Raising Jake

by Charlie Carillo

She signaled for another spritzer, plus a beer for me. She smacked my hand away when I tried to pay. Charlie served us in silence and gave me a look that could have been either an encouragement or a warning. Then he returned to Lonely Guy Corner.

  Fran lit another Kool. “First time you ever saw a stripper, I’ll bet.”

  “Well…yeah.”

  “First time you ever saw a naked woman in person, right?”

  She smiled at me like a lawyer who knows the answer before he asks the question. There was no point in trying to lie to her. My face felt hot as I nodded.

  Thankfully, her smile did not evolve into a laugh. She nodded, downed the rest of her spritzer, shook her hair, and looked me in the eye. “Would you like to see another one?”

  My scalp tingled. Fran stared at me as rudely as I’d stared at her minutes earlier. This was it. This was absolutely and without a doubt the moment no man can be ready for.

  “Yes,” I finally replied, but was my frantically beating heart really in it? I didn’t know. I couldn’t know. All I did know was that I wasn’t ready to be alone that night. Fran seemed neither pleased nor surprised by my reply.

  “Drink up,” she said, “and let’s get out of this dump.”

  We didn’t say good-bye to Charlie. She walked out of the place and I followed her like an obedient, fearful pooch.

  I was frightened. While I’d been in Charlie’s I’d felt safe, but suddenly I felt like a hostage, walking the night streets with Fran, even though nothing was stopping me from getting away. In fact, it seemed as if she’d forgotten all about me. She was two full strides ahead of me, and picking up speed. All I had to do was stop walking, but I didn’t do that. I couldn’t do that. This was the first woman I’d spent any time with since the death of my mother, and I wasn’t ready for it to end.

  I wondered if she’d known my mother. I doubted it. Fran didn’t seem like a churchgoer to me. I hurried to catch up to her. She was breathing hard.

  “Are you okay, Fran?”

  She stopped walking, turned to glare at me. “How do you know my name?”

  “I heard Charlie say it.”

  “He never spoke my name!”

  “Yes, he did! How else would I know it? I don’t know you. I never saw you before!”

  She seemed as if she was about to start crying. She covered her face with her hands, took openmouthed breaths between her palms. She was hurting. I didn’t know what to do. My mind raced with possibilities, one of which was to tiptoe away, then sprint the half mile to my own house. But I didn’t do that. I couldn’t. It would have been like abandoning the wounded.

  “Would you like to know my name?” I offered at last.

  “No, I would not,” she said, keeping her face covered. “I have no interest in knowing your name.”

  “Okay, I won’t tell you.”

  Fran seemed relieved to hear this. She kept her hands over her face but at least her breathing slowed. The night was loud with crickets. It was early October. Fran began to chuckle.

  “Stupid crickets,” she said.

  “Why are they stupid?”

  “Because winter’s comin’, and they don’t even know it, ’cause it’s been so warm. The first frost is gonna hit, and they’ll all be dead.”

  “Yeah, but they don’t know that. It won’t be so bad. It’ll just happen to them, and that’ll be that.”

  At last, Fran’s hands fell from her face. For the first time all night she stared at me with wide-open eyes.

  “What are you,” she asked, “a philosopher?”

  I shrugged. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “You’re goddamn right it’s true…. How old are you?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Seventeen, and already you understand somethin’ like that. Man, some bad shit must’ve happened to you, huh?”

  If she was waiting for an answer, she wasn’t going to get one. I just stared back at her, listening to the crickets.

  “Sometimes I wish I was a cricket,” she said softly. “Be nice not to know what’s coming, you know?”

  “I know.”

  Fran stared at me for another moment. Then her eyes narrowed, and she grabbed me by the elbow.

  “Come on,” she said, “we’re not far now.”

  Anybody who might have been watching us at that point could have taken Fran for an undercover detective hauling in a suspect. But it was nearly three in the morning. Nobody was watching us.

  Minutes later she led me up the three steps to her front door and into her house, and only then did she release my elbow with a shove that was almost dismissive. The house was boxy, cramped, low-ceilinged, the kind of place that made you want to run outside and gulp air. Fran ripped off her jacket, tossed it on the floor. “Sit down, I’ll bring us a drink.”

  I sat on a dark green couch. Fran fetched a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and two glasses. I’d never drunk whiskey before, but this did not seem like the time to bring that up. Fran poured with a heavy hand. We clinked glasses, and then she said:

  “To my wonderful husband, who walked out on me and our two boys like it was nothing.”

  Fran’s head went back like a Pez dispenser as she downed her drink in one gulp. Then she let out a laugh, the least happy laugh I’d ever heard.

  I was shocked. A husband! The looming sin of fornication was about to be compounded with adultery! All I could do was sit and stare at Fran, who poured herself another drink and downed it the same way.

  “Come on, drink up,” she scolded, “you’re fallin’ behind!”

  I did as I was told. Catholics are good at that, even when the wrong person is giving the orders. The stuff went down like liquid fire. Fran went to refill my glass but I covered it with my hand.

  “You’re married?”

  “Ah, not really. Not for long. The bastard finally moved out and got his own place. He’s got the boys this weekend. One weekend a month he takes the boys, and I have a little time to myself. Only thing is, I forgot how to be alone. Ain’t that somethin’? I don’t know how to do it anymore.” She laughed that horrible laugh again, a sound more like crying than crying itself.

  I stood up. “You want me to go?”

  “No. Don’t. Please. Hang out. Just…hang out awhile.”

  There was an angry vulnerability to her voice. She hated herself for this weakness, hated me for revealing it. She got to her feet and grasped my elbow as she had before, but this time the grip was different. Not a domineering woman bullying a shy young man, but a blind person in desperate need of help to cross the street. She carried the whiskey bottle in her other hand. We headed upstairs, Fran clinging to my elbow as if she expected me to break into a run.

  But that wasn’t going to happen. My desire to flee was gone. I was going to see this thing through, wherever it took me, wherever it took her. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  “Here.”

  She pushed a door open, pulled a light cord. “I’m at the end of the hall, when you’re through.”

  It wasn’t clean. There was stuff growing in the mortar between the floor tiles and there were deep brown water level rings etched into the toilet bowl. Then I saw three toothbrushes in a plastic cup, two of them with Star Wars handles, and remembered that the woman I was about to fuck was a mother. I lifted the toilet lid with my foot, took a piss, flushed with my elbow, and then headed down the hallway.

  A night-light shining from an open doorway caught my eye. I stepped inside and realized this was Fran’s sons’ room. I had no business being here, but I had to look around.

  They had bunk beds with a little wooden ladder leading to the top one. There was a Jaws shark poster on the wall, and I stepped on something that turned out to be a Spider-Man action figure. There was a framed photograph on the wall, and as my eyes adjusted to the moonlight I saw that it was a shot of Fran and her sons on some kind of amusement park ride, captured by a fixed-focus camera as the thing plunged down a man-made waterfall. The boys looked to be a year or two apart, maybe
six and seven years old. Everybody’s hair was blown straight back, and their mouths were wide, wide open in what looked to be shouts of absolute joy. You look at a picture like that and figure the people in it will never, ever be unhappy.

  “Where the hell are you?”

  Fran’s voice startled me. I left the boys’ room and went down to the end of the hall, where a dim, flickering light beckoned. I entered this room and saw that the light came from a thick green candle on Fran’s bedside night table. The whiskey bottle stood next to it. Fran’s clothes were all over the floor, dropped where she’d stripped. She was in bed, under the covers up to her neck.

  I stood at the foot of the bed like a doctor on a house call. “I went to the wrong room.”

  “You idiot. Come on.”

  With trembling hands I took my clothes off, but not carelessly. I made a neat pile of it—shoes on the bottom, shirt on top. I guess I wanted to be ready for what I suspected would be a rapid exit—grab all my stuff, and get the hell out of there.

  I stood naked in the candlelight, not hard, not soft, awaiting yet another invitation. Fran ripped back the covers and revealed her white-skinned self. It was a startling sight, my second naked woman on the same night, but nothing like the sight of Mandy, or whatever her real name was.

  I was drunk, but I understood at once the reason for the candle. Any other kind of light would have been too harsh on Fran’s thickened midsection and floppy breasts.

  “Get in bed,” she said wearily, as if we’d been married for twenty years.

  I crept onto the bed, and lay beside Fran without touching her. Fran got up on one elbow to look at me, and managed a smile. “Well, at least you’re a little bit excited.”

  It was true. I was slowly hardening. She reached over and petted it as if it were a friendly collie, and it stood strong.

  I was thinking about Mandy. She was probably asleep somewhere, totally unaware of her role in getting the pizza delivery boy laid for the first time. It would have been nice to talk with Mandy, just talk somewhere. If I’d gotten down the stairs faster, it might have happened. We could have gone for a cup of coffee at the Empire Diner on Francis Lewis Boulevard. I could have made her laugh, explaining why my pants were covered in pizza oil. I figured strippers could use a good laugh, that there wasn’t much in their line of work to laugh about.

  I never would have gone to Charlie’s, never would have hooked up with Fran, never would have been poised on the brink of this thing that now had to happen, whether I liked it or not.

  Fran took control. I thought we might kiss first but that wasn’t on the agenda. Fran went down and took me in her mouth in a way that was far from gentle. I couldn’t believe it was happening. I didn’t even know that people did things like this. Masturbation was all I knew about sex. I felt my hands bunch into fists and wondered if I should be stroking her hair or doing something with my hands—anything but making fists!

  What did I know? I had never kissed a girl, never hugged a girl, never seen a pornographic film. I hoped that instinct would carry me, but so far that didn’t seem to be happening.

  Fran’s head rose. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Did you like that?”

  “Yeah,” I lied.

  I was actually glad it hadn’t been pleasurable. I would have shot too soon, and somehow even I knew enough to know that women didn’t like that.

  Fran stretched out on her back. “Come on, let’s have it.”

  The time had come. I climbed on top of her, ready to meet my fate, but I was having a hard time with the angles.

  Fran lifted her head, like an annoyed sunbather when a passerby accidentally kicks sand on her. “What the hell are you doing?”

  All I could do was breathe. It jutted from me like the prow of a schooner, but my ignorant knees were planted on the outsides of Fran’s thighs. Good for wrestling, bad for sex.

  “Hey. How are you gonna fuck me from there?”

  She sounded like a baseball coach scolding a boneheaded player for throwing the ball to the wrong base.

  “Well. Uh…”

  “Get your knees on the inside, for Christ’s sake!”

  I did as I was told, for my own sake, not Christ’s, and with Fran pulling me toward her it happened, a swift, efficient, unemotional event that ended even before I was through pumping, as Fran suddenly decided she’d had enough of it and shoved me away. I nearly went off the bed but managed to hang on somehow, clutching the edge of the mattress and pulling myself back aboard beside Fran, who’d rolled away to the other side, tangled up in the sheet. We were both breathing hard, the air ripe with whiskey. Whatever we’d been doing was over, now and forever.

  “You okay?” she asked the wall.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Sorry it couldn’t have been with someone special, kid.”

  And then she was crying, softly and quietly, like rain on cotton. I tried to touch her, but she curled herself into a ball, like one of those roly-poly armored insects that protects itself this way, but Fran’s only armor was her rage, and that, suddenly, was gone.

  “Fran?”

  “Shhh. Give me a minute. Just be quiet.”

  I did as I was told. I wondered what time it was. The windows were black with night, but dawn couldn’t have been far away. On the other hand, it was hard to imagine the sun ever rising again.

  “Find me my robe, would you? It’s on the floor somewhere.”

  I was glad to have something to do. While I was looking for the robe Fran sat up in bed, blew out the candle, and took a drink straight from the whiskey bottle.

  “You want a swig?”

  “No, thank you.”

  I handed her the robe. She stood to put it on, sat back down, and seemed to calm down. I sat at the foot of the bed, awaiting instructions.

  She took another swallow of whiskey. “You can leave now, if you want.”

  There was nothing I wanted more, but I needed more than just her permission. I needed her blessing, a blessing in this far from holy place. “I’ll stay if you like.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe you want to talk.”

  She managed a weak smile. “You’re a nice boy, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sure you are. You go to school, you’ve got a job, and now you’ve been laid. Too bad it wasn’t with your girlfriend, huh? Somebody you’re really crazy about.”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Don’t bullshit me.”

  “I’m not. I don’t have a girlfriend. I’ve never had a girlfriend. I’ve never…”

  Fran’s eyes were bleary. She seemed to be wobbling, as if she were on a raft at sea. “Never what?”

  “Never even kissed a girl.”

  Why was I telling Fran things I could barely tell myself? I’ll always wonder about that.

  She stared at me, struggled to focus. Her eyes narrowed with determination. She crept toward me, reached around for the back of my neck, pulled my face toward hers, and suddenly stopped. She let me go, retreated to her end of the bed.

  “No,” she decided, ending an argument with herself. “A kiss is special. It’s okay that I was your first fuck, but a kiss is special. That you should have with someone who matters.”

  She took another drink from the bottle.

  “I don’t think you should drink anymore.”

  “I won’t. I’m done now.” She screwed the cap on the bottle, as if to prove her sincerity. Her consonants were slurring and her eyes were at half-mast. I was sure she was going to pass out, and then what was I supposed to do? Take an easy exit? That wouldn’t seem right.

  She wobbled, seemed ready to pitch face-forward off the side of the bed, and then suddenly she straightened up with an odd alertness, a matter of will over whiskey.

  “Get dressed,” she said. “We have to do something.”

  I did as I was told. It took me less than a minute. She got off the bed, tied the robe around herself, stepped into a pair
of slippers, and led the way downstairs.

  “Do what?” I asked, but she wouldn’t say. I followed her out the front door. The sky was going gray with the first light of dawn as we crossed that tiny, dew-soaked lawn to a tin shed at the edge of the property. Fran struggled with the shed door, which finally slid open with a rusty groan. I could see that it was jammed with gardening equipment—rakes, shovels, an old-fashioned push mower.

  Did she want me to cut her lawn, at five o’clock in the morning? I would have done it for her, but that wasn’t what she wanted. Fran reached into the shed and tugged hard at something that seemed reluctant to budge. The metal walls boomed and banged as the thing she struggled with made its way out of that tangle of junk, and suddenly it was free and clear, out in the open. Breathing hard, Fran set it before me. “Here. This is for you. You said you needed one, didn’t you?”

  It was a rusty old bicycle, probably ten years old, maybe even older. It had a faded blue frame, wide wheels, and flat tires.

  “Oh my God.”

  “It was my husband’s. Look at the seat. Stupid fucker carved his name right there in the leather. See?”

  I looked. On the back of the seat the name BOB had been scratched into the leather, probably with a penknife.

  Fran chuckled. “What a dick! Who the hell carves his name into a bicycle seat?”

  “I can’t take this bike, Fran.”

  “Yes, you can. Bob didn’t want it. The boys don’t want it. It’s all yours. There’s nothing wrong with the tires, they just need air. Been years since Bob rode this bike.”

  I felt paralyzed standing there, holding on to that bike as Fran shivered against the morning chill. She stroked my hair in a way that was almost affectionate.

  “You take it, and you tell your boss to go fuck himself.”

  They were the words I needed to hear. I walked the bike to the sidewalk, with Fran at my side. She stopped at the end of her path.

  “Go on, now, get out of here, I gotta get some sleep before my boys come home.”

  She kissed my cheek and pulled back for a last look at me. I had to say something, and what I said was, “Thanks for the bike.”

  I was deliberately specific in my thanks. I didn’t want her to think I was thanking her for sex. Even I knew that would have been rude. She said, “Don’t mention it,” and walked back into her house without so much as a backward glance.