The Middlesteins(51)

“I just want to talk,” said Middlestein.

“If you want to talk, we can meet somewhere,” she said.

“Anywhere!” said Middlestein.

She paused, and he imagined her sweet breath flowing out of her mouth as loopy pink swirls of miniature flowers. “Meet me down at the pub, then,” she said.

Through this town and the next one and the next—Slow it down, Middlestein, the last thing you need is to be pulled over by a cop, try explaining that one to your daughter-in-law, you’ll never see those kids again—every last one of them looking identical to him. He was a part of this, his stores were, his store, the last one anyway, those other two closed (not failures, just not successes), but this last one, his legacy, the last one standing, he believed it was special. Was it not unique and important to have been one of the first Jewish business owners in the town? Had he not provided a service to his neighbors and friends? Was that not a success? Was he not worthy of being admired? Wasn’t he worthy of Beverly’s love?

Beverly, I’m coming for you.

The parking lot at the pub was nearly packed; it was the best fiddle night in the Chicagoland area, said the sign. He wormed his way through the lot, footsteps in gravel, dust rising in car headlights. The fiddlers fiddled. Middlestein straightened his suit coat, fluffed up his hair, his beautiful, thick, gray hair. Richard Middlestein, Jew, independent business owner, father, grandfather, a man—he believed—among men, walked into a dirty, crowded bar, where he had no business being on a Friday night, on a path to retrieve and secure the woman of his dreams.

He pushed through the crowd of middle-aged drunks knee-deep in Guinness and spilled popcorn and empty, crumpled-up bags of potato chips. They weren’t even paying any attention to the fiddlers. Were they looking for love just like him? Where was it, where was love? What was it? Just what turned up in the dark?

Beverly, on a barstool at the corner of the bar, her hair in a ponytail, only a lick of makeup, dark mascara on those pretty peepers of hers. He must have called just when she was getting ready for bed. This is what she looked like right before she slept. For reasons unclear, he gave her a formal bow, and she laughed at him. He kissed her on the cheek, sat next to her, and took her hand in his.

“Enough waiting around, Beverly,” he said.

“You’re a married man, Richard,” she said.

“Paperwork is being filed,” he said. “I would say at this very moment, but the lawyer’s got to sleep sometime.” This was not entirely the truth, but it was close enough.

“That’s not what I mean,” she said. “All you do is talk about her all the time. I have listened to you talk for hours about your wife, your family, your grandchildren.”

“But we talk about lots of things, Beverly! That’s what I like about our relationship. So many interests.”

“I have been down this road before. You are not available to me.”

“I am so available. You have no idea,” said Richard.

She shook her head, and her charming red ponytail swirled back and forth, and Richard lost himself momentarily in the sway.

“I’m serious about what I want from a partner in this life. When I walked into your pharmacy that day, it was because I’d heard from my manicurist there was a good, single man there.”

“You knew who I was before you got there?”

“I’m fifty-eight years old,” said Beverly. “I don’t have time to waste.”

“I find this flattering somehow.”

“Don’t let it get to your head. I was misled, obviously. You are so wrapped up in it you can’t see your way out.”

He was still holding her hand, and she was still letting him.

“I like you,” she said, softening. “Don’t think I don’t.”

The fiddlers announced that they were taking a break. They passed the hat, and the drunks began to dig into their pockets.

“We make good companions for each other,” said Richard. “It would be so easy to take it to the next level. If you would let me be near you.” He leaned in, close and desperate. “I’m trying to think out of the box here. Beverly.” He kissed her lips, irresistible and soft, a young woman’s lips; they were just what he imagined a young woman’s lips would feel like. He thought of the ChapStick he saw in the bottom of her purse on the day he met her, forever softening her lips. “Beverly, Beverly, Beverly.” He kissed her each time he said her name, until she was kissing him back, and the jolt to his groin was so furious he was afraid he might pass out in front of her. “I am a good man,” he said. They kissed some more, and he heard her breathing turn funny, a breath unfamiliar and familiar at the same time. “I promise you.” The intention was there. The intention was true.

Middlestein and Beverly, kissing and kissing until someone at the bar yelled, “Get a room.” Middlestein and Beverly, taking their cars separately, a good fifteen miles above the speed limit, to Beverly’s house the next town over. Middlestein and Beverly, crushing their hips and chests against each other on Beverly’s overstuffed couch. Middlestein and Beverly, finally making their way upstairs, where they would push and pull and gasp and breathe and then wrap themselves around each other so perfectly and tightly to sleep that it was a wonder they had ever slept apart before. Middlestein and Beverly, two lonely people, successes, failures, a widow, a husband, caught up in something resembling love.