THE WORM

 

 

It takes Charlie until Wednesday to pull the Sunday New York Times out of its blue sleeve.

“I read about it,” he says, “but didn’t feel like I was ready to see it.” He lays the front page on the kitchen counter and they gaze at the countless memorialized names.
“And to think that this is only a fraction of the 100,000 dead.”
“It’s very difficult to represent enormity,” Charlie says, “but they’ve done a good job of it. And look at the short phrase they’ve written about each person. Look at how it humanizes them. Here’s where seven words are worth more than a thousand pictures. What a lot of work this represents, combing obituaries, talking to the mourning families. They’ve honored these people with epithets worthy of Homer.”
“What’s a Homer epithet?” she asks, trusting Charlie enough to show her ignorance.
“Oh, you know, it’s the defining attribute of each character. Hector of the glinting helmet; Hermes, the messenger of the Gods and conductor of men; Zeus, who marshals the thunderheads. But listen to these, Pina.” Charlie begins reading: “June Beverly Hill, 85, Sacramento, no one made creamed potatoes or fried sweet corn the way she did; Denise Camille Buczek, 72, Bristol, Conn, loved writing birthday cards, holiday cards, poems and lists.’”
“That sounds like my mother.”
“’Norman Gulamerian, 92, New Providence, N. J., art supply businessman with a romantic streak.’”

She thinks Charlie has a romantic streak. She’s surely too skeptical for that.

“Oh, I found a guy here whose distinction is that he turned down a job playing trombone with Duke Ellington, but I can’t find him again. It’s like the names keep rolling past me on a ticker tape. I’m deeply moved.”

She admires Charlie’s access to his feelings. Unfortunately she’s trained herself to hide her own. Can the gate to her emotions be coaxed open or has it atrophied?

“Read a few, Pina. Look.” He opens the newspaper. “There are more pages of names here.”

She takes hold of the newspaper and scans the front page, trying to make contact with an individual amid the infinity of names. Now, spotting one, she hopes to find the appropriate voice. It comes out quiet like someone speaking in a library: “’Marlene B. Mandel, 88, Collingswood, NJ, first woman on her block to work outside the house.’”

“Wow, a whole wedge of cultural history there. Read some more, Pina.”
“Here’s one I love even if I can’t really picture it: ‘Lovie Barkley, 69, Chicago, while revelers did the Soul Train line at a wedding, he combined it with The Worm.’”
“Well, I can tell you about Soul Train. I used to watch it all the time and I created animations of some of the dancers, just for fun. The show started in late Mr. Barkley’s Chicago so he may have been with it from the beginning. Didn’t you ever watch Soul Train, Pina?”

She shakes her head.

“Oh you were deprived. I mean it. What a pleasure to watch black people dance. The show ran thirty-five years, all these different eras. It started with Rhythm and Blues. You had Gladys Knight and the Pips doing ‘I Heard it Through the Grapevine,’ and the godfather of soul: ‘WOOO!’” Charlie throws his voice as a startlingly good James Brown: ‘Get up off of that thing . . . get up off of that thing, and he shimmies up the long narrow kitchen and then herky-jerks his way back, his joints going from crisp to slack, deliberate and precise.”
She claps her hands. “Oh, Charlie, you are great.”
“I used to be able to dance a little.” He dives to the floor and stops his fall expertly with his hands. “I can’t really do The Worm anymore. Don’t have the strength.”
But he does slither across the floor with beautifully articulated faints to each side. “Charlie,” she says, moved almost to tears, “what a wonderful memorial tribute you’re paying Lovie Barkley of Chicago.”
Charlie springs back onto his feet. “Yeah, but what they’re not telling you about Lovie,” he says, a bit breathless, “is that he could probably do The Caterpillar, as well.”
“Want me to teach you The Worm, Pina? You might have more strength than I do.”
“Yes. Please teach me The Worm, Charlie.” She drops to the ground. “Can we do it side by side?” This was not supposed to happen. She told herself not to let this happen, but, damn it, if she’s not falling hard for the guy.

 

Bernard calls her after he drops Vince at the treatment facility in Nicasio. “The grounds are quite lovely, Pina, and the program appears sound. They keep the clients busy with group meetings and private therapy sessions. They even get daily homework.

She tries to imagine Vince doing homework, but she can only picture him humoring the counselors, treating the whole enterprise as a farce.

“Vince will be in blackout for two weeks,” Bernard continues, “which basically means he can’t use his phone or get calls during that time.”

That sounds good to her—it gives her a two-week reprieve from having to worry about him.

“In usual times, you would then be able to visit Vince during the Saturday afternoon family program, but they’ve suspended the family visits during the Coronavirus.”
For once she’s glad that these are not usual times. “I can’t thank you enough, Bernard. So how is Vince?”
“I’d use the word sober,” he says, following up with what she’s come to think of as his British pause, “if sobriety wasn’t the heart of the matter at hand. But he seemed to me to be really quite serious. I’d say determined, but his determination remains to be seen. I saw sadness, I saw remorse, and Vince clearly expressed concern about you.”
“About me?”
“Yes, concern about the damage he’s done to his relationship with you.”

She wonders if that really has anything to do with worry for her. More likely his concern is about having upended the status quo. “Did he say anything about his work, Bernard?”
“Only that he was ashamed of himself for not being able to rise to the occasion. He called himself a coward. Yes, coward is the word he used. I reminded him that he isn’t the first person to have cracked under pressure.”
“He isn’t suicidal, is he, Bernard?”
“I don’t believe so, I really don’t. But then his recent behavior, with the drugs and in the streets, belies that assessment. What I know about these treatment centers is that clients tend to thrive during their residence. They eat well, get their sleep, and go to several meetings every day that keep them engaged with their addiction and give them direction. Of course, the genuine challenge begins when they get out.”
“Yes, that makes sense.” She wonders if Vince has the stuff to meet the challenge. Sadly, she doubts it. And what would Vince look like sober? He’d have to give up everything, including drink. He’d lose his personality. Nothing like a dry drunk who likes to pontificate. She wants to ask Bernard whether Vince mentioned where he’d been living, after he left the house in shambles—she suspects he was staying with Nurse Reina—but it doesn’t seem fair to get Bernard mixed up in all that. Does it even really matter anymore? Instead, she thanks Bernard again for all he’s done and, although it seems inadequate compensation, she tells Bernard that, when they are on the other side of the virus, she would like to take him out to lunch.
“That would be a pleasure, Pina.”

 

She and Charlie watched the video together. Charlie had read about it online and suggested they both watch it. Pina became furious. “The cop is taunting the guy while he’s killing him,” she screamed. “’Ah, you’re a real tough guy now,’ and look at these other cops, these bastards are just standing there like it’s just another routine day killing a black man. What’s the matter with these people?”

Pina stood up from the sofa and marched in circles around Charlie’s living room, shouting: “The fucking bastards, the fucking bastards.” Charlie approached and tried to throw an arm around her waist, but she pushed him away, “Leave me alone,” as if he, too, were the enemy.

The rest of the week they stayed together, glued to the cable stations in Charlie’s condo, as Minneapolis burned, and peaceful protests and riots proliferated in large and small cities across the country.

“The cable stations have turned this into a spectator sport,” Charlie complained.
“Well, look at us, we’re the willing spectators.”

And yet they couldn’t pull themselves away from the television, except to mix cocktails. Charlie really upped his drinking game. He must have realized it was necessary if he was going to continue to hang with her.

They didn’t even make regular meals anymore. Pina whipped up a bottomless bowl of guacamole and, when they ran out of avocados, she blended a double batch of kalamata olive hummus, and when the Greek olives were gone she concocted a strange tasting pile of martini olive hummus.

By the weekend, after watching peaceful protests and the destruction of cities on TV, after listening to real people and countless talking heads speculate about the potential for racial equality in America, as well as the strategies of law enforcement for controlling the violence in dozens of cities, including Trump’s sick threat to sic the active military on the protesters, and after hearing about the goals of white nationalists, particularly a group called the Boogaloo Boys, who wear a uniform of Hawaiian shirts and fatigues as they rampage through cities in caravans of cars without licenses, with the stated goal of igniting a civil war between the races, after all of that watching, Pina clamors to attend a demonstration in San Francisco.

Charlie argues against it. “There’s still a pandemic out there, Pina, and you’re in a high risk group.”

“Enough with me and my risk,” she hollers. “I read an article that said it’s seventeen times more difficult to catch the virus outside than in.”
“Who made up those numbers?”
“They’re real. It’s from a study.”
“Mmm hmm,” Charlie says.
“Do not patronize me.”
“So, are we going to have our own civil war, you and me, Pina?” he asks, after dipping one last piece of pita bread into the martini olive hummus, and then pushing away the bowl.
“The world is coming to an end and I don’t want to be this old white woman watching it on TV.”
“First of all, you’re not an old woman and, secondly, the world is not coming to an end.”
“Every time she begins a dystopian rant Charlie shoots it down. Finally, he says, “You’re behaving self indulgently, Pina. Stop it.”

She knows he’s right and feels embarrassed. There’s something else that bothers her: Each time she returns to Vince’s condo to get clean clothes, food or drink, she hears Sylvie, downstairs, crying and, instead of going down to ask after her, she simply slips back to Charlie’s place.

The next evening Charlie presses her to become more responsible. They are sitting at his dinner table after he’s made the first real meal they’ve had in nearly a week—a tagine of shrimp in tomato sauce with Moroccan spices.

Charlie skillfully peels a shrimp with his fork and knife, and then asks, “Have you been thinking about what you’re going to do, once the pandemic is over? We’re all going to have to contribute to the rebuilding our country. Or are you just going to sit on your privileged white butt and complain about the world going to hell?”

At first she’s speechless. She can’t believe that Charlie’s going off on her like this. Angry, she narrows her eyes on him. His expression is placid; there’s nothing provocative about it. Somehow she keeps quiet and continues to stuff her mouth with the savory meal, pausing only to quaff the good Bourgogne Charlie decanted.

“You have great skill at helping people find their voices, Pina. That’s a calling. You could contribute a lot of good to the world as you’ve done, no doubt, in the past, but you seem disinterested in the future, content to live off the proceeds of your house.”
“I wouldn’t use the word content to describe myself.”
“I never hear you talk about going back to work. Is this really enough for you?”

She finds herself shaking her head even though she doesn’t like the idea of agreeing with him. Why does she have to be so damn stubborn? Finally, she relents. “No, Charlie, I do want to contribute. I’m just not sure if it’s as a speech pathologist, but I do want to do something useful. How about you?”

Charlie refills her glass. “I think I told you from the time we first met that I believe that PTSD will be a widespread problem on the other side of all this. A lot of people have been emotionally damaged and now with the murder of George Floyd a lot more hurting is inevitable. For starters, I’d like to find a therapist who specializes in PTSD and develop with them some form of public service messages for TV and social media platforms.”

“Wow, that’s so specific.”
“We’ll see what I actually manage to do.”

Pina gazes across at Charlie with admiration. His blond, going-white hair stands up wildly. Could that figure into his epithet: Humble man with a comic cowlick? Charlie is genuine and kind, filled with imagination. At first she found something lacking in him, a quality that Vince possesses, which amounts to little more than grandiosity. What attracted her to Vince’s faux splendor? Did it make her feel grander?

Now she falls to the ground, more nimbly than she expects, and squirms up the hardwood floor, wiggling from side to side.

“What are you doing, Pina?”
“Maybe this is where I belong.  I don’t know how to do the dance, but I’m really feeling a bit like a worm.”

 

In the morning she knocks on Sylvie’s door. She’s not sure whether Sylvie will open it. Finally she does. Pina stands well back from the door. Sylvie’s expression shifts to a smile when she recognizes Pina, who notices a smear of tears on the older woman’s face.

“I’d invite you in, Pina, but . . .”
“No, no, we need to keep our social distance. I just wanted to say hello and see how you are and if I could do anything for you.”
“That’s so sweet of you, Pina. To tell the truth, I haven’t been doing too well. I wouldn’t call it loneliness exactly, but this isolation has been difficult for me. Now on top of that, I’ve been very upset with the violence, particularly in Minnesota. You see, my husband and I spent most of our married life in Minneapolis, where he grew up.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“I always thought it such a beautiful city filled with progressive minded people and this . . . this violence and destruction almost makes my life there seem like it was a lie.”
“It wasn’t a lie, Sylvie.”
“I don’t know. I never spent . . . I never spent any time at all thinking about the reality of black people’s lives. I just lived in my upper middle class bubble by the lake.”
“I know what you mean, Sylvie. It takes a lot for some of us to see beyond ourselves.”
“Why is that, Pina?”
“I don’t know. The culture teaches us that in order to be happy we just need to accumulate more things for ourselves. It doesn’t teach us to think of others.”

Sylvie closes her eyes and bows her head.

For a moment it’s like having her mother back again.

“Pina, do you think I could have your phone number?”
“Of course, Sylvie. In fact, I would like it if we could talk every day.”