Hail Mary

by Nicola Rendell

  “STOP INSISTING ON CLEARING YOUR HEAD. CLEAR YOUR FUCKING HEART INSTEAD.”

  I put my forehead to the wall and breathe.

  Bukowski is right. He’s so exactly right.

  Because while this is head-crazy, these two days, this passion, this desire, it’s heart-sane. It makes sense, even though it shouldn’t. It is what I want, and what I need. I’ll kick myself forever if I chicken out now.

  I turn and face myself in the mirror. I think hard about how I felt when Old Style insulted Jimmy. How it wasn’t even something I had to think about, defending him. Believing in him.

  Yes, the thing with his brother was infuriating and scary. But I will not let a guy like that get between us. Bullies have taken enough from me already. I will not let Jimmy Falconi join the list of things I’ve lost.

  And so, I take my phone from my purse. I open up the chat window where he has been talking to me, pleading with me all day, and type in:

  I want to see what happens with us.

  I’m sorry I got scared.

  There are so many things I’d like to say besides that, but I just don’t know how. Not here. Not like this. This will have to do for now.

  Just as I put my finger over the SEND button, a woman bursts into my stall, with her skirt halfway down and her nylons in a twist at her thighs. “Sorry!” she shrieks at the top of her lungs.

  And plop goes my phone into the toilet.

  With my phone in a plastic bag that the waitress gave me, Bridget and I pluck our way home through the snowdrifts. The plan of attack is clear. A bag of rice under a warm light and a handful of prayers to the iPhone gods. It’s the only recourse. But as soon as we get into the stairwell, I smell it, even over the vague scent of tikka masala: roses.

  I glance at Bridget, thinking that the smell might be her. But she doesn’t wear rose scents. I remember that she once said that rose makes her smell like she belongs on display in a funeral parlor.

  She’s chattering about the Brute and the Minnow Man, and also about a guy she met named Dylan who does graphic design and is “actually growing his beard for Movember, like for real,” as she checks the mailbox. As we head up the steps, the smell gets stronger.

  “Do you smell that? Roses?”

  Bridget looks up from our electrical bill. “No. I smell the smell of burning money. We need to invest in more blankets. This is obscene.”

  I inhale deeply. And then, as I open the door to our hallway, I see them. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of roses in vases, lining the hallway all the way to our door.

  Bridget and I just stand there, until slowly I turn to face her. She meets me with that told you so look that she’s perfected so well. I kneel and get the card off the nearest bouquet. On it, it says:

  To Mary

  Give me a chance.

  Please.

  Jimmy

  “This might be worth something!” Bridget presses it to her chest. “I can hawk it on eBay. Might offset the electrical bill, you know?”

  The roses are splendid, overwhelming, and beautiful. There must be… I try to make a quick calculation. At least ten bouquets, with two dozen each. Hundreds.

  But it gets even better. Because, in front of our door, I see it. The pot of Chicago gold that I like better than any other snack. A five-gallon tin bucket of Garrett’s Popcorn.

  I peek under the lid and see it is a 50/50 mix of caramel corn and cheese corn. I slap the lid back down.

  “Is it?” Bridget says, eyes wide in anticipation.

  “The mix.”

  Bridget squeals. “I call dibs on maid of honor!” She pulls off her leather gloves by one fingertip in her teeth and plunges her hand into the caramel.

  Ripping off my own mitten, I dig right in to the cheese. There is nothing better, ever, anywhere, than Garrett’s cheese. My eyes close almost involuntarily in a kind of culinary orgasm all of its own. I drop my weight against the door and shovel another handful in. I chew and return to reality. I take out the little shiny gold card emblazoned with the Garrett’s logo on the front. This one is his writing. I remember it from the Post-its.

  Mary

  Cheese and caramel go together.

  Like you and me.

  Dinner. Tomorrow. 7. Alinea.

  “Alinea?” Bridget says, with her mouth full of caramel corn. “Holy fuck.”

  He wanted to sweep me off my feet.

  I’d say I’m already airborne.

  28

  Mary

  I take the L to Belmont and tighten my scarf against the cold as I walk down the block, past a bistro with only one woman sitting at the bar, and a cupcake shop painted lime green inside. As I get to his building, to the cleanly tuck-pointed brickwork that belongs to him, and the windows that are his, and the still-empty shops on the ground floor with signs for things like TOKYO NOODLE, COMING SOON, I make my way to the front door. His front door. All his.

  Eric had money. Lots of men have money. Lots of women have money. But there is something different about this. The idea that he bought this building, and renovated it, and will rent it, is somehow so much bigger and better than having, say, some four-million-dollar penthouse on the Gold Coast. He took a bad thing and fixed it up, to make it something good for him and a lot of other people. For a whole street to be better. Not just his own life.

  I stand nervously in front of the buzzer. Before I can overthink what I want to tell him, or how, I depress my finger on the button for apartment number four, which has a little sign next to it that says, “BUILDING MANAGER.” Not his name, nothing flashy. Just the handwriting I now recognize so well, understated and strong.

  My heart pounds wildly in my chest. A few cars pass behind me, splashing slush onto the snowdrifts.

  No answer.

  I press it again, this time feeling even more anxious. Because yes, I want to do this. I would kick myself forever if I didn’t see where it went.

  Still no answer. I back out onto the sidewalk and look up toward where his windows are. They’re all dark. Nobody home.

  From my purse, I take my little paper day planner and tear off the back page, the one with the whole year printed out in tiny font. I grab a pen from the bottom of my purse and pull off the lid with my teeth.

  Jimmy

  Having some phone trouble. Thank you for all the presents. I feel spoiled rotten. See you tomorrow at the stadium. And yes to dinner.

  xxoo

  I fold it into a square and tuck it into the spot where the door latches. I don’t want him to miss it, though, so I bend the edges open so they’re flat against the door like the square wings of a paper butterfly, impossible to miss. I draw a small heart on the bottom right-hand corner, and then I turn to go.

  With the wind in my face, I head down Belmont. My eyes sting from the cold, and I get bombarded with foggy clouds of diesel from passing busses. At the zebra crosswalk, I help a little old man with a cane through the uneven ice, the slush from the day that is now freezing into dangerous pools in all the gutters.

  Up ahead of me, the L clatters past, and I double-check that I’ve still got my pass in my pocket, ready to use at the turnstiles. But to my right, a little boutique catches my eye. The sort of place with only two mannequins in the window, both in gorgeous cocktail dresses. Those old-fashioned bulbs, same as the kind Jimmy has in the elevator, dangle down at irregular intervals from the ceiling. I watch the shop girls inside, one of them holding a cup from Starbucks and laughing. The snow falls softly onto my eyelashes and my cheeks, filling the air with the very same sound as was all around us the first time we kissed.

  This shop isn’t really my kind of place. I haven’t had any reason at all to go out anywhere fancy, not in the last year. After I left Eric, I donated all the dresses he bought for me to the Glass Slipper Project so girls could use them for homecoming and prom and quinceañeras. I never thought I’d need a real cocktail dress again.

  Until now.

  These dresses in the window are daring and sexy, not modest.
These are not country-club dresses. These are the kind of dresses that would look better with a leather cuff than they would with a string of pearls. Elegant. Sultry. Naughty. Daring. Gorgeous.

  I open the door and am met with the smell of rich scented candles, musky and warm. Sandalwood and pine. House music plays over the speakers above, and the shop girls turn and smile at me. One of them steps forward and says, “Hello.” The Monroe piercing above her lip glistens in the spotlights on tracks above.

  I take off my hat and mittens and stuff them in my purse. “I’d like to try the dress in the front window if that’s okay?”

  Her eyes widen a little as she leans in, looking at my eyes. “The green one?”

  I glance at it. I’d actually meant the black one. But the green one, a deep, rich green, is even more daring. It’s backless. It’s risqué. It’s a gamble. “Let’s give it a try.”

  29

  Jimmy

  I get to Alinea at 6:30, way too early, but I’m so nervous I don’t even know what the fuck else to do with myself. I haven’t felt this way about a date since I was going to my senior prom with the head of the cheerleading squad, whose dad was known for running guys off their property with a shotgun loaded with bear shot, and I didn’t even like her. This is a whole different kind of nerves. Mary Monahan nerves. Nerves that say, This is something, Jimmy Falconi. So don’t you dare fuck it up.

  I’m showered and shaved, in my best suit and best shoes. I’m in the Yukon this time, and take a second to make sure it’s nice and clean for her. I even gather up the change from the cup holder and stick it in the glove box. The valet takes my keys, and I slip the little number card into my pocket, where I still have her note from last night. I haven’t heard from her at all today, and it’s been kind of hard. I like having her within a finger’s touch, but it also gave us both some space to get a handle on this thing. At least for me, that meant thinking about doing it right. Thinking about how I want things for us to really start. It’s important for me to set the right tone with this so she knows she isn’t just some girl.

  In the hostess’ eyes, I see that glimmer of recognition I’ve gotten to know pretty well. But this place is super fucking classy, and she’s polite enough not to call any attention to me at all. She looks at the reservation book and then glances up at me. “Two for Falconi?” she asks.

  I smooth my jacket. “Yeah.”

  All right, so yes. I pulled some strings. Normally you have to wait six months for a reservation at this place, but the owner is a fan. I’ve never actually been here, but once he said to me, “Listen, buddy, if ever you want a table…”

  So today, I did it. I pulled the quarterback card, and now here we are. Well, here I am. Nervous as fuck.

  “Is this okay?” she asks, pulling out my chair for me.

  “Perfect. But I’m going to sit here so I can see her when she comes in.”

  The hostess smiles and pulls out the other chair, so I take a seat. Then she tucks in the other chair tidily against the table and walks away.

  Out in front of me, at sparkling tables, under halogen spots, there are all sorts of different groups of people. A cluster of middle-aged guys talking seriously and quietly about business, I’d guess. Or maybe politics. A father and daughter off to one side, I can tell from the identical small bump in their noses. An older couple, her short white hair styled in that pretty way older women have, like they know they’ve earned the right to be however they want.

  One of the chefs comes out in his white uniform and starts decorating their table, right on the bare, clean marble. With sauces, first, and then tiny, finger-sized portions. I am utterly fucking mesmerized. It’s art in progress, and by the time he’s done, it looks more Pollack than edible.

  Fuck. It hits me then. This might not be her kind of place at all. “Give me beer or give me death,” were her words. And now here I am taking her to a place that serves art for food.

  The chef says something about lobster slow-cooked in butter and an asparagus-truffle tower.

  Goddamn it. I might have overshot the mark here. There’s a big difference between wanting to spoil her and making her feel really uncomfortable.

  I rub my forehead. If she seems the least bit uncomfortable, we’ll get the hell out of here. If she seems like she feels out of place, or out of her element, I’ll have her eating ribs so fast she won’t know what hit her.

  But then, the front door opens, making the long dark curtains sway.

  My breath gets caught in my throat. Her makeup is darker than I’ve seen it, and her hair is smooth and beautiful in long, shiny spirals. The hostess steps aside and removes her coat for her. I watch her shiny, dark hair catch the light as the coat comes off her shoulders.

  “Oh fuck,” I groan.

  Every single person in the place goes dead silent. A fork drops. A pan clatters. Because Mary Monahan is a vision. She’s in a dark green satin dress with no back at all, showing off that beautiful, elegant, extraordinary tattoo, and that body, the very small of her back showing at the base of the long, long, tantalizing V.

  The hostess says something, and Mary turns, now walking toward me. She’s in sexy black heels, and her hair is spilling down over her shoulders.

  I used to wonder what it would feel like to be in zero gravity, what it would be like to be floating and weightless and a thousand miles above earth, where there were no rules and where everything was different and brand fucking new. Where champagne floated in droplets and your feet never touched the floor.

  Well. Now I know.

  As she nears the table, I stand up and pull out her chair for her. Her body slips past my suit coat, and I feel the warmth of her skin against my chest through my shirt. She doesn’t smell like coconut now, no. It’s something floral and warm.

  “Hello,” she says, her voice still a little bit hoarse.

  I can’t help myself and slip my hand along the side of that satin, feeling the curve of her body as she sits down. As she scoots forward, I can see straight down into that satin paradise, where I see the very top of her ass, hidden from the world. But not from me.

  “You look fucking spectacular.”

  She looks up at me over her shoulder, and I see a blush come up to her cheeks. “It’s not too much?”

  Too much? Please. There I was, worrying that she’d be out of her element. “Did you hear the fork drop when you walked in?”

  She looks away shyly, unfolding her napkin as I take my seat across from her. “That was completely a coincidence.”

  But I can tell she knows. And I love that she knows. She’s a showstopper, a fork-dropper, and train-of-thought stealer. Nobody’s pussycat but mine.

  I cannot take my eyes off her. “I think this every time I see you, but you really are the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  She closes her eyes, embarrassed. The front of her dress is just as sexy as the back, but it’s almost better because she’s wearing this incredibly naughty, thin leather choker. And the hickey—it’s either healed or she’s done some mega makeup magic, because I can’t see it at all. Her neck and chest is a sea of creamy white, perfect, flawless skin. And a plunging neckline that fucking wrecks me.

  “Where have you been all my life?” I say, getting lost in the curve of her cleavage and the way that that green makes her eyes shine like real emeralds.

  She fusses with her napkin, looking at her lap. And then her eyes meet mine, which is when she says just one word. The perfect thing. “Waiting.”

  Yes. A hundred fucking thousand times. Yes.

  “This is really just…amazing, Jimmy.” She looks around and pressing her lips together, gives me a little laugh. “So fancy.”

  I take her hand in mine. “The owner once told me that it’s okay to play with your food here. I figured we can do that, can’t we?”

  She gives my hand a squeeze and her thigh presses against mine under the table. I see a blush come up onto her cheeks, this pink flush. “Yes. I think we most definitely can.”
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  Over dinner, she tells me about how she grew up and where. She was raised by her aunt, who, she said, is a lesbian of the women need men like fish need bicycles school. “But I think she’d really like you.” She sips her white wine from a huge, elegant glass that makes her hands spread out in the sexiest way.

  “Yeah?”

  Nodding and watching me through the stem, her laugh echoes softly. “She’s a big Bears fan. I think she’d forgive you for being a man since you’re a Bear.”

  “Are your parents around?”

  Looking down, she straightens her napkin in her lap.

  Fuck. “Sorry.”

  She shakes her head. “No, no,” she says, touching the edge of the table. “I never knew my mom. Or my dad.” She sighs, fluttering her eyelids. “He was a little bit like Michael.”

  “I gotcha. Not the Man of the Year?”

  “Exactly. I was damned lucky to have my aunt.” Her eyes are a little sparkly now. “And I think Annie is damned lucky to have you. Even if you are a total internet celebrity. That gourd page, Jimmy.” She shakes her head. “Not exactly what I would have expected from a football player. Your miniature pumpkin game is so strong.”

  My snort makes the old couple glance over at me. “You Pinterest stalked me?”