Hank & Chloe

by Jo-Ann Mapson

  Iris shrugged. “It’s all so long ago I’ve probably forgotten everything important. Who would want to hear about it, anyway?”

  “Some of us would.”

  Chloe eyed Iris’s silver bracelet, a horned ram’s head with turquoise eyes. “That’s beautiful. Did your mother give you that?”

  Iris’s hand clamped involuntarily over the bracelet. “Yes.”

  Chloe drew back the outstretched finger that had been on its way to touch the bracelet. “I’m allergic to silver,” she said. “Makes me break out in a rash clear up to my elbow. Actually, I don’t wear jewelry at all. It’s too easy to catch a ring or something and break a finger when I’m working around the horses.”

  Henry said, “It sounds like dangerous work. Is that how you hurt your leg?”

  Chloe sighed. Iris had recognized the lie she told back in Hank’s kitchen; she’d said as much to Henry. She was a smart woman. They were after answers. Well, it was nuts to keep doing this tango with the truth when sooner or later it would come out wearing a neon party dress. Hank, toying with his watercress salad, wasn’t going to give her any help. “My leg was broken in three places when an overeager junior deputy with the sheriff’s department threw me to the floor in the raid on Hughville. It was in all the papers. Probably you saw me on television. I was the one almost wearing a blanket.”

  The waiter chose that particular moment of stunned silence to appear tableside, deliver in his perfect actor’s tenor the daily specials, tease a little about the dessert tray, and fawn pretentiously over Iris’s jewelry. “I just think Santa Fe’s the darlingest town,” he said. “Plus it has all those, you know, high energy centers? If I can’t get a part in the soaps, I might go there this spring and live in a cave.”

  Chloe listened to what they ordered. You could glean an entire personality from menu choices. Iris wanted broiled skinless chicken breast and a baked potato, hold the sour cream, a single pat of diet margarine. No special sauces, no raw vegetables, a cup of plain chicken bouillon, not soup. Henry senior wanted the prime rib, the sixteen-ounce steak, the double rack of baby back ribs, wanted the whole shebang, but opted for the orange roughy with lemon, rice pilaf, and stir-fried squash medley to Iris’s obvious approval. Hank, her Hank, shocked them all.

  “Filet mignon, rare.”

  “Rare, sir?” the waiter repeated.

  “I want it cold, raw, and mooing in the middle,” he said and upended his wine glass and finished it, “or I’ll send it back. Could you refill this with the house red when you get a moment?”

  Chloe had to bite her lip to keep from losing it entirely. Iris and Henry senior were stuttering into their rolls. “I’m not all that hungry,” she told the waiter. “But I have this craving for chicken-fried steak. Don’t suppose you guys make that?”

  “Sorry,” the waiter said. He went over the specials again, and she chose the catfish. Raw steak and bottom fish—the Olivers were confused—well, the hell with them. Time was, Fats would drive all night for fried cat at the El Molino Outpost on the Pete Kitchen Ranch in Patagonia, Arizona, yapping all the way about the taste of the buttery fish, then be too drunk and tired to eat any when they arrived. Chloe’d developed a taste for it, a knack for driving long distances with an unconscious seatmate, snacking off his foil-wrapped leftovers while he snored away a state’s worth of miles.

  She smiled when the plate was placed in front of her and said thanks to the waiter. The no-nonsense aroma of fish surrounded by lemon wedges tickled her nose, brought back a few good memories. She lifted her fork over the flaky fish. Hank gave out a groan when he saw his enormous steak overlapping the edges of the plate. He’d drunk too much on an empty stomach, and Iris and Henry were being very quiet.

  “I am so damn hungry,” he said, slicing through the meat. “Everything looks good—including you.” He leaned over and kissed Chloe’s cheek, a big sloppy smack that spoke of a deeper familiarity. Iris looked away; Henry grinned, but it was a smile that disapproved. They ate their dinners in silence. The stiffness got into every forkful—Chloe couldn’t finish even half her plate.

  She insisted on driving the Honda home to Irvine. Hank meandered into and out of subjects, sadly apologizing that his condition forbade them spending the rest of the evening working the kinks out of each other in bed. Chloe rubbed his arm; bless his heart, did he really think the strained silences the evening had invoked would disappear in the rush of orgasm? In the ladies room at the restaurant, Iris had tagged along and stood by the vanity, watching Chloe run a comb through her hair.

  “That’s a beautiful dress,” she said. “Pink’s your color. And the cut becomes your figure. Wherever did you find it?”

  Chloe looked into the mirror. “Hank picked it out.”

  “My son has good taste.”

  Chloe stopped the comb, turned and faced Iris. The powdered cheeks were flaccid. Wine had rosied them up, but age and illness were pulling them down. “I’m happy to hear you say that, Mrs. Oliver.”

  Iris placed a hand on Chloe’s wrist. “I’m an old woman, Chloe. I’ve had half my intestines taken from me, thanks to cancer. During my life, I’ve buried my only daughter and endured a philandering husband who suddenly wants to be my best friend, now that he’s getting too old to chase women. Hank’s the most precious thing I have.”

  “Have?” she echoed. “You make it sound like you own him.”

  “You’ll understand when you have a child. There’s a bond that can never be broken. And somehow you’ve gotten him to do the one thing I never could.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Relax, and be himself.”

  Chloe chuckled. “I think you’re exaggerating. Hank’s always himself.”

  “Not around us. He’s very careful. I’d hate to see him get hurt if you’re not in this for the long run.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Iris released her wrist. Little heat phantoms rose up from Chloe’s skin. “Don’t evade the issue,” she said. “You have to know my son is in love with you.”

  “Love?” Chloe’s laugh grew flinty. “Maybe a heavy state of like. I get your point, Iris. You don’t have to worry, I’m not planning on marrying your baby.”

  “I can see that,” Iris said. “That’s what has me worried.”

  When she got Hank into bed, he woke up, revived by his car nap and eager to make love.

  “Not now,” she said as she pulled away to her side of the bed.

  “Don’t turn me away, Chloe.”

  “I’m tired, Hank. Court this week, now your parents—Jesus—where does Iris get her lines? She really approves of me, doesn’t she? The cardinal sin of ordering catfish. How long before you’re forgiven for eating a goddamn steak? I’m worn down to my bones. I don’t like you when you drink too much. You act stupid and guilty around your parents.”

  But he didn’t let go, he kept after her, kissing her, murmuring as he moved himself to straddle her. He hadn’t heard a word she said. She went slack underneath him. He reached down to guide his penis inside her, but as she could feel him jabbing blindly at her, hitting her thigh, her behind, she realized the poor fool wasn’t even erect.

  “Hank, you’re pushing a rope.”

  He tried a while longer, then clung to her, broke down crying into her hair in a big damp huff of sour wine breath.

  Over his shoulder she said, “Maybe Iris is onto something. Remind me never to feed you red meat again.”

  She reached over his back to shut off the light. Hank’s tears were slowing now. During large gaps of time in between his intakes of breath she could feel him deciding whether to speak to her or not.

  “You’re getting awfully heavy,” she told him.

  He rolled away. “I’ve lied to you.”

  She pulled the covers back up to her chin. “Wouldn’t be the first time a man did that.”

  “This is different.”

  Her stomach tightened. “What? I can deal with just about anything except you suddenl
y having a boyfriend.”

  “No, no. You’re way off track here.” He twisted the sheets away, stumbling from the bed, naked. Nothing looked sillier than a half-drunk naked man, half aroused. She turned to watch him. If every woman on earth took a picture of her man in that state and showed it to him when he was sober, maybe there was a chance for world peace. He turned on the light. He brought his briefcase into the middle of the bed, unlatched the top and dumped the contents out. “Read this.”

  She looked at the mass of papers and files. “What? You found some myth that turns me into a toadstool?”

  He took an envelope from the file folder.

  “What’s that?”

  “A letter from the department, cutting back my class load from four to none for fall,” he said, laughing bitterly. “If I’m a good boy, if the war proves profitable, maybe I can come back in the spring.”

  “Oh, Hank. My God. I’m sorry.”

  “Hey, not to worry. I’ll find another job. I was afraid you’d leave if I told you. Will you? I still don’t know that you won’t.”

  “What in the devil are you talking about?”

  He left the room, Wrapping a towel around his waist and lumbering down the stairs. She heard the clatter in the kitchen; he was making a cup of tea to sit on top of the steak and wine; he’d be one of God’s favored dogs if he could keep it all down. She fingered the envelope. It was Hank’s mail—she started to put the papers in order. Here were his lecture notes for class—some wild story about a coyote named Trickster. She opened the envelope from his school and read the brief message that his job was being eliminated due to budgetary concerns. When she got her settlement from the court—ten thousand dollars, Jack had said—she could pay him back everything he’d spent on her, that would help. On another file folder she saw her name. Jack Dodge’s letterhead inside. She glanced over the pages, her heart thudding. Birth records. A list of the names of the foster homes she’d shuffled through. Doctor visits, the abortion she’d kept a secret from the Gilpins. All the low points of her life, remanded to crisp, white paper. How did Dodge get these records? What was Hank doing with them? Some of this shit wasn’t even true. She hadn’t had a bad attitude in the foster homes, she just got tired of the fathers thinking since she wasn’t blood kin, that meant they could do whatever they wanted to her, including using her for fun and games in the bedroom. And the shoplifting thing—if they supposedly dropped the charges, how come it was here in print? She hung her head at the hospital records. Rape. A single word didn’t quite cover the experience. She remembered bright hot lights overhead, the clatter of metal instruments on a tray, and the intern’s low whistle as he measured her bruises. Well, at least you gave him one heck of a fight, didn’t you, honey? Nobody needed to know these things about her. Just how did somebody go about gathering that kind of information—what right had they? This was what separated her from Hank and his mother’s remark—your people—she had a blacked-out birth certificate and a private investigator’s dossier. She took the file and the letter and went downstairs to Hank in his oak-and-glass kitchen. “You weak son of a bitch,” she said. “How could you keep this from me?”

  He looked at her for one moment, his face crumpling. “Cowardice,” he said. “I love you.”

  “I’m not talking about your job.” She threw the file across the table. The folder tipped his mug, splattering all over him and the tabletop. He sat still, dripping.

  “You had me investigated! That’s not love. If you wanted to know anything, all you ever had to do was ask me. Have I ever told you one single lie? Ever? No. But you’ve told me a few, more than a few, it seems.”

  “It wasn’t me—”

  She pointed a finger. “Don’t. Don’t say another word.” She crossed the oak flooring, went to the knife rack, and selected the largest one, the one with the serrated edge and eight-inch handle, went back to the table where Hank sat and yanked a chair out, set her cast leg on it, and began sawing down the fiberglass.

  “Don’t,” Hank said. “You’re supposed to keep it on until they do the next X-rays. Come on, Chloe. Don’t damage your leg because of me. I’ll drive you to the hospital it you want it off that badly, but don’t hurt yourself because I’m an asshole. Don’t.”

  “I need out of this cast and out of this house. I’m going back where I belong.”

  “Don’t go. It’s early. We can talk. Things will be clearer in the morning.”

  She kept sawing, stopping only to tear off a chunk of file folder to stuff in between her leg and the cast. She nicked herself once with the knife, let the blood run into the cast, and fifteen minutes later her face was dripping with sweat but she could wedge her thumbs in between the two halves of the cast, crack it, and pull her leg free. Her bare skin felt odd in the air, felt as pale and hairy as it looked, the calf muscle shrunken so much smaller than it used to be she wanted to cry. How would she ever leg a horse properly again? She shoved the chair aside and put her weight on the leg, but a dark green insinuating son-of-a-bitch pain shot up her leg and made her reel, grabbing the chair for balance; she nearly passed out.

  Hank was on his feet in a heartbeat, catching her. “Chloe,” he called. The phone rang.

  He waffled back and forth between her and the phone.

  She gripped the chair back to steady herself. “By all means, answer the goddamn phone. Talk to our anonymous friend. Am I going anywhere?”

  “What the hell do you want?” he screamed, and Chloe thought for a second he was speaking to her, but no, it he’d said it into the receiver, then listened a while, then mumbled, “I’m terribly sorry. Just a moment.”

  “I don’t want to talk to anyone!” Chloe yelled back at him, sickened by the sudden notion that maybe all those calls had come from her mother, her real mother, who had given her up years ago, like a sack of too-small clothes someone else might find a use for. No. She wouldn’t talk to her. Ever. She batted at the phone. Hank caught her wrist.

  “It’s the county,” he said. “They’ve found Hannah.”

  “Hannah? Hannah? Is she alive?”

  He held the receiver to her ear.

  She grasped the knife. “A pencil, some paper,” she stammered, and he took the phone back, wrote down the numbers, said thank you and good-bye.

  For a fraction of a second they were okay, two slightly broken-in lovers holding onto each other in the hum of an upper-middle-class kitchen. There were clean dish towels with blue edge trim folded across the shining oven door, sparkling copper-bottomed pans hanging from a ceiling rack right within reach, a bottle of lemon-scented Joy with the cap properly pressed closed on the edge of the sink.

  Chloe threw the knife down, and Hank leapt back. It stuck into the hardwood floor before falling flat. “Sorry,” she said, but the word was charged, a piece of slag in her throat. She gripped the chair back and looked at him, still holding the telephone receiver in his hand.

  After a moment he hung it up. “People make the biggest mistakes in the name of love,” he said. “It wasn’t my idea, it was just something Jack did.” He picked up the knife and set it on the countertop. “I’ll drive you to get your dog,” he said. “After that, I won’t interfere….” His voice trailed off.

  They weren’t fools at the shelter; they kept Hannah housed in a far corner behind eight-foot chain-link. A battered sign attached to her cage read “Vicious—Will Bite.” Inside, the pacing dog was barely reminiscent of the white shepherd Chloe had loved and lost—here instead was a gruel-colored, matted, cowering mass of bony limbs, muzzled, eyes wary. Chloe braced herself with her cane and squatted down as much as the sore leg would allow. “Hannah? Old girl? Remember me?”

  Hannah lunged at the chain-link twice, jaws snarling inside the muzzle. Chloe didn’t move, even when the chain came within millimeters of her face. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she repeated levelly.

  The dog moved back, circled, reached out with her snout, and tested the stranger’s scent through the muzzle. Then she tried hard t
o funnel her mouth into an O to howl, but the best she could manage were muffled cries. She pawed the muzzle furiously, flung herself at the chain-link again, but now in earnest to get it open and abolish the barrier between them. “That’s right, I’m here,” Chloe said. “I’ve come to take you home. We’ll both go home. Yes, we will.”

  “Hannah?” Hank took two steps forward, but Chloe raised the cane between them.

  “Stay back.”

  Hank stood next to the kennel attendant. Hannah was home from her long journey, but she had come to see only one person, and it wasn’t him.

  “You can open her cage now,” Chloe said.

  “You’re sure?” the handler said.

  “She’ll be fine.”

  He opened the lock, and Hannah flung herself at Chloe. Down they went in a pile, Chloe rubbing the ruff of Hannah’s neck, Hannah’s face butting in between limbs to deposit a lick wherever she could dart her caged tongue, the cane clattering to the cement, Hannah’s bladder letting go, Chloe grinning through it all despite the fact that the big dog had just showered her liberally with urine.

  “God knows why,” the kennel attendant said to Hank, who stood aside, watching the phenomenon.

  Chloe unbuckled the muzzle, and Hannah barked hoarsely twice, then doused her with kisses.

  “One of you want to come up front and check on the bill? She’s only been with us four hours, but she’s still managed to destroy a fair amount of county property.”

  “How much damage?” Chloe asked.

  “Never mind,” Hank said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’ll pay you back every dime, Hank, no matter how long it takes.”

  She sat in the back seat of the Honda with the dog, making soothing sounds, brushing her fingers through the matted fur. Hank drove soberly; the wine at the restaurant was in the distant past.

  “How do you suppose she managed all this time?”