Steve Clark
A former Senior Editor for The Paris Review, Steve Clark published fiction in The Paris Review, and poems in various magazines. His first bilingual book of poems, From the Ashes (Desde las cenizas), was published to critical acclaim by Huerga y Fierro in Spain, March 2010. City Swimmers & Other Stories is his first collection of short stories. He lives in New York City.
Masticadores & LatinosUSA offers the 10 chapters of this fascinating book by Steve Clark exclusively every Saturday.— J. Re Crivello —editor
“I don’t see why you have to be such pain in the ass—”
“Nice word choice.”
“You know what I mean,” she laughed. “And it doesn’t hurt, everybody does it.”
He started to raise a finger. “I don’t like anything —”
“You got that right,” she cut him off.
“—that goes up—oh c’mon, I’m not having this conversation!”
“After a certain age you have to. Okay, Marvin. Seriously. The appointment is made.”
They were sitting on a bench eating waterdogs with everything on them, light on the sauerkraut, watching Lila and Thomas skate below in Rockefeller Center. The rink had been open a week. It was the day before Thanksgiving.
“I’m not going. You made the appointment, you go.”
“You’re going. Even if I have to come and hold your hand.”
“You’re not coming.”
“Of course, I am. Someone has to pick you up.”
“Why?”
“Them’s the rules, son. You need to man up.”
“Picking up is not the same as going.”
She didn’t answer; she correctly didn’t think it was a question.
“You can pick me up,” he sighed. “But you’re not going to wait there while they do god knows what to me.”
“God knows what!” she threw her hands to her cheek in a mock Munch scream. “You’re such a New Yorker.”
“Why do you always say that? I don’t even know what that means.”
“You don’t know how to shuck corn.”
He took a deep, deep sigh. “One night, that was one night. I’m not from Nebraska, okay?”
“Just saying.”
“And P.S., if I wanted to, I could learn in about four seconds.”
“If we paid some shrink about fifty bucks, we could get to the bottom of this; I’m sure these two issues are related.”
He looked at her.
“The two are not related.”
Lila and Thomas were holding hands and skating around the tiny rink dodging a swarm of out-of-control six-year-olds.
“So what’d Francine say?” Marvin asked.
“I don’t know.”
“How can you not know? We need a head count. If they come, we need another Turkey. There’s like 8 of them.”
“I’ll call her when we get home.”
“Screw that, I’m asking Lila.”
“Marvin, don’t upset her.”
“I’m not going to upset her, her family’s ruining our Thanksgiving. What’s Francine waiting for, the last glacier to leave?”
“Has something to do with the father, I bet.”
“Ah god.”
“Yeah, I know.”
She smiled broadly. “Look, look.” Thomas was holding Lila’s hands as she skated backwards. They looked like an Ivory Soap commercial. She watched them do a lap, he kinda did.
“How old is Lila, is she a year younger or older than Thomas?”
“Older,” Marvin said, picking at a hangnail.
“But they’re in the same class, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I wish I had known you when you were in college.”
“Wasn’t much to know.”
“Bull. You had all the girls running after you.”
He put his arm around her.
“That’s a crock.” He took a bite of his hot dog. “I was running after them, still am.”
She elbowed him in the ribs. “You’re keeping that appointment; you’re starting to make dad jokes.”
The smallest smile crossed his lips. “Dad jokes.”
“You are.” She put her head on his shoulder. “You’re a good father,” she said, and he knew she was thinking about it.
He squeezed her shoulder. They were silent a moment, and he didn’t know if it was better to say something or not. He never knew if people wanted to be soothed but reminded of bad things or if they wanted you to ignore the thing altogether like Robert Frost. It was better to soothe, he thought. “It’s going to happen,” he said softly.
“Yeah, well, the chances are . . .”
“It’ll work this time,” he said.
She wiped the corner of her mouth with her napkin, nestled deeper into his shoulder. A wind knocked some leaves around their feet.
“Do you think they do it in our bed when we’re away?”
“Ava!”
He could feel her chuckling into his shoulder.
“They definitely fuck in our bed.”
“Yeah, well, if they do, I’m not crazy about knowing about it.”
“Where did you lose your virginity?”
“Nope.”
“Where?”
“If I answer, you’re not allowed to say, ‘You see.’”
“Where?”
“Mother’s bed.”
Now the laugh came from her stomach, was almost evil, delighted.
“Why? Did she have to help you?”
“Okay, that’s the line. You just crossed it, lady.”
She suddenly lifted her head. Thomas was storming towards them, a skate in each hand, his cheeks bright as tomatoes, tears about to burst from his eyes.
“What’s going on?” she said.
A small gust parted his blonde curls from his forehead; he gave the impression of a golden retriever, its nose out a car window, but not his eyes, which had aged fifty years.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“What about–” Ava looked around.
But Thomas was already walking toward Fifth.
They saw her on the far side of the rink. Her profile. The buttony nose and wallops of caramel hair, but something too stiff at the edge of her mouth. She had her skates slung over her right shoulder, was headed toward Sixth Avenue. They were in her peripheral vision; Lila was aware of them, she had to be, but didn’t look over, even to wave goodbye or anything. She just kept looking straight ahead, still managing to almost bump into a lady stuffing a magazine into her bag.
When they got to Fifth, Thomas was sitting in a yellow cab, the door open. They said nothing on the ride home. Thomas was the first out of the cab on 61st and Lex, keys in hand.
Hours later, when Marvin came down, Ava was drinking a glass of red wine reading a recipe about sausage and herb stuffing on her phone. He sat next to her and took a slug of her wine. He spread himself all over the couch; she had to hip check his knee to keep some room for herself.
“Give a woman some space.”
“I don’t believe in space for you,” he said.
“All right, Romeo. What happened up there?”
He took another hit of the wine and handed the glass back to her.
“Well, Thomas and I got to the bottom of the old male/female dynamic. I think we figured it out. All future generations can thank us for the milk that shall not be spilt, the fights that shall not be fought, and all love that shall be made.” He crossed his ankles on the coffee table. “In fact, I think Thomas and I will run for the Oval. Those other jokers wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“Please don’t run for president,” Ava sighed and leaned back, rotating the wine in her glass, staring at it.
“So he’s in the woodchipper, huh?”
“Big time.”
“I wish I was young again,” she said. “So much fun.”
“A real ball,” he said, taking her glass and having another sip. “I don’t think I ever cried over a girl when I was 19, poor guy.”
“Get your feet off, Julia.” It was true; his feet were resting on Julia Child’s ample bosom. He lifted them and placed them on a glamorous photo book of swimming pools.
Ava leaned back into the pillows, her arms at her sides. She bit her lip and cocked her head. “The strangest thing happened to me last night at that Terminate the Turkey party Lizzy took me to.”
He looked at her, “Yeah?”
“I had had a few wine spritzers and a couple tequila shots but not that many, and suddenly I was on a stoop kissing a guy whose name is apparently Sal.” She crunched her eyebrows. “I don’t think I would’ve remembered but Lizzy just reminded me. She called when you were upstairs. Do you think someone slipped me a mickey?”
He tilted his head, looked at her. “You kissed a guy named Sal? Last night?”
“Yes, apparently he’s some college student who plays hockey for Dartmouth and was following me around all evening. He must’ve pounced when I was headed home.”
He studied her and squinted. “You’re aware that you’re married to me, right?”
“Oh yes, very.”
“We’ll that’s nice.”
“What’s nice, dear?”
“It’s nice that you’re aware of that.”
She looked up at the ceiling philosophically. “What a weird thing to do.”
“I’ll say. How long were you kissing this gorgeous athlete?”
“Long enough I guess. It’s amazing that it would’ve totally slipped my mind if Lizzy didn’t call just now and say, ‘Hey do you remember kissing that jock on the stoop last night?’ I don’t think someone slipped me anything, I felt totally fine this morning.”
She looked at him for the first time. Not much had changed in his expression.
“Are you pissed?”
He was looking at that hangnail from before.
“How do you feel about all this?” she asked.
“About you kissing Sal?”
She nodded.
“The truth?”
“If it’s pleasant.”
“I feel like going to Mariella’s for a slice.”
“Mariella’s huh?”
“The pizza place doesn’t go around making doctors appointments for me.”
He gave her a wry look. She bumped his legs off the swimming pools.
“A hockey player from Dartmouth? You could be his moth—”
He caught himself, but that made it worse; it flopped, unsaid, in the air like a sloppy, fat fish.
They were silent a moment.
She laughed.
“Could I?”
After a while, she sighed, “I hope Thomas is okay.”
“Me too,” he said.
Copyright © 2024 Steve Clark
All Rights Reserved
Image: “Blanco” (2024), ink, acrylic and pastel on canvas, 60″ x 48
LatinosUSA 