“Thanks for the info.” Mitch fetched himself a beer from the refrigerator. “But Bitsy and I were talking about you in connection with another subject.”
J. Z. frowned at him. “I paint houses, man. What else could I
…?”
“Kimberly Farrell.”
“Kimmy?” He squinted at Mitch with one eye shut, which was either his way of trying to act inscrutable or he needed glasses. “What about her?”
“It’s a personal matter.”
“So this isn’t a professional get-with?”
“No, it’s not.”
“In that case…” J. Z. retrieved a plastic baggie from Mitch’s dining table and removed one of the dozen or so hand-rolled joints that were tucked inside. “Care to partake?”
“No, thanks, but you go right ahead,” said Mitch, who had to admire the strict line that J. Z. drew between work and play.
There were matches on the old glass-topped rowboat that was Mitch’s coffee table. J. Z. flopped down in the easy chair and fired up the joint, toking on it deeply. “Are you into her? Because I can totally dig that. Kimmy’s shmoking hot. But you’re too late, man. She’s engaged to some computer geek up in Boston. Besides, don’t you have a thing going with our resident state…?” He froze, staring down at the lit joint in his hand. “Uh-oh…”
“Don’t worry. I don’t care about that. Actually, I’m the computer geek’s best man. Kenny Lapidus is his name.”
J. Z. observed a moment of silence as he sat there processing this. “Okay…”
“And you and Kimberly were married very briefly a few years ago.”
“A million years ago,” he recalled with a fond, faraway look on his face.
Mitch sat down on the love seat across from him. Clemmie moseyed over and jumped in Mitch’s lap, eyeing this stranger guardedly. “I was wondering what happened between you two.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, man, because I’m not a hostile or confrontational person. But why’s it any of your damned business?”
“It’s not,” Mitch acknowledged easily. “And if you don’t want to talk about it I can totally respect that. But I’ve looked out for Kenny since we were little kids, okay? I just want to make sure he’s not getting into something he doesn’t understand.”
J. Z. treated Mitch to his one-eyed squint again. “No problem, man. Happy to help a brother.” He took another pull on the joint, holding in the smoke for several seconds before he let it out. “Were you ever young and stupid?”
“I like to think I still am.”
J. Z. flashed a lopsided grin at him. “Good answer. But were you ever young and stupid in a place like Dorset?”
“I grew up in New York City.”
“Totally different universe. I spent a lot of good years in the City myself, but I ended up back here. And, trust me, it can really suck. A young guy’s going to do his wild thing, you know? Trouble is, when you do it here in Dorset everyone finds out. You get trashed one night and wrap your car around somebody’s sycamore tree? Bam-word’s out that you’re a messed-up druggie. You boink a girl and never call her again? Bam-you’re a no-good louse. And here’s the thing, here’s the thing: No one ever forgets. Twenty years can go by and the old prune-faced biddies will still be talking about you. Know why? Because every babe you ever hook up with was, is and always will be somebody’s sister or cousin. Or her uncle works for somebody who knows your mom. Or whatever. It sticks to you like glue for as long as you live. Even if it wasn’t even your fault. I mean, sometimes it’s her fault, right? Or nobody’s fault. But, wait, because here’s the real pisser. Are you listening…?”
“Yes, I’m listening.”
“The truth doesn’t matter,” J. Z. proclaimed. “Hell, people don’t even know the truth half of the time. Doesn’t stop them though. They make up their mind anyway. And talk about you just like you’re a character in some soap opera. You have any idea what that’s like?”
“Yes, I do, actually.”
“Yeah, maybe you do. The old prune-faced biddies talk about you and the trooper lady, right? Well, me they’ve been talking about forever. Here, I’ll give you a for instance. This guy Courtney Borio gave me a helping hand a long, long time ago when I was really down. Courtney was just a good guy, okay? He taught me a trade. Gave me a place in this world. What he did for me, I mean, this guy should be a local hero, right? Wrong. You want to know why? Because Courtney was gay. And so they all whispered about the real reason why he was being so nice to me. I don’t roll that way, Mitch. Never have. I’m not judging. It’s just not my thing, okay? But Courtney and me worked together for a long time-which, according to the old prune-faced biddies, meant that I had to be gay. Doesn’t matter how many live-in girlfriends I’ve had over the years. To them I’m gay and always will be. Like I said, they never let the truth get in the way of a good story. And they’re just plain nasty, man. I mean, just because a man’s gay he can’t have a friend who’s not? How bigoted is that?” J. Z. glanced out of Mitch’s bay window in the direction of Bitsy Peck’s house. “I’m always happy to work for Bitsy. She’s a cool lady, not like those old prune-faced biddies in the Historic District-my mom’s so-called friends. They’ve never cut me any slack. Let me tell you, man, they’re just lucky I don’t hold a grudge.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I’d make ’em pay for what they’ve put me through.”
Mitch found himself leaning forward. “Make them pay how?”
J. Z. didn’t answer him. His joint had gone out. He lit a match to it and got it going again, dragging on it deeply.
“J. Z., why did you move back here from New York? Why do you still live here? Feeling the way you do, I mean.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Where else would I go? This is my home. Besides, I’m working. Got a roof over my head. It’s not much-just my mom’s guesthouse. But it’s mine. And I have a steady honey, Maggie. Real sweetie. The old prune-faced biddies talk nothing but trash about her, of course, because she slings drinks over at the Monkey Farm Cafe. She’s not classy like them.”
“Maggie works evenings?”
“Every weekend. Thursdays, too, if they get busy.”
“What do you with yourself while she’s working?”
He flashed a lopsided grin at Mitch. “We’re doing it, man.”
“These old biddies you were talking about…”
“Old prune-faced biddies.”
“What do they have to say about you and Kimberly?”
“That the poor girl didn’t know what she was getting into-about me being gay and all. And that when she found out the horrible truth, she dumped me.”
“Which isn’t what happened.”
“Not even close, man”
“What did?”
J. Z. took a long swallow of his beer before he said, “I used to smoke a lot of dope in those days. Not like now. I was stoned all the time. I’m not trying to make excuses, okay? Just drawing you a picture. We’d been married a few weeks and it was going great. I was only, like, the second guy Kimmy had ever been with. She was just real enthusiastic and eager to please me. So one night she asks me if there’s anything I’d like to do that we haven’t done yet.” J. Z. paused to ponder this, his brow furrowing. “Who knows what she really meant by that. I took it at face value and told her I’d always wanted to get into a threesome. She said ‘Really, who with?’ And so I mentioned this tasty friend of hers from high school. Cute little slice named Brittany. In fact, Brittany and me had kind of hooked up a couple of times before I met Kimmy. Anyway, that wasn’t what Kimberly wanted to hear. And she completely freaked out. Started sobbing. Kimmy’s incredibly sensitive. She feels everything. But, wait, because here comes the truly weird part: She said yes. Was all about wanting to make me happy. And so we ended up in a threesome with Brittany. Man, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Couldn’t believe it was really happening. Not that it happened a lot. Just twice. But, my bad, I managed to mess it up.”