You Give Good Love

by J. J. Murray

  I want Dylan to take me, oh yes, but do I want him to take me to a show? Not really. The last show I went to with Odell, which somehow won a few awards, was so pretentious, insipid, and boring that I had to wake him up at the end, and I vowed never to see another one.

  “Kiki, I’m going down to Subway,” Hope said. “Want me to get you anything?”

  Kiki’s eyes widened. “You are eating today?”

  Hope nodded.

  “I did not know that you ate,” Kiki said. She pulled a ten from her purse. “Get me a B.M.T. with extra black olives and extra banana peppers, light mayo, lettuce, tomato, and red onion.”

  Hope took the money. “I do eat, Kiki.”

  “But I have not seen you eat,” Kiki said. “This man must make you hungry.”

  Hope smiled. “He does.”

  “Ah, then you must go out to eat before the show.” She winked.

  “Maybe,” Hope said.

  Hope trotted a few doors down to Subway, stood in line listening to some seriously old sixties music, ordered two B.M.T.s the same way, added two oatmeal cookies and two Pepsis, and returned to Thrifty, setting the bags and drinks on the counter.

  “I didn’t know what you wanted to drink,” Hope said. “I hope Pepsi is okay.”

  “It is.” Kiki pulled her sub from the bag.

  “Oh,” Hope said. She handed Kiki her change.

  “So who is this man, and where has he buried the old Hope?” Kiki asked.

  “I’d rather . . .,” Hope started to say, eating her cookie first. “I just met him, and I don’t want to jinx it, you know?”

  Kiki shrugged. “He still has a name.”

  She only knows him as Mr. Healy. I think. “His name is Dylan.”

  “Was that so hard to say?” Kiki asked.

  No recognition. Good. “No.”

  “Tell me about this Dylan.”

  How much do you tell a coworker? Should you tell any coworker any part of your personal business? Should you ever tell an Island coworker any of your business? Hmm. I will keep it generic. “Well, he’s tall, and he works with children.”

  “Does he . . . move you?” Kiki asked. “Does he . . . make you move?”

  “Both.” I did some serious running this morning.

  Kiki swiveled on the stool to face her. “How much?”

  “How much does he move me?” Hope asked.

  “Yes.” She smiled. “How much of a champion is he?”

  “A champion?” Hope asked.

  “A grindsman,” Kiki said.

  “A what?”

  “You are not Jamaican?” Kiki asked.

  Hope explained her Trini and Bahamian roots.

  “You are an Island girl and do not know what a grindsman is,” Kiki said. “I will rephrase. On a scale of one to ten with ten being ‘Oh yes, Dylan, don’t stop, Dylan, I am in ah-go-nee,’ what is this Dylan?”

  “Ah-go-nee”? Oh. Agony. So, a champion or a grindsman is a man who puts a woman in sexual agony. Why would sex give a woman agony? Well, it has been a long time for me, so I suppose it would hurt quite a bit—

  “Do not think too long now,” Kiki said.

  “Kiki, Dylan and I just met, so . . .”

  Kiki puffed out her lower lip. “So there has been no jooking?”

  Hope squinted. “Jooking?”

  “No jooking, no ‘Oh yes, Dylan’?”

  Oh. Jooking is having sex. In Trinidad, to “jook” means to stab. Oh! “Not yet,” Hope said, turning and stuffing half of the second cookie into her mouth. Didn’t Americans once have places called “juke joints”? Is that what went on in those places?

  “Ah, but you are so ready, are you not?” Kiki asked.

  My mind is ready, but I doubt my body is. “Well . . .”

  “Does Miss Hope want there to be some ‘Oh yes, Dylan’ soon?” Kiki asked.

  Kiki has me thinking about jooking during a Subway lunch on a Thursday. Who thinks about jooking on a Thursday? I hope she can’t tell that I am blushing fiercely. My eyebrows are even starting to sweat. “Oh yes,” Hope said, attempting a smile.

  Kiki burst into laughter. “ ‘Oh yes,’ she says! I knew there was more to you than the maga duppy hiding under that ugly smock back there at the machines.”

  “The what?”

  “You are more than the skinny ghost who wanders back and forth making copies,” Kiki said. “You are a funny, beautiful woman, Hope, and I am glad this Dylan has made you happy.” She stared hard at Hope. “And both of you must come to see The Sense of Sound tomorrow night.”

  She is a broken record. “What’s the show about?” Hope asked.

  “Love, sex, pain, suffering, joy,” Kiki said. “A typical day in the life of the world. It is mostly about life. I do not want to give anything more away. I have seen some rehearsals, and they have been brilliant.”

  Brilliant? It sounds depressing, Hope thought. Maybe I should go. Pain and suffering are good friends of mine.

  Kiki stretched, arching her back and closing her eyes. “I could fall asleep right now.” She snapped her eyes open. “On-Gee and I had a late night at the theater.”

  Should I ask Kiki about Angie—I mean, “On-Gee”? Is that the polite thing to do? What if Kiki starts talking more about jooking? Do two women jook, or do they do something else? Maybe they “cook” or “hook.”

  “So, Kiki,” Hope said, “how is Angie?”

  “She works too hard,” Kiki said. “She is on the lighting crew for this show. She comes home so late. I cannot wait for this show to begin so she can be home at a decent hour. I get no joy from eating alone.” She bit into her sub, chewing furiously. “Hope, I hate to do this to you, but it is necessary. Is it okay if I leave early today? On-Gee and I must post these flyers before the full dress rehearsal tonight.”

  “I don’t mind.” I want to have Dylan all to myself later anyway. She looked at the clock, willing two o’clock to become five o’clock in a hurry.

  After eating half of her sub, Hope tried to find anything to do to keep herself from looking at the clock. She drifted to the mainframe to check her e-mail and found her in-box empty. She ran two hundred more “Siamese Snow Angels” cards through the Baum. She ran diagnostic tests on every machine. She cleaned and polished every bit of the self-serve copier. She straightened up the wall of paper. She did everything but take inventory.

  I’m not bored and anxious enough to do that. Who is?

  At 4:30 PM, Dylan entered the store, the broadest smile on his face.

  Hope tried not to smile, but she couldn’t help it. He’s early. Does this mean he couldn’t wait to see me? Hope watched her boots dancing on the safety mat.

  Kiki perked up and smiled as Dylan approached the counter. “Hello, Mr. Healy,” Kiki said. “What can we do for you today? Do you have an order to pick up?”

  It’s time for Kiki to leave. Hope danced her feet to Kiki’s side. “If you want to go now, it’s okay,” she whispered. “You want to have those flyers annoying people on their way home, right?”

  Kiki slid off her stool. “That is a good idea, Hope.” She reached under the counter and grabbed the stack of flyers. “I will need a good stapler, some staples, and some tape, just in case.” She opened a drawer, taking a stapler and a box of staples.

  Hope found a roll of clear packaging tape and handed it to Kiki. “I’ll cover for you if Justin asks,” Hope whispered.

  Kiki rolled her eyes. “Bay-it,” she whispered. She squeezed the roll of tape and the box of staples into a jacket pocket. She left one flyer on the counter, tapping on it with a long fingernail. “Do not forget.”

  “I won’t,” Hope whispered.

  “I will owe you for this,” Kiki said.

  “It’s no problem,” Hope said, looking up and smiling at Dylan, who smiled back.

  We’re two smiling people trying to get some alone time.

  After stopping to tape a flyer to the front door, Kiki swept out of the store, adding a little wave.

>   “Hi,” Dylan said.

  “Hi,” Hope said. I will say “hi” today, but now I’m suddenly nervous again. She hefted the bags containing the “Siamese Snow Angels” cards to the counter. “Adding this morning’s order, our balance is now two-eighty. Check them out.”

  Dylan reached into the bag and withdrew one card. “Nice. Light and yet sturdy.”

  Like me. Well, sort of. “Yes,” Hope said.

  He slipped the card back into the bag, took out his wallet, and slapped a check card into Hope’s hand. “Ring us up.”

  Hope looked at the card and saw “Odd Duck Ltd” instead of Dylan’s name. “You didn’t use this card last night,” Hope said.

  “Because there wasn’t much in that account last night,” Dylan said. “PayPal came through this morning. How does it feel to be almost five hundred dollars richer?”

  Hope zipped the card through the reader. “How do you think I feel?”

  “Happy?” Dylan said.

  That seems to be the word of the day. “Of course I’m happy.” She handed him his receipt. What do we do now? Our transaction is over. He can take the cards and go. “When will you mail these out?”

  Dylan leaned on the counter. “Saturday. But unless I get more stamps, I can only mail out two-thirds of them. I have only run out of stamps like this once before.”

  “With ‘Skinny Santa’?” Hope said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I like how you used him on your cards. You even improved on him. Thank you.”

  Maybe I just wanted to sit on your knee for a while. Hope caught her breath. Why are these thoughts assaulting me so much lately?

  Dylan sighed. “But I truly hate waiting in line at that post office. I go to the one on Fulton Street. I try to go there only on Saturday mornings, but even those lines are vicious. They rarely open a second line even when there are twenty people in line, and the workers there have daggers in their eyes and never smile.”

  Hope sat on Kiki’s stool. “Unlike here.” She smiled. “So what’s your next immediate step?”

  “I get the privilege of going home to print out address labels, stick those labels to envelopes and boxes, stuff envelopes, seal boxes . . .” He shrugged. “My apartment becomes a miniature UPS store.”

  That actually sounds like fun, Hope thought. Ask me to help you. I want you to stick to me and stuff my envelope, too. Hope blinked. Where has my libido been, and why can’t I control it?

  “On Saturday morning, I will walk in, dump the ones I have stamps for, and then wait in line for an hour to get more stamps.” He shook his head. “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

  “I could . . .” Hope said, looking at the counter. “I could help you, you know.”

  Dylan shrugged. “I don’t mind doing it, and I’ve got nothing better to do on Saturdays. It’s become part of my routine.”

  “But I’m your partner,” Hope said.

  “And you work, what, fifty hours a week, including Saturdays?” Dylan said. “Don’t you need any downtime you can get?”

  I’ve had almost eight years of downtime. I couldn’t stand another minute more. I need uptime.

  “I can ask off,” Hope said. “I have plenty of sick days saved up.”

  Dylan leaned forward. “Then who will run the store?”

  Good question. Hope sighed. “No one, I guess.” I need to train Kiki and Justin on these machines soon. “You will ask me if you need help, won’t you?”

  “I will,” Dylan said. He gathered the bags of cards.

  No! Don’t leave yet! “How long does it take for an order to get across the country?”

  “It depends,” Dylan said. “Three to five days, I guess. I’ve only had a few complaints, mostly from Canadian customers.”

  “Only a few?” Hope asked. “How many do you send to Canada?”

  “Roughly ten percent of my—I mean, our—sales,” Dylan said. “It may increase once I post your biography on the site.”

  “My biography?” Hope said. “Is your biography on the website?”

  “No, but I really didn’t need it before now, right?” Dylan asked. “Anonymity has its privileges. Now that I have you as a partner, however, I want to put our pictures on a ‘Meet the Odd Ducks’ page. I’ll put you on top, of course, since you’re the real artist.”

  I like to be on top. Or the bottom. Standing is fine, too, and you’re tall enough to grab my legs and—Hope blushed. I have to stop doing that to myself.

  “I’m even going to put our signature characters next to our pictures,” Dylan said, interrupting Hope’s thoughts of jooking. “Our characters do look a lot like us.” He pulled out his trusty memo pad and a pen. “So, Hope Warren, who are you?”

  What a question. What if I don’t freaking know? “Do you really need a picture of me?”

  Dylan slid a thin camera from his hoodie pocket and turned it on. “You look really nice today.”

  Hope turned away slightly. “I don’t want my—” Hope saw a flash. She turned fully to him. “Really, Dylan, I don’t look—”

  Dylan took another picture. “I like candid shots best, don’t you?” He snapped another one, checking the result on the little screen. “Hope, let’s go for happy and fun on this one. Smile!”

  Hope smiled.

  Dylan turned around the camera. “There’s a keeper.”

  Hope squinted at the little screen and saw herself smiling. Hey there, smiling woman. You look happy, and look at all that skin showing. I wish there wasn’t such a glare from your chest, though.

  Dylan pulled back the camera and returned it to his hoodie pocket. He readied his pen, waving it in the air. “So, Miss Warren, when did you know you were an artistic genius?”

  “I am not an artistic genius,” Hope said. “Are you really going to put my picture on the website?”

  “Yes.” He pressed his pen to the paper. “Give me something good to go with it.”

  “I don’t know if it’s going to be good,” Hope said. “Let’s see. I have a master’s of fine arts in art and design from the University of Alberta.”

  Dylan wrote it down. “I knew there was a reason for your talent. What else?”

  “There isn’t much else,” Hope said. “I work here, but you know that. I became an American citizen five years ago. My parents live in Canada now but were originally from the Bahamas. My grandparents are from Trinidad. I’ve been living in Brooklyn for about ten years. Oh, I have a cat named Whack.”

  Dylan smiled and wrote furiously. “You named your cat Whack?”

  “Yes,” Hope said.

  Dylan smiled. “That’s good.”

  “What’s good?” Hope asked.

  “All of this is good,” Dylan said. “Keep going.”

  Let’s see. Do I tell him that I’m probably anorexic? That I miss being in Canada? That I hate Christmas with a passion? That my sister thinks I was switched at birth? That I haven’t had sex in eight years? That my period is hiding from me? “What else do you need for the biography?”

  Dylan tapped his pen on the page. “What are your hopes and dreams, Hope?”

  Hope sighed. “I don’t know. I hope one day to own my own beach house.” Oh, why did I say that? It makes me sound so materialistic.

  Dylan wrote it down. “What do you do in your spare time?”

  Nothing! “Mainly I read.” Oh, I practice being depressed. I occasionally sleep. Oh, and now I’m pursuing the nicest man and fantasizing about what I want to do with him. Oh, if you like to get a little crazy, Dylan, I know I can accommodate your every desire. Why, if you want to reach out those big hands of yours—

  “What kinds of books do you read?” Dylan asked.

  He was just about to pull on my hair! “I don’t know,” Hope said, “I guess I prefer anything satirical and strange.”

  Dylan nodded. “Let me read this back to you. ‘Hope Elizabeth Warren, who has a master’s of fine arts in art and design from the University of Alberta, is a gorgeous Canadian-American with deep West India
n roots living and doodling in Brooklyn with her cat, Whack. This talented artist enjoys reading satire and dreams of one day owning her own beach house.’ ”

  Well, when you put it that way, I’m slightly interesting. “I’m not gorgeous.”

  Dylan closed the memo pad. “Too late. It’s already written down.”

  “But I’m not.” There’s not enough of me to be gorgeous. I vanish when I turn sideways.

  “I’m entitled to my opinion,” Dylan said. “Want to know how your ‘Santa’s Knee’ cards are selling?” He raised his eyebrows.

  “You already know?” Hope asked.

  “Yep.” Dylan smiled. “All told, you’ve sold ten full sets among two hundred total.”

  Wow.

  “Added to the four-fifty you’ve already made,” Dylan said, “I owe you a total of six hundred and thirty bucks.”

  “Wow,” Hope whispered.

  “I’ve already added your name to the Odd Duck account and am having the bank send your check card to me,” Dylan said. “They said it would take a week to ten days. I hope that’s all right.”

  “It’s fine.” Wow!

  “At this rate, Miss Hope, who doesn’t think she’s gorgeous but is actually more than gorgeous to me,” Dylan said, “you may have an extra twenty to twenty-five thousand bucks in your bank account by Christmas.”

  “Wow,” Hope whispered.

  “It might even be more,” Dylan said.

  I like the sound of that word. “More.” “But I might make much less, right?”

  Dylan shook his head, and then he whipped up the camera and snapped another picture. “I like this one, too. It has wonder in it. Your eyes are sparkling, too. I think I’ll title this one ‘Wow.’ ”

  She reached across the counter to grab his wrist. “Please, no more pictures.”

  Dylan shook his head, lining up another shot, Hope’s arm stretched to the limit. “This one I’d call . . . ‘Yearning.’ ” He snapped the picture. “Or ‘Cold Hands, Warm Heart.’ Or ‘Dylan, Please Stop Taking My Picture.’ ”

  Hope let go of his wrist. “You’re wasting pictures.”

  Dylan scrolled through the pictures. “These pictures don’t do you justice.” He put the camera in his pocket. “You look much better in person.”

  What do you reply to that? Do you say anything at all?