It Feels So Good When I Stop Page 18

  I WAS WAITING on the front porch for them when James drove up with Roy.

  “You’re up early,” James said.

  “I have a big day ahead of me.”

  “You and me both.” He thought about it. “What the fuck do you have to do? ”

  “Just the usual. Hang out with my best-buddy pal, Roy.” He ran right at me.

  “Jesus Christ,” James said. “Did you shave? ”

  “Kind of. The razor was like a butter knife.”

  “Interesting.” James was looking down his nose at my work.

  I self-consciously stroked my cheeks. “You like it? ”

  “Yes,” he said. “Very much. Now come on over here and suck my dick.” He threw a playful backhand that I avoided.

  “As much as I’d like to, I really can’t.” I tossed Roy up into the air and caught him. He started coughing.

  “Hey, go easy on him. He’s still not a hundred percent.”

  “You still feeling crummy, kid? ” I held him with one arm, like he was a full grocery bag. “You’re looking pretty pink.”

  James watched us. “I guess it would be okay if you dropped me off and took the rig for the day.”

  “Nah, I figured we’d just poke around the neighborhood and entertain ourselves with the local flora and fauna.”

  “Flora and fauna? What the fuck’s got into you? ”

  “How do you mean? ”

  “You’re up early. You shaved. I swear to God, if your hair was combed, I’d shit blood right here on the lawn.”

  “Nothing has got into me. This is me feeling reasonably okay.”

  “I don’t think I like it.”

  I STRIPPED ROY out of his outfit and dressed him in Sidney’s clothes. “Honestly, kid, it’s not the look for you, but it’s a special occasion.” Standing there in the pants and sweater, he looked like a psychedelic-era Clancy Brother. “I dig the red slacks, but the sweater’s a bit much.” Roy was scratching at his neck and wrists. “Want me to take that off you?” I tried to remove it, and he protested. “Okay. The sweater stays.” I got him in his coat and Wel lingtons, and we strolled toward the dead-end side of Opal Cove Road.

  As we approached Marie’s, I could hear a dog barking somewhere out of sight. It was too thin and yappy to be Tinker. Roy let out a small, fearful moan.

  “Don’t sweat it, kid. This time I’m prepared. Check this out.” From beneath the stroller, I produced a sufficient length of copper pipe with an ugly, unfriendly T junction soldered to one end. “Like your old man says, you got to have the right tools to do the job.” Roy wanted me to give him the pipe. “I can’t, kid.” He insisted, so I let him hold it. I felt less safe. “But if I spot Cujo”—I pointed at my chest—“the pipe goes to you know who.”

  We tried Marie’s front door, but there was no answer. We went around to the back, and I banged on the storm door. I wanted to surprise her, so I kept Roy out of sight, off to the side. A light went on in the kitchen. Marie answered the door wearing a pink terry-cloth bathrobe. She didn’t look too good. She was either hungover or had just gotten out of bed, or both.

  “Hey,” I said through the screen.

  “I thought you couldn’t work today.”

  “I can’t.”

  She was confused. “Well, then . . .” She rubbed her eyes and scratched her head. “What are you doing here? ”

  “Did you just wake up? ”

  “Mmyeah, about three seconds ago.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I couldn’t get to sleep, so I took a sleeping pill at around four.”

  “Oh, man. Should we leave? ”

  “Who’s we? ”

  “Roy and me.” I pulled Roy into view.

  Marie perked right up. “No, you shouldn’t go. You should come in.” I carried Roy into the kitchen. “Hey there, Roy. It’s good to see you again.” Marie extended her hand for him to shake. He was cautious.

  “It’s okay, kid. Marie’s our friend. Look.” I shook her hand.

  “Yeah, Roy, friends.” She kissed me on the cheek.

  “See,” I said. “Marie is a friend.”

  “Can I give Roy a kiss? ” Marie asked Roy. She leaned in and kissed him. He smiled. “Look at that smile. What beautiful teeth you have. Would you like a drink of milk? ” Roy reached for the refrigerator. “You want something in the fridge? ” Marie held out her arms for Roy to come to her. “Can I hold him? ”

  “If he’ll let you, be my guest.” I passed Roy to Marie, and he went without a fight. She wore him on her hip and went to the fridge.

  “Let’s see what we have in here for you, Roy.” They disappeared behind the open door. Light poured out onto the beige linoleum. Roy made a noise like he was struggling to reach something. “What is it? ” Marie asked. “You want ketchup? No? An egg? ” That was it. “Oh, Roy wants an egg.” Marie’s head appeared over the door. “Can Roy have an egg? ”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “That’s great news, Roy. Let’s get you out of your coat and boots, and Marie will make you an egg, okay? ” She set Roy on the floor and unbuttoned his coat. She gasped when she saw Sidney’s sweater on him. She put her hand on her mouth, then stood up so that she could take all of him in.

  “Oh, my God. And the pants, too.” She started to cry.

  I felt like a heel. “I thought you wanted to see them on him,” I said. I tried to close Roy’s coat. Marie stopped me.

  “No, don’t,” she said. “I do want to see them. It’s just a shock.” She picked Roy up and squeezed him. She ran her hands over the sweater and pants.

  “You sure? ”

  “Yes.” She smiled at me, then kissed Roy’s face. She pressed his head against her chest and rested her chin on the top of his head. “Thank you,” she said. “Both of you.”

  Roy ate his scrambled egg with ketchup and toast off a green plastic plate decorated with an action scene from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles comics. Marie and I split an omelet with blue cheese and tomato. We sat at her small kitchen table.

  “It’s nice not to be eating in a restaurant,” I said.

  Marie gave my coffee a warmer. “Not much of a cook? ”

  “I’d like to be, but I never found the time.” Never found time? I didn’t really know the reason why I’d never learned to cook, but it sure as fuck wasn’t because of a lack of time.

  “I was a pretty okay cook,” Marie said. “I just haven’t felt like it.”

  I impaled a chunk of omelet with my fork and raised it. “I’d say you’re still a pretty okay cook.”

  “It’s just an omelet.”

  “Well, it’s a good one.”

  “Thanks. Watching someone enjoy is half the fun of cooking.”

  “FYI, I’m enjoying this.” I chewed and watched her watch me. “Is it still fun? ”

  She smiled. “It’s not bad.”

  I turned to Roy. “What about you? You having fun, Roy? His Roy-al Highness? Little Lord Fauntle-Roy? ” I messed up his hair.

  “You should never disturb a man when he’s eating,” Marie said.

  “So true.” We watched him eat.

  “Have you ever had an aged sirloin? ” Marie asked. “I mean, a really good, really well prepared aged sirloin? ”

  “I might have.”

  “No, no, if you had one, you’d know.” She closed her eyes and bit her lower lip.

  “Then I guess I haven’t.”

  “It’s been a while for me. What if I cooked one? ”

  “Now? ”

  “Not now. For dinner.”

  I could feel my face get hotter. “Well . . . sure. That would be awesome.”

  “There’s a great butcher in Yarmouth.” She used her napkin to wipe the ketchup from around Roy’s mouth.

  “That seems like a lot of trouble.”

  “We could all go? ”

  “What do you think, Roy? You have any plans for the day? ”

  Marie tried to wipe his face again, but he wasn’t into it. �
��I think the ketchup’s giving him a little contact rash.” She touched the corresponding area around her own mouth. “See? Right here? ”

  MARIE SAID ROY and I should play in Sidney’s room while she got dressed.

  “This is where I work when I’m not taking care of you. Pretty cool, huh? ” Roy was momentarily paralyzed by the sheer number of things before him. When he got his bearings, he went straight for the movie camera. I intercepted him. “Sorry, kid. This is the one thing you can’t touch. This is Marie’s movie camera.” He looked at me like a puzzled dog. “Cam-er-a,” I repeated loud and clear. “Can you say cam-er-a? ”

  Marie called from her bedroom. “Why don’t you shoot a little of him? ”

  “For what? ”

  “I don’t know. He might find it interesting.”

  “Would you like that, Roy? You want me to take your picture? ” It was the first time since I’d started taking care of him that I thought he knew exactly what the fuck I was talking about. He started giggling and shaking like a crazy motherfucker. It was pretty great to see. “Okay. Okay.” I was laughing. “Just give me two seconds.”

  I fired up the camera and looked through the viewfinder. Marie’s empty chair came into sharp focus. I collected Roy and sat him in it. I got back behind the camera. Roy looked like a tiny black-and-white photocopy of himself. I started recording.

  “Okay, Roy, here’s your big break. What would you like to say to the people? ” I stuck an invisible microphone in front of his face. Roy kicked his legs and shrieked with delight. It was hilarious.

  Marie appeared in the doorway. “What are you two clowns up to in here? ”

  “I HONESTLY DIDN’T THINK I’d ever be doing this again,” Marie said as we installed Sidney’s old car seat in her Subaru.

  I pulled on one of the fastening straps until it was taut. “You think this is tight enough? ” She jerked on it and nodded. I hoisted Roy and we strapped him in.

  “You feel like driving? ” Marie asked, wearing the key ring on her index finger.

  “Really? ” My voice cracked.

  “Are you old enough? ” She handed off the keys to me as we passed each other around the back of the car. I got in. Marie settled into the passenger seat. “Feel free to adjust anything if you’re cramped.” I fixed my grip at ten and two. The worn leather cover around the steering wheel was sticky.

  “Actually, it all feels pretty good.”

  The last time Marie had driven, she killed the engine without first turning off the tape player. When I started the car, the song “Rolling Moon” by the Chills played mid-song. “Oh, fantastic choice,” I said. “I love the Chills.”

  Marie turned the music off, then said, “Me, too, but do you mind if we don’t listen to this right now? They can be a little depressing.”

  “No problem. Quiet’s good. So where are we going exactly.”

  “Well, it’s basically a straight shot once you get back onto Twenty-eight. When we get into Yarmouth—right around the center of town—I’ll tell you which way to go.” I was a slightly less nervous driver than I was a passenger. I needed to hear the simplest of directions—even to places I’d been before—four or five times. I knew it didn’t make any sense, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “Back up a second,” I said. “Which direction do I go on Twenty-eight? ”

  Marie had some fun with me. “Is this your first trip to Cape Cod? ”

  “I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer.”

  “Okay. Let me rephrase the question. Is Yarmouth anywhere between East Falmouth and Boston? ”

  I smiled without looking at her. “No, I do not believe it is.”

  “So, Professor, seeing as Boston is east of where we are right now, which direction do we go on Twenty-eight to get to Yarmouth? ”

  I looked back at Roy. “Are you catching what she’s doing up here, kid? I mean, do I deserve this kind of abuse? ”

  “Seems to me you’d be better off asking him which direction we go on Twenty-eight.”

  “That’s it. I’ve taken all I’m going to take.” I opened the door and pretended to be getting out of the car. “I’m outta here and I’m never coming back.”

  Roy started to cry. Marie turned in her seat. “It’s okay, Roy. He was just playing.” She grabbed my arm. “Tell him you’re not going anywhere.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. Look. I’m still here. We’re all going to the store—together. Me. You. Marie.” I closed the door and buckled my seat belt for effect. Roy stopped crying, but his lip was still quivering.

  “He was just pretending, Roy.” Marie and I looked at each other. She reached back and took hold of one of Roy’s feet. She gave it a playful wiggle, and he smiled.

  “What can I say? ” I asked her quietly. “I guess the kid really likes me.”

  “I think it’s more like love.”

  “Crazy, huh? ”

  “Not so much.” We had to turn away from each other to keep from cracking up. We didn’t want Roy to think we were laughing at him.

  AFTER JAMES picked up Roy, I biked down to Spunt’s for some laundry detergent. Ricky was glad to see me. While I comparison-shopped, he told me about how Bob Lobel, the legendary Boston sportscaster, had gassed up there yesterday on his way out to Truro.

  “No shit.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Was he a nice guy? ”

  “He was awesome.”

  “That’s cool. I always liked Bob Lobel. It would be a drag if he turned out to be a dick in real life.”

  “No, not Bob Lobel. Look.” He held up a disposable camera. “There’s four pictures of me and him. I took them myself.” It was nice to see how proud Ricky was of the whole thing.

  “That’s really cool.”

  “Only twenty more pictures to go.”

  “I hope you get some good ones.”

  “Me too. Can I take one of you? ”

  I was surprised. “You want a photo of me? ”

  “I won’t use the flash if it bothers your eyes. Some people get those little things when they look at a flash.” He wiggled his fingers in the air.

  “Jesus, Ricky. It’s not the flash.”

  “Awesome, ’cause I think it’ll come out better with it.” He raised the camera to his face. “Stay right there.” I froze. “Smile.”

  “I am smiling.”

  He snapped the photo. “One more, just in case.” He snapped another. “How about one with me and you in it? ”

  “Sure, why not? ”

  “But stand right here so it’s like the ones with me and Bob Lobel.” Ricky leaned his head in over the middle of the counter. I did the same. We were almost cheek to cheek. He snapped two photos.

  “Awesome. Only sixteen more pictures to go.”

  I joked with him. “You could take a hundred pictures. None of them are going to come out as good as the ones of me.”

  He giggled. “That’s a good one.” He started to ring up the detergent. “Doing laundry, Pay Phone? ”

  I felt like joking some more with him. “What, this? No. I use it instead of shampoo.”

  “For serious? ”

  “Hell yeah.”

  “Whoa.” He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to imagine what it would feel like shampooed with Tide. “I never heard of anybody doing that before.”

  “Sure you have. Everybody knows All-Tempa-Cheer is gentlest on your scalp.”

  “It is? ”

  “Yeah, but you guys are out. This will do me fine.” I started peeling dollar bills from a roll.

  “You sure? ” He craned his neck to see into the right aisle. “I thought we had that kind.”

  “Forget it. It’s no biggie.”

  “If you watch the register, I’ll go out back and see if we have some.”

  “No, don’t bother.”

  “It’s no bother. I want to.”

  “Don’t.” I started to feel like an asshole. I didn’t think he was going to swallow the hook so comple
tely and feel bad about disappointing me.

  He came around the counter. “It’s no bother, honest. It’s my job.”

  “Really, Ricky,” I grabbed him by the arm. “Don’t.” I think I scared him.

  “Why? ”

  I loosened my grip. “Just don’t, okay? ”

  EVEN AFTER WORKING in a restaurant for nearly three years, I knew just enough about wine to fuck up an eighty-dollar piece of meat. So I brought a fifth of Jack Daniel’s to Marie’s. Bourbon and beef. That’s how they did it on The Big Valley and The High Chaparral.

  Marie answered the back door wearing a white apron over her clothes. It was a cartoonish map of Italy with, Sì, sono della Calabria! splashed across it. Marie had eye shadow on. She kissed me on the cheek. Roy wasn’t with me this time.

  “Huh, Jack Daniel’s.” She examined the label. “I approve.”

  “It’s downright upright,” I said, quoting Frank Gifford from the Harveys Bristol Cream ad.

  She was impressed. “You remember that commercial? ”

  “Please.”

  “What about this one? ” She started singing, “ ‘Martini and Rossi on the rocks. Say yeh-eh-ess.’ ”

  I finished the jingle in a sultry voice: “Yeeehhhsss.”

  LALO SCHIFRIN’S made-for-TV music jiggled from a boom box on her kitchen counter.

  “I love Lalo Schifrin,” I said.

  “Same here.” She poured us both a glass of dark red wine. “Him and Ennio Morricone.”

  “Do not even get me started on how good Morricone is. We could be here all night.”

  I felt pretty comfortable, sitting at the table and watching the back of her as she prepped the steak at the stove. I always thought those gaucho pants made grown women look silly, but the jury was still out on whether Marie was pulling them off. As she shifted her weight, I could see the musculature of her peasant calves at work beneath her animated skin. More inky pinks and greens popped in contrast to her white, plunging-back angora sweater.

  The grill pan objected with a prolonged hiss when the meat came into contact with it.

  “What about the scene in Raging Bull,” I asked. “Where whosie-whatsie there—La Motta’s wife—is cooking him the steak? ”

  She turned a cheek to me. “You know, I actually started to hate De Niro in that scene—not as an actor, as a person.”