Next To You (16 page)

‘
Fuuuck,
’ he muttered.

Was a time he’d taken pride in his Mustang. He kept the cactus green paint waxed, polished the chrome, rubbed protectorant into the original white upholstery, and cleaned the windows until they sparkled. He changed the oil and spark plugs, only used premium fuel, and made sure the whitewall tires stayed a true white. The classic automotive fairy tale was over now.

Orange-glowing streetlights and passing headlights illuminated the sorry state. Even in the dimness it was plain the exterior was dusty, dotted with tree sap and splattered by pigeon poop. Dead leaves had collected in the sill beneath the window and wipers.

‘Fuck,’ he said again, grabbing his bag of fries, yanking open the sticky door and slamming it when he plopped behind the wheel. He tossed the fries and soda pop on the passenger seat, forgetting he’d already loosened the lid to have a drink. Seal cracked, the bottle began to hiss and spray out its contents across the glove box and door handle. Alex grabbed the bottle, spraying himself in the face, carbonated drink shooting across the windscreen. ‘Fuck, fuck,
fuck
!’ he shouted and shoved the door open to throw the bottle out, but by then the geyser had subsided.

Face dripping, Alex sat in his car cursing, and realized the inside of the Mustang was in an even sorrier state than the outside. The interior was littered with empty beverage cups, balled-up used tissues, newspapers, soda bottles, food scraps and dozens of wrapping and bags from fast food places. Worst of all was the collection of bottles in the back seat, the bottles he’d taken to pissing into. The car’s interior was a gamey combination of sweat, urine, Mountain Dew and French fries, which added a distinctive greasy top note to the layers of smells. The smell. Jesus, the smell.

What the hell am I doing?

His dribbling forehead sank against the steering wheel.
What the
hell
am I doing?
He sat that way for a minute or two before he turned to rest on his temple and gaze out the window on the passenger side, and then he laughed because that window was the cleanest thing in the car. He looked out that window, to the restaurant across the street, where a group of well-dressed people who looked like they had a lot of money were simply eating dinner.

They were having dinner, a normal everyday thing. It was only
dinner
.

‘
What the hell am I doing here
?’ he said out loud.

He stared out through the glass and watched them dine. They were an animated bunch of middle-aged folks—except for Caroline.

And that’s what he was doing here. Caroline. He was here because of her. His car was a pigsty because of her. He pissed in bottles because of her.

He climbed out of the car, rubbing the citrus-scented stickiness from chin with his filthy, gummy hands.

Jesus Christ, what the fuck’s the matter with me
?

He looked over the roof of the car at the Turkish place again. She sat there as she usually did in a group, all clammed-up, reserved, quietly uncomfortable. He wondered what the hell she was doing having dinner with a bunch of strangers. Earlier, at the front of her apartment, she’d climbed into a new model Volkswagen with darkly tinted windows. The driver had been her ‘friend’ who’d spooked him on the sidewalk, the big pasty white guy. Alex had figured she and her ‘friend’ were going out alone. Knowing her preference for very small groups, he was surprised when the pair met others.

She was only having dinner.

Go home, Alex. Get in your goddamn filthy car and go the hell home
.

Alex listened to that voice in his head. He saw the reason, the rationale. He climbed behind the wheel, slammed the door, put the key in the ignition. He started the engine and cast one more glance back inside Istanbul. The ghostly guardian angel sitting beside Caroline put his hand on hers.

And Alex stalled the car.

***

Caroline pulled the VW into the garage space beside her car. Will unlatched his seatbelt and let it slide away. ‘You were very quiet tonight,’ he said.

Caroline left her hands on the steering wheel. ‘I know. I’ve never been very good at being social in new situations. It’s interesting to see how you all interact, how you’ve known each other for so long and have a history where you can make private jokes and … I miss that sort of thing.’

‘Did we make you uncomfortable?’

‘No.’

‘You seem sad.’

‘I’m not sad, exactly.’ She released her seatbelt. It whizzed as it zipped into place.

‘How do you feel?’

‘Detached. I think. I’ve forgotten how to do this, how to make friends in a new place.’

‘We’re friends, aren’t we?’

‘I think so.’

‘You did pretty well making friends with me.’

‘You were easy.’ She dropped her head back against the padded rest. ‘I do much better one on one. I think watching you interact … well, seeing that … it’s different at work, you know. I can do that superficial, polite, professional flirty thing. It’s easy to be friendly and chatty and talk about slingbacks, pique fabric, and things I know, but making a connection … well that’s much, much harder. I get a little anxious. I worry I’ll say or do the wrong thing. Four people and I’m good. Five people … is pushing it. So I listen.’

‘All the stuff with your husband really raked you over hot coals, didn’t it?’

‘I like to think of it more as having spent time in suspended animation, rather than being roasted over an open fire. Things are starting to seem normal again, but I’ve been inside myself for so long I don’t always know how to act or react. I needed tonight. I didn’t really want to join you, but I needed to, to wake that cryogenically amnesiac part of myself to feel regular again. I like your friends.’ She looked over at him, ‘And they love you.’

‘Yeah, go figure,’ he laughed.

‘I miss that. I miss affection and being affectionate with someone, with friends and family. I think may be jealous.’

‘I think you’re just a little lonely, like a lot of people.’ He opened his door, ready to climb out of the car and stopped, looking at his knees. ‘I’m sorry. I hope that didn’t sound offensive.’

‘William?’

He turned to face her. ‘Yes?’

‘Thanks for including me tonight.’ Caroline leaned close and she kissed him very softly, her fingers light as baby’s breath on his jaw. Suddenly timid, she dropped her head down and glanced up into his eyes through a curtain of fine hair. ‘Sorry.’

‘For what, that?’

‘Well, yes and no. I had to do something to convey my gratitude, but I know this wasn’t a date, and I’m not coming on to you or anything.’

‘Of course not. You would have climbed into my lap and tipped the seat back if you were.’ His hand moved, affectionately tousling her hair, leaving it looking windblown. ‘You’re welcome all the same.’ He climbed out of the Volkswagen, his bottom lip faintly flavored by Caroline. He liked her delicate taste on his mouth.

Chapter 7

Before they’d left for the diner, Caroline had dug out the stuff she’d neglected to collect from the mailbox yesterday. Halfway through breakfast, she slid the crossword aside to sift through the pile of mail she’d brought along to the Wellington. There were brochures from an abused women’s shelter, a flyer from a supermarket chain, and applications for three different credit cards. It was nothing but junk mail, and junk mail made her feel normal. She dumped the junk mail on the seat beside her and poured syrup on her waiting, already-buttered pancakes.

Some people found routine monotonous. Like ‘life’s balls,’ she grabbed routine with both hands and held fast to the repetition. A regimented life was dependable, as dependable as the choices William would make for breakfast on Saturday and Sunday. Weekend breakfast at the Wellington Diner had become a habit for them as much as their weekday morning coffee, and Caroline liked the dependable pattern. She liked knowing William would order eggs one morning and French toast the next. She liked how he wound up eating half of whatever she ordered. She liked that he obviously liked the pattern.

And she liked the peculiar way he had of holding the newspaper diagonally, so his eyes could focus. William always read the front page first, then the entertainment section, but he knew her habits too. He’d pass her the crossword before he started reading.

She scanned the puzzle next to her plate, lifted her fork and licked buttery syrup from the tines. Life was pleasing, comfortable, and she sighed, a small, satisfied sound that made him look up from his paper.

‘What?’ he said. ‘The pancakes that good today?’

She glanced at the crossword beside her plate. ‘What’s another word for “simple?”’

He shrugged. ‘Uncomplicated, effortless, easy, painless.’

‘Exactly,’ she said, smiling, eyes on him. ‘Exactly.’

Her sigh, and something about the way she looked at him, did odd things to Will’s insides. With that peculiar and rather pleasant internal sensation tickling him, he watched her turn her attention the crossword. She pushed aside her pancakes and drank her coffee absently while she did the puzzle with a mechanical pencil.

‘We eat a lot, don’t we?’ he said, dragging an egg-dipped wedge of bread through syrup.

‘M-hm.’

‘Do you think we eat too much?’

‘You mean you think we overeat?’ She filled in little squares on the page.

Mouth full, his laugh came out like a little sniff. ‘No,’ he said, after swallowing. ‘I mean we spent a lot of time together around food.’

‘Food is a social thing. Sharing a meal is social. Don’t you and Yvonne spend time together around food?’

Will changed his position slightly, pulling his reading glasses from his nose, setting them beside his French toast. Movement outside the diner’s front window caught his eye. A man in a leather bomber jacket and baseball hat ran across the street. ‘Yvonne and I do all sorts of things that are usually shopping related. She likes to buy …’ he watched the man head north along the sidewalk, ‘… stuff.’

‘Can I ask you something that’s really none of my business? It’s something you make look simple and I don’t know how it can be.’

‘Go on.’

‘Is it that simple to sleep with your ex-wife?’

Will settled his attention back on his breakfast. He stabbed his fork into the last triangle of French toast. ‘What do you mean?’

Without looking up from the puzzle, she waggled her pencil like a cigar between her fingers. ‘Every relationship breakdown is different. You said you separated on friendly terms, and that you and Yvonne are still good friends, but doesn’t sleeping together make things complicated when it comes to staying friends?’

The sliver of French toast paused at his chin. He put the fork down. ‘It doesn’t seem to for us.
Qué será será
. I guess we both accept that.’ He enjoyed a certain straightforward … unconventional relationship with Yvonne that was of mutual benefit. It wasn’t a regular thing. It more a lazy, cozy little habit they both had. He appreciated the comfortable familiarity. So did Yvonne.

An unsavory thought struck him. Was that similar unconventionality something Caroline and Alex shared? ‘Do you still sleep with Alex?’

‘What? Oh, hell no.’ She dropped the pencil, and looked at him, rubbing ears that had turned bright pink. ‘I’m sorry I asked something so personal.’

Will was embarrassed too. ‘No, I’m sorry. I didn’t intend for that to seem tit-for-tat.’

‘It was fair, since I asked you.’ Her head dipped and she continued to fill in little squares on the newspaper. ‘You and Yvonne have your reasons, and it works for you both, but I’m ashamed I ever shared a bed with Alex.’

That news made Will happier than necessary. He watched her scribbling in tiny boxes. Yes, Caroline was attractive. Yes, he enjoyed her company. Yes, he thought about her a great deal, but there was no point in entertaining ideas or paying attention to the occasional pleasurable sensations she stirred up in his mind and body. He liked uncomplicated. Uncomplicated explained why he still slept with Vonnie. The bottom line was, he was a rut-dweller. His life worked the way it was. And he was just fine with that.

Mostly.

‘You’re not going to finish your pancakes, are you?’ he said.

‘They’re all yours, Frosty.’

‘Frosty?’

She looked up at him, grinning. ‘You’ve got to admit it’s nicer than
Willie
, isn’t it?’

‘Sure, Squirt.’ He slid her plate across the table, poured a pond of syrup over cold, cinnamon sugar-sprinkled pancakes. Come Monday he knew he’d slip another domestic violence fact sheet in her mailbox.

***

Quincy spied the car through the windshield. ‘Wow, that’s an original one.’

‘An original what?’ Will glanced over at his friend.

‘That green Mustang. It’s a sixty-eight and I bet the paint’s as original as the hippie sitting in it. Perry had a midnight blue one when he was seventeen. Remember that thing? It was the car he restored—the one he had before the MG A.’

‘I remember that car. This one looks like it could use some work.’ Will twisted to get another look at the out the Jag’s rear window as they made a turn.

A man in ripped jeans and leather bomber jacket climbed out of the Ford, tucking long, auburn hair into a blue baseball cap.

The hair on the back of Will’s neck stood up. ‘Stop the car, Quince. Please.’

Quincy pulled over immediately. ‘You gonna barf?’

‘No. Sorry. I just want to get a better look at the car.’

‘Yeah, that’s one sweet ride there.’

Will nodded, and watched Alex walk a short distance and climb aboard the number 22 bus, the bus he sometimes took to work, the bus Caroline usually caught at the next stop, three blocks south.

Hat pulled low, Alex moved to the rear of the bus. He took a seat and stared out the window.

It was possible the man lived in the area. It was possible his position at the rear of the bus was simply wanting to stay out of Caroline’s way, as she’d asked him to. Not wanting to jump to conclusions or make assumptions, Will told Quincy to go on driving. The 22 made stops along the way. Quincy would reach the Collins building before the bus even hit Michigan Avenue.