Stick (14 page)

“Were you good friends?”

“Well, we were together all the time. We had a nice apartment. Sometimes, it was like we were married, the kind of arguments we had. Over little picky things that didn't matter. But we had a good time for a while. It was different, I'll say that.”

“What're you smiling at?”

“Nothing, really. I can hear him bitching, like an old lady.”

“Do you miss him?”

“Do I
miss
him? No, I don't miss him, I re
mem
ber him, you know, I suppose we were pretty close at that. But it was a different kind of life and it's over.”

She said, “Didn't you feel you were doing anything wrong? Stealing?”

“Sure, I knew it was wrong. And I knew I'd have to pay for it if I got caught. I accepted that. And that's what happened and now it's over with. Done. Now I'm going to get in the stock market, become a financial expert.”

She said, “You probably could”—still with her head against the cushion—”if you wanted to. Why not? We could trade places. I'll get a designer chauffeur uniform.”

“What's the matter with what you're doing?”

“I don't know—I'm tired of it.”

“I think I mentioned that this afternoon.”

“I know you did. But I'm not tired of it—as you implied, because I tell my clients what to do and they make all the money. Money doesn't have anything to do with it. I'm tired of this middle position, advising. There's no tangible satisfaction. What I'd like, I
think,
is to run a manufacturing business. Produce something, an end product, and not just deal in paper.”

“How about portable water tanks?” Stick said. “I understand, you sell to the military there's a lot of money in it.”

She said, just barely smiling, “You're kind of a show-off, aren't you? But very subtle. ‘Do you see anything you like?' And before Chucky knows it he's your straight man, ‘No, I guess not,' and walk away. You're an actor, aren't you?”

“Nope. I'm a very simple soul.”

“What's the name of the water tank company?”

“Ranco Manufacturing.”

“What're some other good buys?”

“Automated Medical Labs. Kaneb Services. Firestone, maybe, if there's a takeover.”

“You're scary.”

Stick eased over to rest his arm on the cushion separating them, leaning closer to her. “But I still don't know what a float is, or options.”

She said, “I have a feeling you could learn everything there is to know in about two days.”

“You want to teach me?” He touched her hand lying in her lap, fingertips tracing fine bones.

She said, “I don't know if I'm ready for you,” though she turned her hand over, felt his calloused palm and slowly laced her fingers into his, still with her head against the cushion of the backrest, eyes mildly appraising, perhaps curious. “I think I'm out of practice. I deal with people who read balance sheets and play business golf and go from the club to board-of-directors meetings.”

“You don't have any fun?”

She said, “I have friends—we go to polo matches, we go sailing, we play tennis . . .”

“Yeah? . . .”

“When I'm home, but I travel quite a lot.”

“You going with a guy?”

“No, not really. I see the same people most of the time
 . . . 
I go to dinner parties and sit next to recently divorced men, most of them very wealthy . . .”

“Yeah? . . .”

“And listen to them talk about themselves. Or real estate.”

“You get to laugh much?”

“Politely. Nothing's that funny.”

“It sounds like the whole show is.”

“Yeah, if there was somebody else, you know, to nudge and say, God, listen to that pontificating asshole; but I feel like I'm alone, I don't fit in.”

Stick worked up closer to her, laid his head against the cushion to face hers, only a few inches away. He said, “You poor little girl, you could be having fun and you're stuck with humbuggers. You need somebody to play with.” Meaning to volunteer and wondering seriously if this was the evening he'd go for the hat trick.

Three goals, three different girls, this one with blue eyes becoming sad and a soft powdery scent—this one a giant step beyond the other two, a girl he could talk to and nudge and they'd give each other knowing looks. He was confident with the feeling he had engraved himself on her and she was attracted to him, for whatever reason.

She said, “I'm not sure what to call you.”

What difference did it make? He said, “Ernest. That's my real name. I don't think of it much one way or the other. Stick I'm used to, it's all right. But now
Kyle,
that's a winner.”

She said, “You want to know something?”

He said, “Uh-oh. What?”

“I made it up.”

“Come on—you did?”

“You want to know my real name?
 . . . 
Emma.”

He said, “Emma,” rolled it around in his head and began to nod, slowly. “Emma. Emma Peel. What's wrong with it?”

“It sounds like enema. That's what kids used to call me.”

He said, “But you're grown up now, Em,” and raised his head enough to place his mouth on hers, kissed her with meaning while holding back a little, showing her he had restraint and was in control of himself, and so he would not look awkward if she twisted away. But she didn't. Her mouth began to work on his, gradually getting more serious about it—Stick keeping up, with no more glimpses of those other two, no more comparing or counting goals—until Kyle said, “I want to go to bed with you . . .”

He recognized Herbie Hancock working away in the living room now, the chorus telling them
Give It All Your Heart,
with drive, determination, but something had happened to his timing and across the bay the moon was gone, down behind Miami.

He said in the dark, “I don't know what's the matter.”

She said, “It's all right. Let's go to sleep.”

“I guess it's just one of those things. You never know.”

“No, you don't.”

“What does that mean?”

“I'm agreeing with you. It's just one of those things. Don't get mad at
me
.”

“I'm not mad . . .  You think I'm mad?”

“Why don't we go to sleep? All right?”

“Fine . . .”

THE FIRST THING STICK'S FORMER
wife Mary Lou said to him after seven and a half years was, “Do you know what time it is?” Holding the door open with one hand, her robe closed with the other. She had three pink curlers sitting squarely on top of her head.

“It's about nine o'clock,” Stick said. “Can I come in?”

“It's ten minutes of,” Mary Lou said. “You woke me up—you know what time you woke me up?”

“I think it was about eight,” Stick said.

“It was seven-forty. Because I looked at the clock. I could not imagine who could possibly be calling at seven-forty on Sunday morning.”

Stick said, “What happened, I got a car to use right after I talked to you, if I'd drop somebody off in Lauderdale first. So I had to do it right away. Otherwise I'd be thumbing half the day and still might not get here.”

She was looking past him toward the street. “That's the car? It's pretty old, isn't it?”

“A Rolls-Royce, Mary Lou, it doesn't matter how old it is.” He glanced around at it, sitting out there on a street of cement ranch bungalows, bikes and toys on front lawns, where no Rolls had ever been before: Pompano Beach, a block off Federal Highway.

She said, as he knew she'd have to, “Did you steal it?” She had not changed one bit, still with that drawn look about the nose, like she was smelling her own bitter aura.

He said, “It's my boss's. We gonna stand here and talk or can I come in and see Katy?”

“She's sleeping,” Mary Lou said, lowering her voice, but let him into the living room of shiny maple and blue-green plaid, Stick remembering living rooms like this, though not this particular one. He hadn't seen this maple set before. Or the electric organ. Or the grandfather clock. Mary Lou saying, “You didn't expect her to be up, did you?”

Stick said, “You go on with whatever you're doing. I won't bother you any.” With a drawl to his voice he hadn't heard in years; as though being in the presence of this woman caused him to revert and he should go out and fix her car seat that was always slipping when she stopped.

She said, “I'm not going back to bed with you here,” clutching that pink robe around her—more of the past coming back—like he might have a quick Sunday morning jump in mind. No thank you. He
thought of Kyle and his spirit dipped. He would have to work his way back up and show her he was ordinarily fit and dependable. It was pride; but he was also fascinated by her and maybe a little bit in love. Really.

He said, “You sleep in curlers now?”

She raised her hand partway up but didn't touch her head. She turned and went out of the room.

Stick sat down to wait, careful of the crease in his pressed khakis. Looking around—there wasn't a piece of furniture or flowery print he recognized, here or in the dining-L. Everything looked new.

Mary Lou took till almost nine-thirty to return, wearing slacks now and a sleeveless print blouse, her dark hair combed blown up in a bouffant, cheeks rouged. He said, “Katy still asleep?”

“I didn't open her door to see.”

“Why don't you wake her up?”

“Because she needs her sleep.”

“You getting along all right?”

“You mean are we making ends meet without any help from you? Not one cent in over seven years? Yes, thank you, we're doing just fine.”

“I sent you a couple hundred from Jackson.”

“You sent a hundred and eighty-five dollars. Mr. Wonderful.”

“I'm going to help out,” Stick said. “In fact”—he dug out his wallet—”I got paid this morning. I even
got a raise. I thought I was going to get fired for something I did, he gave me a raise. So I can let you have . . .  here's three hundred. How's that?”

“In seven years,” Mary Lou said, “I'd say it's pretty shitty. What would you say?”

He knew this would happen. “I'm going to give you something every week now, for Katy. Or every month.” He laid the bills on the end table.

“You bet you are,” Mary Lou said. “At least till you go to prison again. When do you think that'll be?”

It was hard not to get up and walk out. Stick said, “Not ever again. I've changed.”

“Does the man you work for know you're a convict?”

“I'm an
ex
-convict, Mary Lou.” The thought came into his mind that Mary Lou would make a pretty good hack at a women's correctional facility. Or even a men's. He said, “Tell me how your mother's doing.”

She said, “Mama's dead.” Giving him a withering look, as though he were the cause of it.

“I'm sorry to hear that, I really am.”

“Why, 'cause you got along so well? You never said a kind word about mama in your life.”

“I couldn't think of any,” Stick said, seeing that tough old broad squinting at the Temptations on Ed Sullivan, saying, “Is that niggers?” Ready to turn off
the set, miss her favorite program if they were. There was a twenty-four-inch console color TV set now. Plus the organ, all the new furniture . . .  Looking around the room he said, “You must be doing pretty good over at Fashion Square.”

She said, “Oh, you're interested in how we're getting by?”

He said, “Your mom left you fixed, didn't she? I know the last time I saw her she still had her First Communion money.” It wasn't a good subject to stay with. He got off of it asking, “You dating anybody?”

She said, “I don't see that anything I'm doing is any of your business.” She looked toward the front door a moment before Stick heard it bang open and there was his little girl:

Skinny brown legs and arms, coming in yelling, “Mom!” and stopping, looking amazed as she saw him on the sofa. He didn't want to say anything dumb. He smiled . . .  She knew who he was, he could tell. But she glanced at her Mom for confirmation; got nothing. Mary Lou wasn't going to help.

When he stood up and said, “Katy?” she came to him, into his arms and he felt her arms going around his middle, the top of her head touching his mouth. He felt her clinging, meaning it. Heard her say against him, “I got your letter . . .”

But now Mary Lou was giving them a furious look.

“Where have you been!”

It pulled them apart. Katy said, “I told you I was staying at Jenny's.” She seemed surprised. “Remember? And we're going to the beach today? They're waiting for me, I just came home to get my towel and stuff.”

“Well,” Mary Lou said, showing she was helpless, “your father finally comes to see you and you run off.”

Katy said, “But I didn't know . . .”

“It's okay,” Stick said, “go on. I just stopped by—I'll be around here, we'll get to see plenty of each other.” He saw gratitude in the girl's eyes—more than that, recognition that they were in tune and would be at ease with one another. He said, “You look great. You're all grown up . . .  How's school?”

“It's okay.” She didn't seem anxious now.

“You like it?”

“Sorta. We go back, God, in two weeks. I can't believe it.”

Mary Lou was moving to the front window. “Who's out in the car?”

“Just some kids. Jenny and David. And Tim. I told you we were going.”

“Who's driving?”

“Lee.” Surprised again. “I told you, his dad's letting him use the car.”

“I thought his license was taken away.”

“He got it back two months ago.” She looked up at her dad, smiling. “How've you been?”

“Fine. I'll call you real soon, we'll go out for dinner. School's okay, huh?”

“It's all right.” She was edging away.

“What's your favorite subject?”

“I guess typing.”

“Typing,” Stick said. “You any good?”

“Pretty good. I gotta go, okay?”

He watched her hurry out of the room, into the hall. “She spends the night out,” he said to Mary Lou, “and you don't even know it?”

“I work. You should try it sometime.”

“You work last night?”

“I was at services. You going to give me the third degree now? You should be quite good at it, all the experience you've had. Come out of prison and have the gall to start criticizing .
. .
”

She glanced away and Stick looked over to see Katy with a beach towel and a plastic bottle of suntan lotion, her expression vague, lost. Then came back into character with a look of innocence.

“I gotta go, okay? They're waiting.” She came over and kissed him on the cheek and he kissed hers.

“I'll call you in a couple of days.” He could see a reflection of himself in her, a little-girl version of his nose and mouth. More than anything he wanted to
know what she was thinking. He watched her give her mother a peck on the cheek and start for the door.

Mary Lou said, “You have your towel, your lotion, you have your suit on?”

Katy pulled out the neck of her T-shirt and peered in. “Yep, it's still there.”

“Don't stay in the sun too long.”

“I won't.”

“You'll get skin cancer.”

“I won't.”

“And don't be late. What time're you coming home?”

“
Ma
-om, I gotta
go
.” She looked at her dad again, said, “See ya,” and was gone.

Mary Lou remained at the window, sounds outside fading. He studied the round sag of her shoulders in the print blouse and felt a sadness and hoped she wouldn't say anything more to him. Her belly showed in the slacks, worn high, her hips broader than he remembered them . . .  He would tell her she was cute as a bug and she would wrinkle up her nose at him and sometimes slap his arm . . .  He was aware for the first time that she had no sense of style or color. He didn't want to talk to her anymore and still he asked, “How can she be out all night and you don't know it?”

Mary Lou turned from the window. “You've got a lot of nerve.”

“We're not talking about me, we're on you for a change. Just tell me that one thing and I'll get out of your way.”

“I knew she wasn't home,” Mary Lou said. “I forgot for a minute, that's all. I went to services last night and when I got home her door was closed—it's always closed, I never know if she's in there or not. She's either in her room or on the phone.”

“Services,” Stick said. “You don't go to mass anymore?”

“I suppose you do?”

“Not too often.”

She said, “Well, I attend the Church of Healing Grace now, since I've become acquainted with Reverend Don Forrestall . . .” Letting it hang.

So that Stick had to say, “Acquainted?”

“We're seeing each other. Reverend Don Forrestall has asked me to join his ministry as a healing assistant and I'm now studying for it. As soon as I heard him speak,” Mary Lou said, “I had absolute certainty for the first time in my life.”

A lie. He could never remember her being uncertain. She knew everything.

“I felt waves of love, which you would not understand, but it happened to me as he laid on his hands and Reverend Don Forrestall told me I had received the gift. He said, ‘All things thou has seen the Lord do through me now shall be done through thee unto His praise and glory.' “

“He said that?” Stick said.

“In front of the congregation. I opened my mouth then and my fillings over here on this side”—Mary Lou hooked a finger inside her cheek—”had turned to pure gold. He's done it many, many times. Reverend Don Forrestall has cured thousands of severe toothaches, he's filled cavities with gold or silver, usually gold, he's corrected overbites, does wonderful things through laying on his hands and saying, ‘In the name of Our Lord Jesus, let this mouth be healed that it may shout thy praise and glory.' It's all he has to do.”

Stick said, “You mean Reverend Don is a dental faith healer?”

“Ailments of the mouth,” Mary Lou said. “He does cold sores, fever blisters and inflammation of the gums also. Wisdom teeth . . .”

Stick said, “You had gold crowns put in there in ‘Seventy-two. They cost a hundred and twenty-eight dollars.”

“I never did. It was regular fillings and now they're gold, through the healing ministry of Reverend Don Forrestall.”

“How much you give him?”

“Nothing. He doesn't
charge,
he does it in praise of the Lord Jesus.”

“How much you contribute to the Church of the Healing Grace?”

“None of your business.”

As soon as Aurora got home she called Pam at Chucky's, talked to her for almost a half hour about her experience and how she was going to tell off Mr. Barry Stam, the creep, who didn't think of anyone but himself. She said she wouldn't care if she never saw his big boat and his little pecker ever again.

Pam jumped on Chucky's bed, got him bolt upright and told about Barry's new driver taking Rorie home at eight o'clock in the morning for God's sake after being cooped up on Barry's boat for like almost two days. Chucky asked Pam what the new driver's name was and she said Aurora didn't know but she thought he was cute. Chucky called Moke, told him it would be worthwhile to go out and look for a gray Rolls returning to Bal Harbour, license number BS-one.

Moke sat in the blue Chevy van at the east end of Broad Causeway from ten-thirty to eleven-fifteen Sunday morning, wearing his brand-new forty-dollar Bullrider straw he'd bought with his own money. He smoked weed to help him wait and listened to WCKO playing nigger gospel. He said, “A-man and A-man,” when he saw the gray Rolls come out of the chute past the twenty-cent toll gate. He followed after, turned in at the Bal Harbour shopping center
and watched Stick get out of the Rolls and go into the drugstore. No suit on this morning, wearing khakis and a blue shirt, but it was the guy, no doubt of it. He had said to Chucky, why not call this fella Barry and ask him about his new driver? But Chucky said if they aroused suspicion the guy might take off; no, let's ease up close, Chucky said, not let on. Moke watched him come out of followed behind again and watched the son of a bitch drive in past the Bal Harbour gatehouse guard, giving him a wave.