“I am.”
“Okay.”
It turned out that Hart had never wanted to be a lawyer. He had wanted to be a jazz saxophonist. I told him he could be both and he said, naah, he didn’t think so. I said look at Woody Allen, or you know Bill Clinton, they still find time to play their horns. Hart grinned. He told me he had had a girlfriend who had gone insane or something, and his mother was starting a new relationship with some American. His dad was living in Toronto. His brother sold junk bonds and was trying to get a divorce from his wife. The mini-van belonged to his brother. But Hart said he wouldn’t miss it. He preferred his Miata.
By now Teresa had called and said Dill was playing happily and I could go down and pick him up whenever I felt like it (she told me she had seen the mini-van so she understood) but before noon because she had to go to a job interview, something Mercy had told her about, something like flood inspector for people’s flooded basements.
Apparently they were hiring anybody. I guess a flooded basement would be one good way Teresa could extinguish herself. Ha ha. Hart asked me if I was still involved with Dill’s father. I said no. I showed him pictures of Dill and he said Dill was cute. He said he looked like me. I liked Hart right then. He said he was sorry if he had upset me. I told him I was sorry if I had upset him, and I said, “If there is ever anything I can do for you …”
“Thanks. You too.”
Though what that might have been I wasn’t sure. I was pouring us more coffee when there was a knock at the door. I thought it must be Teresa with Dill or Lish to talk about last night or maybe Sing Dylan wanting to fix the toilet. I peered through the little peephole. It wasn’t any of those people. It was Podborczintski. He had a vinyl briefcase in one hand and a windbreaker zippered right up to his chin. He had brown pants on that had wrapped themselves weirdly around one leg. He was stroking the top of his head in swift jerky motions, trying to get some hair to stay there. “Oh,” I called out to him through the door. “Hang on!” I ran to the kitchen. “Shit, Hart, you have to get out of here. Real fast.”
“Okay. Why?”
“Cause my welfare guy is here and you’re not supposed to be. Hurry. Hurry.”
Hart got his shoes on. I threw his cup in the sink. God, Dill should have been here. Hart shouldn’t have. What would Podborczintski think? How was I going to get rid of Hart? I said to him, “You’re going to have to go down the balcony.”
“What? You’re crazy.” This time he sounded sincere.
“No. No. Come on. Hurry.” I grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the kitchen. “Hang on Mr. Podborczintski, I’m just getting out of the tub,” I yelled. I yanked the sheet off my bed, ran to the balcony and tied one end of it to the balcony railing.
“Forget that, it doesn’t work,” said Hart. “Jesus Christ.” He started laughing. For a split second I was full of admiration, but I said urgently, “Okay then, what are you going to do? Hide? Podborczintski is gonna check the floor plan to make sure I’m getting the right amount of rent money.”
“No, I’ll pretend I’m your, uh, meter man.”
“I don’t have a meter in my apartment.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll be your minister. You need counselling.”
“Then why am I in the bathtub?”
“Fuck.”
“Fuck.”
“Okay, I’m going to jump.”
“You’ll kill yourself.”
“As if.”
I slapped Hart on the back and smiled. “Atta boy,” I said. He was becoming more and more like my fantasy of the perfect boyfriend.
He ran to the balcony. We stood there looking at each other for a moment. I kissed him and he blushed. Then he threw his shoes over the side. Sing Dylan looked up from his job washing the graffiti and stared. Hart crawled over the side and lowered himself down the railing. He was hanging on, dangling there. He grinned up at me.
“You’re crazy,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “Bye.”
Then he let go and fell onto the grass below. Thud. He lay there for a second. I threw his glasses down to him and he missed catching them, but they didn’t break. He got up and put on his shoes and ran to the mini-van. I ran to the door. I opened it wide with a big smile on my face and Podborczintski squinted at the sun that now shone in his face. Teresa, holding Dill and followed by her son, was coming down the hall peering at Podborczintski, unsure, I called out, “Hi!!!! You’re back! Great!”
Podborczintski looked at me with a puzzled expression and then saw that I wasn’t talking to him, but to Teresa and Dill, but before he could say anything, I went on, “Thanks for looking after Dill, Teresa, how was he, how were you, Dill, oh c’mon over here, let me give you a great big hug and kiss, there you go, thanks, Teresa, hi Scotty, okay well …”
I was doing a lot of talking because I didn’t know what to say.
When I stopped to catch my breath, Podborczintski said, “Sorry to get you out of the bath.”
“What? Oh yeah, no problem, I was … ready to get out … yup, it was time alright. So … c’mon in. Teresa, thanks again, see ya later.”
Teresa stood there staring. I guess she was wondering if this was the guy I had brought home for the night. Podborczintski? How could she? I put Dill down and Podborczintski made little clucking noises to him. We were still all bunched around the doorway. Dill crawled over to Podborczintski and began to pull himself up one of his brown trouser legs. After a few seconds Podborczintski picked him up, holding him away from his body, and said, “Hello there, little fella.” Dill smiled. Podborczintski said, “Wellwell well, he certainly doesn’t object to strangers picking him up, does he?”
“He gets that from his mother,” said Teresa making a face at me from behind Podborczintski. “Well, gotta go,” she added. “I’ve got my interview. Lucy, you should consider going for an interview for this job, they’re hiring anybody, they’ve got sixteen thousand flooded basements they still haven’t—”
“Teresa, this is Mr. Podborczintski, my case worker from Social Assistance!”
Teresa’s face froze, and she stammered, “Oh … oh.” She made another face meaning oops, major gaffe, behind his back and said she was pleased to meet him, she had to go. I wondered if she thought I had brought Podborczintski home for the night. Obviously I couldn’t do a lot of explaining right then.
Podborczintski did the inspection and got out of my apartment in a hurry. If he noticed the bathroom was as dry as a bone and not steamed up from a bath, he didn’t say anything. He seemed satisfied the dole was giving me the right amount of rent money. As he was leaving, he asked me again, of course, whether or not I had found out who Dill’s father was. Again, I said, “Nope, sorry.” I wondered when he would stop asking me that question. I saw that Hart had left his card on my pillow. John Dillinger would not have left a business card on my pillow. How could I have told Hart, the attorney, that I’m attracted to outlaws, dead notorious ones at that?
ten
Lish and I had things to do. We had to get ready for the trip.
I’ll tell you right now I had misgivings. We only had about ten days before we were supposed to leave. Rodger said the van was working alright, except for the sliding door. Around sharp curves, one of us would have to hang onto it, he said, so it wouldn’t come right off. But the van wasn’t the real problem: this whole trip would be pointless, futile. I knew it. Lish didn’t know it, but I knew it. She was so excited and the twins were excited, though they still didn’t know it was their father we were out to find, and even the older girls were looking forward to hitting the road. They hadn’t been out of the city since the last time Rodger’s van was working, and that was five years ago, when Lish was volunteering for the busking festival and the kids were off with Rodger and his mom, at somebody’s cabin in Alberta.