Borrowed Hearts

by Rick DeMarinis

  “Gee, that’s hard to believe,” she said.

  This made me feel good for a few seconds. Then not so good.

  I went back to the cot. Dillard had an idiot grin spread across his face. “Shut up,” I said.

  He grabbed me and wrestled me down to the floor. We rolled around, each trying to get an advantage. I could usually best him at wrestling, but now that his legs were long and his feet were size twelves, it was hard to handle him. We held each other in stalemated headlocks, unable to move.

  Wanda put her bare foot on my shoulder and rocked our knotted, head-locked bodies back and forth. “Hey, geek,” she said. “Time out. You got a toilet around here someplace?”

  “Upstairs,” I said. “Let go, Dillard.”

  He didn’t. I got his arm behind his back and pulled his hand up to the nape of his neck. He made a squawking noise. Then let go.

  I led the way out of the basement. The path to the front of the house was steep and unlit. Wanda grabbed my hand. It was surprisingly small in mine. It was also damp. She held on tight, as if she needed my guiding strength. I was embarrassed, but also flattered.

  Mom and Stan were watching television and didn’t pay any attention to us. We had an Admiral with a three-and-a-half-inch screen, and they were sitting up close to it, trying to watch The Toast of the Town. I stood behind them while Wanda went to the bathroom. Mom was sipping her Scotch and Stan had a glass of Bromo-Seltzer. Every so often he let loose a complaining belch.

  Wanda finished peeing. We went back outside. Dillard was sitting on the curb, throwing pebbles into a storm drain. “You’re a nice guy, Tony,” Wanda said. “There’s not many nice guys left.”

  She had a bruised look in the pale streetlight. She was only sixteen, but she seemed to know what was in store for her. There wouldn’t be very many nice guys in her life.

  “Stay fine, Tony,” she said.

  I cleared my throat once, then twice, but couldn’t think of anything to say. My jaws felt wired shut.

  There was something just out of reach in this stopped moment between us. She knew what it was but could not articulate it. And if she could have, I could not have grasped it. It was this: She knew her fate. I did not know mine.

  Fault Lines

  Alfredo came home from work to find that his wife, Sabrina, had taped his son’s mouth shut. It was duct tape, in double layers, from ear to ear. Gregory didn’t seem to mind. He sat on the living room floor playing with his Tonka trucks under the shedding Christmas tree, humming through the tape.

  “What happened?” Alfredo said.

  “What do you mean?” Sabrina was at the stove, stirring a pot. It was stew, a good smell. He inhaled, his eyes closed. Garlic, basil, bay. Sabrina was a dedicated cook.

  “Greggy, the tape on his mouth,” he said.

  “He was going on and on,” she said, stirring. “You know how wound up he gets. I couldn’t shut him up.”

  “I don’t think duct tape is a good idea,” he said. He looked at Gregory, who was now ramming a dump truck into an ambulance and humming furiously. Christmas had come and gone, and the toys were already boring the boy.

  “You don’t have to be home all day with him,” his wife said.

  “True,” he said. “Even so, honey...”

  “We don’t have to talk about it right now,” she said. “I’ve got your dinner ready.”

  He went to the bathroom to wash up. His face in the mirror was pale and rough with black stubble. He was not a handsome man. He had thick features—a wide, crooked nose, flat lips, and bulging, hyperthyroid eyes that always seemed alarmed. His strongly ridged forehead sloped back into a receding hairline. He was a gentle, uncombative man, but he looked like a washed-up boxer. His hair was turning gray and he thought he looked ten years older than he was. It didn’t make sense, this biological injustice, but he could accept it.

  He had a good, well-planned life, and everything was on course. His stock portfolios were thriving, he was not outrageously in debt, and his job was interesting but undemanding. He sat at a computer screen all day long in a state-of-the-art ergonomic swivel chair, working with simple probability outcomes, writing memos, revising instructional manuals. He was a reliability engineer, working on a new project, a VLR (Very Long Range) cruise missile, nicknamed Gravy Boat by company insiders. His assignments were basic— writing instructional manuals that explained, in layman’s terms, simple reliability concepts. The manuals were intended for nontechnical management types. It was easy work, even pleasurable, and he was paid well for it. It was not the kind of job that aged a man prematurely. He was even in line for a managerial post. In the year 2000, just around the corner now, he’d be wearing the orange and white ID badge of third-echelon management, the first step on the ladder to “mahogany row,” the penthouse offices on the top floor of the Project Development Center.

  After dinner Alfredo and Sabrina watched television. Gregory was in his room, talking to himself. He had a loud, raspy voice, and he used it with unselfconscious gusto.

  “Hear that?” Sabrina said.

  Alfredo looked away from the TV, listened to the boy’s babble. “He sounds like an auctioneer. It’s kind of cute.”

  “Try it all day long. He follows me around, clacking like a crow. It isn’t cute.”

  “But duct tape...”

  “Think about it,” she said, her voice level. “You want me to go insane?”

  He raised his hands off his lap, let them drop. He turned his attention back to the TV program. He liked the girls of Baywatch. Liked to see them running, their moist, buoyant breasts rising and falling with each slow-motion stride. The stories were necessarily mindless. And that was fine. You didn’t want to be distracted from the kinetic wonders of physical perfection by unpredictable trips into serious drama. Alfredo believed the world was purely and exclusively physical. All speculations on the never-observed nonphysical inevitably led to confusion and grief. No one could argue with that.

  Alfredo had put on too much weight in the four years since Gregory had been born, and his blood pressure was up. One-sixty over ninety-five. The doctor had prescribed the drug Inderal to control it, which Alfredo took religiously. He was not religious about the doctor’s other suggestions. He continued to smoke, he took no exercise, he ate too much. This evening he’d stuffed himself with beef stew and Parkerhouse rolls and pecan pie left over from Christmas. His pants were open in front and he was full of bloat.

  His father died at fifty-six of clogged arteries. Alfredo vowed to not let that happen to him. For his New Year’s resolutions he’d promise himself to cut down on smoking, eat more fruits and vegetables, and join a fitness club. He was only forty-three, but his body looked sixty. The Baywatch girls, he knew with some regret, would not give him a second glance.

  In bed that night his wife was not interested either. This did not surprise him. But it had been a week or more, and though he was not all that interested in it himself, he believed abstinence could become a de facto condition. “Use it or lose it,” his doctor had told him more than once. Blood tests had shown that his testosterone was down a few dozen points. This was to be expected, at his age. Even so, the hormone level was still solidly in the normal range.

  “I think we should,” he said.

  “Should?” Sabrina looked at him, her expression puzzled. She was five years younger than Alfredo and she was still attractive. She had not lost her figure. Her neck was long and smooth and her black hair spilled out on the pillow. She had broad cheekbones and small, sharp eyes. When he first met her, he thought she was part Asiatic or maybe Indian, but her father was English and her mother was German.

  Alfredo had been attracted by her long neck and thick black hair. She reminded him of a Modigliani figure. Modigliani was also in love with women who had long smooth necks.

  “It’s been almost two weeks, Sabrina,” he said. He tried to kiss her neck, but she arched away from him.

  “Maybe tomorrow,” she said. “I can’t predic
t my moods.”

  At work the next day, Rollie Pastorino gave him a ten-dollar chip he’d taken from a Las Vegas casino. “Here’s a start on your new life,” he said.

  “Do I look that bad?”

  “Worse.”

  Rollie was a small, dapper man. A Desert Storm vet who wouldn’t talk about the war. “It was like coming after being in for only half a minute. Too embarrassing to talk about,” he said. “Watch the replays on TV, you’ll find out more from them than you would from me. I was just a thirty-second tourist. Didn’t even get sand on my dick. The Arab women were given orders to stay the hell away from the infidel GIs. Infidels. Shit, those camel jockeys don’t know the half of it.”

  Rollie flirted outrageously with all the secretaries, even the homely ones. He had a gigolo’s style, but his boyish good looks made him seem harmless. Women were attracted to that combination. “I’m working my way through quality control,” he said. “I’ve bagged half the unattached women in the Project Development Center and a couple of the married honeys down in the blueprint crib.”

  “You’re full of crap, Rollie.” Alfredo laughed, half-believing him.

  After work they went to the Rogue Bull for Happy Hour. Rollie downed two double Beefeaters before Alfredo had finished his first.

  “Fucking broads,” Rollie said very loudly. “They don’t want your dick for its functional value. They see that woody as opportunity knocking. They spread their legs and you can hear the gates of the mall grind open. You can get lost in there, buddy. A twat is a bottomless pit full of rugrats, mortgage payments, and Saturday nights at the bingo parlor. A man who doesn’t look out for himself can get pulled around by his choad like Fido on a leash.”

  A man at the next table who was sitting with two women who could have been twin sisters said, “Hold it down, moron. There are ladies present.”

  “What are you, their pimp?” Rollie said. “Fuck you and fuck them.”

  Alfredo held up an apologetic hand. “I’ll take care of him,” he said to the man.

  “Fuck you too,” Rollie said to Alfredo.

  The man stood up abruptly, knocking his chair over. The two women sitting with him grabbed at his sleeves. He tore himself away from them.

  “I’m going to kick your ass, you mouthy little greaseball,” he said.

  Rollie Pastorino was half a foot shorter and seventy pounds lighter than the insulted man, but he hit the man first, a right to the belly and a left to the face. Rollie punched with his arms held close to his body for maximum torque. The man sat down, his mouth open, trying to draw air into his lungs. Blood spigoted from his nose. Rollie kicked him and the man toppled over. One of the women grabbed at Rollie, screaming. Rollie shrugged her off and kicked the man’s head, heel first, until Alfredo stopped him.

  “You tried to kill him,” Alfredo said out in the parking lot. His voice was trembling and he felt queasy.

  Rollie shrugged. “I don’t see it that way,” he said. “I just taught the stupid hump some basic manners.”

  Alfredo stopped at another bar on his way home. It was a quiet place in his neighborhood. He needed a drink to calm himself down. Rollie had surprised him. He’d gone for drinks with Rollie before but had never suspected this murderous streak.

  Alfredo sat at the bar and ordered a shot of Bushmill’s and a draft beer. A man in a Santa Claus costume sat next to him. The man was wheezing as if he’d been walking uphill.

  “I guess you’re wondering why I’m still suited up,” the man said. He had a small silver bell with him. He picked it up off the bar and gave it a shake.

  The last thing Alfredo wanted to do was antagonize anyone. He was still trying to sort out what had happened back at the Rogue Bull. Maybe, he thought, bars ought not to have inflammatory names. The bar he was in now was called, simply Ye Olde Pub.

  “It’s because I got locked out of my own place last week,” the man explained. “The bitch wouldn’t even let me get my clothes.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Alfredo said, trying to sound sympathetic. He saw that the man’s costume was grease-stained, as if he’d been sleeping under parked cars.

  “Here’s the thing,” the man said. “I’m a worthless piece of shit. We’re all agreed on that, right? But on the other hand, who isn’t?”

  Alfredo felt his neck hair bristle. “Me,” he said, looking into his glass of beer. “I’m not a worthless piece of shit. Not at all.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” the man in the Santa costume said. “Another happy Christian.” He picked up his bell and gave it a hard shake. He raised his drink, a whiskey and soda. His puckered lips reached needfully for the rim of the glass.

  “You’re worthless when you think you’re worthless,” Alfredo said, immediately regretting it. He hated aphorisms, especially uplifting ones. They were never true, or if they were, their opposites were equally valid. All abstraction was open to contradiction. The world may have been a dream, wave patterns focused by gravity, but humans were structured to see the dream as rock-solid real. In any case, the world, whatever it was, couldn’t be known through abstraction. He thought, bar, Bushmill’s, bartender, deadbeat, me. At this moment, that’s all there was. You had to deal with things within reach.

  “Thank you, Norman Vincent Peale,” the defunct Santa said.

  Outside it began to rain. Alfredo heard car tires hiss in the wet street. “You’re welcome,” he said, pushing away from the bar.

  When he got home, he heard muffled crying. Sabrina was in the kitchen, eating a steak. “You’re an hour and a half late,” she said, looking at her wristwatch.

  “Sorry, but you won’t believe what happened. Where’s Greggy?”

  “In his toy closet. I gave him a time-out. What won’t I believe?”

  He went into Gregory’s bedroom and opened the toy closet door. The boy was lying in the dark among heaps of stuffed animals, whimpering. Alfredo picked him up and carried him into the kitchen. “What did he do this time?” he asked.

  “Ask what he didn’t do,” Sabrina said, cutting into her meat.

  “He’s only four, Sabrina.”

  She stabbed her knife into the steak and left it standing there. “You know what I hate?” she said. “I hate it when you talk down to me, like I was some kind of morally deficient nut-case. Maybe you should’ve been a priest.”

  “I’m beginning to feel like a priest,” he said.

  Sabrina responded to this by cutting into her steak again. Alfredo carried Gregory into the living room and set him down in front of the TV set. He plugged a Disney tape into the VCR, then went back into the kitchen. He put on a hot-pad glove and took his steak out of the oven. “This looks first rate,” he said, sitting down opposite his wife.

  “It’s probably shoe leather by now,” she said, sliding the bottle of steak sauce toward him.

  Alfredo invited Rollie Pastorino over for New Year’s Day dinner. “Rollie’s a character,” Alfredo told Sabrina. “He’s likable as hell, but has this whacko streak. He’s a real Jekyll-and-Hyde type.”

  “Sounds like loads of fun,” Sabrina said, rolling her eyes.

  When Rollie appeared at their door, he was soaking wet. “Had a flat on the freeway,” he said. “Soon as I got out to change the tire, the fucking sky opened. I need a drink.”

  Sabrina regarded the little man. “That isn’t real polyester, is it?” she said. “Why don’t you take a hot shower while I dry your clothes?”

  Rollie kissed Sabrina’s hand. “See,” he said to Alfredo, “this is why I’m not married. You got the last good woman on the planet, you greedy bastard.”

  They all laughed. Sabrina gave Rollie a warm glass of mulled wine and showed him to the bathroom. “Leave your clothes in the hallway,” she said.

  While Sabrina dried Rollie’s clothes, Alfredo made a pitcher of martinis.

  “This is going to be a long evening,” Sabrina said.

  “I don’t follow you,” Alfredo said.

  “Your friend is a jerk,” she said. />
  “I thought you two hit it off, honey.”

  “He put his hand on my ass when I showed him the bathroom.”

  After dinner, the men watched a bowl game while Sabrina stayed in the kitchen, cleaning up. “This Sabrina of yours,” Rollie said, “she’s the real article. I know the type.”

  “How so?” Alfredo said.

  “Puts on this quiet, pouty, fuck-you act. Ice on top, but there’s this huge festering lava bed underneath the permafrost.”

  “I don’t think so,” Alfredo said.

  “Maybe you haven’t tapped into it yet. Maybe you haven’t figured out where the fault lines are. You want some expert advice?”

  Alfredo raised his hand, stopping Rollie. “I think we’d better change the subject,” he said.

  “It’s mental more than physical,” Rollie said.

  “Enough,” Alfredo said.

  Rollie slumped down into his chair theatrically. “I’ve offended you,” he said. “I’ve made you uncomfortable with me. We’re friends, but now you want to kick my ass. You want to bust me up.”

  Alfredo laughed. “I’m a peaceful man, Rollie,” he said.

  “That’s the world’s number-one oxymoron, Alfredo,” Rollie said. “Makes me feel lonely to hear you say it.”

  Sabrina came out of the kitchen. “You two want mincemeat pie, or are you just going to keep on drinking?” she said. Framed in the doorway, backlit by the bright kitchen lights, she looked alarmingly beautiful. Loose strands of her dark hair caught the light and became incandescent. Both men stared at her for a moment. Rollie said, “Awesome.” He made a breathy, whistling sound.

  Sabrina shifted her weight to one foot and put her hand on her hip. The sudden aggressive curvature of her body made Alfredo wish that Rollie was not there.

  “I’ll take the mincemeat,” Rollie said.

  “I’m in the mood,” Sabrina said after Rollie left. She led the way into the bedroom. Alfredo’s heart beat like an untested teenager’s. He went into their bathroom and took two Inderals, then undressed. Sabrina was already in bed, her small eyes slitted. Her black hair was spread out on the pillow like the wings of a raven.