ice cube trays cracking and soda fizzing. Just before Mrs. Sussman returned, Debbie leaned to me and whispered, "Don't worry, she likes you. She thinks you're adorable. I can tell."
"How can you tell?" I asked.
"Because I think you're adorable and she always spoiled me." Mrs. Sussman returned carrying a metal tray with two glasses of Coke. "They certainly look good," I said, trying a little too hard, as I reached for the nearest glass. I took a sip and felt the syrup coating my teeth.
Debbie and Mrs. Sussman got involved in a long conversation about the family back in Bayside. Her older brother was finishing law school and was now applying to every law firm in the country. He had offers from Boston, Chicago, Los Angeles, Dallas, Atlanta, Denver, and Washington D.C. He was most likely going to take an offer from Great Neck, Long Island. Debbie's younger brother was now a senior in High School. Mrs. Sussman was rather upset that he was only going to a community college, but Debbie calmed the woman by emphasizing that he was going to transfer after two years. Then, Mrs. Sussman asked Debbie what her plans were.
"I'm going to move back home and get a job downtown," Debbie said.
"What was your major again," Mrs. Sussman asked. "Accounting?"
"Marketing," Debbie answered.
"Oh yes, that's right. Well, you'll do fine. Everything is in New York. And what are your plans, Rob?"
"I'll be going to graduate school in Boston," I said. I didn't want to say too much right away so that I could gauge her reaction.
Mrs. Sussman's face lit up and she said, "Oh you're getting and MBA. How marvelous."
"It's not an MBA, Nanny," Debbie said.
"Oh."
I'm getting a PhD in Classics," I said, enjoying the disappointed look on her face.
"Rob has an assistantship, Nanny," Debbie said. "They're going to pay him to go to school."
"What will you do after that?"
"Probably teach college," I said. "My specialty is Latin poetry."
"I see," Mrs. Sussman said, looking down and straightening her skirt. For some reason, upsetting the women's material sensibilities made me feel more in control, more independent. Being looked down upon has always given me a feeling of defiance. When people look down on you and think that their opinion means something to you when it really doesn't, you can privately place yourself above them. The least it can do is save your self respect. In any event, Mrs. Sussman's opinion of me was now permanently fixed.
For dinner, we ate pot roast (Debbie's favorite meal as a child) with mashed potatoes, string beans, creamed corn, dinner rolls and rye bread. Mrs. Sussman also served an extremely sweet sparkling wine, which she called "champagne." She kept filling my glass, telling me to tell her when I had enough because I still had to drive that night. I kept telling her I had enough, but she kept filling my glass anyway. Actually, I could drink that wine all night long and not get drunk. I might get cavities, but I wouldn't get drunk.
Mrs. Sussman also forced on us second and third portions of everything else, which was actually very good. The pot roast was tender, the strung beans were not over cooked, and the rolls were freshly baked. After we finished, I tried to help Debbie and her grandmother clear the table, but I just seemed to get in the way. Afterwards, Mrs. Sussman brewed a pot of coffee and pulled a huge cherry cheesecake out of the refrigerator.
We sat back down at the table and Mrs. Sussman poured the coffee. I managed to convince her that I only want a very small piece of cake. "The coffee is very good," I said.