April & Oliver (24 page)

Once he is back inside the truck, he notices the steering wheel. Then his hands. His shirt. He cannot tell in the darkness
what the stains are. He turns over the ignition but the truck bucks and stalls. The gas gauge is below E; he drove here on
fumes. He leans back, looking out at the last stars fading.

Clear as yesterday, he gazes through the drugstore window at Denise standing in line. The man behind her was asking her something.
She giggled, head cocked, looking up into his long face. She shifted her weight like a nervous horse, fidgeting with her ring.
Their arms brushed and neither backed away. T.J. stepped out of sight as they left the store. The man’s Firebird was at the
curb. He motioned to it. She shook her head, glancing at her watch. He opened the door, insisting. She glanced around, perhaps
feeling T.J.’s eyes though he was supposed to be at work, miles away. When she walked away from the car, T.J. was almost disappointed;
the rage he had been brewing was so sweet. The man pulled out of his spot and intercepted her at the next corner. They talked
for a moment through the car window, and then, in one swift motion, she looked over her shoulder and slipped in.

T.J.’s blood surged, drunk with the power of certainty, which must have been how his father felt when he dragged T.J., seven
years old, out of the kitchen—the clear knowledge that there was no other choice. His mother’s screams were far away, inside
glass.
You want me to admit to something I didn’t do? Fine, I fucked the mailman. But don’t hurt my baby or I’ll kill you
. Oddly, T.J. was not afraid. His father was so calm, he was sure nothing bad could happen. Not until they were in the alley
and his father pulled T.J.’s pajamas taut did he see he was reaching for his lighter. What impresses T.J. now is how his father
had the presence of mind to do it outdoors, so as not to damage the color TV.

T.J. does not remember getting out of his truck again, but he is knee-deep on a steep embankment, the Hudson frothing over
stones. He washes his face, hands, and sleeves. He takes off the shirt and lets it float away. The stains have soaked his
arms like tattoos. He cannot remember whose blood it is, or where he’s been living, or how long since his mother died. He
wants to take off his skin, to douse the crackle of flesh and the smell of burned hair. He’ll swallow the river if that’s
what it takes to wash the ash from his breath.

He feels the chill of water inside his clothes, over his shoulders, the current nudging him off the embankment. He sees his
father lift him over the waves, waiting until the last minute before hauling him up by his hands, the two of them laughing,
his father’s grin clamping a Camel.

He remembers in one of his foster homes sleeping each night with a spotted beagle, the milky warm puppy curled against T.J.’s
stomach.

He remembers when April once kissed him like she actually meant it; he feels the warmth of her skin, the heat of sun on his
hair. The water turns pink. A drop of fire forms on the liquid horizon, earth and sky tearing in two. He remembers her last
words, not the sound but the feel of them.

He sees what he has done. April in his arms on the ground. He holds her for a few seconds, but it might as well be his whole
life. She is dead, or maybe it’s him. He feels their thoughts running through each other like a school of fish that splits
and merges. They are two, then one, and then two again. He applies pressure to the wound, but the blood moves through his
fingers. Her closed eyes look calm; she is up in the crown and can see for hundreds of miles. Thousands of years. Oceans forming.
The universe floating out like the hem of his mother’s dress when she and his father danced.

He only has to relax his resistance slightly for the current to take him. He can’t swim but knows how to float. His buoyancy
and the river’s speed surprise him. The water sways and rolls him the way it had before he was born, turning in the womb,
whole and without scars.

A
GRAY CAR PULLS UP.
Is it by coincidence that Oliver arrives now, or did he leave word with the nurses to call if April was released? Her cab
is late. She stands outside the hospital holding on to an awning pole.

Oliver slams his door and comes around to her. His arms and legs move rigidly, without cadence, an instrument strung too taut.
He stands before her with hands on his hips.

“This isn’t a prison,” she says.

The sun appears through a tear in the gauzy sky, and though she is wearing sunglasses, the sensation is like a hot coal leaning
on the inside of her skull.

He folds his tanned arms across his chest. “Who brought your clothes?” he asks.

“Does it matter?”

“It does if it was T.J.”

“It was Al, okay?”

“Al,” he says. “And you told him it was because you hated the hospital gowns, not because you were planning to check out,
right?”

The ground undulates like the deck of a boat; she nearly loses her balance. Oliver grabs her arm. “Come on,” he says. “We’re
going back in.”

She jerks her elbow away. “Oliver, I’ve been here for three days with no health insurance. Do you know what that adds up to?”

“Now’s not the time to worry about money.”

She laughs, pain shooting up the sides of her face. The taxi turns into the lot and she starts for it. Oliver takes her arm.
“If you’re going to be stubborn about this, at least let me drive you.”

“No.”

“Miss Simone?” A nurse with thick white hair and a young face hurries from the hospital entrance. “I just reached your doctor.
She says she knows she can’t make you stay, but please don’t do anything that’s going to open those stitches. Are you taking
her?” she asks Oliver.

“Yes.”

“Make sure she stays in bed. A few days at least. That’s a serious wound. You need to let it heal, Miss Simone. Same with
the skull fracture. Are you listening to me?”

“Thanks,” April says. “I’ll be careful.”

The taxi honks. April and Oliver raise their hands in unison, April beckoning the cab and Oliver waving it on.

“Call with the name of her pharmacy,” the nurse says. “She’ll need some painkillers.”

“No drugs,” she says, eyeing the cabbie evilly as he pulls away.

“She needs to keep still,” the nurse says, addressing Oliver.

He nods, opening the passenger door of his car. He waits. “If I had my way, I’d drag you back inside.”

“How comforting,” she says.

“Why don’t you get in the car before you fall down.”

She winces as she maneuvers into the seat and sees her pain register on his face. He circles around and gets behind the wheel.
They drive for a few minutes in tense silence. She notices a large dark stain on the passenger seat. When the realization
hits her, she sucks in air more loudly than she means to.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “It will wash out.”

“Blood on tan leather?” She covers her mouth with her hand. “I’ll pay for it to be detailed,” she says, “and if that doesn’t
work—”

“You’re not getting it, are you.” He glances over at her. “You’re alive, April. A car is a car.”

She bites her lip, looking out the window. “What about washing your hands?”

He glances in his rearview, shifting lanes. “I was tired.” He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other draped on the door,
tapping.

“How much blood did you give me?” she asks.

“A pint is all they allow.”

She looks down at her hands.

“You would have done the same for me if I were in trouble.”

“But you never are.”

The blur of northbound cars across the median makes her head ache. She massages her temple. Oliver glances over. She wants
to thank him, to apologize for everything, but she has no way of talking to him except the old way. “You missed the exit,”
she snaps.

“Don’t tell me you were planning to stay at your place. What, so he can come back and finish you off?”

She clamps her hands together, staring out the window. “Arredondo called me this morning. They found his truck in Jersey.”

“Oh?”

“I think he may have killed himself.”

“Were there signs of that in the car?”

“No, it’s just a feeling.”

“Forgive me if I need more evidence.”

April wakes in the middle of the night blind with pain. There is a stabbing sensation on the inside of her skull like a bird
pecking its way out. The air-conditioning is high and a comforter lies across her. Not the hospital. The pillow smells vaguely
of sandalwood; Oliver gave her his bed. She remembers now that he went out with Bernadette, saying he might not be home till
morning, which April appreciates.

She sits up, feeling the equilibrium shift in her head like a yolk in a shell. He left two Tylenol on the nightstand—not the
whole bottle, she notices. Beside the pills, the digital clock glows 3:53. She takes the tablets, fingers trembling, and makes
her way to the kitchen for water. As she reaches for a glass, she feels a pang in her stomach. The wound would be more painful
if not for the headache. She manages to fill the glass with water, but as she brings it to her mouth, her hands shake so violently
she cannot sip.

“April?” Oliver flips the switch. She gasps, light piercing her eyes. “Sorry,” he says, turning it off. She did not hear him
come in. She is leaning against the sink, holding the glass with two hands, water spilling over the edge. She sets it down.

He comes up behind her, touches her neck and forehead. “You’re on fire,” he says. “Did you take the antibiotics?”

“Yes,” she says, but her voice is so weak, she regrets speaking.

Oliver reaches for the tablets on the counter, his chest to her back, hand on her waist. He smells of cognac, sweat, and Bernadette’s
perfume. He places one tablet in her mouth, squarely centered on her tongue, his fingers salty. She shivers. He positions
his hands over hers on the glass, guiding it to her lips. She swallows, feeling him lean into her. She takes another sip.
The water is cool in her throat. As she tilts her head back, she feels his breath in her hair.

He lowers the glass and brings the other tablet to her lips. Her eyes fill as he leans into her. “Come on,” he says. “One
more.”

She parts her lips, head tilted back. He slips the pill into her mouth. A tear moves down her temple into her hair. He guides
the glass to her mouth. She drinks, swallowing until the glass is empty.
Don’t turn around,
she tells herself.
Don’t look at him.

He takes ice chips from the freezer, wraps them in a dishcloth, and guides April to the living room. He props cushions against
the arm of the sofa and leans against them, feet up, and draws April in front of him, her back to his chest, a human pillow.
He places the ice pack on her forehead.

She glances at the piano, cluttered with textbooks and law journals. “Oliver,” she says, “play me something.”

He is silent for a moment. “It’s out of tune.”

“I don’t care what it sounds like.”

“Trust me, it’s unplayable.”

She touches his fingers, long and graceful. His hands are one thing about him that hasn’t changed. When they were young, she
used to tease him that he had an old man’s hands.
He’s growing into them,
she thinks. “Oliver.” She turns to one side so she can look up at him. “I’m sorry.”

It is the first time she can remember saying those words to him. She feels him pause for a beat, go perfectly still.

“For what?” he asks.

“Everything. From the beginning.”

He moves his arms around her waist, careful of her wound, and closes his eyes. “April,” he says. “I’m not.”

April is awakened by the sound of a car door. Her headache has cleared; the room is bright. She guesses it is past nine. In
sleep she has rolled over and is lying with her cheek to Oliver’s chest. His hand rests on her shoulder blade, inside her
sleeveless nightshirt. She can’t remember him putting it there. They fell asleep, and now, as she awakens, she feels a jolt
of panic. She sits up. Oliver stirs, blinking at her, emerging from a dream. “April,” he says. She hears footsteps on the
front walk. Oliver’s eyes fly open. April stands and rushes into the bedroom just as the front door opens.

“Honey?” Bernadette calls.

“Hey,” Oliver says.

“I brought some eggs and bacon. How is she?”

“I don’t know,” he says, sitting up.

“You slept in your clothes?”

He looks down at himself. “I didn’t want to wake her. My pajamas are in the bedroom.”

Bernadette laughs. “Since when do you wear pajamas?”

“Since I have a guest.”

“Ah.”

April groans silently, ashamed. Lying is unnatural for him, and he’s terrible at it. She heads for the shower.

As the water stings her wound, she remembers that she is not supposed to shower until the stitches come out. She turns and
lets the water massage her back. The pain fades. Her head clears under the warm deluge. She uses Oliver’s shampoo, which carries
the sandalwood aroma she associates with him. When the hot stream runs between her legs she leans back against the tile. It
was a mistake to stay here.

She dresses, makes the bed, and calls a taxi from the bedroom phone. Her headache is starting in again, but she wills it off.
She smells bacon and coffee.

April finds them in the kitchen, Bernadette flipping an omelet, Oliver stirring sugar into his Jamaican blend. “Morning,”
she says, and they turn to her at once. She is struck again by how right they look together.

“Oh, God,” Bernadette says. “You look awful.”

“I was just thinking how I felt better,” April answers, taking a piece of bacon. “Oliver, on the other hand, looks like he
could use some more sleep. That couch isn’t long enough for you, is it.”

“I slept fine,” Oliver says, looking at her.

“Oliver’s pale,” Bernadette says. “You’re green.”

April smiles.

“Sit down and eat,” Bernadette says. “Food does wonders.”

“Thanks, but I have to go.”

Oliver looks up. “I hope you’re kidding.”