Welcome Thieves

by Beaudoin, Sean

  “Wait, he’s not yours?”

  “Mine?”

  “The muscle,” Danny said. “Tailing me around town.”

  Air passed between Miss Kay’s lips, more dismissive than angry. “You donkey. I’m not having anyone follow you.”

  “You telling me that’s not your Acura?”

  They both looked out the window. The Acura wasn’t there anymore. In its spot was a Fiat. And next to that was a silver Hyundai with the license plate NURSE1.

  “You wanna live on my salary, you’re welcome to try. But this isn’t the movies. You think I’d work with your dumb ass if I could afford muscle?”

  Danny considered the possibility that he was deeply immature.

  “Probably no.”

  “Probably no,” Miss Kay agreed.

  The Hobart clonked through a rinse cycle. The jukebox blared, Axl warbling about the relative sweetness o’ his child. When he was done, Bob Seger turned the page.

  “Now do me a favor, genius, and go see if my pizza is ready.”

  1965 Cadillac Convertible

  Eventually fall dropped in full, red and black, orange leaves sweeping though the grass like arson. Danny put on an extra shirt, changed the antifreeze in the truck. Then Gail announced she was pregnant and quit. A day later Gail’s boyfriend, Zach, came looking for Mikey Atta with a claw hammer, and Mikey Atta quit, too. The busboy with the turban, name of Sandip, now manned the ovens. He was a wizard with crust. Business picked up. Hippie Tim tied on an apron and started waiting tables himself. Business dropped off again.

  Danny cranked the radio, waited for texts, cruised the school grounds in ever-­widening circles. Past dorms and clinics, past the field house and lacrosse pitch, past groups of kids running shuttles or down on one knee, crosses dug into the grass like spears as they absorbed strategy and tactics, ready to kill each other for the slightest nod of affirmation.

  He swept through the gates and the guard booths, back over the interstate, where the strip malls ended and the bargain stores began. Wings and burgers and even faster foods. Smoothies and yoga studios. The bar next to the other bar.

  Just beyond a litter-­strewn turnaround was a glint of chrome.

  Danny locked ’em up, reversed the length of a football field, and pulled alongside a powder-­blue, magnificently finned Cadillac stalled in the weeds.

  Al Rubirosa, short for Álvaro, had failed Danny in sculpture. Hard to blame him, since Danny hardly ever showed up for class and even when he did knocked out dumb things like cock-­bongs, the kind of things that would make a professor hate you. But Danny loved the way the professor seemed unsurprised to find him clomping toward the vintage Caddy. How he didn’t act like it was anything worth mentioning that Danny pushed him and his family into the BoxxMart lot and tried a jump, which failed, his whole affect more or less saying, I need help and you are providing it. Such is a transaction among honorable men.

  The professor’s wife, Galena, walked to the store while they leaned under the hood, pointed at this wire or that valve and conjectured as to each one’s purpose or possible blame. She soon returned with bags of food. They laid out a blanket between two minivans for a picnic. Their little boy and two girls laughed and squealed and jumped in Danny’s lap, calling him el Cucuy. Danny didn’t ask what it meant and they didn’t say. A bottle of wine was opened. Then a second. It began to drizzle, but they pretended not to notice. Galena had a chipped tooth and freckled clavicles. She smoked and laughed at Danny’s jokes, which the professor did not, but in a way that seemed simply a matter of taste instead of a judgment.

  “And why is it,” she asked, “you are such the terrible student?”

  Danny told her.

  School, knee, pizza, Steak.

  Drugs, donkey, Miss Kay’s wage-­garnishment plan.

  The Rubirosas nodded, grunted, poured more wine.

  They ate baguettes with ham and mayonnaise.

  Galena finally suggested that all lives are messy, as are all loves. She referenced D. H. Lawrence, as well as H. L. Mencken. Álvaro described the exquisite flaws of Giacometti the Younger, the long and beautiful curves of Jean Arp.

  They encouraged him to re-­enroll, take more classes.

  They encouraged him to cease his criminal behavior.

  They encouraged him to call Steak, profess his love.

  “You must settle things with this woman, or you will stagnate.”

  “Yes,” Álvaro said. “To pine for someone without return is the worst of all afflictions.”

  Danny dialed, hit speakerphone.

  Lula answered. She described a standpipe that had given her trouble all day, talked about the difficulty of hiring laborers in winter. Danny told her about bad tippers and the price of gas. Finally, Lula wished him well. She also wished he wouldn’t call anymore.

  “Like, ever. You know what I’m saying here, Danny?”

  He did.

  “So perhaps it was not to be,” Galena concluded, with a shrug that encompassed the folly of believing in salvation, but particularly as delivered at the foot of a woman.

  “Yes,” Álvaro said, swirled his wine.

  Eventually the tow truck came and a hard little man yanked the Caddy up onto his winch.

  For once Danny was no help at all.

  Al and Galena piled the kids into the backseat of the tow like the whole thing was a grand adventure. Danny kissed them all good-bye, especially the shy, brown-­kneed daughters with their charming mispronunciation of Daniel, with their stoic knowledge of exactly who he was and how they would avoid his ilk when the time or puberty came, but for now cheek-­to-­cheek in the established continental style.

  They waved and sang and were gone.

  Danny’s phone buzzed.

  It was a text, wrong number, five words.

  IT’S A NEW DAY, BAE.

  He decided that wisdom, if it ever came, would always be beamed down from above.

  Without explanation or warning.

  A pulse from a just God.

  Or just god.

  Maybe even a genial satellite.

  He fired up the engine, mashed the gas, merged without signalling.

  Prepared to go forth and deliver.

  Hey Monkey Chow

  Jonelle’s pregnant, huge in a red one-­piece, pissed because Cher came, too. In a bikini. Half of Ocean Beach staring. Also because there’s a dirt bike and packs of dogs. Because there’s a too-­loud radio and abandoned food and herds of teenagers smoking cigarettes, one after another.

  Someone yells, “Shark!” The lifeguard yawns. A little girl runs by with a Popsicle in her mouth. Her lips are blue.

  “It’s dirty here,” Jonelle says.

  “It’s called sand,” Cher says.

  One of the teenagers walks over. He’s wearing a necklace.

  “You Dillard?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You gotta go see Butterfly.”

  I had no idea he was back in town. Or even alive.

  “Who says?”

  “The man do.”

  A dog races in from the water, shakes itself off. Jonelle yelps, turns, presses her torpedo stomach into mine. The only thing to do is kiss her so much she can’t see straight.

  “Stop, you’ll hurt the baby.”

  “It’s okay, we’ll make another one.”

  “So not funny,” Jonelle says, but lets me dry her legs. “And who in fuck is Butterfly?”

  THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS in fourth grade Wade’s mom won a monkey in a card game, a scabby little thing in a wire cage, crazy eyes and a permanent hard-­on. It shit every twelve seconds. We heard it screech all night long. The next morning the monkey was on its side, wouldn’t move. Wade figured it was either dead or hungry, slid the gate banana-­wide. The thing elbowed through, sank its choppers into Wade’s nose, wouldn’t let go until the old lady in 6A shot it with a pistol so rusty it crumbled in her hand. At the clinic they made a graft, took eight inches of butt skin to close the hole, stitches and a pi
nk butterfly in the center of Wade’s face, an ass-­papillon, hard to look at, hard not to look at.

  After that Mom was all, “Why don’t you go play with Wade?” Cher winked like, Because, um, yuk? and I poked her under the table like, Do I have to? and then Mom gave me the stare, rubbing her stomach like, How did something so stupid ever find its way out?

  “Okay, fine.”

  I walked down the hall. Wade’s mom cracked the door in a nightie. Skinny and bruised, pubic hair a mystery half-­solved beneath shiny cotton.

  “Yeah?”

  “Butterfly around?”

  She rested her hand on the front of my corduroys. “You’re a good kid.”

  So me and Cher would hang with Wade on the front stoop, play Hold’em for dimes or Skittles until the bus came. You beat a king-­high straight? Fuck, no. You beat trip sixes? Fuck, no. Wade liked to squeeze Cher’s wrist, Don’t let her deal, she cheats! I’d warn him to cut the shit and Cher would be like, I don’t need no protection, and sweep up all the dimes.

  Older dudes on the stroll would check us out, laugh some, but never say much, like Wade was so messed up it wasn’t even worth it.

  School was different. Before class, after class, recess. Hey, Monkey Chow! and Only the nose knows! and How’m I suppose to eat lunch if he don’t turn and face the wall? Wade kept getting infected. Walked around with a special bag of swabs and creams, constantly punched in the neck and behind the swings. He needed another graft. He needed a more sterile environment. The principal finally dialed up Stu Mayse, who’d been caught fondling twins but then found Jesus and opened Amayzing Grace and Grocery, mostly giving back to the community in the form of double coupons but in this case told he was funding a scholarship or else. Stu Mayse ponied the cash. There was a cut ribbon and flashbulbs in front of the register, a feel-­good story that everyone would feel a whole lot better about once Wade was out of town. They handed him a train ticket and a Samsonite, a new hat and sweater, sent to a school for specials all the way down in Santa Monica, gone nearly eight years.

  I SKIP BREAKFAST, tell Jonelle I’ve got the morning shift.

  “But you don’t open until noon.”

  Her stomach pushes out of pajama tops, beautiful and exhausted, sweaty and pissed, all thigh and frown. I explain how two taps are busted, which is true, and that I gotta get there early to flush the lines, which isn’t, Manny on his stool at the end of the bar like, “Assholes wanna drink that perfumy shit, they can do it out of bottles.”

  I wait at the bus stop until I’m sure Jonelle’s not peeking behind the curtain and then practically jog over to Seventy-­Seventh, wanting to get it over with. The building’s in the middle of a block of pitted brick and layered tags, Wade’s apartment on the top floor. No elevator. Stairs dark and long and falling apart. I knock and there are like six locks, flip, flip, flip, a bar and a latch and a bolt and a guy, tall and cut, closing it all behind me.

  “Um, Butterfly?”

  He points. “Yeah, but the man don’t like that name no more.”

  There are empty rooms. A TV, a table, half a rug. A chew toy chewed to shit. Wade sits at a desk in back, folding up powder, glossy little triangles piled next to a cell phone that rings, rings.

  “Hey, Dillard,” he says, and it’s amazing, the difference. The kid with the suitcase and sweater got left behind. Now Wade’s bigger than the desk, all shoulders and arms. The scar has changed, too, like borders redrawn after long negotiations, the graft and his face having come to terms on the subject of just how pink, just how awful. “Word is you’re hitched.”

  “Have been a while now.”

  “Little wife, little house?”

  “I guess.”

  “Your sister crashing with you?”

  Cher’s not really my sister. She’s adopted. Or more like her mom left her on our couch with half a box of Pampers and never came back. My friends were always like, Yo, Dilly, you ever watch your sister take a shower? or Yo, Dilly, you guys play special games down in the basement? Mainly because Cher grew up tall and quick, with green assassin’s eyes, with long red hair and long pale legs, long and smooth and freckled everything. I was always, Dudes, we’re practically related, and they were always, Practically is an invitation, and I was like, But still and shit and they were like, You gotta expand your horizons, player, even nuns do anal now.

  “Yeah, she is.”

  Wade laughs. “Do I love your game or what? Quiet Dilly. Goes along, gets along. Meanwhile it’s Hef’s place over there, Dilly pouring cognac, spinning Al Green.”

  The phone vibrates. He answers, says one word, hangs up.

  “Tell you what, do me a solid and tell Cher to come by sometime.”

  “What for?”

  “I wanna talk.”

  “Here?”

  Butterfly puts his cowboy boots up on the desk, powder blue and tooled.

  “Yeah, Dillard. Here.”

  I DON’T EVEN KNOW why Cher’s home, a couple weeks ago just rolled in all, “Wait, for real? Your wife’s name is Jonelle?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “She black?”

  “She’s from Connecticut.”

  “So?”

  “Her parents are hippies. Her brother’s name is like, Track. Or Twig.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “It’s a brain lock.”

  “A mental block?”

  “Trunk, maybe? Trapper? We don’t see them much. Or really at all.”

  “How come?”

  “It’s like a compound they live on. Gardens and a teepee. Compost piles.”

  “So where’d you and Jo-­Jo meet?”

  “She comes in, asks for this tropical drink.”

  “You still at Manny’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You make good tips?”

  I look around the house like, Bet your ass I do, but it was the hippies who fronted the down payment.

  Cher yanks my belt loop. “Guess what I really wanna know.”

  “Where to find a cheap place to stay?”

  “No, dumbass. You miss your sister or what?”

  I did. Just hanging out. Laughing at shit wasn’t even funny. Wrestling on the plaid couch. The way she’d toss back her hair and roll the dice, slide the top hat on over to Ventnor Avenue.

  “Yeah, not so much.”

  “At first I figured it was Jehovahs again,” Jonelle says, easing down the stairs. “This voice I keep hearing but don’t recognize.”

  They do the fake shake, the air kiss, compliment each other’s shoes, laugh about being half-­sisters now, all Wow, your stomach’s big, and Wow, you’re older than I thought, clasping hands and deciding, Hey, maybe we should hit the mall together sometime, shop for cute onesies and a manicure.

  Then Jonelle pulls me aside, hair pulled back, one dangling streak of pink.

  “No effing way she’s staying with us.”

  “But we’re family.”

  “Not even.”

  “Still.”

  Jonelle points to Mom’s room, which would be the baby’s but isn’t. “You got any cousins we could move in, too?”

  Actually I did — a rocker in Seattle running out of things to rhyme heroin with, and then one who deals blackjack up in Reno, would surf the couch faster than I could offer, ride it for life.

  “No.”

  “Liar,” Cher says from the other room.

  I kiss Jonelle’s shoulder, roll the waist of her sweatpants up and down, whisper It’s cool, and I got this, palm the baby who kicks kicks kicks like he can barely wait.

  She puts her mouth to my ear, “Who in fuck you think you’re playing?”

  And then heads to Parenting Now class.

  The door slams, signal for Mom to come out of her room. She asks if anyone wants soup like Cher’s been gone maybe half an hour. I point Mom in the right direction, get her tray ready, slippers ready, Bible near the pillow. All around the bed are candles and rosaries, pictures of men in uniforms and hats, unsmili
ng like there’s something real important they have to do, if only it wasn’t just out of frame.

  Later, everyone’s asleep and it’s just me and Cher flipping channels, sszzt, sszzt, sszzt. There’s car chases and pointy lawyers and shows where most people can’t sing but some can and then everyone votes for the one that can’t anyway. I find an old Archie Bunker, the episode where he’s mad at Edith.

  “She’s got some ass on her,” Cher says, wearing shorts and socks and a T-­shirt that says NO MEANS MAYBE in sparkly letters.

  “Who, Jonelle?”

  “No, Sally Struthers.”

  “What can I say? I like my shit thick.”

  Cher throws a pillow. Nails me in the face.

  “Nailed you in the face.”

  “Hey, can I ask you something?”

  “Nope.”

  “Like, what happened to college?”

  “It wasn’t college, okay Dilly? Why does everyone keep saying college?”

  “What was it then?”

  She sticks her nose in the air, arches her back. “Modeling school. Where you go to learn how to stand. And turn. And sniff.”

  “Sniff what?”

  “Drugs. Skinny drugs. Pounds-­off drugs.”

  “For real?”

  “Not me, just some other girls.”

  “Did Terrence know?”

  Cher laughs. Terrence being the one who spotted her on Ocean Beach. Gave her his card, which even Mom figured for horseshit, yeah right, he’s scouting for talent. Two days later my boys boost a Nissan, pick me up. We pass a bottle all the way into the city, ready to kick Terrence’s ass, bang bang bang on the door, and then fall into a lobby so white and clean, frozen air and brushed steel, like the set for a movie about futuristic haircuts. Terrence comes out, little mustache, deep swish. Harmless. Hands around flutes of champagne and crackers, introduces us to the same assistant twice. We leave the car with one tire up on the sidewalk, take the BART home. A month later photos arrive, glossy 8x10s that Mom shows to everyone not slinging dope or ass for half a mile, and even some of those. Terrence circulates his own, agencies and schools, gets Cher a full ride down in L.A., room and board and even study materials covered.