It Feels So Good When I Stop Page 19

  “Really? ”

  “It’s like, he was such a phenomenally good abusive asshole of a husband, there’s no way he could have been acting.”

  “Then you must love it when he asks Joe Pesci if he fucked his wife? ”

  Marie came at me. I was startled. She raised a long, two-tined fork to my throat. “Did you fuck my wife? Why did you fuck my wife? ”

  THE STEAK WAS divided into two slabs, and Marie put the slightly more imposing one my plate. The blood rushed around my scalloped potatoes and stained their edges pink. Both of us were starving. We ate like marooned sailors.

  “You were right,” I said, talking around a tobacco plug of meat tucked into my cheek.

  “Mmm.” Marie was consumed by the pleasure of consuming.

  “If I ever had an aged sirloin before, I would have known it.”

  “Mmm,” she agreed.

  “How do they get it so tender? ”

  She took a cleansing gulp of wine. “Decomposition.”

  “Oh, man, that’s sick.” I set my utensils down loudly.

  Marie was amused, like the tribal elder who tells the Western traveler he’s eating jellied goat testicles. “Don’t think about it.”

  “Oh, okay,” I sulked. “I’ll try.” I poached a piece of meat from her plate.

  “Hey,” she protested. “You purloined my loin.”

  “I did no such thing, Your Honor.”

  She looked at my plate. I hadn’t touched my asparagus. “What, my vegetables aren’t good enough for you? ”

  I selectively ate asparagus after Jocelyn said it made more than just my piss smell funny. “I just didn’t want to fill up on it. Look.” I took a bite.

  “Well, I love it.” Marie held a lemon-zested stalk in her fingers and powered through it like a gopher. The theme to The Streets of San Francisco came on. Marie pointed to the boom box. “Mmm,” she said as she chewed. “Karl Malden. Criminally overlooked actor.”

  I SAT WAY BACK in my chair and put my hands on my stomach. “Good thing I didn’t wear a belt.”

  “You and me both.” She stood up so I could see. “I popped my top button as a precaution.” I caught a small shimmering triangle of electric blue before she sealed her pants up and sat back down. I pretended not to notice by raising a hand to my heart like I felt a massive coronary coming on. I was going to be funny and ask Marie if she knew CPR, but luckily I didn’t. I had a flash of her screaming while paramedics tried to save her son. “But,” she said, “I’m not too stuffed to sip some bourbon.”

  “You read my mind.”

  I watched as she reached up into the cabinet for two glasses.

  “You a fan of car racing? ” I asked.

  “No,” she said, intrigued by the question. “Why? ”

  “The checkered flag on your shoulder blade.” I could just make out a leading corner of it poking out from under her sweater.

  “That’s not a flag. It’s a kerchief.” She got in front of my chair with her back to me. “Look.” Like a wife whose dress is about to be zipped by her husband, she bent her neck forward and lifted her hair out of the way. I drew back the fuzzy neckline of her sweater.

  “Whoa. That’s definitely not a checkered flag.”

  “No,” she laughed. “It isn’t. You like it? ”

  “Is it wrong if I say I do? ”

  “I think it would be wrong if you said you didn’t.”

  “Then I like it.”

  It was a full-body profile of a kneeling, naked pinup girl. Something slightly more X-rated than what you might see painted on a World War II fighter plane. The checkerboard kerchief in her blond hair gave the impression that she was a good all-American girl who enjoyed a good all-American screwing after a secluded picnic lunch.

  “I have her twin on the other side.” Marie reached over her opposite shoulder and guided me to the spot. She left her hand on mine. My heart started pounding. She pulled my hand around her and parked it on her right breast. “Is this okay? ” she asked. We were both stone-cold sober.

  “I think so.” My left hand found her other breast. I automatically handled her the way Jocelyn liked to be handled. I kissed her exposed back. She started to laugh. “Should I stop? ” I asked.

  “No, please don’t. Just do everything a bit harder.”

  I did. She started grinding her ass against me. I grabbed her by the hip bones and pulled.

  “Tell me one thing,” she said between breaths.

  “Mmm,” I said with my mouth against her back.

  “And I want the truth.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Did you really not fuck me last time? ”

  “No,” I said.

  “I think this time you should.”

  AFTERWARD WE LAY on our backs in the dark without talking. I felt surprisingly okay about the whole thing, except for not knowing what Marie was thinking. I cleared my throat just to let her know I was still there. I tapped a galloping, four-fingered beat on the mattress that would have driven Jocelyn nuts. Marie didn’t make a peep. Her silence grew too uncomfortably big to ignore.

  “Are you freaked out?” I finally asked. She didn’t answer. “You are, aren’t you? ”

  “Hmm? ”

  I sat up. “Are you asleep?” I asked at louder-than-bedroom volume.

  “Was.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Sorry.”

  I laughed. “Don’t be sorry.”

  “So tired.”

  “Do you always zonk out after sex . . . like a guy? ”

  She let out a short, closemouthed laugh. “You offended? ” She would rather have been sleeping. I knew that feeling.

  “God, no.” My tone was unmistakably revelatory.

  She stroked my shin once with her foot, then shifted into the fetal position. Her knees were touching my thigh.

  “You weren’t talking,” I said. “I figured . . .”

  “You, either.”

  I thought about that for a bit. “I wasn’t, was I? ”

  She didn’t answer. I let her go. Within seconds, her breathing was even and automatic.

  I WOKE UP in the middle of the night without the terrifying sensation of not knowing where I was. Woke without lying perfectly still for fear of falling from the Empire State Building; without the anxiety of having strolled into a classroom after months of truancy, only to learn the final exam was that day; without thinking all of my teeth had just mysteriously fallen out.

  I did wake with the very real sensation of having to take a massive shit. I could tell it was going to be an embarrassing, conspicuous, and hostile parting. Marie was still curled up, but facing the other way. I decided to get dressed and split back to my sister’s. Then I thought that would be a ridiculous thing to do. Marie’s Eleanor Roosevelt quote went through my head.

  Fuck it. I tiptoed naked to the kitchen, found my cigarettes, then—as quietly as I could—destroyed her bathroom.

  On my way back to the bedroom, I stopped at Sidney’s open door. My eyes skipped over the dark, kaleidoscopic clutter of his room, and rested on two moons beyond the sliding glass doors: One glowed still. The other was indiscriminately pulled apart and put back together by the undulating surface of Opal Cove.

  I took a few steps into the room, but stopped abruptly when I kicked a small toy that lit up in flashing red and played that tune about the kids on the bus going up and down all through the town. I managed to shut the fucking thing off by the third or fourth refrain. I carefully put the toy down and got out of Sidney’s room.

  I sneaked back into Marie’s bed. She’d slept through it all, including the multiple flushes. She only partially woke when I started laughing softly.

  “’t’s so funny? ”

  “Shhh.” I patted her ass. “Keep sleeping.”

  I WAS DREAMING about James and Roy and me at Spunt’s. James had just finished filling Roy’s sippy cup—which was about five times as big as it is in real life—with hot coffee.

  “Everybody knows cof
fee’s good for kids,” James said.

  “I’ve never heard of that.”

  “Sure you have,” James said. “Plus, he loves it.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “No I’m not. Watch.”

  “Dude, he’s going to fucking scald himself.” I tried to swat the cup away, but James grabbed my arm and stopped me. I woke up before Roy took a sip.

  Marie wasn’t in bed. Sunlight broke into the room between the partially drawn curtains. An otherwise welcoming aroma of coffee was burned around the edges, like the Mr. Coffee had been on for some time. The kitchen faucet went on, then off. I got up and put my clothes on. If Marie heard me, she didn’t say anything.

  Her elbows were on the kitchen table. She was enveloped by the pink terry-cloth bathrobe. Her face was in her hands. I wishful-thought that maybe she was just tired, but I knew nobody that tired gets out of bed unless they absolutely have to. I put my hand on her shoulder. She wasn’t startled. She dropped her hands to her lap.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey.” She didn’t try to hide the fact that she’d been crying.

  “What is it? ”

  She just shook her head and said, “I can’t.”

  “Can’t what? ”

  “I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

  I fell into one of the chairs. Her dirty utensils and napkin from the night before were in front of me. “You can’t? ”

  “No.”

  I lit a cigarette and listened to the elliptical hum of the refrigerator’s compressor motor. “What about—”

  “Don’t,” she said.

  I threw a nod in the direction of her bedroom. “And all that was just—”

  “Please, don’t. I’m asking you, please.” She looked like she was begging me to spare her life. Maybe she was.

  I pretended to shrug the whole thing off. “It’s no big deal.”

  She could tell I was stung pretty bad, but she also knew how to accept a gift. “Thank you.”

  I just sat there for a little while, staring at a framed needlepoint primer hanging on the wall. It said, I Am the Queen of the Kitchen. All Those Who Do Not Bow Down to Me Can STARVE.

  “It’s because I plugged your toilet, isn’t it? ”

  She came right back at me, weepy and laughing at the same time. “I thought I was the one who plugged it.”

  I smiled, but couldn’t go on with the flirty repartee. “And what about the movie? ” I asked.

  “I was hoping you’d still want to.”

  “Sure.”

  She reached across the table for my hand. I let her have it, but I thought I was going to come apart. I stood up abruptly. “I’m going to go now.”

  Marie tightened her grip on my hand. I turned my head away. She gave my arm an attention-getting tug. “Let me see you first.” I didn’t want to, but I faced her. She let me go only after I faked a smile.

  I pulled Sweet Thunder out from under her back porch. Through the walls of the house, I could hear her crying for a number of things—the least of which was me.

  JAMES AND DOGSHIT were sitting on the hood of the Suburban. James stood when he saw me. He semaphored me in like I would have otherwise biked right by him—which is exactly what I felt like doing. “What do you want first,” he asked me. “The good news or the bad news? ”

  “I don’t fucking care.”

  “What crawled up your ass? ”

  “Nothing.”

  “Fine. The good news is, you don’t have to watch Roy anymore.”

  “That’s the good news? ”

  “The bad news is, she knows.”

  “Who knows what? ”

  “Pamela. She knows about you watching Roy.”

  “Come again? ”

  “She knows you’ve been—”

  I came uncorked. “What the fuck do you mean she knows? ”

  James got defensive. “Hey, listen, pal. You’re the one who dressed him in that crazy fucking outfit.”

  “Yeah, I did. But you were supposed to change him out of it before you brought him home.”

  “Well, I didn’t. And now she knows. So sue me.”

  “Fuck me,” I said. “Motherfuck me.”

  Dogshit chimed in. “How’d she figure out just from seeing Roy in the clothes that he’d been watching him? ”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Yes, James,” I said sarcastically. “How did she put two and two together? What, did Roy learn how to fucking talk overnight, you moron? ”

  “Hey, back off, Jack.”

  I couldn’t back off. “You know, when Pamela’s your ex-wife, she’ll still be my sister, you fucking idiot.”

  “Whoa, dude.” Dogshit put his hand on my shoulder. “Chill out.”

  I swatted his hand off me. “I’m not going to chill out.”

  “Oooh-kay,” Dogshit said. “I think I’ll take a little walk and let you guys—”

  “Don’t fucking bother,” James said. “We’re not going to be here that long.”

  “What are you going to do, level me with one punch? ”

  “Is that what you want? ” James yelled. He took a step toward me. “Is that what you fucking want? ”

  Dogshit got in front of him. “No. It’s definitely not what he wants.”

  “Then somebody should stuff a fucking sock in it,” James said.

  “That sounds like a great idea,” Dogshit said. “Dude,” he appealed to me.

  “You know, James, you’re a real pisser. I lie to her fucking face. My sister. For you. Fuck knows what shit things you did to make her want to divorce you, but no matter. I lied to her anyway. I could have fucked you over a few times but I didn’t. I just lied to her like a genuine fucking asshole. For you. Not me. You.”

  “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t fucking know that? ”

  I was exasperated and worn down. “Well, if you knew it, why’d you tell her? I mean, couldn’t you have lied to her just one more time? You had to know she was going to be completely bullshit with me. What were you thinking? Jesus.”

  “What do you want me to say? I’m sorry? Is that what you want me to say? ”

  “Dude,” Dogshit said to me. “Is that all you want? ”

  “I don’t fucking know what I want. I swear to God, I don’t.”

  Dogshit turned to James. “I think that’s all he wants.”

  “Fine,” James said. “I’m sorry. I am.”

  I knew what was at risk when I agreed to be party to James’s plan, but I needed to be mad at somebody. He held out his hand for me to shake, but I wouldn’t take it. “Whatever,” I said. I pointed Sweet Thunder toward Plymouth Street and started pedaling. I added my sister Pamela to the short list of women I’d forced out of my life.

  “Oh, that’s right. Whatever,” James called after me. “I apologized. I’m not going to fucking beg you to accept.”

  I BIKED STRAIGHT to the phone booth at Spunt’s and dialed Jocelyn’s number. No answer, no machine, nothing.

  “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! ”

  I whacked a glass panel with the receiver, but not hard enough to break anything. I tried to slam the phone-booth door, but it was designed so that no matter how much force you put into it, it always closes nice and easy. I had to go back to New York and look for Jocelyn. Ricky was watching me from inside the store. He gave me a small, concerned wave. I left the Spunt’s parking lot and pedaled away from East Falmouth. Fuck Tommy the cop. If he—or any other cop—picked me up, all the better. I’d give him my word never to return so long as he got me off Cape Cod ASAP. I took the feeder ramp onto Route 28 and knowingly became a criminal.

  AS I ASCENDED the back stairs, I could hear Richie on the porch, talking to someone on the phone. “I’m going to have to call you back,” he said excitedly when he saw me. He was wearing nothing but a raunchy lime-green towel around his waist. The towel was so small that if the temperature outside had been five to ten degrees higher, his nut sack wo
uld have swung visibly—like a produce bag containing two kiwis. “Dude,” he said, “you are not going to fucking believe this.”

  “What? ”

  “This.” He handed me an envelope.

  “What’s this, a summons? ”

  “Kind of.”

  I checked out the return address. “From Sub Pop? ”

  “No shit, it is. Read it.” I peeked into the envelope like it could have been from the Unabomber. “Out loud,” Richie added. “I want to hear someone else say the words. And make sure you enunciate.”

  “ ‘Dear Losers: This letter concerns your crummy demo tape. While it leaves much to be desired, miraculously, it isn’t as ear-piercingly horrible as the other thousand we received that day. One song in particular, “Black Smoke, No Pope,” does not completely suck. Though we can’t—for legal reasons—encourage you to continue making music, this letter is intended to come infinitely close to that point. Sincerely, Sub Pop Records.’

  “What the fuck is this? ”

  Richie was smiling. “Dude, it’s positive reinforcement.”

  “Get the fuck out of here.”

  “It is. I’m serious. They like our tape.” He tried to high-five me.

  “Where in this letter does it say that? ”

  “Right here. We’re not as ear-piercingly horrible as everyone else. We don’t completely suck.”

  “That’s them liking it? ”

  “Hello, come-guzzler, it’s Sub Pop we’re talking about here. Maybe you’ve heard of them? Nirvana? Sebadoh? Mudhoney? Beat Happening—”

  “Yes, I’m well aware of who is on the label, thank you. But this doesn’t sound like they’re into it.”

  “Dude, that’s their way. Trust me. Think about the Clash. Think about the Pistols. What did the audience do when they liked them? They covered them with loogies.”

  “That’s different.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do. Sub Pop is going to fucking sign the Young Accuser.” He started dancing around, and his towel fell to the porch floor. He made no move to cover himself.