Full of Grace (12 page)

“Ok, whatever,” I call after her.  “Go take care of your…whatever.”

She doesn’t look back.  I try to just let her leave.  I go back up to my apartment.  I pace.  I look out the window, I hear the bus.  I pace.  I tell myself to calm down, whatever she’s talking about is no big deal, but the damn walls are closing in without her between them, like they’re trying to push me out, trying to send me after her.  I grab my car keys.

I jog downstairs, calling Oscar on the way.

“Hey buddy,” he answers on the first ring.  “How’s it going?”

The bus is long gone and I realize I have no idea where it’s headed.  And I’d look like a total lunatic stalking a bus.  I lean against my car.  “Something’s going on with Sher.”

“What’s up? Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she’s fine, but she was talking to your wife and I overheard some of their conversation.  There’s something Sher’s not telling me, and whatever it was, it seemed like Hale is trying to get Sher to spill it.”

“She told you about the baby…what else is there? What do you think is going on?”

“No idea, but can you fish around for me?”

“I will, but I don’t know what I can get out of her.  Now that I think of it, I did ask her about Sher yesterday, just how she was doing, and she gave me the entire girl-code speech, start to finish.  I thought that was a little weird.”

“Something’s up.  Well, give it a shot anyway, would you?”

“Will do.”

“Thanks,” I tell him before I hang up.  I call my sister next.

“You again?” Gina says when she picks up.

“Can you swing a late lunch?”

“Can’t.  We have a huge order to get out.  Your new girl must really be doing a number on you.  You’ve never needed this much lunch.”

“She is.”

“Well, I got five minutes.  Spill.”

“She’s holding back.  I think she wants to be with me, but then she runs off, and I have no idea what she wants from me.”

“That’s chicks for you, you know that,” Gina says.  “Why’d she run off exactly?  Didn’t you do what I told you to?”

“What’d you tell me to do?”

“Don’t give her a reason to leave.  You gotta give her a better reason to stay with you than to leave you.”

“I’m trying,”  I say.

“Try harder, then.”

“Thanks, that helps,” I snap.  Gina chuckles on the other end.

“Hey, I’m not your fairy godmother.  I’m just your fairy sister.  My powers are limited.  You’re going to have to make your love life work on your own.”

“Thanks anyway.  I’ll call you later.”

“Don’t forget what I said,” Gina says, and she yells at someone to keep the assembly line moving, before she gets off the phone.

I’m left standing in the parking lot, without any strategy, even though I’ve got to make the next move.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I PACE.  It might be the longest afternoon of my whole damn life, waiting for Sher to come back. I grind up what Gina said, over and over, trying to break it into pieces I can work with. 
Give Sher a reason, give her a life
.  The things she wants to do though—horse riding, pole dancing, tattoos, sex with strangers—I’m not sure how okay I am with letting her have four whole episodes of ‘Sher Gone Wild’.  I’m sure as hell not going out to recruit a dude to do her on the beach.

That’s when the light bulb really fires. 

Sher just wants to get some ‘wild’ out, so she can settle down and be a mom. I’ve had some ideas up my sleeve, but it’s time to put them into motion.  There’s nothing that says you can’t share your off-the-hook wild phase with the father of your kid.

Of course, the pregnancy limits some of the wild.

But not a whole lot.

I get on the phone to make some arrangements and I’m still on when Sher comes back.  I watch from the apartment window as she gets off the bus and I leave the door open a crack, so she doesn’t have to knock.  She swings it open with a palm on the door and wide eyes and spots me on the phone right away.  She comes in, giving me a little wave as she pulls off her shoes and then dumps her purse on the floor with a sigh that sounds exhausted and defeated all at once.

I finish with my arrangements and hang up.  All I want is to hear how she’s doing, what she’s been doing, what she wants to tell me.  I lay my phone down on the coffee table.

“How’s it going?”  I ask.  I’m not even going to take a run at her beeswax.  She sighs again and walks over.

“I’m sorry I was such a bitch,” she says.  She looks so worn through, I want to gather her up in my arms and tell her I don’t even care anymore.

“I’m sorry you were too,” I say and then I know just how tired she is, because instead of taking a swing at me, she gives me a weak, apologetic smile.  I take her hand as her gaze falls away from mine.  “Are you hungry?”

She nods, but she looks like she’s going to cry.

“You sure you’re okay?” I ask gently.  It’s like throwing a tanker of gasoline on a bonfire.  She puts her hand over her mouth as her eyes well up and next thing I know, the dam bursts and she’s sniffling.

“You are so nice to me,” she says.

“Yeah?  Well, it’s easy to be nice to you,” I tell her.  I drape my arm around her shoulders and give her a quick squeeze, but she turns in to me and buries her face on my chest.  She lets loose, sobbing, until she’s saturated my shirt, right over the left nipple.  I stand there and let her work use me as a Kleenex, until she’s drained down to just a sniffle.  “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she say and obviously, she means no. 

“We can talk over dinner,” I say.  She sniffles.

“Do you want me to cook?”

“Nope.  I’ve got someplace special to go for dinner.”

“I don’t know.” She shakes her head, wiping her pooling mascara away with the heels of her hands.  “I look like shit.”

“Go pull it together then.  I want you to see this place.”

She snortles, a really unattractive sound, but she follows it with a flimsy giggle that is like fine wine to an alcoholic. 

“Alright,” she says.  “I’ll get ready.”

***

I should’ve known better than to say,
get ready,
without setting a time limit.  Sher doesn’t go in and reapply make-up or drag a brush through her hair.  No.  She jumps in the shower.  The water runs until the steam leaks out from under the door. I turn on the news.

Half the broadcast is over when she finally comes out in a poof of fog.  I slide to the edge of the couch cushion with my hopes up.  She’s got a towel cinched around her.  I ease back and watch the second half of the news without saying a word.  She’s still in the bedroom when the news ends and a sitcom starts up. When I finally decide to rap my knuckles on the door and ask if she’s ready, she shoves the door from the other side.

“Don’t come in!” she squeals, and I pull my head back just before my nose gets bashed in.

“Are you almost ready?”

“Almost!” she says and I settle back onto the couch for the rest of the sitcom.  She comes out at the end, only to scurry across the floor to the bathroom and shut that door.  Some trashy, tabloid show comes on and I change the channel. 

“Are you done yet?”

“Just a sec!” she calls.  “I’m just doing my hair!”

The hair, the make-up, the whatever-it-is-she’s-doing-in-there, takes another hour.  I spend the entire time flipping through channels, pausing on a swimsuit competition that doesn’t last long enough.  She emerges only after I finally shout through the door, “Come on, Sher!  My stomach lining is eating itself!”

She’s gorgeous, but I’m too hungry to pay the right amount of attention to how short her skirt is and how her legs look like stems, reaching to the Earth for water.  I want to grab her hand and drag her out the door just to ensure she doesn’t disappear again. When she ducks half-way into the bathroom to fool with her the hair on her forehead, I groan.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“You’ll see,” I say, urging her toward the door.  She slips on her shoes.  “Let’s just get out of here before the surprise is gone.”

“Gone?  I’m coming,” she says and the smile on her face kind of erases my frustration.  It doesn’t stop my stomach from growling, but it takes enough edge off that I glance at her skirt. It only covers a little bit more than her rear end.  She pulls the door closed behind us, but I pause on the welcome mat.

“That’s kind of a short skirt, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She giggles as she starts down the steps.  If I ask her to change, it might take another couple hours before we’re out the door again.  I catch up to her instead, sliding my hand down her back as I guide her down the steps. At the bottom, I let go and watch her scrap of a skirt sway like God’s own breath is moving it, as she’s walking to the car. She giggles for no reason at all.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” she says, letting loose of a second flood of giggles.  “I just feel good.  You know how it feels when you get cotton candy at a carnival?  I feel cotton-candy good.”

“Good.” I smile at her.  Buying cotton candy?  It’s never made me wildly happy, but if she’s happy,
that’s
what makes me wildly happy too.

“Can you tell me where we’re going yet?”  she asks when we’re in the car.  Her giggling bubbles up.  She must be nervous.

“Nope.  You’ll know it as soon as we get there.”

“How long will it take to get there?”

“I’m not telling.”

“Landon?”

“Yeah?”

“I have to pee.”

“You didn’t do that while you were in the bathroom for the last five hours?  We’ve got about a twenty minute drive.  How bad do you have to go?”

“I was lying.  I don’t have to go.  I just wanted to know how long it would take.”

I dodge a glance at her and she giggles. 

“I’m going to have to remember that about you,” I say.

“What?”

“That you’re a liar,” I laugh.  I scan down her bare legs.

“Great.  Remember that,” she says, reaching for the radio.  She flips stations until she finds oldies from the 70’s. 

“I would’ve thought you liked pop music,” I say.

“Pop?  Why?”

“It’s light and fun.”

“No, I’m not pop.  I’m oldies, alternative, country, rock.”  She counts off the categories on her fingers.  “Some pop, I guess.  But hardly any.  I like music that’s got a message and a beat. But I don’t like New Age.  Or the screamer music, that stuff is nuts.  How about you?  What do you like?”

“Oldies.  Rock.  A little bit of anything that’s good.”

“So you’re musically constipated,” she chirps.  “We’ll have to change that.  I can listen to almost anything. Well, not jazz.  I like the instrumental brainiac stuff too.  Except the harpsichord.  I hate the harpsicord…”

She rattles on, over all the songs on the radio, for the entire drive.  I listen to how she doesn’t take a breath until she has to, how her giggle weaves between her sentences like punctuation, how she flits from one subject to the next without any concern over whether or not I’m actually listening to any of it.  Sher just likes to talk.  Every now and again, she’ll stop and ask me something and I
uh huh
and she continues on.  It’s kind of musical and I find myself smiling for no real reason at all.

“What?” she asks as I pull into the drive of the restaurant.  Her eyes are on me and the sun is blinding as it sets over the top of the dashboard, so she doesn’t see the surprise right away.  “Why are you laughing?”

“I’m not.  I’m smiling, because I like hearing you talk to me.”

“Oh.” She sits back against the seat, trying to figure out if I’m pulling her leg or being real, but then she looks up over the dash and gasps, “Oh!”

We drive up to an attendant station, where two men in tailed tuxes and white gloves open the car doors for us.

“Welcome to The Moveable Feast.” One of the attendants greets Sher and offers his hand to her.  “Your name?”

“Sher.” She puts her hand in his white gloved one, dazed.  The attendant takes a quick peek at her tiny skirt and I clear my throat.

“Grace.  The reservation is for
Mr.
Grace.” I say over the hood of the car.  I know it makes us sound married.  I don’t care.  The guy just better get his eyes off her skirt. 

The attendant snaps to attention like he should.  He drops his eyes and goes to his podium, gluing his eyes to his reservation book.  He slides his finger down the entries.

“Ah yes, Mr. Grace,” he says, keeping his eyes strictly on me, with a polite grin.  “Party of two.  If you wait here, your carriage will be along promptly.”

“Thank you,” I say.  The second attendant drives off to park my car.

“What is this place?” Sher breathes beside me.

“You said that you never got to ride a horse,” I tell her.  “Since you’re pregnant, I don’t think a doctor will okay it, but you can ride in a horse-drawn carriage, at least.  They send dinner with us.”

Sher squeals so loud, I have to stick my finger in the ear closest to her.  She grabs my arm and hangs onto it.

“Are you kidding me?  Landon!”  She stomps her foot and bounces, all at once.  Her skirt flutters dangerously around her thighs.  The attendant rolls his eyes to the sky before I catch him looking again.  Sher doesn’t notice any of it.  She grabs my arm and pulls on it as she hops.  “Are you kidding me?”

A radio system, hidden beneath the podium, crackles.  A stray voice reports through the static, “Schwertner, party of four, arriving for final departure.”

“Your carriage will be ready in a moment,” the attendant tells me.  The approaching carriage veers off the main path to another curved drive that leads to an alternate attendant station.  The attendant at that podium helps the party from the carriage and hands car keys to the man in the party.  The family climbs into the sedan that the attending valet pulls up behind the carriage.  I guess that is where we’ll end our evening too.

A second carriage approaches.  A man sits on the high bench seat, wearing a tux and a top hat.  The carriage is open in the front and has a high back.  The back is a shield from rain or street dust, and with the sides wrapping around slightly, I guess it offers a little snuggling privacy.  Unless the driver turns around to gawk.