Hail Mary

by Nicola Rendell

  As soon as he disappears inside, I put my foot down and peel out of the little parking lot, making a fast right on Clybourne that gets me an angry honk from a cab. I glance back in my rearview at his Lexus with the fancy rims and impeccable paint job. A wafting smell comes back to me as a memory, that powdery smell of drywall in the air, and that noise of crumbling bits and pieces falling down between the studs.

  I did learn a few things from him, though. Like putting cold cucumber slices on your eyes for twenty minutes can almost hide the fact that you’ve been crying all night. That neighbors won’t call the cops, no matter how loud the yelling gets. That holes punched in the drywall need a patching mesh for the joint compound to take. And that I would never ever let that kind of anger back into my life again.

  The thing was, it was a hard habit to break. My dad, when he was alive, he had a temper to rival Eric’s. That same brutish, brutal, brooding way about him. I thought I deserved it. I knew how to suffer through it. Until one day, it was just…

  Enough. All of it. And that was the day I showed up at Bridget’s door with a suitcase, and no fucking idea what to do next.

  “Fuck you,” I growl back at him and the memory of him. “Never ever again.”

  But that poor lovely Sikh man in the convenience store. What am I doing leaving him there in the eye of the storm? I will not let another innocent person get their heart ripped open by Eric Goddamned Cavanaugh. If I can stop it, I have to. So it’s time to dig down in the dregs and the memories. It’s time to scare the living shit out of him and get a little bit of retribution in the bargain. I scan the street and pull off in a bus zone. Grabbing my phone, I go to Google Maps, where I pinch out and see the Mobil station. I push on it and hit CALL.

  One ring. Two. Then three. Before the man even says hello, I hear Eric bellowing and feel the hot bile in my throat. “Mobil Station on Harrison,” the attendant says meekly. “This is Anand. How can I help you?”

  In the background, Eric screams, “You motherfucking imbeciles! How’s a guy supposed to get gas? Your card machine is down and you don’t have an ATM? Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

  God, how I hate him. To assuage my fears, I imagine his princess-cut Tiffany’s ring, the one I never liked, in an enormous pile of dirty toilet paper at the water purification plant out by Navy Pier. It helps. A little. Then I buckle down, because there’s a bully to terrify and I am fortunate enough to know exactly how to do it.

  I straighten up in my seat. “Listen carefully, Anand. Hold steady. See that guy yelling at you?”

  “Fucking ineptitude is running rampant in this motherfucking city! And what is that thing on your head?”

  Nope. This ends here. I smell the drywall in the air already.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Anand says, his voice quivering. That’s the fear. I know that fear.

  I scratch my nose with my mitten and explain as calmly as I can. “Tell him that you are very sorry, but you were distracted because you have a rat problem.”

  “Ma’am? We do not…”

  “Anand. Listen to me. It’s imperative you say the word rats. Just yell it if you have to. Doesn’t matter how. Just do it.” I take a deep breath as Eric’s screaming gets louder. “Please.”

  “Rats, ma’am?” says Anand.

  Instantly, there is silence in the convenience station. One Mississippi. Two. Then finally, Eric whimpers, “What did you say?” But a whole octave higher than before.

  The goose bumps, the pinch in my cheeks, the tears of delight welling up in my eyes. Score one for the girl who’d had enough.

  And then, like an absolute champion, Anand says, more loudly, “Sorry, sir, for the inconvenience, but I was distracted because we are having a very, very serious rat problem. In fact, I think there is maybe one right there by your foot, sir.”

  Everything is silent. Until the ding-dong of the laser bell in front of the door announcing the Eric the Asshole’s glorious departure.

  “Yes!” I whisper. “Anand! Yes!”

  Anand exhales. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  But we’re not out of the woods yet. I’ve seen him lose his shit on inanimate objects, and ideally that will not be happening to poor Anand’s pump number three. “Is he leaving?”

  “Oh my…” says Anand. I can almost hear the smile in his voice. “I think I forgot to put the salt on the ice, ma’am.”

  “Did he fall down?”

  “Most spectacularly!” Anand chuckles. “Now he’s up again. Poor fellow tore his pants. Yes. Yes, ma’am, he’s leaving.”

  I close my eyes and let the relief wash over me, the delight at finally getting him in the soft spot, out of nowhere, just like he used to do to me. Resting my forehead on the cold steering wheel, I remind myself that it’s nothing more than memories. I am safe and it is over. He will always stay gone. I will always be free. He is just a smudge in my past. I survived it and came out stronger, and now, here I am.

  “Truly. Thank you, ma’am. Please feel free to come here anytime for a free fill-up. Or coffee. We have very nice flavored coffees. I can give you coffee for life. Rats!” Anand chuckles warmly. “Rats. May you be eternally blissful, my dear.”

  I shake my head, smiling and feeling a wave of tears of relief spring to my eyes. “My pleasure, Anand. May you be eternally blissful too.”

  14

  Jimmy

  After she leaves, I crawl back in bed. I don’t really have time to be dicking around either, but I also don’t want to do anything but lie down back where we were. For one minute. One little minute…

  The two of us are alone on a beach in Belize. She’s in a bikini, drinking something with an umbrella in her glass. The sun is shining on her body, and there’s a little bit of sand accentuating the curve of her hip. Her bikini is blue and white striped. Her cleavage is a vision. I reach over and rub a little sunscreen over her shoulder.

  But then it all gets a little weird. Her pretty mouth is moving, but I can’t hear the words.

  “What?” I ask her.

  She cocks her head.

  “Who the fuck is playing the theme from Monday Night Football?” I say, but then again, I don’t know if I said it at all. Mary doesn’t answer. Instead, she takes a banana from a bowl of fruit on the table between us and unpeels it, slowly running her tongue right up to the…

  Oh. Fuck. Right. I sit up in bed and rub my face. My phone whirrs and rings from the floor, in my pants. Dun-da-dun-dunnnnnn. Dah-dun. Dah-dun. I lean out of the warm bed, snatch it up, and pat through my pockets. Dun-dun. Da-dun.

  I wonder if it’s my dad, but that doesn’t seem right. Maybe it’s my brother, the asshole, calling to say he can’t take care of my niece because he’s got to go play poker, or get his car out of the tow yard, or he’s on a bender, or he’s just busy fucking up someone’s life for fun, and would I mind finding her a babysitter.

  As I hit the answer button, I growl, “What the fuck, Michael? One of the bookies break your fingers so you can’t text again?”

  “Falconi?” says a voice. That’s not Michael. Oh fuck. That’s… “Coach Radovic here.”

  Goddamn it. I put my fingers to the bridge of my nose. “Sorry. Yeah. Morning, Coach. Thought you were someone else. How’s it going?” I roll out of bed and pad into the kitchen toward the coffee pot with my hand to my forehead. Way to start it off right, Jimmy. Well fucking done.

  I hear the ping-ping-ping of a spoon in a coffee cup on the other end of the line, and then the trademark noise that is Radovic’s alone: the swish-swish of his too-tight warm-up pants rubbing together between his thighs. I’ve got a theory he might even sleep in them. “All right, Falconi. So…” Radovic says, but then there’s a blink-out on the line, and after some rustling, “Aww fuck, hang on. Got another call. Don’t go anywhere.”

  “Yeah, sure, of course,” I say, realizing after I’ve said it that I’m talking to myself.

  I pour my coffee into a mug and add about half an inch of cream. Then I sit down on the couch, wi
th my legs on the coffee table. I turn on the TV, muting ESPN. On the screen is normal morning stuff, wrap-up from the weekend, and Monday. Broncos win, and there’s a slow-motion reel of their new QB throwing a killer 50-yard pass. Browns lose, which just confirms one of the eternal truths of American football: God hates Cleveland sports. Highlights, lowlights. A spectacular sack in which Eli Manning is sent flying backward five yards and lands with a fucking astonishing bounce, like a stuntman. “Shiiiiit,” I hiss, feeling that impact in my own vertebra.

  On the crawl at the bottom of the screen, there are lists of injured players, substitutions, all the normal stuff. This guy out, this guy in, injured reserves. Fractured tibia, concussion. Broken big toe. That broken toe shit blows.

  In the silence, I get pulled back to last night. I glance at the lamp I knocked off the front table and hear her saying please, please, please in my head. The way that edge of her shoulder looked under my fingers when I took her from behind. And this morning, that rough quickie? Jesus Christ.

  I look at my phone to make sure the call is still ongoing, and I see the seconds tick past. I put it back to my ear and focus on the TV.

  Now they’re looking ahead to the weekend. The crawl at the bottom of the screen announces, “BEARS NEED WIN TO HAVE PRAYER OF PLAYOFFS.”

  Assholes.

  But of course, they’re right.

  If we don’t come back from 4-5, we’re fucked. The thing is, I don’t play for “gridiron glory” or any of that shit. It’s all for my niece, really. The investments, the planning. I’ve got a spreadsheet on my computer figuring out exactly how much she’d need—really need—to take care of her forever. Answer?

  A hell of a lot of money.

  Sometimes, she’s the only reason I keep playing. She’s definitely the reason I shop at Costco. That and the roast chicken. Even though I’m past my prime, I’ve stuck with it. To make things good and secure for her. To give her what her deadbeat, shithead, son-of-a-bitch dad can’t.

  Except, yeah. I’m not going to lie. There’s a part of me, deep down, that would like to be able to look myself in the eye and see a guy who didn’t just grind along in the muck for 15 years getting concussed and bruised and tackled without ever seeing a hint of glory. I’d like to say that Jimmy Falconi actually did something.

  Like won a Super Bowl ring with the Bears.

  The last four games have felt like I’ve got some mental block. I’ve seen more sports psychologists than I can count. They tell me I’m over-thinking it, under-thinking it. Over-throwing, under-throwing. Everything and nothing is wrong. I’ve been poked and prodded, had my throwing style modified, even been hypnotized. Whatever the problem, everybody’s agreed on one thing: It’s the kind of shit that can end a career.

  “WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO JIMMY FALCONI?” says the crawl. The camera pans to Chris Berman, who says something, looking awfully doubtful, and then what does he do? Shrugs.

  Christ.

  Radovic comes back on the line and clears his throat. “Here’s the deal, son. We’re bringing in a new physical therapist, someone who might have a different approach.”

  Is that it? Fucking hell, please tell me that’s…

  Ding-ding-ding goes the coffee cup. But…” says Radovic.

  Knew it. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck…

  “But new PT or not, you get one more chance,” he slurps. “On Sunday. And if you can’t pull out a win, we’re gonna have to let you go.”

  15

  Mary

  Our apartment building is one of those places with a grimly fancy foyer, complete with old-fashioned brass mailboxes built into the walls, all with cheap refitted locks that don’t quite work right. I decide to take the elevator because my thighs are still trembling. Still. Lord.

  The elevator whirrs upward in a slow grind. On all the walls are moving pads. Just think of the fun we could have in here.

  As soon as I step out onto our floor—which, due to a really lovely Indian family down at the end of the hall, always smells just like chicken tikka masala—I hear Frankie Knuckles snuffling under the door of our apartment. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” I say, hustling down the hall and hearing him swipe furiously at the bottom of the door with his claw, the same way he hunts for his tennis ball when it gets stuck under the fridge. Scratch-scratch-scratch. Pause. Scr-scr-scraaaaaatch.

  Fumbling with my key, I finally get it in the lock, but the door swings open before I can turn the key. It’s Bridget, with a green mud mask on, ankle jeans, and fuzzy slippers. She’s got her red hair tied up in a red bandana and is wearing a blue flannel shirt, tied at the waist. There are very definite hints of Rosie the Riveter.

  At my feet, Frankie celebrates my return to his little world as if I have been gone for six months instead of a single night. He gets up onto his back legs and thrusts his arms out, spinning in a wild circle.

  “How was Moist Ache?” Bridget asks, patting down the green mud around her eyes with the tips of her fingers.

  “Oh God, Bridge.” I swoop past her, picking up Frankie. “He was just unbelievable….and then this morning…” Oh nope, not that. Don’t go there, Mary. I can’t tell her about Eric. She’s like the Doberman of friends. She’ll go right over to his place and egg his apartment door. We don’t need that. Not again. So I say, “Never mind. I’ll fill you in later. I’ve got to get the hell out of here.”

  I plant a kiss on Frankie’s cheek, and he flops around in my arms like a big fish. “I missed you!” I tell him and blow a raspberry on his stomach. He kicks in the air and stretches out, out, out, until his little hind legs look like they belong on a chicken. As I scratch his chest, he gives me his signature Frankie Knuckles smile, that shows off a snaggle tooth by lifting his right cheek. “Sorry I didn’t come home. Mama Mary was bussseeeeeee.”

  He flings his head one way and then the other, wiggling his tail against my arm. I lift him up to my shoulder like a baby. He gives a tiny burp.

  “Pullllease.” Bridget locks the door. “We were fine. Did our toenails and everything.”

  Oh God. I grab Frankie’s front paw between my thumb and forefinger. And sure enough, he’s got one pink toenail. “You really are just unbelievable. What are they going to say about him at doggie daycare? You know he’s putting the moves on that Bichon Frise. How’s he going to explain this?” I tease, grabbing an apple from the bowl on the counter. The kitchen looks like some sort of holistic chemist’s lab slash bartending school. Bridget likes her martinis strong and her cosmetics natural; she’s got a mortar and pestle out with about fifty aspirin in it. She’s always about aspirin masks and this-that-and-the-other thing. Don’t even get me started on the time she tried to make her own leg wax.

  “What? He was sleeping! Look how pretty it turned out.” She takes his paw in her hand and does a move awfully reminiscent of the showgirls on The Price Is Right.

  “Next thing we know, you’ll be buying him rhinestone collars.”

  She winks. “Christmas only comes once a year!”

  I set Frankie down and he trots after me. As we go, he snatches his half-stuffed little panda up off the floor and flings it into the air to kill it for the seven-thousandth time. He gives it a death shake and growls into the black and white plush, the broken squeaker clicking between his teeth. Once inside my room, Frankie jumps on my bed and buries his panda in my pillows. I unwind my scarf and throw it to the floor, and then riffle through my drawers for my fresh work clothes. Not exactly a uniform, but sort of—soft, clean yoga pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt with the company name I work for on it: Healing Therapies LLC.

  I spin around, reaching for my makeup to give myself some semblance of togetherness. When I look in the mirror, though, I notice I have a souvenir. A big, purple, Jimmy Falconi’s mouth-shaped souvenir.

  Well that explains that shit-eating grin he gave me when I was still in bed.

  Bastard!

  The hickey is so clear and obvious, I could take dental impressions from it. I lean in and gently depress t
he edges. My God. “Got any remedies for this?” I say, leaning out into the hallway and pointing at my throat.

  Her face lights up. “Oh shit!” Her mouth drops open. “Hoover or Dyson? Because there is no way a mouth did that…”

  A mouth. That mouth. That man. I try to dust a little powder over it. No luck at all.

  Bridget peers at it closer. “Does he have a friend? Did he take a class?”

  “Seriously. You have a remedy for everything. Remember when I sprained my finger and you made a potato poultice? And you’re telling me you don’t have a fix for this?”

  She leans in, then shakes her head. “I vote for an extra-large bandage.” She blinks about ten times, touching her own neck in sympathetic hickey pains, and then a slow smile creeps up her face. “Who is he? Who is this mysterious Moist Ache with the magic mouth?”

  The two of us huddle together in front of my vanity mirror. It really is kind of startling, and just looking at it—at the shape of his mouth on my skin—sends a rush all through me again. “Scarf? I think that’s the only answer.”

  Bridget nods. “Something chunky and fluffy. Not even Maybelline can help you now.”

  I fly back into action, putting on a fresh bra, fresh underwear, and my clothes. I sit on my bed and put on a pair of extra-thick socks.

  It’s a huge mistake because in the world of Frankie Knuckles, socks mean walks. I try to be nonchalant about it. I don’t make eye contact. But it’s way too late.

  He watches me unroll the second sock and sticks his tush up into the air. “No, little man, we’re not…”

  His tail wags so slowly it hardly moves at all.

  “Frankie. Quiet time.” I use a reassuring, low, Cesar Milan-like voice. “It’s bedtime. Not…”

  But the eagle has flown. The secret sock signal has been registered in his tiny walnut brain and there’s nothing I can do to take it back.

  With his collar jingling, he tears off out of my room, doing a sort of Looney Tunes skid on the hardwood floor, moving his feet in running motions but not getting any purchase. Then he makes a 180-degree turn and zooms off toward the bathroom. I hear him thump against the tub and he tears off the other way, ears back and out of his mind.