By Matthew Dodd
He’d put on a collared shirt for the occasion, knowing as he did that Debby liked him best in collared shirts. He was sorry he didn’t wear them more often but, to his great shame, he never quite mastered the art of ironing. This one was pale blue and dotted with, in the words of the charming and vaguely European shop clerk who’d sold it to him, ‘orbs like the stars at night.’ It was more expensive than he’d hoped but Willard had let him pick up an extra shift on Tuesday night, so it wasn’t too bad. Trouser-wise he was hoping Debby wouldn’t notice that these were his bowling trousers and might simply take him as the kind of a man who would naturally own and habitually sport navy chinos. They were good because of the give around the thigh; he lunged deep when he bowled, that was the secret to his success.
The phone rang while he was plucking his monobrow. ‘Uh-huh,’ he said with a solitary hair caught between the tweezers. ‘Don’t say uh-huh like that Herb, it makes you sound like a slob.’ He tore out the hair in shock and stood up straight, as though his handset might judge him the worse otherwise. ‘Ah, sorry Deb, I didn’t know it was you.’ A grumble from the other end of the line. ‘Well, that’s just the problem, isn’t it Herb? You never do know who could be on the phone, do you? I might be Bobby Kennedy for all you know.’ The line stayed silent for some few seconds as Herb percolated this. ‘You’re not, are you?’ No response. ‘I don’t mean to be difficult, I just sorta hoped we could keep politics out of the bedroom is all.’ A crackling hiss that might’ve been laughter: that was good enough for Herb. ‘What time did you make the reservation for? Paula wants me to stick around until close tonight, I’d say no but what with Gail sick and Murph bailing on us, I can’t bear to leave her on her own.’ Herb had put the tweezers down and stood cradling the telephone like he’d seen the Virgin Mary do with the baby Jesus in some of those pictures at church. ‘You’re calling from the bakery? Say, you got any of the brioche lying around that might be unfit for consumers, if you know what I mean?’ Another grumble. ‘Sorry. The reservation is for 8, but I can call and move it if you –‘she didn’t let him finish. ‘No, that’s fine, I’ll see you at 8.’ She appreciated the drama inherent in the urgent putting down of a telephone. Herb smiled and reset the handset before returning to his tweezing.
On the subway, Herb saw four dogs, two cats, a baby, and a saxophonist: he gave one of them a quarter, but planned not to tell Debby which. Debby worked at a bakery called Loaf at First Sight. At first, Herb was attracted to the pun moreso than the woman behind the counter, but after watching her delicately assemble a ham and cheese croissant in a little under forty seconds, his opinions became inverted. The bakery was two stops from Sal’s Own, the second-rate restaurant Herb had booked – he usually opted for third-rate establishments, so this was something of a treat. Debby got to Sal’s two minutes before Herb, but waited a few paces out of view so that she might spare his feelings by appearing, as if by some miracle, a matter of seconds after he eventually arrived. He offered her a polite kiss on the cheek, she obligingly accepted.
‘Some place, huh?’ Herb observed as they took their seats at a table by the front window with an ample view of the passing traffic and an old man asleep on a park bench. Debby agreed in her usual way, a curt nod which landed somewhere between approval and condescension. They both ordered spaghetti with marinara sauce and decided to split a bottle of the second most expensive wine. An hour or so later, as the dishes were being taken, Debby made the face Herb recognised as her important point expression. She swapped her purse between her hands a few times before speaking: ‘Herb, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.’ This time, Herb cut her off. ‘Say, I got you something!’ He reached around for the messenger bag his dad gave him when he turned 17 and produced a 12-inch vinyl record. ‘Well, Ralph spotted me the money, but it was me who picked it out – thought that counts right?’ He passed it across the table to Debby, who examined it with a tender care: Waltz for Debby, Bill Evans Trio. ‘You get it?’ Herb began. ‘Waltz for Debby! It’s a waltz for you! I heard Willard and his buddies talking about it – intellectual jazz types y’know – and knew I had to get it for you.’ Debby smiled down at the record and, after a few moments, up at Herb. ‘Thank you, Herb,’ She started, before, ‘I’ve been offered a job in Chicago, and I’m afraid I’m leaving tomorrow.’ In his head, Herb heard the sound of an empty telephone line.
‘Tomorrow?’ Debby nodded. ‘Chicago?’ She repeated the action. Under his breath he murmured a half-formed joke about the deep-pan style pizza he’d heard from someone at work say that they had over in Chicago, but gave up before he reached the punchline. A silence marinated between them. Herb tapped a rhythm with his knife and fork.
‘What do you say you come back to mine and we give this Bill character a spin?’ The ends of Debby’s eyebrows sunk; her mouth folded into a half-frown. ‘I’m sorry Herb, I’ve made up my mind. I can’t stay here forever, spinning my wheels. It’s a good job, a real good job. It’s not that I don’t love it here, or that I don’t – ‘. She cut herself off. ‘It’s just that I can’t stand still any longer.’ Herb smiled. ‘Is that yes, then?’ Her frown intensified. Before she could get out an affectionately scolding ‘Herb…’ he’d interjected. ‘Look, I won’t ask you to stay. I’ve been losing you ever since I met you: that’s just the way of things. But.’ He grasped around in the air for the words. ‘Won’t you just listen to this record with me? I hear it’s really good.’ They sat for a second in silence; outside, the old man awoke and set off towards a nearby bar. ‘You don’t need to love me forever Debs, just let me have the song. Can’t you stand still one more night?’ Behind the counter, a young waiter dropped a bowl of olives and swore loudly. Head downturned, Debby’s head rocked back and forth, a negotiation between agreement and dissent. ‘Oh, Herb. Why’d you have to go and buy me a present?’ The corner of her mouth curled upward as she caught Herb’s eyes: ‘you never know, I might just give you a dance as well.’
As they got up, Debby noticed a stain of marinara sauce across Herb’s collar. He scoffed: ‘and I tried my best to look all refined.’ Debby laughed slightly. ‘Ah well’, she said, ‘it’s the thought that counts.’
They walked to the subway arm-in-arm, how Debby saw them do in the movies, and made the 8.15 train. The couple were in Herb’s sitting room by 9. Debby sat and giggled as Herb awkwardly tried to drop the needle on the exact start of the album, a fool’s errand that lasted about as long as the record itself. Once it started, he emphatically cast his hand out towards Debby and, with slightly overambitious energy, pulled her up to him. Together, they shuffled across the room with all the soaring romance of Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron, only lacking in some of the grace. In a moment of special closeness, Debby looked up at Herb with a warmth he remembered from their early days. He made a point of not looking down to meet her eyes; he didn’t want her to see him cry. After what felt like a moment but must have been some forty minutes, the record spun out and was replaced by a dry hiss of static. They remained unmoved for a moment before Herb released Debby from their embrace and, with a voice just shy of cracking told her she ought to be on her way. She didn’t want to miss her train, after all. Debby agreed and set off to move. At the door, they shared a polite kiss and a quiet goodbye.
As she left, Debby could hear Herb reset the needle on the record and start it over. She could still hear it outside, as she looked back up at the apartment. Through the window, it looked like he was dancing.
Photo Credit: Constantine Manos