1983
This is the way the world ends, Julie reads. Not with a bang but a whimper. She lifts her eyes from T.S. Eliot’s poem to a puffed-up pigeon grooming itself on the windowsill. “That’s me,” she tells the pigeon. “They fired me, and all I could do was whimper.” A typical Brooklyn bird, it doesn’t seem particularly interested.
A high cackle bounces into the room from across the street. The pigeon flaps anxiously away while Julie peers outside.
The ladies have gathered.
Every summer evening, after the dishes are done and their men placed safely in front of the television set, they sit in the small yard next to the stoop: some on folding chairs and others on the concrete steps. The youngest in her 50s, the oldest past 80, they watch the passersby and talk of schools and children, of changes in the neighborhood, of the new theater on the corner and the cops who ticket double-parked cars.
On her walk home from the subway every evening, Julie usually nods at the ladies as she goes home to chicken-and-rice or a pizza from the restaurant on the corner. Although they nod back, and even wave their hands in invitation, she typically just waves back as she climbs the steps to her front door. Only once or twice has she felt comfortable joining the crowd of elderly, gossiping women. It’s bad enough, she tells herself, that she has to work so hard to be accepted by the beautiful, thin executives at her office, or the well-dressed middle-aged men at the bars (who look past her without even focusing). She’s not going to associate herself with a group of obvious losers, blue-haired women past their prime. That would be admitting defeat. Admitting that her life is over, after never having happened.
Although, Julie sometimes concedes to herself, the few times she let the voices draw her from her solitude, the ladies made her welcome. And it was pleasant, standing around with people who talked to her as if she was important, and asked for her sympathy and advice on stolen cars, misbehaving computers, children going astray….
Her beeper buzzes at her; she pulls it quickly from her belt and checks the message. No luck so far, it reads. Will try to talk to Sam. Stay cool. Ginnie.
She reaches for the phone and dials Isabeau, whom her mom had always called “my extra-special friend,” and who always lent a sympathetic ear when Julie had a problem. When Julie’s father left, Isabeau persuaded her mom, who had no idea how to do things like hire a mechanic or write a check (never mind handle a divorce), to leave the large, lonely house and move in with her and her two kids. And when Julie’s mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, it was Isabeau who helped make those last couple of years as easy as possible.
Isabeau’s phone rings several times, and then the answering machine clicks on. The hell with it. Julie hangs up, turns on the TV, and flips through the channels for a few moments, settling for a sitcom in which a man tries to avoid an oversexed, overweight, badly dressed secretary. But the chatter from outside pushes past the canned laughter and demands her attention.
Julie sighs, leaves the bedroom and goes into her tiny kitchen. I’ll make myself a snack, she tells herself, but halfway through a lettuce and tomato sandwich she changes her mind, pulls the half-full garbage bag out of its plastic can, ties the ends, and takes it out her front door and down the steps.
On the bottom landing she passes Mrs. Golini’s door. Living one on top of the other, both she and her landlady have maintained a respectful distance. They smile hello and exchange holiday gifts at Christmas and ignore each other’s existence the rest of the year.
Outside, a slight breeze eases the summer humidity. Julie drops her garbage in one of the cans at the side of the stairs and glances surreptitiously across the street. Six of the ladies are out tonight. Julie glances up at her windows, where the blue light of the television reflects off her shades. The loneliness of the evening is nearly overwhelming. Slowly, almost without thinking, Julie turns her back on her building and crosses the street. “Hi,” she says tentatively.
The women smile at her. “We were wondering when you’d come over again,” says Mrs. O’Neill, sitting back in her wheelchair. The wheelchair is more for convenience than necessity; after breaking her hip two years ago, she decided that it was more comfortable than her folding chair and told the hospital authorities it had been stolen. As usual, she wears an old, threadbare pink sweater over a long, flowered housedress; her chubby bare feet are pushed into a worn pair of slippers.
“We even took penny bets on it,” grins Jackie, a part-time beautician who works in the hair salon around the corner. She rests one hip against the railing, a cigarette dangling loosely from her wide, sardonic mouth. “I won.”
Julie smiles back. The night is pleasant and cool; a few cicadas vibrate in a neighboring tree.
“Come sit,” says one of the women, a thin, dry lady named Norma, patting the step beside her.
Julie shakes her head. “That’s okay,” she says. “I prefer to stand.”
Mary—a pleasant bleached blonde who can sometimes be heard yelling down the block for her teenaged son—nods at her. She is, as usual, sitting next to Mrs. O’Neill on a small cloth director’s chair. “How are you, Julie?” she asks in a voice tinged with the Irish accents of her childhood.
Julie shrugs. “Fine,” she says. In her loose green tee shirt, sweat pants, and old sneakers, she feels a little underdressed next to Mary’s careful polyester fashion.
“I was sorry to hear about your mother,” said Mary. “We said hi a few times when she was visiting. She was a nice lady.”
“Thanks,” Julie says, a bit tersely. She still hasn’t figured out how she feels about her mother’s death—sad because her mom is gone, or relieved because the woman who finally died was, in the end, no longer her mother.
“I understand you’re looking for a new job. Have you found one yet?” asks Mrs. O’Neill, shooting a quick look at Mary. Surprised, Julie starts to ask how she knows, but doesn’t get the chance.
“Why is she looking for a job?” demands another woman whom Julie doesn’t know, a withered form in a bright pink jogging suit who sits comfortably crocheting in an old blue folding chair.
“That’s my older sister Myra,” explains Mrs. O’Neill, not bothering to look at her sibling. “She’s staying with me for a couple of days while her house is painted.” She sniffs. “Of course, if it were me, I’d want to supervise their every move. You never know what painters are up to.”
Myra doesn’t seem bothered by her sister’s apparent contempt. “My husband Joe is perfectly capable of watching the painters,” she says. “No reason why I need to put up with the mess and smell if he’s willing to.” She looks back at Julie, inquiring.
“They laid me off,” Julie tells her.
There is a general murmur of sympathy. “That’s too bad,” says Mary. “You were there a long time, too, weren’t you?”
“Seventeen years. They said that they had to cut back on the payroll in my division.”
“I hear a ‘but’ in there,” says Myra, a knowing tone in her voice.
Julie smiles ironically. “Sam, my boss, hired an ‘assistant’ for me about two months ago—young woman, right out of college—and somehow she is being kept on while I’m being let go. He said it was because they had to eliminate some of the higher salaried workers.”
She pauses. This is where her listeners usually change the subject or offer vague reassurances. “But you don’t think that’s the whole story,” Mary prompts. The others look on expectantly, their faces friendly, sympathetic. Julie feels something rise to her throat.
“No,” she finally says. “The company is one of the major PR organizations around for technical corporations. When we started out, we were small, taking whatever clients we could get, but now we’ve got offices on both coasts, and handle a lot of the biggest companies around. We had a meeting last month and Sam told us that we were going on to the next ‘plateau of success’—he talks that way—and that we were going to have to refine our image in order to pick up more Fortune 500 firms.” She takes a breath. “I think that a size 16 PR representative doesn’t quite fit into that image.”
There is a moment of silence.
Mrs. O’Neill snorts, something between a laugh and a sneeze. “Well, never mind,” she says, and launches into a long explanation of how the oldest son of a distant relative was fired, found another job through some kind of vaguely illegal connection, and was eventually rehired into a higher level of his former company. Julie soon loses the gist of it, but the sound of the narrative, and the murmurs of the listeners, is strangely soothing in the fading light. It’s as if all of them are caught in some old-time photograph that will never change—just the ladies, and the street, and the summer evening.
Mrs. O’Neill finishes her story. “You don’t think that something like that could happen to you?” she asks. Julie, startled into awareness by the question, shrugs.
“No. A friend of mine said that she’s going to ask around, see if there’s anything she can find out that might get me back in, but we both know that it’s pretty useless. And in today’s market, not too many other firms will have openings either. I’ll probably have to look into relocating.”
“You know,” calls out Bev, whose considerable girth is comfortably ensconced in a loud muumuu, and who has been concentrating on filing her nails, “It’s too bad that companies like yours consider a few pounds to be some kind of crime against humanity. When I worked for that Greek travel agency, they were grateful to have somebody as good as I was.”
“I remember that agency,” Jackie says. “Went out of business, didn’t they? Something about the Department of Immigration?”
Bev scowls, and returns her attention to her nails. Mrs. O’Neill cackles, and turns to Norma. “What do you think?” she asks. “Is this a wine occasion?”
For a moment, the ladies are quiet. Julie looks at each, but they all seem otherwise occupied, pulling at stray threads or lighting cigarettes. Norma finally shrugs. “Why not?” she says. “It’s been too long since we treated ourselves.”
Jackie clears her throat. “I have a box of wine that I picked up today,” she says. “I’ll just go and get it.” There is a general murmur of approval. Jackie stretches and ambles down the block to her house.
Rusting metal squeaks as Mrs. O’Neill pulls herself awkwardly from her wheelchair. “These bugs are driving me crazy,” she announces. “I’m going to get that bad-smelling candle that my son sent me. He said that it would keep the mosquitoes away.” She shuffles back to the door that leads to her ground-floor apartment.
A car bounces along the street, its suspension badly in need of repair. “I hope he breaks an axle,” Bev says, irritated. “That’s what he gets for going so fast. On a block with children, too.”
“Do you have any children, Julie?” asks Myra. Julie shakes her head. “But she still could,” says Mary. “Couldn’t you?”
Julie hates conversations like this. “I could, I guess. It’s not very likely though. I mean, I’m nearly 48. It’s not as though I’ve got much longer to go.”
“No.” The listening women nod noncommittally.
“Don’t worry,” Mary tells her. “The menopause isn’t so bad. At worst, it’s a pain in the butt for a few years. Then you don’t have to worry about it again. And there are other things you can do then. New things.”
Julie nods again but looks away. It’s fine for her, middle-class woman with a house and a 13-year-old son. I’ve got nothing. Nobody. Unless you count my mother’s elderly ex-housemate, her grown kids who have their own lives to live, and friends who constantly try to set me up with jerks.
Just cut the crap, she reminds herself sternly. Your friends mean well. And what does Mary have that you want so much? A divorce, a mortgage, and an adolescent? So stop pitying yourself and get on with it.
“Here we go, ladies.” Jackie ambles back up with a large cardboard box labeled Chablis. She places it on one of the steps, while Mary gets up and goes into the house, returning a couple of minutes later with a package of paper cups in one hand, and a large bag of popcorn in the other.
Jackie takes the paper cups, and starts filling them and handing them around, while Mary offers Julie the popcorn bag. “Open this, would you?”
“So,” asks Myra, “what was the name of that company of yours?”
“Caesar Communications,” says Julie through her teeth, trying to pull the stubborn plastic apart.
“Interesting name,” says Mrs. O’Neill, lowering herself back into her wheelchair. She is holding a small candle in a jelly jar, which she balances on the armrest. “In the city?”
“Yes,” Julie mutters. The bag finally splits open. “Midtown.” She takes a handful of popcorn and gives the bag to Mrs. O’Neill.
“It’s too bad that you might need to move. But you should find something.”
Julie accepts a cup and sips cautiously. Not as bad as she expected.
A small gray cat ambles out from under one of the parked cars on the street and stops, regarding the group of people with a surprising lack of fear. Julie, who is still standing outside the area railing—and who likes cats—kneels down, trying not to alarm the animal, and holds out the hand with the popcorn. Above her, the conversation goes on.
The cat stops, and stares at her for a few moments. It then cautiously ventures forward, bright green eyes flickering warily from her face to the food.
“Do cats eat popcorn?” Jackie asks above her.
“My sister had a cat once, would eat lettuce,” Bev says. There is the quiet flick of a lighter and a faint acrid smell—the candle?—tickles her nose slightly.
“You had a cat once, didn’t you?” asks Mary. Julie nods carefully, trying not to alarm the animal. “Yes,” she says. The cat doesn’t seem to mind her voice; it continues to edge closer. “Darwin. He died about four years ago.”
“Why didn’t you get another?” Norma asks.
“Mrs. Golini doesn’t like cats. She told me once that she couldn’t ask me to get rid of the one I had, but after Darwin died, she didn’t want any more in the house.”
“Pity,” Mary comments.
Julie nods. “Come on, cat,” she whispers as the animal edges up to her hand. “Come on. I won’t hurt you.”
It stares up at her, down at the popcorn.
“It would be a pity if you left the neighborhood,” says Mary. “Just when we were starting to get acquainted. We would miss you at our little gatherings. We’d like you to sit with us regularly.”
“We would, indeed,” says Jackie.
“We would,” echoes Myra.
“It would be a blessing if your company decided to keep you on,” says Norma.
“A real blessing,” Bev agrees.
“A blessing,” Mrs. O’Neill whispers, and then hums, a strange, singsong murmur that Julie can’t quite catch. Her attention turns back to the animal.
It stretches out its neck, sniffs at her fingertips. “That’s it, cat,” says Julie as, having decided that her offering is acceptable, it begins nibbling at the popcorn. Julie, charmed, places her cup on the ground, reaches over, and gently scratches the animal’s soft head. For a few seconds, there is nothing in Julie’s world but the quiet purring of the cat trembling against her fingers.
A sudden hiss from behind her. Startled, Julie looks up. A small gray wisp of smoke curls up from the extinguished flame. “Oh, dear,” said Mrs. O’Neill. “Now look what I’ve done. Spilled my wine. And right on the candle, too.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Jackie says. “Plenty more where that came from.”
The cat quickly turns and scoots off. Julie reaches for her cup and stands with some difficulty, feeling unexercised muscles protest. She takes another sip of wine.
“I’ll bet you miss having a cat,” Mary says.
Julie smiles. “Yes, a bit. Things are a lot cleaner now without the cat litter and fur balls, but I do miss having a pet around. They seem to know exactly when you need somebody to caress.”
“I’m allergic to animals,” Bev complains. “Cats make me break out in hives.”
“I’ve told you that you should get a bird,” Mrs. O’Neill tells her.
“Birds are dirty,” Bev grouses.
“Only if you don’t clean their cages,” Julie tells her. “I had a parakeet when I was a kid. It was nice. I trained it to ride on my shoulder.”
Suddenly, her beeper chimes at her. “Better check that,” Mrs. O’Neill says.
Julie pulls it off her belt and checks the screen. Clients in revolt. Expect a call. Demand a hefty raise. You owe me dinner. Ginnie.
Julie looks up wordlessly. “Good news?” Mrs. O’Neill asks, accepting another cup of wine from Jackie. “Maybe that Sam found he needs you after all?”
Julie stares at her. But the woman just brushes some popcorn crumbs off her housedress and smiles.
“Good,” Mary says. “It would be a pity for Julie to have to leave just when we were getting to know her.”
“You know,” says Jackie, “That cat really took to you. Maybe you should adopt it.”
“If you do, get it fixed,” Norma says. “Too many wild cats around here.”
Julie looks at her neighbors. “Mrs. Golini won’t let me have any pets,” she says slowly.
“Maybe,” Mrs. O’Neill says. “We can change her mind.”
