Джоан Силбер - Improvement

Claude was the one appointed to pick up the cash, and he was the world’s gladdest errand boy. He’d walk in the door saying, “Here to get my greens,” or “You got that nice black leather satchel for me?” One nice day in late June he came in so cheerful his face was like a kid’s, all shifting smirks and laughing eyes.

“Guess what?” he said. “I get to drive. Wiley the man is nowhere to be found, so I am the one.”

“What do you mean, nowhere?” Boyd said.

“Called his phone, buzzed his doorbell. Gone goodbye. In bed with some bitch is everybody’s guess.”

“You can’t drive.”

“I am driving. That’s how it is.”

“You never even been on a highway,” Boyd said. “I’ll do it. If I have to, I have to. Don’t move, okay? I’m phoning Maxwell.”

“Fuck this shit,” Claude said.

Boyd went into the bedroom so we couldn’t hear. Claude and I stood around like two lumps of different fear.

“Okay, listen,” Boyd came back to tell us. “The operation is suspended for another two hours. Either Wiley turns up, or I step in. You want to talk to Maxwell?”

Whatever Maxwell said depressed Claude and made him agree.

I didn’t say it till Claude was gone. “This is a total fucking mistake. You get stopped on the highway for anything at all, you’re violating probation. They can send you right back in.”

“They hardly ever do that.”

“You’re such an expert. Wait a few days, for Christ’s sake,” I said. “They can get a different driver.”

“You have no idea whatsoever how business works. You don’t show up with the supply, people find someone else.”

I saw then that I was going to spend the best years of my life visiting Boyd at Rikers. Or much worse places. Oliver would grow older, and we’d be there in those rooms.

“I’m begging you,” I said. “You want me on my knees? Is that what you want?”

“Oh, Reyna,” he said. “Don’t do that.”

I did almost get down and do it. I’d been on my knees in lust, but to kneel to plead with him, what would that mean?

“You know I’m right,” I said.

“Can’t be just anyone who drives, has to be someone we trust.”

“Like Wiley was so fine.”

“Till now he was.”

“Get someone better.”

“Yeah, yeah. You could, you know.”

“What?”

A great sorrow had crossed his face. “Can you do it, baby?”

Boyd was the one pleading. My own skin flushed from the shock of it, and then I was flattered. He thought I could do it. Which I could. Drive six hours to Virginia—who cared? Me to the rescue. For Boyd I could do it. I could use my own body to block him from idiocy.

Except that I was a mother. Boyd was already thinking through that part of it. He’d go pick up Oliver later—Oliver would be thrilled to share a pizza and watch movies tonight, guys together, and Boyd could get someone to cover the breakfast shift at the diner tomorrow. Daycare already had Boyd on the list, authorized adult. No problem. By late tomorrow night I’d be home. Oliver would hardly notice.

What was I thinking? I was packing. Toothbrush, T-shirt, was it sweltering hot in Virginia now? I could hang out at the motel pool (I hoped it had a pool) while the boys did the buying. What I wanted was Boyd falling all over himself in gratitude, which he wasn’t doing. He was all business, calling Maxwell to explain, changing the motel rooms. “Hey,” he said from the phone, “they’re stocking up for the ride, you want your Diet Sprite?” But when I stood at the door with my red suitcase and my big floppy hat for the sun, Boyd said, “I wish you didn’t have to do this.” We had a long, desperate hug—I liked how noble and useful I was about to be, and he did too, I knew.

They weren’t ready for me when I got to Maxwell’s. What a mess that apartment was. Pizza cartons in the living room, used towels across the couch, TV on full blast. Technically Boyd still lived here but hardly.

“We got the expert here,” Claude said, flicking his head in my direction. “You’re not with the dogs?”

“I only work some days,” I said.

“She can drive fast,” Maxwell said. “Reyna the Rapid. That’s what Boyd said. We’re late already.”

Speeding White Woman Stopped on Highway with Two Colored Fellows. Or was that just the old South? Richmond was a black-majority town, and the boys were always talking about how great the bars were. The trip back was the one to worry about, with the car loaded.

“You got the first aid kit?” Maxwell said.

Claude was full of high amusement about this. He flipped open the top of a white plastic box to show me the contents—wrapped in a green jeweler’s cloth was something metal. A gun. A pistol, with a blunt nose and curved grip, in two tones of steel, dark and light. It took the breath out of me, as if they’d shown me a pet snake. Why was I so fucking surprised?

“Goes in the glove compartment,” Maxwell said. “You’re okay with us, you know? Protected.”

I was out of my depth. I was a dopey girl with a sun hat.

“Everybody ready?” Maxwell said. “We’re late.”

And then we were walking down the block to where the car was parked. Claude had the bag of snacks and we all dragged our wheelies, tourists on parade.

“Next time, I drive,” Claude said.

“Ignore him,” Maxwell said.

“Hurry up, my girl is waiting,” Claude said.

We were standing in front of the car, which needed a wash and who knew what else. Maxwell was fishing in his pockets for his copy of the key.

I might’ve just gotten in, when he opened the door—it wasn’t beyond me—but why was I going on this armed and half-assed felony of an errand? Why would someone like me want to do this? I’d made a fake decision, I’d lied to myself.

“You know,” I said, “I think I’ve had a change of mind about this.”

“Little late for that,” Maxwell said. “You want to say what’s wrong?”

Claude, of course, was cursing all my female body parts in a hiss of boiling outrage. Fucking cunt, all bullshit all the time, ugly sneaky twat, he told Boyd a long time ago.

“Listen, Reyna,” Maxwell said. “So you’re nervous, okay, first time, but you’ll see, always happens we have fun on these trips.” He kept at it for a while, the delights of Virginia, and I might’ve done it, after all, if Claude had shut up. I froze, I didn’t move, I just shook my head.

In the end, Maxwell said, “I hate this crap,” which meant he’d given up. Claude got into the driver’s seat and said, “We’re out of here, fuck you, we’re flying, heading into the sunset, you know?” The car made a coughing noise, and then he got it going. And there I was, on Lenox Avenue, with my perky red suitcase. I walked the fifteen blocks back to my apartment. Boyd was gone, picking up Oliver, as I’d hoped. By the time he got back, my guess was they’d have phoned him from the car, he’d know.

I lay on the sofa, gutted and wasted by what I’d done, and I couldn’t even move when Oliver dashed in—“Hey, Mommy, hey!”—followed by Boyd, whose face was a death mask and who didn’t say a word.

Oliver was jumping on my stomach. Boyd leaned forward to murmur in my ear, “What the fuck did you ever care about?” and he was out the door before I even knew.

The hot feel of his breath was still in my ear. What good did my loving Boyd do either of us? He was never coming back. Love was nothing, love was a vapor.

I had to feed Oliver his supper, and he was upset because I’d almost left him and then I hadn’t. Oh, he didn’t want anything I offered; he screeched against all of it. “Forget it,” I said. “Suit yourself.” I was seeing all too clearly what I’d done. I’d humiliated Boyd in front of his friends. I’d tricked him and disgraced him. Only Claude was happy now, behind the wheel. Maybe he’d take my side.