She didn’t need my
sympathy, but I couldn’t help myself. How long had it been since she’d had a
date? How desperately did she need some sense of normalcy in her life? How
often had she longed to sit down at a meal and pretend like ‘out here’ wasn’t
her reality? Could putting on a nicer shirt and some lipstick—things she
undoubtedly held on to like bars of gold—really change her perception?
I didn’t ask and she
didn’t offer. You know how bad I am about pointing out the overtly obvious,
but I kept my mouth shut. Some things are better left unsaid. Unacknowledged.
She was trying so
hard. She knew I’d be gone tomorrow. All she wanted was one evening of her
old life back.
And I sat there,
ready to lie through my teeth.
What a wretch.
I told myself it was
better for the both of us.
She pulled a candle
out of the bag, and before she could strike a match, I said something dumb and
self-centered, as usual. “You don’t have to waste matches on me.”
She smirked and lit
it anyway. “I want to, and besides, who said it was for you? I thought we
could shake it up a bit. How do you feel about Banana Bonanza?” She handed me
a breakfast bar wrapped in a yellow color that was nowhere near the shade of a banana.
“It’s no Strawberry
Shindig, but it’ll do.”
She chuckled and
didn’t collapse into a fit of coughing. I took it as a good omen.
We opened them up and
took large, starving bites, chewing (gnawing, rather) in silence while the
candle’s flame danced and flickered.
The clichéd phrase “seeing
things in a different light” could be put to good use here. In the soft
luminescence of the candle, the way it masked the hardened, deep, aged-too-soon
lines of her face, I got a glimpse of what she’d looked like during The
Before. The Win of yesteryear was, by anyone’s standards, a beautiful woman.
I won’t bother giving you any trite, purple-prose descriptions like “bee-stung
lips” and “wide almond-shaped eyes” because it wouldn’t be true and because
often words can’t express actuality.
Use your imagination,
but here are some primers: shoulder-length blonde hair, blue eyes, a chicken
pox scar on the right side of her nose, and a beauty mark above the left corner
of her mouth.
I was enamored, to
say the least, but trust that I hadn’t forgotten about Kerry. I’d folded her
up and put her in my back pocket. She was there, and I could feel that she was
there, but I couldn’t shake the growing present-tense connection with Win.
Did I feel like I was
cheating on Kerry in a way? Yes. I won’t deny it. However, I also won’t deny
that I’d begun to realize that what had been missing in our relationship had
been the comfortable ease that I now felt with the woman sitting across from
me. I should add that the blinds of the past had creaked open another notch,
and soon, I would be able to see what had and hadn’t been. That is, when my
subconscious was ready to allow it.
Win swallowed a bite
of Banana Bonanza and said, “Dave’s not your real name, is it?”
Startled, I choked on
a bite and managed to work it down. I felt my cheeks flush and hoped that she
wouldn’t be able to see my shame in the candlelight. “No,” I said, resigned.
“No, it’s not. How’d you know?” I thought briefly of my real wallet and
wondered if she’d gone through it while I’d been unconscious the night before.
“When I was changing,
I remembered that Dad would talk about this guy who used to mail packages to
Brian Williams all the time. I think his exact words were, ‘Only person I ever
met that loved mail more than his mama,’” she said, lowering her voice, copying
Rockin’ Roger.
I have the same
memory, because he’d said the exact same thing to me, and her rendition was
spot on perfect. Why wouldn’t it be?
She continued. “I
can’t remember exactly, but I thought he said the guy’s name was Stan.”
And before I could
curtail the words, before I could take a second to ponder the consequences,
before I could insist that Rockin’ Roger must have meant someone else, maybe a
real guy named Stan, my response spewed out of my volcano mouth. “Stan? Nope,
Steven Allister Pendragon.”
“Steven, huh?”
“Yep. Or just
Steve.”
“Is that Steven with
a V? Because one of my students spelled it with a P-H and I called him
Step-Hen for his entire tenth grade year.”
And that’s when I
knew.
Knew what, exactly?
I think you can guess, but I’ll get to that.
We chatted and
laughed and talked about her father and hundreds of other mundane things, like
the fact that she used to have a cat named Glimmer.
Sparkle meet Glimmer,
Glimmer meet Sparkle. Synonymous kitties. Yet another link added to the chain
of connections.
We talked until the
candle had almost burned itself out, all the while ignoring my history. Maybe
because she knew something lurked in its telling and she wasn’t ready for the
convenient normality to come to an end.
It had to have been
after midnight, if not later. We’d spent hours with that unseen wall between
us.
Finally, the
unavoidable could no longer be avoided.
Win polished off the
last of her third Banana Bonanza, crumpled her wrapper, took my empty ones, as
well, and shoved them into the plastic grocery bag. She wiped her hands on her
jeans, put her elbows on her knees, and leaned forward. Without malice, she
said, “You lied to me. Why?”
“The fact that you
hit me over the head wasn’t enough of an explanation?”
“It’s not the real
reason. Tell me why.”
“I can’t. It’s too,
um, too risky. And you wouldn’t believe me. I like this, what’s going on here,
and I’m afraid—” I stopped myself, held up my hands as an apology and looked
around the empty postal cave.
“You’re afraid of
what? That I’ll try to kick you out?”
“If I tell you,
yeah.”
She reached across
the line of beer bottles and gave my arm a friendly pat. “I kick you out if
you
don’t
.”
“You crossed the
border,” I teased. “We never set up penalties, did we?”
“Don’t change the
subject and don’t be embarrassed. I told you my story, didn’t I? I promise I
won’t try to kick you out. Not unless you murdered somebody.”
It came out as a
joke, but I could sense a growing undercurrent of unease.
I took a moment too
long to respond, thinking of how I wanted to begin.
Win look at me in
disbelief. “Oh my God, you didn’t…”
And oddly enough, she
didn’t try to scramble away. I don’t know why. I would’ve if I’d been in her
position. I’d have gotten up and sprinted to the closest weapon I could find.
Or maybe I wouldn’t
have. Maybe I would’ve reacted with the same feeling of utter bewilderment
that the person sitting across from me, the one that I barely knew but felt
like I’d known forever, would be capable of such things.
Unbelievable?
Maybe. Possible? Yes. Mothers refuse to believe their sons could be
murderers on a daily basis. Watch the news, you’ll see what I mean.
I reached out and put
a fingertip on one of the beer bottles, rolling it back and forth. “I didn’t—I
promise you with everything I have that I didn’t kill anyone, but the police
are trying to frame me for it. That’s why I had to run. My friend Thomas—he’s
a cop—is trying to help me prove that I’m innocent. We think it’s one of the
detectives.”
“No,” Win said,
stretching it out like, “Noooooo.” “What happened?”
Here, I don’t need to
recant what I told her. You know what happened. From the shooting to being in
Kerry’s house, to the diary to visiting Clarence, to the money to Strout and
DeShazo, I told her everything. Almost everything. I left out any references
to Shayna. For once, I was able to recognize the superfluous.
It was a long story,
however, as I have a tendency to elaborate, but you knew that already.
By the time I was
finished, the candle was almost a puddle of wax on the tiled floor.
“And now I’m here,” I
said, patting the floor. “You don’t have to believe me—and hell, I’m not even
sure I’d believe myself—but thanks for, you know, for not running away or
beating me over the head again. This whole thing tonight, it’s meant a lot.
Very grounding. And when I leave tomorrow evening, I’m stepping right back
into the shit. If Thomas came up with something, I might be good, but I don’t
even want to think about what’ll happen if he didn’t. I could be in jail a
couple days from now.”
She didn’t say
anything. She stared at me with moonlight shining on her face.
“Do you believe me?”
She nodded, but I
expected her to ask for more proof of my innocence. Instead, she said, “Did
you love her? That Kerry girl?”
That Kerry girl
. Yesterday, the lackadaisical, whimsical way she
addressed her would’ve sent me reeling.
Today, it didn’t.
How does one answer
that question in light of an epiphany? Somewhere during the retelling of my
story, the blinds had inched open a little more and illuminated another corner
of my mind. Had I really loved Kerry, or had it been infatuation?
To continue the
blinds metaphor, here’s what came to mind; remember that Rod Stewart song back
in the eighties called “Infatuation?” Remember the video? He’s staring and
taking pictures of the beautiful woman through a set of blinds. He checks her
out with a pair of binoculars as she sunbathes by the pool. And at the end,
she’s hiding in a merry-go-round and disappears, leaves with another handsome
devil, and Rod Stewart is left alone looking pitiful, spinning slowly along
with the carousel.
Was that me? Had I
become Rod Stewart? Had Kerry drawn me in and left me spinning in circles?
I answered Win the
only way I could. “I thought I did.”
“But now you’re not
so sure?”
I shook my head. I
didn’t need words to admit I’d fooled myself.
“You know you sound
like Rod Stewart in that ‘Infatuation’ song, don’t you?”
I turned a corner of
my mouth into a half-smile and spun the beer bottle, mostly to have a
distraction, mostly to have something to look at other than Win. I couldn’t
hide my embarrassment. Even in the dark, I could feel it flashing like a neon
sign.
When the bottle came
to rest, the neck pointed directly at her.
I’m sure we both
thought of the same thing, because we’d already ridden so many of the same
wavelengths. Teenage parties in a friend’s basement where the parents either
knew and didn’t care, or were cool enough to provide the alcohol. I saw
faux-wood paneling and ashtrays. Green carpet and a couch with the stuffing
escaping from so many holes. I saw a boombox stereo and heard Rod Stewart
singing “Infatuation.” Truth or Dare and Spin the Bottle.
Win watched the
bottle, too, then bit her bottom lip and asked, “Are you thinking what I’m
thinking?”
“If it involves a
dirty basement and two minutes in a dark closet, then yes, I am.”
Remember earlier, way
back at the beginning when I said I didn’t have any sense of good judgment when
a woman looked at me with a glimmer of libidinous intent? Perhaps I’d gotten
rusty, because I didn’t think Win was actually serious. I’d been joking, at
least partly—she was attractive, one good shower away from irresistible—but it
was mostly harmless flirting on my end.
She wasn’t.
“Do you want to?” she
asked.
Still, I wasn’t
getting it. “Want to?”
“Geez, Steve, don’t
make me say it out loud.”
Light bulb.
Ding-ding-ding
.
“Oh…oooh! You mean—?”
She uncrossed her
legs and moved up to her knees.
For those of you
doubting the authenticity of this particular point in my adventure, let me
offer something. Here’s a real,
real
, honest-to-God
human
interaction. Not the kind you see in movies where everything is blissful and
happy and the lovemaking is celebrated and filled with flowers and rainbows and
pretty people touching pretty parts.
Here’s an example of
a goodhearted, caring person that was aware of her situation and knew that she
wasn’t in the best place, but recognized that there are some purely
raw
moments in life that you need to take advantage of.
Win said, “I don’t
want you to think I was being presumptuous, but you seem like a good guy, maybe
a little weird but I like that, I
like
weird, and it’s been so long and
you’ll be gone tomorrow and...and...” Her hands flew up. She covered her
face.
I moved to my knees
as well. “And what?”
From behind her
hands, she said, softly, “I washed for you. I tried to get clean, just in
case. I
tried
. And I’d understand if you didn’t want to, if you think
I’m gross.” She fought hard not to cry. It didn’t work. She rubbed at the
corners of her eyes. “I don’t know what I was thinking, it’s so embarrassing.
I just—I miss
normal
, whatever that is.”
I shoved the
remaining line of beer bottles out of the way. They scattered and clinked and
rolled across the floor as I broke the unseen barrier between us. I put my
hands on her cheeks, wiped the tears away with my thumbs, and tilted her face
up to mine.
I said, “Normal is
overrated.”
Then I put my lips on
hers.
Notice I didn’t say “kiss.”
The word isn’t all-encompassing enough. It doesn’t grasp the breadth or the
depth of that physical contact. I put my lips on hers and it caused roses to
bloom, oceans to part; it caused tectonic plate upheaval and new islands to
form; dogs bonded with cats; cheetahs smiled and waved at gazelles; every
missing sock that has ever disappeared in a dryer magically reappeared; men the
world over tied a perfect Windsor knot on the first attempt; a unicorn walked
through the middle of Times Square; wars ended.
Yeah, it was that
big.
I’ve never felt
anything like it.
I forgot about
Berger.
I forgot about
Thomas.
I forgot about Shayna
and Smoke and Shade.
I forgot about
DeShazo and Strout.
I forgot about Brian
Williams.
I forgot about Kerry.
In that moment in
time, nothing else mattered.
We were two.
We were one.
Win pulled back, just
a little, enough to look me in the eyes. Emotions swirled around inside hers.
Elation and fear, desire and hesitation. She said, “Are you sure?”
“‘Neither snow, nor
rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift
completion of their appointed routes.’”
“Does that mean yes?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re such a dork.”
Now, I’d like to tell
you that we were fluid bodies and our hands immediately went to all the right
places and clothes removed themselves and we made romance authors jealous.
Not the case.
At first, we fumbled
with buttons and zippers. Dexterity and efficiency held hands and skipped
away.
Imagine a Slinky that
won’t spring down the stairs like it’s supposed to or a car engine on a
freezing cold morning.
I said, “My fingers
are shaking, maybe you should do it.”
“I didn’t know people
still wore jeans that have buttons instead of zippers.”
“They were on sale.”
“Seriously, Steve,
you’re wearing a thong?”
“Why can’t I get this
bra unhooked?”
“I’m sorry there’s a
hole in my underwear.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Why are you so
tan
?”
“Oh, it unhooks in
the front. Duh.”
“Any chance you have
a condom?”
Ah, logistics, the
bane of sexual enthusiasm. But like I said, this was real. Pure, unrefined
reality isn’t sexy in Hollywood. It’s why you rarely see a guy struggling to
get his shoes off or a woman chuckling over his underwear preference. And it
just so happened that I did have a condom in my wallet, a habit picked up
during my unfruitful teenage years that had never gone away. Call it another
instance of Always Be Prepared. Apparently, I was a prepper before I even knew
what a prepper was.
I let Win put the
condom on for me. She rolled it down with slow grace—the first proficient move
either of us had made—and a moment later, she was on top, rocking to a slow
rhythm. I put my hands on her hips and admired her body in the moon’s light.
Months—maybe years—I hadn’t asked how long, of eating scraps had left her too
thin. Hip bones protruded from her waist and I could’ve played her ribs like a
xylophone, but her breasts had somehow maintained their shape, and gravity,
unlike starvation, hadn’t taken hold yet.
We were two.
We were one.
Superficial Steve,
the one that would’ve laughed and said you were insane if you’d suggested he’d
be making love to a homeless woman, at any point, ever, in his life, had
vanished. Germaphobe Steve, the one that would’ve cringed at the thought of
lying naked on the floor of an abandoned building was gone, as well. The New
Steve, the one that didn’t give a damn about who she was or how recently she’d
showered or what might’ve been spilled, shed, or squirted on the tile—well, he
relaxed and enjoyed himself. I won’t say “love conquers all”—mostly because it’s
corny and unoriginal and it was
way
too soon for the L-word—but I’ll
offer this: passion has a way of blurring details.