Stuart Dybek - Paper Lantern - Love Stories

We’d given up on trying to have kids, then I got pregnant and it felt like we got lucky again. Only, when I lost the baby, there was no miracle bailing us out. I went numb. When I finally got outta bed and tried to go back to my life, Frank had become like a stranger. He’d growed a mustache and was wearing fancy Buffalo Frank Novak cowboy boots that made him taller. He’d never had a case of BOH—you know, drinking up the profits—but he was drinking now. He’d put a cot on the back porch, and slept out there when he was loaded, which was more and more often. He’d complain in this wheezy-ass voice, The bedroom’s too stuffy, Rosie, it’s giving me asthma.

No more Rosebud. I was Rosie now, and he didn’t look at me when we talked. I didn’t know how to get the sumnabitch to look at me. I wanted him to look at me like he looked at that szmata ’s laundry.

One night there’s a thunderstorm. I think, Her laundry’s getting soaked , and suddenly I wanta see those pearly sheets splattered with mud. But in the lightning flashes, the clothesline’s empty.

It stays empty till the next Saturday, then there’s those beautiful sheets billowing in the breeze. I can’t stop imagining them splattered with mud. I wake in the middle of the night, not sure if I’m up or dreaming. Something wakes me that makes it seem real—alley cats yowling in heat. I open the window to shoo them off, and watch the toms spraying piss on her sheets. I realize I’ve been lying in bed listening to a song I haven’t heard in years: Shirts and shorts the kids outgrew, your favorite dress now far from new … And I know it’s the loony beggar woman we used to call Raggedy Sal. When I was a little girl, she pulled a coaster wagon through the alleys, and people would give her used clothes she’d sew and wash and sell. I look out the window and she’s stripped the laundry off the Widow’s line and replaced it with rags. A couple drunks are arguing like winos do. They killed all Pani Bozak’s chickens with straight razors and now they’re having a tug-a-war, wrestling like ghosts tangled in the sheets until one slashes the other’s throat. He looks up and sees me, and nods. He knows his secret’s safe. I wake and think, I been dreaming. Pani Bozak don’t live there anymore—there wasn’t dead chickens or no murder. I get up to check. The moon’s coated the alley, but otherwise everything’s usual, until I notice a stained sheet on the line, and the longer I stare, the more the stain looks like a mural of the Virgin spray-painted in blood.

By morning, Raggedy Sal, the winos, the Virgin’s all gone, but now that I saw them, it’s like they’re waiting for night to return.

I start laying out hard corn on the back porch sills to attract more pigeons. That cooing’s worse than cats. Cats are a goddamn opera, but pigeons are nonstop gossiping about sex. I dish out corn until our yard’s mobbed. Then, Saturday night, after the Deuces closes and Frank’s supposedly out watching trains, and the pigeons got their heads under their wings, I light a M-80. KA-BOOM! Wakes up the neighborhood. The pigeons flap around the dark and settle over Pani Bozak’s. Next morning that fancy laundry’s streaked with a downpour of pigeon shit.

The clothesline’s empty all week. It’s September, leaves scuffling down the alley from some backyard tree. I figure that’s the end of laundry day, but goddamn if the next Saturday it ain’t all on the line again. The szmata must change her push-up bra and panties twice a day. The pigeons are back on our side. I think, You dumbass slut, you didn’t get the message the first time, you will now . That night when Frank’s closing up late, I make like I’m sleeping till I hear him leave, and then triple KA-BOOM!

When I wake it’s getting light. Frank’s passed out on his cot, dressed except for his missing cowboy boots. His white socks are filthy. He don’t snore, he wheezes through his mustache, stinking of liquor and smoke like he’s smoldering, and some powdery smell. I used to love his smell, would bring his T-shirts to my face and inhale before I threw them in the machine. Maybe them meds did something to my nose. I look out the porch windows at her shit-bombed laundry.

Her wash is hanging perfectly clean.

Ain’t a pigeon to be seen, not on her side or back on ours. I think, Maybe I blasted the pigeons right outta the neighborhood. Then I see the owl.

It’s perched on her attic windowsill. In the shadow of the roof peak it looks like a mallard decoy—painted feathers, plastic beak, gold no-mercy eyes—a bird with shoulders, standing at attention, guarding the laundry. The Widow sure as hell didn’t set out no owl. Only way for it to get on that sill is Frank that sumnabitch put it there. Meaning he was in her house—you know, being a good neighbor and all, protecting the szmata ’s unmentionables from his crazy wife blasting off M-80s. The M-80s he brought home when I asked him to get rid of the pigeons so I could sleep at night and not have the rain ruined by their shit. He told me, Rosie, you need an owl, but the sumnabitch never cared enough to bring an owl home. He could haul home tons a greasy junk smelling of tetanus—goddamn spikes and lanterns, flares, signal flags, but not one sumnabitching plastic owl.

When I stand over him on the cot, it feels like I stood up too fast. I can see the vein beating in his neck under stubble and smell his wheezy-ass breath. I go, Where’s your boots, you sumnabitch? You sumnabitching awake? You left your boots under her bed, didn’t you, and snuck home drunk in your socks. It would be so easy to slit that vein. Bet that’d wake you up.

You ever wanted somebody dead, Rafael? People who get through life never wishing for that, they’re the lucky ones.

I go in the kitchen and pick up the butcher knife, just to imagine doing it, but wishing him dead ain’t the same as having the nerve to ruin my life over it. What I imagine is life without him, starting fresh, selling the Deuces, cashing his insurance, feeling flush, maybe buying beautiful sheets and whatever else I wanted from the bank account we worked like dogs for. Then I realize Frank does the books and I don’t have a clue how much we got or where the money goes. Being Frank, he’s no doubt got all kinda schemes for hiding it from the IRS. Plus he’s gone BOH, smoking and drinking, so maybe he’s gambling again, too. I need to find out where he keeps things stashed. I think, Rosie, don’t be stupid, you still got a killer hand he don’t know you’re holding.

It wasn’t wanting to shoot him so much as needing to know about all he hid that made me remember the gun. I never believed he sold it, cause he’s a pack rat—excuse me, a collector—and collectors don’t sell stuff without bragging how much they got for it. I figure, find the gun and I’ll find God knows what all he’s stashed. Which brings to mind the dirty magazines and videos and sex toys he called our props that he used to keep in his dresser drawer. I go through his drawers. None of it’s there, but I know he wouldn’t pitch that stuff. It’s been a long time since I thought about the two of us at the height, me on my knees saying, I adore you. I remembered the night we first crossed that line when I told my dirtiest secret, and I remembered after, Frank loading the gun, leaving for Lawless Gardens, like the sex and gun were two sides of the same coin.

What happened? I asked when he came back.

Got the money and now I gotta get some sleep.

How much you have to end up giving him, Frank?

Frank never told me what happened at Lester’s, and I never asked again. Why? Why do you think? Cause I wanted us to believe we were blessed with luck. But I remembered him saying he’d stole the gun to keep under the bar, so why get rid of it? Back then, I didn’t wanta know. Now knowing was like picking up the fourth deuce in the hand I was playing.