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“Jesus, Donny.”

“Easy for them to hold their
little painted signs. Wonder how long they spent on ‘em? D’you
think they made it a family activity, makin’ them signs? ‘What
color paint you want, darlin’?’ ‘Oh, I think periwinkle, dear.’
‘Here you go, pumpkin.’ ‘My that’s purdy.’ Where do they think
they’d be if people like me—and that Jake of yours, too—sat home
like they do on fat, peace-lovin’ ‘make love not war’ asses? Do
away with the military, they say. Okay. All right.” He smiles.
“They’ll see some shit, then. See how things run without a military
when the rest of the world ain’t gettin’ rid o’ theirs. Goddamn
hippies.”

“Where were you in Vietnam,
anyway?”

He lights another cigarette
and exhales the smoke through his nose. “Why? You know the place?
You goin’ to know where it is if I tell you?”

“No.”

“You goin’ to say, ‘Gee,
Donny, I remember that area. I
studied
up
on it. Gosh, Donny, I heard a lot of
people got shot and blown to bits there. It sure was kind of you to
help those poor people with their legs shot off into the bushes
before goin’ to kill those innocent little babies.’ You goin’ to
say that?”

“No.”

“You goin’ to tell me why
not one person could say somethin’ nice to Donny when the tour was
over and the plane landed and I was h—back? I almost said ‘home.’
You hear that?” His eyes are dark behind his glasses. “Almost said
‘home.’”

“I don’t know anything about
that.”

“All right, then. I don’t
want to hear you talk about it.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

“For what?”

“For—I don’t
know.”

“Don’t say it,
then.”

“I mean, I’m sorry you were
treated that way.”

“Didn’t have nothin’ to do
with you.”

“Still.” I touch his hand,
just long enough, and pull back. His fingers are rough.

“Screamin’ at me. Spittin’
on me, too. On my jacket right here.” He touches a spot on his
shoulder. “Right there. Found it later, ‘cause there was so much
goin’ on that I didn’t notice right off.”

“People, the ones who know
the diff—they’re not all bad, I mean. Most of them loved you, or
people like you. They did.”

“If they did, I never saw a
one. But, you’re tryin’.” He folds his hands in a cup over his
heart. “Angel,” he says. “Thanks, girl. Thanks for tryin’. It ain’t
the welcome home I needed at twenty-one—young, ain’t it?
Twenty-one? I, me, Donny Donaldson, was twenty-one, a kid—but it’s
sure sweet. Appreciate it.”

We finish our drinks at the
same time and he pours refills. The bottle is almost
empty.

“Got somethin’ for you,” he
says.

“What is it?”

“It ain’t here right now,
but I got it. Archie, a friend of mine—wait, I told you about him?
yeah—he’s bringin’ my stuff by tonight. She got the car, you know,
the one that works, so—art supplies, some of my things. This is it
for now.” An open suitcase, clothes folded neatly inside, lies on
the full-sized bed. A thin nylon strap belts each half. “It’s in
his trunk. That picture, the one I drew of you. I ain’t got a use
for it.”

I had forgotten about it. I
tell him thank you, and I hope his friend doesn’t bring it to him.
I’m not sure I want it, don’t think I’d like
that…face…around.

“You’ll have to come back.
Tomorrow, to pick it up. I can’t bring it to you. Ain’t got a
car.”

“I know.”

“So you’ll be back
tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. I’ll
try.”

“I just want to give you
the—it’s a present.”

“I’ll try.”

“You want it, don’t
you?”

“Of course I do. I loved
it.”

“Well, you come by tomorrow,
then.”

“I’ll try.”

He puts an elbow on the
table, rests his chin in his hand. “You’re beautiful,” he says.
“You know that? An angel.”

I smile at him and look
away, toward the door.
Email.
Heat haze grains the air, softens the lines of the
bush growing across the lot. I rub my eyes and take a drink and
something rises in my throat. I rub my stomach and swallow, hold it
down, take another sip and wish I hadn’t, wish there hadn’t been
the cup before. Too late to drive home, now. I look over at Donny
and he smiles, eyes wrinkling behind his glasses. “Glad you came
over, girl,” he says, and his face is warm and I don’t want to go
anywhere, anymore. Don’t want to be anywhere but here, where
nothing is real and where no one knows me or Jake or the sickness
inside my stomach.

“Donny,” I say.

“Yep?”

I look at the cigarettes. “I
think I might be—” I take one. Light it. “I think I might be
drunk.”

“Aw,” he says. “You ain’t
drunk yet. What, you had two little cups? You ain’t even finished
that one, so it’s more like one and a half. Go on, finish up, have
another. Get real drunk, for real. It’s Tuesday.”

“To Tuesday.” I try to drink
more, and fast, but can’t. Donny pours anyway to make up for the
room I left, then taps the rim of his glass on my cup.
Cheers
, I think, and what
a wonderful word.

“Cheers,” I say.

“Good girl.”

Something
tap tap taps
, somewhere,
and Donny says, “Yeah!” A woman, maybe Donny’s age or maybe
younger, with orange-red hair and wearing white shorts that fall to
her pink knees, stands in the doorway.

“Judy!” he says. “Judy,
darlin’, come in. Come in! Have somethin’ to drink with
us.”

“Thanks, no,” she says,
smiling. She nods at me. “Hi.” Her voice is dusty.

“Hi,” I say.

“Donny, I just stopped by
because…well, actually, I was already out this way. Do you know the
flower shop on the corner?”

“I know it.”

“Well, it belongs to a
friend of mine. Can you believe I didn’t even know? She bought it
last month, she says, and she has the most beautiful alstroemerias.
They have these long, spe—”

“Sure, sure,” he says. “I
know astr—yeah. How ‘bout that? You should paint ‘em, sculpt ‘em,
or somethin’. Mia, this one—she does it all. Paints. Draws.
Sculpts. Ain’t nothin’ she can’t do.”

“He’s exaggerating,” she
says.

“You goin’ to paint
‘em?”

“I
am
. I bought three bunches, and I’m on
my way home, now, to set them up. But I stopped by to tell you, and
I’m so sorry, that my sister won’t be leaving until a little later
than we thought.”

“A long time?”

“No, no,” she says. She
shifts on her feet and lifts the hair from her neck. “It’s hot,
isn’t it?” She smiles again, a nice smile, and laugh lines wrinkle
around bright green eyes. “Maybe another week or two.” Donny’s eyes
go up and down her body, nice for any age. I cross my legs and sit
straighter.

“That’s all right, Jude.
That’s fine.”

“I’m so sorry. I know we
made these plans, and…I feel just awful.”

“What’re you sorry for? It’s
your house, and your sister can stay as long as she
wants.”

“Well, all right,” she says.
She looks at me, and Donny says, “Judy, this is my little friend,
Mia. My surrogate daughter, my new patient. Mia, Judy. Artist
extraordinaire.”

“Oh, Donny,” she
says.

“You should see,” he says.
“I ain’t nothin’ compared to her.”

“Nice to meet you,” I
say.

“And you, too,” she says. “I
should go, though, Donny, so—I’ll give you a call, or we can meet
later, all right?”

“Sure you don’t want to
stay? Have a drink? C’mon, sit a while.”

“No, really, but thank you.
I want to get the alstroemerias home before they wilt and sag. Like
me!” She actually giggles, and then tucks her hair behind her ears.
“Kelly’s out shopping, too, and it’s the silence of the
heavens
when she’s
gone.”

Donny laughs and Judy laughs
and Donny says, “That sister of yours.” Their laughter trickles and
fades and I say from my chair by the window, “What’s funny about
your sister?”

“Oh, you would have to meet
her,” she says. “Anyway, so…”

“Nice to meet you,” I
say.

“Yes,” she says, “you said
that.” She waves, hand down by her hip. “I’ll see you later, then,
Donny.”

“Sooner,” he says, and she
is gone. Her car door slams and an engine starts. Someone in the
lot hoots and calls, “Where you runnin’ off to, mama?”

Donny raises his glass,
drinks, and slams it on the table. “That was Judy.”

“I guess it was.”

“You know Judy?”

“Donny, you just introduced
us.” I take a drink and the bourbon is smooth, now, not at all like
when I first started drinking it, that first time, when it tore at
my throat and burned my chest. A few more swallows and the glass is
empty and Donny fills it up again. I push it away and try to steady
my head.

“Ain’t she somethin’? Ain’t
she beautiful?”

“Beautiful.”

“Emily, she—Judy and me,
we’re—we’re artists, the two of us. One mind between us. Our
connection, it’s spiritual, and no one can understand.”

“Beautiful, yes, you’re both
very deep,” I say, and, “Do you miss Emily?”

“Naw,” he says. “Naw, I
don’t want to talk about Emily. Judy—she, well, I ain’t nothin’
next to her. Brilliant. Genius! You ought to see what she does.
Painted a landscape like a dream, like the dream that ain’t over.
Like the song.”

I don’t know what song he
means, and I don’t care. “Landscapes already exist.”

“What’s that s’posed to
mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Judy, she takes somethin’
like that and makes it new, is what I’m sayin’.”

“What was she saying about
her sister?”

“The story’s none of your
business, but she’s stayin’ for a while, and when she’s gone I get
the room. Me and Judy’ll be roommates.—Just roommates, you know.
Nothin’ like—now, what’s that face? I’m a married man.” He smiles.
“Naw, but yeah. Just two friends, two artists. We bounce
ideas.”

“That’s good.”

“You should come, too. I’ll
ask. You can live there, too.”

“No, thanks.”

“Naw?”

“I already live
somewhere.”

He flips his hand. “Whatever
you want. But you should see her art. Beautiful, like her. You want
to know an angel? Judy. The truest angel there ever was. Real
smart, that one. Real talented. A natural talent.”

“Mm.”

“Sun’s goin’ down,” he
says.

“I think you love
her.”

“What’s that?”

“Judy. I think you love her.
But make sure you only get married ‘cause of love. No other reason.
Not war, not a—not anything.”

“What? I got a wife. You
talkin’ ‘bout Judy? Course I love her! Not like that, now. I
love—she’s—I love her spirit, is what. She’s somethin’ else. An
angel. Kind of like how I love you.”

“Right.”

“I do.”

“Donny, just—I wasn’t trying
to get you to…just stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop saying you love
me.”

“Hey, now. What’s the matter
with you?”

“Nothing.”

“I can’t say I love you,
now? All the sudden?”

“Say whatever you want. I’m
just sitting here.”

“Don’t just sit there, then.
Drink up.”

“Can’t.”

“Hell. Wish she’d stayed,
then. Look at you, ready to pass out.”

“I want to go home,” I
say.

“What for?”

“I want to go
home.”

“Now, don’t—it’s all right.
It’ll be all right. I’ll get you some water. You just need a
breather from it. I know. You listen to me, do what I’m tellin’
you, all right? Donny’s here.”

I close my eyes and hear
stumbling and banging, and when I open them the water is in front
of me and Donny watches me from across the table.

“Okay?” he says.

The water’s coldness makes
my throat ache.

“Will you call Lionel for
me?” I say.

“What d’you want me to call
him for? You’re all right. You’re okay. You just sit there and
wait. Listen to Donny.”

________

Something bangs, scrapes,
and I open my eyes and the room is dark, the door closed. Outdoor
lamplight bleeds through the window and makes a dim square on the
wall, and a broken nylon thread from the bed’s polyester comforter
scrapes my drool-wet cheek. Too tired to shift, to care, and a dark
figure moves toward me, then passes by, and I close my
eyes.

Later—minutes or hours or
days—fingers in my hair and against my scalp, soft, gentle,
stroking, down to my shoulder, my arm. “Everything’s goin’ to be
all right,” he murmurs. “Doctor Donaldson says so,” and then he is
snoring, his hand lying limp on my waist. I pull his arm around me
and press my back into his chest and sleep.