So now we are in Piscataway or someplace that looks like Piscataway or how I imagine Piscataway should look. My new wife isn’t impressed. She says things like, Why you bring me to this pit? Why you bring me someplace like Piscataway? I tell her about the park with the trees and brook and the blue jays. I tell her it’s pretty here. I tell her that she should meet my sister, that I think they have a lot in common. I tell her about the tea and cello. I say that family is important. I tell her if things get bad we can always steal the cello and pawn it for good money. I tell her that my sister is an easy mark. My new wife doesn’t react when I say this. She could be holding anything at this point, a high pair or rags.
I decide to tell her some stories about my sister, how she used to be a concert cellist but was injured in a playground mishap. I tell her a little boy tripped her and we don’t know if it was an accident or not. I tell her that my sister had two children but they were taken by the state on account of her being an unfit mother. I tell her about the drug use and the prostitution. Still, I say, she is a good person with a good heart and we shouldn’t judge her. I tell my new wife that she will love my sister and they will grow to be great friends. I tell my new wife that my sister needs this as much as she does. This is when I suggest we pull over, get something to eat, stretch our legs. My new wife wants to check into a hotel so we can watch TV. So far we’ve watched hours of TV every night before going to sleep sometime around 4:00 a.m. The truth is, we haven’t even consummated our marriage yet. Every time I try, she says she is trying to watch something or that she doesn’t like this idea. I explain to her that this is what married people do in this country, and she says, Everything about this is a problem. I want to ask what this means, but I don’t. Instead I go out and get her chips. She likes chips, calls them cheeps, eats them straight from the bag, one at a time.
What no one knows is that it doesn’t take much for me to fall in love and get married. With my new wife, it’s how she pronounces cheeps and the rest of her broken English and how she peeks down past those cheekbones at her hole cards, like she doesn’t want them to know she’s looking. How she looks devastated when I tell her something she doesn’t like and how after I say something nice a smile comes exploding from the bottom of her face and she kisses me hard on the cheek. She can go from inconsolable to affectionate in seconds and I don’t care if she’s just biding her time as long as she does this every so often. The others all had their own private wonders unique to them, too. I can’t help myself when it comes to women sometimes. This probably speaks to something fundamental about who I am as a person, but I try not to think about it. Or if I do, I only try to see how it might connect to poker.
I tell her we should keep driving around, that it’ll be dark soon. I ask if we can give it another hour, that if we can’t find my sister’s house in another hour, we’ll find a hotel and watch TV and eat chips. Then tomorrow we’ll go up to Vermont and live happily ever after. She tells me this is her dream. She says I should call my sister to see if she’s home, but I don’t have her new phone number. The last time I tried to call there was an automated voice saying the number I had dialed had been disconnected. I’m not sure when this was, if it was before or after I’d visited her last, the time she played the cello and we went for a walk. My sister hasn’t met any of my wives. I have a dim memory of calling her after I got married the first time with the intention of telling her the news, but all she could talk about were the drapes and how they were giving her all kinds of trouble.
Essentials
THERE WERE TOO MANY PEOPLE there when it happened so I’ve decided to cut some of them. Arthur Wheeler was present but had nothing to do with it. Gil Figgitz was whittling with his fly open again, dementia worsening, so he’s out. All June Harrison does is occupy space and too much of it at that and this was no exception. Likewise husband, Bill. I know for a fact Judy Jakker wanted nothing to do with it — she said so in that ridiculous European accent of hers — so out of respect for Judy, I’ll say she wasn’t even there. Betty Lager is an easy cut, despite the jean shorts and pedicured toes. Frank Pugo shouldn’t have been mixed up in this in the first place and his role, from what I understand, was minimal. William Shedd doesn’t need this kind of recognition, given his situation. As far as Harriet Dovovich is concerned, it’s best to leave well enough alone. Diego Goldstein wasn’t there at all, but he’s my friend and he’d be excited to see his name included. Dottie Western was there, but only for a few minutes. She left her turquoise Indian bracelet so I have to remember to call her. Pugo’s mother was there — I remember seeing her — but I don’t think she was involved, although it wouldn’t surprise me. I’d like to say Bennie Mangine was there and responsible for the whole thing, but I’d be lying. Next door Jill probably had something to do with it, but I’ve been trying to get her to watch me from her bedroom window at night and we’re in the latter stages of negotiations. Considering what Jenn Untermeyer did for me the night of Bill Shedd’s going-away party, there’s no way I can put her in the middle of this. Along those same lines, Grace Heaney gets a pass, too. Of course, Sam Marichino was in it up to his ears, but given his condition. . Dale Sween has always known about discretion and valor. Fran Pollo was acting awfully strange. Maybe she’ll stay in, I’m not sure. She let me feel her up when we were sixteen so I’m sure I owe her something. Denise Livingston never seemed quite right to me. Her eyes are far apart and she is always bumping into things. It’s as if she can only muster an inconsequential peripheral vision. Sal Gonzalez saved my ass once. Maybe the train wouldn’t have killed me, but there’s no way of knowing. So regardless that all the evidence points to Sal, I could never name him. At any rate, those are the people I’m cutting. I’m not sure if it’ll make a difference. By the time the cops got there, it was out of our hands. I’m not sure who called them. I was contemplating Next-door Jill’s counteroffer when someone tapped me on the shoulder. There were two of them. The one with the mustache said, What’s the problem here? I said, There’s no problem, and looked him in the eye. It’s best if you look them in the eye. Then he said, Well, someone has a problem. I said nothing. It’s best if you can look them in the eye and say nothing at the same time. Then they both noticed what had happened in the living room. The other one said, Does it have something to do. . with. . I said, Yes, Officer, it does.
Good People
ONE OF THEM, the one who is driving, says, Pussy’s pussy, and looks at the other one, the one in the passenger seat. It’s a kind of challenge.
The other says, Pussy is not pussy.
The two work together and are considered good people. That’s how they were introduced. Their boss is the one who introduced them this way, palming each on the shoulder as the two shook hands, both uneasy about this particular introduction, the intimate and public nature of it, the informality, the three of them all touching one another in the middle of the office like that, neither of the two looking the other in the eye, both noting the other’s grip, one limp and ladylike, the other deliberately firm, like he was trying to inflict pain, like he had something to prove.