Richard Lange - Dead Boys - Stories

“No, that man was his friend.”

I’m prepared to answer the harder questions, the ones I would have asked at four years old, about angels and heaven and death in general, but the kid’s already turned his attention to the truck’s radio. He punches the buttons, jumping from station to station, never holding on one for more than a few seconds. It’s something his mother would do in the same situation, not giving a damn about anybody but herself.

SHELLY WOULD HAVE you believe she’s on a first-name basis with half the famous people in Hollywood. According to her, all kinds of stars are always coming into the coffee shop where she waitresses. They ask if she’s an actress and invite her to parties and nightclubs, which is why she rarely makes it home before dawn, even though her shift ends at one. Of course it bothers me. I’ve even given up watching TV with her, because we can’t go fifteen seconds without her saying, “I know him,” or, “Look at Jimmy there. I’ve been to his house,” as if I was some stranger she was trying to impress.

She swears she’s been faithful, but what’s that hickey about, then? And the bastard in the Escalade who dropped her off that other time, the one I saw through the curtains with his hands all up in her shirt, what about that? In her book these questions reveal my jealousy, paranoia, and lack of trust. In her book they’re an excuse to gut our checking account and disappear for three days. “How could you do that to your son?” I asked her after that episode. “Three days never killed anyone,” she said.

If I was anything like my dad, I’d knock her on her ass, and that would be that. But my dad only used his fists to shape the world to his liking because he was too stupid and impatient to wait for things to fall into place on their own. Shelly and I loved each other before, and we will love each other again, I’m sure of it. We can only, all of us, run so far before what we really are and what is meant to be catch up to us. She’ll slip into the apartment one morning just as the sun is beginning to peep into the dark corners and unroll itself across the floor, just after the sprinklers in the courtyard have shut off, leaving each blade of grass crowned with a ghostly drop of water. She’ll be tired and ashamed but happy at the same time, as anyone is who suddenly comes to their senses. “What was I thinking?” she’ll say, or something like, “I’ve been so foolish.” And there I’ll be at the kitchen table with a fresh pot of coffee and a full pack of cigarettes, as cheerful and steadfast as one of those birthday candles you blow and blow on but just can’t blow out, no matter how hard you try.

SHELLY TURNS ON her side to make room for the kid on the couch. “Who’s this?” she asks every time another video starts on MTV, and the kid names the band. If he misses one, she goes over and over it with him until he gets it right.

“See how smart he is?” she says.

“So when’s he going to learn to tie his shoes?” I reply, and believe me, unless you’ve ever been the person who has to bring up these kinds of things, you don’t know how mean it can make you feel. That’s why I decide to leave them to their fun. I go into the bedroom with the calculator to figure out how we’re doing at sticking to our budget. Turns out, not half bad. With the fifty from Mr. Caldwell and the tips I finally talked Shelly into kicking in, we have twenty-five extra this week to save or spend as we please.

It’s not even noon yet, but I lie down on the bed with the intention of taking a short nap and starting the day over with a better attitude. I roll onto my stomach and grab a pillow and think how nice it would be if Shelly joined me. I’ve been doing without for a long time now, one of those things where she’s always tired and I’ll be damned if I’ll beg. It’s still her who comes swimming into my head, though, when the TV fades and gravity gives way — on all fours, smiling over her shoulder, astride me, bounce, bounce, bouncing, a pale nipple grazing my lips, long blond hair taut across my knuckles, the backs of her knees sliding sweaty into the crooks of my arms. I kiss her feet, I kiss her stomach, I kiss the perfect swell of the young actor’s perfect ass while the older one tugs at me, insistent.

My eyelids ache from the strain of being forced open so suddenly. Sour and sweaty and mortified, I fling myself toward Shelly’s purse and upend it, but those goddamn Polaroids are not part of the mess that spills onto the carpet. Drawer by drawer, the dresser gives up nothing, and the nightstand is a bust. I’m sliding my hand between the mattress and box spring when Shelly opens the door.

“Tell me where they are,” I say.

“They’re mine. I found them.”

“Stole them, you mean. I’m getting rid of them.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Come on, Shell, this isn’t our style, selling what isn’t yours. We’re not that desperate, are we? We’re not hurting that bad.”

This stops her for a second, cools the fire in her eyes, and I think, Damn, I’ve done it! But then she says, “I hid them better than you know how to look, so just leave my shit alone,” and slams the door so hard the pictures she’s hung on the walls jump and rattle, all those ballerinas and kittens and vases of flowers. I sense she’s bluffing, so I go through her purse once more, unzipping every pocket. Way down at the bottom I come across a rubber, a silly glow-in-the-dark number that makes me wonder what kind of clowns she’s fucking. I’m afraid I’ll kill her if my hands don’t get busy doing something else, so I gather all the clothes tossed around during my search, pile them on the bed, and take my time folding them, doing my best to put everything back exactly where it belongs.

THE PIZZA PLACE in the minimall closes early. The sun hasn’t even set, but the owner’s already drawn the steel grate across the windows, which gives us a really pleasant perspective on the parking lot. Shelly puts her foot down when he starts to mop the floor, saying, “Do you mind? We’re eating here.” Her tone always riles me these days.

“Give the guy a break.”

“He should learn how to treat his customers,” she says.

“He just wants to get out of here at a decent hour.”

“You’re such a dick.”

The kid climbs from under the table and grabs another slice, then worms his way back out of sight. Shelly picks at her pizza, eating the pepperoni, and after that the cheese, bit by bit, until only the crust is left, freshly skinned and gory with sauce. It pains me to see food wasted, but I bite my tongue when she pushes the crust aside and starts on another piece. I’m trying not to make her mad, because I want her to spend the rest of her night off with us, instead of going to the party I overheard her talking to her friend about on the phone. I plan to buy her a lottery ticket after dinner and let her rent Whatever DVD she wants.

A fire truck passes outside, and we turn at the same time to watch. When it’s gone, I catch her eye, and she shoots me a cute little pout. I’m thrilled to discover something we share that she hasn’t forgotten, even if it is only the chills sirens give us.

While I’m paying the owner, his wife is cleaning out the display case. She removes a pizza with a couple of slices missing and carries it toward the kitchen but stumbles on the way. The pizza slides off the pan and lands on the floor. Her husband barks at her in a language I don’t understand, and she snaps right back at him. Whatever he says next makes her glance at me and shrug. He follows me to the door and locks it behind me.

Shelly has seen the pizza fall, too. She pulls me down to her mouth and whispers, “You know what they’re up to, don’t you? As soon as we’re gone, they’re gonna scoop that thing off the floor so they can serve it tomorrow.”