A Little Too Much

by Lisa Desrochers

  “There’s not a welterweight that’s gonna touch Velasquez,” Jerry is saying as I head behind the bar.

  Alessandro’s eyes catch on me as I pass, and I see them widen before he answers Jerry. “I think Jackson can give him a run for his money. And possibly Brady.”

  “A friendly wager?” Jerry prompts, dollar signs dancing in his eyes.

  “I’m not much of a gambling man,” Alessandro tells him with a smile.

  “Stop trying to swindle the customers, Jerry,” I say, brushing him aside. I set a bar napkin down in front of Alessandro. “What do you want?”

  I see him trying and failing to keep his eyes on mine instead of letting them slip down the front of my skintight T-shirt to the Filthy’s logo over my chest. Seeing his struggle sends a shiver through me. I feel my nipples harden with the rush, and I know he notices when his face flushes through his olive skin. “What’s on tap?”

  “Jerry only carries the good stuff,” I say with as much sarcasm as I can muster, looking right at him. “So your choices are, Bud, Bud Light, Miller Lite, Coors, or Samuel Adams, which is the only thing we have on tap worth drinking, in my humble opinion.”

  Alessandro leans into the bar and smiles, and in the dim lighting I see a spark in his eye. “I trust your humble opinion. Sam Adams, please.”

  Jerry smirks and heads into the office while I grab a mug and pour Alessandro’s beer.

  “I’m considering interviewing for the director of Teen Services position at the Catholic youth center.”

  I set his beer on the bar in front of him as my heart skips. Does this mean he’s staying? “That would be amazing.”

  He pulls the mug closer and my eyes are glued to his hand as he traces the handle with the tip of his index finger. I catch myself wishing that finger were tracing something else. Something attached to me. “The nun mentioned it when I was in there Monday and I dismissed it, but I’m having second thoughts. Throughout my seminary training, children have always been my passion. I’ve established youth centers in Corsica and at my parish in Rome. This just feels right—like a way I could make a difference for other kids like Lorenzo and me.”

  My heart feels like it might explode. I think this could really help him. “Alessandro, I think you would be perfect for that. You should definitely interview.”

  He lifts his mug, drawing a long sip, then sets it down, locking me in his gaze. “Thank you for making me walk through those doors. I never would have found it in myself to go back to the Church on my own. Being unable to follow through on my vow is one of my great failures. But, now . . . maybe I have another chance.”

  “Can I get another one down here?” Bill-Bob calls from the end of the bar, jiggling his empty mug in the air and reminding me why I’m here.

  But, even still, it takes me a second to free myself from Alessandro’s gaze. “Got it,” I yell back, flipping a fresh mug off the rack.

  I feel Alessandro’s eyes on me as I fill it and I’m suddenly embarrassed. He spends his days at the Y helping inner-city kids try to make something of themselves, and I spend mine strutting around in ass shorts and getting old guys drunk.

  I pour the foam off the top of Bill-Bob’s mug. “Welcome to my glamorous life. Just so you know, this isn’t my real job.” I say it, but then laugh at myself, realizing that’s kind of like those stupid bumper stickers on the backs of twenty-year-old Ford Fiestas that say My other car is a Porsche. “I mean . . . it’s not what I want to do.”

  “Broadway,” he says.

  I nod. “There’s a part I have a real shot at. The audition is Tuesday.”

  When I glance up at him, he’s tapping his index finger on the side of his mug as if thinking, but his gaze is locked on me. “There is nothing wrong with your job, Hilary,” he finally says, like I just need to accept that this is the best I’m ever going to do.

  I walk the length of the bar and slam Bill-Bob’s beer down in front of him, sloshing some over the rim, then storm back down the bar to Alessandro. “I will get a part.”

  “I’m quite sure,” he says, tracing the rim of his mug with his index finger, and I realize my anger is misdirected. I’m really just frustrated with myself. And scared.

  I blow out a sigh. “Sorry.”

  He shakes his head. “No need.”

  I pick up the bar rag to go clean up the mess I made in front of Bill-Bob, and scream when a giant cockroach flies out of it. It lands on the counter below the bar and I start beating on it with the bottom of a beer mug.

  But it just bounces around. No guts.

  And then I realize.

  “You bastard,” I mutter, picking up the rubber bug and slipping it into my pocket before anyone else sees it and thinks it’s real. When I look up, Bill-Bob and his buddy are staring at me. “False alarm,” I say with a wave of my hand. And when I turn to look at Alessandro, he’s got a smug smile plastered to his face.

  I glare and spin to wipe up Bill-Bob’s mess, and when I come back, Alessandro is gone, his half-full beer still on the bar.

  I’m pissed, but I didn’t really want him to leave.

  I pick his mug up off the bar, but just before I dump it I notice his jacket still draped over the barstool. I set the mug back down as he comes out from the hall to the restrooms.

  “I thought you left,” I say.

  He tips his head at me as he slides back onto his stool. “I thought you’d want me to.”

  “I do. Sort of.”

  “Hmm . . . sort of,” he purrs through his accent, his eyes gliding over me again. “That’s tricky. Because the thing here is, if I stay, you’ll wish I’d left, but if I leave . . .” He trails off, leaving the thought dangling.

  When I finish the sentence in my head, it comes out something like: I’d be really bummed. “You can stay, but I’m confiscating all your cockroaches,” I say, holding out my hand.

  He slips his hand into the front pocket of his jeans and comes out with the other one. I take it and tuck it into my pocket.

  He sips his beer. “Tell me about your audition.”

  I spend the next hour, when I’m not pestered by customers, telling Alessandro about the part. And then I can’t stop talking. I catch myself telling him things I’ve never told anyone, dreams I’ve barely dared to think, let alone say out loud. “I’m good, you know? I know I can prove that if I can just get my foot in the door. I know someone will see me and I’ll get my break,” I say, wiping down the bar between Alessandro and me for the twentieth time.

  As I say it, the last of that frustrated tension slips out of my shoulders. I look up at him and his gaze is deep and steady, as if he’s looking into my soul, and nothing he sees there surprises him. I’m suddenly transported back to the group home. He’s on top of me in my bed, his sixteen-year-old eyes looking down at me just like that.

  I shake the memory out of my head. That was a lifetime ago. This is now.

  “It’s just hard waiting,” I say, tearing my eyes away from his.

  “Keep the faith, Hilary.” His voice is low and sure and somehow he makes me believe it will happen—like maybe because he was almost a priest, he has more pull upstairs.

  Because, let’s face it, I need all the help I can get.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “HILARY MCINTYRE HERE to see Roseanne McIntyre,” I tell the guard at the counter, a long slender woman with a horse’s face who has her dark hair all tucked up under her guard’s cap.

  “Sign in.”

  I do.

  “ID,” she says, holding out her hand.

  I jump through all the usual hoops and sit in a chair while I wait for them to “announce” me. It’s ten minutes later that the guard calls over the desk, “The doctor says she’s not well enough for visitors.”

  I push out of my seat and stare at her. “What?”

  “He says she’s weak from the chemo and you should come back later in the week.”

  “Chemo . . . ?”

  She squints at me. “You knew, right? That
your mom has cancer?”

  I shake my head.

  “Oh . . . sorry.”

  “Is she . . . ?” My dry throat clicks as I swallow. “Is she dying?”

  “She’s receiving the best care there is, courtesy of the State of New York. That’s all I can tell you. You’ll have to talk to your mother if you want any more information.”

  “What kind of cancer?” I ask, slowly getting my mind around what she’s saying.

  She shakes her head once. “I’m sorry. I can’t share any information without your mother’s consent.”

  I just stand here a minute longer, trying to think. “If I leave a message, could she call me back?”

  “Yes. She’s allowed phone calls.”

  I step up to the desk. “Do you have something I can write on?”

  She pulls a scrap of paper and a pen from the drawer and slides them over the counter.

  “Thanks.” I pull them toward me and just stare at the paper for a long time. What am I supposed to say?

  Mom,

  Why didn’t you tell me you were sick? I came for our visit today, but they said you’re weak from the chemo. Please call me as soon as you can.

  Hilary

  I slide it back to the guard. “Can I get into the visitors’ room? I just need something from the vending machine.”

  She holds out her hand. “What do you need?”

  I fish in my pocket and hand her a dollar. “An Oh Henry!”

  She nods and brings the bill to the door, where she hands it through to the guard inside and mutters something that I can’t hear. A minute later, the guard is back with an Oh Henry!, passing it through the door. The guard at the desk hands it to me and I wrap my note around it.

  “Can you make sure she gets this?” I ask.

  She nods. “I’ll have someone bring it right in for her.”

  “Thanks,” I say, turning for the lockers.

  “She’s really proud of you, you know.”

  I look back at her. “What?”

  “She talks about you all the time . . . says you’re going to be a big Broadway actress. She’s even petitioned for a furlough for your opening night.”

  I just stare at her. She’s got to have Mom confused with some other inmate. “My mom is Roseanne McIntyre.”

  She squint-smiles, like she thinks she’s said too much. “I know.” She holds up the Oh Henry! wrapped in my note. “I’ll make sure she gets this.”

  I collect all my stuff and turn for the door in a daze. Mom has cancer. I knew she looked bad over the last few months, older every time I saw her, but cancer? My insides pull into a hard knot.

  Mom has cancer . . . and she’s proud of me.

  I walk back to the train station thinking about my audition on Tuesday. If I get this part . . . if they give Mom the furlough, will she be around to come to my opening night?

  I have to get this part.

  “You want me. I know you do,” I say, deciding to rehearse my lines again.

  I pause where my male counterpart will respond that, yes, he wants me, and mime unbuttoning the top button of my blouse.

  “Then take me,” I say with an air of desperation.

  Mime unbuttoning another button as he responds that it’s not right for us to give in to our desire. There are other people we need to consider.

  A tear in my eye. “Who cares what’s right. We need each other like oxygen. I can’t live another day without you.”

  Unbutton. We must exercise restraint, he responds.

  “No! I can’t! I can’t wait for you another day. Tomorrow will swallow us whole if we let it.”

  Unbutton.

  “We can either live life scared,”

  unbutton,

  “or live life.”

  Unbutton.

  “There are no other choices.”

  Slide shirt off shoulders.

  Mom has cancer.

  I hang my head and blow out a long white breath that trails behind me in the cold December air. Last time I was here she said something about if I loved her I’d have brought her cigarettes. I remember thinking that I didn’t. I was wrong. Pretending I didn’t really care—that I was just visiting out of some family obligation—felt safer, I guess. But the truth is, regardless of everything, she’s my mother and I love her. I feel the threat of tears and swallow them.

  When I make the train station, I have a half hour till the next train back to the city. I go over my lines again, but I can’t focus.

  Dev blasts out of my bag and I grab my phone, thinking it must be Mom, but when I look at the screen, it’s Jess. I press the call button, and even before I say anything Jess is already screeching in my ear, “Igotthepart Igotthepart Igotthepart!”

  “Wow, Jess! That’s fabulous.” And I really am happy for her. Really. “Tell me the whole deal.”

  “Well, you know how we auditioned for those chorus spots, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “One of the secondaries bagged out . . . got offered something else off-Broadway, so they offered me her part!” She squeals the last word.

  My heart leaps out of my chest. It’s what every one of us hopes for, some fluky thing that will be our lucky break. “Holy shit, Jess! That’s amazing.”

  “I know! I have lines and everything!”

  “Solos?”

  “Only one small one as part of a bigger piece, but it’s something.”

  I breathe out a breath and sink deeper into my seat. “That’s a hella lot more than something, Jess. That’s huge. Holy shit.”

  “I know!” she shrieks, and I can almost see her jumping up and down, her ponytail swinging behind her.

  If I were there, I’d be jumping with her. “So what’s the deal? When do rehearsals start?”

  “After Christmas, and we open in February.”

  “We’re going out this week to celebrate.”

  “Definitely! I’ve got to go call my mom, but we’ll talk later, okay?”

  Something in me warms at the realization she called me first, even before her mom. “Yeah, sweetie. Talk later. Congrats.”

  “Bye, Hil!”

  I take a breath as I lower the phone and hang up. “Break a leg.”

  My mom has cancer.

  Damn.

  IT’S OVER TWO hours later, and I’ve made all the transfers and am standing at Mallory’s door, but now I find myself hesitating.

  She doesn’t even know I’ve been going to see Mom. How am I going to do this?

  But she needs to know. If Mom’s dying, Mallory needs to get over herself and go see her before it’s too late. I’ve been stalking my phone, hoping to hear from Mom, but so far, nothing. I don’t even know what the deal is. Maybe she’s fine. Maybe it’s, like, a mole or something that they hacked off.

  . . . too weak from the chemo. . .

  That sounds like more than a mole.

  I press the bell. When no one answers, I pull out my key and let myself in. I’ve no sooner settled into the couch and turned on the TV than I hear the garage door. A minute later, Henri and Max come tumbling through the door into the kitchen, fighting over some Happy Meal toy, with Mallory just behind them.

  “Auntie!” Henri squeals, running across the family room and tackling me.

  “Hey, buddy. How was school?” I ask, ruffling his sable mop.

  “Jeremy Timmons brought his tarantula and we watched it eat a cricket!” he says as Max disappears up the hall.

  My stomach squirms a little and I lower myself back onto the couch. “Cool. Was it gross?”

  “It ate the whole thing! No guts left over or anything!” he says, clamoring onto the couch next to me.

  “I don’t know whether eating the whole thing, or left-over guts is grosser,” I tell him.

  Max appears a minute later with a laptop and settles onto the floor on his stomach.

  “To what do we owe the honor?” Mallory says, coming out of the kitchen with a sliced apple and peanut butter for the boys.

  “W
e need to talk.”

  She looks up at me as she set the plate on the coffee table, and concern flits over her face. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Mom, Mal—”

  But that’s as far as I get before her hand goes up and her face turns to stone. Her whole posture changes at the mention of Mom, stiffening into something hard and unforgiving. “Henri,” she says, “take your snack and you and Max find something to play with in your room, okay?”

  “Are you okay, Mom?” Henri asks.

  She nods and tries to smile, but it’s pinched. “I just need to talk to your auntie for a minute, ’kay baby?”

  “ ’Kay,” he says. He picks up the plate of apples and tugs at Max’s shoulder.

  Max grabs his laptop and Henri gives me a concerned glance over his shoulder as they make their way down the hall.

  “Is she trying to get ahold of you?” Mallory hisses the second their door closes. “Because if she is, don’t fall for it. Don’t call her back. She’ll tell you some fancy story to suck you in, but she’s a liar, Hilary. You can’t believe anything she says.”

  “She’s sick. I think she may be dying.”

  She barks out a bitter laugh and rolls her eyes. “Is that what she said? She so full of bullshit.”

  “No, Mallory. She didn’t say it. I just came from Bedford Hills and they wouldn’t let me see her because she was too weak from the chemo.”

  Her jaw tightens and I swear she stops breathing. I wait until she says something to know whether it’s me going there that she’s stuck on, or whether it’s that Mom really is sick.

  “What were you doing in Bedford Hills?”

  “Visiting Mom.”

  “Why?”

  I slouch back into the couch. “Because I just was, okay? I’ve gone on the first of every month for years—ever since I moved out of here.”

  Mallory’s face blanches. “She’s poison, Hillary.”

  “She’s sick, Mallory! She’s looked really bad over the last six or seven months, but I just thought . . . I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. “I guess I just thought she was getting old and all the drinking and smoking was catching up with her.”