Look Closer

“The great thing about my job,” I say, “is I can do it anywhere. Here or Manhattan or with my toes in the sand in Monterey. I’ve thought about Paris, I’ve thought about the Tuscany region. I’ll probably stick to the States, so I can keep my eye on trends, which is harder to do remotely. But who knows?”

She’s watching me as I say this, matter-of-factly, while I pull on my pants. I usually leave off my shirt for as long as possible because women love my abs.

“So it wouldn’t have to be in a big city?” she asks.

Yep, she wants to know. She’s fantasizing about places—though which ones, I don’t know—and me with her.

“Not necessarily,” I say. “What about you? Do you always want to stay in Chicago?”

Volleying that serve back in her court, in just the same, low-key, indirect way, not confronting her with the idea of a future together but dancing near it. If she’s going to move slowly, so am I. Don’t rock the boat, like Gavin and I discussed. Keep Number 7 on the steady and narrow until November 3.

When I look over at her, she’s gazing out the picture window that looks onto my patio and far away to the city’s magnificent skyline.

“I’m not staying in Chicago,” she says. “Anywhere but Chicago.”

—

“Let me take you to dinner,” I say.

“Where?” she asks.

“Wherever. You name it. There are twenty places within walking distance. Or anywhere else.”

She chews on her lip, checks her watch. It’s coming up on seven in the evening. “It’s getting late.”

“Afraid to be seen in public with me?” I laugh.

She looks at me. “Not in the way you mean it, but actually, yes, I am very afraid of that. Wouldn’t you be, if you were me? What if someone saw us?”

“Well, yeah, I suppose.”

“Well, yeah, you suppose? This isn’t a joke, Christian. What if Simon found out?”

“Okay, I—”

“What if Simon found out and filed for divorce?”

I put up my hands. I’ve struck a nerve. Her eyes are on fire.

“What if Simon found out and filed for divorce before November third?” she says. “Did you read that trust language?”

“I did—”

“If he even files for divorce before our ten years are up, I’m done. I don’t get a penny.”

“I know.”

She gets off the couch, grabs her bag. “Okay, I’m glad you know. Do you also know that I don’t have four hundred million dollars in investments or whatever you have? That this money is the only money I have?”

Whoa, whoa, whoa, this is spiraling.

“Yes, and I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t mean to be so casual about that. Hey.” I walk up to her, though she appears to be in no mood for comfort or intimacy right now. “Vicky, I will never do anything that jeopardizes that. Nothing. If it’s important to you, it’s important to me. You’re important to me. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

She’s still fuming, still upset, her eyes turned from mine. I don’t move, following her lead.

But eventually, as I knew she would, she looks into my eyes.

35 Vicky

“I can do the grocery run,” I say.

“Jeez, with what?” says Miriam, my boss, bent down in her office with the safe open, trying to scrounge up whatever petty cash she can. Her “office” is really a converted garage. We’ve tried to maximize every square inch of this property to fit as many people as we can in our shelter.

Miriam is a lifer at Safe Haven, one of the people who started it up thirty years ago after escaping an abusive relationship of her own. She has a severe look to her, rarely smiling, heavy lines on her face and silver hair pulled back tight, trim as a drill sergeant with much the same demeanor, though she has as big a heart as anyone I know.

“Low on funds already?” I ask. “It’s only the middle of the month.”

“We have twenty-two dollars,” she says. “To buy two hundred dollars’ worth of groceries.” She fishes into her jeans pocket and pulls out some cash.

“That’s okay, I have some money,” I say. I think I have maybe forty dollars.

“Don’t start spending your own money,” she tells me. “I don’t pay you enough as it is.”

But people have to eat. These women who come to us, seeking refuge from abuse, often with their kids—we aren’t providing much of a “haven” if we can’t supply them with meals. As it is, we buy as cheaply as we can, cutting out coupons, looking for sales, buying generic. Good thing I have many, many years of practice doing so.

“It’s fine,” I say. “Just drop it. I’ll get as much as I can.”

—

I go to the shelter’s kitchen, reviewing the stock of groceries we have remaining and putting together a list. Then I debate whether to go to the superstore ten miles away or the local grocery store, with the four pages of coupons. The superstore is usually cheaper; we pay a one-time annual subscription fee—which I assume is how that chain makes its money—and buy groceries at a lower cost. But with coupons for the local grocery store, I might be able to stretch my dollar more. I have the twenty-two dollars that Miriam gave me and thirty-seven of my own, and I have to make it count.