by Harry Dolan
Sheila laughed and offered him the joint again.
“Relax,” she said. “Your reputation’s safe. Luke’s cool.”
• • •
Neil left her a short time later. A parting hug at the door—a promise of something that would never be delivered. He trudged down the stairs and out into the afternoon. He found Luke Daw waiting on the sidewalk in front of the apartment building.
Neil tried to ignore him, but when he headed for the parking lot he heard Luke’s footsteps behind him.
“I feel like I know you,” Luke said.
Neil stopped at the edge of the lot and turned. “I don’t think so.”
“What’s your name?”
Neil hesitated and said, “Kevin.” His middle name.
Luke smiled. “That’s not the name I remember.”
They stood a few feet apart in the cold afternoon light. Bleak springtime. Puddles around them.
Luke still had the popsicle stick. He held it with two fingers like a cigarette.
“Are you happy, Kevin?” he asked.
An odd question. Neil’s first instinct was to ask, In what sense? But that would have invited a longer conversation. Better to keep things brief.
“Sure,” he said.
“Because if there’s anything you need,” Luke said, “you can tell me.”
“I don’t need anything.”
Luke moved closer. “I’ve got more than Sheila’s got. That’s all I’m saying. Coke. X. Or pills—Vicodin, Oxy. Whatever you need.”
“I’m all set.”
“You don’t look happy.”
“I have to go,” Neil said.
He turned away and headed for his car, but he soon realized he wouldn’t be free of Luke so easily.
Neil had parked at the edge of the lot facing a steel fence. The spaces on either side of his car were empty, but there was a black Mustang parked behind it. There was no way he would be able to back out.
As Neil stood by the driver’s door of his car, Luke walked up and said, “Is this your ride?”
“Yes, it’s mine,” Neil said.
“It’s nice.”
Luke leaned his back against the car. He started turning the popsicle stick end over end between his fingers. He glanced at the Mustang. “I guess I blocked you in,” he said.
Luke had already known which car was his, Neil thought. Obviously. It wouldn’t have been hard to guess. There was a parking decal on the windshield from the high school where he taught.
Neil nodded toward the Mustang. “I’d appreciate it if you’d move that,” he said.
“Oh, sure,” said Luke. “But we were talking, weren’t we?”
“I have to go.”
“I heard that the first time. But I was saying before that you don’t look happy. I’d like to help you.”
Neil felt the air turning heavy around him. “You don’t have anything I want,” he said.
“How do you know,” said Luke, “if you won’t talk to me?”
He stared at Neil but said nothing more. His eyes were empty of expression—except for a cold amusement.
Neil thought about walking away. He didn’t want to play mind games with Luke Daw or, worse, get into a fight over nothing. But he had his pride. He stood his ground.
“Will you please move your car?” he said.
No answer.
“I’m not looking for trouble,” he said.
Luke gave a quick smile that was really just a flash of teeth. “Who said anything about trouble?” He bent the popsicle stick with his thumb. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”
“No.”
“Good. I’m just trying to get you what you want. Listen, do you have a hundred?”
“What?”
“A hundred dollars.”
Neil frowned. “Come on.”
“What does that mean, ‘Come on’?”
“Knock it off,” Neil said. “I really need to go.”
“Why do you feel like you have to run off, Kev? I’m not trying to scare you.”
“I’m not scared.”
“That’s good. So give me a hundred and I’ll give you something you want.”
“There’s nothing—”
“Sure there is. And I’m telling you you can have it. The price is a hundred dollars.”
Neil hesitated, then took out his wallet. He felt like a coward, but he’d had enough of Luke Daw. He found four twenties and two tens and held them out. Luke tossed his popsicle stick into a puddle. He took the money casually and it disappeared into his coat pocket.
“See?” he said. “That wasn’t so hard.”
He walked away and got into his Mustang. Neil stood by his car. He wasn’t sure what had just happened. Had he been robbed, or did Luke actually intend to give him something in return for his money? What would that be? Was he supposed to wait for it?
He got an answer quickly. Luke started up the Mustang, waved good-bye, and rolled out of the lot and into the street.
Over the next few days, Neil kept his eye out for Luke. He was afraid the kid might show up at his school—or his house. He didn’t want Luke talking to Megan. She didn’t know anything about Sheila Cotton, and she didn’t need to know.
When a week passed with no sign of Luke, Neil laughed at himself for being paranoid. He considered staying away from Sheila and finding a new source to buy from, but decided he had no reason to. He waited the usual interval and drove to her apartment on another Saturday afternoon. It went the way it always did.
“I could sell you more.”
“If I had more, I’d smoke more.”
They shared a joint on the couch and when there was nothing left but the roach, something happened. Sheila sat up and bent close to him. Put her hand on his knee and said, “You don’t have to leave, do you?”
Her eyes held a plain invitation. Hard to believe, but Neil let himself believe it. After a moment he kissed her shyly: a dry, awkward kiss. Then another with their mouths open, their breath tasting like smoke. His shyness passed. He was eager and she laughed her throaty laugh and told him to take his time. She straddled him and he got her sweater off, and her bra was red and silky—like nothing Megan would ever wear.
He reached for the button of her jeans and she got up and took him by the hand and led him to her bedroom. She swept the bedspread aside and fell back onto white sheets. He peeled her jeans off and discovered she had a thong to match the bra.
He kissed her stomach. Skin flawless, the color of cream. She lay with her arms spread, surrendering. Her dark hair fell over a pillow. The bra unhooked in the front and the thong came off, strings of silk skimming down over her thighs. He saw the lush body he had imagined. Soft and yielding. Not like Megan. A body you could sink into.
The first time was too intense. He couldn’t last. But she let him have a second time, and the second time was good. It ended with her clutching at the sheets and wrapping those thighs around him. Her eyes closed, her mouth whispering Yes.
Afterward she got up to crack the bedroom window. She came back and they lay side by side on the sheets. Neil looked at the ceiling: swirls of white stucco. He felt the sweat evaporating from his skin.
“I didn’t expect this,” Sheila said.
“Neither did I,” Neil told her.
“I’m glad it happened.”
“Me too.”
She turned onto her side to face him. “I don’t want you to have the wrong idea.”
“What’s the wrong idea?”
“That I do this all the time, with every man who comes through here.”
“Oh.”
“Because I don’t.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“In fact, I thought it was a joke at first.”
Neil felt a momentary t
ightness in his chest.
“A joke?” he said.
“When Luke suggested it. I thought he was messing with me.”
Neil focused on the swirls in the ceiling. He should have been more alarmed to hear Luke’s name. But part of him had known all along.
I’ll give you something you want.
“It didn’t add up,” Sheila said, “that you would go through him. Not after what you told me, about how you didn’t trust him. But he kept saying it was for real. And I guess it was. I mean, here we are. Right?”
“Right,” Neil said.
“At first I was offended. But then I thought: It’s sort of sweet. Because you were too shy to ask me yourself. And maybe it’s better you didn’t, because I probably would’ve slapped you in the face. And we would’ve missed out on this. And why should we miss out?”
“We shouldn’t,” Neil said.
“I know. And I like you anyway. I always did. But I’m happy to have the cash too. Because I really need it.” She laid a palm against his ribs. “And it’s not like I’m going to start sleeping with random men for money. This can be our thing. A special arrangement.”
“That sounds fine,” Neil said.
Sheila moved her palm over his stomach, snuggled closer. “There’s just one problem,” she said. “We can be honest with each other, can’t we?”
“Sure.”
“Well, honestly, the more I think about it, a hundred seems low. Would you mind if we went higher? Not this time. But from now on.”
Neil couldn’t see her face. He was still focused on the ceiling. But he could feel her body pressed against him. All that perfect flesh.
“How much higher?” he asked.
“What about two hundred?” she said.
He didn’t react—at least, he didn’t mean to. But she must have seen something.
“Or one fifty,” she added quickly.
He sat up and turned to take in the sight of her. That body. And the face too. A brave face, but it was masking something. Doubt. Vulnerability. Insecurity.
He smiled gently. “One fifty seems fair.”
• • •
When he left her apartment, he thought he would find Luke Daw waiting in the parking lot. He didn’t. He drove home and Megan asked him where he’d been, and he made up a story about running into an old friend from college. And she believed him. It was easy.
The following Saturday he went to see Sheila again. Too soon for him to need more pot, but he bought some anyway. He started to roll a joint on the shoe box lid and she told him to leave it. She led him to the bedroom and pulled her sweater off over her head. Her bra was purple this time. Her thong too.
They smoked the joint after. Sheila had an old-fashioned claw-foot tub, with a rubber drain plug on a chain. She ran a bath and got in to soak. Neil, half dressed, sat on a straight-back chair by the tub and kept her company. He held the joint for her to keep it dry.
When the water started to cool, she hooked the chain between her toes and pulled the plug. She stood up—a naked goddess rising out of the sea—and he helped her towel off. The tub took a long time to drain.
He left her money on the bathroom sink. One fifty. She put a robe on and walked him out. Kissed him at the door.
That was their routine, week after week, through the spring and into the summer. It was a high point of Neil Pruett’s life, but there were signs, even early on, of how it would end. Small things. Sheila started wanting more of his time. She wanted to talk—and not any kind of interesting talk. She wanted to share the mundane details of her life.
And she started to ask him for favors—little ones, here and there. Once as he was leaving she asked if he wouldn’t mind carrying her trash down to the dumpster. Other times she wanted him to check the oil in her car, or fix a leaky faucet, or a faulty light switch.
One Saturday he showed up to find her half hysterical. There’d been a mouse in the living room, and she had put down a trap. Now she had a dead mouse with a broken neck—and could he please do something with it? She couldn’t bring herself to touch it.
But those were minor drawbacks. Neil found ways to make up for them. A few days after the mouse, he turned up at her apartment in the middle of the week. A Wednesday afternoon. Sheila came to the door wearing a white T-shirt and sweatpants, her hair in a ponytail. He caught a glimpse of a bewildered look; she hadn’t expected him. But she slipped easily into her usual manner: gave him a slow kiss, took him by the hand, led him toward the bedroom.
They never got there. He pinned her against a wall, peeled the T-shirt off her—and the plain white bra he found underneath. He tugged the sweatpants down over her hips and pushed her to the floor. She didn’t resist. He heard her throaty laugh. “Different rules on Wednesday,” she said.
She ran a bath afterward and he sat with her. They smoked a joint. Steam rose from the water and beaded on the bathroom tile. Sheila rested her arms on the sides of the tub and tipped her head back.
“That was wild,” she said.
Neil said nothing.
“I think you gave me bruises,” she said.
He passed her the nub of the joint. “Maybe I’ll give you more.”
He climbed into the tub with her, his feet slipping on the bottom so he had to catch himself. She shifted forward and he got around behind her and let her lay back against him. Water flowed over the rim of the tub and onto the floor. Sometime later she wriggled around and raised herself up and took him inside her.
Later still, she climbed out. Left him there to soak. When she returned she had her robe on; she had a towel for him. He dried off, and as he was dressing she said, “You’re a sweet man.”
It gave him pause. He hadn’t intended to be sweet.
He left that afternoon without giving her any money. It was the beginning of a new pattern: from then on he saw her twice a week, on Wednesdays and Saturdays. On Saturdays he gave her the usual hundred and fifty. On Wednesdays he gave her nothing. He thought she would complain, but she never did.
He didn’t think to wonder why. Later on, when he looked back on it, he realized it had been a warning sign—just like the moment when she called him a sweet man. She was giving him clues, and he missed them. If he had paid more attention, he might have recognized that she was starting to think of herself as his mistress.
• • •
If Neil paid less attention to Sheila Cotton than he should have, it might’ve been because he had something else on his mind. He didn’t know what to make of Luke Daw.
He had hoped that Luke might leave him alone, but he wasn’t so fortunate. Luke seemed to take an ongoing interest in his arrangement with Sheila. How much she might have told him wasn’t clear, but at the very least Luke knew that Neil visited Sheila on Saturdays. Once in a while Luke would turn up in the parking lot on a Saturday afternoon.
The first time it happened was at the beginning of May. Neil came down to find Luke’s Mustang parked near his own car. Luke lowered the window and called him over.
“Kevin! Good to see you.”
Neil approached him, reluctantly. “What do you want?”
“I want to make sure you’re happy,” said Luke.
“I’d be happier if you left me alone.”
“Don’t be like that, Kev,” Luke said. “I’m your friend. I was right, wasn’t I?”
“About what?”
“About what you wanted,” Luke said, looking up at Sheila’s third-floor window. “But Jesus, that wasn’t hard to work out. I mean, who wouldn’t want that? Am I right?”
Neil stood perfectly still. The sun threw his shadow onto the door of the Mustang. Black on black. He didn’t speak.
“Don’t be rude, Kev,” Luke said. “I like you. I’m trying to help. You let me know if you need anything else.”
He put the Mustang into gear and drove awa
y. Neil watched him go, hoped he might not see him again. But Luke Daw kept coming back, every two or three weeks, always with the same line of patter: I’m your friend. You let me know what you need. He never made any threats, never asked Neil for money. Never even called him by his real name. To Luke, Neil was always Kevin or Kev. Or sometimes K.
• • •
As time passed, the glow started to fade from Sheila Cotton. Neil began to withdraw from her. He still went to see her, but she was less real to him. His mind wandered when she talked. He found reasons to cut his visits short.
Sheila seemed not to notice. She acted as if they could go on forever. She talked to him about her future in a tone that took for granted that he cared about her future. She wanted to find a permanent teaching job. She wondered if she needed to go back to school for a master’s degree. She wanted to move to a better apartment, or at least fix up the current one. It was too gloomy. The walls needed a fresh coat of paint.
That’s what she was talking about on the first Saturday in July, the day Neil finally broke it off with her. Paint.
“I’ve thought about going with white,” she said. “White walls, white trim. I got the idea from a magazine. But maybe that’s too, you know—”
“White?” he suggested.
“Yeah. So now I think I want color, but I want it faded out. Like in here, I was thinking yellow. But a really pale yellow, so it looks almost—”
“White?”
“Exactly.”
They were in the bathroom. Sheila had the tub to herself. Neil sat in the straight-back chair, keeping her company. They’d burned through a joint and the smoke still lingered in the air.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“White sounds fine,” he said.
“But it won’t be white, it’ll be yellow.”
“Right. Yellow.”
“What about the kitchen?”
Neil stared at his reflection in the mirror over the sink. “You mean what color?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were going to use yellow all over.”
“I can’t paint every room the same.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
“I’m thinking green for the kitchen.”
