Boulevard (27 page)

Miss Sophia drew herself up, time to go, enough. “Time was, I would do most anything,” she said, sliding past him, speaking, that time, and for the first time in the store that she could remember, in the voice of Clarence Dodd, as if he had been listening, too, inside her. As if he were answering, too.

Newell slipped into the bathroom, closing the door.

When he called Flora, later, from Mac's office, she was hardly surprised. She had been thinking about Sweet Thing all afternoon and that was usually a sign he would call or she would hear something from him. When the phone rang, in fact, she looked across the dinette to Jesse and said, “See what I told you?”

“You ain't never wrong, I know,” Jesse dragging a long hit on his cigarillo in the fancy plastic holder.

“Hello, honey,” she said into the receiver, and Newell
said, “I just got lonesome for you, Gramma, that's all. I'm still at work.”

“You miss your Gramma. Ain't that sweet.”

“You know I do.”

“You still working at that bookstore? Seems like you would get a vacation by now, and come on home to see me.”

“I'm still at the bookstore,” he said, and from the echo on the line she thought maybe he was listening to somebody else, too.

“You still like it?”

“Yes ma'am.”

“They treating you good?”

“I'm the night supervisor, now. Our business is so good, lately.”

“What kind of books you sell?”

“Picture books, mostly.”

“I never even been in a bookstore,” Flora said. “Well, honey, you sound all right.”

“Oh, I'm fine. I'm just a little lonesome.”

“Well, I tell you what. All you got to do is come home.”

“I thought you and Jesse were coming to see me here one of these days.”

“You know Jesse don't go nowhere. He's setting here right now in the kitchen chair happy as a dog with a bone. Long as he's got a beer and something another to smoke, he's fine.”

“Tell him hey,” Jesse said, waving the brown smoking
cylinder looking like some kind of Hollywood fruit with that plastic holder.

“Jesse says hey, honey. I told you he was setting here. He's took up smoking cigarillos. He looks some kind of sissy, let me tell you.”

“Leave Jesse alone, Gramma.”

“I ain't bothering him.”

“Well, listen, I better go,” Newell said, and Flora had the feeling he was listening to somebody again. “I just wanted to hear your voice a little bit.”

“You come on home to see your grandma, now, if you're so lonesome. I promise I'll let you go back.”

Newell's easy laughter always made Flora happy. “I tell you what, I might do that,” he said, and added a good-bye, and there she was, alone in the glare of the kitchen light with Jesse again.

“I told you he would call,” she said.

“I know.”

“He misses his nana.”

“You'll be all on your high horse, now.”

“Oh, shut up. Give me one of them cigarettes.”

“It's not a cigarette,” Jesse explained patiently, but she waved her hand at him and took it by the holder and lit it. She realized Newell hadn't asked about his mother for a change and, oddly, was happier still.

“I think these things is for women,” Flora said, inhaling the fragrant tobacco.

“Oh, shit.”

“I mean it. This looks to me like it was made for a
woman.”

Jesse, patient, began his explanation again, that a cigarillo was different from a cigarette due to the quality of the tobacco and the fact that it was rolled in tobacco, like a cigar. He had already told her several times since he bought the first pack last week, a pretty good explanation, he thought, though he had no idea whether it was true or not and had made it up, in fact; and he knew he would have to say the whole paragraph again, probably for as long as he smoked the things. So he pulled another one of the little faggot sticks, as Flora had termed them, out of the pack and lit it and sat there grinning at Flora, and thought—as he often did when he was grinning at her and she was giving him that look, her head lowered some, her bedroom eyes, she called this look, one of her front teeth darkening, giving her a sinister edge—she's a handsome woman, he thought, I'm lucky to have something that nice, son of a bitch that I am, and with this much gut hanging over my belt.

Even after Newell called Flora, even after he stood in the bathroom to calm his nerves, all he could think of was Jack in the courtyard, the words he had said.

After work Newell met Henry in the Circle K and had something to eat. This happened by chance; usually they met in the Corral after the bookstore closed, but tonight Newell happened to walk past the restaurant, maybe because he had thought about Curtis earlier, and there was Henry in the window, eating, and he waved to Newell, and Newell went inside to join him.

In the restaurant was Alan and in the door to the kitchen, Umberto. But they were busy talking, and Newell slid into his seat without their noticing. Henry grinned at him and said, “I had to get something to eat after that bitch wet my pants.”

“Miss Sophia is not a bitch. She just doesn't like you.”

“Well, I'm not exactly feeling like her best friend right now, either.”

“You do hang around there a lot.”

Henry made a gesture with his chin that meant he would ignore the remark. “I hadn't ordered yet,” Henry said, examining the laminated menu. “I just got here.” He turned to signal the waiter to get another menu, and the waiter who responded turned out to be Alan.

Imagine Alan's surprise to see Newell at the table with that tired old man. Alan had helped to get this cute thing fired, and look at him now in that leather collar and those leather bracelets, that black T-shirt, oh my. Had he gotten bigger? Alan laid down silverware in front of Newell and their eyes met and Alan acted as if he had just that second recognized Newell, slapped Newell's shoulder then squeezed it some, what a nice springy texture the flesh had. “Hello,” Alan said. “How are you? We've missed you around here.” He acted as if he and Newell had always been the best of friends, and the performance drew Umberto's attention and he recognized Newell, too, and came out to say hello.

“What are you two doing on the night shift?” Newell asked.

“We got tired of those bitches on the day shift. That's all.”

“How's Curtis?”

“Oh, honey.” Alan's hand on his hip, feeling Newell's eyes slide toward the motion. “Curtis moved to Toronto with Stuart. Thank God. Now we have this nice sane dyke for a boss.”

“Luana,” Umberto agreed.

“Honey, she weighs two hundred pounds, and she's shaped like a block of ice, I am not lying.” Alan raised his brows. “Umberto is supervisor on the night shift. Do you believe it?”

“No,” Newell said, and one of Alan's tables beckoned him, and so he tapped Newell on the shoulder and said, “I'll be back in a minute to take your order, sweetie, I have to see what these queens over here want. Yoo-hoo!” and he slashed through the dining room, hips like blades.

Newell said to Umberto, “God, he sure is different. He hated me when I worked here.”

“Oh I know, honey. Don't you remember he tried to get me fired, too? I think it's the new medication.” Umberto rolled his eyes and they laughed, and Umberto introduced himself to Henry and stood there talking to Henry about how to get a state job like Henry had, more relaxed and assured than Newell remembered him. Alan so different, and Curtis gone for good. Newell asked about the others, learned that Felix was still cooking breakfast every morning, and Frank had gotten sick, stayed in the hospital for a while, and disappeared, nobody
knew quite what had happened.

Pleasant to sit there as a customer, even pleasant to pretend with Alan that they had been buddies when Newell worked here, that everything had been wonderful, when Newell had been terrified most of the time, wondering if he would make enough money to stay in New Orleans, never dreaming people who hardly knew you could hate you so much, and now, tonight, with all that in the past, to have the face to sit here and pretend it had all been all right, or maybe that it had all been Curtis's fault, since he was more the villain and was conveniently out of the picture. Newell even found himself liking Alan by the end of the meal, liking his flair for bitchy gestures and comments, at least.

Afterward he and Henry went to the Corral, where they sat in the loud music without talking, shoulder to shoulder but scanning the room in opposite directions. Newell thought maybe tonight he wanted to find somebody to go home with. The taste of the margarita cloying, he licked some of the salt from the rim. He drank it down, then, around midnight, leaned into Henry's ear and said, “I'll see you later. I'm going home.”

“But it's early.”

“I know. I'm tired.”

“I bet you're really going to see Mark.”

Newell flushed. “I might.”

Henry turned away, took his drink in hand, a dramatic movement like something he had seen in a movie. “I knew it.”

“Give it up, Henry. What difference does it make to you?” He walked away.

In the street, he headed to Prilla's house, ringing the bell to get into the gate, Prilla coming out on the porch to see who it was, Prilla in one of those full-length African dresses with a wrap of fabric on her head, probably entertaining this evening, but she smiled at Newell, her voice warm and pleasant as she said how nice it was to see him again and was he looking for Mark? Because she knew Mark was upstairs. Could he go around the back, because she had some sisters in the house for a card reading? Newell answered, conscious of his own lilt and drawl, that she looked awfully nice this evening, so he figured she was having company, and sure, he'd go around back, he didn't mean to disturb her by going through the house anyway, and they chatted for a few moments as easy as if neither had anything else in the world to do, as if it were early in the evening and they both had plenty of time.

The door to Mark's room was open, Mark sitting at the desk with his vein tied off, probing it, a flame burner on the desk, cooking something for his arm. He glanced at Newell, gestured him to come in. “I'll be done in a minute.”

“I'll wait out here.”

“No. Come and watch.”

Something of a dare in the tone, to which Newell had to respond.

“You want some?”

Newell shook his head. “No.” It made him afraid, shooting up, though he pretended it made no difference.

Now Mark was filling the syringe with the slightly cloudy fluid, now touching the needle against one of his veins, now shooting, opening the tourniquet, a cloud of pleasure rising visibly through his body, his lips flushed as if he were kissing, letting the syringe and needle with the drop of blood rest on the desk, Newell watching, the moment too intimate, as if he were watching Mark have sex with someone else. Mark sighed. “What did you want? After you told me off today?”

Newell shrugged. “Just to see you. But I guess I'll come back.”

“You can stay if you want.”

“I don't think so.”

“Did you decide to go the party?” Mark took a deep breath. “Is that why you came.”

“No,” Newell said. “I came by to see you.”

Mark closed his eyes, leaning back in the chair so far it seemed certain he should fall.

Newell wondered why he had come. What had he expected? He walked up the passageway, past Prilla's open front door, through which he could hear gentle laughter. He opened the gate and stepped onto the street, facing the direction of his apartment. Too restless to go home, he landed in the Golden Lantern where he sat for a long time, drinking margaritas. He had not been thinking about anybody, let alone the man he had met months ago, the blow job in the bar; but someone was leaning
against him, and Newell gradually noticed the steady pressure, the solid mass of the body, and when he turned, there was Jerry again, the same thick shoulders and neck, the same smooth brown skin. Jerry was breathing on his neck the whole time, leaned close to Newell's ear. “I can't believe it's you.”

“Well, I guess it is,” Newell said.

“I been looking for you.”

“Have you?”

“I went back to the place down the street a million times but you wasn't there.”

“I don't go there much.”

There was a feeling of quiet between them even in the noisy bar. Nice to have Jerry stand near like this, but why was his heart pounding so? Almost visible beneath his shirt, so that Newell wanted to lay a hand there. “You want to have some more fun?” Jerry pressed himself gently against Newell, but his question rang with urgency. “Not in here, I mean. We could go somewhere.”

The noise and confusion pressed close, closer even than Jerry, whose breath ran along the tips of Newell's ears. A shiver passed through him, as he thought of the first time, the way Jerry's body felt, under his hands, beneath the clothes, the smooth brown upper arms, the round hard shoulders. Before, Newell had felt detached, but now he was not so sure of himself. He wanted something, and his own heart was beginning to echo in his chest. “We can go to my room,” he whispered, but Jerry was already leading him toward the door.

In the room he fought a rush of panic, because Jerry was there, because his smell would linger long afterward. But Jerry took off his shirt and his body drew Newell to it, and after that he was only thinking about the way it felt to touch this man, the soft gray-black hair cropped close to his skull, the firm corded neck, his mouth, the etched sun-lines of his face relaxing as he drew pleasure out of Newell, and Newell, as he could feel himself giving this pleasure, felt himself inside it, not like the first time, for in here there was no movie, there was only this man pressed close, this man's harsh breath, the noises that came out of his mouth, the look of softness washing over his eyes, the pleasure of it, to be held like this, undressed with such rough hands moving so gently. Without the movie in his head Newell wondered what to do, for a while, till they were on the bed together, and then everything seemed simple, at least at first. Jerry hungry for something, understanding what it was to have Jerry over him, pressing inside him, not at all the way it had looked in the movies, the indignity then the pleasure of it.