The Sand Hill Review               http://www.sandhillreview.org 2008

Limbo

Sona Avakian

The afternoon of my boss’s wake, I broke down, crying in the shower, where my husband Raymond couldn’t hear me. I’d mentioned the wake that morning, but since Raymond got sick he forgot so much and I had to tell him again. Wakes are morbid, was all he said. I don’t want mine to be morbid. I told him he was being dramatic, ridiculous.

Limbo Jim was a low-grade gangster, and even though he was shot, his death had been hanging over him like a long illness; he’d pissed off so many people. I was a waitress in his seedy Caribbean-themed nightclub, which periodically got shut down by the Board of Health because he also had magic shows there. Customers complained about rabbits hopping around, popping out of nowhere; some of the acts were less sophisticated than others.

I made sure Raymond had a glass of water, some magazines and the remote nearby. Our wedding portrait, taken the year before—a lifetime ago—was on the mantle. The frame was inscribed Raymond and Julie—May 10, 2006. I felt guilty as I got dressed, for leaving him.  But at the same time I was sorry for myself. My one night out was going to be spent at the wake of Limbo Jim, a shady character, who’d brought about his own downfall. Raymond insisted we carry on in as normal a fashion as possible. He had even managed to go into work a few days a week up until a month ago. Now that he was pretty much permanently camped out on the couch, most of the time we just pretended he had the flu.

The nurse I hired to stay with Raymond came and I patiently explained his medicines and care to her as if she were an idiot. Get some rest, I said to Raymond and bent to kiss his forehead. I might nap later, he said, but I’m not too tired today, the effort of it causing him to pant.

It was one of the first warm days we’d had that year, and I caught a ride with one of the newer waitresses, an undergrad, who snapped her gum a lot and gave out free drinks to her surly friends. Her driving abilities were questionable and I made sure I buckled up and mentally reviewed what to do in case of whiplash as we lurched to the funeral home, my arm reaching to the dashboard when time after time she let the clutch out too fast. But she didn’t talk much, and I was grateful.

Limbo Jim liked me even though I was a horrible, forgetful waitress. So many times he could’ve fired me, but never did. I had recently enrolled in nursing school and was always eager for experience, more than willing to proclaim a nose broken or set an arm. Plus, I knew to keep my mouth shut about what I saw going on there. Occasionally, I’d be called over to deal with a superficial gunshot wound or once, even pull a tooth loosened in a fight. I’d scuttle over in the ridiculous heels that got me better tips, and go to work, talking, soothing the hapless victim. I was appreciated and did not fear for my own safety. To them, I was basically a mobile ER unit, with a tray of drinks.           

At home, things weren’t going so smoothly. Raymond was dying even if we never admitted it simultaneously. We tag teamed, one of us broaching the subject, the other in denial, then reversed. The universe’s cruel joke was that the day I got my acceptance letter into the program, Raymond was at the doctor receiving his death sentence. His cancer was swift-moving and inoperable. I received a partial scholarship and threw myself into my studies, frustrated at the level of minutiae we were forced to learn, not being able to save him.

At the funeral home, Limbo Jim was dead in an ornate coffin, wearing too much rouge and a bemused expression, like he was wondering why anyone was sad. I could tell he was mocking me because I’d saved his life once. Or twice. Depending on how you looked at it. But three times? Not a chance—I had to have a night off now and then. A lackey of one of his enemies was sent over to off him and for once (and it only takes once) was successful. I knelt at the coffin and whispered, I had to study Tuesday night. No one blamed me except Jim’s mother who gave me the stink-eye, which didn’t help my mood one bit. One of the magicians was going to try and levitate him and I heard, Ladies and Gents! Step right up! Right this way! My mind flashed to Raymond on the couch, frail; then unbidden, came the image of him dead, in his own coffin, one I picked out.

Flowers were everywhere, making it difficult to breathe. My eyes were itchy and watery, and I hoped it made me look like a more sympathetic mourner. Genevieve, Limbo Jim’s widow, was crying, but in a stoic way. All that charity work she’d done gone to pot—it couldn’t stop the bad karma he brought near her. Her brother, Mickey, whose face I once I cleaned up after a fight, wasn’t making things any easier for her by saying Jim was a dirty-dog scoundrel and good riddance to him. Limbo Jim was a low-life schemer; it was true—a petty thief, a pickpocket, a fast talker. He flipped drugs to teenagers, and was probably a pain in the ass to live with. I’m sure he left dirty socks on the floor every night and chewed with his mouth open. But still, The Widow Genevieve, as I’d already come to think of her, looked dazed. Forty-one years they were together. I was bitter; the only person ever at a funeral to be jealous of the widow.

At first Raymond and I didn’t believe it. We were young, healthy— newlyweds, for cryin’ out loud! Doctors! What do they know? They make mistakes all the time, we’d say. You’re healthy as a horse! I told him, You just need more roughage in your diet, Raymond. You need to meditate, to see a faith healer! More whiskey, that’ll kill the germs. I plied him with suggestion after suggestion. But soon—too soon—it became apparent that no medicine—East, West or just plain wacky, would heal Raymond’s traitor body.

For a while I tried praying. I’m not much of a believer, but I figured it couldn’t hurt—not to try and reverse things—but as a way for me to handle the disaster our lives had become. The only thing I really knew was the straightforward, Christian praying of my childhood. I prayed late at night when I couldn’t sleep, slipping out of bed, to my knees, while Raymond rasped and wheezed. Please, God, don’t let my husband be in too much pain. Don’t let me be too lonely. But it started to sound too much like begging so I gave it up and would just sit there in the dark, on the floor, next to the bed.

And the fact was Raymond was in pain. I was lonely. He was still alive and I was already lonely. We couldn’t go to the movies anymore or take hikes together. Instead, I was on the phone calling in prescription refills, cleaning out basins he’d thrown up in, giving sponge baths—Raymond’s skin loose on his withering body. We’d never have children, plan our retirement or even move out of our dumpy apartment together.

At the reception, in a restaurant owned by someone in Jim’s posse, dinner was served buffet style and we lined up at the table much like we had lined up at the coffin only an hour before. I mingled with the magicians, the pimps and whores, who hung out at the club, and Jim’s sundry assortment of friends, trying to be normal. But I was anxious, kept my elbows in and didn’t let my eyes linger on anything or anyone for too long. I loaded up a dish with food I didn’t want, and picked at it while chatting with the other waitresses. So what’s new? someone asked me, Not much. Busy with school, work. My husband is dying. I mumbled. No one even blinked. I chewed something tasteless. It could be happening that very minute, I thought, then pushed that from my head. Raymond was not dying at that moment.

The gangsters stuck to themselves, planning revenge, most likely. I was worried about Raymond. I shouldn’t have left him with that dippy nurse. I was a lousy wife. And everything I did would be useless. I would serve a million drinks to a million strangers, study hard and my husband would still die young. The knowledge of that felt like wet towels on my chest as sweat rolled down the insides of my arms.

The magicians weren’t sharing secrets—all believed in their own powers, doubted the others’. I could’ve sworn I heard someone say, Faster than a speeding bullet! I resisted the temptation to ask a magician to pay a visit to Raymond. We were way past that now—most of the time anyway.

           As far as I knew Raymond didn’t pray, but he spent so much time alone, when I was at work or school, I couldn’t be sure. Every time I entered the room, he was staring at the air. Our wedding was performed by a justice of the peace in my parents’ backyard in front of about thirty friends and family. The ceremony was short, to the point. Do you Julie, Do you Raymond…and just like that we were wedded, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, in times of joy and sorrow, till death would part us. Then we rolled up the rug in the living room of the house I’d grown up in and danced to celebrate our union. The next thing I knew my parents sold the house, all their furniture, and booked a year’s passage on a cruise around the world. They were somewhere near Greece soaking up the Mediterranean sun as I was setting up a morphine drip in my living room.

My husband is dying. Maybe right this minute, I said to Louisa, a palm reader who tried to make a buck before the magic shows. We’re all dying, honey, she said plainly and patted my cheek. For one moment, and I still feel guilty for this, the fact of that lifted my spirits. I felt so free from responsibility, reckless and young, that I went out back to smoke a cigarette with some of the gangsters, because what did I care then? I was twenty-nine and would be a widow before I turned thirty. Widow. The word itself conjured up hunchbacked women wearing black, never smiling. The rest of thirty would be a breeze. I wanted to wear pink mini-skirts, dance in discos on Sunday nights. But I was serious, pedantic and had been that way since I could remember. Did I deserve this? Had my own cynicism caused me to fall in love with someone who would die young? Had Raymond’s own gallows humor caused him to get ill? Maybe I’ll be reincarnated as dust, he’d said to me recently. Then you wouldn’t have to do housework. I mean, you’d still want me around, right, Julie? And without missing a beat, I’d replied, Don’t worry, Raymond, I don’t even dust now, and then quickly fled to the bathroom to cry, vowing to scrub the apartment clean and bright if fate could be averted.

When the plate flew across the room, I ducked just to be safe, even though it wasn’t heading my way. I crammed some sort of Christmas cookie (funny, because it was April) into my mouth to keep from screaming and drawing attention to myself. I’d seen worse fights at the club, but still, I couldn’t afford to get banged up and ducked behind a chair, making sure I still had a good view. In the chaos it was hard to figure out the sides. But obviously someone was trying to avenge Limbo Jim’s death and I was rooting for that person. One of Jim’s boys, a lanky, bald guy, skidded backward from a punch to the face, landing in the dessert tray, sending out a puff of whipped cream.

Not much fazed me but shoes were flying, heads were being cracked against the bar and even I had my limits. When there was a lull in the mêlée, I decided I’d paid enough respects, and made my way out. Because my ride was suddenly fucking one of the waiters, (I saw them in the coatroom; her skirt was scrunched up and his pants were at his ankles) I had to hot-wire a car to get out of there. I decided on Mickey’s because I figured he owed me one and it was a big old 1970s sort of Cadillac, a convertible, the kind I had easily pictured myself flying down the highway in many times, but in real life, that had never actually happened. Before I knew it, The Widow Genevieve was lurching across the parking lot, waving her arms, clutching a black pump in one hand and the strap of her purse in the other. She was screeching, Wait for me! I don’t drive! I don’t drive! like that was her biggest problem.

I paused for Genevieve (she jumped in like she’d been riding in get-away cars her whole life) and gunned it out of there, swerving just in time to miss some sort of scruffy dog. I needed air, rolled the top down and we were off, Genevieve gasping, Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness! her hand at her chest. Both of us were old, both of us young. Limbo Jim was happy, maybe even levitated. And when I got home, Raymond would be there—dead. Or he’d be sleeping, his breathing raspy and belabored.