Time Off for Good Behavior

by Lani Diane Rich

  His eyes had subtle smile crinkles around the edges; I read them as indicating a healthy sense of humor but not an overbearing cheerfulness. My stomach lurched again, making me feel vulnerable and off balance. I adjusted myself to sit up straighter and went into attack mode, which was traditionally my response when I found myself attracted to someone.

  Drive them away. Fast.

  I met his gaze and raised him an eyebrow. “So what’s your deal, Walter Briggs?”

  “What do you mean, Wanda Lane?” Smile. Lurch.

  Attack.

  “I mean the nurse told me you were at my bedside every day during the coma. She even thought you were my boyfriend.” I could see his confidence deflate a little, but he maintained eye contact. “I can’t figure out why someone I don’t know would sit by my bedside for five days.”

  Walter shrugged. “I heard about what happened at the courthouse. I thought you had a case.”

  “Against the city of Hastings.”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “So you visited me every day for five days so you could drop off your business card?”

  “Pretty much. Yes.”

  I crossed my arms and sat back, eyeing him sharply. “Even an ambulance chaser wouldn’t be that desperate for work, and you don’t look desperate. So what gives?”

  “I’m not an ambulance chaser,” he said, shifting in his seat. “I’m a civil attorney.”

  “Exactly. So what gives?” He sighed and stared at me, his mouth clamped shut. “Have you ever sat by an accident victim’s bed for five days before?” I prodded. I saw a flash in his eyes, but it passed.

  “Not to get a case, no,” he said thickly.

  “Then I still don’t understand why you were there.”

  He sighed and sat back. “I was in the courthouse that day. I heard what happened. I knew there was no padding under the carpeting, which would have minimized your injuries. I had another client in the hospital, so I stopped in to check up on you when I was visiting him.”

  He kept his eyes locked on mine as he spoke, and his composure was steely, but I still knew he was lying, or at least not telling the whole truth. I’d accomplished my goal of toppling his balance, however, and I wasn’t in the mood to beat the whole story out of him, so I held up my drink and waved at Tumbleweed, giving the international sign for “Make it two.” Walter let loose with a subtle smile. “I usually don’t drink during the day.”

  “Well, Walter,” I said, “if you’re going to be hanging out with me, you’re gonna need a drink.”

  ***

  When I was sixteen, I lost my virginity to a guy who went by the nickname of Shooter. We were in the back of his pickup truck, which was parked in the lot of the elementary school. It was ten-thirty at night. We’d just gotten off a shift working at the local grocery store, where I was a cashier and he was a stock boy, and had gone for a drive. I was crazy about him, and he was crazy about getting some, and before I got my jeans buttoned up again, he was revving up the engine and ready to drive home. He was halfway to his own house before I got over my humiliation enough to remind him that I was still in the car with him. At first, he didn’t get my drift, so I explained that my car was back at the store, and I’d need to be getting home sometime that evening. He dropped me off at my car and didn’t speak to me again until about seven years later, when he called me out of the blue, apologizing.

  It was one of his twelve steps.

  My point is, I’m great at witty repartee and I’m a hell of a dancer, but when it comes to important life decisions, I’m dumber than dirt. Which was why, two seconds after entering my apartment from lunch with Walter, I rushed back outside to wave his car down and tell him I didn’t really want to sue anyone.

  By the time I got outside, all I could see were the taillights on Walter’s Chevy Blazer disappearing from sight as he turned from Carmella Street onto Pine. I trudged back up into my apartment and called him on his cell phone.

  “Walter Briggs.”

  “Yeah, Walter, it’s me. Look, forget the whole thing. Forget the lawsuits. I’m just... you know, I’m not thinking straight. Too much Scotch. Too little sleep. Good thing you were driving, huh?” I gave an insipid little giggle and punched myself on the leg to make it stop. I sounded like an idiot. Like a schoolgirl. I could feel the upper hand I’d gained at lunch slipping like wet rope through my hands.

  “Wanda?” His voice crackled through. “I can’t hear you. Look, I’m gonna turn around. I’ll be at your place in a minute.”

  Click. I put the phone down on the counter and backed away from it slowly as though it were a snake. Somehow, right then, I knew that I was going to sleep with Walter when he walked through the door. What I didn’t know was whether that was going to be a decision I’d simply regret, like sleeping with Shooter, or a decision that would haunt me for the rest of my days, like marrying George. I ran to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Either way, I was gonna need fresh breath.

  Walter’s finger was barely off the buzzer before I had the door open. He stepped into the apartment and I shut the door behind him. I smiled at him. He smiled back, the right comer of his mouth creeping up faster than the left, and there was a hint of curiosity in his expression. Couldn’t say as I blamed him. I wasn’t exactly an easy read.

  He looked around and rocked back on his heels for a second, waiting on me. I said nothing. Finally, he spoke. “You did call me, right?”

  I nodded. “Yes.” I was starting to feel a little dizzy. I put my hand on his shoulder for some balance. It was a nice, firm shoulder. Wasn’t expecting that. A guy in a suit and tie had no business being all taut underneath. My hand flew back to my side as though it had been burned, the tingling in my fingers cementing the impression.

  Walter’s eyebrows furrowed. “Are you okay?”

  No. I felt disoriented. And unbelievably turned on. If he smiled at me again, I’d melt right there into a puddle at his feet. Not a position of power, that. He put his hands on my shoulders and guided me to a seat in the recliner behind me.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said. I said nothing, but my internal critic was chanting Idiot, idiot, idiot at me.

  Walter returned with a glass of water. He handed it to me, kneeling beside me as I drank it. I put it down on the coffee table. He put his hand on mine and smiled at me. “Feel better?” His eyes smiled on mine. Lurch. Between the Scotch wearing down the parts of my brain that knew better and the knowledge that Walter would soon be leaving me alone in that damn apartment again if I didn’t give him a reason to stay, I felt a certain desperation to kick it up a notch. I pushed myself forward until our faces collided into a kiss. At first, it was awkward, as though our heads were a couple of balls that knocked into each other in a high school gym, but after a moment, when realization of a mistake should have parted us, it was still going. The groove was on.

  We parted on the same beat and looked at each other, our eyes searching, scanning, wondering. Did I just have my tongue in this persons mouth? Did what I think just happened actually just happen? Am I—maybe, please, oh God please—about to have sex?

  Then Walter sprang up, and the groove came to a screeching halt. He paced for a few steps, then turned to me and held out his arms like a crossing guard warning me to stay put. “Um, that’s not why I came over here.”

  “Okay,” I said. “What’s your point?”

  “I owe you an apology.”

  I stared at him. “Why?”

  He stood up and backed away a bit. “Because this looks like I got you drunk and came back to take advantage of you.”

  I rolled my eyes. Just what I needed. A friggin’ gentleman. “But I called you.”

  He nodded, appraising that evidence. “Yes, you did.”

  “Then I kissed you.”

  He shrugged and nodded but made a gesture of dismissal with his hand, as though he would have kissed me if I hadn’t kissed him first. I liked that. It was like getting a little bit of dignity on a platter. I stood up and
moved closer, hoping that proximity would realign the groove. “So what’s the problem?”

  Walter looked at my sofa, my coffee table, my feet. Anything but my eyes. “Well...”

  I put my hand on his chin and turned his head until his eyes met mine. I smiled. He smiled. I licked my lips. His eyes did a half-closed flutter thing, and I could hear his breath come faster. I started unbuttoning my shirt. He grabbed my hand to stop me right as I was fiddling with the button of no return. “Wanda, stop.”

  “Why?” I said in a husky whisper. I put my hand on the back of his neck and pulled him in for a kiss, which he entertained for a moment before pulling away.

  “Wanda.” He put his hands on my shoulders and held me back. “I don’t want to do this.”

  “Coulda fooled me.” I reached down and gently grabbed the evidence that he was glad to see me. He yelled and jumped back about five feet, knocking into the wall behind him and setting my framed Ansel Adams print into a determined tilt.

  “Guess I misunderstood,” I said, angrily buttoning my shirt. “My apologies.”

  “Wanda, don’t be hurt.” He reached to put his hand on my arm, but I wrenched myself away.

  “I’m not hurt, I’m horny.” I stared him in the eye as I buttoned the last button, then reached for my jacket, fumbling in the pockets. “And now I’m frustrated and I need a cigarette.”

  “You shouldn’t smoke.”

  “You’re not my lawyer and you’re not my lover, Walter. You don’t get to tell me what to do.” I pulled a cigarette out of my pack and went back into my pockets for the lighter. I didn’t smoke very often but always had a pack handy, just in case something humiliating happened and I needed a quick fix of I don’t give a shit.

  Walter held up his hands. “Sorry. You’re right. None of my business.”

  I pulled the cigarette from my lips and gestured toward him with it. “What’s your deal, Walter? You gay or something?”

  “No, I’m not gay.” He rubbed his fingers over his forehead. “This is not going well.”

  “So, what, then? Married? Confused? Bitter? Considering the priesthood? What?” I snagged the lighter and turned my back on him, heading toward the front door. He followed me outside, closing the door behind us as I lit up.

  “It’s not any of that,” he said softly. “It’s just that I... You surprised me. That’s all.”

  “I surprised you.” I took a drag. “I see.”

  There was silence for a short while as we both watched my exhaled smoke dissipate into the air. Although it wasn’t the best area of town, the view of Hastings from my balcony was pretty decent. The white haze that hovered over the town from the flour factory made it seem like a white city, its purity almost palpable, if you were naive enough to believe in purity.

  I was almost done with my cigarette by the time Walter spoke again. “You don’t want to sue anybody, then?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “Okay.” He took a step away, then stopped, then moved a little, then stopped. I took another drag of my cigarette. “Look, I wish…”

  He paused. I never knew what he was going to say, because he turned and left before he could finish.

  Chapter Three

  It was just me and Albert, my bottle of Chivas Regal, for most of the following week. Actually, it was several bottles of Chivas, but I just named them all Albert. Hell, it worked for the Lassie people, it could work for me.

  I drank and watched Fox News Channel until I almost turned Republican. Then I watched CNN until I almost turned stupid.

  On Wednesday of that week, I was watching Animal Planet.

  On Friday, I looked in the mirror and decided that there’s a reason why people were discouraged from staying in dark apartments and drinking for days at a stretch. My eyes were red-rimmed and half-closed, and my skin was downright sallow.

  I looked like hell.

  It was also on Friday that I got a call from Faye Whittle. Faye “I’m so sorry you got blown up” Whittle. Fay “I’ll give you half of my settlement if you testify” Whittle. Faye “I’d never screw you out of your money right after you’ve lost your job” Whittle.

  Okay, so she never actually said that last one, but she implied it.

  “The settlement wasn’t as much as I’d hoped,” she said. I could practically hear the deed being signed on her beach home as we spoke.

  “I’m fine, Faye, thanks for asking.”

  She sighed into the phone. “Once I pay for lawyer’s fees and all, it’s really nothing.”

  “I’ll take half of nothing.”

  “Oh, Wanda!” She laughed. “I couldn’t give you half! Remember, it was my business that got destroyed, my livelihood.”

  “Yeah, and it was my ass that got blown up while you were at the 7-Eleven getting yourself a cherry Slurpee.” I hadn’t found out about that until recently, and I’d been dying to use it against her. It was almost worth losing the money to say it aloud.

  “I needed change to call the gas company!” she squealed as I hung up the phone.

  I walked over to the base on the wall and turned off the machine. The phantom music started up, and I turned up the volume on the television, then went into the kitchen to stare into the fridge, as I did every evening at around seven o’clock.

  The week had been bad. I’d eaten from cans and boxes for most of it, and now my refrigerator had only some cranberry sauce in a small Tupperware bowl and a jar of green olives I couldn’t recall buying. A person’s food store says a lot about him or her, and what mine was saying about me was damn depressing.

  Staring at my paltry refrigerator reminded me of a girl in my freshman dorm named Debbie Manney who used to look on the bright side of everything. Debbie would have told me that my empty fridge was a sign of a new beginning, a fresh start, a call to action to reinvent myself by purchasing rare and wonderful food items, like cilantro and pomegranates.

  I hated Debbie Manney.

  I had been friendly to her, though. You couldn’t not be friendly to Debbie Manney. That would be like kicking the pope. So I tolerated her squeaky presence long enough for her to leave her indelible mark of sunshine on my tender psyche. When Mike Benedetto dumped me and then asked me to loan him my car so he could take Mary Ann Sheeley to his frat’s social, Debbie sat with me all night and braided my hair while I ate Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. She said that depression was a valuable tool, that without it we would never appreciate the good times.

  “You cant enjoy the sunshine if you’ve never been in the dark,” she’d said. I think I hated her so much simply because there was nothing to hate about her. She was cute. She was sweet. She was balanced. She did yoga. She planned to wait until her wedding night and never thought twice about it. She was a freak.

  Last I heard, Debbie was living a fulfilled life as a stay-at-home mom with her two sons and wonderful husband somewhere near Syracuse, New York. Anytime I got news of how she was doing, I nodded and smiled, but deep inside, I convinced myself she hid flasks of Absolut Citron in her purse and had regular dalliances with the pizza guy. It was vicious and bitter, admittedly, but it got me through the day.

  As I sat on my living room floor, watching Fox News and clutching Albert to my side, I thought about Debbie, and it occurred to me for the first time that she might actually be happy. She might have figured it out. She might be someplace that no one I’d ever known had found. She might be on the wagon. She might never have been off the wagon. The possibility occurred to me, for a brief moment, that it might be actually attainable, this sense of purpose and fulfillment that Dr. Phil and Oprah kept talking about.

  And then Bill O’Reilly came on, and I realized the whole world was a bottomless pit of crap, just like I’d always known.

  ***

  There was a pounding on my door on Saturday morning. Early Saturday morning.

  Eight A.M., in fact.

  “Wanda!” The voice was muted through the front door, but I could still hear it, because I had fallen a
sleep on the doormat.

  “Wanda!” Ring. Ring. Knock-knock-knock.

  “Go awaaaayyyy,” I mumbled into the doormat, but the door pounding continued, in perfect time with the hammering in my head. I grabbed the doorknob, pulled myself up, and put my eye to the peephole.

  Walter. Good friggin’ God.

  I opened the door, leaving the chain on and wedging my face into the four inches of open space. “Whaaaaaat!?” I groaned.

  “You haven’t been answering your phone,” he said. He sounded worried. I couldn’t tell how he looked because my eyes wouldn’t open.

  “I’m fine.”

  There was a pause, then a firm, “Open the goddamn door.” One of the bonuses of having a calm personality is that you can pull out the occasional “goddamn” and get instant results. Not the case with hotheads like myself. I stepped back, forced my eyes open, and released the chain. Walter was inside in a flash, with his hands on my shoulders, looking at my face. “You’re sure you’re okay? You look like hell.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I said, stepping away from him and heading over to the kitchen counter, where I sat on a barstool and rested my head against the cool Formica. “What are you doing here?”

  “You haven’t been answering your phone.”

  “Why were you calling me?” I asked. My voice was hoarse, and my throat hurt. Friggin’ Albert. I knew he’d turn on me.

  Walter opened the living room window and flicked on the kitchen light. Ouch. “This place smells funny.”

  “Probably because I haven’t left it for five days.”

  There was a moment of silence, then his hands hooked under my armpits and lifted me off the stool. By the time I opened my eyes, I was in my shower, still in my pajamas, with cold water beating down on my back.

  “Clean up. I’ll be in the living room when you’re done.”

  I cursed him out from the shower, but by the time I stumbled back into my living room, I was appreciating clean clothes and a freshly washed body like a born-again Christian appreciates Jesus. My living room was cleaner than it was when I’d left it, and I inhaled the resuscitating scent of fresh-brewed coffee. Walter was putting the last dish into the dishwasher and wiping down the kitchen sink when I settled onto one of my barstools.