“But you moved in with Fatso when you ran away from home?”
“Yeah.”
“How old were you?” Thomas tries to piece Luke’s story together, but it seems to him there are holes in it.
“Twelve.”
“What you told us when we were on the mountain—all that about you and your friend getting lost—was that before or after?”
“After. Sometimes I went up there to visit her when I lived with my uncle. I still had a few friends there from when I was in school.”
“Did you miss her?”
“I guess so. But she lived with a psychopath. So things didn’t go so well. One time I kicked him in the head, and he had to be taken to the emergency room. After that I stayed away. Luckily he punched his ticket last year.”
Thomas looks out the front window. The sky is brightening into a soft yellow; it’s already late in the afternoon. “She was so full of life when I knew her. But that was a long time ago.”
“People change,” Luke says brusquely, scratching his arm. “Just like you say Jacques did.”
“Did I say that he changed? No, you’re the one who says that.”
“He changed for the better, apparently. That’s not the case with my mom.” Luke stares dejectedly ahead. Then he sighs. He pulls his sleeve down over the white, swollen mosquito bite on his arm. He shifts in his seat. “Fuck it,” he says, turning up the volume on the radio, which is playing reggae music.
“Are you really interested in helping remodel the new store?” Thomas asks following a short pause.
“Of course.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“Of course you should be paid.” For some time there’s silence. The city begins to emerge: multiple interchanges and ramps leading traffic in different directions on several levels. One moment they’re above the city, seeing the river and downtown, the next they’re under it, on the same level as the poor devils who live right next to the highway. Gradually they merge into the chaos of streets, alleyways, and expansive boulevards. Though it’s Sunday, there’s a great deal of activity here compared to where they’re coming from. It’s overwhelming. And liberating. Thomas shudders. Why did Rose’s boyfriend, or whatever he was, have all those keys on his belt? What did he need them for? Maybe they’re keys to all the places he’s ever lived in his life. He didn’t exactly look like someone who had a job that required such a huge keychain. Strange. Keys to hell, Thomas thinks, smiling to himself. To the many chambers of hell. When they stop at a red light, he stares at a construction zone. A massive crane stands unmoving, its bucket floating high above the streets, swaying slightly in the gentle breeze. Some guard dogs are running around, barking. They pass the cemetery where Jacques is interned, in an urn somewhere. “Where do you live?” Luke asks. Thomas gives him directions. “You live in that part of the city?” There’s awe in Luke’s voice. They discuss the store. They exchange phone numbers, so Thomas can contact Luke if he needs to. A text from Alice beeps into Thomas’s cell: “See you tomorrow morning.” This perks him up. He remembers that he’d promised to call Annie and Peter about the so-called company dinner; he’ll text them instead. Luke turns down Thomas’s street. “The good life,” he says. “Can’t be cheap living here.” He can’t hide his envy. Luke glances curiously up at the buildings, ducking his head to see better. He parks in front of Thomas’s building. “Number 76?”
“Yeah,” Thomas says. “This is the place. Want to come in?”
“No thanks.” Luke straightens up. “I need to get going.”
Thomas turns to Luke. “Thanks for the ride.” It’s an awkward moment. Should I hug him? Instead he claps him on the shoulder. It feels wrong. “No problem,” Luke says, giving him a passing smile. It’s not until Thomas has already stuck his left leg out on the street and planted his foot on the ground that Luke suddenly says, “Maybe he just didn’t understand you.” Stopped in mid-stride, Thomas turns back. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe Jacques just didn’t understand you.” Luke narrows his eyes just like Rose had a few hours earlier. Cold, rejecting. Thomas gulps for breath. “Maybe you got on his nerves.”
“I really don’t think it’s that simple,” Thomas says with as much composure as he can muster. He climbs out. Before he can even shut the door, Luke pulls it closed from inside. “See you later!” he shouts. He’s one big, pleased smile. He guns the engine and speeds off down the street. Let him imagine he’s special, Thomas thinks. But why? Why did he say that? He didn’t need to. No, it’s not even worth thinking about. Still, it takes him some time before the sense of betrayal leaves him. Also the feeling that there is something fundamentally wrong with him. An age-old feeling and a recurring theme in his life so revolting that he could vomit. A little shit like Luke. Now it’s not only inconceivable that he’d wanted to penetrate him, that he’d ever felt that way, the heat flushing through him—it’s disgusting and terribly embarrassing. Thinking of it nauseates him, overwhelms him with self-loathing. Standing on the street, Thomas can’t find the energy to set his body in motion. He lifts his arm and studies it as if it belongs to someone else. Two women regard him curiously when they walk past. He observes his arm. He lowers his arm. Twilight closes in on him, growing denser, fluffy, green. But there’s still daylight. A heavenly light: the sky is yellowish, violet, soft. It’s summer, Thomas thinks. And all at once tears fall from his eyes. It’s so pathetic. Even in the midst of his crying fit he’s aware of how pathetic he is and how endlessly sad and true everything feels. His entire face dissolves, his mouth and eyes twitch. Here come the tears, and they’re huge. They wash over him, a cascade of liquid salt and animalistic noises. He can’t control himself; here he is, firmly glued to the same flagstone on the sidewalk, snot barreling down his chin, the tears sounding foreign and loathsome and much too old, the tears are an old man, something beautiful and shiny breaking apart before growing ugly and shapeless, an old man no one wants to look at, for God’s sake, unarticulated, raw grunts climb up from the depths inside him, and now he wants to scream, his scream will put an end to his shame, but there’s no end to shame, he thinks, and he’s losing it, it’s wrong, all wrong, but then, in a split second, he recognizes self-pity as something that packages up his crying, puts an end to his tears, hides the pain, encapsulates the pain, and then he gets a hold of himself. He has nothing but contempt for self-pity, that much he knows, even now. Hell, he thinks, I’m no better than Jenny. A neighbor strolls down the street, a newspaper tucked under his arm. He greets Thomas warmly and Thomas returns the greeting, his face turned. With the sleeve of his shirt he mops his wet cheeks. Finally he pulls the key from his pants pocket and lets himself in. The apartment smells dusty and stuffy. It’s baking hot. The hallway light is on. There’s the bag they brought this weekend, and there are her shoes. But she’s not home. Only the cat, which meows neurotically, rubbing hard against him. Thomas brings back his right leg and kicks it, and it slides across the slippery parquet floor. It smashes against the wall, yowling, and falls over. It looks confused. Then, with difficulty, it gets to its feet and slumps away. Thomas notices, almost gleefully, that it’s limping a little on its right back leg.
By Monday morning his mood hasn’t improved much. When he awakes, Patricia’s fast asleep at his side; stripes of sunshine slip through the cracks in the blinds, partly lighting up her face and the white bed sheets. Her eyelids quiver as if she’s in the middle of a dream. Tentatively he puts his hand on her belly, but she rolls onto her side with a sigh and goes on sleeping. The cat’s still hobbling. Thomas doesn’t stick around long. He rides his bicycle. It looks as though it’ll be a very hot day; the air is humid: thick, clammy heat. Where does Patricia go at night? The question opens a chasm in him: He pictures her in the arms of other men, at a dance club and dizzy with alcohol; he sees her naked in some dark bedroom, alone on a dark street, drunk and exhausted and hailing a taxi as she stumbles along on high heels. The tip of her
tongue. Shiny, parted lips. Her face in subdued light. Her lustful gaze. He imagines her enjoying another man’s cock. He’s out of breath, and not because he’s zipping along on his bike but because his desperation encloses him in a tiny room, restricts all movement, and he feels something squeezing against him on every side, compressing his body into a tapering shape he can’t escape. But as he enters the store, he sees Alice and she gives him a big smile. That helps. Everywhere he looks the store is dazzlingly clean and spotless, and the shelves are already being stocked. Peter and Maloney came to work early, and now they’re practically emptying the stockroom in the basement, hauling box after box of product upstairs. Alice is helping Annie by putting everything into place. She embraces Thomas. Annie says, “It won’t take long when there’s two of us.” And it does go fast. They’re finished before lunch. There are empty spaces on a few of the shelves, but they’ve got to order more product. They do that while eating their lunch in the office. Annie and Alice chat up a storm and really seem to like each other. They’ve taken their sandwiches outside, in the sunlight. Customers ask about the break-in, there’s lots of talk, and the atmosphere is pleasant all day: connections, warmth, Thomas feels better and better. “Thanks for the wonderful weekend,” Maloney says, throwing some crumpled-up envelopes into the paper basket, “they’re great people, your aunts. I’m still wiped out after chopping all that goddamn firewood, but it was a pleasure being up there. It’s good to breathe some fresh air, for once.”
“Maloney,” Thomas says. “Maloney?”
Maloney looks up. A pause, a glance. “What?” he asks, low. His smile vanishes abruptly, like someone fearing bad news.
“I think Patricia’s seeing someone else.”
“Oh, Christ,” Maloney blurts, relieved. “I thought it was something serious. That you were sick or something. You look like an undertaker. There’s no way she’s seeing someone else. As affectionate as she is to you? What are you thinking?”
“Is she affectionate?”
“Yes! Don’t you have eyes in your head?”
“She goes off at night. She’s gone every evening.”
“Have you asked her where she goes?”
“She won’t tell me. She doesn’t respond.”
“Oh. Well,” Maloney says, “I don’t think you should take it so seriously. Maybe she just needs to go out and get blitzed. Would that be so strange? You’ve been a rather heavy burden on everyone these past few months. She probably just wants to have some fun.”
“I think it’s more serious than that,” Thomas says, staring at the floor. Maloney shrugs. “What do I know,” he says, rubbing an eye. “You need to talk with her.” Thomas nods weakly.
“Stop pouting like a little boy who needs consolation, okay? If you have issues to work through, see a shrink or something. Did you reserve a table at the restaurant?”
Thomas nods again. “Yes,” he says. “Yeah, you’re right.” He collects himself, straightens up, walks out of the office, and guides Alice on a proper tour of the store. He shows her how to work the register, where to find the bags, how to do various procedures. At a quarter past 6:00 they close shop. All five of them stroll to the restaurant, a twenty minute walk. It’s a beautiful night and mild, the temperature almost like that of skin—like being in a soft and compliant world, the body merging with it; there’s no limit, the light is speckled green, soft, odors hang unmoving in the air: trash, car fumes, the acrid stench of fast food deep-fryers and, every now and then, rose bush, honeysuckle. People sit on their stoops enjoying the first really warm summer evening; the city’s alive, teeming with life. Alice’s legs in a pair of cut-off jeans are bare, she’s walking beside Peter and talking with him, she seems so natural and comfortable, energized. And Thomas is seized with pride. Then he thinks of Patricia again. She hasn’t called him all day. His fears return. But just as they’ve sat in the soft restaurant chairs, she texts him: “Still at work. Going home in a few hours.” What a relief. They order cocktails and appetizers. Peter’s gray eyes gleam once he’s drained his first gin and tonic. Alice describes the poetry reciting competition at Kristin and Helena’s. Annie has never heard of anything that strange. “What poems did you read?” she asks. Alice can’t remember, but then she recalls Haiku-Helena and begins to laugh, so Thomas explains it to Annie and now she laughs, too. “I’ve never cared much for haiku,” she says. “But have you read Bella Akhmadúlina?”
“Bella Akh . . .?”
“Akhmadúlina. A poet. She’s wonderful.”
“Annie’s in a Russian phase,” Thomas explains, passing the tuna tartare around the table.
“If you want, you can borrow one of her books from me.”
Alice nods, surprised. She would like that very much. “Peter’s also part of my reading group now,” Annie says. “Isn’t that right, Peter?”
“Yup,” Peter says, carefully setting his knife and fork down.
“Jesus,” Maloney says, shoveling grilled squid onto his plate. “Since when have all our employees become so literary?”
“I think we’ve always been literary,” Peter says quietly.
The main courses arrive. Maloney’s ordered a steak with Béarnaise sauce to accompany “the good red wine,” as he calls it. Annie’s ordered lobster and Alice tries a bite; she’s never had lobster before, and she likes it. She dives into her breaded chicken breast. They quickly work through several bottles of wine. Peter becomes chattier and chattier. He gesticulates with his hands as he describes how horrible he was at ballgames in school. “But I really got into gymnastics,” he says, “and I’m still very good at it.”
“Gymnastics!” Maloney shouts. “You do gymnastics? I can’t fucking picture you doing that.”
But Peter has won several semi-professional competitions during the past few years. Alice thinks being that good at something is totally cool, and wishes she was. And Thomas thinks it couldn’t get any better than this. Here she sits eating lobster and drinking white wine, getting offers to read poetry, maybe even the chance to attend a gymnastics meet or a book club discussion. She’s clearly enjoying herself. She’ll say yes to working for us, he thinks, maybe they could even let Annie run the new store; surely they can manage the original store with just Peter. That’s not a bad idea. It could be the women’s store, and he can shuttle back and forth between the two. Once again he’s jolted by a sense of pride and elation. They’re all a little buzzed and chirpy. It’s almost 9:30 P.M. Annie, Peter, and Alice talk about wild animals. A few years ago Peter saw a white tiger in a zoo. “Are they albinos?” Annie wants to know. Peter explains how they’re recessive mutants of the Bengal tiger—which is to say, a subspecies. “Do you have a girlfriend, Peter?” Maloney asks out of nowhere. Peter blushes. “That’s Peter’s own business,” Thomas says. But Maloney keeps at it. “What about you, Annie? You have a boyfriend?”
“Yes,” she says in a clear voice. “I do. I just moved in with him.”
“Congratulations,” Maloney says.
“Maloney’s dating my mom. Isn’t that crazy?” Alice returns her napkin to her lap as the dessert is brought in. “So he’s, like, your stepfather?” Peter interjects, confused. “I’m over eighteen. I don’t need a father anymore,” Alice says. When she puts a spoonful of moist, coal-black chocolate cake into her mouth, she closes her eyes in rapt pleasure. Thomas tells them all about the new store. Annie seems very interested. She asks a bunch of questions: When will it open? Where is it located? Will it carry the same products? Thomas offers to take them all on a tour once the sale is final. Maloney says nothing. He stares absently at Thomas. “Have you actually considered moving in with my mother?” Alice asks him. “What?” Maloney says. “I don’t really know. Maybe. At some point.” “You’ve always lived alone. Would you be able to stand it?” Thomas says. With his spoon, he pokes at his crème brûlée. “Would you be able to stand living with Jenny?” Maloney smiles sheepishly. He’s in love, Thomas thinks, he’s really in love with her. Thomas’s cell phone
rings at that moment. At first he can’t hear anyone on the line. Then he hears strange noises. A clattering or struggle. Is that the sound of clothing? Or did someone butt dial me? And now, a kind of whimpering—or is someone singing or mumbling in the background? The sounds in the restaurant are so loud that he can’t really separate them from what he hears on his cell. He steps onto the street. “Hello?” he says. “Hello? Who is it?” No one answers. But now it sounds as though the telephone on the other end slams against something hard. The call is dropped. He stares at his cell. When he sees Patricia’s number on the little screen, he grows cold with fear.
He calls her several times but doesn’t get through. He stumbles into the restaurant and pulls Maloney into the coatroom. “What’s wrong?” Maloney breathes, glowering at Thomas, irritated. “Say something, man!”
“She called. There were only noises.”
“Who?”
“Patricia. Only noises . . .”
“What kind of noises?”
“It sounded as if her cell phone was thrown, I can’t get ahold of her.” Thomas clutches Maloney’s shirt with both of his hands.
“What are you trying to tell me, Thomas? What kind of noises? Did it sound like she was with someone?”
“What do you mean?”
“A man. Was she with another man?”
Thomas hadn’t even thought of that. He stares at Maloney, his eyes wide. “Yes,” he says, “maybe. But . . . Oh, no. What should I do? I thought . . .”
“What did you think?”
“I don’t know. That she was in danger.”
With his head cocked to one side Maloney smiles. He drops his hand onto Thomas’s shoulder.
“Go home. Then she’ll have to explain. That’s all there is to it.” He squeezes Thomas’s shoulder. A kind of rough caress. “This kind of thing happens even in the best of families.” He follows Thomas out to the street. “Take a cab,” he says, “leave your bike here.” Thomas continues fumbling with his bike keys. “Leave the bike here!” Maloney raises his voice. Thomas turns and looks at him in despair. “Get out of here,” Maloney says sharply. “I’ll think of something to tell the others.”
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