When the food came, Howie rubbed his hands together, looking at his monstrous sandwich, and said he had forgotten all about the Carnegie Deli until Sherry had suggested it. It’s nice to have tourists in town, he said, because you get to see the best parts of New York all over again! He picked up his knife and fork and held them upright at the sides of his plate, and then dug in with a vigor that surprised Mim.
That’s quite a sandwich, Howie, she said, and he nodded with his mouth full.
Sherry, said Marv, how’s the magazine?
Howie released a little exhalation through his nose and rolled his eyes. Oh, jeez, he said. Don’t get her started.
Mim was shocked. She wished very much that Sherry would, in fact, get started. The bits she got from Sherry about her job were minimal, though she asked her every Sunday evening when she called. That Howie — that anyone— would take for granted any part of Sherry’s life, would consider any aspect of it unworthy of discussion, infuriated her. Sherry had never been forthcoming. Anything she revealed was a gift to be treasured, and this was something Howie would know if he really cared about her.
Politics, politics, said Howie. Sherry just has to learn to lay it on thicker.
What’s going on, Sherry? said Mim. Is everything OK?
Yeah, said Sherry. She bit into her half-sour pickle and said, I just don’t really want to talk about it right now.
* * *
Howie was done with half his sandwich before Mim had taken four bites of her cheesecake. They talked about his childhood in New York, and Mim asked him, for some reason, whether they had school buses in Manhattan. No, they have bus-buses in Manhattan! said Howie. He winked, and told her yes, they had school buses too. For the public school kids, he said. He fiddled with his earring. His left hand, Mim could tell, was resting on Sherry’s leg beneath the table. She tried to keep her gaze at eye level. He was more than fifty, decided Mim. Was he more than fifty? There was no way to ask Sherry that. There were many things about which she couldn’t ask Sherry: her job; her friends in New York — she had made the mistake, on the way to the Carnegie Deli, of inquiring after Sherry’s actress friend Carla. Sherry had said, We’re not really in touch anymore — her safety; her finances; and now Howie’s age. Anything about Howie, Mim knew, she would have to extract from Howie himself.
Tell us about your family, she said at last, and Sherry looked at her sharply. Throughout the meal, Mim had felt she was saying the wrong things, but she couldn’t stop herself, and she couldn’t tell how to fix it.
Well, said Howie, my youngest is twelve, and my oldest just turned seventeen.
Marv, who had been silent for most of the meal, put his fork down very gently on top of the cheesecake.
Or did you mean my parents? asked Howie Plank.
Oh, said Mim, who was beginning to feel an unsettling trembling in the core of her, as if her breath had suddenly left her, Now, I don’t really know what I meant.
Sherry said, Howie has three children from a previous marriage. Tomas is twelve, Peter Phillip is fourteen, and Alexandria is seventeen.
Do they — live here? In New York City? asked Mim. She had given up trying to know what was right, or what she shouldn’t say. A swarm of tourists had just entered the restaurant, happy and raucous and familiar to her, like old friends. Three older couples and what looked to be their grown children. Stop it, one of them was saying, over and over, but she was shrieking with laughter. If they were standing next to her, Mim would certainly ask them where they were from. She would ask them where they were staying, and for how long.
Tomas and Alexandria do, said Howie. They live with me, actually, and go to school here, and visit their mother in Connecticut every other weekend. Peter Phillip lives with his mother all the time.
Oh, said Mim. Now why doesn’t he live with you, too? She was a train; she was unstoppable and swift.
He has autism, said Howie, cheerfully. I guess he just feels more comfortable with his mother. He does better when he’s there.
A long and dreadful silence settled about them. Howie made a funny little face at Sherry that they weren’t supposed to see. Mim tried to picture Sherry as a mother of teenagers, one of them handicapped, wrong in some way. Did they like her? Were they kind to her? And was Howie kind, all the time? What did they talk about when they were alone? The mystery of Sherry’s life seemed to unfurl itself before her, and for once she allowed herself to acknowledge the great expanse between them. Every night, Sherry was doing things they weren’t supposed to know about. Every day, Sherry went to work and spoke to friends they had never heard of. Every day. Everything was so strange and gray to her suddenly that she didn’t quite know what to do.
There was a great din in the place and she pretended to tune into it, for a moment, to obscure the fact that her words were failing her. She prayed that Marv would say something, but instead he excused himself to go to the restroom. She watched him as he walked away, and noticed again that he was limping. He was older than she was by five years. Probably it was just from sitting for too long. Probably it was another of his maladies, like his cataracts, like the arthritis that had plagued his hands for years. He had also been going deaf slowly for some time now; she had grown accustomed to raising her voice when she spoke to him. Only at night, in bed, when the world around them was soundless and still, did she feel she could lower it again. These were her favorite times: the whispering, the near-silence.
