“You do more than that,” I say, as Hua rips on the bottom of my feet with the grater. All the jostling around is undercutting my ability to make a point. “You just think the worst of every guy I go out with.”
“It’s not that I think the worst of Jake, Nicki. It’s that I didn’t trust him. I knew he was going to—”
“Going to do what?”
“Whatever he did.” She picks up a bottle of nail polish and uses the cap to scratch her nose so she won’t mess up her mani. “Something stupid. So, um, what did he do?” Before I even have a chance to answer she starts talking again. “I mean, besides steal your money.”
“He didn’t steal my money,” I say. “You said it yourself, he’s coming back.”
“Nicki, you’re crazy. You’re pouring how much money into that restaurant? You never wanted a restaurant until he came along.” She practically spits the words at me. “Get real.”
“You’re not helping me,” I say. “Also, that’s not true. I did want a restaurant. I wanted something. I’ve never said I wanted to appraise things forever.” My whole body feels like it’s on fire when Peaches confronts me on stuff like this. “You’re making me feel even worse.”
“I can’t make you feel anything.”
“Right. Did you read that in a magazine article or something? Was that in Cosmo? Right after ‘99 Best Ways to Blow His Mind in Bed’?”
Here we are again. I hate when things devolve like this, but somehow it always does.
Hua weighs in. “Say you’re sorry.”
We both glare at her.
“Who? Not me,” Peaches says.
“You both,” Hua says.
“Yeah, not me, either,” I say.
Hua gives me a look that’s the perfect proportion of kind and disappointed, which tells me her kids probably behave extremely well, because you wouldn’t fuck around with that face. That look makes me want to say I’m sorry.
“Okay, I’m sorry. But Peaches, look what I did! I made a fool of myself,” I say. “I thought it was okay because Jake gave me twenty thousand dollars. I did what you said! And he still screwed me over.”
“He gave you the money in a paper bag, Nicki.” She says paper bag like she’s saying dog poop. “That should have been a hint.”
I give Hua a pleading look. When I put down my dukes, Peaches is supposed to say she’s sorry, not take my vulnerability and get a couple more punches in. “Do you see how she is?”
“Peaches. Maybe you soften some.” Hua says it real quiet. She’s either a better person than either of us, or she has a lot of sisters and has learned from years of practice.
“Hua, will you adopt us? We need you,” I say.
Peaches almost looks tearful. Almost. “I just don’t want anyone to hurt you. I’m protective of you, lady.” She pauses, like she’s considering whether she should say what she says next. “I love you.”
When she says this, it’s like there’s a cotton candy maker in my heart. “Peaches! That is so sweet!”
Hua looks all proud. “You girls, good.”
Peaches touches my hand. “I know I can be a bitch sometimes. But it’s only because I want to protect you.” She keeps going. “I didn’t mean to be judgmental. But Jake isn’t good enough for you. No one’s good enough for you. Except maaaaaybe Prince William. Because Princess Diana was rad. And maybe Paul Newman, but he’s dead, right? He was great, though—crazy good-looking and doing all kinds of charity and loved his regular-looking wife for a whole lifetime. That’s what you deserve, Mama. That’s the kind of guy I want to see you with.”
“You’re being weird now,” I say. I don’t know what’s more uncomfortable: Peaches being mean or Peaches being nice.
“We’re gonna get through this, chicky. We are. It’s not even that big a deal.”
She reaches out and grabs my hand, smearing my nail polish. We both fall into gales of laughter.
* * *
Eventually, I was going to have to face the restaurant. And now I am. Miguel stopped calling a couple of days ago—he’s too polite to badger me—and I’ve spent the past two days deluding myself that somehow Jake was going to just miraculously show up and handle everything. That hasn’t happened, obviously. When I walk in, all the workers stop what they’re doing and stare. The lead man puts down his paintbrush and comes over to me.
“Hi, miss. I’ll go get Miguel.”
Ugh. My face is pounding. Is it possible for your heartbeat to be trying to escape via your face? Because that’s what’s happening to me. I look at the guys, who look away, and I try not to incinerate myself from shame. There’s something about seeing the results of my stupidity—twenty thousand dollars I put into this thing!—that makes me want to die. If I ever imagined myself as a strong, independent woman, I now know the truth: I’m a strong, independent woman who is also a mess. A hot one.
Miguel comes out from the back of the restaurant. He’s with a guy who I recognize as the heating and air-conditioning guy. “Hi, Nicki.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say. I feel like it’s my fault Jake has disappeared, that I’m responsible for getting Miguel into this situation.
“It’s okay.” Miguel is such a sweetheart. He doesn’t want me to feel bad.
“It’s definitely not okay.”
“I mean, I understand,” he says. His eyes show he’s being really nice. I can’t believe my luck. If I had to stand totally defenseless in front of someone, I would want it to be someone like this. “Have you heard from Jake?”
I shake my head. I fight back tears. Why am I suddenly crying? I was fine an hour ago.
“It’s okay,” he says.
“It’s most definitely not okay,” I say again. I laugh while I cry.
“I called his job,” Miguel says. He tilts his head down so he can see my face better. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I nod quickly, hoping this will stifle the tears. It occurs to me that for the past few months my life has been a little like when people only style the front of their hair. The parts you can see in the mirror are great. The bangs are perfect, the pieces are lying just right at the shoulders. But in the back, it’s a rat’s nest. I’ve always wondered. Do they not know it’s looking like hell back there? Well, now I know. The answer is: they really don’t know.
“They haven’t heard from him,” Miguel says. “I take it you haven’t, either?”
I nod again, harder this time. Then I realize that’s probably the wrong answer, so I shake my head. “Yes, I haven’t,” I say. Then I’m laughing at how stupid I sound. I can’t help it. It’s funny. Miguel laughs, too. The heating and air-conditioning guy must think I’m ready for a nice white straitjacket and a forty-eight-hour hold in a psych ward.
“It’s going to be okay. We’re on schedule down here. I want you to know, I’m still one hundred percent in this. I believe in this restaurant. This location. You.”
“Are you serious? But I’m a disaster.”
“Temporarily.” He smiles. “That’ll pass. But this is a good project, Nicki. You shouldn’t give up on it.”
For one second, I feel like the luckiest woman in the world. People say terrible situations have a way of bringing out the best in people. Now I know what they’re talking about. “Are you for real?”
“Let me show you what we’ve been up to.” Miguel proceeds to show me the new kitchen, the floors, the ceilings, the storage, the refrigerators. It’s a real restaurant.
“I figure we’ll be ready to open in early December,” he says.
“That’s a little over a month from now!” I didn’t think we would be ready so soon. Then again, I’ve had no idea what’s going on here. This was all Jake’s project.
“Yep,” he says. Clearly, Miguel is proud of himself. He should be. It’s amazing. “I hope you don’t mind. I just used my best judgment on things.”
>
“Oh my God, of course!” I can’t believe he’s apologizing to me for the fact that he made decisions while I was busy lying in bed feeling sorry for myself.
“Miguel, I’m so sorry,” I say. “I’ll get your investment back. I promise.”
“I’m not worried about that,” he says. “I’m just going to keep doing the work until it’s done. This place is going to be great.”
Maybe he isn’t worried, but I sure as hell am.
12
* * *
RONNIE
It’s been three days since I moved into Nicki’s house, which makes three days total I’ve been living in a place where no one tells me when to wake up, shower, eat, take a shit, eat, work, eat, hang out, or sleep. The halfway house wasn’t really freedom. It was prison in a crappy 1980s apartment building. Not that I’m done with the Oregon Residential Reentry Facility completely. I still have to check in once a month, and technically, I’m supposed to get a job, but like Melissa said, no one’s really paying attention. As long as I don’t commit a crime (which really means don’t get caught committing a crime), I should be fine.
Right now I’m making Cody and Nicki my job. I’ve been waking up early, doing a full breakfast for them, packing Cody a lunch, then cleaning it all up while Nicki gets ready for work. I’m like a stay-at-home grandpa and I love it.
Nicki wanders into the kitchen every morning around 7:15. I’ve already got the milk foamed and I’m warming up her mug for a cappuccino from the Nespresso machine. Talk about changes since I went into prison—as far as I’m concerned, real espresso you can make in the privacy of your own kitchen is right up there with the invention of the cell phone.
“What time are you guys gonna be home tonight?” I usually plan dinner in the morning, then go shopping while Nicki and Cody are out. “I wanted to make something nice for dinner.”
“You don’t have to,” Nicki says. “I was going to get takeout.”
“No, I want to,” I say. “I love cooking for you guys. After all those years of feeding the masses, making dinner for you and Cody is a walk in the park.”
Nicki looks me up and down, with a wince on her face. “Are those the same clothes you were wearing yesterday?”
I only have two outfits, so the answer is yes. A pair of khaki pants issued by the halfway house, some jeans, a golf-type shirt, a crewneck sweater, and an insulated winter jacket Melissa gave me that had been left behind by some other inmate.
“You know what? Come on, get in the car. You’re coming with me today,” she says. “We’re going shopping.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’ll take the bus to Goodwill and pick some things up. I’ve been meaning to do it, I’ve just been so busy around here, that I—”
“Ronnie. Come on,” she says. “I’m in a good mood, you should take advantage of it.”
This is how Nicki has been since I moved in. She swings from warm to angry—sometimes inside the same hour. I knew it might be like this. That girl has been hurt a lot in her life—and by me! She wants to get close, but she’s also afraid. The moment she feels nice toward me, she gets scared and chases me away, usually with her attitude, which can range from irritated to sarcastic or aggravated. It’s textbook anxious attachment. Beth wasn’t a stable mother. And like I said, your attachment style becomes the way you deal with closeness (or don’t) for the rest of your life. People don’t realize that.
Anyway, I just have to ride it out. Keep reassuring her that I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. Which won’t change Nicki at her core, but she will calm down. Maybe start to trust me a little more. I can start by taking her up on her offer.
“Well, okay then. I’ll say yes.”
“Good. I’ll be ready in five minutes. I just have a couple of phone calls to make for work.”
Fifteen minutes later we’re walking through the Lloyd Center shopping mall, on our way to get me some new clothes. It’s early, so the place is just about empty. I see that there’s still a skating rink in here, though. Nice that some things don’t change.
“Sweetheart, I really appreciate this,” I say. “I have a hundred dollars left over from the halfway house. You sure you don’t want to go somewhere cheaper?” I really don’t want her to think I’m taking advantage of her in any way.
“Don’t be silly, keep it,” she says. “I have money. You might as well have some halfway decent clothes. It’s fine.”
“This is like old times for us, huh?” Nicki and I used to go shopping on our Saturdays together when she was little. It was one of the few activities we could both enjoy in a town where it rains five months out of the year. She’d get new clothes and I’d flirt with the salesgirls.
“I guess,” she says, making it clear she’s not about to take any trips down memory lane.
We pass Nordstrom. “That place hasn’t changed, has it?” I say.
“It’s Nordstrom, so that’s the whole point,” Nicki says. “Good taste never changes.”
The rest of the mall feels like walking through Vegas. Everything’s so slick and sensational. Bells and whistles everywhere. It is brighter, louder, and sexier than I remember it. Several stores have photographs the size of walls. Another one has computers and is lit like a hospital. In every store window, the mannequins are very skinny and they all have nipples. The mannequins have nipples? Pointy, jutting out, it’s-freezing-in-here nipples. I guess that’s what it takes to get people’s attention these days.
We head toward the middle of the mall. There’s a really cute young girl handing out flyers in front of a store. I take one from her because pretty girls are fun to look at and I like taking an opportunity to talk to them. I’m not sure why Nicki considers that such a crime. “Why, thank you! You sure are pretty,” I say to the girl. “What is this?”
She tells me about a sale they’re having. Twenty percent off everything in the store. Nicki is standing there, impatient, wanting me to leave. But I think a good deal is a good deal. “Let’s check it out,” I say. “Twenty percent off? I know a good deal when I hear one.”
“The whole store smells like Axe body spray,” Nicki says. I don’t know what she’s talking about. “Teenage boy aftershave. They all wear it and it’s suffocating. They’re all like extras in a party scene.”
I agree that this place smells really strong, and the lighting is very low. It’s downright dark in here. Once my eyes adjust, I can see that all the kids who work here are hotties.
“You’re not kidding,” I say. “That guy’s body looks like a forty-hour-a-week job.”
“Can we leave?” Nicki’s looking like she might throw a temper tantrum. “This is where Cody would shop.”
“I’ll just take a look,” I say. “Maybe I can find something in here.”
I head straight for a rack of sweaters, passing stuff for women on my way. “Check these out,” I say. I hold up two button-down shirts with collars. One polka dot. The other plaid. “These are you, baby. Tell me these aren’t Nicki Daniels.”
Nicki looks at the shirts, up at me, and back at the shirts again, and the expression on her face is just like—and I mean just like—when she was a little girl and we would go shopping together . . .
I pull up in front of Beth’s house, and Nicki’s in the window, waiting for me. She jumps up and disappears from the window. By the time I’m out of the car, she has the front door to the duplex apartment open, letting all the cold, damp air into the house. “Close that door,” Beth says. “It’s getting wet in here.” But Nicki doesn’t care. She’s so excited. Every Saturday I pick her up at noon and we drive around in my brand-new 1983 Mercedes. We listen to the radio, drive around, go get lunch, usually over in North Portland. I bring her around to Dixie’s and the Hi-Lite and all my stomping grounds. She’s so cute. Everyone loves her. She’s like my mascot, the most adorable five-year-old girl in the world. So smart, and she talks like a grown-u
p. “Hello, Mr. Mal!” she says. “Good afternoon, Miss Phyllis!” She just charms the dickens out of everyone.
Then we go shopping. I always take her to Nordstrom and buy her the expensive stuff. Nothing but the best for my little girl! On this particular day, I’m going to get her something special for Easter. “Pick out whatever you want,” I say, “it’s yours.” Nicki takes forty-five minutes to decide which dress she wants. She is not fooling! This is her opportunity to get what she wants, and she is not going to waste it. The choice comes down to a lime green number with a velvet ribbon and a pink chiffon princess-looking thing. She’s in love with the chiffon from the pink one, and she’s in love with the velvet ribbon from the green one, and she’s trying to hustle the saleslady into taking the green velvet ribbon and putting it on the chiffon dress. That’s my little girl. Takin’ after her daddy. She must stand there for ten minutes, trying to figure out how to get what she wants. But she doesn’t plead, or cry, or beg. She appeals to logic. And when the saleslady says no, she goes back to thinking. There is only one way to solve this:
I buy them both.
We leave that store and Nicki is probably the happiest five-year-old girl in the world. This might be the most powerful thing I have ever done in my life to make Nicki happy. I’ve never felt so proud of myself. That day, I lived up to being a good dad.
I take her back home and she can’t stop talking about the dresses and how she got them both. Of course, Beth looks at them, disgusted. The two dresses together probably cost half her month’s rent. She says something under her breath about my need to be worshipped. That I’d rather put stars in the eyes of a little girl than put a roof over her head. And you know what? She was right. I was so full of ego. I did what made me feel good. Still, it made Nicki damn happy, much happier than paying the rent, so I didn’t regret it.
Besides, neither of us knew that two months later I would catch my first major case. I wouldn’t see Nicki again outside of prison until 1989.
Multiple Listings Page 13
