You Give Good Love

by J. J. Murray

  “Yes.”

  “That’s progress, isn’t it?”

  “I guess.”

  He massaged her neck. “I looked up something I have never looked up in my life the other night.”

  “What?”

  “Vaginal dryness.” He sighed. “Do you think you could have early menopause? You have almost all of the symptoms.”

  “God, I hope not,” Hope said.

  “I read about one cause that hit home with me, too,” he said. “Unresolved relationship problems can dry you up, depress your libido, and keep you from being aroused.”

  Hope closed her eyes. “So you think I need to see my gynecologist and a psychiatrist?”

  “It may be something simpler than doing that,” Dylan said. “I will try to relax you more. A long, hot bath beforehand. A glass of wine. Music. Longer massages. Gentler foreplay, and we don’t have to do the deed every time. We’ll just take things slower than slow.”

  “Sounds like a very nice evening,” Hope said, “but there are no guarantees that even that will work.”

  “True,” Dylan said, “but I’m willing to try. I’d also like you to confront Odell in some way.”

  “What? I don’t want to see him.”

  “I don’t mean literally,” Dylan said. “Though that might help, too.”

  “How am I going to do that?” Hope asked. “Find out where he and his lovely wife and perfect child live and curse him out? I would curse him out in English and in French.”

  “That’s a little more extreme than what I had in mind,” Dylan said. “I’m still getting over Marie. Every time I open my apartment door, a part of her is still there. It’s as if she’s haunting me.” He sighed. “That’s one of the reasons I’ve been hesitating to have you over to my place.”

  I know the feeling. Odell, the goblin, is still standing in my doorway. “Do you want her back?”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” Dylan said. “I’d just like to talk to her one more time and tell her that she was wrong, not me.”

  Hope sat up, gradually easing her back to the headboard. “I would love to scream at Odell. I have so many things to say to him.”

  Dylan sat up next to her. “Go ahead.” He squeezed her hand. “It’s Halloween, a day made for screaming.”

  “I mean, really scream, Dylan,” Hope said. “I have bottled up years of aggression and frustration, and when it all comes out, it won’t be pretty.”

  “Let it out.”

  “My neighbors will call the police,” Hope said.

  Dylan handed her a pillow. “Use a silencer. It’s what I did. Since I’ve been with you, my pillow likes me again.”

  Hope twisted the pillow in her hands. “What did you say?”

  “Well, after I stopped calling Marie a self-centered, narcissistic, pampered, poor-excuse-for-a-human-being, balls-slicing bitch—this usually took about ten minutes—I stuck up for myself and made a list of all the things that I did right. At first, my list was short, but over time, it became longer. If it helps you vent, I can leave for a while. Need anything from the store?”

  “Ice cream,” Hope said, “but I don’t want you to go. I can scream at him during the week when you’re not here. If I start screaming at him now, I’ll scare away any trick-or-treaters I might get.” Which will mean more chocolate for me . . . “Yeah, go get me two pints of that Karamel Sutra ice cream.”

  He kissed her cheek. “It will help, Hope.”

  “The screaming or the ice cream?” Hope asked.

  “Both,” Dylan said. “Let me borrow your keys. If I hear you screaming when I get to the door, I’ll wait outside until you’re done.”

  She watched him dress. “You really think this will work?”

  “It worked for me to a point,” Dylan said. “Having you in my life has cured me completely.”

  He’s so sweet. “I just want things to work out between us down there.”

  He sat at the foot of the bed and squeezed her feet. “It will happen, Hope,” Dylan whispered, “and when it does, I will be the one crying.”

  That would make me cry even more.

  He glanced at the pile of candy on the kitchen table. “I want . . . a Snickers bar. How about you?”

  “Bring me the bag,” Hope said.

  He laughed. “Your hunger knows no bounds.” He went to the table, took out two mini Snickers bars, and tossed the bag to Hope. “Are your keys in your coat pocket?”

  Hope nodded.

  Dylan found the keys. “Sweet screams, Hope.”

  “Boo,” Hope said.

  Dylan left, the door closing behind him.

  Hope felt her depression return almost immediately. You always show up at the worst times. You’re the uninvited guest who never leaves.

  Hope folded the pillow and pressed it to her face, took a deep breath, and screamed.

  “Odell Wilson, you fat, sloppy, stuck-up piece of merde!”

  She jerked back from the pillow, her breath hot, her heart racing. That felt good. Damn. I wish I could really say these things to him, but... damn. My temperature just shot up ten degrees!

  She rose from the bed, put on Dylan’s hoodie, and carried her pillow to the door. “You were a fool to walk out on me, you smelly, cold, heartless, ignorant asshole!” she screamed into the pillow.

  Then she laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh. It had menace in it. It had bite. It even had a distinctive French accent.

  Whack ran and hid under the quilt.

  Hope held the pillow with one hand and punched it for several minutes with the other, wishing it were Odell’s ever-sneering face. She stopped when she realized that no amount of punching could improve on what wasn’t really a handsome face. “You weren’t even that handsome, Odell,” she said, “and yet you thought you were. I was so blind.”

  She folded the pillow, pressed it to her lips, and stalked toward her bed. “You were no good in bed, had no clue what you were doing down there, and I faked most of my orgasms!” She dropped onto the bed and buried her face in the pillow. “In fact, vous dick, I had all of my orgasmes after you left!”

  Hope started to sweat. Yes, I’m starting to sweat him out of my system. I will need another bath.

  She closed her eyes. “Oh, sure, you complimented me every now and then, but even your compliments contained criticisms. You’d say, ‘You look nice, Hope, but wouldn’t the black top look better?’ Or ‘I like the way you did your hair, but why don’t you get it bleached?’ Or ‘Wow, those jeans really look good on you, but aren’t they a little too loose?’ You never let me be myself! You were always trying to make me into what you wanted me to be!”

  She flipped over onto her back, only laying the pillow on her face now. “And you thought you were so smart and so sophisticated and knew everything about everything and I was only an Island girl refugee from Canada who knew nothing of the real world and you had to tell me about all the things you thought I didn’t know, but I already knew most of them, and you know what? I didn’t listen to a freaking thing you said because you never really said anything! I listened to you talk about nothing for two years. I could have watched TV instead. I have some news about your racist, homophobic, and prejudiced ideas, Odell, those ideas you spouted at me daily and expected me to digest and ask for seconds. They were all wrong. Wrong! Cab drivers are not out to rip you off! You just didn’t know where you were going. Your boss was not an asshole because he was a Jew. You were a lazy-ass, backstabbing worker! You were the asshole! Asian people can drive. I see them every day driving just fine. Hockey is not a racist sport. There are black players in the NHL. Brownsville is not the hell on earth you said it was. There are people there, there’s laughter there, and there’s life there.”

  She fought back tears as she went to the window, peering out into the twilight. “And whenever I showed the least bit of independent thought, you shot me down. I would offer an opinion, and you would dissect it until I hated my own thoughts. It was always your ideas, your opinions, your dr
eams! I had a working mind, and I had dreams, too! Did you know that, you hypercritical hypocrite? Odell, you weren’t the shit—you were shit!”

  She collapsed onto the futon. “And you know what, Oh-Hell, I was pretty enough, and I was as pretty as the woman you married. No, I was prettier. You need to get your muddy little eyes checked! Maybe you married her because you could control her better, and I wasn’t just good at making love to you! I was great at it. You couldn’t keep up with me! You thought sex was only supposed to last for a minute! I now have a man who can make sex last all day! The word ‘foreplay’ was not in your vocabulary! You even blamed me when you came too soon! ‘Why’d you do that, Hope?’ and ‘If you hadn’t done that, Hope . . .’ and ‘It’s your fault, Hope’! It wasn’t my fault!”

  She shed a few tears. It wasn’t my fault.

  It was never my fault.

  She took several deep breaths and returned to her bed. “Dylan loves foreplay,” she said. “He respects it. He worships my body first. Dylan does some serious foreplay on me from the moment I see him in the morning to the moment he fills me at night, and he fills me all the way up to my spleen. Odell, you were a rude lover! Yes, you were rude, inconsiderate, and ungrateful in bed! You had no respect for me! You fed me your sixty seconds of bullshit and expected me to like it. Dylan feeds me love twenty-four hours a day.”

  Hope blinked at the ceiling.

  I love Dylan.

  I really love Dylan.

  I hunger and I thirst for that man.

  She tossed her pillow against the headboard. “I never really loved you, Odell,” she whispered, and then she laughed.

  It was a soft, quiet laugh with an American accent.

  “I only thought I did. I was nothing but a kept woman to you. I kept my hair short for you. I kept my feet in flats so you didn’t feel so short. I kept wearing slacks and blazers instead of the jeans and sweaters I love to look good for you—in your mind, anyway. You kept control of what we watched on TV, kept control of where we went, what we ate, and when we ate it, and I doubt if you ever kept me in your thoughts for more than a few minutes at a time. I only thought I needed you. I know in my bones that I need Dylan.” She looked at the door. “And he’s bringing me ice cream.” She closed her eyes. “Odell, you never brought me any ice cream.”

  She heard the key turn in the lock and ran to the door, throwing it open and launching herself into Dylan’s arms, the bag he carried clunking to the floor.

  “I was going to say ‘trick-or-treat,’ ” Dylan whispered as he hugged her.

  “You don’t have to say either,” Hope said. “Whatever you want from me is yours.”

  “I’d rather give you everything,” he whispered.

  “That sounds fair.” She kissed him and felt the cool breeze wafting up the stairs and drying her sweat.

  Dylan picked up the bag and closed the door behind him. “They were out of Karamel Sutra,” he said.

  It figures. Even the ice cream gods are against me. “What’d you get me?”

  He pulled the container from the bag. “Dublin Mudslide.”

  “I think I like that one better anyway,” Hope said.

  Dylan read the label. “ ‘Irish cream liqueur ice cream.’ That would be me. ‘Chocolate chocolate chip cookies.’ That would be you. ‘A coffee fudge swirl.’ Hmm.” He blinked. “That would be the eight or nine children we’d have keeping us up at night.”

  She draped her arms around his neck. This man, this man. “Or ten, right?”

  “Right.” He looked around the apartment. “I don’t see anything broken. You’re not a thrower?”

  “No. I don’t have much to throw, and if I did, I’d be afraid of hitting Whack.”

  “I threw a few things,” Dylan said. “That’s how I learned to repair drywall. I’m still fixing a few spots here and there. I threw quite a few fists.”

  Those scars on his knuckles might not all have been from street boxing.

  Hope took off his Windbreaker, noticed it was wet, and laid it over the back of a kitchen chair. “Is it raining?”

  “Bad night to be out trick-or-treating,” he said. “It’s supposed to rain steadily for the next three days.” He glanced at his backpack. “No art in Brownsville tomorrow. It’s just as well. Those kids will be so hyper from all that candy anyway.” He leaned on the kitchen table. “Did you have success?”

  Hope nodded. “I was successful. I don’t know why I didn’t do it before. I’m not the most demonstrative person in the world, you know. I’m still shy, even with myself, I guess.”

  “And how do you feel now?” he asked.

  “I feel sweaty.” She pulled rapidly on the front of her new hoodie to fan her chest. Dylan will never get his hoodie back now. It’s mine. “That was work.”

  “It might be because of the candy,” Dylan said. “Chocolate overload.”

  “No,” Hope said. “I was unloading. Now I feel so alive, and lighter, so to speak. It’s all because of you.” She laughed. “And the screaming. Near the end, though, I stopped screaming and started talking to him. Was there a point when you stopped screaming, too?”

  Dylan nodded, setting the pint of ice cream near the sink. “It took me a few hours and several pillows, but yeah, I started talking. It was the conversation Marie and I never had but should have had.”

  Hope rubbed her throat. “My throat is sore.”

  He took two spoons from a drawer. “Ice cream will cure that, you know.”

  Hope took a spoon. “And so will cuddling with you all night long . . .”

  For the rest of Halloween and deep into Sunday morning, they cuddled, and whispered, and ate Dublin Mudslide ice cream, and even watched Alien all the way through, keeping each other warm as heavy rains drenched Brooklyn and an empty playground in Brownsville a few miles away.

  They slept, they lingered, they snuggled, they rested.

  Hope prepared Sunday dinner—pork chops and baked potatoes loaded with butter, sour cream, chives, bacon, and four different cheeses—and they ate for the first time at Hope’s table.

  “I’m just trying to butter you up,” she said.

  “You’re no common tater,” Dylan said.

  Ouch. That pun was horrible. “I only have eyes for you.”

  Dylan smiled. “I wish every day was ‘fry day.’ ”

  That one was even worse.

  Before he left late Sunday evening, Dylan brought Hope back to reality. “Tomorrow we’re going to be very busy. In fact, starting tomorrow, we’re going to be extremely busy for the next six weeks.”

  “We haven’t been busy yet?” Hope asked.

  “It’s like a switch someone throws after Halloween,” Dylan said. “Christmas is coming.”

  Hope smiled. “And our bank accounts are going to get fat.”

  NOVEMBER 2

  Only 52 more shopping days until Christmas . . .

  Chapter 19

  Holiday madness saluted Hope and her black, somewhat round and working umbrella on her puddle-infested, rain-swept stroll to work the Monday after Halloween. Electric snowflakes and stars, green bows, and lighted silver-and-red garlands floated over Flatbush Avenue. Even barriers for terminally unfixed sidewalks became candy canes, red and white stripes flowing from one end of the barrier to the other. Lighted artificial Christmas trees, chubby Santa Clauses, and prancing elves and reindeer stared at her through store windows plastered with “Early Xmas Sale!” and “Santa Says Save!” signs.

  A rickshaw bicycle carrying a hefty human Santa driven by an overgrown human elf nearly collided with her in a crosswalk.

  “Sorry,” the elf said.

  “Merry Christmas!” Santa yelled.

  Brooklyn had become tinsel town overnight.

  It’s beginning to look a lot like . . . desperation, Hope thought. Red, green, silver, and gold desperation. I hope these stores do well this holiday season, I really do, but it’s only the beginning of November! What about Election Day? Oh. I forgot. This is America, th
e world’s greatest democracy, where half the eligible voters don’t vote. What about Veterans Day? Oh. I forgot. This is America, the world’s biggest superpower, where people don’t often respect the heroes who made and keep them a superpower. What about Thanksgiving? Oh. I forgot. This is America, the world’s biggest consumer, where Thanksgiving is only a big meal overeaten during twelve hours of dreary football games.

  Dylan met Hope at the Kinderstuff door wearing a fuzzy blue puppet on his hand. “Happy Cookie Monster Day,” he said. After the exchange of coffee and toast, order summary, and earnings statement, Dylan kissed her—and so did the puppet.

  “I didn’t know the Cookie Monster had his own holiday,” Hope said.

  “We celebrate every holiday we can here,” Dylan said. “By the way, tomorrow is Cliché Day, National Men Make Dinner Day, and Sandwich Day. I guess tomorrow will be a day to separate the men from the boys when it comes to cooking, huh?”

  “How cliché of you to say so,” Hope said, shaking her head. “Does that mean men will make sandwiches for dinner tomorrow? Just some food for thought.”

  “Only time will tell,” Dylan said.

  Hope sipped her coffee. “It’s time to wake up and smell the coffee.”

  “We could make the ‘Cliché Collection,’ for Odd Ducks,” Dylan said.

  Hope bit into her toast. “It would be a piece of cake.”

  “You’re good to the last drop,” Dylan said.

  “I better get to work, I’m going to be late again,” Hope said.

  Dylan smiled. “Better late than never.” He kissed her, Cookie Monster nuzzling her cheek. “See you later, alligator.”

  Hope walked away before Dylan could assault her with another cliché.

  While running several hundred Odd Ducks cards, Hope trained Kiki on the DocuTech and the Baum. Within thirty minutes, Kiki was a pro on both machines.

  “A piece of cake,” Kiki said.

  “Not you, too!” Hope cried. “It’s not until tomorrow!”

  Kiki had no idea what Hope was talking about.

  Justin, on the other hand, was hopeless. He found the ON button fine. After that, it was a struggle. On a machine that had only jammed a few times in three years, Justin jammed it the first time he loaded it with paper. He “forgot” to adjust contrast settings. He “didn’t see” the buttons Hope pushed repeatedly because Hope was “going too fast!” He printed multipage documents out of order, commenting, “Does it really matter?” He “didn’t know” he had to press the COLLATE button. He inserted the staple cartridge upside down. He even fused several different orders together, requiring Hope to waste a frustrating hour separating them.