Pickle’s Progress Read online

  “The four main characters in Pickle’s Progress seem more alive than most of the people we know in real life because their fears and desires are so nakedly exposed. That’s because their creator, Marcia Butler, possesses truly scary X-ray vision and intelligence to match.”

  —Richard Russo

  “Butler’s debut is character-driven…starts with a crash then slows as the characters’ personalities develop. In this study of how childhood experiences shape perception, and how deception keeps people caged, Butler shows that nothing need be set in stone.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Oh, what a pickle Pickle’s Progress puts us in--a duke’s mixture of villainy, deceit, betrayal, and, Lord help us, romantic love--all of it rendered in prose as trenchant as it is supple. Clearly, Ms. Butler is in thrall to these fascinatingly flawed characters, and by, oh, page 15 you will be, too. Let’s hope this is just the first of many more necessary novels to come.”

  —Lee K. Abbott, author of All Things, All at Once

  “How does healing happen? Sometimes in quirkier ways than you might expect. Butler’s blazingly original debut novel is a quintessential moving, witty, New York City story about the love we think we want, the love we get, and the love we deserve. I loved it.”

  —Caroline Leavitt, NYT bestselling author of Pictures of You and Cruel Beautiful World

  “Written in brave and startling prose, Butler has crafted a fast-paced tale of tragedy, passion and love. Throughout this surprising work, we see NY in all its beauty and raunchiness, so that the city itself becomes an integral part of the complex and compelling plot. Rare is the brilliant memoirist who also writes fiction with the same sure hand, but Marcia Butler is such an author.”

  —Patty Dann, author of the bestselling novel, Mermaids

  “Pickle’s Progress is a wild trip into the heart of New York City with wonderful, complicated, highly functioning alcoholics as tour guides. Marcia Butler’s characters are reflections of the city they live in: beautiful but flawed, rich but messed up, dark and hostile - but there’s love there, if you know where to find it. Butler’s sharp, artistic sensibilities shine through here, and the result is a brutal, funny story of family, regret, and belonging.”

  —Amy Poeppel, author of Limelight

  “Like the first icy slug of a top-shelf martini, Marcia Butler’s debut novel is a refreshing jolt to the senses. Invigorating, sly and mordantly funny, Pickle’s Progress offers a comic look at the foibles of human nature and all the ways love can seduce, betray and, ultimately, sustain us.”

  —Jillian Medoff, bestselling author of This Could Hurt

  “Marcia Butler’s debut novel, Pickle’s Progress, is funny, sharp, totally original, and completely engrossing. It joins the pantheon of great New York novels. I loved every page.”

  —Julie Klam, NYT bestselling author of The Stars in Our Eyes

  “You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll shake your head, but you’ll keep turning those pages to find out what happens to Karen, Stan, Junie, and Pickle in this riveting, dramatic version of musical chairs.”

  —Charles Salzberg, author of Second Story Man and the Henry Swann series

  Copyright © 2019 Marcia Butler

  Cover and internal design © 2019 Central Avenue Marketing Ltd.

  Cover Design: Michelle Halket

  Cover Images: Courtesy & Copyright: Unsplash: Mac Peters

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Central Avenue Publishing, an imprint of Central Avenue Marketing Ltd. www.centralavenuepublishing.com

  Published in Canada

  Printed in United States of America

  1. FICTION/Literary 2. FICTION/Family Life

  PICKLE’S PROGRESS

  Cloth: 978-1-77168-154-4

  Trade Paperback: 978-1-77168-155-1

  Epub: 978-1-77168-156-8

  Mobi: 978-1-77168-157-5

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  For Ralph Olsen

  And the Lord said to her, “Two nations are in your womb, and two peoples from within you shall be divided; the one shall be stronger than the other, the older shall serve the younger.”

  Genesis 25:23

  1

  TWENTY BRIDGES CONNECT THE ISLAND OF Manhattan to the rest of the world. Only one spans westward, over the Hudson River, and spills onto the lip of America’s heartland. Each year, more than one hundred million vehicles make their way onto eight lanes on the upper level and six lanes on the lower level of the George Washington Bridge, travelling back and forth in the name of a dollar, perhaps for some manner of love, maybe just for the view. And if cars and trucks aren’t enough, walkers, runners, cyclists, skateboarders, bird-watchers, and jumpers alike can also enjoy the scenery from the walkway known as the South Sidewalk.

  The eastbound on-ramp from Leonia, New Jersey offers a surprisingly short approach. Suddenly, as if from thin air, steel cables loom above, swinging like silver-spun jump ropes playing Double Dutch over the vehicles. Massive and audacious, the bent cords ascend and seem to evaporate into a vaulted sky. On a misty night, the terra-cotta buildings to the east, in Manhattan, appear as boxy smears of potter’s clay, notched out with squares of glass, reflecting an occasional headlight hitting the mark. Be it a reveler returning from a late-night party, or a sleepy trucker clocking a twelve-hour overtime shift, the George Washington Bridge suspends many disparate lives during the early hours of a Sunday morning.

  Karen and Stan McArdle pulled onto the George Washington Bridge, headed toward the Upper West Side of Manhattan. It was just after three a.m. and they were cranky, probably because they were drunk. They’d stayed at the dinner party far too long and Karen had a few more cocktails than she’d needed, placing herself in that vulnerable corner where Stan could prick her with his épée of marital righteousness. That’s just how their relationship felt—sharp and sometimes dangerous. Yet strangely alive as they explored those moments, when one or the other might lunge forward and twist that bright, cold metal a tad, then deftly retract the sword. The trick was to know how far to penetrate the dagger, and how long it could linger without bleeding out the heart.

  The urban élan of Manhattan still appealed to Karen and Stan while most of their friends had left years before, joining the ranks of Leonia-Teaneck-Hackensack-Weehawken-Hoboken converts. For a long time, Saturday night yuppie dinners had been the way they’d managed to stay in touch. Recently though, the gatherings had felt more like a gloomy obligation. Their friends, now annoyingly sober, continued to pop out one indulged and irritating child after another. This was not a lifestyle trend Karen and Stan subscribed to.

  Some might have considered them to be “working” alcoholics. Karen preferred the term “highly functional”—certainly a few notches up from the category known as “pre-twelve stepper.” At least, that’s what she liked to tell herself. Labels didn’t matter at this moment though, because Karen and Stan itched and scratched as they approached the bridge and that inevitable descent down a mountain of alcohol into a gully called “hangover.”

  Karen glanced at Stan, noticing a determined grimace on his face. “What’s wrong now?”

  “Don’t ask me to go to these dreadful parties ever again. I’m done. Cooked. We’ve absolutely nothing in common with any of those dullards. Zilch. The conversation? From diapers to
college SATs and back again. Numbing. I’m brain-dead just thinking about it. Okay?”

  “Whatever. But yeah, you’re right. It’s gotten boring.”

  “Hallelujah. Finally we agree on something.”

  “Shut up. I just said I agree with you—that’s a positive.” Karen slid down in her seat with her fingers massaging her temples, attempting to head a migraine off at the pass.

  The traffic proved as smooth as crushed velvet, the weather a depressing drizzle, and Stan’s classic thirty-year-old Volvo hummed, with over two hundred thousand miles under the hood. He usually kept well under the speed limit—an attempt to avoid cops who might pull them over and sniff the yet-to-be-metabolized vodka pooling in their gullets. But as they drove through the 5 mph E-Z Pass lane, Karen heard Stan gun the engine. She glanced at the speedometer: 30 mph. Gripping the steering wheel at ten and two, he began to count the cars passing on the left, ticking them off by lifting his fingers one at a time. At the count of ten, with all his digits sticking in the air and using only his palms to steer, he curled them back down and started over. Counting was just one of Stan’s “things.”

  Karen’s eyelids drooped as she mused about the remainder of the night ahead of them. At this pace, they’d be home in about ten minutes, the Volvo tucked snug in a neighborhood garage. A fight was then sure to erupt over who’d walk their dog. The Doodles could hold it like a flyweight champ, and a typical Saturday night found him holding a topped-off bladder and pawing at the front door while Mommy and Daddy sparred. A typical spat began with Stan slamming his keys on the foyer console, declaring, “I did it last night.”

  “But I did it last weekend—both days. Stan? Just take The Fucking Doodles out.”

  Stan would relent with, “Oh God.” Or, “Why me?”

  Tonight, Karen dreaded a rerun of their tired sitcom. She wanted to bank at least six hours of sleep, because they’d made plans for a Sunday breakfast with Pickle to discuss the brownstone the three of them owned together. Details of the joint ownership had become a prickly point, and Stan’s twin had demanded a sit-down. So, Karen made a tactical decision that when they returned home tonight she’d just take The Fucking Doodles out. One of them had to be somewhat coherent for the breakfast meeting.

  Karen relaxed, satisfied with her preemptive concession. Her head lolled back and forth on the car headrest, the motion nicely paced, reminding her of the pulse of some music she couldn’t quite name. Then there were the chunk-ker-chunks of the tires as they rolled over the regulated patches of asphalt repair, creating a jagged counterpoint. The two rhythmic worlds almost never synced up. But if she waited long enough, eventually, they did. Then she’d start over. It was a surefire way to get her head together, and for a few moments she even forgot she was drunk.

  Suddenly her heart quickened; she opened her eyes—wary.

  “Stan?”

  His fingers continued to work the steering wheel and he didn’t answer, still wrapped inside his universe of one through ten.

  “Stan!”

  “Huh? Wha’s wrong?”

  “The oil.”

  “What oil?”

  “The car oil—the slick theory. We just started levitating. I can feel it.”

  “Please. Silence—I’m begging you. I’m counting.”

  “No, listen. This is serious. Remember the oil slick theory? It’s worse in the first two minutes of a rainfall and we’ve just entered minute number three.”

  “Now you’re counting?”

  “I have to. The cops. Plus, we might die.”

  Stan blew out a thin stream of air. “Jesus, Karen. I’ve never crashed the car, as you well know. Just close your eyes if you need to. Anyway, I noticed you went way over your martini limit tonight, so your perceptions are not, shall we say, to be trusted?”

  “Ugh. You’re disgusting. I hate you.” Karen crunched further down in her seat, disheartened that she’d even engaged in the futile exchange. Stan always managed to trump her with some kind of straight flush.

  He patted her hand. “The hate keeps us close, dearest. Just like the love. Right?”

  “No comment,” she hissed. But she took Stan’s point because she did trust him. With a brain born for calculation (even when they’d been drinking), he’d determined the travel distance when they’d first started attending the dinners in New Jersey. At just over six miles, door to door, Stan figured they could make it without being stopped for speeding, or getting into a crash due to the weather. Or the oil. Or the alcohol. That’s what drunks did: they planned. And counted. Sometimes, they even prayed.

  Karen saw Stan’s fingers resume whatever it was they needed to do on the steering wheel. She drifted back to her tire-pulse samba (or was it a waltz?), waiting for that reassuring sync-up, and hoped that the Volvo was gripping the road.

  “Are you asleep yet?” He couldn’t leave her alone.

  Karen, irritated, grunted. She turned her body, sidled closer to Stan and considered an answer worthy of his idiotic question. “I thought you preferred me dead to the world. But since you ask, I was dreaming of someone.”

  “Who?”

  “You sure you want to know?” She whispered into his ear.

  “Shit. This is stupid.” Without looking at her, Stan palmed Karen’s forehead and pushed her back.

  “No, you’re stupid.” Karen’s voice began to rise with irritation. “And now I’m wide awake, thanks so much, and a tad this side of sober. That doesn’t exactly feel good. Now slow the fuck down.”

  “There’s no one on the road. Calm down.”

  “That’s not true; you’ve been counting the cars nonstop.”

  “My fingers have been working at a very. Slow. Pace. Pay attention.”

  “First you want me to sleep—now it’s pay attention. Make up your mind. You’re insane—” Karen broke off mid-rant. “Stan. What’s that?”

  “What?” He looked in the wrong direction.

  “Straight ahead!”

  A woman was standing directly in front of them, perhaps five hundred yards ahead, with her hands at the sides of her face, mouth open, like the Edvard Munch painting.

  “Jesus!” Stan jammed the brakes and the Volvo immediately spun out. Karen’s oil theory held water after all because she felt the car skim the road, then pick up speed. Though no longer in control, Stan pumped the brake, and after performing a 360-degree pirouette, they bashed into the side guardrail. Neither had worn their seat belt and Karen’s upper body flew squarely into Stan’s. Their faces mashed together with a force that punched a simultaneous grunt out of them.

  The impact jarred Karen’s senses—first, a throb at her gum line, and then a pain digging straight into her front teeth. She rimmed her lips with her tongue, tasting tin mingled with vodka breath. And then she heard herself begin to whimper—not only for her bloody mouth—but also because she was drunk and her heart couldn’t quite bear the shame. Just as quickly, things felt oddly serene—church-like—with only a rapping of gentle rain on the hood, puncturing the quiet of the car interior. Her world felt freshly precarious, as if the planet were indeed flat and teetered on a spiked axis. Karen was afraid of tipping over, terrified to even move, unsure of the damage to herself, Stan, and the woman outside. Yet, cars passed them at a good clip. The accident was apparently a fender bender and not worthy of real concern.

  She let her head drop and pressed her face into the crook of Stan’s elbow, into the fabric creases of his dress shirt—that crisp, white, 100% cotton, usually ironed by Stan to within an inch of its life—now soaked with his dank sweat.

  He whispered into her hair, “Karen? Tell me you’re okay.”

  She felt tears springing but didn’t want to be vulnerable. “My mouth feels weird,” she mumbled into his elbow.

  Stan pushed her up and scrutinized her face.

  “My God. Your front teeth are bloody.”

  Karen’s eyes opened wide with astonishment. “Shit. Stan—I stabbed you with my teeth. I can see the dents.”
>
  Blood oozed from Stan’s forehead, dribbling down along the creases of his nose, coagulating at his lips. Enamel to flesh. The irony was not lost on her; this accident had provided more physical contact than they’d managed in a long time. Stan tentatively prodded Karen’s wobbly teeth and stroked the blonde fuzz on her upper lip, then kissed her bloodied mouth. She didn’t wince, but leaned forward, accepting the pain.

  Just then the rain abated, and she heard a primitive sound outside the car.

  “NOOOOOOO!”

  It was an inhuman wail—one that would have been hard to identify in nature, if not for the fact that Karen could see the source. The Munch mouth produced the howl again.

  “NOOOOOOO!”

  Karen pushed away from Stan and climbed out of the car. She stumbled to her knees, momentarily forgetting how drunk she was, and from this vantage point was surprised to discover the extent to which the car was damaged. The front grill of the Volvo was bashed in and steam pissed out from the bottom of the car at several locations. One of the tires was flat, and another, was also headed for that fate. After scrambling to her feet, Karen ran over to the woman, grabbed her arms, and shook her. “Are you all right? What happened?”

  The woman wrenched herself from Karen’s grasp and bent over, hugging her own waist. She aimed the next words straight into the asphalt. “Jacob—Jacob—Jacob.”

  Karen backed up, giving the woman some distance. “Okay, okay. But please. What’s wrong? Just tell me what happened.”

  “He’s gone. He jumped. He ran and went over the side.” The woman spoke with almost no inflection, like she was reciting a grocery list.

  “You mean somebody jumped off the fucking bridge? You’re kidding me, right? Tell me this is a joke.”

  “No joke.” The woman dropped to her knees and folded up.

  Karen ran back to the car and thrust her torso into the passenger-side window. Stan appeared to be asleep, or perhaps he’d lost consciousness from the hit to his head. His toothy wound frightened Karen and she wished, for what seemed like the ten-millionth time, that they were sober. Reaching over, she poked at his arm. “Stan.”