Nine Inches (3 page)

He slipped his hand under my collar, his
fi
ngers rough against my skin, tracing the knobs on my spine.

“Please don’t do that,” I told him.

He pretended not to hear me, shi
ft
ing in the seat so he could get his other hand into the act. He went to work on my right arm, stroking and kneading my shoulder. I could hear him breathing raggedly through his nose, as if he were climbing a hill.

“Wow,” he said in this faraway voice. “Your deltoid’s really tight.”

“Stop it!” I twisted out of his grasp, scooting away from him until my back was pressed against the door.
Th
e violence of my reaction startled us both.

“Whoa!” he said, raising both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Jesus.”

“I don’t want a backrub,” I told him.

“Okay,
fi
ne.” He sounded a little hurt. “Take it easy, Donald. I was just trying to be nice.”

“Could you please get out of my car?”

He turned away, scowling at the empty street in front of us.
Th
ere was something sulky and stubborn in his posture.

“I really don’t get you, Donald.” He said this with weird conviction in his voice, like we’d had some kind of long history together. “I just don’t understand what you’re doing with your life.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve been asking around. People say you’re a pretty smart kid.”

“Yeah?” I was
fl
attered in spite of myself, glad to know that people still thought well of me. “So?”

“So what’s the deal? How come you’re not in college?”

“I’m taking a gap year.”

Th
is was the explanation my parents and I had agreed on, but I could hear how lame it sounded.

He heard it, too, and snorted with contempt. “A gap year to deliver pizza? What was that, your lifelong dream?”

I should have just kept my mouth shut. But I didn’t like the way he was looking at me, like he had the right to judge me.

“I’m trying to save some money,” I said. “I’m going to Africa in the spring to work in an orphanage. Is that okay with you?”

He didn’t answer right away, and I could see that I’d caught him o
ff
guard.

“Africa, huh? What country?”

“Uganda.”

“Wow.” He sounded skeptical, but I could tell he was impressed. “Good for you.”

Just then my phone started buzzing. It was Eddie. I held it up so he could see the display.

“You mind if I take this, Lieutenant? My boss is wondering where I am.”

MY STORY
about the orphanage wasn’t exactly true, but it wasn’t just a load of random bullshit, either. For most of the spring and all of the summer, it had been an actual plan, the answer I gave whenever anyone asked about my future. It was a pretty good answer, too, which is probably why I dusted it o
ff
for Lt. Finnegan.

According to my mother’s Monday-morning analysis, the fatal
fl
aw in my otherwise excellent college application had been a lack of genuine humanitarian service. She was pretty sure the admissions o
ffi
cers had seen right through my meager list of good deeds — a Walk for Hunger here, some Toys for Tots there, a weekend with Habitat for Humanity, a handful of cans for the Food Drive.

“
Th
ere was no follow-through,” she pointed out. “It was all for show, like you were just checking some boxes.”

“I was,” I said. “I thought that was the whole point.”

Unbeknownst to me, she started doing some research on the Web, scouting out programs that o
ff
ered young volunteers an opportunity to demonstrate their commitment to the less fortunate, putting their skills and ideals to the test in challenging third-world environments. She was especially impressed by an organization called Big Hearts International, whose mission was to connect college-age Americans with “the struggling but resilient children of sub-Saharan Africa.”

“Just think about it,” she told me. “
Th
is could be a real game-changer.”

“Africa’s pretty far away,” I reminded her. “And kinda dangerous.”

“It’s just for a few months, Donald. I really think you should consider it.”

I’d
fi
lled out the application in mid-May, when it became clear that I wasn’t going to be saved by the wait list at Duke or Grinnell.
Th
e way I
fi
gured it, my options were either Africa or community college, and I really couldn’t see myself at community college. By the time graduation rolled around, Big Hearts had already assigned me to an orphanage in Mityana, Uganda, not too far from the capital city, whose name I kept forgetting. Heather was almost as excited as my mom, clutching my arm, beaming at me like I was some kind of saint.

“
Th
is is my boyfriend, Donald,” she kept telling her relatives. “He’s going to Africa in September.”

Th
at’s who I was for the rest of the summer, the Great Humanitarian and Intrepid World Explorer, Friend to the Struggling but Resilient Orphans. If nothing else, this identity got me through a lot of awkward situations, gave me something to contribute to what would otherwise have been extremely painful conversations about distribution requirements, course schedules, Greek Life, and Facebook groups for admitted students. Jake bought me a pith helmet at a secondhand store, and I used to wear it when we went to the beach or the movies, sort of as a joke, but also as a badge of honor, a token of my good intentions.

I swear, I was all set to go. I updated my passport, got my shots, read a whole bunch of books about AIDS and genocide and colonialism, even drove to Connecticut to meet with a volunteer who’d just
fi
nished the program, this skinny, haunted-looking dude whose arms and legs were mottled with bug bites.

“It’s pretty freaky,” he said, scratching himself like a monkey. “You wouldn’t believe the poverty over there. But it’s like the most rewarding thing I’ve done in my entire life.”

Th
e last two weeks of August were like one big going-away party, the population of well-wishers dwindling nightly until I was the only one le
ft
. I had a few days to
fi
nalize my packing and spend some quality time with my parents and little sister, who was starting her freshman year in high school. My mom baked a cake on my last night, and we sat around talking about what a great adventure I was embarking on, how I was going to learn some real-life lessons that couldn’t be taught in any ivory tower.
Th
en I skyped with a bunch of my friends and had a long goodbye talk with Heather, during which we both promised to be faithful during our separation. We’d had sex for the
fi
rst time the night before she le
ft
, and we reminded each other how amazing it had been, and how we couldn’t wait to do it again over Christmas vacation.

“I love you,” she sni
ffl
ed. “You take care of yourself, okay?”

“I’ll be
fi
ne,” I told her. “I’ll see you soon.”

Th
at was it. I went to bed feeling brave and melancholy, ready for my big journey into the unknown. But when I woke up the next morning, I couldn’t move. I wasn’t sick; it just felt like my body had been sliced open and pumped full of wet cement.

“Come on, sweetheart,” my mother said from the doorway. “You don’t want to miss your plane.”

“I’m not going,” I said. “It’s not fair.”

She withdrew and my father appeared a few minutes later. He told me that I needed to get my ass moving, that I’d made a commitment and damn well better stick to it. He said there were orphans in Uganda who were counting on me.

“Fuck the orphans,” I said.

“What?” I could see how shocked he was. “What did you say?”

But by then I was crying too hard to repeat myself.

•••

I REALLY
didn’t know what to do about Lt. Finnegan. I thought about talking to Eddie, or maybe to my parents, possibly even writing an anonymous letter to
Th
e Clarion,
our terrible local paper, just to let
someone
know what had happened, but I wasn’t sure what good it would do. In the absence of any proof, it would just be my word against his, and I had a feeling my word wasn’t worth all that much at the moment.
Th
e only thing I knew for sure was that I didn’t want to quit my job. I liked working at Sustainable and liked having a good reason to get out of the house at night. My parents were still pissed about Uganda and never missed a chance to remind me of how badly I’d let them down.

In the end, I decided to keep my mouth shut and my
fi
ngers crossed, and to drive as carefully as possible. I stuck religiously to the speed limit, checking my rearview mirror like a murderer with a corpse in the trunk, never failed to use my turn signal, and came to a complete and lingering halt at every stop sign, even though I knew it didn’t matter. If Lt. Finnegan wanted to pull me over, he could do it whenever he felt like it, regardless of whether I’d broken the law.

To my surprise and immense relief, the safe-driver strategy seemed to work. Two weeks passed without incident, and I started to wonder if maybe I’d overreacted, letting a minor problem mushroom in my imagination into something more important than it really was. Very slowly, I began to let my guard down, to relax and enjoy the job again.

I was in an especially good mood on the Saturday a
ft
er Halloween, which happened to be crazy busy. It was like half the town had suddenly come down with an uncontrollable urge for gourmet pizza and had all called in their orders at the same time. Amazingly, Eddie and Ignacio handled it without a single glitch — not even a botched topping or a transposed address — and the customers were unusually patient and forgiving. No one yelled at me for being late or forgot to tip. By the time the rush was over — it was a little a
ft
er eight — I had a big wad of bills in my pocket and one last pie to deliver, to a guy named Roy in Starlite Court, an ugly brick apartment complex over by the train station, where a lot of senior citizens lived. I’d only been there once or twice before.

I found Unit 5 and pressed the buzzer for Apartment B. While I was waiting, a text arrived from Eddie asking if I wanted to party with him and the Polish girls a
ft
er we closed up. He was a lot friendlier now that I was acting as his go-between with Adam, ensuring him a regular supply of what he liked to call the Magic Love Bud.
Th
e door opened and I looked up.

“Donald.” Lt. Finnegan’s smile was warm and welcoming. “I was hoping it would be you.”

For a second or two, words failed me. I couldn’t understand what he was doing here, standing in the doorway in a shimmery blue bathrobe with white piping. It looked like something a boxer would wear before a
fi
ght, except shorter, exposing a lot more thigh than anyone wanted to see on a guy his age. I must have been staring too hard because he reached down and tightened the belt.
Th
e robe was still pretty loose on top, displaying a triangle of tu
ft
y white chest hair.

“Pizza for Roy?” I
fi
nally managed to say.

“
Th
at’s me. Large sausage, right?”

“
Th
at’ll be sixteen dollars.”

“Could you bring it into the kitchen?” He took a step back and beckoned me inside. “I le
ft
my wallet in the bedroom.”

I was about to tell him that it was our policy never to enter the customer’s home when it occurred to me that this might be a good time to make an exception. I stepped into the cramped foyer and followed him into the hallway.

“You go ahead,” he said, stopping outside the bedroom. “I’ll be right with you.”

I continued into the kitchen, set the insulated pouch on the countertop, and pulled out my iPhone. It only took a couple of swipes to
fi
nd the Voice Memo app and touch the red button to record. By the time he emerged, the phone was back in my pocket, and the pizza was out of the pouch.

“Smells good,” he said.

If I’d been him, I might’ve taken an extra minute or two to put on some clothes, but he was still just wearing that pervy robe. It was looser than before, providing an unobstructed view of his broad chest and bulging belly.

“I think you’ll like the sausage,” I told him. “It supposedly won some awards.”

Lt. Finnegan slipped one hand inside the robe and began absentmindedly massaging his le
ft
pec. It was bright in the kitchen, and I noticed a pale scar on his knee, one of those old-time Frankenstein sutures, like the stitching on a so
ft
ball.

“You hungry?” he asked. “I can’t eat that whole pizza by myself.”

“I’m on the clock.”

“How about a drink then? I got soda and OJ. Beer, too, but that’s probably not a good idea.”

“Maybe just some water.”

He took two glasses from the dishwasher and
fi
lled them straight from the tap. We never did that at home, only drank from the Brita pitcher. We sat down at the table and touched our glasses.

“Cheers,” he said. “It’s nice to have some company.”

I let that pass, even though
company
hardly seemed like the right term for the guy who delivered your pizza. He smiled at me. His expression was shy, strangely boyish.

“I like you, Donald. You’re really easy to talk to.”

I took a sip to calm my nerves.
Th
e water was tepid, with a sweet, chemical a
ft
ertaste.

“We hardly know each other,” I said, speaking slowly and clearly for the bene
fi
t of the recorder. I didn’t feel great about what I was doing, but I knew it had to be done. “We only ever talk when you pull me over.”

“I know.” He laughed, like this was a cute story we would someday share with our friends. “It’s crazy, right?”