You Give Good Love

by J. J. Murray

  “Or not,” Dylan whispered.

  Hope blinked. “Or not. Sure.”

  Wow. This man has just said “or not” to me. Okay. All right. That means we’re going to make us a baby and soon. This calls for a celebration!

  “Can we go somewhere to sit and eat tonight?” Hope asked. “I am starving.”

  “I know just the place,” Dylan said.

  They ate at Bacchus, an affordable French restaurant on Atlantic Avenue, and it was exactly what Hope needed. She slurped onion soup topped with shredded Swiss cheese. She enjoyed her escargot in garlic and star anise butter, crispy goat cheese and pear beggar’s purse with fig relish, and duck rillettes with apple and onion chutney with toasted country bread. She had a little difficulty with the mussels in tomato and herb sauce, but she muscled them down along with an order of French fries and two glasses of Muscadet.

  As soon as she finished off her crème brûlée, she came up for air long enough to ask, “Can we get some chocolate mousse to go? I’m still hungry.”

  Dylan bought her an entire chocolate mousse. “You know, in case you need a midnight snack.”

  After Dylan walked her home, his hand rubbing her lower back the entire two-mile trip, Hope went immediately to the Internet to check out Johnny Vacca. Just in case. Searches at LinkedIn.com, Facebook, and the Ideal Properties website painted a rosy picture of Mr. Vacca. Testimonials touted him left and right: “I am impressed with his integrity, professionalism, intelligence, efficiency, and good humor . . . He was attentive and patient, the kind of real estate agent that seems rare this day and age . . . Mr. V only showed me what I wanted within my price range and nothing else.”

  Mr. Vacca, you’re about to make me and Dylan—and all the children he will inspire—very happy.

  The next morning, the first day of December, Hope woke early so she could walk to 1001 Flatbush Avenue before work.

  She was, in a word, “underwhelmed.”

  The windows were dirty, the sidewalk cracked and strewn with trash. She rubbed a small circle in the dirt-encrusted window. Through the gap, she saw ratty green indoor/outdoor carpeting, a reception area to the left, a hallway with several doors, a decent open space on the right, and a stairway going up along the right wall.

  Not great, but not horrible. The carpet will go. I have to go on faith about the upper two floors and the basement. She turned and looked at a tall oak tree climbing out of the sidewalk. At least we’ll get to see this tree changing throughout the year. She looked up and down the street. We have the tallest tree on the block. She patted the tree. And if a hurricane named Irene couldn’t knock you down, our little artists won’t bother you a bit.

  She rushed back up Flatbush to Kinderstuff for her morning toast and kiss.

  Shoot. I forgot Dylan’s coffee.

  “I don’t like drinking caffeine when I’m on my period,” she whispered. “I should have gotten you some, though.”

  “No, it’s okay,” Dylan said. “I haven’t been sleeping very well lately. You seem out of breath. Are you okay?”

  “It’s colder today,” Hope said. “My lungs aren’t used to it, I guess.”

  “Is there any mousse left?” Dylan asked.

  “Yes,” Hope said. “I wasn’t that hungry. You better come over tonight if you want to get some, though.”

  “I will.” He kissed her. “Something light tonight?”

  “Soup and sandwiches,” Hope said. We’re so domestic.

  “Sounds good.”

  Hope left slowly, looking back often, until Dylan closed the door. As soon as she was sure he wasn’t watching, she left Flatbush and trotted down Bergen, past Bark Hot Dogs, to Fifth Avenue. Four blocks later, she was inside a Chase Manhattan Bank about to change her life forever.

  She wrote out the withdrawal slip, counted the zeroes, and handed it to the teller. “I’d like a cashier’s check in this amount”—she pointed and did not say the number—“made out to Johnny Vacca—that’s Johnny V-A-C-C-A.”

  The teller nodded. “One moment, Miss Warren.”

  Holy cow! Hope thought, wondering about this particular American phrase. What’s holy about a cow? Oh, I know Hindu culture venerates cattle, but holy cow! But why am I thinking about cows when I’m about to walk over a mile across Brooklyn carrying a piece of paper worth fifty thousand dollars!

  The teller handed her the cashier’s check. “Are you getting a house?”

  “No,” Hope said. “A dream.”

  She folded the check once, put it in her front jeans pocket, and then checked its location about fifty times as she took Degraw Street to Third Avenue. She didn’t run exactly. It was more of a paranoid race-walk highlighted by long strides and hair whipping back and forth as she surveyed the scene ahead of her.

  Once inside the gray Ideal Properties office, she relaxed somewhat and asked the receptionist to see Johnny Vacca.

  “I’ll see if he’s here,” she said.

  I didn’t think to call ahead! What if he’s not here? What if he won’t be in until this afternoon? If I’m not at Kinderstuff later, how will I be able to explain that to Dylan?

  “Mr. Vacca will see you now,” the receptionist said. “Second door on the left.”

  I worry entirely too much. I have to stop doing that. Things are working out.

  Hope rose, took two long strides, knocked, and entered Mr. Vacca’s office. A pair of white plastic chairs sat in front of an industrial gray desk, Mr. Vacca turning to Hope in a rolling chair in worse shape than Hope’s chair. Gray hair, black mustache, black polo, gray slacks, black walking shoes, wrinkled brow.

  “Miss Warren, thank you for coming,” he said.

  Hope sat. Mr. Vacca’s gray hair matches his pants, and his black polo and shoes match his mustache and eyebrows. I wonder if he does that on purpose. He has clear blue eyes. Piercing. This is a handsome older man.

  “Like the office?” he asked.

  Not really.

  “You can be blunt, Miss Warren.”

  “It’s . . . spare,” Hope said, trying to be nice. “And please call me Hope.”

  “You’re too kind, Hope,” he said. “There are a dozen of us that share these offices, and no one could agree on how to decorate them, so we went with industrial dull and depressing. None of us are ever in the building for very long, though.”

  “I hope you haven’t been waiting too long,” Hope said.

  “Just got here.”

  “Oh.” Hope took out the check and handed it to Mr. Vacca. “I have never walked so far with so much money before.”

  He opened his briefcase and took out a file folder. “When we spoke, you kept saying ‘we.’ Do you have a partner?”

  In many wonderful ways. “Yes. I’m trying to keep this a secret from him, but I should have mentioned his name to you. Your building is a Christmas gift for my boyfriend Dylan Healy, the founder of Art for Kids’ Sake.”

  “Most guys ask for a Ferrari or golf clubs,” Mr. Vacca said. “He asked for a building?”

  “Kind of,” Hope said. “I’m trying to get him his lifelong dream. May I add him to the lease after I show him his new arts center?”

  “Of course,” he said. “I have to ask a few standard questions. Are you both employed?”

  “I’ve worked for Thrifty Digital Printing for ten years, and Dylan has worked at Kinderstuff for fifteen years. He’ll leave Kinderstuff, of course, once Art for Kids’ Sake opens. I will still be working at Thrifty, for the time being, but I plan to teach at Art for Kids’ Sake full time one day.” Now I’m thinking out loud.

  He nodded. “Will you two be occupying the building?”

  “Occupying,” Hope whispered. “Oh, are we going to live there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope so.” I can’t believe I said that out loud! “I know it would be most cost-effective for us to do so.” Wow. I am almost forcing Dylan to leave Christmas land. What if he doesn’t want to go? I am assuming so much. We seem to be moving toward moving i
n together. Maybe this will simplify the struggle.

  “When are you showing him his dream?” Mr. Vacca asked.

  “I’d like to give him this present on Christmas Eve, if it’s possible,” Hope said.

  “It’s more than possible,” he said. “The people I had to consult before okaying this deal are my family. They recommended that I start the lease once you opened for business, no matter how long it takes, and don’t be surprised if you have a bunch of my relatives applying first.”

  “I hope you have lots of relatives, Mr. Vacca,” Hope said.

  “We do,” he said. “Christmas takes forever.”

  I would love for Christmas to last that long!

  “So, if you initial here”—he turned a sheaf of papers toward her—“we agree to leave the lease starting date blank until the business officially opens.”

  Hope initialed the space. “I hope no later than the end of January.”

  He pointed to X’s on several sheets, and Hope signed her name.

  “You seem motivated, Miss Warren,” Mr. Vacca said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you were up and running the day after New Year’s.”

  Hope began filling out an information form. “Mr. Vacca, my apartment lease is up at the end of this month, so I won’t have a permanent address to put down here. May I . . .”

  “Certainly,” Mr. Vacca said. “That apartment in the basement is very nice. Quiet, insulated and paneled, thick carpet, spacious, built-in bookshelves, warm, two bedrooms, big kitchen. My nonno loved to cook.”

  I will be living at 1001 Flatbush Avenue, Hope thought. I’ll have to give notice to my current landlord, fill out change-of-address forms, start boxing up stuff—

  I don’t want to think about all that now. One small step at a time.

  “Twenty-two days,” Mr. Vacca said. “I don’t think I could keep a secret that long.”

  Hope finished the form and handed it to Mr. Vacca. “This is the season for secrets.”

  Mr. Vacca handed her a set of keys, each labeled with two numbers. “First number is the floor, second is the door. B for basement. All the locks should work fine, but if they don’t, give me a call.”

  Hope clutched the keys and started to tear up. “Sorry. These”—she shook the keys—“make everything real.” She exhaled and wiped at her eyes. “This is one of the biggest moments in my life.”

  “I imagine there will be bigger ones,” he said. “I rode by there last night. I’m going to do something about the sidewalk. You see that tree?”

  “Yes.”

  “The roots are buckling the concrete,” he said.

  “I love that tree,” Hope said.

  “Oh, I’m not cutting it down,” Mr. Vacca said. “The city planted that one over a hundred years ago, and they fine you if you harm them in any way. I’ll get a crew to break up the concrete and pour some more, if the weather cooperates. We might have to wait until spring.”

  “That’s okay.” Hope examined the keys. “Which one opens the entrance door?”

  Mr. Vacca squinted. “Should be the newest one, the only one without a sticker on it.”

  Hope found it. “Thank you so much for doing all these things for us.” She stood and offered her hand.

  Mr. Vacca shook it firmly. “You are giving the man you love his dream. My nonno’s dream of owning his very own store sixty years ago is the reason I’m here today. And you just brought me fifty K. It’s the least I can do.”

  Hope checked her watch. It’s eleven already? “I have to be going.”

  “Merry Christmas, Miss Warren,” Mr. Vacca said.

  “Merry Christmas, Mr. Vacca.”

  Hope raced as fast as her weary legs could carry her back to Thrifty. By the time I get there, I will have walked at least seven miles since eight o’clock this morning. I have burned off over four hundred calories. I should be huffing and puffing, but I’m not. Why is that? What did Kiki say? Love has made me fit. That must be it.

  Hope entered the store, and all was quiet.

  Kiki sat reading the Times. She looked up. “You are very late,” she said, folding the paper and setting it under the counter. “Justin is very mad.”

  “No, he isn’t,” Hope said. “Is he even here?”

  Kiki rolled her eyes. “He is on another assignment.”

  “At eleven-fifteen in the morning?” Hope grimaced.

  “Maybe someone is trying to surprise her lover,” Kiki said, blinking. “Did everything go okay?”

  Better than okay. “Yes.” She took off her coat. “Everything went okay.” She smiled. “Are all the orders caught up?”

  “Yes.” Kiki picked up the paper. “Someone does work here, you know.”

  Hope turned her attention to the mainframe, where she created a simple sign:

  ART FOR KIDS’ SAKE

  Dylan Healy, founder

  She printed it out, folded it once, and stuck into her coat pocket. On Christmas Eve, I’ll tape it up to the front window, and then he’ll see it, lift me high into the air—

  Hope felt someone Jamaican staring at her back.

  “What, Kiki?” Hope said, spinning around.

  Kiki squinted. “You are far too happy for someone on her period. Why are you so happy, Hope?”

  Hope spun away from Kiki. “It’s a secret.”

  “Are you engaged?” Kiki asked.

  Hope spun back. “No. What makes you think that?”

  “You have been wearing that ring,” Kiki said, “and I have been too busy to ask.”

  “And it’s so unlike you,” Hope said. “It’s a promise ring. Dylan has promised to love me and only me.”

  Kiki sighed. “I knew it was not an engagement ring. I thought Dylan would get you a much finer ring.”

  “It is a fine ring, Kiki.”

  “Too small, no diamond,” Kiki said. “What could it be then? You were gone all morning, and you were rushing around.” She snapped her fingers. “You are getting a house!”

  Close. It’s a dream with a basement apartment. “No.”

  Kiki frowned. “You are moving in with him?”

  I hope so. “No.” Hope turned away. “It’s a secret, Kiki. Leave it alone.”

  “You have won the lottery!” Kiki cried.

  Hope shook her head, scrolling down the list of finished orders on the screen. “Would I be here if I had won the lottery?”

  “Well, we know you are not pregnant,” Kiki said. “What else is there to be happy about?”

  Hope laughed. “Everything, Kiki. It’s Christmas, and I’m happy.”

  “Can I assume it involves Dylan?” Kiki asked.

  That woman is not going to leave me alone! Hope spun slowly to face Kiki. “Yes, it involves Dylan, and that is all I’m going to tell you.”

  Kiki stared at Hope. “And what of this strange Italian man calling? Does Dylan know of this man? How would Dylan react if he knew a strange Italian man was calling you? Oh, and what would Dylan think if he knew that you ran out and met with this strange Italian man this morning when you should have been at work? I think I may bring these things up when Dylan arrives. Dylan is my friend. I will hold no secrets from him.”

  I have had enough of this! Hope stood. “Me nuh put up with yuh farseness, Kiki Clarke!”

  Kiki dropped the newspaper.

  Where is this coming from? I sound like my mother and grandmother. Did they feel this powerful, too? “Nuh more wit’ yuh farseness, Kiki!”

  Kiki slid slowly off the stool. “Me farseness?”

  Hope put her hands on her hips. “Yuh meddlin’, dotish vooman.”

  As Kiki’s mouth dropped open, she began wagging a finger in the air. “But a wha di rass fi tak ’bout? Listen to yuh with yuh facety talk! Nex’ t’ing yuh know, me be vexed!”

  What the freak am I talking about? Oh, she’s not saying that to me! “Facety talk! Yuh nuh go be vex! Yuh nuh gon’ frig up me surprise!”

  “Frig up?” Kiki threw out her chin. “Yuh nuh ’ave broughtupsy
! Yuh buttu!”

  What? I have no home training? “Yuh nuh got broughtupsy, Kiki! Yuh a maco and a sip sip!”

  Kiki shook her head rapidly. “What be dis sheggery? Yuh bol’ face beti, now she boof me, why she cos jhanjat so? Go dey, gyurl!”

  Now she is saying that I’m rude? That I’m causing trouble? “Go dey, gyurl!” Hope growled, stepping inches from Kiki’s cute little sneakers. I could crush both her feet with just one of my boots! “Yuh be bazodee! Eh! Eh! Yuh stickin’! Eh! Eh! Yuh rude, gyurl!”

  “Yuh got hard ears, always give me da cut eye, Miss Natty Dread,” Kiki scowled.

  “Miss Natty Dread!” Hope shouted. “Jeez-an-ages! Yuh biggety, wining an’ makin’ style and shakin’ yuh front like a femme desserrée for the customers whole day!”

  Kiki squinted. “Like a what?”

  “Like a loose vooman, yuh jagabat,” Hope said, her growl becoming a snarl. “Vous tremblez vos seins et votre derrière à n’importe quoi ce qui entre de ce magasin, en incluant Dylan!”

  “No fair!” Kiki shouted. “English or Island! No French!”

  Hope put her face in Kiki’s face. “I’ll speak American then. What?”

  Kiki stepped back. “Every hoe a dem stick a bush.”

  Hope leaped forward. “Yuh call me a ho, yuh freshwater Yang-key?”

  “Damn, Hope,” Kiki said, stepping behind the stool. “What I said means whatever floats your boat.”

  “What? ‘Every hoe a dem stick a bush’? Dey nuh ‘boat’ in dat phrase! Dat bubu!” Hope slapped the top of the stool. “Do so eh like so! Hog know where ta rub he skin. Yuh nuh bully me, Kiki Clarke!”

  Kiki closed her eyes. “Oh, Lawd, gyaal bright! Why fi galang so? Tek set pon you, lef mi nuh. Gyaal, gwaan!”

  Hope moved the stool out of the way, pinning Kiki to the counter. “Me not annoying. Yuh be queen of annoying around here. Yuh shake yuh tot tots and boomsie at anyt’ing dat come in here, including Dylan!”

  “I do not!” Kiki cried. “That is the way I am to everyone!”

  “Then you are annoying to everyone!” Hope sneered.

  Kiki looked up at Hope. “Let me by.”