“Sure.”
Taking the wing chair, he cast a wary glance at my typewriter in the kitchen. “You find a job yet?” he asked glumly. There was a hole in his shoe, I noted, as he dandled his foot up and down on his knee.
“Nah. Decided to write a bestseller instead.”
“What bestseller?”
I filled the carafe and measured coffee. “Sex and Murder Self-Help.”
“Oh, that.” He nodded, knowing that I had no chance at success. A sparrow, seeing the reflection of the orange tree in my front window, flew with a sickening thump into the glass and dropped.
“Jesus,” said Shelly, going to the window and peering down to examine the little fellow stunned on the grass below. “Poor bugger wasn’t wearing his helmet.”
“He’ll be all right,” I said. “They always hit claws first.”
It disturbed me that I had shattered the ceiling lamp in my kitchen. I couldn’t remember how or when it had happened. There was still some glass on the floor and I swept it up. Sweets stared at Shelly, his tail still.
Shelly was still looking out the window, his back to me, hands in pockets, when I approached with his mug. “Thanks,” he said, wringing out a smile. He smelled faintly of bus depot and cheddar cheese.
I took a seat on the couch. The coffee scalded my mouth. Sweets came over and began to whisk his tail. “I’m writing a chapter on beauty,” I said.
He sat down across from me. “Hmm.”
“I’ve always wondered why people who chase after beauty end up jumping out the window or putting their head in the oven. Beauty’s the opposite of happiness. I can count all the beautiful things that ever made me happy and fit them inside a Cheerio.”
He nodded, distracted, blew on his mug. Whatever he drank, hot, sweet, cold, went down quickly in nervous gulps.
“You’re a bit of a beauty chaser, it seems to me,” I said.
He cracked a yellow grin. “I like sex if that’s what you mean.”
“I don’t mean Bambi Woods or the whores in Tijuana, babe,” I elaborated. “I mean your music. Your ideals. Coco Debbie. Your quixotic quest for God. Oh, and Marvelle, of course. You ready to go up this week and see her?”
He tried to laugh but coughed instead. “Can’t,” he said. His eyes began to shine then and he tried to blink it away. He massaged the bridge of his nose for a good thirty seconds before he spoke. “I didn’t want to tell you this, but my mom is sick.”
Sweets got up and trotted over to Shelly. Shelly patted him on the head. Sweets wagged his tail.
“Oh?” I said.
“Cancer,” he said.
“What kind of cancer?”
“I don’t know. It can’t be too serious,” he added quickly. “I don’t think.” He laughed, the incongruous laugh. “She won’t die, that’s for sure. All my family lives forever. They’re like cockroaches.” He spurt a puff of dry air, rolling his gaze about. “But I have to go back.”
“To Alabama?”
He set his coffee in the window ledge. “Yeah.”
He wanted to say something else, I saw, perhaps ask me a question, perhaps, “Will you come with me?” But he sealed his lips instead and stood.
“Well, I’d better go,” he said. “Just wanted to let you know I won’t be around for a while.” He showed the broken forest of teeth, took a quick nervous gulp of empty mug and set it back down.
Shuffling to the door, he walked as if he’d been shot. I clapped his back. We never touched except for high fives. He was more solid than I recalled, downright heavy in the shoulders.
“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” he said, with a doubtful glance over his shoulder.
I stood at the door. “Well, do what you need to do. I’ll take care of the nags for you.”
“I don’t know what I’ll do about my business. I’ve never left it longer than a week.”
“It’ll be all right. Japan can wait.”
“Yeah,” he said, and limped slowly down the deck stairs to his truck.
16.Tales of Scottish Mastectomy
TWO WEEKS PASSED AND I COULDN’T STOP THINKING ABOUT Shelly and his mother. One Tuesday I cruised by his house, Sweets the butterscotch brute perched on the passenger seat next to me. It didn’t look as if Shelly was home, and his truck was not in the driveway.
He in there, Sweets?
Don’t think so.
How can you tell?
All that turmoil is pretty easy to pick up. He’s as messed up as you.
You think so?
Birds of a feather.
What do you want to do?
Let’s go to the beach. I feel like frolicking in the waves. You don’t have a Frisbee, do you?
I can pick one up. Need to get a Racing Form and a couple of beers too.
But the minute I pulled onto the freeway I was overcome with pictures of Donny and messages I could not decipher.
Head full of static, I took the next exit, turned down the ramp, felt suddenly prescient. And then I knew why. To the right was a Coco’s. It was the Coco’s. It was also Tuesday, and I knew that there was a waitress inside named Deborah who might be wondering where Shelly had gone, and just once I decided I’d like to meet one of his mystery flames. Except for some raw bok choy and the occasional handful of cashews, I had forgotten to eat for several days and my pants were sliding down my hips. I pulled into the lot.
Hope you don’t mind if I drop in here for a few minutes.
Sweets looked away.
It’s Tuesday. I wonder if Shelly is in there.
He’s in Alabama.
How do you know?
That’s what you said.
You never know with Shell. It’s not unusual for him to announce one thing when he intends another, just to clear himself some space.
Okay, so maybe he’s in there. Bring me something to eat, a piece of fish or some French fries.
Coco’s was slow, the limbo lull between lunch and dinner. My eyes scanned the restaurant for Shelly. There were a few oldsters killing time over coffee
