“I know,” I say. “Because I don’t really want to talk to you.”
“Are you still mad at me?” Peaches shuts the magazine and chucks it back onto the coffee table. Then she wings her feet off the arm of the sofa and onto the floor. She’s staring at the little ceramic vase where I keep a dried dandelion. “You are. You’re still mad at me.”
I head for the bathroom, due to the fact that I have to pee like crazy. I’m actually not still mad at Peaches—I just don’t trust her yet. I figured it out while talking to Melissa that we’re all the same—we’re fucked up over men and that’s why we make bad choices. But that doesn’t mean I was ready to let her off the hook like that. I’ve been feeling like I wanted to take my time coming back into my relationship with Peaches. Because even if I’m not holding a grudge against her, there is something between us that needs to change for me to be comfortable to be here. Some power imbalance. I want to be equals with her, instead of riding a seesaw where one of us is always down, and the other is always up. Even if we trade off who’s down and who’s up.
“Where are you going?”
“The bathroom,” I say without turning around.
Peaches jumps up from the sofa and follows me to the bathroom. We’ve always gone to the bathroom together. Whoever wasn’t in “active duty” would sit on the edge of the bathtub while the other one picked up shampoos and cleaning products and pretended to be a Price Is Right model—gesturing at them with gusto. Sometimes I would even announce the product’s benefits, just like Johnny Olson, Bob Barker’s sidekick.
“We need to talk, Nicki,” Peaches says. “I’ve been sitting here almost two hours.”
“We don’t need to talk.” I shut the door to the bathroom, right in Peaches’s face. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
She keeps talking through the door.
“First of all, I’m sorry.”
“I know. You said that,” I say. She’s left me numerous voice mails and text messages. “About a thousand times with a million emojis.”
“It was a terrible thing to do,” she says, not quite hollering, but loud enough that I’m sure to hear her perfectly through the door. “I’m weak and there’s no excuse.”
I let the silence happen as I finish tinkling. Part of being in a long-term friendship like this is letting the other person know how bad you’re really hurt. Not just faking a truce for the sake of peace. You owe it to the relationship to be honest about where you really are. If you’re still mad, be mad. That’s our motto. So even though I’m technically not still mad, I’m not ready to let Peaches know that. She needs to understand that there are consequences for breaking the trust.
I flush and open the door without washing my hands.
“Please, please, Nicki,” she says. “Don’t make me beg.”
“Why not?” I say. “It might be good for you.”
She laughs, which is okay, because it was sort of a joke. A joke that’s true.“Peaches, I hear you,” I say. “But I should probably go figure out what to feed my child when he gets home from school.” She’s dismissed.
“That’s not it, Nicki.” She lightly pushes me toward the living room and sits me down on the sofa. “I have something for you.” She reaches into her handbag and pulls out one of those white plastic drawstring bags from the Apple Store. “Here.”
I take the bag. It’s a little bit heavy. “You got me a new keyboard?”
“Look inside.”
I open the bag and inside is cash. A whole bunch. Not as much as Jake gave me, but a lot. “What is this? You’re Jake now?”
“My life savings. I’ve been keeping it underneath my mattress for the past five or six years. That’s everything. Probably around ten thousand dollars.”
A lot of thoughts are running through my mind right now. First of all: What? Why is Peaches handing me this money? Second of all: Where did she get it? I can’t believe Peaches saved ten thousand dollars. She doesn’t seem capable of delaying that much gratification. “Did you steal this?”
She shakes her head.
“Did a Harley guy give it to you? Because you know that means it’s stolen, right? Or drug money.”
“No, I swear.” Peaches looks more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen her. Is that an I could just cry face? If so, we’re in some entirely uncharted territory. “It’s everything I have in the world, Nick. And I want you to have it. I mean, not have it—have it. I want you to use it to open the restaurant. I want to be an investor!”
Underneath her twisted, fearful expression you can see another one of pure glee. She’s really thought about this. And she’s serious. I know when Peaches is serious. Her mouth turns down at the corners and she smiles at the same time. If that’s possible. “And I am going to manage the place!” She puts up her hand before I can start to protest. “No! Listen. I’m ready! I’ve been working in restaurants since God was born. And I know I can do it.”
Let me try to comprehend this. On the one hand, this is bananas, given that I’m furious with her, and her judgment sucks, and she’s hardly someone you would ever want to go into business with. On the other hand, now that it’s in front of me, I can see that this is the perfect solution. Absolutely, totally perfect. I can’t believe we didn’t think of this before. I didn’t even know I wanted a restaurant, and suddenly now it’s the rightest thing in the world?
Yes, it is. I can see that.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say tentatively. Peaches starts jumping up and down a little bit because she now knows I’m going to say yes.
“I want to do it! You think I want to spend the rest of my life serving drunk people bar food and side salads? Nicki! Please.”
I should probably just say yes and throw my arms around her, but lately it has become clear that life decisions like this one are like long division—you might know the answer, but you have to show your work. I need to go through every single one of the remainders.
“I’m going to drive you crazy,” I say. “I’m such a perfectionist.”
“So? That’s not new. We already know how to drive each other crazy and come back from it.”
“You’re going to have to wake up earlier in the morning.” Peaches is the laziest person I know. She hardly ever wakes up before 11:30 a.m. Like I’ve said to her a million times, all the money gets made before noon. “Because I’m not going to be some kind of mom person and push you to do something you don’t want to do.”
“Not a problem! It’s about time I started getting up earlier,” she says. “I’m ready.”
“I don’t know, Peaches.”
“Yes, you do know. You need me. Don’t try to tell me you don’t, because I went down there and spoke to Miguel.”
“You what?”
“He’s really cute, by the way.” She’s not even kidding. “How did you not even tell me that?”
“You can’t sleep with people we work with. Not even the people you think it’s okay to sleep with.”
“I know, I know.”
“You probably will anyway.”
“Probably. But not Miguel. I swear. Unless you say it’s okay.”
My mind-chatter is like four songs playing at once. In business with Peaches? Even though it makes no sense, it makes as much sense as anything in my life has ever made.
“Oh my God. We’re serious, aren’t we?”
“So serious.” She takes both of my hands in hers. “But you can only take this money—this deal—on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You forgive your dad completely.”
Here come the tears—they’re mine, of course. I think I’m so tough sometimes. Until I’m not.
“It wasn’t his fault, Nicki. It really wasn’t.” She drops her head onto my shoulder and my arms automatically go around her. Peaches is my dearest friend. The only person who truly kn
ows me besides Cody. I need her and it doesn’t matter how bad she screwed up. She sobs into me. “I’m so fucked up.”
“You’re not that fucked up,” I say through my tears. In my opinion, if you know you’re fucked up, you’re not actually that fucked up. The real problems in life come from people who think they’re fine. “Really, you’re not.”
“You’re wrong,” she says, wiping her tears with the crumpled-up paper towel she was using as a napkin. “I’m a disaster. But I’m going to be a helluva business partner. I promise.”
I believe her.
* * *
We haven’t had a Christmas tree in five years. It’s not that I hate Christmas, it’s just that I think Christmas is really, really overrated. I decided Santa was bullshit when I was four years old and robbers broke into our house on December 23 and stole all the presents. And to be honest, I don’t miss any of it: Santa, trees, lights. Even if I had aunts and uncles and cousins to sit around and drink eggnog with, I don’t think that’s what I would want to do. Aren’t most people just pretending to like their family anyway? I’d rather get on a plane and go somewhere exotic and wonderful. Cody never protested, either. The furthest thing from a sentimentalist, he was just as happy as me to spend December 25 in Tokyo, Paris, or Rome. Game Boys are everywhere, after all, and that’s all he needed.
Unfortunately, Ronnie is not having our humbuggy ways. Which is why we’re now at the Boys & Girls Club Christmas tree lot on the corner of Southeast Belmont trying to decide between the Douglas fir and the balsam.
“I want the balsam,” I say. “This is what a Christmas tree is supposed to look like.”
“But this is the Pacific Northwest, girl,” Ronnie says. “You gotta go with the Doug fir. That’s our people up here. Douglas firs are who we are.”
Now that he mentions it, I remember learning in fifth grade that the Douglas fir is the Oregon state tree. The problem is, I don’t really like Doug firs all that much. Their needles are too dense and point upward, making the lights hard to string. And since I don’t want to get a tree to begin with, I feel like I should be able to get the unwanted tree that I want. If that makes sense.
“I don’t like the way the branches are on those,” I say. “It makes it hard to put the ornaments on. They don’t dangle right. These”—I put forward a sturdy balsam—“are American classics. They are the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders of the Christmas tree world.”
Cody’s a few feet away, pulling out trees he likes. “How about this one!” He’s got an eight-footer in his hand. It’s massive.
“That’s huge!” I don’t mean this in a good way.
“Blue spruce! Now that’s a beaut,” Ronnie says. He walks around the tree, checking it out from all angles. “Nice shape on that one, too.”
Of course he has to talk about it like it’s a woman.
“Mom, please!” Cody has the pleading eyes of a fourth-grader. Usually he would just do some kind of shrug and leave the choosing to me. Clearly, not all of Ronnie’s influence has been good. “This one’s so chill.”
“That’s way too tall! Will it even fit into our living room?” I don’t know why I’m resisting. It’s clear this is going to be the tree, but there’s some unknown part of me that just wants to pump the brakes. I guess there’s some feeling about the whole Christmas thing that I don’t really want to deal with. Not that it matters, because Ronnie has taken over the whole project. He’s decorated the house with lights and put up a wreath and now we’re getting a tree. The whole shebang. “And what about the stand? I’m not even sure where ours is, much less if that thing’s going to fit in it.”
“We’ll take it,” Ronnie says to the lot assistant. “How much? Give us the good price. The one you’re going to give us after I pretend to walk away and go to another tree lot.”
The guy tells Ronnie it’s going to be a hundred dollars.
“What!” Ronnie’s shocked. “Even after I pretend to go down the street to buy a tree somewhere else? What has happened to the world,” he says, “when a Christmas tree costs more than a nice dinner for two?”
“That’s how much trees cost,” I say. “Now you know why I’m not in such a hurry to get one.”
“We’re getting it, Mom,” Cody says. “Deal with it.”
Ronnie fishes a wad of cash out of his pocket and counts out five twenties. Then he takes a sixth one, and gives it to the lot assistant. “That last one’s for you. Merry Christmas.” The guy takes the money with a flash of gratitude.
We tie the tree to the top of the car and slowly drive the half mile home. It’s misty out, and even though it’s only the first week in December, some people already have their houses decorated. I guess they’re the diehards, the people who love Christmas so much they’re first in line to put the lights up and the Rudolph display on their front lawns. Normally, I would wonder what possessed grown adults to take a whole Saturday out of their lives to pull boxes of shit out of their garage, put up a ladder, climb onto the roof, and hammer stuff that’s only going to be up there for three or four weeks, max. But listening to my dad and Cody sing soft-rock Christmas carols on the way home, maybe I’m starting to figure it out.
Maybe Christmas feels good when you belong somewhere.
27
* * *
RONNIE
Mal comes into the back office and shuts the door. I know I shouldn’t be here, but I don’t have a choice. I need something, and Mal is the man. He is the guy in North Portland who knows the guys in North Portland who can deal with shit. Pretty much anything you need, any problem you have—Mal can solve it, or he knows someone who can.
“What can I do for you?” Mal says. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to go back into business. I thought you were clear on that.”
I’m here to get Nicki out of that bullshit real estate deal.
“Naw, man,” I say. “It’s for a favor. Nothing major, but it’s important.”
It’s understood that whatever I need, Mal can take care of—probably up to and including murder. Though I doubt anyone’s ever asked him for a murder. Mostly, Mal handles drugs and loans. There’s also gambling, forgeries, fencing stolen merchandise, large-scale pharmaceutical orders, locating missing persons, and other assorted activities. That makes it sound like he’s a gangster, but he’s not. He’s really just a guy who used to be wild as a young man, then he settled down into owning this bar, and slowly people came to him to fix various problems they couldn’t fix the legit way, and now it’s sort of his ministry. A criminal ministry. But if you understand that crime is just people accessing power that they can’t get another way—whether that power is to control people, money, property, or themselves (through an experience like a “high”)—then you start to understand what criminal activity really is. Just another one of humankind’s crazy attempts to get some needs met. If you want to know how desperate someone is, look at what they’re willing to do to get a need met.
It’s straight-up Maslow.
Right now, I’m desperate. I want to fix Nicki’s problem for her. Am I doing it to try to make up for all the crap I’ve put her through? Probably. But I desperately want to do it. I know a fix is just a phone call away. Mal will go to someone who will pay someone else to turn down Nicki’s loan, or intimidate the seller into canceling the deal, or bribe the seller’s agent into losing some paperwork, or get the house inspector to forge a document that’ll give Nicki an out. Mal will find a way to get my daughter out of having to buy this house—and she will never have to know what happened or who did it. Neither will I.
“You sure you’re ready for this?” Mal looks at me steady.
What he means is that in order for him to do this for me, I’m going to have to do something for him. I don’t know when and I don’t know where—and I don’t even know what. I just know that one day he is going to call in this favor, and then I will have to pay up. No matter what that m
eans. That’s how it works.
“Absolutely.” I don’t want him to think I’m nervous, because I’m not. I’m a man who can do a cost-benefit analysis and take responsibility for the risks involved. The risk on this is relatively low. I’d say there’s a 35 to 40 percent chance that I’m going to have to do something illegal for Mal if it comes to that. But I want so badly to make a difference in Nicki’s life that I’m willing to take that chance, because this will fix things for her now. I won’t have to pay up until later, if ever. “Let’s do it.”
I’m just going to have to trust Mal that he’s not going to force me back into a life of crime just because I want to take care of one little thing for my daughter, and I’m doing it the only way I know how. Mal understands what I’m doing and why, and he doesn’t want me to go back to prison any more than I do. I trust him. Because Mal knows that if I had the other kind of power, I would use it. But I don’t. I never have, and I never will. Not in this lifetime.
A man does what he has to do to take care of his own.
* * *
I get home and Cody is there, sitting at the breakfast bar, on the computer. He slides the computer away from me as I walk into the room.
“Checking out some porn, young man?” I’m only half joking. Cody’s almost seventeen years old, so there’s no need to pretend he’s not like every other American male. I’m sure he’s looked at the stuff at least a few times, and more likely on a regular basis.
Cody blushes bright red. “No,” he says. “Like I would look at porn in the kitchen.”
True. “At least you’re not denying it,” I say. “Where’s your mom?”
“Yoga.”
“Okay, is that it?” I say. “Just yoga?” Sometimes I get frustrated that Cody never uses two words when he can use one. Even though I know better, it’s hard not to feel he’s holding out on a brother. You gotta work for every interaction. It’s a fine balance between asking more questions to get him to talk, but not so many he retreats into his room. I usually like to keep it real general. “What’re you up to?”
Multiple Listings Page 26
