Hank & Chloe

by Jo-Ann Mapson

  “I will admit a certain amount of trepidation in offering this to you given your history with men’s clothes.”

  “But what else can go wrong?”

  “It was a joke.”

  “Inside I’m laughing like a hyena.” She let him help her into it, rolled up the sleeves and turned back to the dishes.

  He cupped her buttocks with his hands, pressed himself into her, kissed her neck. “I’m just going to do a quick five miles. Then I have to grade those tests, so I’ll be back early.”

  “Whatever happened to guys who fall asleep after? It’s dark out.”

  “There are streetlights.”

  “I can see them. Just be careful.”

  He hesitated in the doorway. “You seem far away tonight. If you’d rather, I’ll stay.”

  “No. I’m fine. Go run.”

  “You want the stereo on?”

  “Yeah, that would be great.”

  “I’ll get it on my way out.”

  She heard the door shut, and shortly after, Willie Nelson’s Stardust album began in a spasm of violin. Hank wasn’t so academic that he didn’t possess one single country music record, even if it was old Hoagy Carmichael tunes; he also claimed ownership of a Chet Atkins Christmas album. The music was melancholy, heartbreakingly aimed toward an evening where you might as well open a bottle of bourbon and settle down to drench your troubles. Hugh’d called several times, bleating apologies into her ear. A deal had been struck, and all the charges had been dropped—all except hers. They were making an example of her, Jack Dodge said, it would never stick. What did he know—what did Hugh know? He’d sounded drunk. What a great idea. She made herself a drink, two fingers of Glenfiddich. She added one ice cube and drank a good first swallow down, washing away the salty taste of Hank and replacing it with the medicine of scotch. If dogs crawled off into bushes to die, they were at least close to the earth. If Hannah was dead, hopefully the end had come mercifully quick, say a truck tire, leaving her brains embedded in the asphalt like a map. They weren’t so near the college that she had to worry about the biology department. Besides, researchers favored small dogs, didn’t they? It cost less to feed them, took less space to house them, and it was easier to dispose of them when they died. If it came to a lab, she supposed she could stand that, too, if they just put her down right away to reassemble her bones for study. She could stand anything but those stories of product testers dropping detergent onto a dog’s forced-open eyes, or slow starvation and the encircling scavengers. Her hand curved automatically in just the shape of the dog’s head, and she quickly put it to the glass. Still she could feel the knot of skull, the coarse white hair and the one dark-tipped ear, velvety under her thumb. She could see Hannah’s dark-eyed stare of protection. The edges of her soul crackled inside, crisp as burned paper. Wes McNelly’d been carted away once, reemerging two months later sober and down to business. Maybe she should call him up and ask how much a person could hold before they broke down. What were the signs and symptoms of breaking down? Did you stand naked doing dishes like a fool in the middle of a “planned community” whose rocky boulders out front on the greenbelt were composed of wire and plaster? Did you throw yourself into a professor’s bed with no thought about the future? Was it the utter stubbornness that finally did you in? Kit’s probing nagged—Saturdays—Ben Gilpin that day in the courthouse parking lot—her name is Belle—Belle, a tinkling chime, who gave her daughter away, well, just go and ring that one somewhere else, why don’t you, honey? Don’t need you, don’t need anyone. Next week she would meet with Hank’s lawyer, but this time go into the courthouse with its individual hearing rooms and the whole Perry Mason routine—do you solemnly swear—swear what? Chloe tucked her good leg up flamingo-style until it rested on the top of the new walking cast. It was a semigraceful move, and about as athletic as the orthopedic doctor allowed her to get. If he knew about the horses, he would have forbidden her outright, but then he didn’t have to rely on them to make a living. Men loved to make decisions that affected how you lived your life. Well, none of this was getting the dishes done. She sighed and ran the hot water over the fried chicken remains in the skillet. The scotch was doing its work—the backs of her knees felt like racetracks somebody’d just done time trials on, smoking, gas-streaked concrete. She lifted her glass to the kitchen window. It was terrible what it had done to the Indians, but God bless alcohol.

  She expected Hank when the front door opened, but it was a female voice calling out, “Yoo-hoo! Hank? Are you there?”

  A gray-haired woman, medium-tall, dressed in a nice suit of clothes, a persimmon jacket and skirt, an expensive pebbled leather purse over her shoulder, stood before her. She had Hank’s smile beneath skin so pale it was almost translucent. If it hadn’t been for her years with Fats, Chloe might not have recognized the semipallor of chronic illness right away. Liver, or something fallow in the gut. Whoever she was, she wasn’t well in a big way. But her long silver hair tidied up in a bun belied the facts. Despite the doctor’s news, she was still handsome and she knew it.

  “Well, I’m glad to see my son has finally gotten himself a cleaning person. He’s frightfully busy, teaching all those classes. But my dear, you’re working so late and your little leg, why it’s broken, isn’t it? That can’t be much good up and down these stairs.”

  Even with Willie wailing in the background—those stardust memories, the memories of love’s refrain—music didn’t help to smooth this wrinkle. Chloe dried her hands on the clean dish towel she’d set out. Her cheek was taut where the semen had dried; probably it didn’t show but it felt as obvious as a sailor’s tattoo. Slut, she could have washed up, put on some pants, but no, the shirt wasn’t even buttoned and she was standing here drinking his liquor to boot.

  “I’m not the cleaning lady.”

  “No, I can see quite clearly now that you’re not.” After a pause, Hank’s mother forced a smile, extended a hand, and Chloe made herself forget where her own hands had been minutes earlier. She reached out and shook like a good dog because that was what civilized people did.

  They sat down at the kitchen table.

  “I’m sorry there isn’t any coffee. We keep forgetting to go to the market. Can I make you some tea?”

  A quick glance at Chloe’s libation, then a terse shake of the head, no. The woman wasn’t going anywhere. She wanted Hank’s assurance this entire interlude was a one-night mistake and she wasn’t going to leave until she got what she’d come for.

  “My name’s Chloe Morgan.”

  “Iris Oliver.”

  Like she didn’t think I knew his last name. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  There was a stack of bills on the tabletop. Hank had been paying them when he decided he’d rather fool around, then go for a run. The lawyer’s invoice was on top. Pay in advance, of course. Bills weren’t going anywhere, he’d said. I’ll pay them when I get back. Her name was on the bill. Right there, in capital letters, next to the charge of assault. Chloe gathered it into the pile and straightened it, face down. Now only the envelopes screamed out utilities, water, she uses them, too! Iris didn’t miss a trick, her eyes tracked Chloe’s movements and came to rest on her face.

  “It’s odd Hank never mentioned you.”

  “Seems that way.”

  “How long have you two…”

  There was no need for her to finish the sentence. “Not long. A couple of months.”

  “Well, we’re all just so busy with our lives. I suppose that’s it.”

  “Right.”

  “Will my son be back soon?”

  “He said just a few miles. Are you sure I can’t get you something?”

  “Oh, no. I’m fine.” Now her voice was downright merry. “How ever did you hurt your leg, dear?”

  The old game of Truth or Dare. I was arrested almost two months weeks ago in that so-called drug bust, which according to your son’s lawyer now appears engineered by the construction industry as a ruse to gain access t
o the last ranchland in the county. I struck a junior deputy and he pushed me, and this is the little memento he gave me to remember him by.

  “I slipped. Sounds phony, doesn’t it? But the doctor told me that ninety percent of all breaks are due to simple falls like mine.”

  “You must have weak bones. Have you tried a calcium supplement?”

  “This is the first bone I’ve broken in my life.”

  “How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  It was the same age as Jesus’s last one on earth. Chloe felt her thirty-third year to be shaping up about the same way, too.

  “And what is it that you do?”

  “I train horses, Iris. I also wait tables in a small café for halfway decent tips.”

  “And?”

  “And then I sleep with your son, and I’d say that just about covers it, wouldn’t you?”

  She nodded gravely. “Yes, I believe you’re right.”

  Call her what you like, the woman had grace. They stared at each other for a while. Chloe knew from experience, in the initial stages of training animals, it was important not to look away first, because the animal took that as a sign of submission. After that it was hard to regain the upper hand, let alone a shred of respect. It hurt her to keep on staring at the steel blue eyes, but she did it. Finally Iris smiled and looked down at her hands.

  “Tea would be lovely, but maybe I should get it, considering your leg.”

  “And why don’t I get the clothes out of the laundry while we’re waiting?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  Chloe hustled out of the kitchen as fast as the cast would allow, pulling the shirttail close under her behind as she went up the stairs. End of round one. There weren’t any clear losers at this point.

  CHAPTER

  16

  Absolutely a lawsuit is in order,” Jack Dodge said across the rosewood desk with its multitude of mysterious black accessories.

  “You can’t just get them to give me a fine or something?”

  The old man smiled first at Hank, then turned to Chloe. “Young lady, I’m here to do what I can—in this case, help you avoid Armageddon.”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  “Don’t think about money,” Hank said. “Think about your future.”

  “My future when? Ten minutes from now? Ten days?”

  “How about ten years?” Dodge said quietly. “You have a choice—a felonious record with at best a half-life of thirty years, or a deserved cash settlement, the latter being of course, our optimum result.”

  “What’s likely?”

  Dodge smiled, his store-bought tan complementing his capped teeth and expensive clothing but failing to erase the sixty-odd years of won and lost cases from his face. “Both sides drop their charges and go on with business as usual.”

  “With your pocket growing a little fatter because of it.”

  Hank sighed. “Chloe, don’t be that way.”

  Jack waved a hand. “That’s all right, Hank. She’s correct. I do get paid. I’m paid well, Ms. Morgan, because I’m worth it. The kind of mischief we’re dealing with doesn’t erase cheaply.”

  She got up from her chair. “Excuse me. I need a drink of water.”

  Dodge reached for one of the buttons on his telephone. “Sit tight. I’ll buzz Robin to bring you some. What’s your preference? Calistoga or Vittel?”

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll have the kind comes out of a fucking faucet.”

  “Fine. There’s a drinking fountain in the hallway. If you don’t mind, I’d like a word alone with Hank.”

  She looked at each of them in turn. Hank sighed. “I’ll just be a second.”

  “All right.” Her gait made her clumsy and gangly. The heavy cast wouldn’t allow for a smooth escape, but she managed. The heavy brass doors opened out into the hush of offices where carpet, wood paneling, corporate art, and tastefully dressed secretaries blurred in her quick passage.

  Hank looked back at Dodge. “She’s a touch independent.”

  Jack Dodge leaned back in his chair. “Have you done a background check on this girl, Henry?”

  “Don’t be absurd. I don’t investigate the women I date.”

  He fanned a sheaf of papers across the desk. “Well, I do. All my clients as well. Can’t be too careful, not in this county.”

  Hank’s palms felt damp. “What did you find? Is there something in there that I should know?”

  “Oh, nothing too surprising. This is a copy. Here. Take it. Read it at your leisure. It occurs to me how much more successful marriage might be if we all started out with a set of papers like these. Of course, it might also put me out of business.”

  “I don’t want the thing, Jack.”

  “Take it. You paid for it.” He tossed the file across the desk.

  Hank reached out to keep it from falling to the floor.

  “What can it hurt to know these few things? It’s like a résumé, not government secrets, Henry. Take the file.”

  He didn’t want to. But it was a force of habit—whether he’d liked it or not, he’d always followed Jack’s advice—Put your money into this mutual fund; follow that stock option—he’d been a good attorney. He took the file, stowed it inside his briefcase next to a lecture on Lares and Penates, the household gods. Immediately he felt guilt deliver a rabbit kick to his sternum, but he didn’t give the papers back.

  Dodge began cleaning his thumbnail with a paper clip. Hank had known him his whole life—Uncle Jack—had caught his first fish—a pearl gray flounder that looked as if it had been assembled by Picasso—with Jack at his elbow—Reel the son of a bitch in, boy, that’s the way! We’ll fry her up for dinner. But I don’t like fish. Can’t I throw it back? Jack’s elbow in his ribs. Gotta learn to like it, son. That’s what women taste like. Smoky laughter, the sting of sea spray in his face, Henry senior’s leering grin. Murdering fish and making dirty jokes was as close as men got to the rites of manhood. But Jack was wrong, women didn’t taste like that, they tasted sweet, a little horsey in Chloe’s case, not unpleasant. Jack put together a small will for Hank when he bought the condo. Under its terms, it went to his parents should anything happen. Family—up to now there hadn’t been anyone else to consider.

  Dodge set the clip down, studied his fingers. “I’ll say this much. Your sweetheart certainly brought herself up out of the gutter. Given her start, I find that impressive. You know about the Children’s Home, I presume?”

  “It’s been mentioned. I don’t press.”

  “I find it interesting, that’s all. Now don’t get that look. No matter what, we’re going to the mat with this thing. Ten to one they drop the charges once they hear from me, or make something stick on Hugh Nichols.”

  “Was he dealing drugs?”

  “Certainly not. Don’t be naive. They simply want to diminish the man’s credibility. This is not about drugs, it’s never been about drugs. It’s about the land, Henry. If the old goat would let go with grace they’d probably name the development after him, let him grand-marshal the Swallows parade every year until he’s pushing sod.”

  “He owns the land, Jack.”

  “When has that ever mattered in this country?”

  “Chloe said there’ve been continual threats, and constant hassling of the tenants by Social Services. These are people who used to be homeless. The way I see it, Nichols is doing them and the county a favor.”

  “Substandard domiciles, lack of adequate plumbing and sanitation. Some might call that exploitation of the poor.”

  Hank felt his face heating up. “Whatever it is, it got Chloe off the streets. She was safe there until the police went after her. Broke her goddamn leg, Jack. In three places. I took her to my orthopedist, and he said it was a nasty break—had to reset it.”

  Dodge was quiet for a few moments. “We’ll certainly use that if we have to. You kept the bills, didn’t you?”

  “Of course. It’s like
the King case, isn’t it? Only on a smaller scale.”

  Jack nodded. “Don’t think that won’t be in the minds of the jurors. We’d better acquit her, or we’ll have a miniriot on our hands.”

  “You really think it will go to trial?”

  “When cops are involved, it’s usual.”

  Hank shook his head. “Christ.”

  “Nothing’s happened yet, Hank. Let’s just hold tight.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “That Nichols is a character, don’t you agree? It makes you wonder what this place was like a hundred years ago. The old cowboy fantasy, wide-open spaces, outlaws. This girl of yours, she lands you pretty close to living it, doesn’t she, horses and all?”

  “Her horse bites me.”

  Dodge laughed. “Oh, that’s priceless. Your father must be having apoplexy.”

  “He hasn’t met her yet. Just my mother.”

  “And what did Iris think?”

  “They were polishing their spears when I walked in and found them together at my kitchen table.”

  “They’re both formidable women.”

  “True. Maybe they’ll settle down to being friendly enemies. Not that I can hope for much more.”