by Dan Lopez
She pinches his ear, and when he shouts, she giggles.
“Okay, pretty good, but let’s save something for the pool, huh?”
With the tent in place, if he wants to get to the pool he has to go the long way around the house. He cuts across the front yard. The wet grass surprises him. But then, of course, the lawn still needs watering, even if they’re not around to enjoy it. Flowers can’t survive on sunshine alone. He remembers that Cheryl keeps the sprinklers on a timer.
“How’s this for adventure?” he whispers.
A shadow crosses the neighbors’ window. With the shades drawn he can’t make out anything further. Something crinkles the grass nearby. Probably just an armadillo looking for a quick termite snack. He presses on.
The change of scenery calms Gertie. She sucks her thumb and rests her head against his shoulder blade.
He passes through the side gate. Wet grass gives way to uneven flagstones. He stumbles and reaches for the wall for support, but with Gertie obscuring his view, the best he can do is hope he makes contact before toppling over and crushing her against the a/c compressor. When he feels tacky vinyl under his fingers, he breathes a sigh of relief. The wall is his only guide through the side yard. Over the years, areca palms, crotons, and azaleas have been left to grow wild. Now the walkway is thick with vegetation, which would eclipse the lone spotlight, were it on. A warm breeze rustles the fronds, teasing his tired, bloodshot eyes with shades of night. A low shadow darts away.
“Your grandmother convinced me to get these pavers. I didn’t think we needed them, but she nagged me until I gave in. Women, huh? You always know how to push our buttons, but we just can’t say no to you. Anyway, I guess she was right.”
She squirms down his chest and he readjusts his grip to support her. She points at something in the dark.
“Just an armadillo, beautiful. Nothing to be scared of.” He palms the vinyl. “The pool heater is somewhere around here... Your grandma was afraid of walking through the grass. She was afraid of the mud and the lizards. That’s why she wanted these pavers.” The memory brings a smile to his face. He cries out when his fingers brush a bump in the tent. “See? Right where I left it.” The tent lacks a convenient opening, but the vinyl is baggy enough to allow him to push open the pool control box underneath the surface. He jams his finger into the panel until he hears a motor kick on. “Ha! Your old grandpa’s still got a few tricks up his sleeve. Now we’ll have warm water for our swim.”
HE WAVES A HAND BEFORE YOUR FACE. “HELLO?” HE SAYS in singsong, but the words register only dimly.
Years have passed since you were here last. It looks more rundown than you remember, but otherwise the same. The hedge overgrows its border, obscuring the path to the front door. Were the door visible under the tent, you’re certain it would be in need of paint. Time has succeeded where you have failed.
“Hey, are you listening? I asked you why there’s a tent.”
You blink. Shake your head to clear the images from your mind.
“Don’t worry about it,” you say, conducting him through the side yard. “It doesn’t matter.”
Clouds completely hide the moon. Drawing close to him in the darkness, you feel his heat; the smell of sex still lingers on his tawny skin, prompting a replay of the night’s events. Your mind races in a free fall of disaster. Nothing went according to plan.
“I thought you said you were taking me someplace where I could stay?” He tugs on your sleeve as he talks, his eyes darting nervously among the three houses ringing the backyard. You don’t have to remind him to keep his voice down; he intuits the need.
“This is better,” you say quickly. “Nobody will think to look here.”
“But where the hell am I supposed to sleep?”
You point at a simple shed near the back fence. “There.”
“You’re kidding, right? I might as well have stayed in the park.” He whispers, but voices carry in the backyard and you worry about neighbors spotting you.
“It’s just for tonight.” You take hold of his arm and lead him past the pool. He resists at first but then relents. “Tomorrow we’ll go to Cocoa. I’ll fix everything. Sorry,” you add, “I know it’s not ideal.”
“I—I don’t know if I can... It’s just gonna play over and over in my head all night.” His cheek twitches and he chews his lip.
You drape an arm across his thin shoulders. “Hey, come on. You gotta stay strong just a little longer, okay? We can’t change what happened, but I promise that you’ll forget all about it on the coast. You’ll see. I know a hotel where we can stay for a while. It’ll be safe. You can go swimming every day. It’ll be a fresh start.”
“You’ll stay with me, papi?”
“Yes,” you say. “We’ll go together.”
Sniffling, he dries his eyes with the heels of his hands and considers the shed again. “Shit,” he says. “Okay. Does it at least get Wi-Fi?”
SHE TAILGATES BEHIND A LATE-MODEL TOYOTA THAT peels off to the left as soon as it clears the gate. Once inside she follows the signs for building seven to the rear of the development. The street curves past a large courtyard housing two pools, a hot tub, a barbecue pit, and a gym. Three-story beige apartment buildings fall into place like apostrophes. Ten years ago she lived in a similar if less opulent version of this place when she was in college. It’s 7:45 and the development is quiet except for a trio of pale, shirtless men noisily facing off against a pair of young women at the volleyball courts. The pharmacy has been open for almost an hour and she still hasn’t heard from Rusty or Bill. The silence troubles her; it’s a bad sign. By now, corporate has examined the security footage and discovered her transgression.
Following her pit stop on the side of the road, she headed north, putting some distance between herself and the pharmacy. In need of coffee, she eventually stopped at a Dunkin’ Donuts. When rush hour started, she headed toward the university, her truck an anonymous contributor in the rising tide of commuters.
She parks and kills the engine, then deletes the photo of Eddie’s patient file from her phone and the cloud. At least she had the equanimity to refrain from printing anything. Her presence in the pharmacy is not debatable, but her purpose is another matter. The pharmacy cameras monitor the registers and the inventory, not the computers. The system allows surprising latitude in terms of usage. (No doubt that will change as a result of the breach.) Maybe she was checking the week’s schedule or referencing the district personnel directory for another pharmacist’s contact information. She could have needed to know how much personal time she’s accrued—she’s been ill, and that’s why she hasn’t been at work. In the hours since her break-in she has yet to settle on the best lie.
Standing next to the truck, she strips off the hoodie that earlier did a lousy job of keeping her warm. She tosses it in the backseat and closes the door. Across the parking lot a sleepy-eyed young woman dressed in scrubs drops behind the wheel of an older Mazda. She yawns, sitting comatose, the seat belt strap paused midway across her chest. Her eyes betray a mental fog. Morning has not yet arrived for her. Laila pegs her for a med student, maybe nursing. The work is grueling, the studies challenging, and the long hours made all the more debilitating, no doubt, by her insistence on enjoying her youth well into the late hours. Laila was once that sleep-deprived young woman—dedicated to her studies, fast-tracking her pharmacy degree in six years. She applied the same discipline to her career. That, and a bit of luck, is how she ended up the head pharmacist at the age of twenty-eight. The young woman snaps out of her reverie. Her eyes automatically dart around, assessing the situation. Perhaps she’s wondering how she arrived behind the wheel of her car. Laila gives her a kind smile before moving on.
Eddie’s apartment is on the third floor, overlooking the pool. She strolls along the breezeway, passing a rusted bike chained to the railing, its seat missing. Not far from that a clay flowerpot overflows with cigarette butts next to a threadbare welcome mat. The walkway comes to an end
in a dark alcove stacked high with Styrofoam coolers in various stages of disintegration. Taken together they form a kind of impromptu sculpture: Still Life with Bros. A crushed beer can tops the assemblage.
She stands before number 307. Eddie’s apartment.
Her nerve abruptly flees. Her legs feel heavy; her head, light. She steadies herself against the railing.
What if Alex isn’t here? What if he is?
When their father died she felt similarly indecisive, which is how she knows she can overcome it. Uncertainty can be an immensely generative force if you’re willing to embrace it.
Holding her breath, she knocks on the door.
Nothing happens for a long time.
A third possibility occurs to her: What if nobody answers?
As the moment stretches she breaks out into a cold sweat; her arms tingle.
Light-headedness, tingling limbs, and sweating are hallmark symptoms of a panic attack—the result of adrenaline flooding her system and constricting her blood vessels—but knowing the pathophysiology doesn’t halt the progression of her anxiety. Her heart races and she’s short of breath; instantly she regrets the steady intake of coffee she’s been having since five A.M. Elevated caffeine levels do not help the situation. What is she doing here? How would she explain herself to anybody asking? A neighbor, say, or a security guard. Can she explain? She muscles down the instinct to flee. All anybody can see is what she chooses to share. (Something else she learned following her father’s death.) Appear serene and be serene, she reminds herself. To the larger world all proceeds apace. She is simply an older sibling come to visit a student, to treat him to breakfast. She likes this story. It sounds authentic. Not least of which because it is, in part, true.
She knocks again, firmer this time. With authority. This sister does not question her right to stand in front of the door at eight in the morning.
Bare feet shuffle over carpet on the other side of the door. A deadbolt snaps back. The doorknob squeaks, then the gummy seal between the door and the weather strip along the jamb breaks. A pale, skinny boy with blond hair and dressed in a black T-shirt and boxers greets her, stifling a yawn.
“You must be Eddie’s roommate,” she says, immediately directing the conversation. “Nice to meet you. Is he up?”
“I’ll see if he’s home,” the boy says. He pads off deeper into the darkened apartment, leaving the door open behind him. She follows him in, not waiting for an invitation.
A dartboard hangs across from a black light poster. Well-worn paths map the graying carpet. Empty cans of soda and beer share the glass coffee table with a large pizza box, a crushed pack of cigarettes, and a sweat-stained baseball cap. Socks and tank tops compete with dust bunnies for real estate. The cold smell of a/c and cheap air freshener mask—just barely—the stench of garbage emanating from an overflowing thirty-gallon trash can.
Down the hall beyond the kitchen the boy knocks on a door. “Yo, Eddie, man, there’s a girl here to see you.”
Girl. She rolls her eyes, allows herself a moment’s ire at everyday misogyny, then puts it aside. Other priorities demand her immediate attention.
The boy returns. “I don’t think he’s home. He’s not answering.”
“Mind if I just pop my head in to check?”
The boy shakes his head. “Door’s locked. I already checked.”
“Locked?”
“Yeah, so, like, he’s not home. Unless he’s got somebody in there with him.” He falls into an armchair and yawns. “Sorry, you probably don’t want to hear about that stuff. You his sister or something?”
“I didn’t see his car when I pulled in.” It’s not a complete lie, though that hardly seems important at the moment. She’s well past sly semantics.
“His spot’s right out front.” He hops out of the chair and lopes out to the breezeway in bare feet. His arms and back flex, supporting the weight of his cantilevered torso over the grimy railing. His pale triceps and calves are blinding in the early-morning light. “Huh, I don’t see it,” he calls back.
She approaches the door. “Does he park anywhere else?”
“Maybe the visitor parking, but that’s all the way in the back.” She doesn’t step out of the way as he reenters the apartment, forcing him to squeeze past her. “He probably crashed at somebody’s house,” he adds, dropping onto the couch with a yawn. He’s done as much as he’s willing to do. That much is clear. “Honestly, I don’t really remember last night. Not gonna lie, I was pretty wasted. We had a party...” He kicks an empty beer can off the coffee table and plants his heel in its place.
Crossing her arms, she peers down at him. “Was Eddie at the party?”
“For a while, yeah, but he took off at some point. That’s kind of his thing, you know?” Balling his fists, he looks away.
“I know he went to the gay club,” she says.
“Oh, cool!” He relaxes his grip. “Yeah, like, I didn’t know if you knew or not. He brings guys over all the time. Well, not, like, all the time, all the time, but, you know, sometimes, or whatever. Everybody’s always super chill.”
“But you don’t remember if he brought anybody over last night?”
He shrugs and reaches for his phone. “I can text him.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She pulls out her phone. “I’ll just text him—oh, shit, this is a new phone. I don’t have his number.”
“No worries, I got you.” He swipes around on his screen for a few seconds, then reads out a number to her.
“Awesome, thanks.”
“Sure thing. Listen, if you hear from him remind him he owes me twenty bucks for beer last night.”
She sighs. “He’s only twenty. You know that, right?”
“Oh, shit. I mean—”
“Go back to bed. You look like hell.”
Walking back to her car, she fires off a quick text:
You owe me $20 for the beer last night, dude. Where u at?
He won’t recognize the number, but with any luck he’ll write back. How hard could it be to impersonate a college student?
THANK GOD A NEIGHBOR HAD THE PRESENCE OF MIND to phone when Thaddeus pulled into the driveway with a little girl. In retrospect it seems so obvious that he would’ve taken Gertie back to the house, but it never occurred to her because she’d spent the day obsessing over a gay man half her age.
Peter shifts the phone from one ear to another. At this hour who knows what remedial police academy rookie they have manning the phones at the precinct.
“Maybe you should hang up and call back. I can try Steven again. He might answer this time.”
He slowly drums his fingers on the wheel and stares straight ahead.
A scar stretches away from his wrist. Though faded now, the wound looks to have been deep—and intentional. He catches her staring and she quickly shifts her gaze to the rear bumper of the car in front of them.
“Figures we’d hit traffic now,” she says, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. She taps her ring against the exterior door panel to the faint beat of reggaeton drifting in on a hot breeze.
He clears his throat but remains silent.
“Listen, what I said... it wasn’t right. I don’t know; I can’t explain it. I was caught up in the emotion of everything you were saying. You know all I want is what’s best for Gertie, right? Peter?”
He cranes his neck out the window and taps the horn. She allows him a moment longer, but it’s clear that he doesn’t plan on responding. Instead, he settles back into his seat and places his free hand firmly on the steering wheel, the scar bulging over the tendons in his wrist.
“This is ridiculous. Will you just say something to me, please?”
“There’s a wrecker up there now.” He points with his chin. “We should be moving soon.”
“Okay.” She nods. “At least that’s good news.”
He moves his head and she can’t tell if he’s agreeing with her or simply shifting his gaze.
Outside, a crow
pecks at an empty bag of potato chips on the shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Peter. I truly am. I wish I could take it back. I hope you can believe that.”
“Get your arm in,” he says, reaching for the a/c. “I’m putting up the windows. It’s starting to move again.”
THADDEUS SHUFFLES ACROSS THE DECK AND TAKES Gertie by the arm, which is wet and smells of chlorine from splashing in the scummy water along the pool ledge. She squeals but doesn’t fight. “Why don’t you get back from the edge, huh, beautiful?”
With her free arm she reaches back toward the pool and traces a smiley face on the milky residue coating the blue tiles. The underwater dome lights create a brilliant shimmer. Leaves float on the surface, some dead bugs. Still, it’s beautiful and he can see why she would be attracted to it. The filtration system cycles on with a thud and she pulls against him, drawn to the sound. Gently, he tugs her back from the edge.
“Do you ever go swimming in that big pool your daddies have?” He strains to speak as he slowly lowers himself to the ground one knee at a time.
She shakes her head no in an exaggerated sweep from shoulder to shoulder, her straight black hair whipping across his face. Her hair smells like weed.
“Maybe we’ll do some diving,” he says, tapping her head, “get your hair nice and wet before taking you back home.”
She giggles, nods.
In addition to the weed, he smells the night-blooming jasmine Cheryl planted either last season or the year before. The confluence of aromas makes him think of hookah bars and stallions galloping on hard-packed trails past a silhouette of minarets. He pictures himself in that far-off place, just Cheryl and him and the sun setting over a woozy desert. And he smiles. Maybe they’ll do that. Maybe they’ll go on a vacation. A romantic getaway could be just what they need.
His grip slackens and the moment it does Gertie squirms free and runs back toward the pool. He’s too exhausted to chase her down again. If there’s trouble he’ll be able to get to her in time, but for now he’ll just watch. There’s no sense in wasting his energy. She dips a finger in the water, then brings it to her mouth, goading him to intercede with an impish smile. When he doesn’t, she quickly pops the finger in her mouth. Almost immediately, she scrunches her nose and spits.
