“No,” he says and moves under me. “No way am I stopping. If I get stung, call 911 and shoot me with the EpiPen.”
“Is your car unlocked?”
“Yes, unlocked.”
“You leave your police car unlocked? Don’t you have a gun in there?”
“Locked in the trunk.”
“Can’t you unlock the trunk from inside the car?”
“No. Be quiet.”
I can’t hold back my smile.
A basketball bounces on a driveway nearby, the sound methodical and easy, the slightest echo of vibrating rubber adding an interesting complexity. Blake’s lawn mower revs, then settles into an unyielding growl. The shed door is a good six inches ajar, but I don’t care. I don’t care if Blake comes over to give me lawn care advice and peeks into my shed and sees my bare ass bouncing. I am simply having too much fun.
Within two minutes I have another orgasm. Sixty seconds later, he is pulsing and emptying himself inside me.
I say, “No, you didn’t just do that.”
Breathy, he stammers, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. I had to.”
I roll off him and lie on my back beside him. Deep in my brain, one of my neurons waves a red flag and shouts, “Uh, he might be selfish,” but this neuron is so far buried, it’s practically invisible; it’s the neuron the others pshaw and ignore. I’m not mad, not right now. I feel too good for that. I laugh, “You’ve got some incredible fucking nerve.”
Still breathing heavy, he says, “I had a vasectomy.”
Strangely, this makes me sad. I don’t want to have more children, I’m too old for it and not that great as a parent, so my sadness shocks me. The desire to make more babies is not my own, so where is it coming from? Maybe it’s hardwired.
Still, shooting a load into me? Kind of pushy. I’m elated now, but I’m positive two hours from now, when his juice is leaking out onto my underwear, making my clothes wet and sticky, I’m gonna be annoyed.
“I guess it doesn’t matter. And I have an IUD.”
“An explosive device?”
“IUD, not IED. It’s a birth control device they implant in the uterus.”
“Sounds scary. Did it hurt?”
I find his consideration, or maybe it’s curiosity, charming. Considering he carelessly filled me with seminal fluid a minute ago, it’s got to be the remnant oxytocin blast from my orgasm making him appear charming. “Only when they put it in. I can’t feel it now.”
He inhales deeply and lets his breath out meditatively. “I feel like I’m sixteen. You are incredible.”
“Of course I’m incredible. I let you fuck me.”
He laughs.
After orgasm, my flexibility and sensuality don’t stick around. I hoist my stiff body carefully and arthritically. Splinters and dirt stick to my back, ass, and knees. Instead of brushing them off, I step into my underwear and shorts. “I have to pee. I can’t believe you’re still lying there, a beehive five feet from your naked body.”
“You’d get my EpiPen and save me.”
I consider making a joke. Instead I respond honestly. “I would save you.”
He calmly gathers his clothes. Funny, my deep gratitude and yearning for his dick have vanished. His flaccid penis is mildly interesting, at best. My mind is dusting its hands, ready to be rid of him, ready to go back to my outdoor chores.
“Do you want to come inside for a glass of water or something or are you heading to your car?”
He laughs. “Well, I can’t leave yet. I was going to fill up your mower.”
“That’s right. I guess you did warn me you were going to fill it up.”
I step out of the shed into the blinding light, into the warm sun, into the world of chirping birds and people trying to connect and make things work, and it feels like being born.
44
THE PORN COP
Minutes later I walk from the bathroom to the kitchen.
James Mahoney stares out the window over the sink, a plastic cup of water in his hand. That he chose a plastic kid’s cup instead of glass is endearing. His damp hair curls a little, and short hairs escape down the back of his neck. Sweat stains his gray T-shirt in the shape of wings. His triceps are tanned and hard. On my body these same muscles betrayed me long ago.
James and I were not friends in high school, we haven’t seen each other in twenty years, yet he is familiar. Our language and humor are strangely in sync. I don’t believe in soul mates, so this synchronized rhythm must be a vestigial effect of suffering adolescence at the same time in the same location. We shared the same neighborhood, same teachers, same hangouts. It makes me trust him. But it shouldn’t.
“You found a cup,” I say.
He eyes the cup in his hand, then he eyes me over his shoulder. “I am a trained detective, and they weren’t doing a great job of hiding. What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re smiling.”
I sigh with my whole body. I want to touch his triceps. Instead I lean against the counter. “I remember sex always did this for me, made me feel normal, but I forgot the actual feeling. It’s nice.” It’s true. I feel like a balloon lifting playfully against a peaceful blue sky. Blissful.
“Wow, it’s been that long?”
“Six months.”
He puts his cup in the sink and closes the distance between us. He hooks his finger in the elastic waistband of my pathetic, fifteen-year-old workout shorts—Why haven’t I thrown these shorts away? They deserve to die. And how have they not disintegrated?—then snaps it against my skin. My heart flutters and I’m pretty sure I bat my eyelids.
“I’d be happy to make you feel normal again tonight. Tomorrow, too. I have dedicated my life to community service, you know.”
It obviously hasn’t been quite as long for him. Otherwise he would have mentioned it so I wouldn’t feel like such a prude. I want details, but it doesn’t seem like the right time to probe.
Also, get a chlamydia test.
“Do you have sex with potential witnesses on each new case?”
His blue eyes twinkle. “Are you saying you witnessed something?”
“No, sir.”
“I don’t usually have sex with witnesses.”
“What about your partner?”
“What about her?”
I roll my eyes. “She looks airbrushed.”
“She’s only a few years older than my daughter.”
“You’re skirting the question, Detective.”
He faces me square, loses the smile, and stares into my eyes. “I didn’t hear a question, but no, I have never had sex with my partner. Ariana is a kid. A beautiful, intelligent, tough kid who has worked hard to make detective at a young age. We are close. She’s like a daughter. Occasionally she hangs out with my eighteen-year-old daughter.” He tilts his head, guessing I’m doing the math. “I had her young. I was twenty-one.”
His answer is perfect. Too perfect. As if he were so incredibly genuine and trustworthy, his boss assigned him to partner with Ariana, the porn cop, because he was the only man who could be trusted with her.
“Hmm,” I say.
He smooths back a strand of my hair, moves his hand down my head, and tugs my ponytail. “Can I take you to dinner tonight?”
I breathe in his cologne-scented sweat. “Don’t you have to work?” I say, breaking from this foolish flirting. “Aren’t the first forty-eight hours the most crucial or something?”
“It’s been nearly sixty hours, but the most crucial period is the time between the murder and when we arrive on the scene. I put in too much time Thursday and Friday. I was told to take the day off. Even when it’s day three of an investigation, time off is important. Mental health and all that.” He smiles and leans in. His chest brushes mine. He gazes down at me with a blend of playfulness and desire. “Go to dinner with me.”
“You aren’t trying to frame me for my neighbor’s murder, are you?”
His eyes lose their playfulness a
nd turn stony. Scrutinizing my expression, he says, “Why, did you do it?”
I step in closer and whisper in his ear, “I’m not the type.”
45
FILTHY, LAZY CRYBABIES
This is a terrible idea. James Mahoney will be my downfall.
Yet he is also my savior. I can’t get over how normal I feel. Still. Hours after orgasm. Connected. Capable. Mentally healthy.
Plus, serendipity is cheering me on. I have a sample of his seminal fluid on a piece of toilet paper inside a Ziploc bag in my refrigerator. If he ever accuses me of any crime in front of a judge, I’m pretty sure having sex with a suspect would take the air out of his case. The sample may lack sperm because he’s had a vasectomy, but I’m guessing they could link it to him. My bag of his jizz relaxes me. I no longer worry I’ll blurt hammer or I can still taste his blood.
We go to dinner. He takes me to a cozy Mexican restaurant, easy Latin music, dim lighting. My margarita arrives and I drink quickly. My palms are sweaty and my cheeks hurt because I’m smiling hard. Tequila’s warmth sluices through me and I say, “It’s hard to believe we were in high school over twenty years ago.”
“Half our lifetime ago. Everything is different now.”
“Tell me about it,” I say, my mind feeling velvety, a nice place to lounge. No sharp edges in there.
“It’s hard to put my finger on exactly how things have changed.”
“No it’s not,” I say. “One, the internet. Two, smartphones. Three, Annie.”
“Annie who?”
“The movie. Did you see the remake?”
“Strangely, yes.”
“What can those remake Annie girls do? Sing a little? But, holy cow, those 1980s Annie girls were Olympic material. Backflipping across rows of rusty mattresses, hanging from fire escapes, sliding down wooden staircases on their stomachs, fracturing their ribs, all while singing and smiling. Thirty years later, what kid backflips across rows of rusty mattresses? The collective attitude toward children used to be more careless,” I say, my lips syrup-sticky and salty. Tequila loosens springs, levers, and gears inside me, opening me up like I’m electronic, and a cool breeze blasts my copper insides.
He’s laughing, and it hits me.
He is Nate’s opposite.
Nate’s eyes are dark, mischievous, intelligent, and blazing with secrets. James’s blue eyes are bright, transparent, and slightly weary.
Nate has the blond, breezy hair of a surfer. James’s hair is dark, starting to gray, and failing at order.
Nate has the slim runner’s physique of a self-preserving, calculating academic. James’s body has a rugged strength I associate with physical labor. He is the type of guy whose knees will “go bad”.
My comparison is pathetically superficial, but in this moment, the shallow contrast of their features strikes me as mathematically true as a physical law describing the universe. Which could be the margarita.
I hold my chin in my palm, eyes wide as an overachieving student while James gets me up to date on gossip. He tells me about Jason Ricks, the quiet science nerd in our class who opened a death-scene cleanup business and is now profanely rich and hip—the kind of guy who wears T-shirts printed with Zen philosophy. He tells me about Robbie Hartash, the gentle, big-hearted dopehead who ended up in prison. He tells me who owns pet pigs and pet alligators, who moved to Singapore and Bali, and who lives in their car and showers at the Y. Through his cop glasses, the world is as black and white as our waitress’s uniform. I enjoy seeing the world in this simple, confident hue.
Buzzed on gossip I had no idea I was interested in, I say, “I have not run into a single person from high school in twenty years.”
“I run into people from high school all the time.”
“It’s your job. My out-and-about routine consists of going to my preschool job, carting my kids to daycare and activities, visiting my mom’s house, and the grocery store. There’s six or seven places I go, and it rarely changes.”
“Your kids are little. You’ll be out more when they get older.”
I can’t imagine my kids physically being older and no longer needing me. I can’t imagine myself older. I can’t imagine venturing out socially and partaking in more small talk. I don’t see the appeal.
“I don’t think so. I think I’ll sleep more and catch up on all the good TV I’ve been hearing about for the past decade.” I rub my upper arm. I got another rabies vaccine today, and it aches a little bit. “I never would have guessed you’d be a cop.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Detective.”
“Whatever.”
He laughs. “I never would have guessed you’d be a preschool teacher.”
“Me neither. Once I had kids, it was convenient.” I don’t want to talk about my career choices and the various areas in my life where I aimed lowish or settled. “Why join the police force?” I sip my drink, but shouldn’t. My stomach is souring.
“You never heard about my brother?”
“I never knew you had a brother.”
“Five. I’m Irish. Anyway, it’s a crummy story. My older brother, Colin. Awesome kid. The peacemaker in our family. And the musician. Guitar, harmonica, mandolin. Creative. Good heart. Didn’t have a manipulative bone in his body.”
This story isn’t going to end well. I bite my lip to dampen my uncontrollable smile.
“Colin was going to school in Chicago,” he says and gulps from his beer, giving me a moment to admire the motion of his Adam’s apple and the skin along his jaw, which is aged and thick, but still taut and smooth. His razor missed a small patch of stubble. He wipes his mouth with the inside of his wrist. “He lived in a cheap apartment in a shady neighborhood, as poor college students do. Guy broke into his apartment in the middle of the night. Colin maybe tried to fight the intruder, more likely he offered him breakfast. I’m not sure how it played out, but the guy shot him, and he died.” His voice softens, his pale eyes are swimming and vulnerable. He’s a cop, but he hasn’t been hardened or burnt out.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and drop my hands into my lap, squeezing them tightly together.
“It messed me up,” James says, “that arrogance and lack of regard. The idea that one person can have such a narrow scope of another person’s life. I was eighteen. I hadn’t decided my path yet so Colin’s death decided it for me.”
If he only knew how filthy my marrow is with righteousness. If he only knew I am the quintessence of his hatred. I bite my lip. Don’t say hammer.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later we stumble into my house, tipsy, sex-crazed, and frantic as teenagers. We make out on the stairs as we tug at each other’s clothes. We pant our way to my bedroom and have sex on my desk chair, his tongue flicking my nipples. I orgasm as quickly as a teenage boy. He follows shortly after.
He rests his forehead between my bare, slick breasts and whispers, “I like you.”
My insides still vibrating, I hover in that shaky climatic state where I could laugh or cry. A kaleidoscope of emotions—sad, needy, joyful, confident, callous—fight for the title.
“Why? Why do you like me?” I say. I’m not seeking affirmation, I’m desperately curious. His attractiveness surpasses mine. His goodness surpasses mine.
He tips his eyes up to meet my gaze and bites his swollen lip thoughtfully. “First time I met you, you were on your hands and knees in your minivan, ass in the air, your fingers in blood.”
“You’re drawn to sex, violence, and grit. Makes sense. You’re a cop.”
He smiles. “Second time I met you, you were jogging and singing and crying. You told me you only dated widows.”
“I see.” I dismount him and stretch out on my bed, hand propping my head. “You like sensitive, confusing girls.”
“Third time, you were on your back on your driveway like a kid who doesn’t care what anyone thinks.”
“Filthy, lazy crybabies are also your thing. Interesting mix.”
He laughs and walks into the bath
room, leaving the door open. He pees, and I watch. Few things in life are more intimate.
Poor James Mahoney. He has no idea how imperceptive he is. He’s mistaking my self-exposure for honesty when it’s driven by my poor judgement and lack of self-control. He is sweet and trusting. A naïve cop, he’s an oxymoron.
I want to protect him from myself. If only I had self-control.
He’s a big boy. It’s not your honesty he likes, it’s your volatility.
He says, “You want to watch a movie and have a sleepover?”
I’m satisfied, tired, and slightly bored of him. I’d rather be alone. “Not really, but I can do favors.”
Thinking I’m joking, he laughs.
I shower, repeating the mantra Be careful so many times it loses its meaning.
46
THEY FED ON HIM
Hair wet, he pulls his shirt on and says, “It must be fate we’re on the same visitation weekend schedule with our kids.”
“I don’t believe in fate,” I say, placing two sodas on my nightstand and a big plastic bowl full of popcorn on my comforter. “Also, I don’t want you to meet my kids.”
“OK,” he says slowly, withdrawing.
“That came out wrong.” I settle my hand across the front of my neck, holding it there. I wait until he looks at me. “My kids are my whole world. I want to make sure they never doubt it. I don’t want it to ever cross their minds that they have competition. It’s hard enough that their mom and dad have split. I’m guessing you know what I mean.”
He smiles. “Yes. Believe me, I get it.”
We settle upon a Bill Murray movie. Though we don’t psychoanalyze our pick, Bill Murray conveys an apt blend of nostalgia, maturity, irreverence, and foolishness: a decent metaphor for this brand-new relationship. I turn off the lights, slip into bed beside him, the popcorn bowl between us, and press play.
“Tell me something about Leland,” he says.
My pulse triples. I brush imaginary crumbs off the comforter.
Idiot. He’s using you. How was that not obvious from the start?
“I don’t know. I never knew him. Barely ever talked to him. I told you this. At first I thought he was odd, but I tried not to hold it against him. I waved hello, that’s about it. I once helped him move a dresser up his stairs, but even when I helped him, when I was in his house, we barely talked.” I speak slowly, pretending the words are coming to me now, unplanned, unrehearsed. “Once Lou told me Leland was a suspect in Ava Boone’s kidnapping, I was wary of him. Tried not to look in his direction. I didn’t feel at ease. Days before the murder, I actually decided to move. It wasn’t worth the worry to stay.” Does he know I called my real estate agent?
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