Poughkeepsie Shuffle

by Dietrich Kalteis

  •

  Hanging up, I steadied the box, flipped open the phone directory on the chain, found the listing for taxis, stuck in my last quarter, made the call. Grabbing the box, I went and waited by the curb.

  Remembering I hadn’t called Penny back, the woman waiting to hear from me, needing to get her hands on the certified check. First call I’d make when I got home. Sitting on the box of burgundy at the curb, I wrung my hands together, couldn’t get rid of the tingling, telling myself to hang in there, just be another day or two. Make the run to Poughkeepsie, get the cars across the border, get the deed to the place, make peace with Ann. Getting up, I waved at the yellow cab slowing.

  . . . Downstroke

  I sat at the table, the box on top of it with the spigot hanging over the side, working on my second glass. Ann watched like she was getting a temperature read, the dishwasher chugging through its last rinse cycle.

  “I got flattened boxes,” she said, pouring herself a glass. “Went to that Stor-All place,” she said, taking a sip.

  “Uh huh.”

  “Can’t believe the junk we got in the crawl space and out in the garage, all your widowed socks in the drawer, half with holes.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Promised to darn them. Remember?”

  Looking at her, seeing her mouth moving, not really hearing the words.

  “You listening, Jeff?” Ann saying if I clipped my toenails once in a while . . . Putting her hands on her hips, she stared until I looked up.

  “Not listening again.”

  “Been that kind of day, Ann,” I said, working my thumbnail under the chipped Formica. Taking a swallow, I held the glass under the spigot and topped it. The tingling in my fingers was gone now.

  Ann saying she spent the afternoon finalizing the paint chips: Silver Lining for the entry hall, Gingersnap for the kitchen, a William Morris paper pattern for the powder room. Gave up searching for a bunny border. Looking at me, she frowned and said, “Never going to change, is it?”

  “Listening, Ann. Silver Lining for the entry.” I looked at her.

  “Ask myself every day why I stick around. Know what it means, Jeff, me thinking that way?”

  “Means you’re gonna start.” Not sure why I said it, I tipped up the glass, felt good going down. “Look, Ann —”

  “Uh uhn. Gonna let me finish.”

  “You got to start?”

  “Not going to start, Jeff. Going to finish.”

  “Look, Ann. We’re nearly there. Getting things worked out. Getting Penny the check —”

  “Oh . . .” Ann putting on the theatrics again, slapping a palm to her forehead, saying, “Nearly forgot, she called.” Her eyes drilling into me.

  “Penny?”

  “Told me about the clause you stuck in, one we didn’t talk about, wanting the seller to fix the statue.”

  “Right, the fountain. Yeah, a good idea, buy us some time till the bank comes through.”

  “She warned us, go in clean with no clauses.”

  “Like I said, Ann, just buying some time.”

  She refilled her glass, saying, “You went to the bank, right?”

  “Told you I did. Where I just was, spent half the afternoon. What’s your problem?”

  “While you were doing, whatever, she called, Penny, telling me we lost it . . .”

  “What?”

  “Should say you lost it . . . over your cement cock.” Tears rolled as she filled in the rest. Penny had called while I was playing demolition derby on the Gardiner, told Ann the sellers were going with the other offer, it coming in clean with no conditions. Nothing more she could do.

  The dishwasher finished its rinse cycle and ground to a stop, sounded like a death rattle. Downing half her glass in a swallow, Ann poured some more, pulling open the machine’s door. She leaned her head into the escaping steam of the Norge, breathing deep, saying, “Ah, a day at the spa.”

  The tingling was back in my hand.

  . . . The Madman’s Mosh

  The garage was dim under the fluorescent tube above the workbench, cobwebs hanging from the mounting chains. Ann pounded nails into a two-by-four. Some she sank, some she bent, the board looking like a pincushion. Paint cans and hand tools hopped on the bench as she struck. She grabbed a fistful more nails from the Beaver Lumber bag. Driving the hammer down through the wine fog, swearing like a chant . . .

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  Patching the tears in my suit with packing tape, doing it in the bedroom, applying it from the inside to hide the rips, I heard the banging and went to the garage door, watching. Ann giving up on the Zen, looking in need of a white jacket with the long sleeves, due for some cognitive-behavioral therapy. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Catching my shadow, she looked over, saying, “Should’ve listened to Deb. Damned house was a pipe dream, always was.”

  “Come on Ann, how’s this helping? Do your breathing, relieve some stress or something.”

  “I am relieving stress.” Gripping the hammer like she might attack.

  “How about a cup of tea. I’ll make it?”

  “Know what I don’t need, don’t need you telling me what I need.”

  “There’ll be other places.”

  “You hear the one about the ex-con walks into a bank, tries to get a loan.” Taking the hammer like a microphone, doing another one of her Robin Leach bits, saying, “Sure, Mr. Nichols, how much you need?”

  “A cash offer came in, and they went with it. Simple. Not my fault.”

  “Goddamn turned my life to crap with your bullshit promises, keeping me in the dark. Same way it always turns out.” Holding a nail, she slammed the hammer down.

  “Can’t deal with you like this.” I said I had a bag to pack. Had to get my mind on Poughkeepsie. Ted putting Vick and me on a plane, the flight leaving at nine in the morning.

  I left her slamming the hammer, and she must have missed, striking her hand.

  Howling.

  I went back to the door in time to see her do the madman’s dance of pain, clamping the hand between her knees, jumping and glaring at me and gritting her teeth.

  “You okay?”

  All I got was a low growl. Taking a step like she might attack, she slipped on the oil stain. Whirling her arms, she lost her balance and went down hard, the hammer pinging off the work bench.

  Going to her, I swept the hammer away with my foot, tried to help her up, but she pushed me off, yelling, “Get away from me!”

  . . . Undone

  Folding the suit, the bite marks on the trousers and a dried crust of slobber on the sleeve, I laid it in the suitcase. Coming in, composed now, Ann sat at the end of the bed, looking at her thumbnail turning black.

  “Bet it hurts, huh?”

  “I don’t know you,” she said, dumping the suitcase on the floor, my clothes and toiletries ending in a heap.

  I looked down at it, and she said, “This one’s mine.” Going to the dresser, she went about filling it with her stuff. “Wouldn’t listen to me, you and your fucked-up job.”

  “If it were up to you, I’d be slopping chili in bowls, serving it with saltines, the lunch counter at Kresge’s or someplace.”

  “Keep it up, Jeff, even they won’t take you.” She sat for a moment, saying, “You know, living with Dale beat this. Worst he ever did was slap me around once in a while.”

  “That what you want, me slapping you around?”

  “Try it.” Her eyes wide and crazy. I’d seen that look in the Don often enough to know to keep quiet.

  Pressing down the overstuffed case, she zipped it up and stalked down the hall and out the door, slamming it behind her.

  Swiped my foot at my pile of clothes, saw a fresh hole in my sock, and I got to thinking of Vick’s desk lighter, how easy it would be to just to
rch the place. After a while, I went to the closet and dug around in back, seeing if there was some kind of bag I could pack my stuff in. Telling myself she’d be here when I got back, at least by the time her thumbnail healed.

  . . . Friendly Skies

  Easing into the coach seat, I stared out at the grey, replaying the scene with Ann, telling myself again she’d be there when I got back from Poughkeepsie. Out the window, the Oshawa ground crew buzzed around. The pilot coming on the intercom, warning of some turbulence on the way to Westchester, mentioning the stopover in Philadelphia.

  Pulling down his armrest, Vick was talking about Jackie nailing down an exclusive contract with her South American inventor, called to tell him last night. Said we should get out of this thing with Ted after hearing what happened to me on the Gardiner. Then he feigned fumble-fingers, letting the stewardess buckle him in, listening to her explain about the new audio player. Vick asking her if this tub had a toilet, looked to where she pointed, shifting his hip so she could get at the buckle, making a joke about the mile-high club.

  Straight blonde bob with the bangs falling over her eyes. A nice scent and freckles dotting the top of her cleavage. Her name tag said she was Melodie. She said he’d obviously never seen the size of the can in one of these tubs, giving him a wink, leaving him with, “There you go, sir.”

  Elbowing me, he guessed her accent came from down under, watching her walk the aisle toward the cockpit, hips sweeping under the skirt. Melodie getting the other passengers settled.

  “Nice, uh?” Pointing to her. “Sense of humor, too.”

  “Yeah, nice.” I was back to staring out the window, past the black turboprop, watching the ground crew working.

  “Sure make a man forget the shit he’s wading in.” Vick watched her aid an elderly passenger, stowing a bag under the seat.

  “Think you need some kind of priority, get your life straight.”

  “Yeah, ask me, you sound like you need to get laid.” Reaching in his jacket pocket, he pulled out a pamphlet, smoothed it, saying, “No idea why I’m doing this, but here.”

  I took it, the picture of a guy singing.

  “Guy me and Archie met at the trade show, name’s Conway Forbes.” Vick pointing to the logo, saying, “Guy can teach anybody to sing.”

  I pulled the pamphlet open, a picture of the same guy singing to an auditorium of onlookers.

  “Conway’s looking to get himself on the fast track. Figured with the courses you took inside — I don’t know — thought it might be right up your alley.”

  “Trying to help me, huh?” Not sure the weekend entrepreneurship program and two weeks of learning to write business plans would help.

  “Take it how you want. You know, by the time you see this ain’t working out, always good to have a backup.”

  “Making this work.”

  “Every seminar this guy Conway fills the joint, gets people singing like canaries. People buying his cassettes, walking away happy, saying they had no idea they could sing like that.”

  “So, this is you . . . extending an olive branch, huh?”

  “Call it what you want, but when this car deal goes bust . . .”

  I handed the pamphlet back, saying, “Maybe get this guy to train your Elvis stable.”

  “Up yours.” Tucking it in the seat-back pocket, he looked like he wanted to add to my bruises, then glanced back up the aisle, watching Melodie settle the last of the passengers.

  “Alright, sorry,” I said. “Guess maybe we both been played.”

  “Blind man can see that.”

  “That why you ratted the route to Randy?” I looked at him.

  He glanced away, then said, “Randy’s not a guy who gives a man a lot of options.”

  We sat quiet, then I reached for the pamphlet again and said, “So, this Conway guy’s got some cash, huh?”

  Vick grinned. “You’re fucking welcome.”

  The seat belt warning chimed on, and the twin props started spinning.

  “They say this is the worst part,” he said, looking past me out the window.

  “What’s that?”

  “Mechanical failure. Happens, it’ll be just after takeoff. The wheels come off the ground, and . . .” He made a diving motion with his hand.

  “Man, you’re the life of the party, you know it?” Ripping into the cellophane, I shook out the cheap headphones and plugged in the prongs, getting some Miles Davis, feeling the jet vibrate, the noise of the props cutting into his Blue Period.

  Melodie came back up the aisle, doing a final seat belt check. Vick letting her snap his buckle again, like he couldn’t do it. Then he tapped my arm, saying, “You ever think about it?”

  “What?

  “Ending it.”

  I pulled out the buds.

  “After the wife left, the second one, I did, thought about it, now and then. Got over it, then after the cardboard fire and landing in the Don. Thought about it a lot. The tunnel, the white light, what’s on the other side, the shit you read, you know . . .”

  “That’s damned unhealthy thinking, Vick.”

  “Yeah, well, that was then.”

  “Doing it like how, pills?”

  “Always had trouble swallowing stuff like that. Even with the water. Always end up chewing them, always tastes like shit.”

  “How about hanging, shooting?”

  “Painful, violent . . .” Vick started to smile.

  “Jumping off a ledge, let me guess,” I said. “Got a thing about heights?”

  “Get queasy just thinking it.” Vick grinned and was watching Melodie take her position up the aisle, ready for the safety demonstration, pointing out the exits to the passengers.

  “Could just annoy somebody enough, get them doing it for you.”

  Demonstrating how to inflate a life preserver found under the seat, Melodie put her mouth on the tube, then showed the oxygen mask.

  Nodding and pointing to her, Vick said, “Asphyxiation, now there’s the way to go.”

  “Well, glad that’s resolved.” Putting the buds back in my ears, I turned up the jazz and looked back out the window, the plane starting to taxi, the engines droning louder, drowning out Miles and his trumpet.

  . . . Poughkeepsie Shuffle

  The peaks of Huntersfield gave way to the green valleys, giving way to low-level buildings. Napping with my head against the window after the layover in Philly, two hours of waiting and downing soft pretzels and cheesesteaks, I woke looking out with a stiff neck, feeling bloated, the twin-engine making its final descent to Dutchess County.

  Vick was talking local geography, Melodie leaning and pointing out the Hudson River running past the city. Vick asking what she was doing later, inviting her out for drinks, hearing her say sorry, she was making a return flight. Told him some other time maybe and left him with a smile.

  Getting our bags from the carousel, we made our way past arrivals. Over by the exit, a tall, thin guy stood watching, coming over like he guessed who we were. Introducing himself as Mateo Cruz, he shook our hands. Smiling, he led us out to his car, a Continental with the grill and flip-up lights. Lighting a smoke by the doors, Vick glanced around one more time for Melodie.

  Warding off a pair of taxi hustlers with a look, Mateo popped the trunk, the two of us dropping in our bags. Mateo wheeled his way onto the Number 9, heading for Poughkeepsie, pointing out the Walkway Over the Hudson, telling us how the Dutch side of his ancestry bought this place from the Indians, throwing around names like Van den Bogaert, the first guy who made it with Mateo’s maternal Spanish side. Mateo telling us most of these folks now worked for IBM. Throwing in that it used to be home to the Smith Brothers Cough Drops factory, the stuff working magic on a sore throat. Pointing out the spire of the First Presbyterian over some rooftops, place he went Sunday mornings.

  “Got a decent place to eat
?” Vick said.

  “Main drag’s nothing but a line of cafes, any one worth checking out.”

  Not interested in food right then, I asked about the cars. Looking at me, Mateo said his guys were detailing the last ones, be ready to go tomorrow. Telling us he had us booked in a nice place, the Hudson Inn.

  “So, you and Ted figure where we’re crossing?” Vick said.

  “Ted’s gonna call, let you know,” Mateo told him.

  “When’s that?”

  “When you need to know.”

  . . . Pact Man

  The detail shop had graffiti scribbled down its exposed cinder block side. Bars on the windows and a line of the cars from the auction out back. Mateo pointed out a Cimarron with the fake cabrio roof, the only one not being detailed.

  “You boys get to drive back in the Caddy.”

  “Call that a Caddy?” Vick said, looking inside the shop, saying he’d take the Cutlass or the Tempest up on the hoists, a couple of Mateo’s guys in coveralls getting them ready. I was thinking, this from the man with a junkyard Jag in his garage.

  “Yeah, what do you normally drive?” Mateo said.

  “Jag, XJ in racing green, but, that’s beside the point.”

  Not impressed, Mateo explained the Caddy wasn’t strapped, meaning with guns. Walking under the hoist on the left, he pointed to the cells welded under the Cutlass. Could hardly see them, even knowing where they were. Mateo promised his cells were good enough to fool any border inspection, the guys with their sniffer dogs, holding their mirrors underneath and checking. A half dozen Uzis, converted and full auto, strapped under each one. The Bent Boys shelling out two Gs apiece.

  Giving a dirty look at the Cimarron on the way out, Vick said GM should’ve called it the Hubris, or the Cavillac, the thing nothing but a trimmed-up Cavalier.