“Leah?” I called into the opaque gray fog, squinting my eyes from the burning scent of sandalwood. “Leah!”
“Over here,” Leah was already by the window, fanning some of the smoke outside with one of my bridal magazines in one hand and a paper plate in the other.
This was beyond ridiculous. I bumped the dining room table with my hip and did a double step to move toward her. “That’s enough with the incense already, Leah,” I said without my usual understanding. Pyromania is not an acceptable form of mourning for a loser fiancé with bad taste in “the other woman.”
“I know,” she whimpered. “And I know I promised.”
The air started to clear just enough for me to see tears in her eyes.
“He called today,” she said, then stopped fanning and stooped down to rest her hands on her knees, hung her head and shook it from side to side in defeat.
Hearing his voice was the last thing she needed. She was just starting to come back, and with one of his hellos she was back to square one.
“Did you talk to him?”
“No, he left a message,” she sniffled. “Why?” was all she asked.
“Why did he call?” I tried.
“No, why wasn’t I here when he did?” she gurgled, choking back tears and probably choking a bit on the smoke.
“Okay,” I said, then took her by the arm to lift her back up to her size. “So you’re burning the incense to…accomplish what?”
She didn’t answer.
“Leah, the smoke thing…it’s not going to accomplish anything,” I tried to be gentle, but I have a dry cleaner bill that’s sky-high to get all those mystical scents out of my drapes and jackets. The light-a-match-adjust-the-universe train of thought has just pulled into its last station.
“I know,” she whispered. “I just wanted to get rid of his…”
Energy, I know.
“Leah, the only thing that’s going to help is for you to move past it,” I clicked on the table fan, reached over and pulled a dryer sheet from the Bounce box on the table, and laid it across the back grate of the fan. An old college dorm trick to remove the smell of smoke. It works rather well. “So get your coat, and let’s go walk down by the water.” I tried a smile and couldn’t pull the same from her. “Come on, let’s go get a drink, see if the firemen are playing softball at the park.”
If “firemen playing softball” didn’t work, then it was time to call a doctor for her.
It registered. She needed just a second to imagine the guys from the station in their blue shirts, gray shorts showing that great curve of their muscles just above their knees, the way they’d pull up the bottoms of their T-shirts to wipe the sweat from their foreheads, thus exposing their stomachs. If you have an ounce of estrogen, that alone can put you in a better mood.
“Come on, let’s go,” I smiled and playfully squeezed her shoulder. “If we go now, we might catch them stretching out before the game.”
“Okay,” she said, but it only came out as “K.” She grabbed her knapsack and pushed it back across her ribs with her elbow, keeping it tight against her. We walked the nine blocks downtown, passing the pottery store, the dress shops, the outdoor cafés packed with eight-to-a-table revelers and their bright red frozen margaritas, with their dogs on leashes tied to the terrace gates, waiting for a charity-tossed tortilla chip or a chunk of burger thrown by its owner. Kids Rollerbladed past us, deaf to the world with their headphones on. Motorcycle cops ticketed the line of double-parkers, and the music from the pubs spilled out onto the street. The pulse of Hoboken.
We turned the corner at 5th, wound through the playground, then took the steps down to the waterfront park. With the sun beginning to set, the water glistened in dancing gold crescents, the city skyline across the Hudson was clear and unclouded, reflecting the yellows and golds of the setting sun. Kayakers were just pushing off from the rocky shoreline, shifting to find their balance and synchronizing their red paddles. Somewhere above, a kite danced in the sky, but I couldn’t quite trace the line back down to the ground. Sunbathers and readers lounged on towels and short beach chairs to soak up the last rays of the day, and—as hoped—the firemen’s softball team was just warming up.
“God bless the person who invented hamstring stretches is all I have to say,” I joked, nudging Leah, and she grimaced a smile. I took my first step onto the bleachers, waving at someone I recognized across the way, and Leah was not behind me.
“I just need a second,” Leah said, squeezing out a quiver-lipped smile, and she walked away quickly with her knapsack still hugged tightly to her. I feigned “no concern,” waved her on, but watched closely as she walked down the promenade to the railing overlooking the water and stood there for a second. I tilted my head and squinted into the yellow glare of the sun. If you jump from there, it’s about six feet to the water level and about six feet deep. Diving boards are higher than that. I, of course, was surprised by my own callousness.
Leah unzipped her knapsack and pulled out what looked like two balls. No, they were oranges. Or grapefruit. Something big. Either balls or fruit. And she hauled back and threw them into the river. One at a time, with a pretty impressive windup and some serious arm-power. Even one of the firemen who happened to be looking her way made a comment about having Leah pitch for them instead of the, and I quote, “fucker who’s up there right now, right, Eddie? The dumb ’fucka who couldn’t hit the side of the station with a ball.” What a charmer, that one. I silently thanked God for Anthony.
Leah padded back, seemingly cheered by her launch of whatever it was she just contributed to the collection of whatever it is sitting at the bottom of the Hudson River. I happened to know that her engagement ring was one of those things resting at the bottom of the Hudson. A watery grave for a useless trinket, she had said. Never mind that the trinket was a $6,000 ring from Tiffany, but it was worth more to her down at the bottom of the river. I didn’t even question that choice of hers. I’d have probably done the same thing.
And I watched for it. I watched the firemen and their opponents, the players both on and off the field, check Leah out with her every step. They watched her coming and going, from the front to the back view. Her black hair swinging over the top of her shoulders, her long legs leading up to her stylishly faded and frayed-edged denim shorts. They nudged each other and nodded to their friends that they, too, should take a look at the “incoming.” I saw it, but she was oblivious to her fans on the field.
“Hey,” I said when she climbed up the aluminum bleachers to sit one level below me. I moved my purse to give her room.
“They start yet?”
“No.”
I tried to let it go. I really did. But I had to…
“So what was that you just tossed in the drink?” I asked, tilting my head and smiling. Nonjudgmental.
“Nothing,” she answered. Noncommittal.
Whatever it was, it seemed to brighten her a bit, and the players took the field.
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