Perfect Pitch

by Amy Lapwing

  He kissed her cheek and asked, “You want to be on top?” She moved out from under him and he laid down. She sat on his legs and caressed his shoulders and chest, the creamy, fine-textured, almost hairless skin. Like angel food cake his skin was. His eyes were glazed with anticipated pleasure, he rolled them back. He looked ugly to her, like an organism in those animal sex documentaries and she was disgusted, like when she used to watch porno movies with Rourke. It was titillating at first but she always ended up sickened. It was someone else’s pleasure, it had nothing to do with her, it was wrong of her to watch. It was wrong of her to see James like this. She got off of him and put on her panties.

  “I have spermicide,” he said, sitting up and fumbling in the nightstand drawer.

  She put on her bra and reached for her pants.

  “What’s wrong?” he said, unprepared for the possibility of her returning to dock just barely launched.

  “What’s right, you mean,” she said, pulling on her pants. She got up and looked for her sweater.

  He put the pillow over his suited-up erection. “What do you mean?” She was putting on her sweater. “Justina?”

  She looked for her socks and looked at him. He was dumbfounded, too confused to be hurt, yet. She found her socks and pulled them on and slipped on her shoes.

  Frantic, he put on his underpants and jeans and followed her as she got her jacket from the chair back. “I’m sorry,” he stammered, “I just— You’re not going?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, waving him away. “See ya.” She went out the door.

  He paused in the doorway, trying to understand what this moment had to do with the previous one, as though he had blinked and missed the key part. “Wait! Justina!” He followed her down the stairs and out to her car.

  “Just let me go, James!” She got in and tried to pull the door shut, but he held it.

  “Justina, you got to tell me what’s going on. You never say anything. Just tell me!”

  “I have told you, James. You don’t want to believe me.”

  “What?”

  “Just let me go, okay? Jesus. I’m sorry,” she said and she shut the door and started her car and drove away.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Out and Back, Reprise

  ¡Maldito sea! There she was again. Michael tried not to look her way, but Pascale kept talking to him, so he had to. James kept taking Justina’s hand, then letting go so she could eat her sandwich. This is new, Michael thought, forcing himself to eat and talk. Something’s happened. Or did I fail to notice yesterday?

  Michael left Charles to enjoy the lunch hour with the rest of the lingerers and zoomed back to his office, his brain abuzz with condemnations of Justina.

  She had cared for that guy all along! She was just playing the field and I was first base! She’s not just young, she’s fickle! Poor bastard, I don’t give him two months.

  He sat at his desk and stared out the window.

  She smiled when she saw me looking, seeing him holding her hand. She’s enjoying this. What’s the matter with her? She already killed me once. What’s the matter with her?

  It was a long afternoon, and he cut it short and went home at three.

  The nearly-ripe apples hung like globe earrings from the many-lobed branches, but they were invisible to Michael who strode quickly down the orchard’s aisles, waiting impatiently for the exercise to calm him. Yesterday’s heat was gone, probably for good, and the gray sky was easier to take than the glaring, cheerful blue of the past week. He needed to do something, something simple and non-cerebral to get her out of his mind. He thought of leaving, going back to Atlanta perhaps; but that would only work if it was permanent.

  He looked up at the waiting trees, waiting for their progeny to grow just a little more and finally let go of them, waiting for the relief of picking. He did not want to leave this place, for all the malls in Atlanta. He needed to adjust, give himself time and simply adjust. He went home and called Charles to see if he wanted to go out to dinner, and they spent a comfortable hour at Wokking Tall, talking little, rehashing old jokes.

  He submitted to the Justina and James Show for the rest of the week, trying to talk as much as possible to keep his mind occupied. He thought he registered a lessening of intensity in the hand-holding, but maybe he was just getting used to it. Good luck, hombre, he silently wished to James.

  On Saturday he did his marketing and got into the line with the Singing Check-out Lady. She remembered his name and he certainly remembered hers, and she joined the “Love Me Tender” already in progress on the store’s speakers. He harmonized with her on the last verse. “For my darling, I love you, and I always will.”

  “I thought you didn’t sing?” she said, surprised.

  “I never said it.”

  “You sounded good!”

  “Thank you, Helena. That’s high praise, coming from you.”

  She ran the last item over the scanner and told him his total.

  “Helena, I want to introduce myself properly. I’m Michael Calderón.”

  “Oh, nice to meet you!” She shook his hand and had him repeat his last name, straining to understand through his accent. “I’m Helena Bobo.”

  “Bobo?”

  “Yeah. Want to make something of it?”

  “No, I want to call you.”

  She blushed and smiled with deeper delight as she looked at him, really looked at him, appreciating the effect of his good looks on her. “I’m in the book. B-O-B-O. No, wait, my husband’s in the book.”

  Michael looked again at her left hand: no ring, same as last week.

  “Uh! Where is my brain?” she joshed. She looked under the counter. “Oh, phew! I keep it there for safe keeping; this job, you know.” She smiled, he was supposed to laugh; he tried. “My ex-husband, I meant to say. He’s the one in the book. I just moved. Here—” She wrote down her phone number on his ATM slip, and handed it to him. “There, that’s my new number.”

  “I’m so glad I am not disappointed.”

  “I’m glad you’re glad. Now, call me, I’m not going to forget.”

  “I will. ‘Bye.” He got his loaded cart from bag boy Roy and smiled again at her as he wheeled it out of the store. !Ay, Dios mio! he thought, here we go. He called her that night and made a date for next Saturday night and took down her Dunster address. Charles was coming to dinner tomorrow. He could tell him he had gotten another woman. He wondered if his friend would be glad for him. He probably would not believe him; he would have to produce the lady in question. He wondered what he would think of her. He would probably call her a lusty wench.

  There were any of a number of places they could go after dinner, Michael would just ask Helena when they got together. He checked his closet and determined he was okay in the apparel department, there were all the new purchases made with Pepita’s help in Atlanta. He picked up a bottle of white wine while at the store on Saturday. Helena did not seem at all shy with pre-date jitters as he went through her line. “It’s the only place I know! Where you just have to wish to make it so! Let’s go up on the roof!” Michael nodded his head in time to the music, said, “See you tonight!” and went home. He chose the gray silk herringbone sport coat and dark gray slacks and a blue and gold tie. He hoped he was not overdressing; he decided it was safe to err on the side of too much on a first date, that was probably how she was figuring it.

  He took along a map of downtown Dunster needlessly, finding her building on the first try, a two-family New Englander on the top of a hill opposite a park. The teenagers smoking on the steps gave him a nod as he passed them and rang her bell.

  She had on a blue satin bathrobe and all the makeup she owned when she opened to him. “Hi! Come in! I’ll be just a sec. Sit down! Don’t mind the mess, I don’t!” She went into her bedroom, keeping the door cracked. He sat on the loosely slip covered couch and looked at the magazines on her coffee table. They were mostly fashion and decorating monthlies. He picked up a copy of Cycle and br
owsed it.

  “Good thing I wasn’t ready,” she called. “Now I know what to wear.”

  “It’s nothing fancy, I just, I don’t know—”

  “You wanted to look nice. You do!” She came out in a short, bright pink evening dress, a string of faux pearls about her neck, her hair pulled up atop her head. “Ta-da!”

  He stood. “You look very nice.”

  She turned around. “And you look very cute. Could you zip me?” He zipped up the back of her dress and was rewarded with a glimpse of her brassiere, black and lacy. Back closure, he noted. Her skin was very tanned and covered with freckles; he imagined it was thick; he wondered if it was soft.

  “I’m ready as I’ll ever be,” she said and they went out and got into his car, the teenagers mutely staring at her through their slits of eyes. He took her to a restaurant in Shanham, which impressed her no end. “This is a really nice place, I can’t order any of these dishes!” He wanted wine, but she did not drink, so he ordered a glass of white for himself. She talked; she talked about her boss at the grocery store; she talked about her other job at the dress shop in the mall; he ordered himself another glass of wine and responded to her questions of just which South American country he came from and just what did he do, anyway; then she talked about her bird that got away when she moved two months ago.

  “If you ever see a yellow-crested Cockateil, catch it! I still owe fifty bucks on it. That’s the story of my life, all my money flies out the window. But you don’t want to talk about my money troubles! Let’s have dessert, you want to?” She ordered Chocolate Retro Pie and asked for two forks and let him eat most of it while she thought about where she wanted to go afterwards.

  “Hm,” she thought out loud. “We could go to a movie, but then I won’t be able to gaze into your eyes. Or, we could go to a bar, but I don’t drink, but that’s okay if you want to.” He shook his head, chewing. “We could go dancing, but I got the wrong shoes,” she continued, taking a nibble of the pie. She hummed softly. “I know! Let’s go to one of those tapioca bars!”

  He sipped his coffee. “You’re still hungry?”

  “Huh? You know, where you sing along to songs, on a little stage?”

  “Oh! Yeah, that’s, eh, what do they call that?”

  “Tapioca!”

  “Right!” He laughed. He paid the check, she wanted to leave the tip. “Please, Helena, this is my night.”

  “Then I get to pick up the tab at the bar.”

  “No, please. I’m old-fashioned, humor me.”

  “Okay. But next time we go out, I’m paying.”

  “If you like.” They got up, Helena tossed a few bills onto the tray with Michael’s charge slip. “You make me feel cheap,” he chided.

  “Hey, these guys never get enough, I know, I’ve done this before.” They left and drove to a karaoke bar in a Mexican restaurant down the road a mile. They sat near the stage to please Helena, and Michael ordered a soda for her and a scotch and soda for himself. Helena’s expression was bright with encouragement for the brave patrons who got up to sing, leading the applause and whooping with appreciation.

  Michael handed her the song list. “Pick one, I bet you know them all.”

  She looked it over, singing snatches of some of them. “Oh, ‘Chances Are!’ ‘Chances are, da-da-da-da-da-da-da!’ I don’t know the words too good. ‘That’s Amore!’ ‘When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie!’ ‘Mack the Knife!’ That one’s hard, it’s kind of fast. ‘Love Me Tender!’ We could do a duet, want to?” Michael shook his head. “Oh, come on, I’ve heard you, you’re good.” She leaned closer to him. “You’re a professional! You can’t sit here and listen to all of us and not sing.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s being a bad sport. Come on!”

  “Pick one, we want to hear you,” he encouraged her. “Pick one! Pick one, Helena!” He scooted his chair next to hers and looked at the list with her. “This one, ‘Dancing in the Street,’ you know this, don’t you?” She vacillated, he cajoled her.

  “Okay.” She got up and belted out “Dancin’ in the Street!” The room applauded and whistled their appreciation, a couple of men shouting, “More! More!” through their cigarettes. Helena had another song on deck and she launched into “Cherish.” She sang a third song, and decided to let someone else have a chance. “Whoo!” she crowed as she sat back down.

  “You were really terrific!” Michael signaled the waitress. “You want another Seven-Up?” She shook her head, she had hardly touched her soda. He ordered himself another scotch.

  “Your turn,” she said. He shook his head. “Come on, I did, now you go.”

  “Let me just sit here with you,” he said, leaning closer. “I thought you wanted to gaze into my eyes.”

  She laughed softly. “They’re such nice eyes.”

  He cocked his head as he looked at her. “How did you learn to sing?”

  She shrugged. “Just listening to the radio, I guess.”

  “You never had lessons?” She shook her head. “You never sang with a chorus?”

  “Oh, sure, in high school.”

  “You learned your technique in high school?”

  She snorted. “What technique?”

  “You’re a natural singer, then. You’re lucky.” He sipped his drink.

  She smiled and glanced at the man singing “Folsom Prison,” deepening his scowl to enhance the impression. “Sing it, Johnny!” she enthused. She looked back at Michael, her expression mysterious and smiling.

  “What? Why do you look at me like that?” he asked.

  “We’re not leaving here till you sing, fat lady.”

  He took another sip of his drink and gestured to her for the song list. He shook his head and pressed his lips together as he studied it, then put the list down and looked at her.

  “What’s it going to be?” she asked, crossing her arms.

  He took another sip of his drink and stood up. “You sure you want this?”

  “Whoo!” She applauded. “Yeah, give him the mike! Whoo!”

  Michael stepped onto the stage, breathed deeply and started the machine on the Spanish love song “Perfidia.” His alcohol-soaked vocal folds were not at their best, but they were more than equal to the task; besides, he was miked. “Why should I look for other kisses if your lips no longer want to kiss mine?” He did not know the English so he gave up on reading the screen and sang the Spanish lyrics from memory. He was rather relaxed now, after his two scotches, and his body waved gracefully to the Latin beat beneath the flimsy synthesized accompaniment. Helena bobbed her head from side to side as she watched him, raising her eyebrows when he looked at her. The song ended and they applauded and some women near the stage called for more. The cigaretted men in the back called, “Bring on the blonde!” Michael laid the microphone atop the machine and sat back down.

  “Oh, man!” gushed Helena. “That was dreamy! You’ve done this before.”

  “I swear to God.”

  “It was fun, wasn’t it! You were having fun, I could tell!

  “Everything’s fun with you, Helena.”

  “Hey! I like to have a good time. Do a duet with me! Sing “Love Me Tender” with me.”

  “That’s all from me, tonight.”

  “Me, too, then.”

  He tried to get her to sing some more, he was pretty sure she wanted to. But she was as stubborn as he, so he paid their tab and put down a tip, tossing another dollar down after glancing at her. They got up to go and Helena put a five dollar bill on the table while she thought he was not looking.

  “I used to do this job, too, Helena.”

  “You’re kidding me! Then you know they only get paid a dollar an hour!”

  He squeezed her waist as they walked out. They sat in the idling car. “Where shall we go now?” he asked.

  “Oh, oh! Let me say it.” She cleared her throat. “‘Your place or mine?’” She giggled. “I’ve never said that before!”

  “No
one says that.”

  “I just did.”

  “Except you, Helena. Let’s see, we can go to my place. I don’t have a karaoke machine, however.”

  “I don’t want a karaoke machine,” she said.

  “What do you want?”

  She smiled, her chin sinking into her neck, the whites of her eyes big. “I don’t know. I think I just want to go to bed.”

  “Okay. Your place or mine?”

  She laughed and slapped his arm. “I mean, go to sleep, you know, nitey-nite?”

  “All right,” he smiled, and he started out of the parking lot. He drove them to her house, letting her talk, the alcohol making him tired.

  “You want to come up for some coffee?” she suggested. “You look too tired to drive anymore.”

  “I don’t know why I’m so tired. I guess it’s not often I drink that much.”

  “You don’t need it, you’re good company without it. Oh! I don’t mean you were bad company tonight! You were fun!”

  “I think I do want some coffee, if you don’t mind.” They went up to her apartment and he sat again on the floweredy couch while she brewed him some coffee. She brought it in in a Muppets Rolf the Dog mug and sat in a chair opposite him with a glass of water. She watched him sip and smile lazily at her. “It’s good,” he said.

  “Not too strong?”

  “I like it strong.”

  “I thought you might, Coffee Man.” Her name for him pierced the alcohol cloud about his head. Hey, Music Man. She was much older, she talked a lot more, she wore perfume and much more make-up. She had been fine before she said that.

  She watched him and seemed to be trying to figure something out. “You always like this?” she asked.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. You’re nice, you’re polite and everything.” He smiled, wondering what she did not like. “But something else,” she continued. “Kind of, sad. Kind of quiet, like there’s a sad guy underneath the happy guy.”