Searching

    Kiko’s Deli was usually crowded, though Margaret now felt the noise and bustle turned up a notch.  She counted eleven people in the line in front of her. A biker couple wearing black leather and knee-high boots stood next to her, and a motley batch of people surrounded her. A few read the chalkboard menu as they inched along in the line, while most thumb-tapped like mad on cell phones.

     Kiko made the best café con leche in the neighborhood, and Margaret’s habit was to endure the long line by people watching. Clothes, jewelry, and hairstyles painted a portrait and told a lot about a person. As superficial as it seemed, Margaret knew that people fell into distinct categories, subcultures easily denoted by their attire.  Obvious were the hipsters, bohemians, the wealthy, intellectuals–the list was long.  So while waiting in lines, she examined the less obvious, more subtle details, and made up stories to go along with the person. 

     A bald man, three people away, was stocky and well dressed. He wore a large gold ring. His shoes were obviously Italian made.  Margaret imagined that he was married to an attractive woman, was in the export-import business and traveled to London and Paris often.  He was not self-conscious in the least about balding, and in fact, began shaving his head long before his hair started thinning.

     Margaret was deep in thought, imagining the extravagantly rich life of the man, when a tray of cups shattered onto the floor.  The loud racket of ceramic mugs crashing against tile made Margaret wince.  Just then, a fire truck with its sirens blaring slowed in the traffic just outside the deli. The truck honked at the gridlock of cars, while its sirens wailed. Margaret froze. 

     A disheveled street woman ran into the deli and began screaming, “I told you it was the end of days, but nobody listened. I warned you, didn’t I? Didn’t I?” She swung her arms accusingly, and Margaret should have known better than to watch, even glance in the general direction of the angry woman, but it was too late and their eyes locked.

     The woman–toothless, emaciated, draped in layers upon layers of tattered clothes– approached Margaret, stared at her with dark, penetrating eyes and yelled, “I warned you.  It’s coming to an end, and we will all burn in hell.” Margaret pulled her gaze away. 

     Margaret shuddered as one of the workers from behind the counter rushed over and grabbed the woman by her shoulder.  He gripped her firmly as he walked her out of the deli.  Margaret watched them through the window; he spoke sternly while shaking a finger in the lady’s face. She shuffled away calmly.

     The honking, wailing, yelling, shattering, clanking, and shrieking rattled Margaret’s brain.  She felt dizzy and out of breath, and she was afraid she would faint. Margaret glanced around the deli and noticed that everyone continued on with various activities, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Only conversations and thumb tapping resumed at a heightened pace.

     Margaret had her arms crossed at her chest with her hands in tight fists, in a defensive position, such as a person guarding and protecting her very soul.  She tried to calm her breathing.  She counted slowly to ten.  

     Once again she glanced across the swarming deli, and then she saw him.  She could only see the back of his head, but she was sure it was Richard.  She noticed the cowlick in his salt and pepper gray, the slight curvature of his shoulders, and the long gracefulness of his hands when he pushed open the door. She scooted out of the line and rushed to the door. She pushed it open and stepped onto the bustling street.  Crowds of people scurried past her and she began to walk with the hordes, letting the hurried pace whisk her along the sidewalk.  She searched for him, darting through and around the people, nearly running on her tiptoes to see past the heads of strangers, searching for that one back of the head she knew so well, the head of her dead husband.               

     Her search was futile.  She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, disrupting the flow of the pedestrians.  People jerked and sidestepped around Margaret.  She stood crying, feeling as though she had lost Richard all over again.

     I didn’t mean to upset her. Sometimes when I drop in, it’s only to get a glimpse of her. On this day, I caught Margaret at a bad time. She doesn’t do well with the stress of people and noise. She’s sensitive. She used to tell me she’s an empath. I didn’t know much about those things, but now from here, I have a different perspective, and I know she’s right. When I visit, she always seems to know. She catches me, even before I catch myself. 

           With dreams of chasing Richard through dimly lit subway stations and the dark, wooded trails of Central Park, Margaret had a fitful night. She looked at the clock and it read 2:35am. Richard lingered everywhere all of the time.  It was so generous of him to go in his sleep like that—quietly and without a fuss.  He was always so civil and stoic, even at his own death.  Margaret had sensed something was wrong—when she felt his body rest too heavily next to her, she had tried to shake him awake…

     Now Margaret walked into the living room and turned on a lamp. She stood in front of a framed black and white photograph of Richard and herself.  They were in their thirties, smiling, both good-looking she thought.  

     Margaret touched the picture, then Richard’s face with her index finger. “We had a fantastic life,” she whispered. 

     Suddenly she said in a loud voice, “I miss you.”  

      I watch her as she walks into the living room and turns on the lamp. I watch her as she examines the photo of us, the one taken in London. We were in our thirties, raising young kids, but still managing to live in our own bubble. She’s right, we had a fantastic life. She tells me she misses me. I tell her I love her, but the words won’t reach her. There’s nothing I can do to reach her, but I visit, thinking that maybe a way will come. My funny, adorable Margaret.