The Odds of You and Me

by Cecilia Galante

  I glanced quickly at him, stung by his curtness. “I was just wondering. You don’t have to be rude about it.”

  “I’m sorry.” He shook his head, as if trying to realign something inside, and then reached inside his pocket for a cigarette. “The truth is, I have a nightmare situation back at my apartment. I try to get out of there as quickly as I can.”

  I could feel myself tense inside. I’d asked the question because I was genuinely curious. There was more to this guy than his cigarettes and factoid book suggested, and I wanted to know what it was. Or did I? A nightmare situation at home could mean anything. Maybe he lived with his mother, who was sick, elderly, an invalid who begged him to wash and feed her every morning. Or worse, a girl he loved who didn’t love him back. They’d stopped talking finally, and neither of them could find the words to make the break, so he was doing what he could to endure it, leaving early in the morning, coming home late at night.

  “I’ve got a pair of screamers upstairs,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Every morning at five o’clock. No matter what.”

  “They fight?” I asked, feeling something drain inside. There was no mother. No girlfriend. At least, not yet.

  He shrugged, a dry smile inching up at one corner. “I’m sure it’s gone down that road a few times, too. Mostly it’s just a lot of moaning and groaning, though, until they both lose it completely and start screaming like a pair of banshees.”

  The understanding of what he was saying hit me all at once, and when it did, I could feel my face flood with heat. I burst out laughing and shook my head. “Oh my God, no wonder you leave. I would, too. Jesus.” The image of the people upstairs led to another image—this one of James in bed with some faceless woman, his lean body arched over hers, the muscles in his back contracting and then tightening as he moved in and around her. I became aware of a faint heat emanating from the skin on my neck, and I swallowed, as if doing such a thing might make it disappear.

  “Do you mind that I’m here?” James asked.

  “Mind?”

  He shrugged. “Technically, I really shouldn’t be, I guess, until my shift starts.” He inhaled deeply on his cigarette, cheekbone blades appearing. “You’re not going to tell Charlie or anything, are you?”

  I drew back, as if tasting something bitter. “Why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know. Just wondering. He’d have a problem with it, you know.”

  “You think?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.

  Charlie treated me fine (if carefully), but I’d heard him rip into the cooks and the other waitresses for sundry benign offenses: coming in five minutes late, or forgetting to offer a customer her complimentary onion rings with the Big and Meaty Meal. He’d screamed at Lionel once for having to leave early so that he wouldn’t miss his kid’s Little League game. “It’s the championships,” Lionel had said, putting on his baseball hat and heading for the back door. “And my kid’s pitching. I told you about it two weeks ago, Charlie. I gotta go, man. My kid’ll never forgive me if I miss it.”

  “Well, don’t expect any fucking forgiveness from me!” Charlie screamed as the door shut in his face. “You’re done man, you hear me? You’re done!”

  His threat was an empty one; the fact that Lionel had told him earlier about the game prevented Charlie from doing anything and both of them knew it. Lionel showed up wordlessly the next morning and got to work frying up a vat of onions—but to this day, Charlie treated him coldly, daring him to make another wrong move so that he could fire him for good.

  James turned to look at me, drawing the edge of one thumb along his eyebrow. “Oh, I know he’d have a problem with it,” he said. “That guy’s a ticking time bomb.”

  I looked away, the weight of what was not being said hanging heavily in the air between us. Why was I with someone like Charlie, who treated people so carelessly? What did that say about me?

  James stood up and crushed his cigarette out under his boot. “You didn’t answer my original question,” he said, inserting his hands inside his jeans pockets.

  “What was it?”

  “Do you mind that I’m here?”

  For a split second we locked eyes, and I wondered if there was anything in his factoid book about how far or fast unspoken thoughts traveled. What explained the strange, liquid sensation that moved under one’s skin in certain situations, or the faint twist of longing that somehow found its way into the pit of a stomach and then lodged there, silent as a sleeping animal?

  I dropped my eyes, staring at the wet pavement beneath my feet, feeling James’s still-steady gaze along the top of my head.

  “Bird?” He took a step toward me.

  I raised my eyes, but only to his knees. “No,” I said too quickly, already hearing the dismissiveness in my voice. “No, I don’t mind at all. It’s fine.”

  He nodded, took a step back. “Okay,” he said. “Well, okay, then.”

  TWO DAYS LATER, Jenny took over the prep shift, my two-week obligation finished. And for a little while, that was the end of my conversations with James. Once, during a lull in the restaurant, I leaned over the window that opened up into the kitchen and asked him for a factoid from the book. But he shook his head and turned away, almost as if he didn’t know me, or even what I was talking about. In fact, inside the restaurant, James was an entirely different person—mute, withdrawn, and reserved almost to the point of rudeness. Another time, when I was working night shift and came back to ask him if he needed help cleaning up, I found everything dark and locked up. I hadn’t known he’d left, hadn’t even heard him go out the back door.

  He came in, did his work, and then left again.

  If he could, I thought, he would have disappeared altogether.

  Chapter 6

  Angus and I usually talk for the six or seven minutes it takes me to drive him to preschool, me eyeing him in the rearview mirror as he responds, just so that I can watch the way his face breaks open into a smile suddenly, or how his tiny eyebrows will knit themselves together in a small, worried line. Today, though, I am so distracted by the news about James that we are less than two blocks away from the school before I realize we haven’t exchanged a single word. We’ve even passed the little green house on the corner, the one with the seven gnomes planted in the front yard, without saying hello to the one Angus has dubbed Dopester.

  He throws his arms around me when I kiss him goodbye, and hugs me so tightly that even though I still have to stop at the church for Ma’s sweater, which will make me late for Mr. Herron, who will not only dock my pay but make me feel guilty, too, something inside me says, Wait.

  “Hey, Boo?” I say as he bends down to straighten the laces of his magic green-and-purple sneakers. They have to be just right, the laces, or the magic won’t work. “I know something is bothering you. What is it?”

  “Nothing.” He does not lift his head.

  I stare down at the dark whorls along his scalp, remember how I used to trace my finger over the tiny pulse-point at the top of his skull when he was first born, how the softness of it frightened me to death and fascinated me at the same time. It was like being able to see that tiny heart beat from the inside out. I lift his chin. “Angus. Come on, honey. It’s just me.”

  His lower lip quivers as he avoids my eyes. “It’s hard sometimes to be brave,” he says.

  My heart swells. I push his hair off his face, cup my fingers around the curve of his chin. Angus has my father’s chin, slightly pointed at the tip, with just the hint of a cleft in the middle. A small miracle, I sometimes think, in the midst of such chaos. A gift. “What do you have to be brave for, sweetheart? Is someone being mean to you? Here at school?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Then what is it?”

  “Today is Something Special Day.” A single tear, fat as a pearl, slides down his cheek. “And I don’t think Jeremy is going to think my magic shoes are special.”

  I kiss away his tear, tasting the salt on my lips, and keep my mo
uth close to his ear. I want to tell him to tell Jeremy to fuck off. Jeremy is a pain in the ass, a first-class brat who stomps his feet and holds his breath until his face turns blue when he doesn’t get his way. But he is also Angus’s best friend. I have come in many times at the end of the day to find the two of them playing with rubber dinosaurs, growling at one another, their faces flushed with joy. And so I hold Angus close instead and say as confidently as I can: “But I already know Jeremy will think your shoes are special.”

  Angus pulls back. “How?”

  “Because they’re magic! Everyone knows that magic sneakers are the coolest things in the entire world!”

  Angus’s hopeful face falls again. “But I already told him they were magic. And he didn’t believe me.”

  “Well, that’s his problem if he doesn’t believe you. He’ll be the one missing out.”

  “Yeah.” Angus doesn’t look convinced.

  “What is it that your magic shoes can do again?”

  “They can make me jump superhigh and run superfast.” He looks disappointed that I haven’t remembered. “You already know that, Mom.”

  I dig in my pocket, hold up a quarter. “What if they made money disappear, too?”

  Angus leans forward, his excitement palpable as I show him the trick, which involves chewing and then attaching a tiny piece of gum to one side of the quarter and then stomping on it. “Okay?” I ask, showing him for the second time how the quarter sticks to the bottom of his shoe. “You think you can do it?”

  He nods eagerly, throws his arms around me once more. “Now my magic shoes will really rock.”

  I brush his hair to the side, kiss his cheek. The light on his face right now makes his skin look translucent, the green veins beneath like rivers on a map. “They will totally rock. I’ll see you at five, baby. And then T-ball practice! Don’t forget.”

  I stand up as his teacher comes out into the hallway, blow him another kiss as she takes him inside.

  If Jeremy gives him even a sidelong glance after his Something Special presentation, I’ll wring his neck.

  I don’t care how old he is.

  HOW IS IT that a person’s life can skid so quickly off the tracks? And who am I to even think of asking such a question?

  “There’s a place called Rome on every continent,” James had said one morning, a month or so after our initial meeting.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that one.” I was sitting on the cement block a few feet away from him, my back pressed against the wall of the restaurant, hands draped over the tops of my tented knees. I’d rigged the last straw-drawing pool among the waitresses after Jenny’s turn had ended, poking a pin through the shortest one so that I’d know which one to pull, and they’d all laughed when I held it up, and said, “Ah, Birdie-Bird, you have the worst luck!” to which I’d only nodded and shrugged, feigning exasperation. But when I’d come outside this morning with the condiment holder and seen him sitting on the stoop, the anxiety I hadn’t known I’d been holding in my chest, worried that he wouldn’t be there, eased and then disappeared. There was no other place I wanted to be. Charlie wouldn’t be in for at least another hour.

  James sidled a glance at me, his hair obscuring most of his eyes. “Do you realize that you argue with almost every piece of information I give you?”

  I shrugged, chewed on my thumbnail. The summer sky was a faint peach color above us; a small flock of sparrows hopped and twittered just a few feet away.

  “Do you enjoy arguing, or are you really just that naturally suspicious?”

  I crossed my arms, sidestepping the question. “How about Antarctica? There can’t be a place called Rome in Antarctica.”

  James looked back down at the page for a moment, then read: “The Filchner-Rome Ice Shelf is located in Antarctica.”

  “An ice shelf?” I repeated. “That’s not a place. That’s a thing.”

  “A thing called Rome,” James said, looking back down again at the book. “Well, technically it’s called Ronne, but a lot of people pronounce it as Rome. Including the author of this book.”

  “That doesn’t count. It’s hyphenated, it’s a thing, and the word ‘Ronne’ doesn’t even come close to Rome.” I slid my knees down until my legs were straight out in front of me. We had to wear blue pleated shorts in the summer months, horrible things that gaped open along our thighs and ended just above the kneecap. My legs, which had always been too skinny, looked shapeless to me now, two soft, slightly stubbled breadsticks. I drew them back up, and wrapped my arms around the front of them, holding them against my chest.

  James snorted softly. “You even have a problem with even the basic, biological stuff, like how our hearts beat up to 100,000 times a day. Someone somewhere must have counted a heart beating, Bird, in order for it to be in this book. Why don’t you just take it for what it is?”

  Something inside skipped as I heard him say my name aloud, which was ludicrous. Yes, something was pulling me toward him. Yes, I’d even fixed things so I could see him—alone—again. So why did the thrill of hearing him say my name frighten me at the same time? And why did I still keep my eyes fastened to the left side of his face when he looked at me, as if his horrible scar might come to life and rub off on me?

  “Take it for what it is?” I repeated. “What is it?”

  “Information. Facts.” He shrugged. “I’m not telling you things that people think, or hope, or believe in. These are real. They’re already proven.”

  “But how do you know?”

  He smiled at me then, holding my eyes—onetwothree—and shook his head.

  What had he thought of me at that moment that he had not said aloud? I wonder now, backing the car out of Angus’s day care. Did he think I was impossible? That my need for proof of things just made me an argumentative, self-righteous pain in the ass? It wouldn’t surprise me; it was this attitude of mine that had always been—and still was—at the root of Ma’s and my strained relationship. She took things on faith, simply because, long ago, she had decided to believe. That wasn’t enough for me. If I was going to believe in something, if I was going to stand in awe of a fact, I wanted to know that I was doing so for a logical, defined reason. That it deserved to be believed in; because it was not only worthy of, but merited, my awe.

  So far, there hadn’t been anything that came close to doing either.

  THE VESTIBULE OF Saint Augustine’s is empty, except for the two marble statues flanking the inside doors: one of Saint Augustine himself, dressed in purple robes and a bishop’s hat, the other of the Blessed Virgin, holding the Baby Jesus in her arms. I used to love looking up at the Baby Jesus when Mom and Dad and I would come here to Sunday Mass together. With his bare feet and lightly tousled hair, He seemed cherubic and adorable. Now, He looks oddly doll-like, the features of His face too mature for such an innocent age.

  “Hello?” I call softly. “Father Delaney?”

  No answer.

  I open the doors leading into the church itself. It’s been about a decade since I’ve been inside here, but everything comes back in a rush: the faint smells of incense and old-lady perfume, the countless rows of wooden pews with their smooth, curved armrests, scarlet and indigo stained-glass windows, the narrow red carpet leading up to the white marble altar. Behind the altar, the wooden cross, at least two feet tall, bearing the hideously draped figure of Jesus, hanging by His nailed hands and feet. When I was little, I used to stare at the cross during Mass and wait for Jesus to come down off it. I pictured Him shaking his arms—which would be stiff from being out straight for so long—maybe massaging the wounds in His hands, and doing a few deep knee bends. He’d look over the congregation until He saw me, and then move in my direction. When He got close, He would reach out and take my hand, say something like, “Hi, sweetie. I’m starving. You want to go get something to eat?” It didn’t seem so strange to me. Ma was forever saying that God could do anything and Jesus was God’s Son, so why not?

  “Hello?” I call out again a
little louder this time, wincing as my voice reverberates throughout the empty building. It feels sacrilegious to be speaking so loudly, but how else am I going to find Father Delaney? This is where Ma said he was going to meet me, right? Or did she mean the vestibule in the rectory next door? I head back through the doors again, glance impatiently over to my left at the set of winding stairs that lead up to the choir loft. Wow, the choir loft. It’s hard to believe that I used to sing up there when I was younger, that between the ages of eight and twelve I spent half of every Sunday singing the Mass and then, afterward, practicing for next week. I didn’t care much about the songs, or even about being up so high. The best part about the choir loft was climbing up and down those stairs. They could make you dizzy if you went up fast enough, take your breath away by the time you reached the last step.

  “Father Delaney?” I call out again. “Hello? Are you here?”

  A rustling sound overhead makes me glance up. It’s highly unlikely that Father Delaney would be up there, since Ma’s told me at least a hundred times that Saint Augustine’s hasn’t had a choir for the last four years. Still, I move over to the bottom step, rest my hands on either side of the wall, and call up into the void. “Father Delaney? It’s Bird—Bernadette Connolly? My mother forgot her sweater and she said . . .”

  Oh, for God’s sake. Abruptly, I stop talking and start up the steps. I have to place my hand flat against the wall as I make my way, since the steps are smaller than I remember, and much more narrow. Toward the top, they are tapered so much that I actually have to turn to the side, placing my feet sideways, so that I won’t fall. Plus, I am panting a little. Ma is definitely going to hear about this.

  “Father Dela . . .” My voice trails off as I see the figure in the corner, huddled next to the enormous organ. His legs are stuck out in front of him, but the left one is splayed at an awkward angle, as if someone took it and then bent it in the wrong direction. A large, gaping wound is still bleeding on one side of his shaved head, and he is holding a gun. Pointed at me.