“Joe Serpe, the ex-cop, Snake,” Marla said, a crooked smile on her face. “Cain was a big fan of yours, Joe.”
“Marla is our staff psychologist,” Bergman explained. “She works at many of our area homes, but has put in extra time since Cain’s… I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course, like grief counseling at a school when something goes wrong,” Joe said, letting go of her delicate hand.
Bergman wasn’t finished. “Joe was offering to help find Jean Michel, but I explained to him that we couldn’t possibly help him.”
“That was very generous of you, Joe.”
“Thanks.”
“Ken, I’m heading out,” she said. “I’ll be in Riverhead tomorrow morning, Patchogue in the afternoon. I’ll be on call for you guys tomorrow night after seven.”
“Great, Marla. Thank you.”
Joe saw his opportunity. “I’ll walk you to your car. If that’s okay?”
“Fine,” she said, smiling slightly and so Bergman couldn’t see. “Just let me go to my office and I’ll meet you out front.”
The home manager didn’t look pleased, but there was nothing he could do about it. Joe thanked him for his time.
Joe barely noticed it had started snowing. He was light-headed, his heart racing. He felt nervous, his bare palms moist, his throat dry. It wasn’t as if Joe had abstained since his wife had packed up Joseph Jr. and headed to the Sunshine State. On the contrary, he’d been very popular with the Triple D Club at Lugo’s. Triple D: Divorced, Drunk, and Desperate. That’s what the drivers called the large group of women who made Lugo’s their home away from home. Some were there so frequently, their real homes were in danger of becoming homes away from home.
Joe felt no guilt over his exploits with club members. He was as divorced and drunk as any of them and maybe a little more desperate. He had come to think of his nights with these women as an odd mixture of necessary pleasure and mutual short term punishment. Not that he was complaining about the sex. Desperation is like a jet engine afterburner. It kicks things up a few notches. No, it was the mornings after that did it; the hangovers, awkward goodbyes, and the lies of possibility.
Occasionally, Joe would break the unwritten club rules and date one of the members. It never lasted. Five weeks had been the limit. There was just too much baggage to deal with. The thing about it was, there were no recriminations after the parting of ways. Two nights later, Joe’d be seated across Lugo’s bar raising his glass to the woman he’d just broken up with while buying a drink for the woman to her right. Just lately though, he had been avoiding the Triple Ds. He had grown weary of hopelessness.
“Hey,” Marla said, walking up to the sidewalk where Joe was waiting. “My car’s across the street. Hungry?”
Not really. “Very.”
“Come on. Dinner’s on me.”
The Seaside Grill was a cozy restaurant on Portion Road just around the corner from Lugo’s. Joe Serpe didn’t know it existed until the moment he walked in. For the second time in less than a week, he found himself steeped in one of those awkward silences.
“Psychologists are trained to be very patient, Joe, but if you don’t say something soon I’m going to scream.”
Joe took his face out of his menu. “Sorry.”
“It’s not the Gettysburg address, but it’s a start.”
The waiter came to the rescue. Marla ordered a Cosmo. Joe a pint of Blue Point lager.
“I remember you from the funeral,” Marla tried again.
“Helluva line, that. I’ve said it a couple of times myself in the last few days.”
“It’s weird, isn’t it? It’s like running into someone at the hospital and saying, ‘Hey, she’s my oncologist, too.’ It’s sad, but it’s common ground. People search for it all the time, common ground.”
“I guess.”
“For a handsome man, you seem awfully uncomfortable around women.”
The waiter gave Joe a brief reprieve by bringing their drinks. “Cheers,” she said. They clinked glasses. “Not all women,” Joe said. “Gee, you’re a real charmer.”
He was flustered. Marla reached across the table and put a calming hand atop his.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” she said, giggling. “I’m sorry. Tell me what you meant.”
“I meant that I’ve been on the sidelines for a long time and I’m unaccustomed to game speed.”
“Christ, men and sports analogies.”
“Yeah, that was pretty dumb, huh?” He felt himself breath normally.
She asked him to just come out and say what was on his mind. To his surprise, that’s exactly what he did. He confessed that he’d thought about her ever since seeing her at Cain’s funeral, but that he never really expected to see her again.
“I came to the group home hoping to get a lead on Mr. French.”
“What an asshole that guy was. Hit on anything in a skirt with an IQ over ninety.”
“I heard he hit anything with an IQ under ninety,” Joe said, the bite of criticism flavoring his words.
Marla didn’t take shit. “Hey, Joe, you ever work with bad cops? You report all of them? Any of them?”
He took that one full in the belly. “You got me there.”
“Look, the office walls are paper thin at the home and I heard almost every word of your conversation with Ken. I’ve got my issues with Bergman, but he wasn’t lying to you about Jean Michel. We work for the state. Disliking someone or even suspecting someone of misconduct isn’t grounds for a firing squad. The mental health therapy aides are part of a union and there are procedures.”
“You’re right.”
“So, aren’t you going to ask me if I know anything about Mr. French?”
Joe obliged. “Do you?”
“No, but I’ll ask around. Professional ethics don’t allow me to question any of the residents, and I wouldn’t in any case. But…” Marla smiled that infectious crooked smile, her eyes lighting up. “Gossip among the staff at these homes is what keeps people coming to work day after day. A lot of the staff has worked in other places, worked for different agencies. Many times they’ve crossed paths before. Maybe some of them have been on staff with Jean Michel somewhere else. Have you got a card?”
Joe laughed. “Oil drivers give out refrigerator magnets, not cards.”
Marla slid a pen and her drink napkin across the table to Joe. “Write down the numbers where I can reach you.”
He hesitated, then felt compelled to explain about Vinny’s voice on the answering machine.
“You probably think I’m nuts,” he said, sliding the pen and napkin back her way.
“No,” she said, “I think you’re mourning. There’s no twenty-four second clock for grief.”
“Christ, women and sports analogies,” he chided. “I deserved that.”
They never ordered dinner. Two rounds of drinks later, they were standing in the parking lot. The snow had stopped, but had left a thin white blanket in its wake.
“You haven’t asked to see me again,” Marla said, writing her name in the snow on the hood of the car. “I know you want to.”
“Pretty confident, aren’t you?”
“It’s not like reading tea leaves, Joe. If you’re trying to hide your attraction, you’re doing a shitty job of it.”
“I’m not trying to hide anything, but-”
“I get that this is the part where you try to push me away,” she said.
“I just come with a lot of baggage is all.”
“We all do.”
“Some more than others. I’m pretty well damaged goods and-”
“Shhh.” Marla pressed her index finger across his lips. “Damage is a two-way street, Joe.” She stood on her toes and placed her lips softly against his. Just as quickly, she pulled back. “My career is all about damage. I’m not afraid of it.”
“You can’t fix me,” he heard himself say.
“I don’t know you. And I couldn’t fix you even if I wanted to. For now, I’d just like it if you’d kiss me.”
Tuesday, February 24th, 2004
T he tugboat seemed to glide. The stops came easy, went fast. Joe smiled when passing drivers, stuck for several minutes behind his soot belching truck, gave him the finger as they passed. And all because he’d kissed a girl. That’s as far as it had gone, as far as he was willing to let it go. They’d stood there for an hour talking, kissing again, talking some more. She thought he looked like De Niro.