Ptacin - Poor Your Soul

Copyright 2016 by Mira Ptacin

All rights reserved.

Published by

Soho Press, Inc.

853 Broadway

New York, NY 10003

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Ptacin, Mira.

Poor your soul / Mira Ptacin.

ISBN 978-1-61695-634-9

eISBN 978-1-61695-635-6

1. Ptacin, Mira. 2. Women authors, AmericanBiography. 3. First pregnancy.

4. Loss (Psychology) 5. ChildrenDeathPsychological aspects.

6. Ptacin, MiraFamily. I. Title.

PS3616.T33Z46 2016

818.603--dc23 2015028123

Interior design by Janine Agro, Soho Press, Inc.

Printed in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Jules

Disclaimer

This is a story of my truth. In some instances, I have changed names of individuals and places in order to maintain anonymity, and I have recreated events, locales, and conversations based on my memory of them.

one

Every few Sundays, Segundo, the very short superintendent who lives in the basement at 223 East 32nd Street, opens the back pages of The Village Voice and orders two very tall call girls. He doesnt know we know. Segundo avoids all interactions with us. At most, Andrew and I might get a muffled response to the hello we pitch him when one of us is coming and the other is going, but most of the time Segundo just stays in the shadows. Sometimes well see him taking out the garbage or hosing down the sidewalk. Once in a while, Ill spot him sitting on the stoop, alone, vacantly staring straight ahead.

I find Segundo quite remarkable and often speculate about his place in the universe: What does he eat? And does he cook it, or order takeout? Is he Catholic? Has he ever been in agonizing, consuming, cant-live-without-the-other-person love? His recent haircut (buzzedI imagine he sheared off his raven-black hair by himself in a dimly lit bathroom of his subterranean apartment) is growing out. Both Andrew and Segundo shaved their heads within the same week; Segundos grows faster.

One recent evening, after arriving home from a walk around the block, five of usme, my husband, Andrew, our little dog, Maybe, and two leggy womenclogged the narrow hallway of our apartment building. As the ladies slithered past us, I got a close enough look to notice that they werent dressed appropriately for the cool October weather. Their skirts were short and sequined. They wore stilettos. They were giggling. To me, they looked like panthers. I nudged Andrew, who was unlocking the door to our bite-sized apartment. As he pushed it open, the two women exited the building and, without even a glance, Andrew said, Look out front. Therell be a man waiting in a minivan.

There was indeed. I was stunned.

Theyre prostitutes, he declared.

Two of them?!

Two of them. Segundos been getting busy.

No. I dont believe it.

Right next to our room .

Only a thin wall separates one life from another, but unless we are in the right place at the right time, the truths of others remain unknown. Some choose not to think about it, but I cant help it. The world inside of New York City is just a terribly interesting place.

xyx

Assistant? Andrew asks from the kitchen.

Yes, assistant?

The cabbage.

You got it.

Andrew stirs the tomato soup as I step out of the shower and open the door a crack. Then, leaning out of the bathroom, stretching my arm into the kitchen, I take the frozen cabbage from him. As I grab it, I see Maybe hovering on the floor by Andrews feet. Shes waiting for fallen scraps. Shes one year old, and a rescue. Andrew adopted her before he met me.

Thank you, assistant, I say and quickly slide back into the bathroom. Im trying to be polite. Im trying to be a good wife, but Im not sure how.

The bathroom is less steamy than the kitchen. I set the cabbage down next to the faucet, wipe off the mirror and look at my face. To me, it looks worn. I blame it on Manhattan: too frenetic, too cruel. Also, Im not smiling. I once heard or read somewhere that if you force yourself to smile, the muscles activate something in your brain, trigger synapses, or massage a gland; something that makes you feel good, like a switch to a lever moving a pulley that tilts a bucket and produces a feeling of contentment. All I have to do is turn my frown upside down.

Dr. Reich explained that if I stuck frozen cabbage in my bra, things would improve. She said that the common green cabbage has some chemical or enzyme that is used for engorgement therapy. In other words, something in the cabbage stops breasts from producing milk, and if I consistently wear these leaves, production will cease. I dont need the milk because there is no baby. All thats left is the milk.

Dr. Reich used the word engorged. No one has ever used the word engorged in the same sentence as my breaststypically, theyre the size of small plums. But not now. This body is not mine. I used to think I had some say in how it conducted itself. I am twenty-eight years old.

The bathroom door is closed, so I am alone. With this hollow rectangle of white-painted wood, Ive created isolation, solitude. This is all I want. Lately, I dont want to be seen, especially not like this. I dont want my husband to see my skin. Skin provokes primal urges in humans, urges that, unlike my newlywed husband, I am not having. Naked invites sex, and I dont want to initiate anything. Whenever I start to entertain the notion of sex, I just get tired. I just want to sleep. So its out of the question. He should realize this. How can he not realize this? I shouldnt have to spell it out. Im tired. Im angry.

I take the cabbage off the counter of the sink and slip it into my bra. Its not something Id describe as pleasantthe cold, frosty leaves piercing my nipples on contact. In several minutes they begin to warm, and I will smell like my mothers go bki. At night in bed I sleep on my back because every time I turn onto my side, my arms squeeze my breasts together like an accordion and they leak milk. Its embarrassing. The stuff goes right through my athletic bra, which Ive also been instructed to wear. I dont want Andrew to see any of this. Were to believe big breasts are lovable and playful, little breasts are cute and sweet, breastfeeding is beautiful and natural, but what about swollen, leaking breasts with no baby to feed? Would you put this in the same category as burping and passing gasfunctions that sexy women do not do? Do I keep this a secret since its not sexy? What good is a sad, broken machine?

Andrew told me, in some sort of attempt to make me laugh again, that he would make use of my milk. That he would churn butter or make cheese out of it (what, Parmesan? Brie?) and we would save some money. I did laugh at this. Manhattan is expensive.

Maybe! Roll over! Maybe, roll over!

Youve got to pitch your voice higher, I tell him. Dogs prefer higher-pitched voices. Andrew says okay and repeats his command, this time in the voice of a man imitating a little girl.

The dog. Shes what we talk about now. Maybe is the safest topic, the most neutral, the least baffling thing to discuss. You might say were avoiding more challenging topics, that were walking on eggshells, but theres nothing left to break. Really, were just tired . And weve only just begun. Were trying to wrap our heads around the idea of wrapping our heads around something, quietly trying to accept what is . And when you dont quite know how to do that with someone youve only just met, you talk about the dog.

Yes, Maybe, Andrew says. Good girl.