The Six Feet Between Us

Miri? That was a word I hadn't heard yet, and I immediately wondered what it meant. I repeated it in my mind, hoping to derive some meaning from its sounds.

"His name is Paul and he just moved into the Simmons place."

"The one with the silly pots on the chimney?"

Ray snorted but swallowed her laugh.

"Wait!" Bubbe continued, "Isn't that right behind..."

"Yes, Bubbe," Ray quickly interrupted, "that's the one."

Bubbe cocked her head to the side suspiciously, but never did finish her sentence.

I was still reeling from the revelation that two out of two women thought my chimney pots were silly, but the growls in my stomach reminded me of our mission.

"So, I hear you have a mean grilled cheese sandwich here?"

"Grilled cheese?!" she sounded offended. "Miri, did you tell him such nonsense?!"

'Miri' again...what does that word mean?

"No, Bubbe! That is not what I said," Ray threw a how-dare-you-embarrass-me look my direction. "I told him he could get a proper sandwich here. He was just going to have a grilled cheese for his supper and I told him no."

"Well, okay then." she calmed down immediately. "If you want a proper sandwich, you're in the right place. But don't you dare ever ask me for a grilled cheese here, or a P-J-B either!" She wagged a finger, first at Ray and then towards me. But a smile pushed her cheeks up, making it look like she was winking with both eyes and betraying the gruff façade she was trying to display.

I figured this was just Bubbe's way of being playful, but I decided not to test her harsh misrepresentation of a P-B-J, just in case—and not only her misspelling of it, but also that peanut butter and jelly isn't a 'proper sandwich', as she put it.

"In that case, I'll have two of your favorite sandwich, please... plus whatever she wants."

"Oh!" Ray was taken back in surprise. "No, I don't need anything. I just wanted you to get something..."

"Nonsense," Bubbe cut her off. "You'll get your usual, Miri. But you won't be able to finish two of our sandwiches, dear." She was looking at me, now. "Your eyes are bigger than your stomach."

Ray giggled again. She seemed to like funny sayings.

"No, it's okay, I'll eat the leftovers for lunch tomorrow."

"Nonsense!" This seemed to be one of Bubbe's favorite words, and it seemed I'd offended her again.

"Just come back for lunch tomorrow and we'll make you a fresh one."

"Oh no, I can't, um, Bubbe," I wasn't sure if I should call her that or not, but everyone else was, so I went with it. "I have to return my moving truck and stop by my new work. I won't be home most of the day..."

"Fine," she relented. "We'll wrap one to go." With that, she turned to the counter to yell out our order, "Pastrami for the boyfriend and the usual for Miri!"

"Boyfriend? Wait, I'm not..."

"Shh!" Ray chastened me quietly. "Please don't say anything."

Bubbe took a step toward me and leaned in close, "Don't worry about Eli. She's like a sister to him, so he worries. But he's right about one thing—if you ever hurt her," she made a fist with her right hand and wagged it in front of my face.

"Bubbe," Ray interrupted in my defense, "he's not like Dennis. He's nice. I promise."

Bubbe unclenched her fist and lowered it, her cheeky smile returning. "I have a good feeling about you two! Bubbe approves, Miri! Bubbe approves."

Ray quickly pulled me to the table furthest from the counter, past a few other customers who were doing a poor job of disguising their eavesdropping.

"So, I guess you have some questions," she offered as I pulled her chair out for her, before taking a seat myself.

The timing was good. I needed to sit. "Um, yeah. I've got a few."

"Well, I suppose you deserve some answers after all that."

"Okay, the obvious one first, I guess. I'm your boyfriend?"

"Sorry. The Breitmans are wonderful, I promise. They're like a second family to me. But they're constantly nagging me about finding a man." She paused to gauge my reaction. "I didn't plan that, just so you know." She paused again to study my face. "And they don't mean any harm. They're just relentless about it. It was just kinda nice that they laid off a little."

"That was laying off?"

"Believe it or not, yeah."

"Hmm... okay." I eventually offered.

"Okay? What do you mean by that?"

"Yeah, I mean, it's fine. For now, at least. But just so you know, I'm the world's worst liar. So, you're gonna have to tell them I'm not really your boyfriend—and probably soon."

"Deal!"

I wasn't sure what the deal was exactly, but even a pretend girlfriend was still a step in the right direction.

"Next question," she encouraged.

"Um, Dennis?"

She exhaled loudly.

"Ew, I'm sorry," I quickly backtracked when I realized I'd crossed a line. "I shouldn't have asked that."

"No... it's okay," she paused to collect herself. "He's my ex... of course, you probably figured that much. Anyway, he was... well, he wasn't nice."

"Oh." I was pretty sure I understood. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah. But that's ancient history—water under the bridge and all that." She seemed to be trying to convince herself of that last part and the fact that both she and Bubbe had brought him up made me suspect it wasn't all that far in the past at all.

"Okay, Miri? What's that word mean? Is it like 'Jewish' for something?" I figured a new question might set her more at ease again.

She laughed. "I think you mean Yiddish and no, that's my name. And I'm not Jewish, either, in case you were wondering." Then she turned a little bit bashful. "Anyway, only my mom and Bubbe call me Miri. Everyone else just calls me Ray."

"Yeah, I noticed," I grumbled, unable to hide my disappointment with their choice. "But why?"

She grabbed a napkin and started writing on it. "Here. This is my real name. Try to pronounce it."

"Okay. M-i-r-e-i-l-l-e. Mir... Mir-ee-el... like Murial?" I looked up to find her cringing. "Ooh, sorry. Okay, I give up."

"It's pronounced meer-AY, but don't feel bad, no one gets it right. So folks just call me Ray instead."

"But you're not a Ray," I protested, perhaps too adamantly. "You can't be." Once again, I'd let my guard down with her, and much more than I'd intended.

"Why not?" She looked at me with calm, reassuring eyes. "I mean, I've never really like it much either but still."

"Oh," I quickly realized what I'd said. "Um, never mind," I mumbled as I broke eye contact with her, choosing to look out the window instead.

"Hey," she touched my hand and I yanked it back quickly, as if she'd startled me. But it was enough to force my eyes back to hers and, at least for the moment, I was unable to look away again. Her head was cocked to the side, like she was looking at me from around a corner. "Please, tell me?"

"Well," I couldn't believe I was about to broach this subject—I'd never spoken of it with anyone before, much less someone I'd just met. But there was something different about her. Somehow, I felt comfortable with her, and safe. I trusted her and, it seemed, she trusted me.

"Okay. I think my father... well... maybe he was kind of like your Dennis."

"Hm," she paused while processing what I was saying.

"But I don't know for sure, I mean, I don't remember a lot."

"And your father's name—is it Ray?" She was very perceptive.

My eyes broke away as I nodded.

"That makes sense," she said quietly, almost to herself.

"What does?"

"Your eyes. Sometimes, I think I see it in people, in their eyes."

"See what?"

"Pain?" She reached across the table for my hand again, and this time I didn't shy away. "Deep hurt? Maybe some tragedy," she held my hand lightly. "Well... I'm not Ray to you, then, okay? You can call me Miri, too."

When she smiled, a light seemed to brighten a corner of my heart that had never seen it before.

"And Paul..." she was still holding my hand. "You're not a 'Ray' either... remember that, okay?"

In an instant, my eyes started to sting as they welled up unexpectedly. I was sure she noticed and, as much as I wanted to 'man up' and hide them from her, my emotions betrayed me.

She squeezed my hand before suddenly withdrawing it, and just in time, as a plastic tray abruptly landed between us.

Not wanting anyone else to see my fast reddening eyes, I quickly looked out the window again, staring at nothing in particular until the faceless bringer-of-the-tray left our table.

"She's gone," she quietly assured me.

I peeked back to confirm it then sniffled—just once, thank you—as I tried to collect myself. Then turned back to the window and got lost again in thought, remembering my father.

Paul Raymond Durant was born poor to poor parents in a poor parish in poor Louisiana.

His father—my grandfather—worked at a paper mill as a laborer while his mom raised him in a tiny house in what was once a successful company town. But the boomtown's decline began as soon as the forests that fed the factory were depleted. It's been dying ever since.

To say my father was successful would be an exaggeration, but the simple fact that he'd escaped Bogalusa was an accomplishment in itself. When the military gave him the opportunity to leave, he took it and never looked back. He vowed never to return to Louisiana and he didn't.

"He did okay," my mom always told me, though he was never content. He despised his hometown, he despised his upbringing, and for reasons he never shared, he despised his father.

I suppose that was a family legacy that got passed down to me, except I knew my reasons—the constant moving, his heavy hand, his seething disdain. But while I knew I hated him for the things he did, I never knew why he did them—the weekly repetitions of slapping, crying, begging and drinking.

But I quickly learned that if he couldn't find me, he couldn't slap me around. So, I'd hide in a closet or the dirt-bottomed crawlspace under the house. I'd pull my knees to my chest in the pitch-black darkness and rock myself back and forth, counting to ten over and over, while trying to guess where he was by the creaking of the floorboards above me. I wouldn't stop or leave my safe place until I heard the front door slam shut and the growl of the car engine fade off into the distance.

For whatever reason, he never hit my mom and, for that, I'm grateful. I doubt I could've stayed hidden had he started taking out on her what was meant for me. But clearly, I was the object of his discontent, not her.

The beatings eventually slowed, but didn't stop completely until sometime after I'd reached puberty. I don't know if it was from cowardice or not, but I couldn't help thinking my newfound growth spurt played a role in his retirement.

Just in case, though, I started learning to box at the Bogalusa YMCA, where a man named Jim Bob offered to train me for free. I had high hopes some muscle mass of my own might encourage his pastime to stay in the past, and it did. But while my fear of the man diminished, my disdain for him only deepened with each new house, new city, new state.

So, there I sat, in Breitman's Deli, a bitter little boy in a grown man's body, still hiding in the shadows.

I wanted to believe I'd outgrown him and left him behind, but I knew it wasn't true—not completely, anyway. I finished counting to ten one last time before turning back to Miri.

"I hope I'm not a Ray," I finally professed. "But I'm afraid there might be one inside me."

"No," she reached for both of my hands this time and held them. "I don't believe that."

I felt a tear, which to that point I'd managed to hold back, starting to escape and tried to release one of my hands to wipe it. But Miri held tight, denying my feeble attempt to save some face in front of her.

"It's okay, Paul" she whispered. "It's allowed."

The tear let go its hold and fell, tracing a wet path down my cheek. It was the first tear I'd cried in nearly twenty years.

"That's a lot of food," Miri mercifully changed the subject, while releasing my hands.

I quickly looked away for a second to wipe my cheek.

The tray had three sandwiches—two sitting half-sliced on their own white butcher paper, the other wrapped in foil and placed in a small bag. Two stacked, upside-down cups occupied a corner, while some napkins and plastic utensils took space on the opposite side.

"What the hell is that?!" I heard myself suddenly laughing.

"I was wondering when you'd notice," Miri laughed.

"That's the biggest P-B-J I've ever seen!"

"Yeah, they might say it's not a 'proper' sandwich, but they sure know how to do it right."

"Oh my gawd! Are there actually three slices of bread? It's like a PBJ Club!"

"Yeah, well, don't ever tell my mom. She'd throw a fit at me for eating something with this much sugar in it."

"Your secret's safe with me, on one condition. Can I have just a bite?"

"Oh, no, Bubbe would kill me if she found out I let you have some of my 'forbidden' sandwich. But," she lowered her voice to a whisper. "I can't stop you from sampling it when I'm not looking, can I?" She grabbed the cups and slid her chair out. "What'll you have?" she said loud enough for everyone at the front counter to hear.

"Oh, um, lemonade, for me please," I raised my voice to match, apparently in an attempt to sell the ruse. "Tea would be fine, too, thank you."

"Easy!" she whispered, "God, you don't need to overdo it."

"Right, sorry."

I wiped my eyes some more as she walked away, hoping to dry them completely before she returned. I struggled to understand how I'd gotten so vulnerable and emotional. It was very much unlike me and, yet, I wanted more—more of the intimacy I was feeling with Miri, and more of the PBJ I'd just taken a small bite of. Oh, my gawd, it was heavenly!

"Any more questions?" Miri asked, as she set our drinks on the table before sitting down.

"Lots."

"I might cut you off, so ask away while I'm still feeling it."

"Okay, so none of you are related?" I waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the three men plus Bubbe.

"Oh god no. They're just really good people and I've known them for a long time now. Marty gave me my job at the corner store. He and Bubbe own that, too, but they kinda let me run it so they can concentrate on the deli. He's the one who made my name tag say Ray and now everyone calls me that."

She took a quick bite and, while chewing, covered her mouth with her hand. "What else?" she asked with her muffled voice.

I smiled. She even eats cute, I thought to myself. "Okay, why'd you hold my hand when Eli came over? I mean, not that I'm complaining, because I'm not. I mean, I'm really not complaining. But you also kinda hid behind me—at least, it felt like it."

"Oh wow, you ask good questions, don't you?"

"I don't know. Do I?"

"Yeah, you do... Well, ever since Dennis," she'd said his name like it was a terrible event and not a person—like a major winter storm or a hurricane. "I have a hard time when I see that look..." She started rubbing her hands together then hid them under the table before continuing, "the look a man gets when he feels threatened."

"I'm sorry, Miri. You really don't have to talk about this."

"No, no. It's okay," she took a deep breath and exhaled. "I'm okay now, really I am. But sometimes I still react—protective instinct, I guess."

"And you saw that look in Eli?" I was surprised. "Miri, I've seen danger in a man's eyes before, and it didn't look like that. Are you sure?"

"Oh no, I don't think Eli would ever hurt me. I didn't mean that. It just looked like fear, and Dennis looked that way a lot, except he would never walk away like Eli. He wasn't man enough to."

"Man enough to walk away?"

"Yeah. Dennis could never do it. He was so afraid of what people thought about him. One time, I called him 'my stinky boyfriend'—just joking, you know—and when we got home, he laid into me about embarrassing him in front of his friends. That was the first time he hit me... but not the last. After that it seems like he'd do it whenever he needed to feel better about himself, which was a lot, I guess."

"I'm so sorry, Miri." I hadn't considered that Eli walking away could be an act of courage instead of cowardice and right away, I thought more highly of him. I was about to ask Miri another question when Eli's voice broke into our conversation.

"I guess if Bubbe says you're a mensch, then you're a mensch," the teen mumbled.

I looked up to see Eli standing at our table, his arm outstretched stiffly and his hand seemingly offered in peace.

"Is mensch a good thing?" I looked toward Miri for a little help.

She smiled and nodded, so I shook his hand. "Nice to meet you Elijah, or would you rather be called Eli... or something else, even?"

His face brightened. "Well, if you're offering, would you mind just calling me 'E'?"

"Um, sure," I chuckled, "Pleased to meet you, E."

"Cool." He scurried back to the counter.

Miri offered a closed mouth smile at the exchange which I barely caught in my peripheral vision. Even that was cute. I tried not to look over at her directly, though, as I had a feeling she was staring at me and it made me a little nervous. I ate a few bites in silence.

"No more questions?" she finally disturbed the quiet before it grew uncomfortable.

"Um, I do. But it's probably only fair to let you ask..."

"Okay, do you have any pets?" she cut me off before I could even finish my offer.

"No, I..."

"Where'd you move from?"

"Well, I'm not really from anywhere, but I moved straight here after I got my degree at..."

"What did you major in?"

"Software Engi..."

"Blech! Forget that one."

The questions were coming fast and furious, like a lightning round on a game show. I was barely answering one question before the next was rocketed my direction.

"Were you in any frats?"

"Not really my thing. I mostly just..."

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

Oomph.

For the first time, she didn't seem to have another question already queued up and waiting in the wings. She was just sitting there allowing me all the time in the world to answer.

"I... uh... no..." I stammered.

"Why not?"

Dammit. Okay, so she did have another question at the ready.

"I don't know how... I mean... I haven't really tried, I guess."

"Any kids?"

"What? No! I just told you I don't even have a girlfriend!" My response was perhaps an overreaction to such a simple question.

"Hey, it's not like it was a stupid question!" she quickly defended. "Just because you don't have a girlfriend now doesn't mean you haven't in the past, does it?!"

"Um, no, I mean I haven't..." Why'd she have to go quiet now?

"Haven't what?"

"I haven't... um... can we just change the subject?"

It took a couple of seconds before the realization hit her. "Oh! No way... Really?... Sorry, you don't have to answer that... But are you saying you're a..."

"Miri... please don't do this," I begged.

"Right, sorry. I mean, you don't even know me and here I am barraging you with twenty questions about your personal life." She suddenly couldn't look me in the eye.

"Nine."

"Excuse me?" she looked confused.

"I think you asked me nine questions, not quite twenty."

"Were you counting?"

"Ten. And yeah, kinda. It's just something I do when I'm nervous. I count things." An image flashed in my mind of younger me sitting in a closet, counting to ten over and over. The thought was fleeting, though, as Miri's voice suddenly pulled me back to the present.