beer and watching the undemanding river flow by, it was the closest thing to heaven I was ever likely to experience.
The house itself was nothing to look at, not from the outside. Weathered cedar siding worn to a nondescript silver blended into the surrounding yellow poplar and sweet gum trees. You could be a hundred feet away and almost not see it, if not for the betraying sun-spangled glitter of a window. The inside, however, was more eye- catching. The ceiling was high and paneled in poplar, reddish brown wood with mellow streaks of gold. There was a lofted area edged with a banister over which were thrown two blankets of red, black, and gold. The walls were painted the same gold, the color of the late-afternoon air.
There were two leather couches-one for me and one for Houdini. I was willing to share, but he wasn’t as agreeable. Evil dog.
The kitchen was just that, a kitchen. When I cooked, I tended to try to burn the place down. Spending money on shiny new appliances would be a waste. The oven had been singed but good on only its second day, and it had only been downhill for it from there. The refrigerator was defrosted on a nearly daily basis. Houdini would sneak in the middle of the night to open it and root his big nose in the cold cuts-drawer. In the morning, I’d find a puddle on the tile floor and the stink of spoiled milk. I’d tried blocking the door with a chair. That lasted about two seconds. Then I’d tried securing it with a chain and padlock. That morning, I woke up to another puddle, and this one wasn’t water or melted ice cream. It was yellow and pungent, and it soaked through my socks before I saw it.
Houdini won that battle. As a rule, he won them all. A brain the size of a fist, and he outmaneuvered me every time.
The bedroom was in the loft, which made nighttime bathroom breaks a bitch of stumbling stairs and stubbed toes. But it was worth it when I woke up every morning to the green, yellow, and blue explosion that lay outside six-foot windows. Earth, sun, and sky-it was all that was eternal. In comparison with the rest of us, at any rate. In my business, you saw everything that was fleeting, you were shown that most things pass. It was nice to be reminded of the few exceptions. Abby had helped me with decorating the entire place. I might cultivate my personal look, but when it came to decking out the house, I was like most guys. I bought what was functional and closest to the checkout counter, so to speak. If I could sit on it or sleep in it, that’s pretty much all that mattered. Or at least so I thought. Abby straightened me out quick on that front.
I’d liked what she did with the rest of the house. It was bold and masculine and comfortable. The bedroom had been a different story. She and Gemma, her British girlfriend at the time, had wanted to do the room in white. For peace and moral purity, they’d said, Gemma in all her feng shui seriousness and Abby with a naughty wink. I think Abby was under the impression that I got more action than I actually did. I’m not saying I hadn’t gone through my share some years ago. After a while, that kind of tomcatting had gotten old, but not for the more noble and mature reasons most might eventually reach. I simply had gotten tired of the trying to tune out women’s life stories-stories they’d be horrified to find out I knew. Some guys, dumb-asses usually, bitch that their dates won’t shut up. Try multiplying that by a thousand, a million. I’d learned over the years to hold things off to a certain extent in my day-to-day life, keep it at arm’s length where it was a persistent whisper instead of a loud, constant drone. I’d gotten good at it. But during sex, all bets were off. All that skin-to-skin contact combined with the usual brain shutdown, arm’s length was hardly an option. Try doing your business with a person shouting her life story in each ear. I’m not saying it isn’t doable, but it’s a challenge, no doubt about it.
Abby, on the other hand, worked both sides of the fence. Men or women, they were both fair game. She was monogamous and honest to a fault with whomever she ran with, but there was no denying she had a healthy dating and sex life. And she wasn’t averse to sharing the details. Half the time, I didn’t need that nudie mag in my desk. Abby was all the entertainment that money needn’t buy. Once-long hair was now cropped to short platinum curls. That and the tiny diamond stud in her nose had changed her style considerably, but she was still Abby through and through. She had just grown up, and grown up damn fine.
Was I jealous? Hell, yes, I was jealous. Being a human ask-the-eight-ball wasn’t exactly compensation, no two ways about it. The moment when scarlet stars burst behind your eyes and the base of your spine melts into warm pudding, to feel that and nothing else-how could I not envy that? To hold someone tightly in a tangle of warm limbs and heated breath without seeing the cheap green tile of an abortion clinic and hearing the sobs of a scared and sad sixteen-year-old girl, I couldn’t even begin to imagine it. That was the thing. To her, that memory might be ten years old, melancholy but faded to a rain-washed watercolor. To me, it was fresh as the day… the very minute it had happened. The sound of the vacuum. The nurse’s hand warm and tight on hers. The fact that her boyfriend hadn’t shown up even though he had promised. The ache, strange and different, like none she’d felt before. That was just one memory, one among numbers uncounted. Good, bad, indifferent. Everyone had them. If that weren’t bad enough, and it was, the women who knew what I did for a living always had this look, this wary, corner-of- their-eye expectation, when we were in bed. Whether they actually bought the whole psychic package or not, they still had the look. Does he know I wore the underwear with the ripped elastic because it was laundry day? Yeah, I did. Does he know who I’ll marry? When I’ll die? No. Thank God or the lack thereof… no.
So, moral purity was less of a problem than I wished it were.
For the bedroom, I’d vetoed white. Anything but white, I’d said. I should’ve been more specific. They went for the country look. Not surprising, considering where I lived. Imitation oil lamp, braided rug, and quilt, it was uncomfortably familiar. Of course, the quilt was hunter green, wine, and cobalt blue on a cream background. Nothing like the one I’d slept under for nearly eleven years. That one hadn’t come from an upscale department store. It had been sturdy and ugly as hell. Drab brown, rust orange, and whatever scraps happened to be on sale at the fabric store the day Granny Rosemary got her monthly check from the government. I should’ve cherished it, no matter how hideous it was, because it was made with love. For all that my stepfather was-who he was-his mother was a gentle woman. Loving and quick to give hugs and homemade cookies. I should’ve loved it because it came from her, but… I didn’t. I had been a stupid kid, resentful and ashamed of the way I lived. I wanted a bedspread with superheroes or cowboys or, as I grew older, a plain comforter in navy blue or stripes. I never got either. Instead, I’d later learned to do with a thick, itchy institutional blanket of faded gray that had seen hundreds of homeless kids before me. The soft worn cotton of a shabby, homely quilt was missed more than I could’ve dreamed.
I’d complimented Abby on her choice, nodded as she bragged how she’d gotten it for only two hundred and fifty dollars, then folded it up and put it away in the cedar chest at the foot of the bed the moment she drove away. A simple solid-colored comforter replaced it. It handled the dog hair better, anyway, and it was machine washable. That was helpful for getting out Houdini’s drool stains on a weekly basis. I was damn talented when it came to making money, but that dry-cleaning bill would’ve broken me.
It was a comfortable house and a helluva lot better than my childish fantasy. I planned on staying there until they zipped me up in a body bag. I only hoped I was watching the river and drinking a cold one when it happened.
This night wasn’t one for that, though, not unless I wanted to sit in a pool of my own sweat and inhale bugs instead of air. It was a good decision. The moment I stepped inside, it began to rain, turning the muggy air into an almost impenetrable soup. Listening to the hiss and gurgle of water in the gutters, I decided on reheated pizza and a movie. I’d just popped the veggie special into the microwave when there was a knock on my door. Houdini was so flabbergasted by this unprecedented occurrence that while his head swiveled in the direction of the sound, he remained frozen in his favorite dozing position, on his back on his couch with all four feet in the air. I was nearly as thrown. Except for Abby and Glory, people didn’t show up at my place uninvited. It wasn’t welcome, and, quite frankly, it wasn’t a smart thing to do. Between Houdini and the occasional visit from my sister, my house wasn’t a place for the unwary. And that wasn’t factoring in my annoyance at having my space invaded.
I threw a jaundiced eye at the unmoving Houdini and went to the door. I wasn’t too surprised to see that it was good old Dr. Chang from that morning. I’d been fairly sure I’d see his lying ass again; I’d just been hoping it wouldn’t be so soon. Or here.
“Oh, look,” I said, snorting, hand resting on the knob, “someone more persistent than a Jehovah’s Witness. What fun.”
He was less put together than he had been that morning. Rain had flattened his hair, and the suit jacket was a shapeless sodden mess. He was trying to protect a white box with a curved arm with only limited success.
“Could you take this, please,” he said with exasperation.
I hesitated. My gloves were off, lying on the kitchen counter. Everything in my house was new… safe. No one had been in contact with anything long enough to leave an imprint. Still, it was only a cardboard box, brand-new-
