Given how much he smoked – the garage resembled a giant hot box most days – it was amazing he was even sentient. When Robert and I sat him down to talk about his habit and how it might be contributing to his lack of ambition, he pulled out his medical marijuana certificate, signed by a real MD, and told us he needed it to deal with stress, which, I told them both, was like the Pope claiming he needed a prescription for Viagra. Gene’s comeback to that was that the Pope, like most Catholic priests, probably did need a prescription for Viagra. Maybe he should look into a career in improv.
Robert finally gave him an ultimatum. Either he quit smoking and got a job, or moved out, as we were no longer going to fund his drug habit and didn’t want June exposed to it. Gene took the ultimatum to heart, or maybe he was just scared he’d end up homeless, because the very next day he got a job working behind the bar at the Bison Lodge in town, and we never again smelled the heady aroma of weed wafting from the apartment.
Maybe he goes somewhere else to smoke, I’m not sure, but he doesn’t seem like quite so much of a space cadet as he used to; he’s up before ten most mornings, he puts out the trash, cleans the leaves from the pool, takes June to soccer and basketball at the weekends and occasionally wanders into the house with a cake he’s baked and flops on the sofa to watch American Crime with me.
When he lost his job two weeks ago (he said they were laying people off but I suspect he was fired for being unreliable) I started talking to him about turning his talent for baking into a career as a chef. I thought he’d laugh at me like he usually does when I offer him ideas for a career path that requires getting out of bed before seven each morning, but he actually took the idea seriously. Yesterday he showed me some culinary courses he’d bookmarked on his iPad, so maybe there’s light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe he won’t still be living with us when he’s sixty, although perhaps by then we won’t mind so much as we’ll likely be senile and grateful for having someone to lift us out of bed, change our diapers and spoon-feed us baby rice.
‘Always look for the silver lining,’ my dad used to say, and that’s what I’m trying to do.
As I head inside the house behind June I think I hear a raised voice over the top of Gene’s music. I stop. Nothing. Maybe the TV is on. It better not be American Crime – he promised we’d watch the last episode together.
In the kitchen, June’s left the milk on the side and the refrigerator door ajar. I put the milk away and wipe up a spill, set the alarm by the back door, and then wander over to the other side of the house to Robert’s study. The door is shut. I press my ear to it. Not a peep. Silently, I try the handle. It’s locked. That’s unusual. I try to ignore the first thought that flashes into my mind, which is that he’s in there watching porn. I knock and call his name. There’s the sound of a filing cabinet slamming shut with the force of a guillotine, and then I hear Robert clearing his throat before the door jerks open.
‘You’re back,’ he says, surprised.
He seems flustered and his shirt is half hanging out of his pants. I frown at him and try glancing over his shoulder to see if I can see his computer, but he’s angled the screen away from the door. ‘I had to pick up June, she wasn’t feeling well,’ I say, eyeing him with suspicion.
‘June’s home?’ Robert asks, looking mildly alarmed.
‘Yes, she’s gone up to bed. She’s fine, I think, don’t worry.’
Robert rubs the bridge of his nose and glances at his watch. He hasn’t shaved and I notice the flecks of white in his beard now far outnumber the black, but it only makes him look more handsome. Men have it so much easier than women, I think, making a mental note to make an appointment with my hairdresser.
‘Did you eat already?’ I ask, hoping to salvage something of this evening.
He nods.
‘Do you want to come to bed?’
Robert shakes his head. ‘No, no,’ he says, distracted. ‘I have some things to finish off.’
I really hope he’s not being literal, but he doesn’t look like a man caught with his pants down. He looks more like a man in the final moves of a challenging chess match.
‘Oh,’ I say, trying not to sound disappointed, ‘OK.’ I kiss him on the cheek. ‘Well, goodnight then. I’m sorry again about our plans. Maybe we can do it tomorrow night?’
‘Maybe,’ Robert says, hurriedly closing the door. A hissing voice in my head tells me he’s just not that into me anymore, but I try to ignore it.
I cross the living room and draw the blinds. As I’m doing that I see someone rushing down the stairs from Gene’s apartment. Whoever it is is dressed all in black and is wearing a dark sweater with a hood covering their face. Adrenaline shoots through me before I realize that it’s not a burglar at all. It’s Gene. I’m just not used to seeing him move that fast. And I’m not used to seeing him wearing actual clothes. He usually lounges around the house in his ratty old
