Ring Game (9 page)

Hyatt let his face snap back to its usual smiling, nobody-home look.

Carmen said, “She’s gonna figure it out, you know.”

“Figure what out?”

“That I’m not really preggers. All she could talk about the whole time they were fitting the dress was how I needed to leave a little extra room. The thing’s gonna be huge on me.”

“That’s okay. Nobody’s gonna notice.” He looked at his watch. “You about ready?”

“Ready for what?”

“It’s time to go meet the preacher, Carm.”

The refrigerator in the sacristy was secured by a padlock.

The Reverend C. Bruce “Buck” Manelli scowled and gave the door handle a futile tug. These damned Lutherans didn’t trust anybody. Oh well, probably nothing in there worth drinking anyways. Protestants always went for the sweet, cheap, Kosher stuff—Manischewitz, or Mogen David, or worse. Although a few weeks ago, at First Family of Christ in Edina, the Reverend Buck had found the sacristy to be stocked with a decent California Cabernet, a bottle of tawny port, and, to his delight, a nearly full fifth of Bushmill’s whisky. But not here. Not at Christ Free Lutheran Church.

“Should be called
Trust
-Free Lutheran,” Buck muttered, then laughed at his own joke. He loved to laugh, loud and hard. “
Ha ha ha ha ha
!” Five shouted “has.” He believed that laughter was good for the heart, and besides, life was funny. He opened the fake oak veneer cabinet above the sink. A pair of chalices, one old and worn, the other new and cheap looking. An open bag of whole-wheat communion wafers, presumably unconsecrated. A plastic-wrapped package of paper napkins. He grabbed a handful of wafers and munched on them as he searched the rest of the tiny room. The cabinet beneath the sink was jammed with Amway cleaning products. No surprise there—Gruenwald was a distributor. Buck sorted through the pile of magazines on the small table near the door—
Light and Life
,
Christian Single
, and the
National Enquirer
. In the table drawer, beneath a few old church bulletins, he found a copy of
Swing Set, The Bi-Weekly Journal
. Buck flipped through the magazine, smiling, then laughing as he carried it out of the sacristy to the chancel area at the front of the church. He sat on a chair beside the communion table, eating the chewy wafers and reading as he waited for Hy the Guy and his bride to be.

I had often remarked to my husband, Todd, how attractive I found Michelle, the cashier at our neighborhood A&P. Her wild red hair, bright blue eyes, and incredible shape actually made her A&P apron look sexy. What a waste for a girl with her looks to be stuck behind the counter, scanning frankfurters and weighing zucchinis! Of course, I knew that Todd thought she was attractive too. Every time I went grocery shopping I would come home and tell him I was thinking about giving him Michelle for his birthday. I would tell him some tiny detail I’d noticed about her—new earrings, or a little mole on the corner of her mouth, or the fact that some of her coworkers called her Mish—and Todd would laugh and pretend he didn’t really care. But we would always have extra-hot sex that night. Imagine my surprise when I came home from my aerobics class on my birthday and found Michelle in our bed wearing nothing but her A&P apron and a large red bow …

That Gruenwald, what a character. The Reverend Buck smiled and placed another communion wafer on his tongue. Interesting how tasteless they were, as if the manufacturer had attempted to create a food utterly devoid of character. There might be some sort of theological sense to that, but whatever it was, he couldn’t agree with it. It seemed like they could at least put a little salt in them, or a touch of garlic. Maybe sell them in assorted flavors. Buck laughed again, “
Ha ha ha ha ha
!” He’d have to suggest that to Hyatt Hilton. He could see it now: Garlic ’n’ Onion Communion Wafers. Extra Crunchy Cheese Hosts.

The priest would ask the parishioner, “Body of Christ?”

“Yes, the Spicy Jalapeño, please.”

“
Ha ha ha ha ha
!” Maybe he shouldn’t mention that idea to Hyatt. The guy might actually run with it. Flipping through the magazine, the Reverend noticed one page that had been handled many times, a story titled “A Common Confession.” He skimmed the text: Young Courtney goes to church to confess having had sex with her boyfriend, one of the altar boys. Turns out that Courtney and the priest have something unexpected in common. The Reverend Buck imagined Andy Gruenwald poring over that story repeatedly, sweating right through his collar. What a guy.

It was nice of Andy, though, to let him borrow his church for a couple of hours.

The call from Hy Hilton had been unexpected. The last he’d heard, Hy had been promoting his own brand of religion with that pair from the health food store. Apparently it hadn’t worked out. Hy had a talent for getting in his own way. Always had. Now he was getting married. Poor girl, he’d probably screw up the marriage, too. Buck placed another wafer on his tongue and sucked on it contemplatively. It was all the same to him.

Since receiving his ordination certificate from the Northern California Institute of Theoretical Christianity three years ago, the Reverend Buck had performed more than eighty marriage ceremonies. He had a talent for it. He could do anything from Catholic to Greek Orthodox to Baptist renditions of the marriage ceremony. It felt good to bring people together, to unite two individuals in the sacrament of marriage, no matter what their faith, no matter how unwise the union. Marrying people was, in many ways, the perfect part-time job. He usually received from one hundred to five hundred dollars per ceremony, depending on the generosity of the bride’s father, and there was always plenty to eat and drink at the receptions. But most important, it provided both spiritual and material counterpoint to his primary profession, which was that of a divorce lawyer.

The Reverend Buck, also known as Buck Manelli, Attorney at Law, believed in balance. He believed in Karma, he believed in vertical integration, and he believed that in this day and age, it paid to specialize. He was a marriage specialist. He married them, and he un-married them.

He had agreed to perform the wedding ceremony for Hy the Guy because Hy was an old friend, and because he had agreed to Buck’s standard fee of $250. This prenuptial meeting with the bride’s parents wasn’t usually part of the package, but Hy had insisted.

“The mom’s kinda hinky,” Hy had told him over the phone. “I don’t think she trusts me.”

Buck had gotten a good laugh off of that.

“Seriously,” Hy had said. “I need you to meet with us. Put on your collar and convince ’em you’re for real.”

“I
am
for real, Hy.”

“I know, I know. Maybe we could meet in a church. I mean, we want you to marry us where we’re having the reception, wherever that is, but maybe if we have this meeting in a church it’d be, you know, more better.”

So Buck had arranged to borrow Christ Free Lutheran for the meeting so that it would be “more better.” Hy hadn’t changed a bit. Big ideas, lots of weird details, but nothing in between. Buck gave this marriage six months, maximum.

The church doors opened and Hyatt Hilton entered with his bride-to-be and an older couple, the bride’s parents, the people he was supposed to impress with his devoutness. The Reverend Buck swallowed the host and rose to greet them.

Cabanne: Do the letters “L.H.O.O.Q.” have a significance other than pure humor?

Duchamp: No, the only meaning was to read them phonetically.

C
ROW SAT IN HIS CAR
, listening to the engine pop and sigh as it cooled. The aging First Avenue duplex looked the same as always. It had not burned down or changed color or moved so much as an inch. The building squatted quietly on its lot, waiting for its occupants in the fading evening light. Milo, his hind legs on the passenger seat, front paws against the door, stared out through the window.

Crow said, “We’re home, buddy.”

Milo twitched his ears. Crow interpreted that to mean that Milo was still mad at him.

He could have left the big black cat home alone for the weekend, but had instead decided to leave him at Zink’s. Zink Fitterman had recently acquired a Chihuahua, an ill-behaved creature he called Mr. Bean, who barked more-or-less constantly. Zink had a theory that a couple of days in the company of a cat three times its size might socialize Mr. Bean, and perhaps quiet the barking. To test his hypothesis, he had offered to board Crow’s cat for a few days. It hadn’t worked. According to Zink, Milo had divided his time between sleeping, eating, sulking, and hissing at Mr. Bean, who had followed Milo everywhere he went, barking at every ear twitch, paw lick, and angry tail swish.

A lot like my weekend, Crow thought as he opened the car door.

Laura Debrowski, who lived in the downstairs unit, had received her usual prodigious stack of junk mail. Crow’s mailbox contained an electric bill and a French postcard displaying a reproduction of the Mona Lisa. The sender had added a mustache and goatee to the smiling face and scrawled L.H.O.O.Q. across the bottom. Crow turned the card over and tried to read the back, but the evening light failed to bring Debrowski’s minute script into focus. He followed Milo up the stairs and stood outside the door to his apartment. As always, he felt a nugget of fear. He didn’t know why—it was not as if he expected some creature to lie waiting inside. Perhaps he was afraid of the opposite, that it would be devoid of all signs of life. Milo scratched impatiently at the door. Crow turned the key and pushed inside. The instant the door opened, the fear evaporated. Milo ran for his food bowl and began crunching stale kibble. Crow added Debrowski’s mail to her growing pile, turned on a lamp, and sat down on the sofa with the postcard.

Allo allo, Crow. You like my faux readymade, mek? Hey, on St. Germain this morning and saw a mek who looked like you. Later, I saw him again, but he didn’t look like you anymore. My new place has a huge bathtub with brass fixtures and a bidet. The music scene here is for shit. You’d think people who make such great bread would have great music too, but except for Les Hommes, the bands bite. Last night I saw a new group—3 Frenchmen with accordions. You think America is ready for polka punk, froggie-style? How’s Milo? How’s Sam? Don’t know when I’ll be back. Paris misses you.

—L.D.

No return address. No date. No clue as to the meaning of the letters on the front. He couldn’t tell whether the card had been sent before or after their last conversation. And what was this “Paris misses you”? What about Laura Debrowski? Did
she
miss him? He looked again at the front, at the defaced Mona Lisa, at the L.H.O.O.Q. scrawled below, but could make nothing of it. He sailed the card across the room, where it lodged in the dead branches of his Christmas tree, sending a few dozen needles filtering through the branches. The Christmas tree had been Debrowski’s idea.

Last December, two days before Christmas, he had heard a thumping coming up the stairs toward his apartment. He had opened the door, and a large, green, prickly mass of vegetation had fallen in on him, followed by a laughing Laura Debrowski. He remembered her saying, “You need a tree, Crow. It’s Christmas, for Chrissakes.”

And maybe he
had
needed a tree. It had made the room smell better, and it had been nice to have something green in the house. Now, half a year later, it was dead and bone dry. A fire hazard. He would have to do something about that.

Thirty minutes later, he was still sitting on the sofa. Milo had joined him. Crow’s body had not moved, but his mind was spinning free, jumping from Debrowski to Arling Biggie to Axel Speeter to wondering whether he still had a frozen pizza in his freezer. Crow watched himself with grim amusement. How long would this ennui last? He listed in his mind the various forces that could shatter it. A telephone call. The cat demanding attention. An unexplained noise from outside, or from another room. Hunger. The need to urinate. Sooner or later, one of these forces would come into play. He wasn’t worried about himself yet. He let his thoughts roam, steering them away from bad memories, of which he had many, and uncomfortable subjects, most of which had to do with the status of his relationship with Debrowski. He searched for a pleasant fantasy. A big fish. A heroic deed. He avoided thinking about sex, as such thoughts returned inevitably to Debrowski, which always wound up producing that hollow feeling he was trying to avoid.

One topic crept repeatedly back to the main screen. At first he refused to think about it. But it would not go away. Realizing that he couldn’t box this one up, Crow relaxed his mind and let it roll. He shifted position, crossing his left leg over his right, folding his arms over his chest, his face drawn into a frown. The windows were black now, evening having become night. Crow thought, I didn’t really
lie
to Axel. I just didn’t tell him everything.

A few months ago Crow had been sitting on this very sofa in the midst of an ennui session similar to the one he was currently undergoing. His telephone had rung, and he had answered it. The caller had been Hyatt Hilton.

“How did you get my number?” Crow remembered asking.

Hyatt replied, “The phone book.”

That made Crow feel somewhat sheepish, so he had indulged Hyatt with an exchange of telephone pleasantries. Hyatt quickly got around to the real reason he had called.

“I hear you’re a poker player.”

“Who did you hear that from?”

“Zink Fitterman. A good friend of mine is having a game tonight, and he asked me to round up a couple players. Zink said he’d play, and he said you might be interested. You interested?”

“Zink gave you my name? How do you know Zink?”

“I’ve known Zink for years.”

“And he just told you to call me?”

“Actually, your name came up in conversation. He said he was baby-sitting your cat. If you don’t want to play, that’s cool.”

“What sort of game are we talking about?”

“Friendly. Five-ten, maybe ten-twenty. Could go higher.”