Inside, she paused by an old washstand set up as a hostess station, to let her eyes adjust to the gloom. She’d never been here before. Rose would like it, because of all the plants. Petie didn’t think much of it herself. The chest of drawers beside her had an old lace doily on it, like you were supposed to be eating lunch in someone’s grandmother’s bedroom; desserts were displayed on a pie safe and a couple of rickety tea carts. Petie didn’t see the charm in old things. All they meant was you couldn’t afford new ones.
She scanned the room mechanically, without hope. Schiff’s truck hadn’t been parked outside: the asshole wasn’t even here yet, and it was already five minutes after they were supposed to meet. Plenty of people were looking her way, too. She was the only person in the place wearing jeans. The men were all in coats and ties; the women wore little skirts and blouses and scarves and shit. Everyone but Petie was wearing cologne. Petie smelled like onions. They’d been making jambalaya. She clamped her old purse under her armpit and hung her thumbs over her belt buckle—well, Eddie Coolbaugh’s belt buckle, silver plate, big as a saucer, with a fancy brass C right in the middle; a belt buckle that on Petie’s small frame said Screw you.
Suddenly, from the far back of the room, a big easy smile reached her like a perfectly shot arrow. Schiff was slouching like a lazy old tomcat at a table that looked much too small. Despite the heat of the place he was wearing his Pepsi jacket, and in front of him was a glass of milk.
“Hey,” he said after he’d watched her walk every inch of the way across the room and sit down across from him.
“Hey, Schiff.”
“Happy to see me?”
“Give me a break.”
“You don’t like me much, do you?”
“No, not much,” Petie acknowledged.
“Is it because I’m supposed to be a womanizer?”
“Are you?”
“A womanizer? Hell, if I did half the things I’m supposed to be doing, I’d be smiling a lot more.”
“Then why did you ask me over here? Is it about Eddie, did he do something wrong already? We can’t afford for him to lose this job, Schiff. Was it something he did on purpose, or was it an accident?”
“Neither.”
Petie looked at him warily.
“I just thought, you know, it would be nice to talk.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“You mean it would be nice if I slept with you.”
“That would be nice—” Schiff lifted a slow eyebrow.
“You can just go and fuck yourself,” Petie hissed.
“—but the fact is, I couldn’t sleep with you right now, because Carla would kill me and I’ve already been divorced and wiped out once and Carla wouldn’t just wipe me out, she’d ruin me. Carla doesn’t like me much, either. I miss having someone to talk to. So I thought, you know, I could tell you some things and you could pretend to listen.”
Petie reached for a glass. “Is that my water?”
“Careful, I might have spit in it.”
“Who do you remind me of?” Petie said. “Maybe my youngest son. Except he’s mature for his age.” She drank around the wilted lemon slice for something to do. The waitress came to take their order for hamburgers, looked hostilely at Schiff and stayed on Petie’s side of the table.
“For instance,” Schiff continued once she had gone, “one thing we could talk about is, I got an offer from someone for one of my dirt bikes. A good offer.”
“Was it Eddie?”
“Well, it might have been,” Schiff mused. “Or, it might not. You know, a good salesman never gives away his prospects.”
“So what was the offer?”
“Two hundred even. Nothing down, four equal payments to be made monthly, with possession after a hundred.”
“So it’s a good bike.”
“A very good bike.”
“Then why are you selling it?”
“I’m tired of getting mud in my teeth. I’m thinking of getting a road bike.”
“We’re just getting back on our feet, Schiff. What do you want me to say?”
“Well, there could be another buyer approaching me with another good offer.”
“Is there?”
“If it would help,” Schiff said.
“He really wants the bike. He talks about it with Loose all the time. Would it last, is it sturdy?”
“Sturdy enough.”
Petie sighed.
“Or,” Schiff said, watching Petie closely, “I could change the terms.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, let’s say I lowered the asking price to, say, thirty-five a month for four months. Eddie still gives me fifty, but I return fifteen a month to you when I see you. Which I would do, say, every now and then. To talk.” Without looking away he tore open a paper packet of sugar and up-ended it into his mouth, neatly tapping out the last several granules.
Petie stared back, and the two of them bore down on each other like oncoming trains. Schiff palmed another packet of sugar.
“Son of a bitch,” Petie whispered.
“Look,” he said, leaning towards her abruptly over the tabletop. “I know you don’t trust me, I know you think I only want to jump your bones. Not that I wouldn’t like to, don’t get me wrong. They’re very, very nice bones.” She could feel his feet and legs burning away, reaching towards her under the table. “But that’s not it. Okay? Think about it. If I’d wanted to find someone to play with, I would’ve picked someone easier. Not to mention someone whose other half doesn’t work for me.”
Petie regarded him frankly. “Are you done?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a piece of work.” But she’d started smiling.
“So are you,” Schiff said, grinning. “So are you.”
Petie’s cheeks were in high color as she accepted her plate from the waitress. Schiff could almost feel the heat coming off them, heat radiating through the thick shiny Indian hair pulled away from her face with a rolled-up bandanna. He could imagine what it would feel like on his bare chest. He’d always liked long hair, liked it dark, too. He wondered if she’d start getting gray soon. Old Man had been grizzled by the time he was forty-two, Schiff had heard; but there was the mother. He’d never heard much about the mother, not from Petie or Old Man or anyone. She had a few years on her already, Petie did, but she looked good to him. Damn good. He drained the rest of his milk.
“So,” Petie said when the waitress was gone. “Do you come here often?”
“Not too often.”
“I mean, God, Schiff, the place looks like where old lawyers go with their secretaries when they die. See that guy over there? I think he’s the one that nailed Old Man on his last DUI. Mr. Leather Suspenders and Fancy Pen. Guy probably kicks butt all morning and then comes in here to scarf down a Lawburger or something before he has to go pick up his dry cleaning.”
“He sure was plowed,” Schiff said.
“Who?”
“Old Man.” Schiff had been the first one to discover Old Man blindly trying to drive his way out of a ten-foot-deep ditch by the side of the road one night. No one ever figured out how he got in there in the first place, his truck and himself being in nearly perfect shape for two old beaters, not a fresh brush-nick or roll-mark on either of them. Old Man never got his license back after that; people just stopped and gave him a lift if they saw him walking along in the rain or cold. Some kid from Sawyer eventually bought his truck for a hundred and twenty-five bucks and a tow.
“Hell, he drove like that all the time,” Petie said. “There was a bunch of people used to pull over whenever they saw him coming. When I was little, he and my mother used to really go at it about his driving when he was stewed. The drunker he was, the more he wouldn’t let her drive. When he was really wasted, he wouldn’t even let her sit up front with him. She’d climb in beside me in the back and hold my hand.”
“I’ve never heard much about you
r mother.”
Petie shrugged. “She died. It was a long time ago.”
“Was she pretty?”
“No.”
“Car accident?”
“Cancer.”
Schiff nodded. “My father supposedly died of cancer.”
“Supposedly?”
“That’s my mother’s story.”
“You don’t think so?”
Schiff shrugged. “I never met him.” He pressed a few sugar granules onto his fingertip from the tabletop and brushed them into the ashtray.
“That’s too bad.”
“It certainly didn’t stop me from turning out wonderful.”
“So where’s your mother now?”
“Delia? Beats hell out of me. We don’t talk.”
“Ever?”
“Not since 1968.”
“What happened in 1968?”
“Me and my brother Howard left home. It’s a long story. Maybe I’ll tell you sometime.”
“Now’s good.”
“Mmmm.” Schiff raised an eyebrow.
“For the story.”
“No.” He pushed back his cuff and checked his watch, pulled out a Pepsi credit card and picked up the check. “Meet me next week and I’ll tell you then.”
Petie slung her old purse over her shoulder. She stood up and reached across the table, brushing his cheek lightly with her fingertips. He neither flinched nor ducked.
“Nice try,” she said.
IT WAS only once she was in her car that she allowed herself to slip off her denim jacket. She had soaked her shirt completely through. She must be in worse shape than she’d thought, to be thrown so badly. But there was something about the man, besides simple gall. He had a sleepy, feral look, cool as cool, unblinking, sure, in no hurry. No one had looked at her that way for years. Hell, no one looked at her much of any way at all anymore. She and Rose didn’t so much see as breathe each other, and Eddie Coolbaugh—well, God, Eddie Coolbaugh. Who knew what Eddie saw anymore. Eddie didn’t see, really; things just got blown into his eyes and stuck there for a while. Jeannie Fontineau, and so on.
Quickly, before Schiff could come out, she cranked over the engine, rolled down all the car windows and headed for the Crestline Apartments a few blocks away, where she had promised Rose she’d drop off an envelope with Gordon.
In her rearview mirror as she pulled out she saw Schiff amble out of the restaurant, set a toothpick between his teeth, bury his hands deep in his pockets and watch her drive away.
AT THE Crestline Petie pulled up beside Gordon’s Peugeot—what the hell kind of car was that, anyway, a Peugeot?—reached under the seat and pulled out the fat envelope Rose had given her that morning. More cookbook pages. Rose was spending every free minute working on the damn thing. For no money. It wasn’t the first time Rose had been taken advantage of. Petie had tried to talk her out of the project, especially now that Christie was back, but Rose had turned stubborn, which was rare with her. She just said that she liked doing it, and that Gordon was being very encouraging.
“Then they should pay you,” Petie had muttered.
“You know they would, Petie, if they could. Don’t you think they’re good people?”
“They’re all right.”
And Petie meant it: they were all right. They were honest and they worked hard and they had given her and Rose jobs. But they were taking advantage of Rose, getting her to do all that work and not paying her, and Petie didn’t like that.
It took a long time for Gordon to answer the door. When he did, Petie recognized one of Rose’s crocheted afghans around his shoulders, and he wore a pair of burgundy suede slippers on his feet. From within, a vaporizer hissed. He was very pale, and looked like the boys did after a bad bout of the flu: rabbit-eyed, clammy-handed, fuggy from too much bed rest and fever.
“Rose called and said you’d be dropping some pages by,” he said. He spoke thickly. Rose had said something about there being fungus in his mouth. “Do you want to come in?”
“That’s okay. I’ve got to get back.”
“Wait. I’ve got some proofs I want Rose to see. Can I send them with you? Would you mind?”
“Sure.”
Petie stepped inside and looked around. She had never been here before. Along one wall there was a slender-slatted bench; the other furniture was pretty, upholstered in chintzes of salmon and green. On the walls were several pencil sketches of men, small things in thick wooden frames; one a face, another a nude—a man—lying on his side. A whole wall of books, plants; an electronic keyboard of some kind. Some tall brass candlesticks with salmon-colored candles. It was beautiful and immaculate and no other man Petie had ever known would have been caught dead there.
On his desk a computer showed a page of Rose’s book on the screen. Gordon did a few things and the page changed.
“Take a look at this.” He motioned Petie over. “Remember the cabbage and chorizo soup? Here’s the spread we’re doing on it. It’s good, isn’t it?”
Petie looked, but it was just a recipe to her, except that it had a longer explanation beside it than she’d have wanted to read. Rose had always been the reader, not her.
“Rose has a strong, earthy voice,” Gordon said, rapidly flipping other pages onto and then off the screen. A printer began dragging paper through itself in the corner. “It’s very unusual, very clear. I think we’re going to be able to find a regional publisher for her. Think of it. You two will be famous.”
“Not me. Just Rose.”
“She includes you in everything she’s writing. Haven’t you read any of it?”
“Nah. She’s talked about some of the recipes with me, you know, double-checking things, but I’ll read it when it’s done.”
Gordon nodded and tapped the new papers into order, put them in an envelope and handed it to Petie. She took it and headed for the door, but before she got there she could hear Gordon clearing his throat, a thick, painful sound. “Petie.”
“Hmmm?”
Gordon draped the afghan over the back of his chair and set his feet carefully. “Has Rose talked to you about me?”
“Sure.”
“So you know I don’t have the flu.”
“Yes.”
“Are you okay with it?”
“No,” said Petie. “Are you?”
Gordon smiled. “No.”
“Look, I’m not afraid of you, if that’s what you mean. I’m not thrilled, either. Okay? You’re my boss. I work for you and Nadine. I like my job, and I’m not planning on going anywhere else. Is that what you wanted to know? The rest is none of my business.”
Gordon nodded and colored.
“Hey,” she said more softly. “I say what I mean, but it comes out hard sometimes. It’s awful, what’s happening to you. And I’m sorry. Look. Rose is the nice one of us two. You make sure she knows if there’s anything we can do. Anything. Okay?” She crossed the room and picked the top off the vaporizer, took it into the apartment’s tiny kitchen and filled the well, then hooked it back up again in the living room. “You’re not leaving this on overnight, are you?”
“No.”
“Well, if you do just make sure you fill it up real good.”
Gordon smiled a little, shivered and readjusted Rose’s afghan over his shoulders. Petie picked up the envelope again.
“Petie.”
She turned around at the door.
“Thanks.”
“Yeah.” Quietly she pulled the door shut behind her and sighed.
IT HAD always seemed like a mistake that, of the two of them, Petie had been the one to have two children—her, on whose reluctant shoulders children had fallen like a sack of cats. Rose had spent a tranquil, besotted pregnancy rubbing her belly and dreaming, while Petie had spent both of hers fighting back, prodding at the kicking babies with a ruler, a pencil, a spoon, her thumb. All three children responded to them the same way. They brought Petie their anger and outrage, but when they were hurt, especially Loose, they went
to Rose. And so there was nothing really new in Petie’s turning over Gordon to Rose as she so often turned over the boys.
“Maybe you could just look in on him,” she told Rose back in Hubbard as she handed her Gordon’s envelope. “I mean, if you’re going over there anyway. He seemed to want something.”
“You mean like food?”
“No, no, nothing like that, he’s got Nadine for that stuff. No, more like someone to talk to, maybe. I don’t know. He wanted to know if I knew what he had.”
“So?”
“Well, I do. So I said so.”
“God.”
“I don’t know, he seemed relieved he didn’t have to tell me.”
Rose shook her head. “It’s awful.”
“I know. So I told him to tell you anytime he needed anything we could help with.”
Rose nodded.
“I thought I’d better let you know.”
“Okay.” Rose began to slip the new pages out of the envelope.
“I had lunch over in Sawyer with Schiff.”
“What?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. He asked. I thought he wanted to tell me something about Eddie, some fuckup.”
“Did he?”
“No. Eddie made some deal with him for some dirt bike, though. He wanted my okay.”
“Oh.” Petie opened the front door, but Rose called out, “Hey! I nearly forgot. Barb Dumphy called. She thought you might be over here cooking. Something about setting up an appointment to talk to you about Ryan.”
“Shit.” Barb Dumphy was Ryan’s fourth-grade teacher.
“You’re supposed to call her back between three-thirty and four. Or she said she might try you.”
Sure enough, the telephone was ringing when she got home. Like a fool, she picked it up. “Mrs. Coolbaugh? This is Barb Dumphy at school. Ryan’s teacher? I’m glad I managed to find you. I’m calling because I’d like to set up an appointment to talk with you and Mr. Coolbaugh about Ryan.”
“Is he crying at recess again?”
“Actually, I’d rather not talk about it over the phone. What I was wondering was, could you and Mr. Coolbaugh come to school tomorrow afternoon, maybe at three-thirty?”
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