Over the next week Genevieve settled in at her new home.
One room and a shared kitchen and bath was a long away
from the comfortable, private two-bedroom condo on the
tony Upper East Side her father had purchased a dozen
years ago, but she tried valiantly to adapt. At least the East
Harlem location was convenient. A total of five subway lines were no more than a block or two in either direction. Never much of a cook, if she wasn’t meeting Barry for dinner she picked up frozen entrees and food items from the Pathmark on One-Hundred-Twenty-Fifth Street or something from one of the many family or fast food restaurants that lined the street. They offered all types of cuisine, New York staples like pizza parlors, sub sandwich joints, Papaya King for hot dogs and fruity shakes, the obligatory Chinese restaurant, and plenty of places to chow down on soul food. This was, after all, Harlem.
As for the occupant of the room on the opposite end of the hall, her landlady's prediction proved accurate. Genevieve had yet to see him. The only evidence of another resident was in the kitchen trash can, where she noticed things like empty 20-ounce soda bottles and balled-up brown paper bags or wax paper, suggesting someone who ate meals on the run. Maybe she didn’t have the floor to herself, but it felt like she did.
She still had major doubts about marrying Barry, but she did feel more optimistic about the situation with the INS. At Barry’s suggestion, she dashed off a note to the building superintendent, explaining that she’d gotten married and had gone off on an ex-tended honeymoon. She doubted that people outside of Hollywood types did such things nowadays, but heck, Barry did work as a television executive. She supposed that made him a Hollywood type, even if he was based in New York in the news division. She stamped it and asked a business colleague to drop it in the mail it for her while he traveled to San Francisco on business. This action had two purposes: First, it would throw the INS off track. Second, the super would know to look after her unit. Maybe their agents wouldn’t make such a big deal out of trying to find her once they learned she’d gotten married.
Of course, she hadn’t gotten married yet, but Barry assured her his divorce was moving toward a swift finalization. And once they were married she could return home and boldly face the INS. Even with her falsely claiming an earlier date of marriage on her correspondence to the super, once she married an American citizen and they proved it was legitimate, no one could send her back.
As relieved as Genevieve felt to have a solution to her pressing problem, the entire premise still made her uneasy. How could she even consider marrying for any other reason other than being madly in love? Barry made no secret about being attracted to her, but could she really reciprocate his affections? The setup seemed terribly wrong to her.
Then there was the matter of the condo. She also knew that Barry expected her to move in to his Brooklyn loft, which presented a problem of what to do with her father’s condo. She couldn’t even consider selling her last link to her father, but it came with fairly high carrying charges. She should probably look into subletting it as a furnished vacation rental. The Upper East Side location would be appealing to tourists, and nothing in the condo rules prohibited sublets. That seemed like the best option, but even that had its drawbacks, for it meant a series of strangers would be living in her father’s home. At least it was acceptable.
Genevieve wished she could feel as good about marrying to attain legal residency, but she was unable to shake the ominous feeling that she was making a decision she’d live to regret. The whole thing was just so distasteful, and something else was struck her as being off, something beyond the obvious, but so far she hadn’t been able to identify it.
There’d been no outright omens, no strange occurrences that seemed to be sending her a warning, which had happened frequently in her life. Still, Genevieve trusted her instincts, just as she had when she made the decision to leave Paris for good and fly home to check on her father. Her friends had tried to talk her out of it, but in her heart Genevieve knew something was terribly wrong and she needed to go to him right away.
Her father had seemed so accepting of his fate. Genevieve knew his thoughts were with her mother. Even as a very small child, Genevieve had always been aware of a special current flowing between her parents. The three of them formed a family, and as much as Genevieve felt loved by both of them, she also sensed her parents had a facet to their relationship that didn’t include her. Of course, at the time she’d been too young to understand the ways of men and women in love, but in hindsight, the fact that her youthful innocence had picked up on it the connection between Julien and Noelle L’Esperance made it that much more special.
She closed her eyes and traveled back in time nearly half a life-time ago. Her mother, Noelle, had been diagnosed with a rapidly progressive neurological disorder that already had her weak and bedbound. Genevieve, tending to her one afternoon after school, suddenly realized that her mother was dying and burst into tears at the prospect.
“Come here, Gen,” Noelle had ordered in a strong voice that belied her infirmity.
Genevieve complied, curling up beside her mother and resting her head on her shoulder, but she continued to cry. Noelle’s next words made her sobs increase.
“Your father and I wanted to protect you, but I see from your tears that you’ve figured it out,” Noelle said. “I’m afraid you’re right, Genevieve. This time next year I probably won’t be here with you.” She squeezed Genevieve’s shoulder with a bony hand, something that in hindsight Genevieve realized had taken tremendous effort for her mother’s weakened and atrophied muscles. “I don’t want to go, mon Cherie, but it’s God’s plan. The important thing is that I’m here now, and we’ve got this time together, just you and me. And after I’m—well, next year or even before, your Papa is going to take you to New York.”
“New York?”
“Yes, the best city in the world, after Paris.” Noelle chuckled. “He’s going to take good care of you. And one day, when you’re all grown up, you’re going to meet a man who will leave you breathless every time he so much as smiles at you. And he’ll do that often.” Noelle’s voice took on a dreamy quality. “He’ll make you laugh and make you feel beautiful even when you’re looking your worst, and when he kisses you...you’ll be dizzy with excitement.”
A fascinated Genevieve stopped crying. “Is that how it was with Papa and you?”
“Yes. And that’s how it should be for you and the man you marry.”
Genevieve opened her eyes, which had grown wet with tears at the memory. Her mother had been right. That was how a woman was supposed to feel about the man she married, all breathless and dizzy. Brides everywhere felt just that way.
Everyone but her. Instead she was faced with an impossible situation of choosing between a loveless marriage or escaping with her life. And she couldn’t lose the niggling feeling that something about the arrangement wasn’t quite right.
One thing that bothered her was that in the span of just a few days, Barry had gone from matter-of-fact acceptance that this was the only solution to what seemed like almost enthusiasm about marrying her. She supposed he was trying to put a good face on it for her benefit. But despite valiant efforts, Genevieve simply hadn’t warmed up to the idea of marriage to Barry, a marriage based on her need to stay in the U.S. and nothing more. She wanted a marriage like her parents had had, full of love and laughter. As much as security from deportation meant, what was marriage without love? How could two people tied to each other by matrimony possibly get any enjoyment out of life?
She gasped. At that moment the concern that had been lurking in the back of her mind jumped to the forefront. ‘Green card’ marriages such as the one she and Barry planned weren’t designed to last forever. They served a purpose, and that was it. Yet Barry had said nothing about ending the marriage after a few years, once she was safe from deportation. Was he expecting a lifetime commitment? That didn’t make sense, knowing they didn’t love each other.
The only explanation she could come up with was that he was too consumed with lust for her to think much beyond his orgasm. She’d never slept with a married man in her life, and she’d made it clear that there’d be no sex until after his divorce. No question about it, they would have to discuss this matter in more detail.
She had to know precisely what she was getting herself into, and sooner rather than later.
Genevieve was toasting a bagel on a Saturday morning when she heard the sound of running water. She immediately thought of the stacked washer and dryer in the alcove. If a hose had burst, the entire floor would be flooded.
She rushed out to the hall, but found it dry. The problem had to be coming from the bathroom. She took a few tentative steps toward it, but stopped abruptly, covered her mouth in shock, and quickly turned around.
A man, his back to her, stood relieving himself in front of the toilet. She returned to the safety of the kitchen, tented palms covering her mouth. How incredibly gauche. How dare he use the bathroom and not close the door! Surely he’d been told someone had moved into the vacant room and he no longer had the entire floor to himself.
Her bagel popped out of the toaster. At the same time she heard the unmistakable sound of a toilet flushing, then more running water and a swishing sound. In spite of her annoyance she found herself smiling. At least the lout believes in washing his hands afterward.
She managed to put the unpleasant picture out of her mind as hunger took over. No way would she allow a stranger’s boorish behavior spoil her appetite. She spread a generous amount of her favorite cream cheese with chives onto her sesame seed bagel.
“Hello.”
Uh-oh. Her head rose automatically at the sound of a male voice she knew was directed at her, but she didn’t turn around right away. It would be embarrassing to face her floor-mate in light of what she just witnessed, and she dreaded it. If she hadn’t had a bagel in the toaster she would have merely gone back to the privacy of her room and closed the door.
With a soft sigh, she slowly turned around.
*****
Genevieve’s eyes widened at the sight of the man who stood before her. He was handsome, yes, to the point where she could momentarily forget she’d be sharing a bathtub with him—not at the same time, of course. But when she looked a little closer he was hardly the typical college student, which raised concerning questions of identity. While his lanky build suggested a freshman or sophomore majoring in Getting Laid, his face reflected the maturity of an adult male...one who, based on his tall frame, curly if unruly black hair—personification of the term ‘mop top’—and perfect nose, could still get lucky virtually anytime he wanted. She put his age in his early thirties, too old to be the college student Brenda had described. But if he wasn’t her neighbor, who was he and what was he doing in her bathroom?
All right, so she knew what he’d been doing. But why had he been doing it in her bathroom if he didn’t live here?
“I apologize for startling you,” he said, his hands stuffed awkwardly into the pockets of his jeans. “I’m really very sorry. I wasn’t aware Stan and Brenda had rented this room. I’m afraid I allowed myself to get a little careless while I was here alone.”
“So you do rent the other room?”
“Yes. Didn’t they tell you, or did they let you think you had the floor all to yourself?”
“No, they told me. You just...” she groped for something tactful to say—“You look a little different from the way I imagined you. Brenda said you were a student.”
He nodded. “So you thought I’d be nineteen or twenty, not thirty-two.”
Genevieve began to regret not having simply gone out for breakfast. First she’d walked in on him in the bathroom, and now she’d essentially told him she felt he was too old to be in college. This situation was growing more discomforting by the minute. “Frankly, yes.”
“I’m a student, but I’m in law school.”
Now it was her turn to nod. “I see.” But she didn’t. At his age he was certainly old enough to be finished with law school by now. Maybe he had taken a sabbatical to ‘find himself,’ a frequently used respectable-sounding explanation for indulging in wine, women, and generally hedonistic behavior. He certainly looked bohemian, with his wild mop of hair that coiled into tendrils, plus a growth of stubble covering the lower part of his face. He reminded her a little of the pop singer Yannick Noah, whose signature dreadlocks were a shorter chin-length during his days as a tennis pro and who, like this man, stood well over six feet tall.
“Go ahead with your breakfast,” he said. “I was going to fix something myself. Do you mind if I join you?”
I’d rather undergo a pelvic exam. “No, not at all,” she said brightly.
“My name’s Dexter, by the way.”
“I’m Genevieve.”
“Jon who?”
She giggled, momentarily forgetting her self-consciousness at the dual embarrassment of having witnessed his intimate act and putting her foot in her mouth. He looked totally clueless as to her name, something Genevieve had grown accustomed to. Americans always mispronounced her name. “Zhuhn-vyehv,” she said phonetically. “It’s French. But you can call me Jeh-nuh-veev if it’s easier. Or even just plain Gen.” Her parents and friends, both the ones from Paris and the ones from New York, had called her that. Barry, on the other hand, preferred the French pronunciation of her full name, shortening it only when he was trying to placate her, a practice she found irritating. The clients she’d worked with frequently enough to be on a first-name basis also used her full name. It would be refreshing to be called by her longtime nickname by someone for a change.
“Gen it is,” he said.
The moment having passed, she went to the refrigerator, wishing there was a way to get out of this awkward situation while she poured herself a glass of orange juice. She stole a glance at Dexter as she poured. He looked perfectly comfortable as he reached in the cupboard and put something he got from there into the toaster. He’d clearly managed to put their rather awkward encounter of just a moment ago behind him. Genevieve sighed softly. She should probably do the same.
She carried her plate and glass to the bistro table and bit into a bagel half, closing her eyes and letting out a contented sigh. The deli cream cheese was expensive, but worth it. She’d never tasted better. Sometimes she felt like she could spoon it right out of the container and into her mouth, like yogurt. The flavor of sour cream and chives floated up to tantalize her nostrils. She took another bite, and her contentment this time came out as a little moan. Twice.
“Good, huh?”
Her eyes flew open, suddenly aware of the sounds she’d been making, which she belatedly realized bore a strong similarity to those of making love. The unveiled amusement on Dexter’s face left no question that he’d made the association. Now it was her turn to be embarrassed. How could she have forgotten that she wasn’t alone in the room?
“Excuse me,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster, trying to put aside her mortification. “It’s just that this cream cheese is very possibly the best in the world.”
“Where’d it come from?”
“There’s this little family-owned deli in midtown, near one of my clients. They bake their own bagels and mix up different flavors of cream cheese. Zabar’s has nothing on them,” she explained, referring to New York’s famed Upper West Side deli.
“So your work involves calling on clients?”
She found herself relaxing as she answered his question. “Yes. I’m a freelance graphic artist.”
“I’ve always admired people who were artistic. I’ve never gotten any further than stick figures.”
Genevieve suppressed a smile. From what she could see he was a stick figure, although certainly a good-looking one. She took a few moments to chew and swallow. Now she understood exactly what Dexter meant about getting careless when you thought no one was around. She hadn’t bothered to disguise the utter joy to her taste buds from the flavored cream cheese. But with her next bite she didn’t sigh, and she certainly didn’t moan. A quick lick of the inside of her mouth had to suffice, plus the tingling she felt from her throat to her belly. Sometimes food could be almost as satisfying as sex...or maybe it had just been too long since she’d had sex.
“My second grade teacher sent a note home to my parents telling them she thought I might have a special gift,” she explained. “They enrolled me in extracurricular art classes almost immediately.”
The toaster buzzed as it raised its contents. Not even looking at his food, Dexter automatically lowered the lever for a second go-round. He wore a sleeveless muscle shirt, and she noted that his arms were surprisingly muscular for his thin build. She wondered what he looked like shirtless. Just because a man wasn’t beefy didn’t mean he had to be scrawny, and Dexter clearly wasn’t. Those definitely weren’t the arms of the proverbial ninety-eight-pound weakling. He could probably carry her off without difficulty...
Whoa. Where did that thought come from?
“Were you educated here in the States, Gen?” he asked.
Dexter’s question abruptly made Genevieve stop daydreaming about just where she imagined him carrying her off to with those strong arms of his. She knew he’d asked this particular question because of her slightly accented English. “I grew up in Paris. My father was a chemist for a perfume manufacturer. After my mother died when I was fourteen, he and I came to New York, and I went to high school here.” That was her standard reply, and it actually it was true...just incomplete.
“I’m surprised you haven’t lost your accent, since you’ve been here since high school,” Dexter said.
“I went to high school here, but I attended university in France, and I lived there until about three years ago,” she clarified, making the leap from evasion to an outright lie. Just over a year had passed since, worried sick about her father, she resigned from her job, shipped her clothes to New York, sold her furniture, gave up her share of the flat she’d had such a hard time getting into, and flew to her homeland, only to be put on the first flight to Miami by her frantic father. But at least she’d gotten to see him one last time.
“Oh, I see.”
The toaster buzzed again. She watched as Dexter carefully transferred the hot food onto a paper towel.
“Pop tarts?” she said incredulously when he sat opposite her.
“Absolutely. There’s nothing better than pop tarts for breakfast, unless it’s Twinkies.” He grinned at her, and she had the fleeting thought that he would really be drop-dead handsome if he had a shave and a decent haircut. “I’ve got a killer sweet tooth,” he added.
“I guess you do,” she said with an amused smile.
“I may eat a lot of sweets, but I haven’t had a cavity since I was a little kid. There’s a lot to be said about the merits of brushing after every meal.”
“That’s all well and good, but there are other potential health problems from eating too many sweets other than just your teeth.”
“I know all about them. I’m a doctor.”
“You are?” she said, puzzled. “Didn’t you just say you were studying law?”
“Yep. I got too far into medicine before I realized it really wasn’t what I wanted to do. So I did the next best thing. I finished, did an internship, and then enrolled in law school.”
Genevieve found it fascinating that someone so young had so much education. Her father had had a Ph.D., but of course he’d been a generation older. And Julien L’Esperance looked the part, having been as studious-appearing as he was immaculate. Dexter, on the other hand, in spite of being handsome, looked more like a doped-out rock musician from the Jimi Hendrix era, only with messier hair. If she was a patient and a doctor walked in looking like him, she’d probably bolt in favor of someone more conservative-appearing. “So what do you intend to do with your dual degrees?”
“Become a medical malpractice attorney.”
“Oh! That’s a good field to get into. You’ll definitely impress the law firms who get your résumé.” At least until they get a look at you. She suppressed a smile at her private thought, even though she felt certain Dexter would visit his barber before going on interviews.
“Oh, I’ll definitely be on that road to riches once I finish school.”
“How much longer do you have?”
He shrugged. “One more semester. I’ll finish in December.”
She noticed he didn’t seem particularly excited by the prospect. “You don’t look very happy about finishing up after all those years of school.”
“That’s because I’m not sure it’ll happen,” he said morosely. “I’m having difficulty raising cash for this last semester. I’ve exhausted my student loans. My grandparents have already mortgaged their house to pay my tuition. If I can’t come up with the money now, it might be years before I can finish.”
“So close, yet so far,” she remarked, thinking that his situation didn’t differ all that much from her own. She was so close to marrying Barry and ending her legal troubles, although she suspected a whole new batch of problems would begin with that step.
“Tell me about it. You know, my grandparents made a lot of things possible for me,” Dexter explained. “They’re past eighty now, and I'd like them to at least see me graduate. I’d like it even better if they could reap some benefits from the salary I’ll be making while they’re still able to get around pretty good, maybe go on a cruise or something. I wouldn't have made it this far if it weren't for them.”
She noticed he didn’t mention his parents and wondered why. Had his parents passed on, like both of hers? But at least he had grandparents. She had no one...No, that wasn’t right. She had Barry, who had proved to be about the best friend she’d ever had. She had to ask herself if she would be willing to go to such lengths to assist a friend in trouble.
Now she found herself rooting for Dexter to be able to enroll in the fall semester. “I do hope everything works out for you, Dexter.”
“It will, sooner or later. I’m saving every cent from my second job. The most I’ll miss is a couple of semesters.”
“A second job? What do you do?”
“My full-time job is in the medical examiner’s office.”
Genevieve made a face, realizing it too late. “You mean you work with dead people?” At least that would explain his rather unkempt-looking hair and unshaven face. Corpses wouldn’t object.
“Yup.”
“What do you do with them?”
“Pretty much whatever I’m told. I assist the M.E.”
“But...you’re a doctor yourself.”
“Technically, I’m not. I’m not licensed to practice medicine. I didn’t even do a residency, just an internship.”
“But the coroner’s office...it sounds so unpleasant. Couldn’t you treat patients or something? Surely you know as much as a nurse does.”
“It’s not just a question of knowledge. Nurses, nurse practitioners, physician assistants, they all have to go through a certain education and training program in order to qualify for a license.” Dexter shrugged. “Besides, I like working in the M.E.’s office. My experience with my internship is that the best patient is a dead patient.”
She burst into laughter. “Well, I guess you would know. What’s your second job?”
“I work in the pathology lab of one of the hospitals.”
Genevieve thought for a moment. “The medical examiner...the pathology lab.” She smiled. “I guess if the legal career doesn’t pan out you can make a living writing crime novels.”
“I’d do it now if I had some extra time. Anything to bring in a few dollars,” he said good-naturedly.
She felt for him even more than she had for the Smiths, whose financial difficulties seemed to have passed now that she’d moved into their vacant room. Dexter’s troubles, on the other hand, could go on for years. Law school was expensive…even the one semester he had to complete. “No wonder I’ve been here a week and haven’t seen you at all. When you’re not working or in class, you’re sleeping.”
“Actually, I’m not taking classes during the summer. I’m concen-trating on raising funds for the fall. But you got most of it right.” Dexter wolfed down the rest of his pop tart and glanced at his watch. “Time for me to get going. I promised my grandparents I’d be up to see them this weekend, and I’ve got a long train ride in front of me.”
“Where do they live?”
“Poughkeepsie. The last stop on the Hudson line.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin and tossed the balled-up napkin in the trash bin, then removed a bottle of Sprite from the refrigerator. “Nice meeting you, Gen. I guess I’ll see you later.”
“Same here.” She smiled. It hadn’t been as bad as she thought it would. Dexter seemed to be a nice fellow, once she’d recovered from the initial shock of her first glance at him. Not only did he have a nice personality and—she thought for the third time in five minutes—good looks, he was sexy in a roguish sort of way, and probably a lot of fun to be around. He certainly seemed plucky enough to succeed, and she hoped he would. She also hoped his grandparents would give him a good meal. His eating habits were atrocious. Imagine, pop tarts and a Sprite for breakfast. But of course they would. They loved him, as parents and grandparents loved children everywhere. Her parents might both be gone, but she still could feel the love they had for her, their only child. It would live in her forever. She hoped to have something like what they’d had one day.
Again that feeling of dread washed over her. She felt like she was caught between the proverbial devil and the deep blue sea, facing either death or selling her soul...in this case, giving herself in marriage to a man she didn’t love. She admired Barry for being so upbeat about the prospect and trying to raise her spirits, but she couldn’t feel any zest for something she knew was wrong on more than one level, nor could she shake the feeling that a train wreck lay ahead for both of them.
She stuffed the last of her bagel into her mouth. The taste that thrilled her just moments ago had suddenly gone bland.
Genevieve knew she was hardly the only person in New York without legal status. An entire underground network existed that stretched all over the city, and many of them lived right here in Harlem, offering each other assistance and emotional support. But she couldn’t join them. They eked out a living, often with earnings below the poverty line as they resided in the shadows with their families. They didn’t own Upper East Side condominiums and have college degrees and successful businesses. She might be one of them, but yet she was very different.
Funny. Most people’s troubles were related to money or health, but she didn’t lack either. Her problem was something most of those other people took for granted.
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