How To Save A Life

by P. Dangelico

  “Twenties and fifties work for you?” he says and pulls out the cash. While he’s in deep thought, counting the money, I notice his lip is bleeding.

  “Yeah, but, you…uh…” Pointing, I try to indicate that the blood is making its way down his chin. “You…hmm…” He doesn’t glance my way, so I’m left with no choice. I walk around the white marble counter, and grabbing a paper towel, I gently place it on his chin.

  Which is completely unlike me.

  My boundaries are clearly defined. I do not touch strangers––ever. I mean, unless I’m forced to kick their ass. And even then, it’s never by choice. And yet here I am touching this guy––a stranger whose house I’m standing in in the dead of night.

  Flinching, his dark eyes meet mine with so much intensity it forces me to explain. “You were about to get blood all over my cash.”

  The sharp glare eases a fraction. I get the feeling his boundaries are as clearly defined as mine and I overstepped. Can’t fault the guy.

  “Thanks,” he murmurs and gently takes the paper towel out of my hand. He blots his bruised lips and chucks the bloodied napkin in the trash. Then he returns his attention to the bills on the counter and holds out the money.

  Staring at it, a strange uncomfortable sensation unfolds in my gut, one that feels a lot like shame. Like there’s something dirty about this transaction. Which there isn’t.

  Romantic notions aside, I’m no charity organization. I can’t afford to be noble. Chalk the sudden pang of pride to the late night and the weird vibes because the hard truth is that I need this money and pride isn’t going to pay the mortgage on the new two-family I bought. Or the permits. Or the materials to renovate it.

  “Nice doing business with you,” I say as I scoop up the bills and stuff them in my bag. Suddenly, I feel a pressing urge to leave. It’s not like I’m in the wrong here. I just missed three ferries driving this guy home. But it’s like I need to leave the scene of the crime as swiftly as possible.

  As I head for the front door, soft footsteps follow me. I turn the handle and pull, finding it locked. I try again and get the same result. My pulse races and my breathing turns shallow, building into a potential full-blown panic attack.

  “Hey, wait, hold on a minute. Let me…” Gently pushing me aside, he presses a code and the door beeps opens. A freaking door with a code.

  As soon as I step out into the hallway, the spike of adrenaline slowly ebbs away. The embarrassment remains, however; my face flush, my skin clammy.

  His one unabused eye roams over me. “Thanks for saving my life Imelda Marcus. It’s been nice knowing you.”

  We stare at each other for what I’m guessing is a second or two but feels like an eternity. You know those moments––the ones that seem heavy and yet make no sense whatsoever.

  “Yeah, you too.” I begin walking backward, toward the elevator. And then it hits me––

  “Hey…you know my name, but I didn’t catch yours.”

  He exhales, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, his bloodstained white dress shirt straining against the muscles of his chest. I’m caught between being rightfully suspicious of him and also aware that he is inescapably attractive. The struggle session is real.

  “Jordan West.”

  It sounds like a mashup of a Marvel character and a porn star. Definitely not his real name but who am I to demand honesty.

  A phone rings, breaking into the moment. He glances at the phone tucked in his hand. “Your Uber Black is here. A Yukon. The driver’s name is Bill.”

  I’m more than a little surprised and unsure what to make of it. “You got me an Uber?”

  “It’s late and you need to get home,” he casually announces like this makes all the sense in the world. Then I do the math. It’s over a hundred bucks to Staten Island.

  “No thanks.”

  “I paid for it already.”

  Mind reader, this one. “In that case, why let a perfectly good ride go to waste.”

  His battle-bruised lips tilt up, his weary eyes crinkle at the sides. Mentally, I give myself a high five. Getting the smallest reaction out of him is a Herculean effort and I just managed it.

  “See ya, Jordan West,” I wink, smiling back. “Stay safe.”

  “You too, Immi Marcus.”

  The door closes and I’m alone in the hallway. Turning on the heels of my ancient Nikes, the ones all scuffed up from the miles I’ve logged all over the city, I press the button to the private elevator. It rings immediately and the doors slide open. Because people like Jordan West don’t have to wait for the elevator like the rest of us.

  Stepping inside, I exhale, tired and yet strangely energized. A strange night indeed.

  It’s almost four a.m. when I step inside my two-family house on Staten Island. I toe off my kicks by the door and drop my messenger bag on the oak floor I installed three years ago when I bought this place. Pulling the dessert out of my messenger bag, I place it on the counter in the kitchen and quietly make my way upstairs.

  “Rie…that you?” comes weakly down the hallway as I’m tiptoeing to my bedroom. Pausing, I head to my mother’s bedroom, push the door open, and find her curled up in bed, her dark wavy hair hiding half her face. She’s in a fetal position which does not bode well for anyone. Also––she’s got that look to her.

  Bonnie James has suffered from depression for as long as I can remember. The bad news for me is that it went untreated for more than a decade––my childhood was plagued by it. The good news for her is that she’s managed to get it somewhat under control in the last few years––when she remembers to see a doctor. The when is still a problem, though.

  “What are you still doing awake?”

  “Can’t sleep…,” she mumbles. “I had a dream about your dad.”

  My father died when I was six––a part of him did anyway. It took six more years to kill him off completely.

  On September 11, 2001 Riley James Sr. was a fireman. But unlike many of the first responders from station houses across Staten Island and the rest of the four boroughs, my father didn’t die that day. He died much later. The towers didn’t take him down, but the aftermath of that tragic day did. He died from the weeks he spent at the World Trade Center site in search and rescue.

  Dad worked tirelessly, even when the smell of fuel and burning flesh and chemicals was so thick in the air you could see it, even when it was impossible to breathe. He worked in spite of the risk. Lieutenant Riley James Sr. was going to save lives regardless whether his own was in jeopardy because saving lives is what he was born to do. What 9/11 started, lung cancer finished off years later.

  Crawling onto the bed, I curl up behind her. “Did you take something?”

  “Yeah, lasted a few hours. Why are you home so late?”

  I think of my crazy night and a reluctant smile tugs at my lips. “I had to rescue a rude prince from a band of robbers.”

  “You always did have a colorful imagination. It’s fine if you don’t wanna tell me.”

  There’s no use explaining. As much as I love my mother, even on her good days she always sees the negative in everything. You know the type: you comment on what a beautiful sunny day it is, and they immediately volunteer that a hurricane is rolling in tomorrow.

  “I brought you something sweet.” The Paris-Brest sits on the kitchen counter untouched. Now I’m glad I didn’t scarf it down on the ride home. “You want me to get it?”

  “Now?”

  “Why not?” I reply. It’s moments like this one that dessert is most needed. A little sweetness to take the sting out of life. “You think you can get back to sleep?”

  There’s a heavy pause, followed by a long sigh. “No.”

  “You want me to go get it?”

  “Why not,” she tells me.

  Bonnie is a glass half-empty kind of person while I’m a glass half-full. But we always agree on dessert.

  Chapter Three

  Riley

  “Did you talk to Veronica abou
t me?” Tommy calls out from down below.

  He drops the tray of tiles on the ground next to where I’m working on the roof of the back porch of Mr. Donnelly’s house. We’re installing a new roof today––me, Tommy, and Fat Jesus. Frankie was supposed to work as well, but his PTSD kept him home today. He’s a really good carpenter which is why I cut him a lot of slack. Plus, he’s just a really good guy.

  Fat Jesus’s real name is Ray, but Fat Jesus or Fats is all I’ve ever heard anyone call him. The long hair, beard, limitless patience and kindness explain the Jesus part. The potbelly explains the rest. No judgement on potbellies. I’m in no position to throw shade. Last time I checked, I inherited my mother’s thighs and a gap was not included with the set.

  Squinting into the sunlight, Tommy plants his hands on his hips and stares up at me like he needs to rest after hauling a single stack of roofing tiles. I love him like a brother––he’s the closest to family I have outside of my mother––but he’s a lazy one. Getting Tommy Marsden to do any actual work is nearly impossible.

  Staten Island is mostly standalone row houses or small saltbox, Cape Cod style homes closely built together. None of our jobs are ever large scale, but time is always precious when you’re trying to book as many jobs as possible during the season. From spring to fall you want to be working back to back to survive the lean winter months.

  “No,” I tell him without taking my eyes off the work of hammering a new shingle on. Broke an index finger that way once. Never again.

  “Chick’s a smoke show…,” he continues, undaunted. Out of the corner of my eye I watch him grab the edge of his faded Jets T-shirt and wipe his sweaty brow with it, revealing a perfect set of abs and the edge of a V disappearing under his low-slung cargo shorts.

  The man hit the DNA lottery in every way possible. Tall, lean-muscled, a head of sandy brown wavy hair and deep brown eyes that could tempt the Virgin Mary to sin. If he had an ounce of work ethic, he could make good money modeling, but we’ve already established why that’s not happening.

  “She’s seeing someone,” I shout, hoping he’ll drop the subject. Veronica has expensive taste in clothes and men. No matter how handsome, Tommy will never make the cut.

  “Tell her I asked about her anyway.”

  “Get back to work,” is the only reply to this constant harassment.

  “In a minute…there’s something I need to discuss…” When he uses big words like discuss it’s a sign that we’re going to argue. “Hear me out––”

  “No.” I stop hammering and take my gloves off, check my nails. Serving hundred-dollar dishes at night makes it absolutely necessary that I take great pains in keeping my hands clean, the skin unblemished, and my nails neat. Nobody wants to eat food delivered by a waitress with gnarly nails.

  “C’mon Rie.”

  This time I give him my undivided attention. “Look at this face, Tommy,” pointing to it, “This is my NO face.”

  “Can I get an I’ll listen face?”

  “No.”

  Sweat slides down, under my sports bra and between my breasts. My blue tank top is soaked straight through––not to mention my underwear. Which is the reason I always wear jean shorts to work. No risk of them ever becoming transparent. Learned that lesson the hard way too.

  Taking my father’s faded red bandana out of the back pocket of my shorts, I wipe my face with it, then wrap it around my head to tame the crazy mop of hair falling loose from a top knot. Bonnie is a mash-up of Greek and Lebanese ancestry and Dad was a pasty Irishman. I got her wavy darkish brown hair and thighs. I did, however, luck out with skin that tans and my father’s blue eyes so I can’t complain.

  “It’s an easy job,” he presses. “The house is empty. The mark spends most of his time in Miami and has a collection of baseball cards rumored to be––”

  “No.”

  Tommy’s a gambler. Ponies, cards. Rooster fighting until I put a stop to it––the only time he ever took my advice. This is an argument we have whenever he’s low on cash.

  “I’m done with the garage,” Fat Jesus shouts from the other side of the house.

  I direct a glare at Tommy. “What do I say? What do I always tell you?”

  “Finishing on time and within budget is the only way to survive the home repair and renovation business. The margins are tight and the competition stiff,” Tommy parrots, trying to sound like me.

  “Fat Jesus is done, and you haven’t even started yet. The answer is no. Nothing is going to change my mind. I’m done with all that. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you.”

  There was a time in my misspent youth where I couldn’t say no to every scheme Tommy and his buddies cooked up. Petty crimes that graduated to stealing cars. I was either the lookout or the distraction. But that was eons ago and the band is definitely not getting back together. I’ve tried everything to motivate him to go legit, but at twenty-eight I’m afraid that ship has sailed.

  “Fats, can you start on the dormers?”

  “Yeah, sure thing,” he tells me. Then shifts his attention to Tommy. “Get moving, pretty boy, or I’m taking home your cut of the job.”

  Fat Jesus is my best employee––the hardest working guy I know. Tommy, the laziest guy I know, flips him off.

  “We need more felt underlay,” I tell T. “I left the roll on the front lawn. Can you go grab it?” He gives me a squinty eyeball and slow-swaggers away. And I mean slow. If he continues at that glacial pace, I’ll need Botox by the time he returns.

  When we were kids, he could basically get me to do anything. Then a cop named Dominic Vega caught me shoplifting a can of Dr. Pepper and a bag of powdered doughnuts and everything changed. Dom didn’t turn me in that day. He took me under his wing and introduced me to his family instead. To this day, his daughter Veronica is still my best friend.

  And that’s not all he did. Dom taught me how to fix things, to build them up, to make them beautiful again. How to take something abandoned, discarded, and turn it into something of value. He’d learned the craft from his father who had been a master carpenter. But Dom didn’t have anyone he could hand down the craft to, no sons or daughters with any interest. Veronica wouldn’t pick up a hammer if it had a Gucci label on it, and Selma, his other daughter, was busy with her traveling soccer team.

  So he taught me. And I liked it instantly. I loved seeing the fruits of my labor turn something broken into something saved.

  “…a guy named Riley James Jr?” I hear Tommy say to someone. My ears immediately prick. “Nah, man, I don’t know any guy by that name.”

  Eye roll. But now I’m more than curious.

  I can’t see the front lawn from this vantage point on the roof, so I climb down and make my way to the front of the house. I don’t know what the heck Tommy is up to and this needs investigating. Tommy is a bit of a hot head and can get protective at times. Too protective in fact.

  He once tackled an old friend of my Dad to the ground because the guy hugged me and Tommy, who’d seen us from afar, didn’t know who he was. Poor guy didn’t know what hit him. I spent half an hour apologizing while we waited for the EMT to arrive. Tommy anointed himself my protector when he was fifteen and I was twelve and nothing has changed since. I’m just hoping it’s someone in the neighborhood who’s seen my work and needs the services of H&D construction.

  As soon as I come around the corner, however, I’m quickly disabused of that notion. My Timberlands come to an abrupt heel-digging halt. Yeah, definitely not someone from the neighborhood. It’s the walking cash dispenser––the guy from that weird night a week ago.

  The human ATM machine’s attention shifts over Tommy’s shoulder and he lifts his sunglasses, pushing them to the top of his head. His scalpel-like stare does an up-and-down sweep of me. In the meantime, I am frozen…sweating profusely, but otherwise unable to move.

  I’m not sure what to think. Does he want his money back? Because that would be a major bummer. That money has long been spent on Facebook a
dvertising, and I don’t have any extra lying around.

  As I slowly approach, he gives me a subtle tip of his chin. That’s all the acknowledgement I get that we’ve met before. Likewise, I check him out. I know it’s been a week, and it was dark that night, but something about him doesn’t look right––seems off. For one thing, he’s less put together than he was at the restaurant. He has a stain that looks suspiciously like vomit on his black T-shirt with a vintage logo on it. And his short dark hair looks…mussed? Messy. And not in a good way. It definitely doesn’t look styled to death by a celebrity hairdresser like it did the other night. Granted, it’s a Saturday, but I thought guys like this one always wore designer skinny jeans and hair product when they kicked back. Not dirty T-shirts and bed head.

  “You know him?” comes from my right.

  I’d completely forgotten about Tommy. “Yeah,” I admit. And that’s all he’s getting. Doesn’t seem to do the trick, however, because Tommy keeps staring. No doubt waiting for an explanation he is not entitled to. “Thanks, Tommy. I can take it from here.” My tone a little too bright, the subtext being get lost.

  That doesn’t do it either. He gives me a suspicious squint. Then, “Why you lookin’ at me like I passed gas in public?”

  Wonderful. My cheeks turn so red hot not even a deep toasty tan can cover it. “Go.”

  He knows where the line is with me and he just crossed it.

  “I’m going.”

  As he starts to walk away, my attention returns to my unexpected visitor. “Heeeyyy…,” I say because after that start, what else is there to say.

  West looks after Tommy, watching him closely as he disappears around the side of the red brick house. His face is mostly healed with the exception of some bruising around his lips and eye…eyes that are in fact a dark forest green and not brown as previously determined. For a fleeting moment, those same eyes fall on my blue tank top––the one soaked in sweat and sticking to my body––and pause.