“Make yourself comfortable,” she said, handing me a glass of scotch that burned my eyes when I drew it near my face. The plastic couch covering crinkled beneath us. From the living room doorway, a teenage boy tipped his baseball cap.
“Good you’re back,” he said. “Dalia was getting weird without you.” He picked at chipped paint on the doorframe, peeling off a single, long strip.
“Good to be back,” she said. “Quit that. Come meet my friend.”
“Nah, happy to meet you but excuse me. I’ve got some stuff going,” and he bowed away, his stomps on the stairs creaking the roofline.
“That’s your son?” I said.
She snorted, then was seized by the same gravelly laughter, slapping my thigh, wiping her eyes. “It’s OK. The first time I seen Tony, I thought he was a little boy, too.”
Tony came back downstairs. His pants were halfway down his hips and he wore a peach windbreaker that swished when he walked. His hair was shiny with gel, glistening in the candlelight. He was maybe four feet tall if he was lucky, but I noticed that his chest and neck were thick with muscle. He had four travel bottles of Listerine in his hand, one between each finger, that he cracked open and poured over ice.
“Go on, Tony. Tell her how old you are.”
“Sweet sixteen,” he said.
“Yeah, keep telling yourself that.” She leaned into me, and said against my ear, “Don’t you worry about the mouthwash. Tony’s out of his mind, but his mind wasn’t so good to begin with. He’s set on drinking that swill. I just wish he’d buy the big bottles then, they’re cheaper. But it’s travel bottles. I don’t think he’s going nowhere.” He swished the drink around his mouth, ignoring her. She raised her voice. “I said, I don’t think you’re going nowhere, baby.”
“I have ears, Cher,” Tony said. “Cheers, ladies.” He drained his glass, and I thought of tiny Toulouse-Lautrec, his absinthe, his women. “Keeps me fresh,” he said. “And sane. Sure beats lighter fluid.”
“There’s booze here, Tony, as always,” said Cheryl. “For adults. That rot gut’s killing you.”
“Not fast enough.” He closed his eyes and rocked his Barcalounger back, pulling an afghan up over his head.
At this point I wasn’t doing so well. It hit me quick. I kept taking little nips of the scotch. I thought about the hotel I never checked into, a bed all my own and white noise, and talking sweet to Gray before sleep. How I could have woken up in the morning, put on a hotel robe and made myself tea, turned the blinds so the light poured in. At this point it felt like I’d never slip into a nicely made bed again, never cup my hands around a hot tea. Like Gray wouldn’t ever love me again.
Gray’s the nicest man. He found a baby mouse under the seat of his truck, and made a whole thing for her, tunnels and tufts of sawdust. He called her Miss Mouse, and petted her with his pinky finger, this big, biker-type guy. He bought me my pink luggage tags. It was easy to think I loved him. I poured myself more drink.
Leaving Gray was the worst thing I could think of, and I was leaning into that darkness. It’s like what I wanted in sex. I got turned on imagining terrible things, the opposite of what I wanted in real life. I would fantasize Gray addicted to heroine. I would fantasize Gray was my grandfather. These images started a tiny, lustful engine chugging away inside me.
“Don’t mind Tony,” whispered Cheryl. “He’s a son of a bitch, but he had to get that way. Kids picked him apart at school. Even now, a grown man, and people still start stuff with him all the time. You see this,” she said, lifting her shirt, pointing at the long, pink scar. “I took a knife for Tony. Someone’s trying to kill Tony, they’re going to have to kill me.” There were little snores coming from beneath the blanket.
“How do you know him?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Up, down, and sideways. Tony’s my man. I’ve known that sucker every way there is.” I pictured her, stalking the streets behind Tony like a bodyguard. I pictured her kneeling down to kiss him. From a distance, they would look like two men kissing, like a man kissing a boy.
“But how’d you meet him?”
“Oh, a lot of strays come through here. I got a house, right? Kids that can’t take care of themselves. I had this kid here last month, real faggoty type — excuse me, I’m not prejudice, but this kid had tits. Real nice kid though, really sad. He wouldn’t even sleep on a bed, he just wrapped himself up in blankets on the floor. Kicked them all out though, to make way for my ma.”
“Am I one of your strays?” I said.
“I don’t know, are you?”
I could feel my eyes drifting all around. She wasn’t so much like my mom.
“You wanna put on some music?” I said.
“Not now, sweetie. With Tony sleeping.”
“I can take care of myself. Are you calling me sweetie because you think you have to take care of me?”
“Sure I do. But I called you sweetie because you’re sweet, that’s all.”
“Yeah,” I said, the room spinning. I got up and opened doors, trying to find the bathroom but I kept finding broom closets instead, and bedrooms that smelled of strange bodies, all the kids she’d kept and let loose. When I found the bathroom, I flipped at the switch but no light came on. I lay down on the cool tile, no lunch and no dinner, my stomach clenched and hot with scotch. Some time later she flicked on the light and sat beside me, pressing her warm palm to my forehead. I couldn’t move my legs to stand, or open my eyes. The room spun.
“You’re OK, little girl,” she said. “What did I do to you? Baby in the big city, and I get her wrecked.” She slung my arm over her shoulder. “Up we go, that’s it.”
I caught sight of my reflection, my face streaked with mascara. Every day I had nice, quiet thoughts. Kept my shadow self at bay. She was there, in the mirror. Frenzied and dangerous, her body a cloud of buzzing beetles.
“Let’s get you in bed, now,” she said, leading me by my shoulders through the house, which felt overly big, like a house in a dream, full of long, dark, cold hallways that went on and on. “Let’s give you Ma’s room. There we are,” she said. I lay back on the quilted bed, my throat and chest and stomach raw.
“You look like my mom,” I said. “I thought you were her.”
“Me?” She propped me up, made me take a sip of water. “That’s a kicker. How old do you think I am?”
“Mom’s age,” I said.
“How old are you, kiddo?”
“Twenty-three,” I said.
“Well I’m thirty-three. May not look it, but the city will do that. So if I’m your mom we’re in worse shape than I thought. Take another swallow.”
I was crying. “I wish it was you,” I said.
“It is me,” she said. “Cool it now, you’re OK.” But something was unlocking inside me. I’m a crying kind of drunk, fine one minute, undone the next by sadness that I can’t name, fierce and fast rising like floodwaters.
“Shut up.” She lay down next to me. “I’m right here. I’m her.” She put her hand on my waist. “I’m her. I’m right here.”
Sometime in the night I remember reaching for her. I was dreaming about her. In the dream Miss Mouse was tiny again, and Cheryl cupped her in her hands.
“Quit that out,” she said, turning away from me in her sleep, but she stayed, her warm back pressed against mine until morning.
I didn’t want to leave the bed. I wanted to live in Cheryl’s ma’s room forever. Cheryl was gone and it was bright out. The street below was alive with traffic sounds, but inside the bedroom was cool and quiet. There was a crucifix above the headboard, and lacquered paintings of Jesus and the Virgin Mary over the dresser. The dresser was covered in dolls and doilies. The bedroom was different from the rest of the house, and I wondered if it was done up to make Cheryl’s ma feel at home. I felt like my hangover was terminal, and I would never feel like myself again.