Seth Baumgartner's Love Manifesto (16 page)

Before I have a chance to say anything, the door slams shut and Dimitri is gone.

W
hen Caitlyn suggested we change plans and hang out at some party in the parking lot behind her apartment complex because some guy from the building next to hers scored a bottle of Alizé and some Coronas, I considered backing out.

My mind has been racing through my fight with Dimitri for hours, and it's put me in the foulest of foul moods. One on one with Caitlyn would have been tough enough, but playing it up for dozens of people I've never met is going to be next to impossible.

The parking lot is a large rectangle of cracked blacktop bordered on two sides by redbrick apartment buildings and on another by a cinder-block retaining wall and four Dumpsters. A few dozen kids are hanging out—sitting on the wall or on the hoods of cars and passing around bottles. Some kind of club music pulses out of a yellow
Honda Civic that boasts a bass tube in the trunk and an exhaust pipe the size of a coffee can.

As for me, I'm standing between Caitlyn and Jill with one hand stuffed in the pocket of my cargo shorts and the other holding an unsipped Corona, the lime still perched on the lip of the bottle. Caitlyn is wearing purple shorts with the word
Juicy
emblazoned across the back.

“None of the tenants say anything about us hanging out back here as long as we don't get too out of hand,” Caitlyn says over the music. “Most of them can't hear us anyway. Their air conditioners are too loud.”

“And they never change the batteries in their hearing aids,” Jill adds. She takes a slug from a bottle and passes it on. “We don't bother them, and they don't bother us.”

The music transitions into some dance song that everyone but me seems to recognize. Caitlyn squeals in delight. She leaps on the hood of my car and begins to shake her booty so the word
Juicy
starts doing a figure eight in the air. The others—guys and girls alike—gather around to cheer her on. They start pumping their fists and chanting along with the music. Jill pushes her way to the front of the group and starts chanting, too.

Caitlyn starts shaking it faster and really getting into it. With her short shorts and tight tank top, I wonder if she'd prefer a neon-lit stage and brass pole to the hood of my car. She spins around a few times, and I'm afraid she might stumble in her flip-flops, but Caitlyn twirls with confidence, like this isn't the first car hood she's danced on. Two other girls get up there to join her. I wonder what
my mother would think if she knew her old Camry was being used as a stage right now.

I wonder what Dimitri would think, too. He'd probably say something along the lines of
Who would want to advertise that their ass is juicy? It would be like a girl wearing a hat that said
dented
on it or a bra that said
lopsided.

I stuff the lime down the neck of my beer with a pinkie and watch Caitlyn dance.

What am I doing here? Why did I agree to come to a party in the Schuyler Village parking lot? Why didn't I just suggest we catch a movie instead? None of these people know me. They just want to drink and see Caitlyn shake it on the hood of a car.

My chest feels filled with lead. I sit on the low part of the wall until Jill joins me.

“What's the matter?” she asks, bumping me with her shoulder.

“Nothing.”

“Then why do you look like you're at a funeral?”

“Just taking it all in.”

Jill glances at her cell phone, smiles, and keys in a message. “Is it about you and Dimitri?” she asks me.

“He told you?”

“Just that he was majorly pissed off. I pressed him for details, but he wouldn't budge. He was going to come down here tonight, but once he found out you might be coming he decided to stay home.”

“Was that him texting you just now?”

“He wanted to know if you actually showed up.”

I take a sip of beer. “I'm sure the two of us will iron everything out soon.”

I watch Caitlyn some more, a fake smile pasted on my face, until Jill hands me a heavy green bottle. “Why don't you take a ride on the Night Train?” she says. “All aboard.”

The burgundy label reads N
IGHT
T
RAIN
E
XPRESS
. A picture of a steam engine chugs across it. My guess is that the fortified wine makes your skull feel like it's been run over by that train. I make the mistake of taking a swig and manage to choke the stuff down without spraying it on the pavement. It tastes like juice if you made it from rotten fruit and floor wax, then let it ferment in a can of rusty nails.

“Sucks, huh?” Jill asks me, nodding to the bottle.

“You're not kidding.”

“It's the best bang for your buck, though,” she says. “Tyler over there has a fake ID. We all toss in a few dollars and he stocks up downtown. Whatever he can get. Quantity over quality, you know?”

I take another swig to make sure I won't forget how revolting the stuff is and then pass it to a kid walking by. Best to keep that bottle away from me. “Hey,” I say to Jill. “Do you know a lady here in the complex named Luz? Luz Rivera?”

Jill shakes her head. “I don't think so. It's a big complex.”

“She drives a green Integra? Long black hair?”

Jill almost chokes on the beer she's swigging. “You mean the
cougar
?” she says.

Caitlyn hops off my car and saunters over. Her face glows from all the dancing. She grabs my beer and sucks back a sip, then works her way between my knees and squeezes my legs with her hands. I can almost pinpoint the instant the dopamine and norepinephrine dump into my brain. My face flushes, my heart speeds up, and being here seems far more interesting than it did ten minutes ago.

“What's so funny?” Caitlyn asks Jill. “You hitting on my date?”

“Seth is asking about the cougar in eleven-oh-three.”

“What, she's into younger guys?” I ask, thinking about how wrong they are. My father is definitely older than she is.

Caitlyn gives my thighs another squeeze. “She has some young soldier boyfriend who comes around to visit. Hey, maybe you're her type!” She closes her eyes and turns her face toward the halogen streetlamp. The pink light bathes her cheeks. She begins to sway to the music, oblivious to everything else around her.

Jill's phone chimes, and she glances at a text. She keys in something and hits Send. “So Dimitri tells me your podcasts are getting really good.”

My stomach lurches.
He told her about that? The last thing I need is for Caitlyn and Jill to hunt me down online.

“No, I still suck,” I say.

“What's your show about?” Jill asks.

“Mostly music.” I take a swig of beer.

“Yeah, but what do you talk about?” Caitlyn asks me.

“Whatever's on my mind.”

“Oh,” Jill says. She sits up again and begins watching the kids still clustered around my car. “Is it on iTunes or something?”

“Something like that.” I try to stay vague and pray neither of them asks for the name of the show.

“What kind of music do you play?” Caitlyn asks. “Maybe I could pick out some songs for you.” She bends toward me, and I can see major-league cleavage peeking at me. Pink bra.

“Sure,” I say. “Hey, where's the bathroom?”

She points up the driveway. “Just find a bush up there someplace. Then hurry on back.”

The driveway is steep, and the concrete sidewalk sparkles in the streetlights.

I so want to leave. I so want to start up my car and go, but everyone else is still partying. I don't want to seem like a drag. Maybe by the time I get back, Caitlyn will be bored and we can head down to Ben & Jerry's or something.

I wander the complex until I find a curb that looks inviting. It's cooler up here, and I lie back in the strip of grass, careful to avoid any doggie deposits. A few cars roll past, but I'm too busy looking at the stars to watch them.

I once heard that some stars are so far away, by the time the light from them reaches Earth, the star may have long since died. It's creepy, like a message from beyond the grave. But no matter how creepy, someone should appreciate it,
someone should remember. Lying still in the strip of grass between the sidewalk and the road, I realize my head feels a little light. I spend a few minutes wondering which stars are alive and which ones are dead. Dimitri might know. If we were on speaking terms, I'd ask him.

The sound of flip-flops approaches, and I decide to tell Caitlyn that I just needed a minute to unwind. Then I'll suggest we take off in a few minutes.

“Hey there, redneck.”

Luz Rivera smiles down at me.

My breath catches in my throat. I scramble away and look for her apartment. I know the condominium complex winds around, but I was sure I was nowhere near her place. “I—I—”

“I'm the one who should be apologizing,” Luz says. “I didn't mean to—” She gestures to my shoulder. “After you took off, I realized you were probably looking for those kids who party down behind the complex, not stalking me.”

“Yeah.” I'm glad she came up with the explanation. I would never have thought of it myself.

“Anyway, I'm sorry.” She claws the air like a cat. “Sometimes I forget how deadly acrylic tips can be.”

I sit up and glance at my shoulder. “It's okay.”

Luz sits down next to me, stretches out her legs alongside mine. Compared to hers, mine look paler than paste.

“My son would have loved hanging out down there if we lived here when he was in high school,” she says. “Now he's in the service. Grew him up real fast.”

Ah, that must be the infamous soldier who always visits. “How old is he?”

“Miguel is twenty-two.” She smiles. “He's on leave right now, but he's being redeployed to Afghanistan soon. No wonder I've been on edge lately.” She holds up a pack of cigarettes. “You mind?”

“Go right ahead.”

Luz shakes the pack until a cigarette pokes out. She lifts it to her lips and lights it, takes a drag. The tip of her cigarette glows hot.

“You want one?”

“No, thanks,” I say.

“Good.” Luz puffs at her cigarette and blows the smoke toward the stars.

“Did I hurt you?” she asks.

I run my fingers over my shoulder.

“It was a total accident.” She wiggles her fingers. “I grabbed your shoulder just as you hit the gas.”

“It's fine,” I say.

“Let me see, tough guy.” Luz slides closer to me and rolls up my sleeve. I resist the urge to recoil under her touch. “What's this?”

I look down to see the heart-shaped tanning sticker Caitlyn gave me. I had forgotten all about it. It's peeling around the edges, and the point at the bottom of the heart is wrinkled and folded under. For the first time I notice it's sitting crooked on my shoulder.

“Oh, that's nothing,” I say. “Just a tanning decal. I put it on as a goof.”

Luz works her finger under the edge and slowly peels the sticker away. The glue tugs at my scabs. Pain shoots through my shoulder.

“It's never going to heal covered up like this. Haven't you ever heard of bandages? Surgical tape? Bacitracin? This wound has to breathe.”

“I'll be fine.”

Luz works the sticker away from my skin and gives my shoulder a good look.
“Ay, carajo,”
she mutters. “Those are some deep scrapes.”

The music from the rear parking lot gets louder. I hear a few girls squeal. A bunch of guys laugh. Someone from one of the apartments calls out for them to knock it off and turn down the music.

Luz rolls my sleeve back over my shoulder. “Come on upstairs with me. I'll fix you up.”

Into her apartment?
“No, thanks,” I say. “It'll be fine. Anyhow, my friends—”

“Nonsense,” Luz says. She gets up and pulls me to my feet. “I hurt your arm, and I'm going to mend it. Come with me.” She places her cigarette between her lips and extends her hand to shake. “I'm Luz Rivera.”

“My name's Seth—” I almost tell her my last name but manage to shut my mouth before “Baumgartner” escapes.

Luz leads me to the concrete steps that lead to the landing that leads to the well lit stairs that lead to apartment 1103-D. That apartment is the last place in the world I want to go, but it might be the only way I'll find out anything else about her. I have to go in.

“Don't worry,” she says. “My son is out for the night.”

Although Luz obviously said it to put me at ease, knowing that no one else is in the apartment makes me freak out even more.

T
he dim light from the kitchenette barely spills into the living room. It's probably for the best. Luz's place isn't shabby, but Martha Stewart would have a field day in here. A sofa and a recliner, unmatched but both in good shape, sit against one wall. A futon mattress is sprawled across the floor. A folded blanket and pillow are stacked neatly on top of it.

“I've only been here a few months,” Luz says as she makes her way into the kitchen. “I haven't really had a chance to do anything with the place. Take off your shoes. Sit anywhere you like.”

I take off my sneakers and place them neatly by the door. Then I loosen the laces so I can pop my feet in quickly in case I have to make a speedy getaway. I take a seat on the edge of the recliner.
Has my father sat in this very chair? Has he been on that futon?
It's probably where her son
sleeps. My knee starts to bounce, and it gets the whole recliner rocking.

“What's your favorite color?” Luz asks me. I can hear her opening cabinets and rummaging through whatever is hiding in them.

“Blue, I guess.”

“You guess or you're sure?”

What does it matter?
“I'm sure,” I say.

She leans back so she can see me through the pass-through to the kitchen. “I knew it. You give off a murky blue light.”

“Huh?”

“Aura stuff. You're one sick puppy.”

“Oh,” I say, as if I have any clue what she's talking about. I double-check to make sure I know exactly which way my sneakers are pointing. I scope out the locks on the front door. An unlatched chain, an open deadbolt, and the twisty thing on the doorknob. Perfect for a quick exit. My leg bounces some more.

Luz finishes gathering things in the kitchen and makes her way to what I figure is the bathroom. She has a green plastic basin in her arms. It's filled with different objects I can't make out. She rummages around and finally comes back, her arms loaded with everything from gauze to tape to exotic-looking jars.

“Take off your shirt and lie back,” she says.

“I don't think—”

“It's fine,” she says. “I've done this a million times.”

She's mended the wounds on her no-good cheating
boyfriends' sons' shoulders a million times?
Somehow I doubt it.

Luz is authoritative, almost clinical. Something about it makes me want to believe her. I lie back and let the footrest unfold under my legs. I peel off my shirt and look at my shoulder for the first time since I slapped that tanning sticker on it. The skin is bright pink, almost red. The scratch marks are oozing clear liquid and some blood from where the scab pulled off.

“Yeesh, you really are one sick puppy,” Luz says. She lifts my arm and slides the basin under my elbow. “Put as much of your arm in there as you can. I'm going to have to clean this out. It's going to be a little messy, and it's not going to tickle.”

“Umm—”

“Don't worry,” she says. “I'm as steady as they come.” She holds out her hand to show me she's not shaking. She unscrews a plastic bottle and dribbles some sort of disinfectant on my wounds. My shoulder stings, and the four scratch marks fizz up.

“It'll only hurt a second,” she says as she dabs at it with a gauze pad. She rinses it with the fizzy stuff a few more times and then unscrews the lid from a jar. A pungent odor escapes. “It's an ancient herbal remedy.”

“Is it FDA approved?”

She smiles. “It's homeopathic.” Luz dips a cotton swab into the black paste and smears it across my shoulder. As far as I'm concerned, hygiene and the color black do not go together. I look away to get the thought out of my head that
she might be using driveway sealer on my open wound.

I stare at a photo hanging on the wall of a guy who could only be Miguel, Luz's son. He's wearing a military uniform. Instead of dark eyes, though, he's got greenish hazel ones. Eyes that are not Luz's.

The paste stings and I jump a little.

“It only hurts for a second,” she says.

“So, you said my aura is murky blue?”

“Actually, now that I've had a closer look, it is alternating bands of muddy green and blue with gray overtones. Not good.”

“It's not indigo by any chance, is it? I could show my boss….”

“No, this is more like murky blue. Like the sky before a summer thunderstorm. We'll take care of that after we patch up your shoulder.”

How do you see an aura, let alone take care of one?
Every word out of this woman's mouth convinces me more that her cheese is sliding off her cracker, but I figure the easiest way to get through this is to let her do her thing. I can wash off all the weird goop when I get home.

My shoulder starts to tingle more intensely as she applies a gauze pad and tapes it around the edges. She secures it further with a crisscross pattern. When she's finished, my shoulder looks like a tic-tac-toe board with an asterisk over it.

“Leave this gauze on for three days. Then change it every day after that.” Luz puts some extra pads and a roll of surgical tape into a Ziploc bag and tosses it on top of my
shirt, which is rumpled on her carpet.

“Sure thing,” I say. “Is it supposed to tingle like this? It kind of hurts.”

“That'll wear off, but the tingling means the salve is doing what it's supposed to do.” Luz lights a white candle in a glass jar and places it on the end table next to me. “Lie back,” she says. “I need to cleanse your aura. Your meridians are completely imbalanced.”

“My aura? My meridians? I don't believe—”

She lifts a finger to her lips. “You don't have to believe.
Eso sí que es
.”

“Did you just spell
socks
?” I ask her.

Luz smiles reassuringly. “No, it's Spanish. I said
eso sí que es
.” She pronounces each word slowly and separately. “It means ‘it is what it is.' It doesn't matter whether you believe in auras or not. Having a clean one results in better health just like having lower cholesterol results in better circulation. Just lie back and close your eyes. It won't hurt. I won't even touch you.”

I do as she says, but I only close my eyes part of the way.

Luz stands over me and begins scooping at the air as though I'm buried in invisible snow and she's trying to gently uncover me. I don't care if she shakes chicken bones and starts doing a rain dance. I just want this to be over with. She scoops the air around my body some more and then flicks her fingers toward the floor like they are covered with some sort of filthy goop. Then she comes back, running her hands around my body but never touching. Scoop, scoop,
scoop. Flick, flick, flick. Scoop, scoop, scoop. Flick, flick, flick. Over and over again, she scoops and flicks, every once in a while standing back to inspect her handiwork.

Each time I think Luz is finished, she comes back for more, and before long, even though I struggle with my eyelids, I fall asleep.