This Side of Water

by Maureen Pilkington

  Mingo, who didn’t let too many minutes go by without showing Pita some affection, came to her, knelt down at the edge of the pool and slid a kiss on her grape-colored lips.

  It was natural for Mingo and Pita to make love right out in the back yard in the sun on the beach chair that had missing slats in the seat area. Pita’s heavy bottom would bounce on the ground with each thrust. Or, they would do it on the steps of the pool in shallow water, oblivious to the slapping noises they made. Now Pita was more concerned about the pigs’ whereabouts. Like children, if they were too quiet, she figured they must be in trouble.

  Mingo helped his love out of the pool and watched her on the prowl. Now she was half in a bush, half out, calling for the “scampers,” a name Mingo had given them so easily as soon as they arrived.

  “Hey,” Mingo yelled after Pita, a little miffed at her diverted attention. “I got to get somethin’ in my stomach. Let’s go down to The Clam Trap.”

  “Spoon and Mooooch!” Pita called, as if she was playing hide-and-seek, her thick-skinned body getting scratched. She emerged from the bushes with the pinkish pigs, now spotted with grape-colored lips marks. She was afraid of Mingo’s reaction, but she said it anyway. “What am I going to do while we’re out? Tie them up on leashes?”

  The couple left the pigs in the leaking bidet in their turquoise bathroom, with the door closed and the window open, while they went to the restaurant for lunch. Pita left a loud ticking clock wrapped in a soft blanket so that Spoon and Mooch could snuggle next to a beating heart.

  Pita did all the driving because Mingo’s eyes were always looking in the rearview mirror, or his side mirror, or at the low flying helicopters—never on the road in front of him. She felt generous being Mingo’s driver. It was just another way for her to relax him and make him realize that when you really love someone, you put yourself out.

  When Pita drove Mingo around West Palm, she noticed the people at the corner stops. She never pointed them out to Mingo, he had so much on his mind. From behind the wheel, she looked for them on certain corners, the way one looks at the same condemned house on the daily route to work. The bus stoppers always looked too hot or too tired to speak to one another, the same expression on each face, peering down the road. They reminded her of the basket of unmatched socks in her closet, worn-out socks that would never have mates. If Mingo were a different sort, even if he was just a little sociable or talkative, she would have stopped to ask one if he or she needed a lift. But all she could do was say “thank you” in her heart. She had a real love in her life; this was her fortune.

  The Clam Trap was an outdoor restaurant on the inlet with old rotting buoys hanging from the ceiling—the old lighted whistle kind, or the bell types, and the ones that look like cans that rattled so loudly before a storm, the customers at the bar had to raise their voices to be heard.

  Pita and Mingo sat at “their” table in the darkest corner of the lounge area, where they were still able to order certain items off the menu. Pita was adrift in the book-like menu, scanning over endless choices. Mingo waved to the waitress to give them more time as he watched her slowly turn the pages back to the beginning. “Just get whatever you want” was all he ever said when she got like that. Finally, she decided on fried clam sandwiches with batter-dipped onion rings, served in small plastic baskets. She glanced around at the orders being placed on the tables and wondered if she had made the right decision.

  After lunch, Pita was stuffed and anxious to get home to her pets. The snap on her shorts was digging into her bellybutton, and by instinct Mingo, put his hand under her shirt and unsnapped them. His fingers quickly slid down and into her vagina through the tight space between her inner thigh and shorts, and then he went right back to his cigarette. It comforted him to see Pita full and satisfied. He imagined a man could feel that way watching his children.

  Mingo held up his beer mug to the waitress and nodded.

  “Oh, come on. Let’s get outta here. I’m bustin’,” Pita whined. Her lips were shiny and natural from the onion rings cooked in corn oil. She knew she’d feel even better if she could just check the pigs and screw around with Mingo for the rest of the afternoon.

  “Hey, man.” Mingo jumped up and slapped his friend Jon on the back who called him whenever he got a roofing or siding job. The two men, who looked like twins, hooked each other around the neck and walked over to the bar area. Pita waited, antsy in her seat.

  Mingo and Jon now stood at the bar, talking real low and looking up at the television. The buoys really rattled; even the ones inside the lounge area were swaying. Outside, lightening flashed and the smell of fish blew in from the docks.

  On the way back to their house, Pita and Mingo got caught in the thunderstorm, and Pita could barely see the road in front of her. The rain banged so hard on the convertible roof, Mingo had to turn up the news to the loudest volume.

  “What’s going on?” Pita asked Mingo without taking her eyes off the road. She was thinking of him and Jon, up at the bar, whispering, clearly in cahoots with each other.

  “Nothing, babe.”

  “I’m not stupid, you know. What were you talking about—one of your special deals?”

  “No deals.” He oomphed his words and bulged his eyes like she did. “He’s got another job for me.”

  “Oh, a job. A real one like mine.”

  “No, I’m not a cashier chick. I lay flat roofs. I smear tar. I burn my ass laying those rolls. You care.”

  “Yeah. Looks to me like you do all your smearing in the middle of the night.”

  “Ask Jon. It’s a commercial roof—on Clematis Street, on that new mall.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. As soon as we’ve got the fuckin’ materials I can get started.”

  Pita was satisfied for the time being. She looked at Mingo next to her; he was simmering down. When you have more to love, she thought, you have more to lose.

  Mingo rubbed her thigh while she drove, squeezing a handful of her leg. “I want some stuff like that there,” he said, using Dag’s twang and phrase for a good-looking woman.

  Even though Pita couldn’t see beyond the windshield through the hard rain, she knew the temperament of Florida’s weather. The predictability was a comfort to her. In just a few minutes the storm would stop, and she would be driving on a sunny, wet boulevard back to their home.

  Mingo held the door for Pita, so she was the first to see the damage when she walked in the house. Pita smelled cigar smoke, a smell that made her think of her father, even though she couldn’t remember his face. The dirt from the spider plants was flung all over the small living room. The television screen was smashed in, every drawer was removed, emptied, and thrown across the room.

  “Dumb fucks,” Mingo said over his shoulder. “Like they’re gonna find a sweet stash.” He headed toward the back door.

  Pita ran after Mingo and jumped on his back. She dug her nails in his fatty shoulders. He seemed more shocked at her clawing his skin than he had been walking into his own torn-apart home.

  Mingo pulled Pita off him. He held her two wrists together with one hand. He turned her body around holding her firmly from behind, his mouth next to her ear.

  “Want me?” He forced her down by pressing on her shoulders.

  “What the hell is going on? I guess we got ripped up here because of your roofing job?” She was on her knees, her face spotted with mascara. She loved him so much. “You’re gonna end up in jail again.”

  “Oh, you’re different than me? Your ass ain’t clean either. Do I give a shit?”

  Pita didn’t say anything.

  Mingo bent down to her, held her jaw, and kissed her on the mouth. “So, if the cops are after me, I’ll hide out for a while.” He let her go and walked out the back door, into the yard.

  Inside, Pita sat down on the heap of couch cushions. Her legs were shaking. She wa
s surrounded by dirt all over the floor. “Oh God!” She jumped up and ran to the bathroom.

  The pigs were under the old rags, snuggled next to the alarm clock. Pita forgot everything for the moment and held the pigs in her arms.

  The doorbell was ringing. Pita answered the door, without hesitation, without looking through the peephole. With Spoon and Mooch in her arms, she opened the door and saw Dag standing there. His red hair was greased into a croissant on top of his head.

  “Come on in,” she said, her whole body swaying a bit for the pigs, in a rhythm much like Dag’s walk.

  “Look at this place—friend of yours stop by?” Dag talked with a lisp, one that Mingo and Pita couldn’t get down just right when they imitated him.

  “I guess we need new friends.”

  “Oh no!” Dag ducked, raising his elbows to make a shield, fooling around like he was afraid of wild beasts. “It’s…it’s…the scampers!”

  Pita pushed him out of the way, trying not to smile.

  “Where’s your old man?” Dag gave Pita’s ass a quick round rub.

  “Out back.”

  While the two men were in the backyard, Pita cleaned slowly. Stopping for a cigarette, watching the pigs play in the dirt from the overturned plants, she realized that the cops would never stop coming after them. They were going to hunt them down, because her new life with Mingo was too good to be true.

  The doorbell rang again and Pita answered. Two cops, in plain clothes that were more like a uniform than an actual uniform, pushed themselves in. One of them pinned her up against the wall and held her there with his left hand around her neck, the other on her breast.

  “Where is he?” the cop asked, his lower lip practically touching Pita’s nose.

  “Look at these things,” the other cop said as he kicked one of the pigs across the room. It smashed into the wall, the small head cracked like an egg, oozing down to the floor.

  “You son of a bitch!” Pita yelled. The cop who was pinning her down nailed her stomach with his knee. She wailed and moaned, looking at the dead pig, the blood around his ear. She could see his face, his bottom jaw pushed up and out. How pathetic. Her baby. She wanted to hold him. She prayed and prayed right there that fear would make Spoon hide.

  The cop who had killed the pig was now searching through the house, while the cop holding Pita whispered the same question in her ear. His hand was over her mouth now.

  “Where is he?”

  “Out back.”

  Pita, relieved that Mingo could smell cops, knew by now he would be gone. He’d always said he had radar for officers; she was in there stalling, taking their shit, so he had time to run. His spare car was always parked on the corner of Federal and Flamingo Drive, so that he could get away.

  The cop let her go and followed the other cop out the back door.

  Pita was confident that Mingo had escaped. She stood up and felt a searing pain in her abdomen. She found Spoon under the cushions and hugged him, wailing again. She couldn’t bear to look at Mooch now. She would always remember the death in his face and his mushy body twisted unnaturally on the floor.

  Pita carried Spoon into the kitchen. She lit a cigarette with her trembling free hand. She watched the two cops from the window as they snooped around the yard in their Hawaiian colored clothes. The portable TV was so loud that one of the cops kicked it off, the same one that had kicked her baby into the wall. After they gave up their search, they hopped over the fence and disappeared.

  Pita rubbed Spoon in the soft spot under his chin, in the tuft of white hair. She put the radio on in the kitchen and turned up the volume and, like a burning candle, kept vigil for her man. Pita didn’t hear the music. She was reminiscing. Mingo used to surprise her by filling the bidet with ice and champagne. They’d take the cold bottle and plastic cups out into the backyard at night, stuff themselves into one beach chair, smoke a joint, and get a little drunk.

  Pita ran the faucet and poured herself a glass of water. She looked into the bottom of the glass for a few moments, then drank slowly, feeling the water run over her tender insides. At Publix, where she worked, people bought huge jugs of spring water, and each time she scanned for the price, the extravagance of it stunned her. Now, she couldn’t stand the rustiness of the Florida water she had lived with all her life.

  Without letting go of the pig, Pita went into the bedroom and packed a denim suitcase: earrings, underwear, bras, a few halter sundresses, make-up, and nail glue. She had strappy sandals on, the only shoes she would need. She lay down on the bed with Spoon and let him lick her toes. She cried again because, for a moment, she thought it was Mooch’s little sandy tongue licking away. He had been the timid one.

  The smell of oranges reached her for the first time all day. “Time to go, little sausage.” She got up, placed the pig on her shoulder and walked out the back door with her suitcase.

  Pita tried to remember where the bus stop was. She walked down Federal and noticed the short row of faces she used to watch from the car as she drove Mingo around. She got in line at the bus stop with her companion and whispered in his triangular ear, “We won’t let a man like that go, will we?” If the shoe had been on the other foot, Mingo would find her, probably sneak up behind her with a treat for her in his hand. It was the only thing in life she was sure of.

  Pita stepped onto the bus, avoiding the faces staring at her and the bundle cradled in her left arm. She wobbled a little on her heels, trying to balance everything along with Spoon. Two teenaged boys wearing netted T-shirts spit oink-oink, grunt-grunt noises at her. One of them put his foot across the aisle so she couldn’t walk further. The other boy in the seat behind his friend put his foot up so she couldn’t step back. The boy in front of her focused on her breasts, parting his lips. She didn’t look into his eyes. Instead, she settled on the size of his arms, the dark nipples through the openings of his shirt. She pushed her knee forward to break the barrier and the boy laughed and pulled it away. “Stupid cunt,” he said, turning to his friend. Pita lost her balance but managed to keep herself upright before falling into the first available seat. Spoon let out a new sound from the strength of Pita’s grip. The other passengers sat quietly.

  Once Pita felt able, she got up, found an empty seat in the back, and settled in. Pita knew the cops would find Mingo, or he would find them. He had prepared her for what might happen. She knew where to look. She rocked Spoon dreamily, unable to look into his glassy eye slivers.

  When the bus stopped in traffic near the entrance to the Rain or Shine Flea Market, it felt to Pita as though they would be stuck on Federal Highway for the rest of their lives. She smelled the rain coming and looked up to see storm clouds blowing ahead. She imagined the waves at Delray Beach and the scattered palm trees being sucked down by the wind.

  Pita crouched down with Spoon in the torn seat and opened a bag of chips she had brought from home. As the bus finally started to roll, she watched the scenery. She could predict every site coming up—Hula Girls’ Tiki Bar, the Used-Cars-4-U! lot with all the streams blowing like they were having a sale, the new pink mall. She picked up Spoon and held him up in front of the window for a moment, so he could see the main drag. His hind feet dangled until he squirmed to get back into Pita’s lap. As the bus made a sloppy turn onto A1A, she watched people running off Delray Beach, dragging sand chairs and coolers. She noticed how disgusted they looked, as if they were forced into traffic by waves escaping the Atlantic. Big deal, it’s only rain, Pita thought as the road began to clog. She sank into her seat and the bus came to a dead stop.

  WHITE CAPS

  THE WATER IN ALEXANDER’S EYES

  Every time one of the third graders vomited, Mrs. Knickerbocker threw a handful of granules over the mess and waited for Vinny, the janitor, to come in and mop it all up. We were never quite sure what the granules did, besides blanketing one smell on top of another, but no one could get their minds
off the thing until Vinny showed up to do his job. These kinds of events never stopped Mrs. Knickerbocker from chattering, she simply rearranged the desks around the spot like it was just another third grader at St. Peter’s. Straightening us into new rows with her meaty arms, she pushed Alexander Lamb’s desk smack-up next to mine. Now the two of us sat directly under the chipped statue of Mary the Blessed Virgin. The statue with the honest face was about the size of a toddler. I turned to Patty O’Mahoney behind me to make sure she saw my new desk-mate, to acknowledge that the secrets I shared with her about Alexander and fate were true. But she was busy sniffing the fresh purple ink off the photocopied paper with her eyes closed.

  When the three o’clock bell rang, the vomit was still on the floor. We all ran out of the classroom with that cheesy smell in our noses and rushed down the stairway to the back exit. I found Vinny the janitor on the far side of the playground near the old bicycle racks, his foot inserted where a couple of iron bars were missing. He was smoking a cigarette.

  “Hey, Vinny—no smoking allowed.” It was my way to boss.

  His shoulders shot up at the sound of my voice. Even though I had startled him he turned around slowly, the dark circles under his eyes making me think of Halloween.

  “It’s Miss Olivia de Havilland.”

  “It’s not Olivia de Havilland! It’s Olivia Darnell! And Mrs. Knickerbocker is angry with you!”

  Vinny inhaled like he was never going to stop and rubbed the stubble on his cheek with a crooked thumb. He was creepier outdoors than indoors, and now I could really see that the whites of his eyes were yellow like pee.

  “Mrs. Knickerbooper is angry with me? Oh, no she’s not. She thinks I’m a faithful janitor. Ya know something? I’m going up to her classroom right now.” Vinny stamped his unfinished cigarette into the concrete with a smile. I watched him put a peppermint in his mouth and smooth down his oily hair.