Chips Off The Block Page 5

  He sat on the front porch, a beer in hand, but it was empty. Still, it felt good to hold it. He liked the feel of glass, albeit hollow, under his fingertips and against his palm. It wasn’t like holding her, but a damn sight better than a lot of other things.

  Baby, he’d tell her, if she was around, you know I’m sorry, Jesus effing Christ I’m sorry.

  She didn’t like it when he swore and used JC together. Still, that’s how he felt, so effing sorry. Then he smiled – she’d nearly purged the fucking F word from his vocabulary. Nearly, he sighed.

  He tried for another sip, but not even a hint of liquid landed on his tongue. “Shit.” He stood, stretched, then peered through the shrouded window, the curtain thin and frayed, but still as thick as lead, as if he was Superman, what she used to call him after a long night of… He sighed again. He still loved her, Christ, would it ever stop?

  A breeze blew, cooling the back of his neck, sweat having collected as he’d sat on the porch, thinking about her, grasping that empty bottle, which was still in his hand. He set it down, next to the side of the house, then he took three steps away from the window, toward the front door. She had changed the goddamned locks, that stupid… He stopped, the wind cooling more than his neck. Temper, temper, he inhaled, so wishing for a drop of beer.

  But not one speck remained; he couldn’t even inhale anything, well, especially not with the bottle on the porch by her bedroom window and him a foot from the locked front door. He couldn’t even get inside the fucking house, that goddamned…

  Hush your mouth rang in his head. Stop that kinda talk, you hear me?

  He glared at an imaginary figure whose authentic tone calmed his forked tongue. Only she did this to him, only she made him feel so…

  The engine’s roar caught him out; he hadn’t expected to be there when she got home. But if that was true, why had he been loitering on her porch? He didn’t look at her, hearing the engine die, the car door open, then slam shut. He was looking at the empty bottle. She would stare at him first, but as soon as she was close enough, that effing empty beer bottle…

  “What’re you doing here?” she yelled, halfway to the house.

  He sighed, then glanced at her. Goddamnit but she looked good – tight jeans, high heels, a low-cut top covered by a sheer blouse that didn’t conceal everything. She had lost a couple of pounds, but all it had done was hollow out her cheeks a little, which made her look a bit tired. Or maybe it was from being on her feet all day.

  “I was just…”

  “Drinking on my goddamn front porch.” She reached the steps, but came no closer. “Do I need to call the fucking cops?”

  He wanted to smile. Her language was no better than his, but if he smiled, she’d get even more pissed. He frowned instead. “Go ahead, call ’em. I don’t give a fucking shit…”

  She pointed at him. “Don’t you talk to me that way!”

  “What way?” Now anger flared; he hated it when she waved her hand at him, and he really hated it when she pointed at him like he wasn’t a man but a misbehaving child or a dog.

  “You know damn well what way.” She crossed her arms, like putting away a sword. He inhaled, thankful those weapons were laid down, also grateful for another cool breeze. Not that it calmed her fury, as she tapped her foot. But he felt better.

  Sometimes, even when she was irate, he felt okay. It was from how she tried not to irritate him. She was like that sometimes – sometimes she didn’t mean to make him so mad.

  Then she pulled out her key. It was a new key, not that it shone, but he had tried his, no luck. She dangled hers like a red flag.

  He longed for the wind, or a smile. Even if she flashed that I’ll get you asshole smile, at least she was grinning at him. If she was grinning, and not pointing her finger, half the battle was won.

  And she knew it too. She sighed, stopped tapping her foot, then dropped her hand, holding the key at her side. She looked defeated, which pierced him. She was beautiful, also depleted, because he was there; she had to face changing the locks in front of him. She had been threatening to do it for years, and she finally had, and hadn’t told him. Now she was telling him, that somewhat shiny key all the words necessary.

  He said nothing, no words like no more beer. But he sighed, a language all its own. Peevish inhalations and weary exhalations were code for I’m sorry, Why’d you do that, I don’t give a shit anymore, Fuck you. Get the fuck outta my house had turned into I’m the only one with a key.

  Well, her sister probably had one too. But he didn’t.

  He didn’t have a key, maybe Glenda didn’t have one either. She and Glenda were always bitching at each other, behind their backs or right to their faces, just like she did with him. But that key, glistening in the late afternoon sun, was more like a brick up his head. His face hurt on both sides, one for finding his key didn’t work anymore, the other for the new key still tight in her hand.

  “So, you gonna stand there all day?” she said, resignation in her tone.

  “Dunno.” Which was the truth; he didn’t have any other place to go.

  “Well shit.” She nearly pointed at him, but stopped herself. Her shoulders slumped, the key almost falling from her grasp. He stared at that key, an interloper. Then he heard a strange sound, as if she had cried uncle.

  Tears were rolling down her cheeks. “What?” she said, sounding eleven or twelve, just when girls don’t want anyone, especially adults, to see them lose control.

  “What what?” he said, trying not to stare at her, but failing.

  “You know the fuck what.” She so badly wanted to wipe her face; she hated crying.

  “Lemme come in, we can talk.”

  “Oh sure,” she laughed, brushing the back of her left hand against her cheek like shooing an errant fly. “You’ll just come back in and…”

  “Baby, shit. I’m sorry. How many goddamn times you want me to say it?”

  “Don’t you fucking swear at me!”

  “Christ,” he muttered. “Okay, I’m sorry. Look…”

  She started to point again and he wanted to knock her hand down, wanted to twist that arm behind her until she did cry uncle. He wanted to…

  Die. Hurting her again, even in his head, was like killing himself. “Fuck it.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t quiet. He walked to the far end of the porch, past the beer bottle and her bedroom window, from where he had seen the sun rise countless times. Reaching the edge of the porch, he jumped off, less than a foot to the ground as the yard wasn’t level, rising on that side of the property.

  “Where you going?” she hollered.

  He turned her way. “What’s it matter to you? You changed the…” He almost said fucking lock. “The front door lock. What do you care where I’m going, huh?”

  She glared at him, her full lips trembling. Then she shoved the key in her jeans’ pocket, crossed her arms, marching his way. “Don’t you walk away from me when I’m…”

  “What, huh? When you’re what?”

  By now she was two feet away, smelling like perm solution and hair dye and sweat. Those three together made him weak; she could knock him down with one touch of her hand.

  And she knew it, raising a hand his way. But she didn’t strike him, instead reaching for his grimy face. She traced around his eyes as her lips quivered again, then her voice emerged, soft and curious and generous. “When did you eat last or…” She cracked a thin smile. “Bathe?”

  Weeks, months, years he thought. “It’s been a few days.”

  “Uh-huh.” She nodded as she said this. Then she wiped away stray tears. “So, you hungry?”

  “A little.”

  “Mmmhmm.” She brushed away more tears. “And probably thirsty, although…” She gazed back to the house. He knew she was looking at that beer bottle.

  “Listen, you’re tired. I’ll get outta your hair.”

  All day she did perms and colors, cuts and blow dry’s. She nodded, as if he was right, but her mouth trembled a
gain, as if he was wrong. “I’ve got some leftover spaghetti,” she mumbled. Then she cleared her throat. “Was gonna have it tonight, take the rest tomorrow for lunch. It’s pretty dried out, but…”

  His stomach rumbled loudly. She started to giggle as he looked at the ground, which was just dirt. She wore heels; they were hard on her feet, but she wore them anyways.

  He wasn’t easy on her either, but… “Well, if you don’t mind, I mean…”

  “I wouldn’t have asked if I minded.”

  “No, I suppose you wouldn’t have.”

  It was quiet for more than a minute, but not quite two. Then she sighed. “Look, you can get a shower while I heat it up. I think some of your clothes are still in the…”

  She was crying as she spoke, as he nodded, then as she led him back to the house. She was still wiping her face when he got out of the bathroom, the scent of spaghetti sauce in the air. And she was still sniffling as he lay beside her naked, caressing her soft skin. His calloused fingers didn’t seem to hurt her, although they had in the past. She seemed more bothered by his bony frame, or maybe his few words, which were spoken gently and repeatedly all night as they made love. “I’m sorry baby, I’m so sorry.”

  “I know,” she warbled, still wiping her face with the back of her hand.

  He’s Among Angels