Boy Minus Girl (13 page)

I settle into the little straight-back chair and watch Cookie scratch her dog under its chin.

“Man, do I want a cigarette,” she says, nibbling the corner of her lower lip.

“Want me to go fetch some?” I ask.

“Thanks. Can’t. On account of . . .” She points to her belly.

“Oh. Right.”

She stretches out her legs and wiggles her toes. “How well do you know your uncle?”

I shrug. “He doesn’t visit us very often.”

“Has he ever talked about me?”

I shake my head.

“He’s something else, let me tell ya. Leads me to think I’m the love of his life. That we’re forever ’n’ ever. I allow myself to fall for him—and lemme tell you, that’s rare. See, I’m a dancer. You can’t imagine how often I get hit on. I make it a rule not to date guys from the club, but your uncle, he just wore me down and won me over. He was the one guy I really and truly believed loved me for me, and not just for . . . you know, my assets. Boy, am I a damn fool!

“Thirty-two minutes after I tell him I’m pregnant, he skips town. It took me a week to track him down to this godforsaken place.”

As I sit there and listen to all she’s going through, I start to feel really bad about spying on her.

“Thing is,” she continues, “he thinks I tricked him into getting me pregnant, but I swear it ain’t true.” She wipes her nose, then tosses the tissue on the nightstand. “I was on the pill when it happened.” She raises her right hand. “So help me God. I never meant to get knocked up, but now that I am, I want this baby more than anything in the world. And that’s that.”

Stealing a look at Cookie’s dark-chocolate eyes, I feel my heart flutter—just like it used to with Charity. Cookie is the most exotic person I have ever met: her brown skin, the way she moves, her huge hoop earrings and hookerish clothing. What more could Uncle Ray want? Plus, she is sweet and kind and so-so-so sexy.

“Now, I realize being a father scares the bejesus out of Ray,” she says. “Goes against his badass image of himself. But a kid needs a father. That’s why I ain’t giving up on him. Say, here I am spilling all my business and I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s Les.”

She reaches forward and offers her hand. “Cookie.”

“Cookie . . . ?”

“Well, I’m mostly just Cookie. Like Cher is just Cher.” She turns my hand over, pulls it close to her face, and studies my palm.

“What is it?” I ask.

She runs her index finger down a wrinkle that curves around the base of my thumb. “You have a long life line. You’re going to live to be a very old man.” She releases my hand. “Me, I’m not so lucky.” She holds up her right palm and points at a crease. “See there. I’ll be lucky to see fifty.”

“Gee, sorry.”

“That’s one of the reasons I want this child now—I want something to show for my life. I’m almost twenty-three, my own midlife.”

The dog leaps off the bed and waddles to the door, scratching the floor in front of it.

“Mr. Mister gotta potty,” she says as she slides off the bed. She unlatches the door and walks outside.

When I step out, Cookie is sitting on the porch step watching her dog mark the grass. I settle tentatively beside her.

“Y’know,” she says, “this baby would be good for Ray, too. Give him some responsibility. He’s no spring chicken.”

“I told him I thought he’d be a good dad.”

She faces me. “What’d he say?”

“Said he wasn’t the daddy type.”

“Why are Cancers so goddamn stubborn? Can you tell me that?” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what it is about me, but the guys I pick always end up being deadbeats and losers—God almighty, do I wanna smoke.”

I can see that once Uncle Ray wins a woman over, he just doesn’t want her anymore. He is one of those thrill-of-the-hunt guys. If I could have his luck with women, just once, and land someone like Cookie, I would definitely keep her forever.

Her dog is sniffing my shoes. I pat his head and say, “Think he smells my beagle.”

“Y’know, Mr. Mister loves to be scratched under the chin,” she says.

She is right; he waggles and wiggles in doggy ecstasy as I scratch.

“I like beagles. What’s your dog’s name?”

“Rusty. We’re the same age.”

“That’s so sweet. I found Mr. Mister here shivering one snowy night at the back door of the club. Let me tell ya, it was love at first sight. I just wish the men in my life were as loyal to me as Mr. Mister. You ever been in love, Les?”

I nod, and it occurs to me that Cookie and I are in the same boat—we are both in love with people who are incapable of being in love with us.

“Love will make you do some pretty stupid shit,” she says, “if you’ll pardon my French.”

I have a flash of myself in cape and top hat kneeling before Charity.

“I’m still a virgin” blurts out of my mouth, and I wonder where it came from.

She looks at me, a little taken aback, then says, “Well, I think that’s real sweet. I think that’s about the nicest thing I’ve heard in a long time. You stay that way until you meet the right girl, y’hear me? There’s no rush, believe you me.”

Not quite the answer I have been looking for.

“Me, I lost my virginity way too young,” she volunteers. “And it screwed me up a little, I think.”

“How old were you?”

“Fourteen.”

“I’m fourteen.”
And I’m ready.

“His name was Harlan and he drove this shiny eighteen-wheeler. It was such a big, expensive-looking truck that I guess I just figured any guy who would be driving something like that must be pretty important. Harlan wasn’t much of a looker, to be honest with ya, but when I climbed in that rig I trembled at all the power he had, sitting up there on top of the world, driving all around the country, talking on his CB like Burt Reynolds. Well, I let him take my flower right then and there in his cab.”

“Were you in love with him?”

“I sure thought so at the time. But looking back on it, I think it was just a way for me not to feel so lonely. Y’see, being a foster kid and all, I never felt like I belonged nowhere.”

I am about to ask her what it’s like being a professional dancer when she suddenly winces and grabs her abdomen.

“You okay?” I ask.

She nods. “I get this shooting pain lately. I better go in and lie down. Les, I’d really appreciate it if you’d help me persuade your uncle to step up to the plate and do right by me.”

“I’ll do what I can. Promise.”

“Okay, then,” she says as she stands. “Give him back his three hundred dollars and tell him I’m asking pretty please for him to be a man and come out here and talk to me. Will you do that, sugar?”

“I will.”

She offers her hand. “It was real nice to meet you, Les Eckhardt.”

“You too, Cookie-just-Cookie.”

On the bike ride home I keep thinking about how I’m going to give Uncle Ray a piece of my mind—tell him being a father isn’t something he can just decide not to be, and that he shouldn’t treat Cookie this way. Once I get home, I no sooner open my bedroom door than Uncle Ray, head propped up on pillows, says, “What’d she say?”

I hand him back the envelope of cash. “You’re going to be a daddy.”

“Jesus!” He hurls the envelope across the room. It hits my dresser mirror and bills flutter everywhere, littering the floor like green confetti. Shaken, I decide to hold off on telling him my opinions for a little while longer.

My uncle’s eyes dart around crazily. He’s a drowning man searching for any life preserver. “She tricked me into getting her pregnant!”

“She said you’d say that.”

“What else has she been telling you? Has she been messing with your head? Well, don’t believe her.”

“I just—I feel bad for her.”

“You like her so much, you marry her.”

“Maybe I will,” I say. I’ve never meant anything more.

“If—and I’m saying if—I were to ever tie the knot, it wouldn’t be with her. Guys don’t marry chicks like Cookie.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, she’s a stripper, for crying out loud!”

“No offense, Uncle Ray, but you’re not exactly a Boy Scout.”

He reaches under his pillow, removes his flask, uncaps it, and swigs—only to throw it down. It bounces and thumps on the carpet. “Damn it! Take one of those twenties and go buy me some more J.D. And don’t drink half of it this time!”

Before I can tell him off—
tap, tap, tap
. Dad pops his head in. “Hello, boys.” He steps inside, asking, “How you feeling today, Ray?” and then gets all wide-eyed at the bills littering the floor.

“Er—Les,” Uncle Ray says, “would you mind picking up that item we discussed?”

“Little brother, you’ve got to try and lie still,” Dad admonishes. “With whiplash it’s important you don’t strain yourself. Now, let’s have a look at your neck.”

I snatch up a twenty and slip out of the room.

“Doris next door said she saw a colored woman yelling and pounding on our front door this afternoon,” Mom says at dinner. “She also said you spoke with this woman, Les. Is that true?”

I nod as I painfully swallow a chunk of Mom’s chicken-and-rice casserole, chasing it down with a ton of milk.

“Who was she?”

“Er—she was selling Bibles.”

“Wasn’t she cursing and pounding on our door, like Doris claims?”

I shake my head. “She seemed perfectly normal.”

“But Doris said—”

“Doris Daetweiler just likes to stir up trouble,” Dad barks, and sets his fork on his plate. “She should mind her own business for once.”

“Well!” Mom gasps at Dad. “That wasn’t very nice.”

“It’s the truth,” Dad says. “The woman does nothing all day but look for something to gossip and gripe about.”

“Doris has been a good neighbor to us through the years,” Mom insists.

Dad points his finger at Mom. “She’s a busybody, Bev, and you damn well know it.”

“Is it necessary that you use such ugly language in our home, Roger?”

“Sometimes,” Dad murmurs.

“You’ve been in awful spirits lately,” Mom says. “Awful spirits. And I don’t like it.”

The doorbell chimes. Mom, Dad, and I look at one another in “who in the world could that be?” surprise.
If it’s Cookie, how am I going to handle this?

“I’ve got it!” I run and open the front door, and there stands Charity sporting a pair of those cat-eye sunglasses. The wind whips her red and blue bandana and flowing green skirt.

She bows and says, “Oh, Great Linguini, your devoted assistant is here to learn the divine secrets of your mysterious art.”

“Oh. Sorry. I can’t rehearse tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Les,” Mom calls out from the kitchen, “who’s there?”

“Someone from school!” I yell back.

“For heaven’s sake, let Howard in,” Mom says. “He can join us for some strawberry shortcake.”

“You, uh, wanna come in?”

“Sure you want just ‘someone from school’ in your house?” she asks with a smirk.

I unlatch the storm door, pushing it open for her, and she steps inside. Removing her sunglasses, she looks around. “Wow. I feel like I’ve walked into Beaver Cleaver’s house.”

I lead her into the kitchen, where Mom and Dad turn and stare in disbelief. Up till now I’ve never brought a girl home.

Charity breaks the stunned silence with: “Hi there.”

“Well, hello,” Dad says, sounding very, very delighted.

“Mom, Dad, this is Charity. Charity, meet my folks.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Eckhardt.” Then she turns to Dad and says, “We’ve met before, Dr. Eckhardt.”

“Oh?”

“You delivered me in an April blizzard in 1971. My parents are Dale and Elaine Conners.”

Dad thinks for a moment, then nods vigorously. “Yes. Of course. I had to deliver you cesarean, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Roger,” admonishes Mom.

“Well, looks like I did all right.” Dad beams. “How’re your folks?”

“Divorced.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks. They’re fine.”

Every time I steal a look at Charity, my heart still splinters painfully. If only.

“Have a seat, have a seat,” Mom says as she steps around the island with the plates of strawberry-topped sponge cake.

Charity sits between Dad and me.

“You moved from St. Louis recently, didn’t you?” Mom says as she distributes the dessert. “I just received your health records from your former school. I didn’t realize you and Les were . . . friends.”

“Les has been so nice. I’m going to be part of his talent-show act.”

“He’s never given us a lick of trouble, our Lester,” Dad says, reaching over and mussing my hair.

Will it be worse if I crawl under the table and die?

As we dig into our strawberry shortcake, I allow myself to fantasize that Charity is my steady girlfriend, whom my parents adore. It’s so refreshing to see a pretty girl at our table. It’s like our beige kitchen suddenly became colorful.

Charity says, “You know, I think I’d like to go into medicine.”

“I can’t recommend Kansas State’s nursing program enough,” Mom says. “I’m secretary of the alumni committee, you know.”

“That’s nice,” Charity says. “But I’m interested in becoming a physician.”

“Oh my,” Mom says primly.

“Are you good at math and science?” Dad asks.

“She’s the best,” I say. “She ruins the curve in all our classes.”

“I always tell Les he better keep his science and math grades up if he wants to get into medical school,” Dad says.

“Hmm. I think Les is more of the artistic type,” Charity counters.

Dad stares at Charity, and the painful, loaded silence stretches, and stretches, and stretches.

“Uh, delicious strawberry shortcake, Mom.”

Out the corner of my eye I can see Dad staring at me.

“We’ve got water! Anyone want some water?” I say, just to say something.

Brring
-
ring!
Thank God. I leap to answer the phone: the hospital for Dad.

“All right,” Dad says into the receiver, “I’ll be right up.” He wipes his mouth with his napkin and stands. “They’re bringing Lowell McIntyre in by ambulance. Sounds like a heart attack.”

And he is out the door.

Mom glances at her watch. “Oh my, I’m going to be late for the school board meeting.”