The last one was blond, tan, Nautilus-muscled, and predictably slow of wit—a pretty boy thirty-three years old. My mother was sixty-four at the time, but cradle-robbing seems to suit her. I tried not to picture him poolside at her condo in a man-thong. I got him drunk on straight shots of tequila down at Waley’s Tavern, a down-and-dirty bar on East Fourth where the owner, a rough-looking forty-something guy with a black belt in several different martial arts, unplugs the juke at about two in the morning and plays classical music, of all things, until closing time at four.
We left about the time Mozart started up, Pretty Boy unable to stagger effectively, testosterone level flatlined. In the wee hours, arms folded across an ample chest, my mom informed us that we were both jerks, utterly useless jerks, which seemed reasonably accurate to me. At least boyfriend Stevie wasn’t going to be of any use to her that night. Three weeks later she phoned from her aerie in Hawaii to tell me, pointedly, that she had a new “friend,” thirty-one years old, Queens-Italian, and a hunk like I wouldn’t believe. I asked if this one no longer wet the bed, which I knew wasn’t fair since she was entitled to do with her life as she saw fit, and she said no, he still does, giving me one of the most ribald laughs I’d ever heard in my life. I couldn’t keep up with her.
The house was all mine now, including its second mortgage. I’d rented it out when Mom left, then moved in after my divorce, after the former tenants had trashed the place. Six panels of sheet rock, a few gallons of paint, two new doors, new carpet, new cabinets, new toilet, and it was at least habitable again. It took three years for the smell of cigarette smoke to leach out of the walls enough that I was no longer smelling Marlboros. I’d burn the sonofabitch to the ground before I’d rent it out again.
Without turning on lights, I made my way down a short hallway and into my bedroom, hit the switch on the wall inside the door, and spotted the girl in my bed right off.
I stared. Goggled, actually. Out of reflex I reached for the gun at my hip. Would’ve pulled it too, if I’d been carrying.
I gripped the doorframe, unable to conjure up a coherent thought for several seconds. Another girl, another blond. It was turning into one of those red-banner nights.
A sense of having been violated eased into my brain. My space was my space, my priceless few square feet where I kept my stuff, and in which I could do as I damn well pleased. This girl, this unknown girl, had invaded that cherished space, crawled into my bed, my bed, and put herself to sleep. On my sheets. Mine.
At least I thought it was a girl, hoped it was. These days, well, suffice it to say you can’t always tell. I tiptoed over for a closer look. Yep, female, no doubt about it, and ordinarily I wouldn’t have viewed a girl in my bed as an insurmountable problem, but, tonight…
I sucked in a lungful of air with which to let out a mighty yell, to catapult her out of my bed with a bellow of outrage, but a note on the nightstand caught my eye, next to a half-full glass of water. I exhaled, then picked up the note. In an untidy scrawl it read:
Tired. Explain later. K.
I dropped the note back on the table, trying to think.
K. I didn’t know a “K.” More specifically, I didn’t know this K, I was sure of it. Mid to late twenties, out cold, lying on her side. Pert nose, pretty face partly hidden by tangled, still-damp honey-blond curls that didn’t reach her shoulders. And one naked shoulder, which I found more than a little intriguing. No sign of clothing on the little I could see of her, which caused my mind to ramble off in an entirely new direction for several beer-enhanced seconds.
“Hey!” I said. Not the swiftest opening gambit, but I couldn’t think of anything swifter and I didn’t think another minute was likely to change that.
The girl snored softly.
I sucked in another lungful and yelled, “HEY!”—but got no more response than the first time. I poked her shoulder, twice, then gave it a good shake.
Still nothing. But at least she wasn’t cold or stiff. Rigor hadn’t set in, wasn’t likely to.
I shook her, figuring about Richter six, and kept it up, rocking her pretty good, finally eliciting a moan of protest so far down in the abyss of unconsciousness that it might’ve been her last. But it was a response nonetheless, and I stopped abusing her, the better to start up a conversation. K promptly began to snore again, louder than before.
I blinked. Tired didn’t begin to describe the condition of this gal.
Or maybe not tired. I looked around, starting to think overdose. No empty pill container, no syringe. Nothing but the glass of water by the bed.
I poked my head out the door into the hallway. A damp, soapy smell lingered in the air, wafting from the vicinity of the bathroom. I went down there to have a look.
The shower stall was wet. Damp towels slung on the rack, a puddle on the floor. All of which made me wonder what she would’ve done if I’d walked in and caught her covered in suds and singing, “I’m gonna wash that man right outta my hair.” Hell, I wondered what I would’ve done.
Pursuing the overdose angle, I peered into the medicine cabinet. I didn’t keep a supply of arsenic, rat poison, or barbiturates on hand, but a person can end it all with garden-variety aspirin. All it takes is a deeper level of determination and a bigger glass of
