April & Oliver (20 page)

B
RAD CUTS THE ENGINE
in front of April’s building and looks up at the grim windows, sluggish pigeons patrolling the ledge. “You’re kidding, right?”

She rolls her eyes and opens the car door. “Thanks for the lift.”

“I get it,” he says, taking her hand. “You don’t want me to know where you live, so you’re grabbing a cab.”

“I live here,” she says, pulling her hand away.

He gets out of the car and walks with her to the door. She sees his intrigue deepen as he stares up at the building. “Let
me come in,” he says. “I won’t pressure you. I just want to see what it’s like.”

“No.”

“Two minutes.”

“Good night.”

“Okay, okay. It’s too soon. Come out with me on my boat tomorrow. I’ll show you the Sound.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The Met, then. I have tickets for Saturday.”

“Brad, you’ve been awfully sweet, but I’m going in now.”

“Your phone number, at least.”

“You’re not used to being turned down, are you?”

He licks his lips. “You’re attracted to me. Admit it.”

She smiles and gives his cheek a pat. “You’ll be over this in ten minutes.”

“You’re throwing away a hell of a time.”

She lets the door close and hears the Porsche roar as she climbs the stairs. By the time she reaches her apartment, he is
gone.

April unlocks her door and instantly knows that someone has been there. The smell of a cigarette lingers. She enters slowly,
leaving the door open behind her, and turns on a lamp. Smoke rises from an ashtray on the table. T.J.’s brand. She hears the
door close behind her.

She listens for the sound of his breathing, telling herself not to panic. “How did you get in?” she says.

“You left the window open by the fire escape,” he says. “When did you change the locks?”

She turns to face him. He stands just beyond the reach of the light, his figure tall and shadowy. She knows she ought to be
frightened, but all she feels is rage. “You broke my goddamn tooth. Do you have any idea what a crown costs?”

“I’m sorry.”

“And Kenny’s rib. It takes a real man to kick someone who’s lying on the ground. Yes, that was gutsy of you, T.J.”

He stiffens at the mention of the other man’s name. She tells herself to shut up, remember Arredondo’s advice.

T.J. rubs his hands together. “I came to tell you I’m clean.”

She sighs miserably. “I’ve got to call work,” she says, moving away. “They asked me to fill in tomorrow.” She picks up the
receiver and punches in Arredondo’s number, which he had compelled her to repeat back to him until he was assured she knew
it by heart. She’s halfway through when T.J. takes the phone from her and gently cradles it back into place. He smells of
soap and apricots; he used her shower.

“Wichita,” he says.

“No.”

He swallows, squeezing her hand. He is wearing a sleeveless muscle shirt, denim jeans, and the same heavy boots she has seen
him in a thousand times. “April, no one’s sorrier than me. You’ve got to believe I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Just like you didn’t mean to hurt your wife?” Even as the words leave her mouth, she knows it’s a mistake, exactly the kind
of provocation Arredondo told her to avoid.

T.J. flinches. She can almost feel the spasm pass through his body. He steps back, balling his fists. “What’ve you been hearing?”
he demands.

“I think you know.”

“It’s a lie, April. They thought it was me, but I didn’t do nothing. That’s why I came out east. I didn’t stand a chance there.
Nice, pretty girl like Denise. A man like me, with scars. It was her family who got the DA thinking it was me. But I swear
to God, April. She done it to herself. You’ve got to believe me.”

“Then turn yourself in, T.J. Tell the truth. Things will work out if you’re honest.”

“Jesus.” He laughs sadly. “You actually believe that, don’t you.”

“What else can you do?”

“Come with me. We can start fresh. Things can be different for us, you’ll see.”

“There’s no
us,
T.J. There never was.”

“You’re wrong. You and me are the same. You know it, too.” He reaches for her face. She remembers the first time he touched
her, how surprised she was that those large, calloused hands could be so warm and soft. She feels a glimmer of hesitation
before pulling away.

“Go,” she says. “I’m calling the police as soon as you leave. Don’t come back again.”

“How will I get your answer?”

“You already have it.”

Once he has left, she waits a few moments before picking up the phone, relieved when she gets only Arredondo’s voice mail.
“It’s April Simone,” she says. “He’s back. But he’s not your man.”

T
HE COALS ARE RED AS RISING SUNS
. Oliver prods them with a skewer, sweat dampening the back of his neck. The surface of his father’s pool glints with light
filtered through young foliage. A plunge would be invigorating right now, but he keeps his post by the grill.

Beside the pool, Al lies collapsed in a lawn chair, sleepy from sun and beer. Though it is far from nightfall, distant fireworks
rattle like machine guns. The dog cowers, resting her chin on Oliver’s foot. “Not your favorite holiday?”

The retriever looks up at him.

“Mine, neither,” says Oliver.

Bernadette hums to herself, setting out napkins and paper plates. Her fine silken hair is tied in a bun, and her white swimsuit
shows her tan.

“Hey.” He winks when she comes within earshot. “You look like a goddess.”

“Damn,” she says over her shoulder. “I was aiming for genius.”

“That, too,” he calls.

Oliver hears a car door slam in front of the house and waits for April to appear in the yard. As usual, she is the last to
arrive. But when the gate opens, he sees instead a tall, lean man with a lopsided stride. It takes Oliver a moment to recognize
him.

“Quincy,” Oliver’s father calls from the back door. “You made it.”

Oliver backs away from the grill, wiping his forehead.
Quincy?
A surreal feeling creeps over him. It’s been nearly a decade since he’s seen the man. He’s graying at the temples now, with
crow’s-feet that radiate into his hairline when he smiles. Still, he looks younger than his age, which must be past fifty
by now. He greets Oliver’s father with a two-handed shake. He has a kind face, which Oliver has always found hard to square
with the facts.

“Quince,” Al says, standing from his chair. “You old fox. Still pool sharking?”

“Never lose,” he says. “Well, almost never.”

“I brought some friends by the bar, what was it—five years ago? And this guy cleaned us out,” Al says admiringly.

“You asked for it,” Quincy says. He has the look of a lumberjack, with pleasant, rugged features and, despite the heat, a
flannel shirt rolled to his elbows. He eyes Oliver uncertainly. “Is this Oliver?” he says. “My, you’re all grown up.”

Oliver bristles. He wonders if Quincy has any idea how much he knows. They shake hands but say nothing.

Al sits backward on a patio chair, draping his arms on the backrest. “So what brings you around?”

“I’ve finally stashed away enough cash to buy out your dad’s half of the bar.”

Oliver and Al turn to their father in unison, eyebrows raised.

“Your uncle willed it to me,” he says sheepishly. “I guess he thought April and Buddy were still too young. Of course I’ll
give the money to April when it’s sold. I was planning to tell her about it next month, once things are settled, so please
don’t mention it yet.”

“You’re not planning to hand the cash over to her right away, are you?” Al asks.

“What else would I do? It’s hers. She could use it to go to college or get a better apartment.”

“Or buy a Harley for her next dude,” Al says. “You need to wait, Dad. She’s not in a good place right now.”

“Give her some credit,” their father says.

Al raises an eyebrow.

Their father glances at Oliver for support.

Oliver shrugs, casting a look at Bernadette. “How would I know?”

Oliver’s father and brother knit their foreheads in precisely the same way. Oliver frowns. So what if he and April were inseparable
as kids? Clearly, the adult April is someone they know far better than he does.

“I think she’ll do fine with the money,” Quincy interjects. “She was always a responsible kid. And besides, it’s not exactly
like winning the lottery. She won’t be retiring to Tahiti.”

Oliver studies him, those soft eyes and drowsy smile. It’s hard to imagine him winning at pool, no less the other things Oliver
knows but shouldn’t.

One night in Oliver’s studio, when April came in smelling of liquor, she admitted what was going on with more detail than
Oliver was prepared for. Apparently Quincy had a set of rules in which he was allowed to touch April but she was not allowed
to touch him. Every night his clothes stayed intact while he reached inside hers. He did everything he could to get a response
from her—aside from kissing, which would have implied love—and once he got the reaction he was looking for, usually something
audible, he asked her to leave so he could finish the job alone. This restraint on his part, he claimed, was out of respect
for her age.

Over time, she said, she learned to fake it, but in reverse, holding the ecstatic unraveling of her body inside the small,
tight bubble of her mind, then smothering it just before it took hold, the way she’d once seen a senile neighbor snip all
the buds off a rosebush.

Only once did she wait too long. She was drunker than usual. He lay on his back behind the bar and told her to straddle him.
She said no. They’d never done anything like that before. He said there was nothing to worry about, he was fully clothed.
“Come on,” he said. “Life is dreary. Let’s have a little fun.” As soon as she got on top of him she realized it was a mistake.
His smile vanished. His face clenched up. “Oh, Christ,” he said, digging his fingers into her backside.

All at once her hips began to gyrate, her body turning inside out like petals bursting. He grimaced, letting out a prolonged
moan, a blend of pleasure and regret. For a moment there was no sound but their ragged breath tearing open the air. And then,
April’s sob.

“Shit,” he said, pushing her off, examining his pants. He stood and went to the men’s room.

After that, he didn’t touch her for months, and she ignored him. Then he started in again with the free drinks, casually at
first, then insistently. He waited until he could work her up to three shots before he made a move. She let him do what he
wanted, but this time she gave up nothing, not an ache in her face, not a sigh, not a shiver. Quincy went to greater lengths
to elicit a response, but April had taught herself how to extinguish pleasure. By the age of seventeen, she had already determined
that sex was just something to get through.

“Shall we get down to it?” Oliver’s father says, opening his notebook on the wrought-iron table.

Quincy sits with him, scraping his chair on the cement patio.

“How are Pam and the kids?” Oliver’s father asks.

Quincy opens a worn leather wallet. “Eight and five already,” he says, taking out a photo. “I’m too old to have such sweet
little girls.”

Indeed,
Oliver thinks.

Al walks to the edge of the pool and dives in, shattering the placid surface. Another car pulls noisily into the driveway.

“Must be April,” Hal says. “I told her to get that muffler looked at.”

Oliver hears the rough idle of her car die abruptly, then the slam of the door. The gate swings open and the dog rushes at
her.

“Cricket,” April says, dropping to her knees. The dog licks her neck and she laughs, pushing her away. April’s hair is braided.
She wears a roomy, sleeveless T-shirt, shapeless shorts, and dangling earrings. She is holding a bag of pretzels and a bottle
of mineral water.

“Hi, folks,” she says. Al pauses and hangs on the side of the pool. Seeing Quincy’s back, she stops.

“Sweetheart,” Oliver’s father says, rising.

Quincy remains seated. He turns and waves sheepishly, then slips the photo of his children back into his wallet.

Oliver tries to read April, but can’t. She kisses everyone’s cheek except Quincy’s, and when she gets to Oliver he thinks
he may as well be a tree, she is in such a state of distraction.

Once she sits down, Quincy goes over and sits on the end of her lawn chair. She draws her knees up to her chest. “I’m sorry
I didn’t come to the funeral,” he says quietly. “We were in Toronto that week visiting Pam’s parents.”

“It’s okay,” April says.

“I always meant to call you afterward, but I didn’t know what to say, just like I don’t now.”

“I’m all right,” she says, not looking at him. “Thank you.”

He reaches for her hand but she doesn’t offer it. Quincy returns to where Oliver’s father is sitting and snaps open a beer.
April blows out a long, discreet breath. Oliver tries to catch her eye, but it’s no good.

Bernadette approaches. “Thanks for the hourglass,” she says, touching April’s arm. “You were way too generous. We’re taking
it as a wedding gift, okay? Nothing more from you!”

“It wasn’t expensive,” April says. “I got lucky, if you can believe that.” Her voice is croaky. She looks everywhere except
at Quincy.

“Hey,” Al calls from the pool. “How about
my
kiss?”

She waves a hand, dismissing him, and opens her bottle of water. Bernadette goes into the house to get more ice.

“She’s lovely,” Quincy says to Oliver, nodding after Bernadette.

“Isn’t she,” Oliver says.

“Have you set a date?”

“December something,” Oliver says. “I have a mental block about the day. Drives Bernadette mad.”

“The seventh,” April says.

“There you go.” Quincy smiles. “Your friends will get you there on time.”

The men resume their discussion, and Oliver returns to the grill. April summons the dog by kissing the air, then leans forward,
pigeon-toed, and holds up a pretzel. Cricket’s ears spring up. “Catch,” April commands, dropping the morsel. The dog snatches
and swallows in one motion. “Good dog,” she says, nuzzling her ear.