Time Off for Good Behavior (8 page)

We parted on the same beat and looked at each other, our eyes searching, scanning, wondering.
Did I just have my tongue in this persons mouth? Did what I think just happened actually just happen? Am I
—
maybe, please, oh God please
—
ab
out to have sex?

Then Walter sprang up, and the groove came to a screeching halt. He paced for a few steps, then turned to me and held out his arms like a crossing guard warning me to stay put.
“
Um, that
’
s not why I came over here.
”

“
Okay,
”
I said.
“
What
’
s
your point?
”

“
I owe you an apology.
”

I stared at him.
“
Why?
”

He stood up and backed away a bit.
“
Because this looks like I got you drunk and came back to take advantage of you.
”

I rolled my eyes. Just what I needed. A friggin
’
gentleman.
“
But I called you.
”

He nodded, appraising that evidence.
“
Yes, you did.
”

“
Then I kissed you.
”

He shrugged and nodded but made a gesture of dismissal with his hand, as though he would have kissed me if I hadn
’
t kissed him first. I liked that. It was like getting a little bi
t of dignity on a platter. I stood up and moved closer, hoping that proximity would realign the groove.
“
So what
’
s the problem?
”

Walter looked at my sofa, my coffee table, my feet. Anything but my eyes.
“
Well...
”

I put my hand on his chin and turned his h
ead until his eyes met mine. I smiled. He smiled. I licked my lips. His eyes did a half-closed flutter thing, and I could hear his breath come faster. I started unbuttoning my shirt. He grabbed my hand to stop me right as I was fiddling with the button of
no return.
“
Wanda, stop.
”

“
Why?
”
I said in a husky whisper. I put my hand on the back of his neck and pulled him in for a kiss, which he entertained for a moment before pulling away.

“
Wanda.
”
He put his hands on my shoulders and held me back.
“
I don
’
t want
to do this.
”

“
Coulda fooled me.
”
I reached down and gently grabbed the evidence that he was glad to see me. He yelled and jumped back about five feet, knocking into the wall behind him and setting my framed Ansel Adams print into a determined tilt.

“
Guess
I misunderstood,
”
I said, angrily buttoning my shirt.
“
My apologies.
”

“
Wanda, don
’
t be hurt.
”
He reached to put his hand on my arm, but I wrenched myself away.

“
I
’
m not hurt, I
’
m horny.
”
I stared him in the eye as I buttoned the last button, then reached
for my jacket, fumbling in the pockets.
“
And now I
’
m frustrated and I need a cigarette.
”

“
You shouldn
’
t smoke.
”

“
You
’
re not my lawyer and you
’
re not my lover, Walter. You don
’
t get to tell me what to do.
”
I pulled a cigarette out of my pack and went back i
nto my pockets for the lighter. I didn
’
t smoke very often but always had a pack handy, just in case something humiliating happened and I needed a quick fix of
I
don
’
t give a shit.

Walter held up his hands.
“
Sorry. You
’
re right. None of my business.
”

I pull
ed the cigarette from my lips and gestured toward him with it.
“
What
’
s your deal, Walter? You gay or something?
”

“
No, I
’
m not gay.
”
He rubbed his fingers over his forehead.
“
This is not going well.
”

“
So, what, then? Married? Confused? Bitter? Considering t
he priesthood? What?
”
I snagged the lighter and turned my back on him, heading toward the front door. He followed me outside, closing the door behind us as I lit up.

“
It
’
s not any of that,
”
he said softly.
“
It
’
s just that I... You surprised me. That
’
s all.
”

“
I surprised you.
”
I took a drag.
“
I see.
”

There was silence for a short while as we both watched my exhaled smoke dissipate into the air. Although it wasn
’
t the best area of town, the view of Hastings from my balcony was pretty decent. The white haze th
at hovered over the town from the flour factory made it seem like a white city, its purity almost palpable, if you were naive enough to believe in purity.

I was almost done with my cigarette by the time Walter spoke again.
“
You don
’
t want to sue anybody, t
hen?
”

I shook my head.
“
No.
”

“
Okay.
”
He took a step away, then stopped, then moved a little, then stopped. I took another drag of my cigarette.
“
Look, I wish
…”

He paused. I never knew what he was going to say, because he turned and left before he could fin
ish.

Chapter Three

It was just me and Albert, my bottle of Chivas Regal, for most of the following week. Actually, it was several bottles of Chivas, but I just named them all Albert. Hell, it worked for the Lassie people, it could work for me.

I drank a
nd watched Fox News Channel until I almost turned Republican. Then I watched CNN until I almost turned stupid.

On Wednesday of that week, I was watching Animal Planet.

On Friday, I looked in the mirror and decided that there
’
s a reason why people were disc
ouraged from staying in dark apartments and drinking for days at a stretch. My eyes were red-rimmed and half-closed, and my skin was downright sallow.

I looked like hell.

It was also on Friday that I got a call from Faye Whittle. Faye
“
I
’
m so sorry you got
blown up
”
Whittle. Fay
“
I
’
ll give you half of my settlement if you testify
”
Whittle. Faye
“
I
’
d never screw you out of your money right after you
’
ve lost your job
”
Whittle.

Okay, so she never actually said that last one, but she implied it.

“
The settlement
wasn
’
t as much as I
’
d hoped,
”
she said. I could practically hear the deed being signed on her beach home as we spoke.

“
I
’
m fine, Faye, thanks for asking.
”

She sighed into the phone.
“
Once I pay for lawyer
’
s fees and all, it
’
s really nothing.
”

“
I
’
ll take h
alf of nothing.
”

“
Oh, Wanda!
”
She laughed.
“
I couldn
’
t give you half! Remember, it was my business that got destroyed, my livelihood.
”

“
Yeah, and it was my ass that got blown up while you were at the 7-Eleven getting yourself a cherry Slurpee.
”
I hadn
’
t fo
und out about that until recently, and I
’
d been dying to use it against her. It was almost worth losing the money to say it aloud.

“
I needed change to call the gas company!
”
she squealed as I hung up the phone.

I walked over to the base on the wall and tur
ned off the machine. The phantom music started up, and I turned up the volume on the television, then went into the kitchen to stare into the fridge, as I did every evening at around seven o
’
clock.

The week had been bad. I
’
d eaten from cans and boxes for m
ost of it, and now my refrigerator had only some cranberry sauce in a small Tupperware bowl and a jar of green olives I couldn
’
t recall buying. A person
’
s food store says a lot about him or her, and what mine was saying about me was damn depressing.

Starin
g at my paltry refrigerator reminded me of a girl in my freshman dorm named Debbie Manney who used to look on the bright side of everything. Debbie would have told me that my empty fridge was a sign of a new beginning, a fresh start, a call to action to r
e
invent myself by purchasing rare and wonderful food items, like cilantro and pomegranates.

I hated Debbie Manney.

I had been friendly to her, though. You couldn
’
t
not
be friendly to Debbie Manney. That would be like kicking the pope. So I tolerated her squ
eaky presence long enough for her to leave her indelible mark of sunshine on my tender psyche. When Mike Benedetto dumped me and then asked me to loan him my car so he could take Mary Ann Sheeley to his frat
’
s social, Debbie sat with me all night and brai
d
ed my hair while I ate Ben & Jerry
’
s Cherry Garcia. She said that depression was a valuable tool, that without it we would never appreciate the good times.

“
You cant enjoy the sunshine if you
’
ve never been in the dark,
”
she
’
d said. I think I hated her so m
uch simply because there was nothing to hate about her. She was cute. She was sweet. She was balanced. She did yoga. She planned to wait until her wedding night and never thought twice about it. She was a freak.

Last I heard, Debbie was living a fulfilled
life as a stay-at-home mom with her two sons and wonderful husband somewhere near Syracuse, New York. Anytime I got news of how she was doing, I nodded and smiled, but deep inside, I convinced myself she hid flasks of Absolut Citron in her purse and had r
e
gular dalliances with the pizza guy. It was vicious and bitter, admittedly, but it got me through the day.

As I sat on my living room floor, watching Fox News and clutching Albert to my side, I thought about Debbie, and it occurred to me for the first time
that she might actually be happy. She might have figured it out. She might be someplace that no one I
’
d ever known had found. She might be on the wagon. She might never have been off the wagon. The possibility occurred to me, for a brief moment, that it
m
ight be actually attainable, this sense of purpose and fulfillment that Dr. Phil and Oprah kept talking about.

And then Bill O
’
Reilly came on, and I realized the whole world was a bottomless pit of crap, just like I
’
d always known.