Josh Roseman - The Clockwork Russian and Other Stories

“Just making sure you’ll be at the apartment tomorrow when I drop off the kids.” The old sharpness is back in her voice, and despite the picture on my comm, I remember why I didn’t renew the contract.

“I’ll be there,” I say. “I’m just out for drinks.”

She makes a sniffing noise. “Not my business,” she says. “I’ll drop them off at nine, like we agreed.”

Naomi clicks off before I can say goodbye. I plop back onto the bench and Tina comes alive again, pressing up against me. Her arm goes around my shoulders. “Everything okay?”

I nod, just once. “Former wife,” I tell her. “Every time we talk, she’s just so…” I make a hard, unpleasant sound and Tina smiles. “What’s so funny?”

She strokes my cheek. I know the gesture is practiced and professional, but it still feels good. Reassuring. “There’s no need to keep it all in,” she says. “We can talk about it, and about what you want to do to make it go away.”

“What?”

Tina reaches out to the table in front of us and touches a pale-blue oval with her forefinger. A screen — part of the table, but so dark I didn’t notice it before now — lights up, and a menu appears. “Let me help you,” she says, her voice soft. “I can take her off your mind. I promise.”

We test at the venue—I come back clean, but Tina has antigens for herpes simplex. Hell, half the country has that; at least Tina’s had it treated. She meets me outside, gets into my car wearing jeans and a sleeveless blue blouse. As I drive her back to my apartment, I notice just how blond her hair is, how curly it is. But plenty of women have curly, blond hair.

I offer her coffee when we get inside, but she declines. “Let me take you to bed,” she says, coming close, looking up at me with pale blue eyes. “Let me help you forget about her.”

“Naomi.”

“Naomi,” she repeats. I let her take my hand, let her lead me to the bedroom. She undresses me expertly and guides me to sit on the edge of the bed. Her clothes come off just as quickly, and soon enough she’s kneeling in front of me, doing exactly what we negotiated. It feels amazing, but not like when Naomi did it. I can look down at Tina, watch her hair shift, hear the soft sounds, but I can’t let go. I try, but I can’t, and I know it’s because she’s not Naomi.

Afterward, I return the favor. Tina doesn’t taste like Naomi; she’s bitter, sharper. Later, when she’s on top of me, her body is so much like Naomi’s: it shines the same in the bedroom light and moves the same as she moves above me, but I can’t lose myself inside her.

She’s not Naomi.

Before Tina can get dressed, I negotiate with her to stay the night and be with me again in the morning. I fabricate a toothbrush for her and we use the side-by-side sinks in the bathroom, both naked, just like Naomi and I used to do before bed each night. I can’t stop myself and, as Tina rinses her mouth, I come up behind her and hug her, burying my face in her hair. I almost don’t care that it smells different; if I try hard enough, I almost believe I can catch the scent that is uniquely Naomi.

But I can’t. Not really.

We go back to the bedroom and snuggle together under the comforter, and before I realize who I’m with, I’m kissing Tina tenderly on her lips, wishing her good night. She smiles at my embarrassment, but she’s being paid enough not to say anything.

Tina and I are having breakfast when the door chime rings. I open it and am nearly taken off my feet when Cher and Bobby barrel into me, hugging me as hard as they can. I extricate myself enough to get to my knees so I can hug them properly. “Hi,” I say, kissing their cheeks. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too, Daddy,” Cher says. She’s older — nine — and thinks she should speak for Bobby, who’s only six. “Can we live here again?”

“Can’t,” Bobby says. “Mom said.”

I look past them. Naomi’s standing in the doorway. She has a faraway look in her eyes and I realize that she can see into the kitchen. She can see Tina.

“Hey, go on into the entertainment room,” I tell them. “Let me talk to Mom for a minute.”

“Okay,” Cher says. She looks back at Naomi. “Bye, Mom!”

Naomi just keeps looking at Tina. I get up and guide Naomi into the hall, letting the door close behind us.

She punches me again. My teeth clack together and I bump the wall, but this time as she comes in for a second blow I catch her fist. We were together so long that she can’t help telegraphing what’s coming next, and I take her knee on the side of my thigh. It puts her off-balance and she staggers back a bit. “You prick,” she snaps. “If you wanted me, why didn’t you stay with me?”

I blink back tears; my jaw is throbbing fiercely. “You drove me crazy, Naomi,” I say softly. I think I taste blood, and I swallow. “I loved you — I do love you — but you drove me crazy! Nothing I ever did was good enough for you, and you never let anything pass without fighting me on it. How can you expect me to renew with you after that?”

“How can you… That woman…” She’s almost sputtering, her pale cheeks going bright red with anger, and I can’t help it; I grab her and push her up against the wall, press my mouth to hers, kiss her hard, the way we always used to.

She kisses me back for a moment, then shoves me away and smears her mouth against her sleeve. “Damn it, Scott! How do I know you’re clean? How do I know that she didn’t give you something?”

“We tested,” I say, but the look on Naomi’s face tells me any answer would’ve been a wrong one. “Damn it, Naomi, we’re not under contract anymore! I’m free to do what I want!”

Naomi folds her arms under her breasts. “Then why pick a woman who looks so much like me?”

I don’t have an answer for that, and we just stare at each other for a minute before Naomi lets out a long sigh. “Take them to school Monday. I’ll pick them up there.”

She turns to go. But I can’t let her. “Naomi,” I say. “Wait. Please.”

She stops walking but doesn’t turn around.

“Naomi, I’m sorry. I miss you. I just… I mean, I can’t…”

“I’ll see you in a month, Scott,” she says, still facing away. I watch her walk down the corridor, turn the corner to the lift, and I have no choice but to go back inside.

The kids and I have a fun day together. I suppose I’m overcompensating, but I let them decide what to do and end up spending five straight hours at the theater. There are worse things than animated animals and robots running around, doing silly things, and anyway it makes them laugh. Then we get dinner and go up to the skywalk — something Naomi never lets them do, despite how safe it is.

And even though it’s perfectly safe, I let Cher hold my hand, so tightly that it makes my fingers hurt. Bobby doesn’t care; he’s going from left to right, looking out over the city. The skywalk is ten stories up, connecting the Bank of America building with the Faneuil Hall Marketplace; the sun goes down early this time of year, and the city lights are bright all around us. Halfway across the bridge there’s a little sitting area with a couple of metal-mesh tables and benches, all bolted down. Cher and I sit down, and I give Bobby my card so he can use the pay-to-view binoculars. Cher is still holding my hand, but her grip’s loosened a bit.

“We didn’t have to come,” I say after a minute. “If you don’t like heights, I mean—”

“No,” she says quickly. “I mean, yes, I don’t, but it’s only fair. Bobby sat through my princess movie.”

I don’t let her see my smile, and I don’t tell her that he was playing Ben Brady Football on my comm the whole time. “I guess you’re right,” I tell her. But I know my kids, and I know that’s not what’s really on her mind. I also know that I can wait her out.