Woke Up Lonely A Novel - By Fiona Maazel Page 0,141
“Ah, great, you’re a little early, we weren’t expecting the pledges for another hour, but welcome! We’re so glad you came.”
Olgo, who had sunk his fists into his coat pockets, removed one for a quick shake hello. He didn’t want to blow his cover, though it was hard. Jonathan was depressing. Not especially young or handsome—he wore jeans and a hooded sweatshirt; his hair was thin and straight and piebald; no feature stood out for its beauty or size—which meant he had less tenable and thus more winning qualities to offer Kay Panjabi.
Jonathan said, “Come meet the others,” and introduced them one by one. A mixed group of men and women, midthirties, forties, fifties, with nothing shared in their lives but the joy of their comportment. One gave him her seat on the couch. Her name was Teru. Used to be an accountant. Came into the Helix three years ago. Was thirty-five but looked eighteen. “Here,” she said, and she passed him a mug of tea. “You look exhausted. Let me take your coat—my God, it’s freezing!” He did as told—the coat really was cold and wet—and when she gestured at his boots and then at a corner where everyone else’s were gathered, he let her have them, too.
“Fresh socks,” she said, and she held up a pair—thick, woolly, ecru with blue heel and toe. He said thanks. The socks had been beached on the stove; they were warm to the touch. Teru vanished with his old pair like a nurse with the offending bullet.
A woman bearing a tray of peanut butter cups and caramel popcorn drizzled in chocolate and coconut shavings walked by. Olgo noticed a dish of oatmeal cookies on the table. This new woman, whose name was Myla, sat next to him. Tucked one foot under her thigh, put the dish between them, and said, “Whatever it is, don’t worry. You’re in the right place.”
Her eyes were gray and swimmy, as if filmed in a clear lubricant that gave them the appearance of water. “Cookie?” she said, and she broke one in half.
He shook his head. He was getting tired. He flexed his toes, sipped his tea. Noted an aroma float into the room and waft around his face like a turban.
“Pie,” she said. “Mixed berry. Fresh cream, too. I made the crust myself”—and here she smiled. “Pie makes pretty much everyone feel better. And if you’re here, chances are it’s ’cause you want to feel better.”
Olgo looked past her. He said, “Is this it? Is this all of you?” He’d lost all hope that his wife was elsewhere, but then where was she if not here?
“There’s more in the back. One’s making tandoori chicken. Her specialty, apparently. Oh, no,” she said, seeing his face, “how rude of me. I mean, there’s vegetarian options, too.”
“It’s not that,” Olgo said, and he upturned his nose, trying to detect something of his wife’s favorite dish in the smell of mixed-berry pie. But it was no use—the pie overwhelmed. There’s no fighting pie; there never was.
“You want to talk about it?” she said. “I’m all ears. When I came in, my husband had just died, and even though my friends and kids came by and took me out, it just wasn’t any good. But I get what I need here. You will, too.”
The irony was not lost on Olgo, who’d been trying to talk to pretty much anyone for three weeks, and here was this woman offering him the gold standard. Well, what harm in talking? Retain your pretense, betray no facts, but still: get it off your chest. But when he opened his mouth, he wasn’t so sure or in control.
“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s hard.”
“That’s okay,” and she squeezed his arm. “There’s no other world besides this one. No TV or radio, no clue what horrible things are happening out there. So just talk if you want. Otherwise we can sit and drink our tea, and that’s not so bad, either.”
“It’s just—” But then he felt the hurt rush his mouth as though to secure a home there and never move out.
“For me,” she said, “I didn’t even know what I felt or why, just that I felt awful. And scared. Like maybe things were just never going to be right again. But look at me now.” And Olgo looked; she looked calm and together and happy to be alive, which was the exact opposite of how he looked, he knew it.