Small Wonders

by Courtney Lux

  Trip’s not a good employee and he knows it. He’s no good at keeping to a schedule, he loses track of what he’s supposed to be doing and, the second a manager yells at him, he yells back. He’s never lasted long busing dishes or unpacking delivery trucks, and there’s not much else he can do without a diploma. Still, things are too hard right now to just rely on tips he picks up for playing his guitar.

  “Shit,” Scarlett murmurs. She reaches for June’s chubby ankle, squeezes it gently. “What the hell are we gonna do?”

  “Sell June.” Trip can’t find the energy to put much effort into the joke. He meets Scarlett’s gaze when she swats at his foot. “We’ll figure something out. We always do.”

  No one says anything.

  “I need to get going. I won’t be back until late.” Scarlett pushes herself to her feet. She offers Trip a hand. “How mad would you be if I stopped to see Kellan before I came home? It wouldn’t be long.”

  Trip accepts her hand and keeps June balanced on his hip as he pulls himself upright. “Long, short—whatever blows your dress up, honey. We’re fine. Nowhere to be tonight.”

  Scarlett turns Trip’s hand over to inspect his inked palm. “You sure about that?”

  Trip jerks his wrist out of her hold. “I can find somewhere to be, and you can be out your babysitter if that’s what you’re angling for.”

  “Not what I was aiming for, no.” Scarlett kisses June on the cheek. She tucks the cell phone into Trip’s pocket. “Put his number in the phone.”

  “And why would I do that?” Trip keeps his tone light. He turns his palm out to Scarlett. “Whether he’s into girls or not, pretty sure you’re not gonna top my performance, honey, so not entirely worth your time.”

  “Hmmm, possessive.” Scarlett reaches out and tweaks a draw­string on Trip’s sweatshirt. “Interesting.”

  Before Trip can say anything back, Scarlett’s gone and he’s left trying to calm a suddenly distraught June. Liam soon leaves for a night shift at the diner, leaving Devon, Trip and June alone. Trip passes the time reading a children’s board book over and over for June while she works at pulling the drawstring out of the hood of his sweatshirt. He thinks he should tell Nate there is at least one book he’s read cover to cover, though he’s not sure children’s books count.

  Devon chain-smokes on the arm of the couch and flips through the pages of one of his newspapers so quickly that Trip is fairly certain he is not actually reading it. He lowers it abruptly to the couch cushions. “I’m headed out.”

  Trip watches as Devon flicks his cigarette out into the dark and pushes the window closed. He moves to the bedroom he shares with Liam and, formerly, Jude. “Where you headed?”

  “None of my business where you go, is it?” Devon reappears with his jacket and shoes on. “I’ll mind mine if you mind yours.”

  “Fair enough.” June’s teething on the edge of the book, but Trip makes no move to stop her. He keeps his eyes on Devon, who has stopped in his flurry of movement at the door.

  Devon speaks down to his hand wrapped around the door­knob. “Sorry about earlier, man.” He shakes his head. “It’s been a rough couple days.”

  Trip offers no apology. He’s not good with apologies when he’s sure that he is the one in the wrong and he’s even less interested when someone else started it. Still, Devon is Devon, so he does want to offer some response. He can’t stand this constant tension in the apartment. “No harm, no foul, buddy.”

  The door closes behind Devon with a definitive snap, and Trip has a pang of anxiety that he won’t be coming back. He swallows the feeling. He doesn’t have the time or the energy to worry over something that hasn’t happened.

  When June gets fussy, Trip changes her diaper, shoves her toys into the laundry basket beside the couch and sets to work trying to put her to sleep. He walks the apartment and sings to her with one hand patting her back until she goes loose-limbed against him and he can put her down in her Pack ‘n Play. He turns off the lights, not interested in paying more than is necessary when the electric bill is due.

  In the sudden darkness, Trip is aware of how silent the apart­ment is, and it sparks another unpleasant wave of anxiety. He isn’t good at being alone. He isn’t good at silence.

  He tucks himself into the corner of the couch and peers in at June before pulling the cell phone from his pocket. By the light of the streetlamp, he copies the numbers written across his palm into the Contacts section of the phone and saves it under “Nathaniel.” He stares at the number for a long time, hits Call, waits.

  It rings once, twice, three times and then goes to voice mail. Nate’s voice solemnly informs Trip that he can’t come to the phone right now, but if he leaves his name and number, he’ll get back to him as soon as possible.

  When the beep of the voice mail cuts off Nate’s voice, Trip says the first thing that comes to mind. “If you’re not too busy cleaning your kitchen or reading one of your books, give me a call. I have some important questions about the East River that need your attention.”

  Trip drops the phone beside him, then tucks a hand under the neck of his T-shirt to trace a scar on his shoulder blade. He is good at acting on impulse—it’s what’s gotten him this far, after all, but he isn’t sure how he feels about what he’s just done. He wants a cigarette. He jumps when the phone vibrates against his thigh. His anxiety melts as he pulls his hand out from under his collar to press the phone to his ear. “Hello, Nathaniel.”

  seven.

  Things are getting harder and easier all at once. Making rent had been nearly impossible at the beginning of the month, and the full pain of fewer people to split the bills makes Trip and all of his roommates feel the full injury of Jude’s disappearance when they can’t make electric. Scarlett takes their cash and writes a check for what they have and sends it in, hoping it at least buys them more time.

  Trip tries playing in Central Park, the steps at the Met, subway platforms and anywhere else he can think of to draw in a new crowd that might be more willing to pay him for whatever entertainment he provides. The crowds have been steadily thinning in the parks; the weather’s turned so cold that most people have brought out their winter jackets and spend little time milling around. Trip throws his shirt at Nate when he informs Trip that he’s heard whispers of the possibility of snow before Halloween.

  Today there is no snow, but there is freezing rain. The skies are heavy gray, the rain pounds the windows of the apartment, and Liam has a fit when a leak develops above the window near the corner of the living room that holds his sculptures.

  Devon puts an empty paint bucket beneath the crack. They take turns emptying the bucket into the bathtub, but no one offers a more long-lasting remedy.

  Trip sits on the floor beside the bucket and watches the steady drip, drip, drip of water. He’s trying to motivate himself into going out to play for a few sympathy dollars. He’d spent the entire previous day with Nate and he’s too aware of how little money he has for their impending rent payment.

  Usually spending time with Nate is not a problem. Trip spends his days playing, working his way steadily east until he arrives at Nate’s building in the dusky early hours of the evening. The doorman insists on calling Nate the first few times Trip comes over, but he’s shifted to only watching Trip with wary eyes as he passes him on the way to the elevators. Nate always answers the door with his near-signature frown, though he steps aside without any coaxing to let Trip into the apartment.

  Trip makes a point of getting him to laugh. He sings a lot, strips off his clothes along with his shoes at the door and fusses with the things in the fridge until Nate relaxes enough to put a record on or strip out of some of his clothes, too. Their routine is inconsistent. Sometimes Trip spends the night; other times he sneaks out once Nate’s asleep. Occasionally he climbs out of bed, still sticky and catching his breath, puts his clothes back on and leaves with a sing-songe
d goodbye. Nate never comments on his more abrupt disappearances; he watches Trip as if there’s something he wants to say but doesn’t know how.

  Tuesdays are the one steady part of this thing he and Nate have created together, and Trip has spent the past three Tuesdays with Nate. Nate makes it his rest day from running, and they busy themselves exploring the city. They walk the far reaches of Central Park, eat lobster at Chelsea Market and walk the Highline one week; explore Chinatown and Little Italy and venture into Brooklyn, where they drink beer and play arcade games another week; and, in a streak of near-manic determination, Trip makes a Tuesday activity out of trying to give Nate a blow job in the bathroom of every museum they visit on the East Side despite Nate’s protesting that they’ll get in trouble. Trip likes Tuesdays more than he’d care to admit.

  Today is a Wednesday, though, and Trip needs to make up for the lost hours. He sticks a hand under the steady drip from the leak above the window frame and shivers at how cold the water is on his palm.

  Liam sits beside him with a sketchpad on his knees. “I think I’m going to do a show.”

  “Yeah?” Trip watches water pool in his palm and drip over the edges of his cupped fingers. “You thinking about figuring out a way to pay rent on time and all our bills in full, too? Maybe running for president or something while you’re at it?”

  “You’re so cynical.” Liam squints at his sketchpad. He erases something. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

  “Whatever you say.” Trip turns his hand over and dumps the water into the bucket. He shakes out his hand and moves to stand. Liam catches a finger in one of Trip’s belt loops.

  “Sit. I’m not finished.” Liam looks at him pointedly; he waves his pencil at the bucket. “Stick your hand back in there.”

  “No fuckin’ way. It’s cold.” Trip tries to pry Liam’s finger from his jeans. Liam begs him constantly to act as a model, but Trip can’t stand it. He doesn’t know how to hold still long enough for Liam to get what he wants onto paper, and he doesn’t like to be inspected with such intensity. Besides that, he gets some small twisted pleasure out of irritating Liam.

  “Please?” Liam releases Trip. “I’ll feature you in my show.”

  “How the hell does that seem like a good argument to use with me?” Trip moves again to stand, but Liam pulls him back down.

  “You’re a total attention whore and you know it.” Liam taps his pencil on the handle of the pail. “Stick your hand in the damn bucket, Morgan.”

  Trip groans but does as he’s told. “You’ve got three minutes.”

  “That’s all I need.” Liam immediately sets back to work.

  Trip watches the rain on the window and doesn’t fuss when Liam adjusts his fingers or twists his wrist into some new angle. The apartment is quiet. Devon’s gone missing for nearly three days and Scarlett’s at a doctor’s appointment with Kellan and the baby.

  Trip’s not home often, but when he is, he is aware of Kellan’s imprint. There are vases of flowers on the card table in the kitchen, containers of date-night leftovers in the refrigerator and, sometimes, his shoes beside the door. Kellan took an immediate liking to June. He accompanies Scarlett to appointments and on walks when he can and takes the baby along to his office on Saturdays when there is free daycare for the office staff. Trip still takes the baby most Fridays and when Scarlett works nights in exchange for help with his bills.

  “You’re alarmingly docile these days, Trip.” His eyes on his paper, Liam chews on the end of his pencil. “Like a nice stray dog looking for a belly rub or something.”

  “If I dump this bucket on your head, you think maybe you’ll change your mind about that?” Trip makes no move to lift the bucket.

  Liam waves his pencil at Trip. “It’s not all the time. It’s Wed­nesdays. You’re practically nice on Wednesdays.”

  “Well fed and well fucked.” Trip scratches his nose against his shoulder. “I have a set-up.”

  “You have a boyfriend.” Liam speaks down at his sketchpad as he sets back to work drawing.

  “I don’t do boyfriends.” Trip dumps water back into the bucket.

  “Not what Kellan says.” Liam pokes the point of his pencil into Trip’s neck. “He says you and Mr. Mackey are quite the cozy couple. Personally, I can’t imagine you doing domestic, but I kind of like the idea of you in an apron making cookies or something.”

  Occasionally, Kellan shows up at Nate’s with a case of beer and cheers noisily when he spies Trip seated at the breakfast bar or emerging from the bathroom. Trip tries to excuse himself on those nights, but Kellan usually insists he stay.

  Trip tears the pencil from Liam’s hand and tosses it at the side of his head. “I don’t have a goddamn boyfriend.”

  “Ow! Christ, Trip, that temper.” Liam rubs his ear and stretches to retrieve his lost pencil. “For someone who can make such a good show of being halfway pleasant, you can be so god­damn mean. One of these days we need to get you in for anger manage­ment or something.”

  “Maybe you can put the money for your fucking gallery space toward the classes.” Trip shoves himself to his feet and goes to his room to retrieve his guitar.

  “I’m not done with you. Where are you going?” Liam calls after him.

  “Unless you want that pencil actually through your neck next time you piss me off, I think it’s a good idea for both of us if I get gone.” Trip slings his guitar over his back and his bag over his shoulder.

  “You’re going to freeze to death.” Liam puts his sketchpad down on the coffee table and pulls the rapidly filling bucket closer to his side.

  “I got a jacket. I’ll be fine.” Trip pulls up the hood on his jacket—Nate’s jacket—and tugs the zipper higher.

  “That’s a sweatshirt.” Liam stands, the bucket hanging from one hand. “If you die, we seriously won’t be able to make rent and there’ll be no one to watch the baby on Fridays.”

  “Maybe that show of yours will bring in enough cash to pay the difference.” Trip shifts his guitar higher on his shoulder. “And for daycare for the kid.”

  Liam gives him the finger while he moves toward the bath­room with the bucket, but offers no other smart remarks as Trip makes his way out of the apartment.

  • • •

  Going out to play turns out to be a worse idea than Trip had thought. For the sake of the shelter the arch offers him, he spends some time in Washington Square Park despite its relative quiet. The park is depressing this time of year. Most of the other buskers have moved on to whatever other careers they have; the fortune-tellers, artists and dancers are all gone, too. It should be a good thing—more customers for Trip—but in the three years Trip has been doing this, that has never been the case. After the fountain is drained, it’s as if all the magic of the park is drained with it: the colors faded, the people less happy, and the only music in the air coming from Trip and his guitar.

  Today is not an exception. He earns some cash, the change out of someone’s pocket and a granola bar from a girl whom Trip is fairly sure thinks he’s homeless. He’s not far from it if he doesn’t make rent.

  He goes for a walk, willing to brave getting wet if it means some extra cash, but it’s no use. The parks and streets are near-empty and there are police stationed in nearly every subway station he checks. They give him sharp looks and, though he’s usually up for a fight, Trip doesn’t feel like getting himself thrown in jail. It’s too lengthy a process, too expensive.

  He makes his way to the steps of the Met, where he earns more from a group of tourists after he picks their pockets and offers to read their minds for a few dollars. One of them cries when he mentions her military boyfriend; another offers her number along with a dollar. Trip gets uncomfortable over the crying one, winks at the one who has offered her number. The whole affair earns him ten dollars and he decides he’s had enough.

  It’s sli
ghtly earlier in the day than he usually goes to see Nate, but he feels vaguely nauseous and chilled to his core, so he ignores Liam’s teasing voice in the back of his mind and makes the short walk to Nate’s building.

  When he arrives, the doorman calls after him, “Mr. Mackey’s not here right now.”

  Trip does his best to stay on the rug in the entryway so he doesn’t drip all over the floors. “You know where he went?”

  “For a run or to the gym, judging by his outfit.” The door­man looks over Trip’s dripping clothes. “I’ll let him know you stopped by.”

  “Mind if I wait?” Trip pulls a hair binder from his wrist and pulls his hair back so it will stop sticking to his neck.

  “If you don’t mind waiting outside.” The doorman looks at him in a way that Trip knows well. He’s not welcome here.

  He salutes the doorman. “Aye-aye, sir.”

  He could just go home. He doesn’t know when Nate’s coming back, and it could be a long time. Nate has himself set on running a marathon and, if Trip’s remembering correctly, he’s currently doing ten or eleven miles at a time. Trip catches sight of the doorman watching him from the other side of the doors. He sits down on the top step, digs Nate’s umbrella out of his bag and waves at the doorman enthusiastically. He doesn’t have to wait long before he spies Nate’s now-familiar form jogging down the block.

  Nate stops in front of him. He rests his hands on his knees while he catches his breath and looks Trip over. “You realize it’s pouring and, like, forty degrees out here?”

  “I got an umbrella.” Trip spins the umbrella. He looks over Nate’s soaked running clothes. “Which is more than can be said for you, sugar. Don’t go calling me crazy when you’re the one running in this shit.”

  “Can’t take the day off.” Nate looks unhappy. “How long have you been sitting here?”