“You shot me?”
She took my hand, said
“Let’s get a cab, get the hell out of here. I hate hospitals.”
We got the cab and a surly driver. Shannon gave her address and then slumped back in the seat, said
“Jeff, my ex. He shot you.”
Real conversation stopper, that.
Her apartment was in North Brooklyn, the Polish enclave of Greenpoint. This had in recent years become the über-trendy merging of North Williamsburg and Hasidic South Williamsburg. The building was in good shape, lots of flower boxes on windows, bright painted doors, an air of bohemia but with cash. I asked
“You afford this?”
She shrugged, said
“My dad owns it.”
I hoped he lived elsewhere, like, maybe Ireland. She added
“He’s a carpenter, and real smart.”
He owned this building, I believed her.
I went to pay the fare. The driver pointed at the meter. I said
“Bit steep.”
He hawked some phlegm out the window and if I’d been more focused, I’d have made him eat it. I paid and he looked at the tip. I asked
“What’s the matter, not enough?”
He growled
“Guess it’ll do.”
And before I could slap the fuck, he burned rubber outa there.
Cabbies, you gotta love ’em.
Shannon’s apartment was on the ground floor, clean, full of light and the evidence of her little boy all around. Pac Man, Sesame Street Posters, small sneakers thrown on a couch, miniature baseball bat, and heart rending, a crayon sketch of a stick figure on the wall, with, underneath my mom.
I said
“Looks just like you.”
She couldn’t keep the joy from her eyes then, nervous, asked
“Get you something?”
“Jeff’s address?”
And lowered the tone, brought the boom down on whatever area of peace she had briefly inhabited. She leveled her eyes on me, asked
“Will you make love to me?”
I did.
Right there on the floor, under the crayon sketch. She touched the bandaged wound, asked
“Does it hurt?”
Time to be stoic, be macho, shrug it off. I said
“Like a son of a bitch.”
She made love with an urgency, with a passion that was ferocious. I, as they say, went along for the ride. Afterward, she rose, and, naked, went to the fridge, took out two beers. Sam Adams, frigging Boston rules but what the hell, a cold one was just the deal. I’d already had the hot one. She uncapped them, handed me one, clinked the bottles, said
“Sláinte.”
What else could I say so I said it
“Good health.”
She leaned over my shoulder, took down a pack of Marlboro Lights, lit two and I said
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
She put one between my lips, the gesture more intimate than the love making, said
“There’s a lot you don’t know.”
Ain’t that the truth? The first hits of the nicotine were magic, that rush to the blood stream, a cross between dizziness, nausea and ecstasy. Mainly, a cross, like in crucify. What I wanted was a line of coke and a double shot of bourbon so I asked
“You got any bourbon?”
She indicated a closet, said
“Top shelf.”
Of course.
Self-conscious, naked, I walked to the closet, opened it. Men are no good at that casual stroll without clothes, women can pull it off with grace and us, we do it looking more than a little ridiculous. A bottle of Jim Beam and on the bottom shelf, I saw the butt of a hand gun, and the temptation to check, see it had been fired was nearly overwhelming and reading my thoughts. She said
“My dad put it there. He says a woman alone can’t be too careful.”
I grabbed two glasses from the sink, filled them with Beam, asked
“Water?”
“No, neat, like my man.”
Okay, so it’s dumb but it gave me a glow. I brought the glasses over and she had a quilt, covered us and we lay sipping the hooch, drinking the beer and imagining the world was a fine place. She asked
“What are you thinking about?”
The answer is always
“You, hon.”
I was thinking if Jeff shot me because I took his ex to dinner, what the hell would he do if he knew I’d fucked her?
“He’d never met a cat that could tolerate him. For all he knew, his armpits gave off an unpleasant odour that only those little fuckers could smell.”
I wish I could say that after making love, sharing intimacy, we shared a depth, touching each other’s souls and Shannon, she was a woman, she wanted to talk and I did the guy thing.
I slept.
Dreamt a beast was stalking me, could feel its breath on my face and came to with a shudder to find a cat, a fucking cat, staring into my eyes. I screamed. The thing took off like, well, I guess, a scalded cat. Shannon was standing at the door, mugs of steaming coffee in her hands, trying not to laugh, said
“You’ll have met Byron.”
I tried for some macho poise, not too easy to pull off when you’ve just wailed like a banshee. I blustered
“The fuck is Byron?”
She moved over, my Red Sox T-shirt emphasizing her breasts, the logo turned out. Handing me a mug, she said
“That’s my other darling.”
My chest hurt, my head ached and the coffee burned my tongue. I said
“I’m not fond of cats.”
She wasn’t fazed, said
“You’re not fond of a lot of stuff, especially your own self.”
Just a little too deep for me first thing on waking. I asked if I could use the shower, maybe borrow a shirt, Jeff had probably left a pile. She indicated the bathroom, said
“I ran you a bath, get you all mellowed out.”
Take more than a freaking tub of hot water but I didn’t share that. The bath was good and if not relaxing, it eased me down a notch. I was going to ask her about Jeff and was stalling. Checked my wound, it was raw, inflamed. My face was puffy, and I badly needed a shave. Came out, wrapped in a towel. Shannon indicated jeans, and an almost-black blue sweat shirt, said
“The jeans belonged to Jeff and the shirt is my own. And don’t panic, it’s the Yankees.”
It was.
Tight fit but snug. Dressed, I felt marginally better and grabbed a cig, fired up, she said
“Those things will kill you.”
Seemed an opening so I said
“Not if Jeff gets there first.”
Her face took the direct hit, like a serious lash. She moved to the sofa, curled her feet up under her, and focused. That position, I mean, is it comfortable? I always think it’s related to that yoga crap and expect a chant to walk point. She said
“Jeff has A.M.I.”
All these abbreviations we have now, to skirt calling anything what it is. It’s like some relation of P.M.S. I stayed standing, smoke curling above my head, like a bad omen, a useless prayer. I asked
“And that is?”
“Anger management issues.”
Was she serious?
I didn’t ask her but went with
“Shooting people, seems he’s taking it to the next level.”
A flash of anger crossed her eyes. Maybe she had some issues herself and she said
“Don’t be flippant. He’s the father of my child.”
Gee, like I’d forgotten. I said
“How about you give me his address? I’ll help him resolve some of his issues.”
She took a deep breath, said
“Nicky, I like you, I like you a lot and I think I’m falling for you. But if you go after Jeff, we are done. He’s the father of my child. You hurt him, where does that leave us?”