by Wylde, Tara
“Lap the grease off your bacon rose ?”
“Holy fuck—stop right now!” I blink tears of laughter out of my eyes—where’d he even learn that shit...? “That’s literally the worst thing I’ve ever heard .”
“You feel better, though, don’t you ?”
“Don’t make me laugh while I’m driving.” I choke back the last of my giggles and flip on my turn signal. Young’s is just ahead. “And you better not say anything like that while I’m eating. I won’t be held responsible for anything sprayed in your face.” I feel him firing up a dirty rejoinder, and shoot him a glare. “Nope! Don’t touch that !”
James holds up his hands in defeat. “Hey, I’m a gentleman !”
“Sure you are .”
It’s quiet in the restaurant, which suits me just fine. James is as good as his word: he keeps the dinner conversation strictly G-rated...Well, mostly. He can’t seem to help the odd naughty joke. But he’s sharper than I thought: that lazy accent and party-boy persona cover quite the lively mind .
He leans back as the meal’s winding down, pinning me with an intense gaze. “Y’know, I wasn’t that drunk, this morning .”
“Hm?” Not sure where he’s going with that .
“That whole thing, when I said we should get married?” He toys with a bit of stir-fried broccoli, turning it over on his plate. “Still think that’s a good idea .”
This is a weird joke. “For what, the tax break ?”
He bites off the head of the broccoli and discards the stalk. “Nah, for ourselves. I mean—hear me out: you got laid off; I got, well...I’ll get into that later, but.... We could help each other. Try it on for size. Like an arranged marriage, only we’re the ones arranging it, instead our parents, or whoever .”
“You...what? ” I glance around. “I don’t see Rod Serling, but I’ve definitely entered the Twilight Zone .”
“Aw, c’mon. It’s not that weird.” He lowers his voice as the waiter goes by. “Or it is, but...more unconventional weird than creepy-weird. Like, you could give me a year, eighteen months. You wouldn’t have to worry: any bills, any expenses—those’d be covered. And at the end, if it didn’t work out, you’d walk away free and clear. With a million dollars.” He pauses, like he’s thinking it over. “Yeah. A million dollars .”
“You....” I’m pretty sure he’s kidding, but I seriously don’t get it. Shouldn’t he have arrived at the punch line by now ?
“Yeah?”
“You want to...what? Have a whole wedding, a marriage, on a whim? And eighteen months later, you—we just—I get laid off? With a severance package?” I laugh. “You sure that was water, not vodka ?”
James looks genuinely horrified. “No—no, I mean...shit! I wouldn’t just....” He makes a scratch that motion, scrubbing his hand to and fro. “Don’t think I put that quite right. Try thinking of it more as a...as a regular marriage, with an abridged courtship, and an unusual prenup .”
“An unusual prenup ?”
“Yeah. We get married, but instead of till death do us part, it’s a trial run. If we’re not head over heels by the eighteen-month mark, we part as friends. And of course, there’d be some kind of parenting agreement, if we happened to...y’know, if you ....”
If I...what!? —this guy’s certifiable !
“What...What would be in it for you ?”
James sighs, and for a moment, that tired guy from the Starlight Motel shows through. “Look, I know this sounds psycho. I’m just gonna....” He massages his temples. Can’t help but feel bad for him—if he is serious, he’s pretty far out on a limb. Something’s got to be driving him to it, something desperate .
“Just tell me .”
“I guess I’ve been...kinda going off the rails lately. But before that, before I got stupid, started filling my weekends with—well, you don’t wanna know—I started Dovecote. Not sure if you’ve heard of us, but we’re a biotech firm. Lifesaving stuff. Cancer treatments.” He looks up from his plate. There’s something in his eyes that wasn’t there before, something like excitement. “We’re working on breast cancer now, but what we’re doing, it could have implications for any kind of metastatic growth, any kind of chemo-resistant tumor. We could go from, y’know, cut it, radiate it, and hope for an extra year, to complete eradication.” He’s animated, passionate—I get the feeling he could talk about his work all night. I’m also getting the sinking feeling none of this is a joke .
“So, you....” I shake my head. “I mean, that’s amazing; that’s—really, it’s incredible. I’m just not sure how marrying a stranger comes into it .”
James has the grace to look sheepish. “Ah, Diana, I fucked up...fucked up so bad.” He rubs at his face. “I’ve been.... Had to bring on some investors to get off the ground. At the time, it was fine. All I did was work, and everything was great, and we were...ugh.” He pushes his plate away, looking sick .
“What happened ?”
“We started making money. And I got stupid. Started spending it, but...Y’know, once I had the house, the car, the toys...what was left but the lifestyle ?”
“By which I’m guessing you don’t mean, like...polo and champagne brunch .”
He winces. “Might’ve started with that, but lately it’s been all champagne and no brunch, if you know what I mean .”
“I’m still not seeing ....”
“There’s this morality clause—I’m not allowed to, y’know, tarnish the Dovecote name. Which is technically my name, so what the fuck? But if I do, they can buy me out, just like that, no contest, no recourse. And these aren’t the kinds of people who’ll replace me with someone good, someone who’ll carry on my life’s work. These are—“ He looks at me with something like horror. “They’re gonna shut down my trials, sell off my patents—I’d have to...I couldn’t even start over. Wouldn’t own any of my research, any of my...anything. It’d be over. I’d be over .”
“And you think if you were married, on the straight and narrow, your investors might — “
“It’d get ‘em off my back for a while.” He leans forward, earnest, pleading. “I just need a year. Maybe eighteen months. Then I’ll be able to buy ‘em back out, do whatever I want. But the way things are going, I’m not sure I’ll make it that long .”
“So I’d be your...respectability beard .”
“No! ” He brings his palms down on the table, so loud everyone looks our way. “Sorry—I mean, yeah, but also no. I honestly think if I had some...some affection in my life, someone to come home to, maybe....” James looks up at me. “Can you truly say that’s nuts ?”
“I...think you could probably use some therapy.” I pat his hand till the wounded look fades off his face. “I get it, though. You’re in a spot. Sometimes ....”
“Mm?”
“Just, sometimes when things get tight, when your options run out...Those loony ideas start to sound pretty good.” I smile, and it’s not even forced. “Gotta admit, I wouldn’t hate having someone in my life. And a million dollars... That’d solve a whole lot of problems.” I shake my head. “What am I saying? Shit—am I on What Would You Do? Is that guy going to come out, John Quinones ?”
“Is it really that loony ?”
“Ugh—don’t use that voice !”
“What voice ?”
I know he knows what I’m talking about. “That soft, drawly, down-South type of...melted-butter, rolls off your tongue—you know what you’re doing. Where are you even from, that you talk like that ?”
“Statesboro.” He winks. “Y’know, down in Jawwww-ja .”
“You’re far from home .”
“Just a poor country boy looking for a bride.” He draws it out long, like luckin’ ferra braaaahd .
“C’mon, knock it off .”
“You know you love it .”
“Right.” I cast about for a distraction. “What are you even doing all the way up here ?”
“Used to come here as a kid. Always liked it—the seasons, the people. S
o when I needed a fresh start after college....” He sighs. “Anyway, enough about me. What do you think ?”
I shake my head. I want to turn him down flat, drive him home and pretend this never happened, but, heaven help me, I’m thinking about it. Don’t know what that says about me—don’t want to know—but what I do know is I’m headed back to a house with a leaky roof and a moldy basement, a yard full of crabgrass and a garage door that won’t close. And it’s empty. So empty. Not even a dog. Nothing but memories, which, if I’m honest, have been more painful than comforting lately. “I can’t even believe I’m saying this, but...Can I have some time to think it over ?”
His face lights up. “Really? You’ll—you’d consider it? I was positive the next words out of your mouth would be fuck off .”
I nod. “Yeah. I’ll think about it. Might still be a fuck off in your future but... I’ll at least say it nicer .”
“Over another dinner, maybe .”
“Yeah. Like a consolation prize.” I fold up my napkin and toss it on my plate, wanting this dinner and this conversation to be over, at least for now. I don’t want him working that accent on me. Not till I’ve had a chance to think, away from him, away from that crazy fire that lit him up when he talked about his work. He’s one of those people who can make anything sound reasonable: I’m starting to see that about him. People like that can be bad news—leave you drowning, wondering how they talked you into jumping off that bridge .
Then again, maybe he’s a workaholic, well-meaning guy who got into some bad habits—someone who could use a hand up. Someone who’d do some good in the world, if he could avoid shooting himself in the foot .
Of course, if I say yes... We’d be married. Married. And it might be a marriage of convenience, but it doesn’t sound like he wants it to be fake , exactly. There’d be a wedding night, with all that entails. And I’m... I mean, I’m not totally inexperienced. But there’s one thing I haven’t tried, and do I really want my first time to be with some drunk Uber guy I married for...money? Pity ?
Yeah. I need to think this through .
5
J ames
“You seriously need me to say it?” The look on Tom’s face is priceless. Any other time, I’d be savoring it .
“Yup.”
“Fine: you shouldn’t have done that! ” He rolls his eyes. “I mean, who is she? Did you run a background check? Credit check? Of course you didn’t! She could be—You’re talking about marriage here. You’d be taking on her debt; there could be legal obligations—even if you divorce her in a year, that doesn’t go away! You could be liable for — “
“Tom.”
“—all kinds of financial fuckery, things that wouldn’t occur to you, till they bite you in the — “
“Tom. ”
“—ass. What ? ”
“I’d do all that. Check into her, I mean. Obviously, she’s gotta be solid—this is all about the morality clause. She can’t be some...debt-ridden shopaholic with a sideline in serial murder. So I’ll do that. All I’m asking is, can you draw up the contract ?”
“You’re unbelievable.” He shows me his back. I can see how pissed he is by the way his shoulders hunch almost to his ears .
“C’mon.”
“First of all, I told you to get a girlfriend, not some kind of...prefab wife. Someone who’d keep you in line. Look good at a press conference. Educated, you know? On your level. This woman sounds like a — “
“Careful.”
“I’m just being honest! What kind of woman — “
“Hey, now.” I peel myself out of my chair. Don’t know how educated Diana is, but all she’s done wrong so far is hear out my crazy plan. She doesn’t deserve this kind of talk. “Like I said, I’ll find out what kind of woman she is. And let’s be honest: you don’t exactly have the moral high ground here .”
“What’s that supposed to mean ?”
“Someone educated? Press conference ready? Willing to keep me in line? That’s not a girlfriend—That’s a prop. Or a babysitter. Shouldn’t I have... Shouldn’t I at least get a chance at something real? Someone I like ?”
Tom whirls on me. He’s all blotchy and furious. “So date her! Get to know her! Don’t—don’t just marry her, out of nowhere !”
“No time for that.” I frown. Need to make him understand. “You didn’t see Nasmith, the way he was hanging over me like a vampire bat. That man is looking for the slightest thing, and... You don’t get it.” Just thinking about him saps the strength out of my legs. I plunk down on a hassock. “He’s gonna find something. Doesn’t matter what I do. Doesn’t matter if I stay home this weekend and every weekend after it. One speeding ticket, one late-night Redtube session—hell, a shirt that lets my nipples shine through—I’ll be toast .”
Tom sits down, too. I’ve got him thinking .
“Listen, I know it sounds bad. Cynical. Pretty sure she thought so too, at first. But....” I look away, ashamed of what I’m saying. “This would give me leverage. Good press. It’ll be harder to squeeze me out on a technicality when I’ve just married some sweet local girl, someone wholesome, hardworking .”
Tom’s looking at me like something the dog tracked in .
I hang my head. “I know. I’m shit. But this is where we are .”
“This is where you are.” Tom clucks his tongue. “I mean, I can do the contract. What you’re talking about is basically a prenup. Like you said. Standard stuff, spells out your rights and obligations. Wouldn’t raise an eyebrow.” He reaches out and grabs my wrist, so hard I jump. “The intent behind it, though—that’s.... Man, you’re going to get hurt. Or she is. Or both of you. As your lawyer, yeah, NBD. I can do it. As your friend, this is a terrible idea .”
“But—“
“Terrible.”
“I just — “
“Terrible. ”
“I’m going through with it.” I wasn’t sure, even five seconds ago, but hearing myself say it out loud.... “If she agrees. I want this .”
“Jim....”
“Nothing’s too extreme.” I narrow my eyes. “Even if it’s horrible, even if I’m signing up for eighteen months of The Taming of the Shrew , I can’t let it all be for nothing. Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve built—I can’t lose it. I can’t . ”
Tom sucks air through his teeth. “Guess I’d better start on that background check .”
“Guess you’d better .”
Don’t think he’ll find anything—nothing bad, anyway. I had my own little Google-stalking session last night. She’s Diana Carson in real life: grew up in Fenwick; buried her dad around the same time I did, last year; loves dogs; went to Brock. No idea what she studied, or if she graduated, but she posted a hell of a doofy student ID pic to Facebook a few years ago. She doesn’t look good with a perm: one more fact for the dossier .
I reach for my phone, tempted to call her. She’s not a shrew. She’s more of a lovebird: sweet, bright-colored, nice voice. I could use some of that honey in my ear, after the confrontation I just had. But I stop dialing halfway through. It hasn’t even been a day. When she said she needed time, I don’t think she meant sixteen hours. Gotta soft-pedal this: any hint of pestering, nudging, or wheedling, that lovebird’s going to fly .
Three days should be enough for the background check. Three days—I’ll check in with her then. Till then, I’ll do hospital-lab-gym-home, no room for fuckups. Just to be sure, I’ll clear my house of alcohol. Percy should be thrilled: this’ll be one long week of walkies and Frisbee and Netflix on the couch. Maybe I’ll even take that plastic off .
6
D iana
I need to open that door .
It’s been almost a year: the daddy-longlegs will have built Rome in the rafters by now .
I don’t have to deal with everything at once. Just dust. Vacuum. Run a cloth around. Strip the bed; sweep the fireplace; get rid of the ....
Nope. Can’t. Not today .
I’m not making excuse
s. Not letting myself off the hook. I’ve been cleaning since dawn. Basement, garage, kitchen, both crawlspaces—I’ve picked three cobwebs out of my hair, defeated the mother of all moths, and I’m still not convinced there’s not a spider on me, somewhere. I’m not backing out: I’m tired. Anyone would do the same. It’s just a room, just another room. A room I can deal with tomorrow .
I need a fresh can of Pledge, anyway .
I’ve been needing a fresh can of Pledge for a long, long time .
I turn around. Got to face this .
The first step’s always the hardest: one twist on that handle, and I’ll be wondering what’s been holding me back all this time. After that, it’ll be easy: scrub this, air that, think about nothing .
Only a room. Not Pandora’s box. It’s not like the last five years are going to pour out like toxic smoke, choke me to death in the hall .
I close my eyes and go for it. The handle sticks at first—forgot it did that—then the door swings inward, silent on its hinges. I’d expected a creak, something to suggest the passage of time, but when I open my eyes, nothing’s changed at all. There aren’t even any cobwebs, or none that I can see. Just the hospital bed, coverlet turned back, sheets still wrinkled round the void of a human shape. Just the window, curtains half-open: bright enough to read without a glare. Just the water glass with its bendy straw, empty now, casting a scatter of light over the book face-down on the nightstand .
I slam the door. Something rattles, down the hall .
I’d forgotten those sheets, how they held their shape when I lifted Dad up for the last time .
And that book—I was waiting to read it .
It’s all I can do not to slide down the door and sob into my Swiffer pads. But I can’t. Not till I’ve dealt with this. If I start falling apart at the mere thought, I’ll never get around to doing anything about it .
I could be renting that room, pulling three hundred easy, maybe four. I could be packing up that bed, the CPAP machine, the wheelchair, the rest of it—that’s got to be worth something. Instead, I’m standing in the hall, thinking about a solution that’s —
