Sweet (19 page)

“Not helping.” Teddy grumbled and straightened his tie. ‘Trice looked pointedly at his outfit and raised her brows. Teddy knew it was silly to dress in his business best to look through the newspaper’s want ads in a friend’s kitchen, but at least it made him feel a bit more professional than wearing boxers and a sweatshirt.

“In any case, my shiny and tiny friend, I’m off! Good luck with the hunt and get out of my house!” She banged out the door, then, less than a second later, popped her head back inside. “JK, Mister Thing. Stay as long as you want. But don’t sit here all day and mope over job listings. Stop by the bakery later, and I’ll make you a coffee. Love you!”

She was gone before Teddy could formulate a snappy retort. In her considerable wake, the apartment seemed very still and quiet, and Teddy tossed the papers aside with a deafening rustle. ‘Trice was right—he needed to look online; the paper was probably hopelessly outdated. He adjusted his tie, poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and settled at the table with his laptop and a clean pad of paper on which to take notes. He set down two freshly sharpened pencils, aligned them neatly with the side of the paper, opened the laptop, propped his wrists against the edge of the keyboard and stared at the screen.

The problem was that there was
so much
online, and Teddy had no idea what he could—or wanted—to do.

*

Jules loved the large mixer that sat on the floor near the prep tables, whose bowl was so big that, if he were inclined to do so, he could curl up inside it for a nap. Its low mechanical grind, broken rhythmically by the bump of the beaters knocking against the side of the bowl—it definitely needed to be adjusted soon—lulled him into the first peace he’d had in days.

Bright sunlight filtered into the kitchen through the small windows near the ceiling; it was a rare improvement over the usual view of slush and foot traffic the sidewalk-level windows allowed. He measured butter into the pan on the scale, then dumped it in one big, soft blat into the bowl of the mixer, watching the pale yellow disappear into the dough as the beaters turned. Out in the shop front, he could hear the banging noises of ‘Trice entering and starting her day.

“Jules, coffee!” she hollered, before slapping the kitchen door open and
barreling in with a cup for him. She sloshed it down on the prep table.

“Oh! ‘Trice, I—” he started.

“No way, Jose.”

“What? I didn’t—”

“Teddy Ruxpin is indeed staying at my place, just so you know he didn’t get eaten by a miniature Chihuahua at the park. But that’s all you’re getting out of me, Mister Sister. You need to call him and talk to him yourself and solve this business on your own.”

“I didn’t say anything.” He fixed his attention on chopping the pile of dried apricots on the prep table.

‘Trice took a long, slow sip of her coffee, with her eyes grinding into him from above the rim of the cup. “You were totally going to, I can tell. And no, absolutely not. I might be fat and Black, but do
not
mistake me for Oprah. I do
not
want to hear about your feelings, I do
not
think Tom Cruise is awesome and I did
not
hide a free gift under your chair.”

“Fat and…” Jules shook his head and took the coffee she’d offered. They stood, glaring at each other over the rims of their coffee cups, and sipped deliberately. It was a waiting game, one they’d played before. In the background, the mixer clank-hum-clanked. Jules could almost imagine he heard the whistling showdown music of
Gunsmoke.
‘Trice slammed down her cup and sighed.

“Fine. He’s looking for work. He’s freaked out. He’s sad. He’s probably still hung over from Monday, but otherwise he’s fine. He’s sleeping on my couch until he finds a place, or until you two fix your whatever-is-going-on thing. I think he misses you.”

“Oh,” Jules said. “Okay
.”

‘Trice rolled her sleeves up past her elbows, pulled a bag of lemons out of the walk-in refrigerator and began scrubbing them in the sink and tossing them into a prep bowl.

“Is he—”

“Zesting!” she shouted, banging the bowl noisily against the metal table.

Jules nodded and clamped his mouth closed. When ‘Trice made a decision, there was very little that could turn her from her course.

“Right.” Jules rearranged the pile of dried apricots. “Chopping.”

They worked in near-silence for a good five minutes, the only sounds the splash of water in the metal sink and the crunch of his knife on the plastic cutting board. He had learned, from years of dealing with ‘Trice, that the best way to handle her when she was acting like this was to wait. If he fought her, she’d dig in her heels like a mule and pull away from him as hard as she could. If he simply waited, it was likely she’d come around.

He was right. She softened, dropped the lemon she was holding and turned to him.

“He’s coming in for coffee later. I don’t know when,” she said gruffly, turning and heading for the front of the shop. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be taking my break then, though.”

*

Early in the afternoon, as Jules was washing his hands ready to leave the kitchen for home, the bells on the front door jingled and, a moment later, ‘Trice burst into the kitchen.

“Break!” she shouted at him, running for the back door. “Shop’s yours!”

Jules knew, because he knew her, that when he went to the front of the store, he’d find Teddy waiting. He sighed heavily and pushed his way into the front of the shop, nervously pulling his apron strings tighter. But when he arrived at the counter, all he found was Irene.

“Coffee, coffee, coffee, Hot Stuff!” She rapped on the counter with the back of her hand in time with her words.

“Clearly, you’ve had enough coffee for today,” he said dryly, but turned to the espresso machine anyway.
Whatever Lola wants,
he thought.

“Nope, no coffee, just adrenaline today,” she said. “The daughter’s bringing her fiancé in from Indiana to meet me. I’ve got an hour of freedom left before I have to start behaving like a good Midwestern mom.”

Jules rolled his eyes and decanted hot milk and espresso into a to-go cup. He didn’t bother asking for her order anymore. It was always the same.

He glanced up at her as he slid the coffee her way. “Muffin?” he asked.

“Yes, Sweet Buns?” she said, and when he raised an eyebrow, she continued in a lower voice. “Sorry. On edge. No muffin, just the coffee, thanks.”

She stuffed a five-dollar bill into the tip jar
, scooped the coffee into the crook of her arm and rushed for the door.

“Treat that coffee right,” Jules called after her. “It’s like a child to me!”

“Yeah!” she called over her shoulder. Jules doubted she’d even heard him. He turned to wipe the back counter near the sink, and the door bells jingled again.

“You accidentally put a five in the tip jar…” he said to Irene, only to turn around and discover it wasn’t Irene at all.

“Hi,” Teddy said, shifting from foot to foot.
“
‘Trice said to come in now because she was going to give me coffee today. I’m sorry.”

“I can give you coffee,” said Jules, and turned to wrestle with the filters on the espresso machine. He would not look, but he could, out of the corner of his eye, see Teddy’s small, brown hands folded together on the counter’s surface, one finger lightly tugging at the edge of a sleeve. His nails were impeccably clean; one shirt cuff was lightly frayed from years of rubbing against a desk; the raveled threads
were twisted together to stop the wear. He could smell Teddy’s cologne; the fresh piney scent of juniper floated over the bite of alcohol. Teddy cleared his throat.

“Could I also have, please,” he started and then paused, unsure.

“Could you have… ” Jules prompted gently. The conversation felt delicately balanced, as if he were walking on a tightrope. He wanted to hurl himself across the counter and wrap his arms and legs around Teddy, but held himself steadfastly still.

“I don’t know,” Teddy shrugged. “I don’t know what to ask for.”

Jules nodded and slipped a single small cookie onto a little plate for him. “Pine nut cookie,” he explained.

“Thanks.” Teddy slipped some money onto the counter—it seemed sordid and wrong to him, but it was a way to measure the distance between them. He saw Jules wince at the money, and Teddy wanted so badly to smile. Instead, he
pulled the coffee and cookie toward him. He started to turn toward the tables and seemed to reconsider. He turned back. “Are you okay?” he asked Jules.

Jules wanted to slip away, wanted to shrug and slink back to the kitchen, but Teddy’s eyes were wide and sincere and just the slightest bit wet, and Jules couldn’t look away.

“No,” Jules said quietly. “I miss you at home. Home misses you. Andy misses you.”

Teddy looked down quickly.

“Andy
the dog
misses you,” Jules corrected.

“Ah.” Teddy nodded. He clenched his hands. Jules cleared his throat and wiped uselessly at the counter.

When Teddy neither moved nor spoke, Jules added, “I miss you, too. I miss you a lot.”

“I miss you, too,” Teddy choked, finally looking up. “I hate staying at ‘Trice’s house.”

“
Hey!”
‘Trice shouted from the kitchen. Jules looked at Teddy with widened eyes and motioned toward the front door. He slipped around the counter and tugged Teddy behind him out onto the street.

The midafternoon sun was just starting to glance off the top row of windows of the building across the street, casting the sidewalk in what would have been a romantic glow if it weren’t for the pigeons and skittering trash, the grease-choked cars and gum-speckled sidewalk.

“Okay,” Jules said, when they were leaning together against a banged-up station wagon parked in front of the bakery. He hesitated and then ran his fingers down the side of Teddy’s neck. “Come home, Teddy. We
really
miss you at home, me and Andy.”

“Is he gone?” Teddy asked carefully. “Not the dog,” he added before Jules could shake his head.

Across the street, two boys were having a noisy argument over something innocuous. Their voices echoed
on the narrow street, and Jules hugged himself. The sound of boys yelling, no matter how innocent, would always chill him a bit. Teddy seemed to notice, to start forward, his hand outstretched, and then catch himself, drop his hand and step back. Jules sighed.

“Not yet,” Jules said. “I’ve asked him to go. I don’t want him to stay, I really, really don’t, I promise. I don’t see him as much as before, but he still pops up sometimes.”

Teddy looked at his feet, at the gum and candy wrappers and stray cigarette butts, the gutter and the filmy water there.

“I’m not sure he’ll ever really be totally gone,” Jules added.

“I’m not sure I can ever really be totally there, then,” Teddy muttered, his voice wavering.

***

Jules felt like a squatter in his own home.

The rooms belonged, now, not to him and to Teddy, but to Andy and Andy. When he came home to find Andy-the-man and Andy-the-dog huddled together on the couch, when they both—simultaneously—looked at him, guilty and irritated, as if they’d been caught whispering, as if he were
interrupting some private moment they were sharing before he burst in, he felt a piercing loneliness that ground from his bones through his muscles and skin and made every inch of him hurt. He squatted and called the dog to come to him, but Andy-the-dog simply flopped his face down onto the couch cushion and went to sleep, and Andy-the-man wrapped his own transparency around the little dog like a haze and stared smugly at Jules.

Jules left the room and hid in his bed to read by the dim bedside light, because there was no room left for him on the couch, neither physically nor otherwise. He could hear the muffled rustling and whimpering of his dog in sleep from the other room, and was shocked to overhear the low tones of Andy-the-man cooing soothingly at him. (Apparently, to Jules Andy would always appear as a silent film, flickering badly and gaping without sound, but this was not always his condition; it pained Jules to know that others could hear him, as if it were some sort of willful deafness on his part and not insubstantiality or muteness on Andy’s which was at fault.)

He avoided Andy-the-man as best he could, which meant relinquishing his living room and kitchen, relinquishing cuddling with his dog, and creeping into each room in his own apartment cautiously, lest he be surprised into confronting Andy’s presence. He and Andy lived like a warring couple not on speaking terms: silently slipping past one another, always unpleasantly surprised to enter a room and find the other already in it.

Still, despite the tension that wound tightly around them and cut into his skin like tightly pulled cotton thread; despite the fact that he neither spoke to, nor touched, nor acknowledged the ghost; despite the fact that he desperately wanted his home to himself again, if he could not share it with Teddy, despite all of that, Jules could not make Andy-the-man go.

And so, that evening, when Jules had made himself a lonely dinner (the greens were too bitter, the meat too salty, the beans overcooked, soft and gray as stew), he sat alone at his cramped table in the fading light of sunset and called for Andy-the-man to join him.