another spring
Time passes. Whizzer moves out of Char and Delia’s, into a small shitty apartment of his own, still in SoHo but all his. One bedroom. One bathroom. Solitude. Stability. Heaven. Time heals all wounds, they say, and that may be true. Over time the bruises on Whizzer’s wrist from where Marvin grabbed him fade. Over time he stops the nightly crying because he feels so cheated and so raw inside. Over time he toughens up, stiffens. Tries not to be soft, because after four years of being taken advantage of by men he knows that softness is weakness and he doesn’t want to be weak anymore. He doesn’t want to hurt anymore.
That spring he quits his work at the bakery and gets a job. Assistant to a celebrity photographer so highly strung that Whizzer genuinely believes he may snap like an overstretched elastic at any second. The guy bursts through the double door of the studio at five minutes past eight every morning with the look of a man who’s seen hell, a five shot coffee and a screech of ‘we have so much to do!’ Fortunately, he takes a shine to Whizzer (‘you got this spark, kiddo, this-this-this-spark! You’re gonna be great!’) One day Dusty Springfield walks into the studio and Whizzer has to hide behind a stack of film so he can compose himself to greet her. She shakes his hands and he nearly dies on the spot.
That night is shabbat and Charlotte and Cordelia come over for dinner. He’s made mujadara, which Charlotte gives her full sephardi stamp of approval. He’s pleased with himself. He raves about Dusty Springfield for an hour after dinner. Cordelia nearly screams when he tells her. Charlotte goes out to have a smoke in the light of the march sunset. Whizzer and Delia lay on the couch, drinking wine and talking.
“Whizzer?”
“Delia?”
“Are you happy?” That’s a loaded question. Whizzer thinks about it. Thinks about how much he’s changed just in the last year. Thinks about everything he’s been through since he left Brooklyn.
“No. But I’m nearly there. What about you?”
“I’m…” Cordelia thinks. About the year. About the good stuff: finding Whizzer again, about Charlotte, about being three months from graduation. And the bad stuff: the Marvin incident. Her weird episodes. The panic. The fear. She thinks about it and then speaks: “...I’m getting there, too. I don’t- I don’t think it’s as easy as ‘oh, you’re either perfectly happy or perfectly miserable. It’s a spectrum, I think.”
“That’s true.” They both nod. Then look at each other. Whizzer boops her nose. “I’m glad you’re getting there.” She grins at him:
“And I’m glad you’re nearly there.”
They grin at each other as the rest of the light finally fades away. One Polaroid is taken that night: its of Whizzer and Cordelia, leaning on each other in their sleep. Peaceful.