My Arleene

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    Arleene looked as elegant as ever. Her long fingers held the wine glass and moved it in a swirling motion. The lights of the bar seemed to add a new glow on the red waves in the glass, as if her hand had breathed a unique glitter to them. Her companion turned her head and said something to her. Arleene nodded. A smiling waitress approached them, talked to them. They climbed down from their stools, and followed her through the tables of the crowded restaurant. Arleene’s tall, slender figure moved gracefully in the silver, strapless dress. Her rich chestnut-brown hair, shone and bounced on her shoulders, as if caressing her.
    Arleene! His Arleene.
    Jim never thought that there could be a power in the world to separate them no matter how important the reason or what discouraging obstacles life might throw in their way. Life, the harsh realities of life proved him wrong.
    Jim approached the bar and sat on Arleene’s vacated stool. The very warmth of her existence upon the stool seemed to reverberate in his flesh, sending pulse after pulse past forgotten memories and nameless sparks of excitement through his body, as though minutes not years had passed since he had seen her last.
    “Jim, the usual?” asked the bartender.
    “Yes,” Jim murmured. “Samuel Adams will be just fine.” Then he added, “Pete, make it dark.”
    Pete stared at him curiously, shook his head knowingly, pulled a dark Sam from the ice-chest , popped it open, and walked to the next costumer.
    Jim looked at the perspiring bottle and took a long sip, as if wanting to drawn his flooding memories, his awakening emotions – feelings he thought had been withered and died by the passage of time. How long ago? Ten years?
    Buried into his demanding work, his clients and the “Law Firm,” time seemed to pass unnoticed--court battles, appearances in judge’s chambers, negotiations, mediation, traveling from district to district, preparing witnesses--had took a heavy toll in his personal life. Life? He had none. One hotel room was as good as the other. ‘Jim, we have to win this one.’ ‘It’s imperative, Jim.’ ‘We’re counting on you, Jim.’ ‘Give everything you’ve got, Jim.’ And he had. He had won every case in his twelve year career, except one when, fresh out of law school, he had worked for the District Attorney’s office.
    Just one look at Arleene, the presence of her warmth on the stool, her lively bouncing hair, her elegance, made him realize how alone . . . lonely his life had been since he and Arleene had stood silently at the airport as he waited for the airplane to take him to New York.
    He recalled how he had turned to her, looked in her eyes ready to speak, to say something to her, to snap the stretched sting of their long silence. She had put her delicate finger on his lips, her midnight-blue eyes wet, her lips moved as if in a silent pray, “Just hush, Jim.” He just stood there staring at the shining, white-tiled floor, unable to say a word, unable to give her the slightest of comfort, hiding his guilt behind a pretentious sad smile, and restlessly waiting for the gate to open. He waved his hand to motionless Arleene, and her three words, ‘Just hush, Jim,’ rang into his ears like massive church bells announcing a funeral. Hers.
    And now, His.
    At first there were a few phone conversations, which turned to small recorded messages, to letters, to post cards, then . . . nothing at all. Like a chronic decease time and the demands of his life had slowly, methodically, diluted, and finally killed their emotions. No! He corrected his thoughts. His emotions. His love for her.
    “Oh, Arleene, I missed you,” he murmured gazing at the slowly running down droplets on the bottle.
    “Jim, are you all right?” Pete asked in a concerned tone, arched eyebrow, perplexed.
    “Yeah. No!” Jim uttered, as if awakening from a woeful dream. He walked out of the restaurant questioning his mind’s weakness, his lost happiness, his sorrowful life.
                            He felt like running back into the restaurant, kneel in front of her, and beg for her forgiveness. He couldn’t will his body to his mind’s demands. Although he could bravely stand before jury and judge (tall, handsome stature, Armani suit, suntanned face, deep voice), he could capture their undivided attention, as if he, Jim Mathewson, was the only living being in the courtroom, but today, right now, he undoubtedly was a coward. The untamed courtroom lion was no more that a cowardly frog in the giant pond of life. With his mind floating into space, he heard his heavy footfalls hit the pavement like sledge. When he’d reached the weather-bleached bench of the park, he let his body fall on it.
    He sighed, sucked the air hungrily, and looked around. Young couples were sitting on benches, or on blankets thrown on top of the grass, holding hands, whispering to each other, kissing. Further down, under the pale lights of a cast-iron lamppost, lay a man, knees touching his chest, hands hugging his body. He’d jerked his legs from time to time as if having a dream, or unconsciously worked the numbness out of them. A vagabond – a cursed, lonely soul, a homeless Joe Nobody.
    Was he any better than him?
    Jim felt a sharp pain in his heart biting, gnawing him. If for an instant Jim could take money and fame out of his mind? “Jesus Christ!” he uttered in a shocked voice. The profited realization shook him. They both were homeless; one sleeping in hotel rooms, the other under some bridge; both traveling from place to place, forgotten families, relatives, sweethearts – used to be loved ones. And now, both were stranded on a park bench, one contemplating where and when his life wilted and died, and the other sleeping the night away.
    Deluded by self-delusions of grandeur and self-importance, he had enticed himself into believing that life had a greater meaning from what Arleene had to offer, and that he had a role, purpose, and importance in it. How could he refuse the grand offer from the law firm? He couldn’t. He, Jim Mathewson, the youngest partner at his father’s most prestigious law firm – glorious future, fame to fallow. “I can’t go with you, Jim,” she had said breathlessly, as she put her trembling hands on her lips to stop herself from shouting her grief. Suddenly he felt as if swimming in an ocean of utter ignorance.
    Jim turned around and faced the bright neon light of the restaurant. People went in, people walked out, smiling, talking, laughing, as if they knew each other, as if the restaurant were a brightly lit party house. Like a powerful storm, his memories took him twelve years into his past.

    It was Jim’s fourth month at the District Attorney’s office when the middle-aged prosecutor stared at him, tapped his finger on a blue file, stood up, walked leisurely, and dropped a fancy looking envelope on Jim’s desk.
    “You’re invited,” he said with his customary short talk. Then he walked back, and waved a finger at Jim. “I expect to see you at my party. I won’t tolerate excuses. Right, Jim?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    When Jim arrived at the party, the big manor was full of life, couples dancing to the tunes of an orchestra, people holding crystal glasses. The guests mingled from group to group, gossiped, smiled politely, then scrambled to another group to gossip some more, to listen the latest. Waiters and waitresses with solemn, but impeccable manners, were passing drinks to smiling faces.
    Jim looked around. The only people he knew were the familiar faces from the office. He walked his way to the bar, and with a Sam Adams cooling the palm of his hand, he looked at the happy faces and the first thing came into his mind was, How boring! He hated being there, he despised the jolly atmosphere and the fake glittering smiles, but what he hated the most was the merry sounds of the orchestra. Old swing, cha-cha-cha, tango . . . Instinctively his eyes followed the heads as they turned toward the door.
    She looked magnificent. Her light-blue dress touched the top of her high-heeled, red shoes, radiating freshness, pearly smiles, orchestrated, cultured moves.
    “Arleene!” said the bartender with a wide smile. “She has arrived.”
    He sounded as though he was the butler in king Arthur’s court announcing Dukes and Duchesses, princes and princesses.
    The ladies rushed to her side like bees swarming on the perfumed sweet pollen of a freshly opened flower, asked questions, received answers, and a lot of smiles. Everyone seemed to be drown to Arleene. Young girls looked at her in awe. Men eyed other men and then their eyes land on her. The ladies turned whimsically around themselves displaying their gowns, their fabulous diamonds and various sparkling gems around their necks, on their arms, on their fingers, as if Arleene were the authority of beautiful gowns and expensive jewelry.
    “Who is she?” Jim asked the bartender without taking his enchanted eyes from her.
    “Arleene!” he responded, as if her name was enough to explain everything under the sun.
    “Arleene who?” Jim asked staring into his eyes.
    “Arleene!” the bartender repeated, much annoyed. He stared up and down at Jim, as if Jim was an alien from some weird planed in the darkest space, at the beer bottle. He eyed Jim, his lips moved. “The fashion editor of Flair & Style magazine. That Arleene,” he snorted in a mocking voice.
    Thanks, Jim thought sarcastically. Now he definitely knew more about her than she knew about herself.
    When all the commotion piped down a bit, when the ladies returned to their little groups or started dancing again or replacing their empty glasses, Arleene scurried toward the bar.
    “Champagne gives me a slight headache,” she said looking at the tall slender glass. She looked at Jim. “What are you drinking?” Her voice sounded like humming melodious tunes. Soft, soothing, delicate.
    “Me?”
    He gazed at her unable to move his numbed body, or utter a word, and thought, Nicely done, you moron. He definitely had impressed her with his smart answer. ‘Me?’ What was wrong with him? He’d always had the correct answers. He never fumbled or stuttered. He was cool. He was a together guy. For God’s sake, he was an attorney. And now just looking at her it seemed as though her midnight-blue eyes had turned him to a mumbling idiot.
    “I don’t see anyone else sitting next to you. Do you? I must be talking to you then. Don’t you think so?” she said and, looking above Jim’s upper lip, a playful smile loomed on her cherry-red lips.
    Swiftly he brushed the accumulated tiny sweat drops with the back of his.
    “The last of your breed,” she said, softly.
    “What?” he uttered. He was losing it. No, he was lost.
    “You blushed,” she said in a complementary tone. “A quality– a long forgotten quality.” She looked at him for a second. “Are you going to tell me or that’s another secret of yours?” Her eyes were smiling.
    For a second his mind went blank, as though Arleene had a mind eraser in her hand wiping his memories away. Suddenly, her first question popped into his mind.
    “Sam, Samuel Adams,” he exclaimed.
    “And you like it?”
    “Yes.”
    “Great,” she said. “Order one for me, grab a fresh one for yourself, and let’s, you and I, walk outside.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Ma’am?” She smiled disapprovingly.
    He’d done it again. He knew it as soon as the words escaped out of his mouth. He wished he could retract them. Too late.
    “Arleene,” she said. “And you are?” Without waiting for his answer she resume in a milder tone, “I thought I knew everyone here.”
    Jim realized that she was humbling herself so he can feel better. There was a hidden virtue on her last phrase, in the tone of her voice, in the chosen words; self-affecting without the tiniest tint of arrogance. Why? To uplift his bewildered emotions, he summoned.
    “Jim, Jim Mathewson,” he said handing her the Sam.
    Without a whole lot of hustle, they reached the door, and stepped out. The ashen-colored clouds seemed to hug the earth. They hovered above them soundlessly, unmoving, as if deciding if they should turn themselves to rain or climb higher, wait, and gather more strength. Undecided as they were, they turned themselves into a heavy drizzle, drifting aimlessly like silver dust in the windless air, falling unnoticed on trees, on the green manicured lawn, on flowers, and penetrating deep into the soil. The shining green leaves accumulated the thin droplets to their tips forming them to small iridescent droplets, and as they grew bigger and heavier they yielded to the laws of nature, and plunged homeward, while other droplets started the same process all over again.
    “I love the mystery in this kind of weather,” she whispered. “Come,” she resumed placing her hand on his arm.
    “Shouldn’t I get an umbrella?” he protested. “You’ll be soaked.”
    “That’s the idea,” she said, and pulled him by his arm. “Don’t you worry, Jim. I’m not all that sugary as you might think.” She giggled. It sounded like spring water running on top of smooth pebbles, playing with them, tickling them.
    Jim and Arleene walked wordlessly under the canopy of the drizzling clouds, shoes, hair, and shoulders soaked. The air was thick with the pungent smell of fallen leaves and the sweet perfume of wet laurels. The sound of their footfalls were absorbed by the dumbness of the earth. Silence, drizzle, and warm feelings embraced them tightly.
    Something amazing, something he had never experienced, or even thought it might exist, drew him to her. He’d never imagined that he could communicate without speaking. Speaking was his profession. His life depended on it. This . . .? This was very strange, amazingly outlandish, and at the same time it was the most meaningful conversation he’d ever had. Silence. Sublime silence and magic. How could he explain his feelings, his surging emotions with words? He couldn’t. He could only be aware how they made him feel moment after moment.
    When finally they returned holding hands, the party was over, the floodlights off, cars gone.
    “You better follow me, Jim,” she said squeezing his hand tighter. “I’d feel awfully bad if you catch a cold or pneumonia. I’ll start the fire to keep you warm while we dry your clothes. I have a cotton rope that’ll fit you just fine.”
    Her small, steeped-roof, gingerbread house lay on the slopping hill, and right bellow the small waves of a lake reflected brightly the lights of the city. Inside the house there were no walls, but only around bathrooms and closets. The upstair’s bedroom, over the airy kitchen, had the grand view of the downstairs and of the arched fireplace against the opposite wall. The rest of the walls were floor to ceiling windows.
    She run upstairs in the closet. Wearing a white-cotton bathrobe and holding another, she dashed down the steps.
    “Take your clothes off and put this rope--”
    He sneezed. “No,” he said, then sneezed again.
    “There,” she said, gravely. “I’ll never forgive myself with my romantic notions. Take them off, Jim.”
    He shook his head, vigorously.
    “Oh, now I see,” she said with an elusive smile. “I forgot how bashful you are. The bathroom is right there,” she said smiling, and pointed her hand to a door next to the kitchen.
    By the time he came back wearing his rope, and holding his clothes with his fingers as if infected by some weird contagious decease, the fire was glowing, throwing its warmth into the room, and phantasmagoric shadows danced on the drown shut curtains. A bottle of red wine and two wine glasses were set on the coffee table in front of the sofa.
    “Come,” she said. “Sit next to me. I have this feeling that you might just disappear into the thin air like a ghost.”
    One happy day followed the other, they became weeks, months, a year, then two. Then the letter arrived from Jim’s father, followed by their separation, his partnership at the firm, and the demise of his love for Arleene.

    “My Arleene,” he cried. Tears flooded his eyes, trickled down his cheeks, burning like fire. How long did he stay there mourning his unhappy, lonely life--his meaningless obsession, his lost happiness? Neither he could tell, nor it mattered.
    He saw Arleene’s tall figure and her companion walking to a parked car.
    “I’m so glad . . . my offer . . . long day . . . give me a buzz . . . sleep . . . goodnight, dear,” he heard Arleene’s companion saying. She open the door of the car, climbed in the seat, shut the door, drove away.
    Jim’s eyes followed Arleene as she walked toward a car. He felt the same uncontrollable urge to jump on his feet, run to her, kneel, throw his hands around her legs, and beg for her forgiveness. He gave a second thought to his desperate impulses. His compulsiveness, his direct but narrow-minded actions had cost him very dearly for the past ten years without even realizing it. He had to see her face, her amazing presence to finally come to grips that he, Jim Mathewson, was nothing more than a total jerk. He had lived in the giant joke of life long enough. Too long.

    “No more mistakes, Mr. Jim Mathewson,” he said to himself, as he started his car. Twenty minutes later, she parked her car, walked in the ten story hotel, and disappeared in the elevator. Jim’s eyes scrutinized the dark windows of the hotel. A light, then a brighter one illuminated on the same fourth floor window.
    With his head up and full of determination, he walked to the reception desk.
    A pretty young woman smiled at him politely. “How can I help you, sir?”
    “I’m here to see a guest of yours.” Jim used his courtroom voice, unnerving but courteous. “Her name is Arleene. I believe she is on the fourth floor, but for the sake of my sanity, I can’t remember the room number. A bit absentminded I suppose.” His face turned into an apologetic smile for all the bother he might had caused her.
    “We are very protective with the privacy of our guest,” she said in a solemn tone. We have to know who you are. I certainly hope you are not offended.”
    “I understand and I congratulate the wisdom of your employers,” he said, still smiling. “Me name is Jim Mathewson.” He took out his drivers license and bar ID. “I’m her attorney.” He lied in a straight face.
    “Let me give her a ring then,” she said. Her voice was calm and pleasant again.
    “Then, my dear girl,” Jim gave her his winning smile, “we’d ruin the surprise. Wouldn’t we?”
    “I suppose so,” she said with a sly smile. “Room four-fifteen.”
    With trembling hands, heart pumping fast, and unsteady emotions, he pushed the button of the elevator. All the different plans he had thought of how to initiate his first approach as he followed her, seemed as if they had been melted away from his mind, vanished. He stood in front of her door nervously, contemplating if he should push the doorbell or nock the door. He took a deep breath to gather his diminished courage, brushed his hair with his fingers, cleared his clogged throat, and pushed the doorbell.
    The seconds passed in slow agony. Jim thought that if his heart had its way, it would just jump out, dart, dash, and zip on the long corridor like a rabbit chased by a dog.
    “Who is it?” Her voice. Her unforgettable melodious voice came through the door.
    “It’s me.”
    Long tormenting quiet stillness.
    “Jim . . .” Her voice was not a question nor a conformation, but a quiver, a tremble, a pulsing vibration in the coldest night. “Is that you?”
    “Yes.”
    The handle turned, the door opened, and Arleene stood under the opening holding the doorknob as if she didn’t trust the strength of her legs. Her face was white as sheet, jaw shuddering, eyes round, wide open. She seemed as if confronting the monster of her nightmares. Him.
    “Jim, I’d never expected . . .” The train of her thoughts vanished into infinity.
    “Can I come in?”
    “Yes,” she said in a gasping murmur.
    She didn’t move. Her body shuddered like leaf in an uncaring, pitiless wind storm. He looked in her eyes steadily and, not to frighten her or steer her emotions to a shock, gently took her arm and helped her to the couch.
    “How did you know I was here?” she said, breathlessly.
    “I saw you at the restaurant. I followed you.”
    “You shouldn’t have, Jim. Oh, God! Painful tricks life play with injured hearts.”
    Slowly, she put her hands around herself, her head fell on her chest, her body rocked back and forth, whining and sobbing like an injured little puppy, repeating his name, “Oh, Jim, oh, Jim, oh, . . .”
    He kneeled in front of her daring not to touch her, or to disturb her rocking motion, her despair, her anguish.
    “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “for what I’ve done to you, to me, and to my meaninglessly wasted life.”
    “You’ve hurt me, Jim. You’ve hurt me so.”
    “Forgive me, Arleene. Please, forgive me.”
    “Oh, Jim, Jim . . .” The slow rocking stopped, her eyes stared at him, tears ran down her cheeks. “Why Jim? Why?”
    “I was a self-blinded fool. I thought riding on a high horse was what life was all about. Then I saw you at the restaurant and I suddenly become aware of how pointless my life has been. One look at you and I’ve realized the true meaning of my past life. I can’t live without you, Arleene. I’ll do anything you say. I wouldn’t do the same mistake, not ever. Without you my life is empty and trivial and lonely and awful and vulgar and nasty and short and unappealing and lonely–”
    “You said lonely twice,” she stopped him.
    “Yes, I have. I should have said lonely hundreds of times because I know now how lonely I’ve been without you. I love you, Arleene.”
    “How can I trust you, Jim? You’ve killed all my hopes. I tried to forget you, hoping that I could, many times, but even my hopes turned against me like disparaging barriers. I don’t know if I can ever trust you again–”
    “Forgive me, Arleene. I’ve caused you so much grief.”
    “–how would I know when something bigger than a law firm partnership comes along in a luxurious envelope–”
    “It won’t.”
    “–I felt so cheap. I felt like I was on some strange auction bitting over you, over me, over our lives. I couldn’t match their bit. They won and I lost.”
    “Oh, Arlene. I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t let it happen again, not ever.”
    “How about if I were to ask you, move back with me right now, forget the law firm–”
    “I would follow you in an instant. Don’t even have to pack my suitcase.”
    “Do you mean it, Jim”
    “Yes.”
    “I wish I could believe you. I really do.”
    “I understand.”
    “No, Jim. You don’t. You’ll never know what I’ve been through. Ten years, Jim. Ten years to your one day. You can’t ever imagine my pain. And Jim . . .”
    “What?”
    “Get up from your knees. I feel like some queer goddess.”
    “You are. You are my Arlene.”
    “Please stop it, Jim. Now be a nice fellow and get me a glass of wine. My poor throat it’s so try. I can hardly breathe.”
    For Jim, the minutes past as if seconds. An hour later she stood at the door looking into his eyes.
    “I maybe calling you tomorrow,” she said instead of goodnight, then closed the door.
    ‘Maybe.’ Jim manipulated the word in his mind as he pushed the down arrow. The elevator stopped, it’s door opened. Jim smiled at its empty space, turned on his heel, took a few steps, and climbed down the stairs, two at a time.

    The next morning there was an accident in front of the courthouse. A light footed tall man swung a briefcase back and forth with a happy smile on his face, was crossing the street when a speeding car came at him out of nowhere.
    “Wham!’”
    He heard the loud sound, his body flew in the air, the briefcase landed in the middle of the road, and his body crashed on the pavement. Momentarily, the man lost his consciousness. When he regained awareness, he found out that the world he’d entered was soundless, colorless, and slow moving. Gray shades of lights, now dark, now ashen-gray, shadowed faces stared at him, lips moved, bodies bent, hands touched him. Then before darkness fell on his gray world he managed to utter a single word, “Arlene.” Then total dankness.

    It was the fifteenth day after the accident when Jim Mathewson learned that he had three broken ribs, a dislocated arm, and a shattered kneecap that may give him a slight limp. “However,” the doctor continued educating Jim, “with proper physical therapy . . .” He also said that he was a very lucky man. Jim knew that he was very lucky. He knew that for the past five days and the some number of nights.
    Between the tenth and the fifteenth day, he also had been informed that Arlene was forming a partnership venture with her companion at the restaurant, Barbara Wellington, a wealthy lady, very smart and knowledgeable in the world of fashion and glamor magazines. Because of Arleene’s background, knowledge and fame, as Mrs. Wellington had said, they’d decided, after going over a basketful of different names, to name their new magazine, “My Arlene”
    Jim also had agreed that Arlene should have the right, and his respect, when she yelled at him from time to time if and when he dared to develop delusionery visions. Another promise Jim had to keep was that he could not, for the next ten years, travel to another district and sleep his nights in hotel rooms. Yes, he could go, but he had to return to her at nights.
    “Yes, ma’am,” he had said at that point, and Arleene had cried her eyes out laughing
--metaphorically speaking--then she giggled like a school girl.
    “I’m so happy, Jim.”
    “I’ll make sure you stay that way. I think I’m getting smarter by the end of every day.”
    “No, Jim. That’s not it.” Arleene’s face was glowing.
    “What then?”
    “I believe that you should invite that poor woman who had the kindness to hit you with her car, thank her, and offer her the best scholarship you can think of for her three children.”
    He smiled. He already knew what coming next. “Why?”
    “Because when you landed on the pavement your brain shook and rattled, twisted to and fro, and finally settled in a correct order that it should’ve been all along.”
    “Give that woman a call.”
    “Are you serious, Jim? Apprehensively and excited.
    “Yes! And Arleene, don’t tell her anything. Let’s surprise the wits out of her.”
    “That’s so sweet, Jim”

    The first thing he had felt when he reentered the world of lights and color and sound, was a hand gently holding his, while another brushed and caressed his hair. He knew the owner of those hands. Arleene. He savored the wondrous feeling lulling him. When he finally realized that he was too selfish holding onto such a feeling all to himself, he opened his eyelids. Their eyes locked.
    “There you are,” she said, and smiled miserably to cover up the despair and anguish on her pale, sleepless face. Two tears appeared at the corners of her eyes and trickled down on her sunken cheeks. “Don’t leave me, Jim. I don’t want to lose you again.”
    “I won’t,” he said with all the strength he could gather.
    “Tired, Jim?”
    “Yes.” Hardly audible.
    “Then close you eyes and go to sleep, you silly goose.”
    He did.