Tod Goldberg - The Reformed

If you have a metal front door, it’s because you expect that one day someone is going to try to break it down. If you’re smart enough to build a metal door into your house, you’re probably smart enough to have a camera on the door, too-Junior’s was buried in the fake flowers, another Target special-and maybe you’re even smart enough to not answer the door when a stranger starts kicking it and making a bunch of noise.

“Jeff? Jeff? It’s Marvin! You locked the door! Jeff!” I pounded on the door a few times, which didn’t make much noise on account of the dulling nature of the metal, so I started slapping at the wall. And then Fiona started shouting, too.

“Mary? Mary? I’m freezing out here! It must be seventy degrees out here!”

I stepped back from the portico and slapped at the living room windows. Double paned. Nice. I slapped them again and shouted for Jeff. Fiona stepped out onto the lawn, fished around for a rock and then threw it at the garage door, and screamed some more for Mary.

“More?” she mouthed.

I shrugged. Why the hell not? Fiona picked up another rock, but before she could throw it, the front door opened and an exceptionally large Latino man stepped out. He wore only a robe and shower shoes and a confused look on his face. “Why are you screaming and throwing things at my home?” he asked. It was a rather pleasant entreaty from a man who’d spent twenty-five years in prison and had either killed or ordered the deaths of probably dozens of men.

“Oh, crap,” I said. “All these houses look alike. I thought this was Jeff’s house. We’re visiting him, took a walk down to the gazebo and I guess we got lost. I’m really sorry. I thought this was Jeff and Mary’s place. Honey, do you know what street they live on? This isn’t the right house.”

Fiona, still with a rock clutched in her hand, sat down on Junior’s lawn. “How can you be so stupid?” she said.

“Honey,” I said, “this is not a big deal. We’ll find the house.” I turned to Junior, gave him one in my new series of looks meant to convey instant brotherhood-this one was my “Women, what can you do with them?” smile-and then took a step toward him so that I could give him a loud stage whisper. “There can’t be that many houses in the development, right? I think it was on one of those Indian streets. Apache, maybe?”

“Please, get off my lawn,” Junior said. “I just had it reseeded.”

“No problem,” I said, and then Fiona began to cry.

“Why is she crying?” Junior asked.

“We both had a little to drink tonight,” I said, and then I gave him the “We’re both in this together look” men often share in situations that involve crying females. “I hate to ask this, but would it be possible to come inside and use your phone? It’s awfully dark out, and I don’t feel like there’s a great chance my lady friend and I will ever find Jeff and Mary’s house.”

“No,” he said.

“What?” Fiona said. She was up now and storming toward Junior. “No? What? What kind of person are you? What kind of values do you have? We aren’t going to come inside and steal your plates, you asshole. We just want to use the telephone. And if I don’t get to a restroom in the next five minutes, I’ll be back on your lawn! And then what will you do?”

I caught Fiona in my arms before she could begin doing whatever crazy, drunk, Southern women are prone to do to hulking ex-convicts, which is probably whatever they damn well please. “Easy, honey,” I said. “He doesn’t want us in his home. That’s fine. It’s his right.”

Fiona crumpled down on Junior’s feet and began to sob even more. That probably would have been fine, really, but when she began to wail and lights started turning on down the street-or, well, more lights than our screaming and hurling of rocks had caused to turn on-Junior said, “Fine, fine. Come in.”

The inside of Junior’s house looked like a model home. The front door opened into a wide entry hall that fed directly into a great room combination of kitchen and living room. There was a beige sofa covered in multicolored throw pillows, a chocolate brown coffee table that was scattered with magazines and newspapers, and a leather occasional chair with a chenille blanket slung over one arm.

“Your wife has a beautiful eye for detail,” Fiona said. She wandered about the living room, touching things and, I assumed, pocketing whatever she could. That was her skill set. Unfortunately, her jeans weren’t exactly baggy. She’d find a way to make do, I was sure.

“I don’t have a wife,” Junior said. He walked into the kitchen and picked up a cordless phone and handed it to me. “Make your call.”

I dialed Sam’s cell phone.

“If this is Yvonne,” Sam said, “I’m not in a position to take your call.”

“It’s us,” I said. “We’re lost. But a very nice man let us into his home to use the phone.”

“Mikey,” Sam said. “How did I get to your house? And why is your mother with me?”

“I’ll have to explain that later,” I said. “In the meantime, if you can just give me your address, we’ll get right back over there.”

“Did you go to Junior’s place without me?”

“I did,” I said.

“And this is his phone?”

“It is,” I said.

“Came up blocked on my cell,” Sam said. “Only person who calls me from a blocked number is Yvonne, usually. I don’t think you’ve met her. Great lady. Phone is her thing, if you know what I mean.”

“Great, great,” I said. “Well, let me get this nice gentleman’s phone number in case we get lost again, maybe you can call him and retrace our steps.” I pulled the phone from my ear. “Excuse me, sir, can I get your phone number to give to my friend? He’s worried we’re never going to get back to his place. Apparently, not too long ago there was a gator attack in these parts, so you can imagine his fear.”

Junior stood in the middle of his living room, watching Fiona weave drunkenly about his house. He wasn’t paying the least bit of attention to me, and I couldn’t tell if he thought Fiona was suspicious or if he was worried she’d break something. I also couldn’t believe that the man I’d seen in the photos Father Eduardo showed us was living in this house and that he seemed, oddly, just as professional and put together in only a robe as Father Eduardo had been in his office. Either they’d learned quite a bit from each other, or Junior had realized that in order to make it big, he’d need to clean up. I could still see that he had tattoos on his hands, and though his hair was thick and wavy, every time he ran his hand over his scalp in exasperation as Fi came close to toppling one thing or another, a flash of ink showed on his head. You can only cover so much of your past.

“Excuse me,” I said again, this time a bit louder, and Junior turned around. “Can I get your phone number? My friends are worried we might get lost again and they’ll never be able to find us.” Just then, Fiona did a nice pirouette into the leather chair and tumbled into it, her legs kicking up into the air and then wrapping around the long, flowing white drapes that hung across the living room windows. She tugged with her feet and down they came.

Fiona has very strong feet.

“555-9819,” he said.

I gave the number to Sam.

“You want me to run incoming and outgoing?” he asked.

“That would be good, if you could,” I said, “and hopefully we’ll find our way back to you in a moment.”

I clicked off the phone at the same time Junior walked over to Fiona, picked her up with one arm and dragged her out of the chair. “Your girlfriend pulled down my drapes,” he said.

“Let me pay for that,” I said. “As soon as I get back to Atlanta, I’ll send you a check. You just let me know the cost.”