Good on Paper by Rachel Cantor

in need of Benny’s tender mercies. Also a few like me who’d missed the posterity bus.
    The desk took up most of the room. Benny had found it in the Garment District—it had a built-in ruler along its front for measuring bolts of cloth, and was covered with invoices and order forms and oversize Hebrew books, their titles stamped in gold on leather bindings. Also a newish-looking copy of Vita Nuova , an industrial stapler and, in the back, an ancient computer with a scrolling screensaver that read, Breathe! Breathe! On top of the keyboard, my email, printed out, with the words Shir haShirim written on top.
    Benny was doodling my name?
    I was saved the embarrassment of searching for other evidence of interest by the plaintive mewling of a kitten. One of Marla’s brood, hidden by Marla for reasons of her own, and forgotten. For a cat with so much practice, Marla was one lousy mother. I put the donuts down and searched between boxes, in boxes, and finally under Benny’s desk … where amid the dust bunnies and crumpled bits of paper, a decaying cherry pit and something that might have been mouse droppings, I saw a photo propped against the wall, of two fat men laughing, their arms around each other. I reached for it, looked at it in the light.
    Topeka.
    Benny was wearing the black beret he’d favored during his Santa Claus phase; Romei was holding a book in the air as if it were a trophy. In purple ink in the right-hand corner, an inscription:
To Jellyroll ,
Without you, who knows?
Yours, Romei
    I didn’t notice if Marie watched me as I left.

21
    GHOST IN THE ANNEX

    Benny called. Strange, he said. I seem to have a ghost in my annex.
    Why didn’t you tell me you knew Romei? I asked. On my way home I’d slammed his millennial madness window with my hand, which earned me jeers from the boom box–bearing boys in Slice of Park.
    It was you! Benny said. Donuts are a novel calling card, but you might have left a note.
    Why didn’t you tell me you knew Romei?
    I published his first English translations in Gilgul —I thought you knew.
    Why would he think I knew that?
    Why would you think I knew that?
    Didn’t I say?
    Never mind, I said. For some reason, Benny wasn’t telling me the truth.
    Isn’t that why you asked me about him?
    Never mind, I said.
    Where did you find the photo?
    I didn’t answer. It had been so plainly hidden under the desk. And recently: the photo was clean despite the dust bunny convention. I thought about this a moment and hung up. Fuck him.
    When the phone rang again, I let it go to voicemail.
    We seem to have been cut off, Benny said in his message. Ormaybe not. Listen, I published Romei long before he was famous. We can talk about Shir haShirim whenever you want—I’ve put together some commentaries and … Oh, shit, he said, and hung up.
    Shir haShirim —it wasn’t a play on my name! I should have known. Shir was song —I knew that: Benny’s name for me was shir chadash , new song. Shir haShirim was the Song of Songs . I’d thought Benny had been doodling my name, when in fact he’d been lying—about what I couldn’t guess.
    He knew Romei. No wonder Romei had asked him for my number. He wasn’t just an editor who’d published my stories, he was Romei’s dear friend, without whom who knows!
    I have a problem with duplicity. If I’d been Dante’s wife, I’d have kicked him out the minute I got wind of Beatrice. What’s a second chance but license to repeat the offense?
    I splashed water on my face, grabbed my purse, and slammed out the door. Real people have it out, they say what they mean! I’d give Benny what-for. I’d been happy to have him in my life again, but I couldn’t imagine what he might say to convince me to stick around.
    He didn’t have to: through his window I could see the back of his cherry-red bodysuit, his arms wrapped around Lila-cum-Marie, who sat facing me on the counter like a child, her short legs entwined around Benny’s waist, her flat eyes