Love May Fail (29 page)

“Sure,” I say, because it’s what she needs, and then I lose Portia again to her office.

A few weeks later, when I arrive at Danielle and Tommy’s, I’m relieved Johnny Rotten’s not there. Danielle’s on the couch looking tired, watching TV. I notice that she’s got her arms covered again, but I’ve already gone there once, and she came up clean. Portia’s right. Danielle’s a big girl. And tonight’s about Portia and me.

“Hi there, little sis,” I say.

“Hey,” she says. “Tonight’s the big night, right?”

“Yep.”

“Think she’ll say yes?”

“Hope so.”

“She will.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“She’d be a dumbass not to,” Danielle says, smiles, and then looks back at the TV.

There’s something going on during this moment, but I’m not quite sure what it is. Danielle seems happy for me, but she also seems resigned somehow. No hug. No kiss. Just a simple vote of confidence. I can’t quite figure out what’s off, but something deep down inside knows all isn’t right. It’s a moment that will haunt me for years, and somehow I know it right then and there. But I shake it off. “Tommy here?”

“Yeah. He’s so excited for you—and Portia. He’s in his room.”

Danielle’s wearing an oversize Hello Kitty sweatshirt, hugging her thighs to her chest underneath the fabric. Her chin is resting on
her knees. She looks like a kid, sitting like this. I remember when she actually was a little girl and I was her big brother, back when we used to watch MTV videos, alone in the apartment we rented from an old woman who had cable, wondering when our drunk mother might make her next appearance in our lives.

“Do you have on any pants under that?” I ask, going for humor again.

“I gave up the pants. Going through a Winnie the Pooh phase,” she says and then flashes a mischievous smile.

I make another attempt at peace. “Danielle. I only asked those questions about your arms—this is stupid. Can’t we—”

“It’s okay, Chuck. Seriously. I’m not mad,” she says, looking directly into my eyes.

I want so much to believe her, and so I do, even though she’s chewing her bottom lip and tapping her toes.

“Okay,” I say.

I knock, but Tommy doesn’t answer. I hear his headphones buzzing, so I push open the door.

Tommy’s little back is toward me. His headphones look gigantic on his kid-size skull. He’s sitting at his desk, banging his head to the beat of his music and writing something. I watch him headbanging away and scribbling. He looks so content that I hate to interrupt, so I just enjoy watching him for a minute or so.

When I finally tap his shoulder, he turns around and then his arms are around my neck and I have him in the air. The old yellow Walkman I gave him long ago falls to the floor and the music stops playing.

“What are you listening to, little man?” I ask.

“
Too Fast for Love
. Mötley Crüe,” he says, and gives me the devil horns.

“You have that on cassette tape now?”

“I taped it off the vinyl. Recorded over one of your old metal mixes. Put Scotch tape over the holes on the top of the cassette. Mom showed me how.”

“You taped over one of my masterpieces?” I say, but I’m only joking. I’m impressed by the little man’s ingenuity.

“
Too Fast for Love
is the masterpiece.”

“You are correct, little man,” I say. Tommy’s still in my arms. Our faces are only a few inches way from each other. The kid’s skin is so smooth, young, and unblemished. I wish I could stop time and keep Tommy just the way he is, because for a kid who loves bubblegum metal, he has the most innocent, pure heart. “But why would you want to listen to a secondhand bootleg recording of the best Mötley Crüe album ever, when you have it on vinyl?”

“Put me down and I’ll show you,” Tommy says, so I put him down. He runs over to his dresser, pulls out a large square he’s covered in paper and tape, and hands it to me. He’s written on it in red crayon:

Welcome to the family, Portia.

You will be a great aunt.

Love, Tommy

And then he’s drawn a picture of what I believe is Tommy and Portia holding hands and raising the devil horns with their free ones.

I say, “Is this your
Too Fast for Love
original pressing album in here?”

“Aunt Portia loves that record.”

“Dude,” I say.

“Is the picture cool?” he says, and looks up at me like he’s really worried.

“You are a total rock star, little man,” I say, and then I’m down on one knee, looking him in the eye. “This is seriously cool and generous of you. And you know you can come over and listen to this record with us whenever you want. It’s still yours too—it’ll be all of ours. A family record. And you’ll inherit it back someday.”

“I wish I could live with you and Aunt Portia.”

He’s already begun calling her aunt.

“What? Why?” I say.

“Mom watches TV all the time. She doesn’t do anything else.”

“She’s just going through a hard spot now, and—”

“I don’t like Johnny Rotten. When he’s here, Mom makes me stay in my room so they can kiss.”

“You shouldn’t call him Rotten. He’s an adult, and your mom’s—”

“
You
call him Johnny Rotten. I’ve heard you!”

“Okay. He’s not my favorite,” I whisper, looking over my shoulder to make sure my sister isn’t in the hallway. “But you have your cell phone, right?”

He points to his belt, where his flip phone is attached to his hip.

“You keeping that thing charged like I taught you?”

“Yep!”

“Give me a call right now, just so we know we’re connected.”

He opens his phone and holds the number 1 key.

My cell starts ringing, so I pull it out and say, “Hello?”

He holds his phone to his head. “Uncle Chuck?”

“Is this my favorite nephew, Tommy Bass? Front man for Shot with a Fart?”

“Yes, it is.”

“You know you can call me anytime, right? Day or night. Even at four a.m. Wake me up. Why the hell not?”

“Bad word, Uncle Chuck.”

“Rock and roll, kid.
Rock and roll
.”

“I wish I were going to see Mötley Crüe with you tonight.”

“I’m going to buy you a concert shirt, little man. Promise. But tonight is about getting you the best aunt in the world—making it official. Have to do some romance—and that requires going solo. So why don’t you give me that ring. Ring me. You still have it, right? You didn’t let me down—shrug your best man duties. Not Tommy Bass. Hell no.”

“No way!” he says, we both hang up our phones, and then he dives under the bed, reaches up into the hole in the box springs, pulls out the little red box, and hands it to me.

I open it up, and the diamond looks tiny. “Do you think it’s too small?”

“I thought you measured her other rings when she was sleeping to make sure it would fit.”

I tousle his hair. “I did. Do you think she’ll say yes?”

“Give her my present first. That will help.”

“Think so?” I say.

He nods earnestly.

“Why would she want to marry your loser uncle anyway?”

“Because you are taking her to see Mötley Crüe. She loves Mötley Crüe. It’s her favorite band.”

I look down, and the kid’s hopeful believing face slaps the sarcasm right out of me. “It is her favorite band.”

“And ours too. Lucky for all of us,” he says.

I look at my nephew. Can he really love 1980s hair metal as much as his uncle, or would he love anything I told him to love just because he needs a father figure that much?

“I love you, Tommy, more than I love Mötley Crüe.”

He smiles.

“It’s true,” I say.

“Do you love me more than you love Portia?”

“Yes, but never tell her that.”

He laughs. “Go get me an aunt. I’ve never had one before. Go get her.”

I give him the devil horns, and he gives them right back.

“Remember, you can call me anytime, right?” I say.

“Go! Have fun! Rock out!”

“All right. Love you, little man,” I say, and then exit with Tommy’s gift and the engagement ring.

Danielle’s still staring at the television—some show about pregnant teenagers, which I’ve seen her watching before.

“Here I go. I’m actually asking Portia to marry me tonight.”

Danielle stands, walks over to me, and gives me a long hug. She squeezes too hard, and it makes me worry a little, but it also feels nice.

When was the last time we hugged like this?

“Wish me luck?” I say when she lets go.

“You don’t need it,” she says.

“How about you let me take Tommy tomorrow night, and you can have some time to yourself maybe,” I say. “Would you like that, if I—”

“I’m going to get a job. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried.”

“I’m going to get my shit together, Chuck. I promise. This is just temporary.”

“Good,” I say, and then for some reason I add, “I love you.”

“You too, big brother.”

We share a smile, and then I’m gone.

As I hide Tommy’s present behind the seat in my truck, I think about how hard my good luck must be for Danielle. I mean, when you compare Portia Kane to Johnny Rotten, my sister’s definitely holding the 45 to my LP. But what can I do about that?

I have a ring in my pocket, and Mötley Crüe tickets are waiting for us in Connecticut because I didn’t want to wait an extra few weeks for them to play a closer venue. “It’s okay to be happy,” I say to myself, and then I’m on my way to our apartment.

Portia’s in her office, so I knock.

“Yes,” she says as I open the door, but she doesn’t stop typing.

“Do you trust me?” I say.

“Um . . .” She finishes recording her thought and then spins around in her swivel chair. “Did you just ask if I trust you?”

“I did.”

“Would I be living with you, if I didn’t?”

“So you trust me.”

“What is this?”

“Just yes or no.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, save your work. Put on your retro jean jacket, pack an outfit you would have loved to wear in 1983, an overnight bag, and let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Nineteen eighty-three? What are you talking about?” she says, but she’s smiling. “Are you serious? Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise. Trust me. You’ll like it.”

She laughs, wraps her arms around my neck, gives me a long kiss on the lips, and says, “The edits are coming out all shit today anyway. I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”

One of the best things about Portia is that she never makes me wait—she’s always on time and doesn’t spend hours primping in mirrors and asking me over and over again if she looks fat or what outfit she should wear, like Danielle always did when I was living with her and Tommy. She’s not vain, but she isn’t needy either.

In my truck, as we jump onto the New Jersey Turnpike, she says, “So where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise!” I say. “Can’t say.”

She reaches over and grabs my hand. “Chuck Bass. My hero. I needed a surprise today. How did you know?”

Just riding in the truck, holding Portia’s hand, driving north on a Saturday—I’m not even thinking about the concert—makes me feel like my life is okay, that I’ve finally dug my way out of the mistakes of my past.

After an hour or so, Portia says, “How far north are we going? Are you taking me for a night in New York City?”

I just smile.

When we pass New York City and continue on up into New England, she says, “Are you sure this truck of yours will make it wherever we’re headed and back again?”

“The old man’s Ford will do us proud,” I say. I put more than a few hundred into it a few weeks ago when I had to replace the water pump, and the mechanic talked me into doing other stuff while he was in there. He also listed a few other potential down-the-road problems that I couldn’t afford to fix without asking Portia for money, because I needed to purchase Mötley Crüe tickets and a diamond ring. I feel ashamed to be driving Portia around in this old piece-of-shit truck, especially knowing that her first husband was richer than Donald Trump, but it’s definitely been reliable so far. And I love my job, even though the math regarding my hourly wage—if you were ever sadistic enough to do it—has me making something akin to minimum wage.

Portia playfully squeezes the inside of my thigh.

I raise my eyebrows. “You keep doing that, and I can’t guarantee your safety. Driving while under the influence of Portia Kane is illegal in the state of Connecticut. I could lose my license.”

“Well, then, no en route blow job for you.”

“We definitely can pull over,” I say, and then we both laugh in that good easy way.

When we stop for gas and sandwiches, she says, “I don’t know where we’re going, but I like today.”

“We haven’t even done anything yet.”

“Yes, we have. We’ve taken an unexpected drive north.”

“I was expecting it.”

“You planned it for me, which makes it all the more special. How did I find you? How did I get so lucky?” Portia looks up at the sky. “Thank you, Khaleesi.”

“Khaleesi?”

“Inside joke. From a former life.”

“Okay.”

“A life that sucked much worse than this current life.”

“So this life sucks too?”

“Today is already the best day I’ve had in years.”

I watch her take a bite out of her tuna on rye and think even the way she chews is sexy.

Then I start to worry that maybe I am rushing things by popping the question today.

“Are you okay?” Portia says to me. “You look a little worried.”

“Just want to make sure we get there in time. I’m going to blow your mind, baby. Just wait and see.”

“I love when you get all nervous and cute,” she says, and then finishes her sandwich.

When we’re maybe fifteen minutes away, I open my window and turn on the vent, because I’m sweating again.

“You okay?” Portia asks.

“Yep,” I say. “Still okay.”

When we pull into the Mohegan Sun casino and enter the parking garage, Portia says, “Are we going gambling? I didn’t know you liked to play.”

“I don’t. I never gamble.”

“Oh, good, because we are entering a casino. What’s going on? There are casinos in our home state. A little place called Atlantic City. Have you heard of it?” she says.