I snap out of the memory. Nicki is standing at the next rack over, flipping through shirts. She wants to make this quick. “Are you a large or an extra-large? Large.” She pulls out a blue plaid and a green-checked shirt. “I like the button-down better. Preppy.”
She holds the shirt up to my chest. “What do you think?”
This is the most loving gesture Nicki has made toward me since I got out. I feel like she’s the parent and I’m the child and she’s taking care of me. She wants me to have a nice shirt that’s preppy. If I think about this for more than a second I might break down. So instead, I tease.
“How do my eyes look?” I’m teasing, but serious.
“Like you could get a date if you wanted one,” she says, teasing back. “But not in here.” She chuckles at her own statutory rape joke. I chuckle, too.
For one second, I feel accepted by her. One second.
Nicki’s phone rings, a nice-sounding chime. Reminds me I have to put a little more work into my cell phone ring game. Mine’s still on the one it came with in the package. It sounds like a children’s toy piano. Everybody else has something custom. At some point I have to ask about how you do that.
“I have to take this,” Nicki says, looking down at it. “Figure out what you want and I’ll be right back in to pay for it. Before I file a class action suit against this place for lung poisoning from this god-awful smell.”
“This is Nicki,” she says into the phone. “Yep. Go ahead.”
She smiles as she walks into the mall and I smile back. She’s right, the smell in here is god-awful.
* * *
The next day, I’m napping in my room when I hear the front door open. I’ve been sleeping like a mofo since I got out of the halfway house. Every night nine hours, plus a nap during the day—it’s like I’m catching up on everything I missed after sleeping with one eye open since 1998. My daytime naps are packed with dreams, all the unconscious stuff I guess I’m trying to process, so I’m groggy as hell. It takes me a long time to wake up.
The first thing I notice is a man’s footsteps. Heavier, but not real heavy. Must be Cody—but somehow it doesn’t really sound like him. I slide my feet onto the floor, and that’s when I hear the voice.
“No, man, I’m just running a quick errand. I’ll be over there in fifteen minutes. Yeah, bye.”
It’s the boyfriend.
Nicki hasn’t told me much of anything about what is going on with this guy, but I already know this: he doesn’t love her enough. I know that because if he did, she would look different. She would feel different. Taken care of. Relaxed. Because that’s how women come across when they’re being loved by a good man. But that’s not what’s happening here, and she doesn’t seem to see it.
I have a theory. This guy, he’s a restaurant manager, right? They don’t make that much money. He probably sees her as an opportunity to get a life he wants without having to earn it himself. She’s got money—I don’t know how much, but it’s enough to drive that particular car, pay for this nice house, and buy me shit like it’s nothing. She’s also generous—I saw that yesterday. She bought me probably a thousand dollars’ worth of really nice clothes. Talking cashmere sweaters. She did not have to do that. But she did. She probably did it for this guy, too.
If he loved her, he’d be here. He’d want to know about her dad. He’d want to protect her from me, frankly. He’d make me prove to him that I’m good enough for her. And he’s not doing any of that. Instead, he’s coming into the house in the middle of the day when he thinks no one is home. I decide to just listen a minute.
Nicki mentioned they’re investing in a restaurant together. She said the boyfriend put up a bunch of money. But something’s off there. From hearing her talk, and she only said a sentence or two, I got that they’re more connected over the new restaurant than anything else. And what about the house she said she’s buying? Is he in on that? The other thing is, she didn’t smile big when she spoke about him. She didn’t talk about babies and gardens and lifetimes and sunsets. All of which tells me there’s not enough love here.
I blame myself. Because, using a woman? Being logical about what a woman can do for you? That’s me. That’s how I am. And a girl’s going to bond to men who offer the same kind of painful feelings as Daddy did. You know, the sins of the father. Nicki doesn’t even know what “enough love” feels like. She probably thinks this is all the love there is to have.
I peek out through a crack in the door. I don’t see anything, but I can hear him going through every drawer in the dining room, opening them, rummaging around, then closing them with a slam. He must have found what he’s looking for because the sound just stopped and he’s going into the bathroom and peeing. Clearly, he doesn’t think anyone is here. Which means Nicki hasn’t told him about me. Which means Nicki probably hasn’t spoken to him at all. Hmmm. I quickly calculate whether it is more to my daughter’s advantage to have me confront this asshole or not.
I decide not to. When in doubt, don’t. At least not yet. Let’s see what he does. If I stop him in the middle of whatever he’s doing, he can lie about it. If I witness it and he doesn’t know anyone’s watching, I’ve got him dead to rights. Better to see what he’s up to.
Jake comes back into the hallway; he’s fifteen feet away, still with no idea that I’m here and can see him through the crack in the door. What is he doing? He looks sweaty, like his heart rate is up and he’s filled with adrenaline. He goes to what looks like the towel closet and yanks the door open. He pulls a thousand towels out, reaching way in the back, just dropping them onto the floor.
When he brings his arm back, he’s got a small bag, which he reaches into and pulls out a bunch of cash. There’s a roll of money—a thousand dollars? Maybe even more. I’m surprised Nicki would keep that much money in the house. But it’s smart; you never know when you’ll need cash.
I consider again stepping out into the hallway and letting this guy know I’m watching him, but another even bigger thing tells me to be perfectly still. He shouldn’t know I’m here. When I see him stuff the money into his jacket pocket, I’m sure he shouldn’t know I’m watching him. He thinks he’s alone and I have to let him think he is. Once he’s got the money in his jacket, he reaches over and picks up the towels he spilled onto the floor and carefully folds them. Perfectly neat. Then he puts them back into the closet and closes the door.
And that’s when I know this guy’s not just in a hurry to get somewhere. He’s leaving. And he’s leaving for a while.
13
* * *
NICKI
It’s been a week now and we’re actually settling into a routine. My alarm goes off every morning at 7:15 a.m., the last possible minute I can sleep until and still have enough time to get everything done and get Cody to school on time. I roll out of bed, put on my favorite cashmere robe, and head for the shower. On the way I stop by Cody’s room to give him his first wake-up call.
“Boo? Wake up, pumpkin.” I open the door slightly, and he shifts in bed. It’s the world’s most-often-repeated parent cliché, but it’s true: he’s getting so big. He’s beyond “big,” he’s grown. A man is lying in Cody’s bed, and every time I open his door to wake him up it freaks me out. Will I ever get used to it? Probably right about the time he leaves home—if that ever happens.
“Morning, baby!” Ronnie’s already up and in the kitchen making breakfast. He gets up at crazy o’clock and does yoga or meditation or whatever it is that he does. Then he goes into the kitchen, and by 7:40, he never fails to have a plate of something warm and/or interesting for Cody and a really nice cappuccino for me. He’s even figured out my foamer.
“Here you go, baby,” he says. “Three shots, just like you like it.”
“Thanks,” I say. I’m reluctant to get used to this, but I must say, it’s damn nice to have a wife. No wonder dudes have been so unwilling to give up the benefits of traditional mar
riage. That is some good shit. “You know you don’t have to do this every morning.”
“Are you kidding?” he says. “There’s nothing in the world I would rather be doing in this moment than making you a cappuccino. And look what I made for Cody this morning. Nutella crepes!”
I’m starting to calm down just a little bit about having him in the house. At first I had my guard up every second, but not only am I starting to get used to having him around, he’s been a huge help. He does laundry, he cleans, and he cooks all the meals. For a single mom who is overwhelmed at work, what is not to like?
“Code?” I hear Cody’s footsteps come into the kitchen. He’s really been pulling it together lately. He’s up every morning on his own, showered and with his teeth brushed—which never used to happen. Not without me bringing in some kind of crane to lift him out of bed. I don’t really want to give Ronnie credit for that, but no doubt some of it belongs to him.
“Morning, Mom. Morning, Ronnie.”
“Grandson,” Ronnie says. “Look what I made for you!”
Ronnie’s very proud of his crepes, and I’m not even feeling bitchy about it. “That looks more like dessert than breakfast,” I say. That’s pretty tame for me, considering all the arrows I’ve been slinging Ronnie’s way since he got here. Which, yes, I’m beginning to feel bad about.
“You have a test this morning, right, son?” Ronnie asks.
He does? I think to myself.
Ronnie knows more about Cody’s schedule than I do. I’m not sure what they talk about in the afternoons before I get home from work, but they seem to be bonding. I don’t ask, because I know Cody—if you call too much attention to something or praise him too much, he’ll want to stop doing it. I’m just glad he’s engaged in life. “What subject is it again?”
“Social studies.”
“Ohhh! Wonderful! Isn’t that great.” Ronnie sounds like a first-grade schoolteacher. “And what’s on the test? Do you have a study sheet or something? I’ll help you with it. You’re gonna ace this thing!”
Cody jumps up and grabs his backpack from the living room. He’s back in a flash, pulling out his social studies notebook and flipping through it until he finds his review sheet, which is right where it should be in the pocket. Whoa. Whose child is this?
“Look at you, so prepared,” Ronnie says. He’s doing positive reinforcement without seeming all momlike—in other words, like I would be. I’d be all teachy and annoying. “Let me at this thing.”
“I’m speechless,” I say.
“Don’t be speechless, Nicki,” he says. There’s a hint of admonishment in his voice. “Your boy is doing great work here. Very diligent, son,” he says to Cody. I guess Ronnie’s showing me how it’s done. Fine, then.
Ronnie takes the sheet and gives it a once-over. “Should I just start anywhere? Or at the beginning? Never mind. Start with the civil rights movement. That’s my era. Who is Malcolm X?” He pronounces this like he’s a game show host.
Cody knows this one. He can’t wait to answer it. “He’s that radical hitter who was all badass and got killed.”
“I like that,” Ronnie says. “Yes, he was a radical hitter. As opposed to Martin, who was all about peaceful, nonviolent protest.”
“What’s a hitter?” I say, turning first to Cody, then to my dad. “And how do you know what a hitter is?”
Ronnie and Cody make meaningful eye contact. “Should we tell her?” Cody asks. Almost at the exact same time, they simultaneously shake their heads. “Nahhhh!”
“Trust me,” Ronnie says to me, “you don’t want to know.”
“Oh, it’s some prison thing?” I suddenly realize I’m not used to Cody having an ally against me. This is what it would have been like if he had a sibling. I’m outnumbered.
“Because then you’re right. I probably don’t want to know.”
“Sort of,” Ronnie says. “It’s more of a rap music term. A hitter is a friend. One of your homies. It’s a substitute for another word that can’t be played on the radio.”
Cody giggles.
“Okay, next question.” Ronnie goes back to the review sheet. “Who is Louis Farrakhan?”
“The Nation of Islam?” Cody knows this one, too.
“Exactly right,” Ronnie says. He gets a back-in-the-day look on his face. “You know, I went to New York one time with a buddy who knew a couple of Nation of Islam guys and we hung out with them.”
“You did?”
“Sure did.” Ronnie clears Cody’s plate and puts it into the sink. “Those were the days.”
“You know I want him to clear his own plate,” I say.
“Tomorrow, he will. Right, Codes?”
“Right, hitter.” Cody smiles. It’s hard not to admit that they’re pretty cute together.
My dad goes on with his story. “Farrakhan, he’s got a lot of followers in the penitentiary. Guys in there love him. I always felt like he appeals to them because he’s radical and orderly at the same time. Prisoners crave order, you know. They don’t have any ability to self-regulate on the inside, so it ends up that the state gives it to them on the outside. You hear me, boy?” He musters a look toward Cody that might pass for stern. Ronnie’s not much of a meanie, though. “The moral of the story is: regulate yourself, or the government will do it for you.”
I hate saying it, but Ronnie is interesting. He knows a little about everything and a lot about a lot. For a guy who has spent most of his adult life locked up, he sure did make the most out of the time he had. He’s got more stories to tell than most guys half his age.
“Oh shit. I just remembered,” Cody says, grabbing a permission slip out of his backpack and a pen. “We have a field trip tomorrow. It’s lame. Can you sign this thing for me?”
I go to reach for the piece of paper, but Cody has already handed it to my dad. Well, then.
“Sure, son.” My dad takes the pen and scribbles his signature. “There you go.”
I’m watching all this like they’re aliens who just landed from a distant galaxy.
“I’m going to go grab my purse,” I say. “Cody, pack it up. You have to be at school in fifteen minutes.” I clomp back toward my room, because I always have to wear my noisy-ass clogs. And as I go I’m wondering: am I even needed here anymore?
* * *
Later that night I’m looking at new real estate listings on my computer when there’s a knock on my bedroom door. It’s not late, but as we go deeper into fall it’s getting dark early and it makes me want to get in bed. I didn’t even watch any home-flipping shows. (Am I okay?) At first I think it’s Cody at the door, but he doesn’t knock like that. Sometimes I forget there’s a third person in the house. Jake worked such long hours—The Echo did a lot of liquor business, so he rarely got home before 1 or 1:30 a.m.—going to bed alone is normal. “Come in,” I say.
Ronnie enters wearing the pajamas I got him at Nordstrom. I’m getting used to him in some ways, much faster than I would have thought, but times like this are still weird for me. Who is this grown man walking around in a robe? My dad being here is underlining a realization for me: I don’t have the same relationship to men that other, better-fathered women have. They’ve always seemed sort of like aliens to me.
Maybe that’s the reason I’ve always favored artsy philosophy majors, guys who are more poet than lumberjack. Serious male energy (okay, sexuality) is scary to me. Or maybe overwhelming is more the word. This is not something I’m in a hurry to admit—Peaches would have a field day with it, for starters—but now that my dad is standing in the doorway of my room, it’s really obvious. Men are too much for me. Their physicality. Their hair. Their muscle mass. They’re just so sizable.
“Is it okay if I sit on this chair?” Ronnie says. He seems a little tentative. Since that first day, he hasn’t come into my personal space. Maybe he’s like me in reverse: he hasn’t been
around women for all these years. So I guess we have something in common.
“Sure.” I put down my laptop and give him my attention, since it seems like he has an announcement. “Is something going on?” Then, jokingly, “Are you moving out?” The moment I say this, I realize I might actually be sad if he said yes. Now that’s interesting.
Ronnie doesn’t smile at all.
Uh-oh. Now I’m worried.
“Nicki, I have something to tell you,” he begins with his head down, unable to look me in the eye. “And it’s hard to say.”
My stomach flips, but I don’t say anything. I just wait. I can’t imagine what he’s about to say, and I don’t want to.
“I was here this afternoon, and your boyfriend—”
“Wait. Jake?”
“That’s his name, right.” He snaps his fingers, remembering. “Yes, Jake.”
“What about him?”
“He was here.”
“Here?” I lean forward. “Are you kidding?”
“I was in my room, napping. And I heard the front door open. He must have his key, because I know I locked it, and when I heard the door open, something told me to sit still.” Ronnie is speaking carefully. Slowly. “Then he came in and started going through drawers. Looking for something.”
“Which drawers?”
“The ones in the dining room hutch?”
That’s where I keep the passports. I hold on to both of them because we always travel together. The last time we used them was in April. We went to Vancouver, British Columbia, for a couple’s weekend. We rode bikes around Stanley Park and ate sushi and had sex in our room on the eleventh floor of the Hyatt Regency. We had such a good time even though everything was in bloom and I had full-blown allergies. After a night when I sneezed nonstop, Jake offered to go to the pharmacy at seven in the morning to get me the only allergy medication that works because he wanted me to feel better. We were so in love. Or so I thought.
Multiple Listings Page 14
