On the Plaza de los Charcos Luminosos

“Wear something nice for me,” Carter says in a husky voice. “Something that’ll look good in my car when we drive out of here tonight.”
       My heart’s pounding. Carter’s talking like he wants to take me on a real date. What if he doesn’t want to go to the supermarket on the way home? What if he wants to take me somewhere else afterwards?
      He’s staring at me. “Is that okay?” he asks.
      I feel my face turning red. I hope he doesn’t notice. I say, “Yes, that’s fine.”
      “I’ll see you at seven,” he says. Carter walks out, leaving his empty beer bottle on the table next to the empty whisky glass. I hear him go down the stairs and close the door hard. Then I hear the roar of his sports car. I’m alone again.
      I sit at the table for a long time, playing with the empty bottle and glass, the sound of his voice in my ears. After a while I notice the mat I keep in the center of the table is shoved to one side and something is carved underneath, mostly hidden by the mat. I never noticed it before, but maybe it’s just been covered until now. When I lift the mat, I can see, upside down, CH + JM. It makes me angry. The table’s nothing special and it has plenty of other nicks and dings, but it’s the only one I have and now it’s got these big initials gouged in it. Just like some boy’d been sitting there, only it was Carter, since CH + JM can only mean Carter Hodges and June Marlowe. Then I stop feeling mad and say, “Goddamn,” which is pretty rare for me. Carter’s always surprising me. Even though he was probably just fiddling around when he carved those initials, just wasting time, my heart’s pounding again because I’m thinking, maybe he really does like me. Which is silly, when I think about it because he’s told me he liked me before and he’s always finding some excuse to drop by. Still, this is different. That little “+” between the “CH” and the “JM” gets me all excited. Then nervous because I don’t really know what it means. Then excited again. And I keep thinking about the way his voice got husky when he asked me out today. I swear it’s giving me goosebumps! I know that I’m acting like a teenager, but I don’t care.
      I look at the clock on the mantle. It’s still early afternoon and Carter won’t be back for a long time. I stare at the table top again. I run my fingers over the rough letters. When in the world did he carve them? No sawdust or chips, so it wasn’t today. It doesn’t matter. Carter made those letters and that makes all the difference in the world.
      Things are going to be different now. I just know they are. I’ve known Carter for a couple months, but this is the first time he’s asked me on a date. The very first time. Not that going to the supermarket with him isn’t nice, because it is, but he never asks me to dress up for that. We’re going to have fun tonight.
      I think I would like to go on more dates. I’m sure Carter knows all sorts of places to go. Even though I would never go to any of them on my own, it’s different with him. With him, I’m sure I’ll feel safe and be able to have fun.
      I wonder if he dances? I’ve never asked him and I don’t dance, myself; maybe he could teach me. The thought of dancing scares me a little, though it’s a good sort of scared, because he would be there with me. And that would be romantic.
      I notice that I'm starting to rub the skin on my fingers raw from tracing the initials, so I force myself to stop. I get up from the table and move to my favorite chair by the TV. I pick up a magazine from the coffeetable and flip through the pages. I’ve already looked at it, though, so I pick up another one. Same thing. I hate to waste my mind on TV, but I can’t seem to concentrate enough to read. I turn on the tube and flip through the channels. All I get are the talk shows and I feel like I’ve seen them all before, just like the magazines. My God, I spend far too much time in this apartment by myself. I’m certain of it. I know every inch of this apartment and there’s nothing new. Except for the initials carved in my table. I turn the TV off and stare at the peeling paint on the ceiling while I think about those horrible, delicious initials and what it's going to be like going out with Carter tonight.
      I’ve never had a boyfriend before, not a real one anyway. Maybe I am jumping to conclusions when I think of Carter as my boyfriend, but it isn’t very hard to say. If I was talking to someone, I could just say, “Blah, blah, blah and my boyfriend, Carter says, 'Blah, blah, blah.'“ I like the sound of it.
      I wonder why Carter likes me? I guess it’s best not to think about things like that too much. Sometimes he doesn’t act very nice, the way he gets mad at me and yells, but most of the time he’s awfully sweet. The way he comes over and spends time with me sure is wonderful and so is taking me to the store. I feel so lucky. Without him, life’d be a whole lot harder than it already is. I’ve gotten used to being with him and just shake my head when I remember how hard it was before I met him.
      I would like to go out right now and would if he was still here. Almost anything would be better than sitting here in my apartment waiting for the time to go by. It’s too difficult, though, to go out on the plaza alone. Even if it was mostly empty when I looked out a while ago, I might have to talk to someone. The street musician who sits in the middle of the plaza was there earlier and he might be waiting for me. I don’t know which is worse-being there when the it’s crowded and everyone ignores me or when it’s empty and I feel so exposed. Either way, it's hard and I don't like it.
      I don’t think it was always like that. I remember going out to a movie every once in a while, though I guess it’s been a long time now. I mean, I worked, too, until the old lady I was taking care of died. She lived about six miles away and I had to take the bus to her house. I didn’t really enjoy it, but I did get out. Now it seems like I don’t leave unless I run out of food and I have to go to the store. That’s partly why I feel so lucky to have Carter as a friend. Sometimes he takes me for groceries and when he stops by, he even brings me things like fruit or some cans of soup.
      Carter’s a funny sort. I never know what to make of him. This afternoon, for instance, he just waltzed in. Didn’t even call first. To be honest, nobody calls except Carter, and he only does sometimes. I didn’t mind this time. I was glad of his company. I didn’t know what he wanted anymore than I ever do. Any reason seemed good enough.
      We were sitting at the table-the same one he gouged up. I was thinking maybe he’d stopped by because he didn’t have anything better to do and he knew I’d give him a drink. Maybe he’d come by because he had a story to tell and he says I’m a good listener. I suppose I am most of the time. It’s a relief to have Carter filling up all the empty spaces. I usually don’t have much to say.
      My elbows were hurting. I remember the rough wooden surface digging into my elbows as I stared at Carter, waiting for him to say something. I like him. I like him a lot, but when he sits there not saying anything, I can barely stand to sit so close to him. The table felt too small for us and I wanted to get up.
      Carter was looking all around the room, letting his eyes wander. He looked across the walls. He looked toward the window. He looked at the glass of whisky on the table in front of him. He looked everywhere but at me. His fingers were tapping on the side of the whisky glass that sat in front of him. Finally I couldn’t stand it any longer. “Carter,” I said.
      At last, he looked at me, though it was a sideways look, with his head still turned toward the window. “What do you want?” he asked.
      I couldn’t get the words out. I knew I wanted something from him and not just groceries, but I wasn’t sure what. I said, “I want to see both your eyes.”
      He snorted as he turned to face me. He said, “If you’re waiting for me to ask you out tonight, sure, I’ll come by. Would you like that?”
      “That’ll be fine,” I said, staring at his dark eyes, his sharp nose, the long scar that runs from his right temple to his chin. I don’t know how he does it, but he sure can read me sometimes, even if I think he’s not paying attention. I didn’t care what we were going to do, as long as I could get out.
      I couldn't look in his eyes for more than a few seconds and looked at the scar instead. He once told me he’d been mauled by a jaguar in the Amazon, but he has a way of telling stories and I never know if I can trust him. For all I know, he fell from a tree when he was little or maybe it was a knife fight. I imagine him in some back alley, a long knife in hand, warily circling in the darkness.
      My elbows were hurting worse, so I leaned back in the chair and let my hands fall. My left hand brushed Carter’s arm. He flinched. I’ve noticed that about him. I don’t know if he even realizes it, but he always flinches. It’s like he’s afraid to be touched. I’m sure I’ve never hit him. I sometimes wonder what he remembers when I bump against him.
      I was still wondering about the flinch when he said, “How about getting me a little more whisky?”
      “You just drank the last it,” I told him. “I don’t think I have any more.”
      “Damn. Did you forget to buy a bottle the last time you went to the store? Guess I’ll have to take you shopping again.”
      I stood up, trying to remember what else I had on hand. I didn’t want him to leave just because I ran out of his favorite drink.
      “Where are you going?” he asked.
      “I thought you might like something else to drink,” I said.
      “What I really want’s whisky. But I’ll settle for beer.”
      I went into the kitchen wondering if I even had a beer. I knew there wasn’t much of anything on hand.
      I glanced plaza through the kitchen window on my way to the refrigerator. Almost empty. Carter’s red sports car was up the street. Couple of kids kicking a soccer ball. The trombone man sitting on his old car. I was glad I couldn’t hear him very well through the closed window. I wondered why he wasn’t working.
      I suppose I shouldn’t talk. About the job, that is. I’m not exactly working much at the moment, not since the old lady died. Here it was, early Monday afternoon and I was home. Trying to find a beer for Carter, who wasn’t working very hard this afternoon either, and who really wanted a whisky.
      Funny thing about Carter. I don’t actually know what he does. He claims he has an import-export business. Once I asked him to show me his store but he didn’t want to do it. He started acting mysterious and changed the topic.
      I interrupted him before he could start talking about a bar fight he broke up or some such. I asked, “What sort of stuff do you sell?”
      He said, “Oh, just stuff that people want to buy.” Then he laughed a sharp, barking laugh and that's all he'd say.
      I wonder if any of it's true? Another time he told me he’d smuggled rare artifacts out of Mexico and that’s how he had enough money for his car. Maybe he sells artifacts in his business.
      “What’s taking so long, woman?” Carter yelled from the other room, making me start. “I’m getting damn thirsty.”
      I jerked myself away from the window and the sight of the sports car. I looked in the refrigerator though I already knew I wouldn’t find any beer. I rummaged through the cupboard above the sink. Two bottles of beer sat in the back, behind an old box of crackers.
      When I took him the beer, he wasn’t very pleased about how warm it was, but he seemed happy enough to hang around for a little while longer.
      Then he asked me if it was the last one.
      I shook my head. “No. There’s one more in the cupboard.”
      “Well, did you put it in the fridge?”
      I shook my head again and started to get up.
      “Christ almighty, you’re like a jack-in-the-box. You’re making me jumpy,” he said, pushing down on my shoulder to keep me in my seat. “I just asked. I got to get going anyway.”
      He drank the rest of the beer in a single gulp, belched and stood up. And that’s when he told me to wear something pretty for him tonight.
      I must have dozed off because the next time I look at the clock it’s already six o’clock and I start worrying what I’m going to wear for Carter. I pull myself out of the chair and go into the bedroom. I’ve been sitting so long that my legs are all stiff. I feel like an old woman for a minute, then the creaks are gone.
      There’s not a lot in my closet to choose from. Most of my clothes are old. I stand in front of the rack, pushing the hangers back and forth, over and over. I finally pull out a long yellow dress, a green skirt and cream-colored blouse, and my short red dress. I lay them out on the bed, then pick them up and hold them against me one by one as I look at myself in the mirror. The yellow dress looks good on me, but it’s too formal. I think the red one is sexy. But maybe too sexy. And I think it’s the wrong red to go with Carter’s car. I put the red and yellow dresses away, leaving the green skirt and cream blouse on my bed.
      I check the alarm clock on the nightstand. Still enough time for a shower. I carefully take my clothes off, folding my sweater, hanging my pants in the closet, tossing my underthings in the hamper in the corner. As I wait for the water to warm up, I think how good I’ll feel when I put on my nice clothes.
      The water washes over my skin and I stand under it for a long time after rinsing the soap off. I spend extra time in front of the mirror, too, moussing my hair, brushing it, carefully applying lipstick, rouge and a little eye shadow. I don’t usually bother with makeup, but this is a special evening.
      When I’m done, I put on the skirt and blouse, being careful not to wrinkle them. I look at myself in the mirror, turning slowly to watch myself. I haven’t dressed up in ages, but I think I look pretty. I hope Carter thinks so, too. I remember how stiff I was when I got out of my chair and how old I felt. I decide I don’t look old. I can hardly see the crows-feet at the corners of my eyes or the faint lines around my mouth.
      Five till seven. Carter will be here in just five minutes if he’s on time. I figure there’s even chance. He won’t be early, though.
      I close the door as I walk out of the bedroom, go back to the table and sit down to wait, running my fingers across the splintery CH + JM over and over again. I keep glancing at the clock. The five minutes creep by. I don’t hear the engine of Carter’s car yet.
      Seven o’clock goes by. I start to worry. Then I start to feel panicky about leaving the house and going across the plaza. Panicky about riding in the car. Even panicky about going out with Carter and about the meaning of CH + JM.
      I run my fingers across the carving until I feel a sharp jolt of pain. When I look at my finger I’ve got a huge splinter in it. I pull it out and blood starts welling up. Two big drops land on my blouse before I can get my finger in my mouth. I can’t take it any more. I’ve got blood on the only nice blouse I can wear with this skirt.
      I push away from the table and run toward the bedroom, not sure what to do next. Just then I hear the familiar roar of Carter’s car. By accident, I pull open the door of the hall closet instead of my bedroom door. I go into to the closet, thinking it’s better, in a way, because Carter won’t know I’m here. I pull the door shut and crouch down among the old coats, brooms and mops.
      Through the closet door I can hear Carter pound on the front door a couple of times before walking in and starting up the stairs. He says, “June? You ready to go?”
      I don’t say anything. I can hear him getting to the top of the stairs.
      He says, “Junie?”
      I am trying to be very quiet but I feel a sneeze coming on. I try to stifle it. Carter must have heard me because he comes closer and again says, “Junie?” I hear him open the bedroom door and go in. I pray that he won’t look here, which is silly because he has no reason to even think about it. Unless he does hear me because I’m shaking. I swear I’m making as much noise as his car engine. I hope he can’t hear the coats rustling.
      I hear him go out to the dining room again.
      He says, “Well, goddamn it, woman. We make a date and you stand me up. Well, goddamn. Last thing I expected.”
      I hear him open the refrigerator.
      He says, “Goddamn,” for the third time. “Didn’t even put that other beer in the fridge. Wonder where the hell she is?”
      I want to burst out of the closet and say, “It’s okay! I’m here! I’m sorry about the beer!” But I just can’t do it. There’s blood on my blouse. My makeup’s probably a mess. I know my hair’s got cobwebs in it. I don’t make a noise.
      I hear him say, “Guess I’ll have to find some other broad for dinner tonight.”
      I hear the beeping of the phone. He’s calling someone.
      He says, “Hey, Christine. This is Carter. Why don’t I take you to dinner tonight?”
      There’s short pause, then he says, “Delmonico’s. Tell you what. We’ll go driving with the top down after dinner. And Christine? Wear something nice for me. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
      I hear the click as Carter hangs up the phone.
      I feel worse and scrunch down tighter, then he’s going down the stairs and the front door slams. The engine revs up. He roars away, the sound of the car fading to nothing.
      I can’t move. As I sit in the dark, all folded up, my finger in my mouth, I think I can hear the wail of the trombone man out on the plaza.