Romeo Fails

by Amy Briant

  She sped through the various closing-up-the-store tasks, including feeding the kitties and making sure they had fresh water in their bowls for the night. Dorsey knew better than to pet George, but she gave Ira a friendly scratch under the chin by way of a goodnight to him. He meowed loudly once from his perch on the counter next to the cash register as she turned out all the lights but one, then locked the front door as she exited.

  Sarah was due to meet her at the Larue house, where Dorsey was going to prepare dinner for the two of them. She steered her little pickup over to the grocery store on her way home to pick up a few last-minute ingredients. She’d spent hours—days, actually—deciding what to cook. She felt a little nervous about cooking for Sarah for the first time. She liked cooking, but she didn’t do it often enough to have attained much skill at it. She didn’t kid herself that she was on the level of either Maggie or Mrs. Bigelow, both of whom were excellent cooks. Sarah had assured her she wasn’t picky and that anything she made would be fine, but Dorsey was still having her doubts. She’d finally fallen back on her own mother’s favorite recipe for chicken Kiev.

  Oh, well, she thought, as she picked up the next to last of her items. Even if she screwed it up, Sarah would still know she had tried. Maybe it was better for her to find out sooner rather than later that Dorsey wasn’t quite a gourmet chef. Then she caught herself—thinking wow, was that a “long-term commitment” kind of thought? She wasn’t sure. She’d never had one of those before. Musing on this, she rounded the corner to the wine and beer aisle, wanting to pick up an extra bottle of the white zinfandel Sarah had identified as her favorite. To Dorsey’s surprise, Shaw was there, standing perplexedly in front of the reds.

  “Hey, bud, what are you doing here?” she asked him, even as her eyes widened to marvel at his outfit—a clean pair of khaki cargo pants, a white button-down dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and (wonder o’ wonders!) a tie. Which, on closer inspection, featured Snoopy as Joe Cool on a brilliant blue background (he must have picked that up at the thrift store in Grover, she thought), but was nonetheless undeniably A Tie. A pair of dark brown chukka boots completed the ensemble, which, for Shaw, was about as dressed up as he ever got.

  “Which one of these should I get?” he asked her, gesturing at the array of bottles on the shelves with puzzlement.

  “How the heck should I know?” she said. “Pick something that costs more than five bucks if you’re trying to impress her, I guess. And who is ‘her,’ by the way?”

  Shaw gave her a smile, but no reply. He selected a fifteen dollar bottle with a gorgeous label from a Napa Valley winery, then held it up for her inspection.

  “Hot stuff,” Dorsey kidded him.

  She added a bottle of the white zinfandel to her cart, then the two of them walked to the checkout stand. They chatted amiably about nothing much as the cashier rang up their purchases.

  “Do you need a ride somewhere?” she asked her brother as they headed for the exit.

  “No,” he replied. “I’ve got my bike.”

  Shaw had no vehicle of his own, although Goodman let him drive the store pickup on occasion. He turned left toward the bike rack as they went out the door, while Dorsey walked to her truck, which was parked in the second row. As she put her bags onto the passenger seat, she could see Shaw riding off with his wine bottle in its skinny brown bag tucked under one arm. Walking back to the driver’s side, she heard a shout.

  “Watch where you’re going, La Puke!”

  An angry Justin Argyle was picking himself up off the sidewalk in front of the store. Shaw too, was on the ground, in a tangle of long legs, bicycle and brown bag. A spreading puddle of red wine was underneath him. Dorsey ran to his side as Shaw regained his feet.

  “Are you all right, Shaw?”

  “Shit,” he said with feeling. His shirt was spattered with red, his pants less so. The wine bottle was obviously broken. A spoke on his bicycle’s front wheel was also broken, pointing accusingly at Justin, who was in Shaw’s face and aggressively berating him.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, La Puke? You fucking ran me over, you faggot!”

  He pushed Shaw in the chest. Shaw’s feet got tangled up in the fallen bicycle and he went down hard again on the pavement.

  “That’s enough, Justin!” Dorsey said, stepping up to face him and forestall any further violence. “It was an accident.”

  Justin glared at her, his eyes narrowed and red, his nostrils flared. Dorsey could smell beer and cigarettes on his breath. He was unshaven and unkempt in appearance. His customary denim jacket looked dirtier than ever. One of the sleeves was ripped, adding to his air of shabbiness. Dorsey stared him down, wondering if he was crazy enough to hit her right in public. He seemed to be considering that option, but before he could act on it, the store manager came running out the front in his bow tie and red apron.

  “What’s going on here?”

  A few other shoppers had gathered as well. Dorsey took a step back from Justin, who still stood there glaring and breathing heavily. She unclenched her fist from around her car keys—the truck key stuck out between her index and third fingers. One thing she had learned growing up with two brothers—not to mention dealing with the Tanya Hartwells of the world—was that fighting dirty in defense of oneself was not only okay, it was often the quickest and most effective way to end a fight. Warily keeping an eye on Justin, she extended her other hand down to Shaw, who was still trying to extricate himself from his bicycle, and helped pull him to his feet. Justin turned abruptly and stomped off down the street.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” Shaw said to the multiple inquiries coming his way. “We’ve got some broken glass here, though. Sorry.”

  The manager bustled off to get a broom and a dustpan. The shoppers trickled into the store after him.

  “Are you really okay?” Dorsey asked Shaw again. One of the patches of red on his shirt was a different and brighter shade.

  “Crap,” he said, clutching his right arm with his left. “I must have cut my arm on some of the glass when he pushed me down. Son of a bitch.”

  Dorsey examined the nasty-looking wound, which was bleeding copiously. “Shaw, I think you need some stitches there.”

  “No, no,” he protested. “I’ve got a date. Come on, Dorse, it’s not that bad. See?”

  He moved his arm gingerly, which only caused the blood to start dripping on the sidewalk.

  “Come on,” she said, grabbing his good arm in a firm Big Sister grip and leading him toward her truck. “I’m taking you to Dr. Melba’s.”

  “Wait!” he said. He pulled his arm out of her grip and reached for his wallet.

  “What?”

  “Can you at least please get me another bottle of wine? Please, Dorse?” His eyes were pleading.

  As usual with Shaw, she gave in and was back in a few minutes with a new bottle of wine for him. She also retrieved his bicycle and put it in the back of her truck. He was in the passenger seat with his once-white dress shirt now wrapped around his forearm. He looked wan and vulnerable in his undershirt. He’d never been good around the sight of blood.

  “Ready?” she asked him.

  He nodded without speaking. Since it was now after six, she pointed the nose of the little truck toward Dr. Melba’s house, not her office downtown. Dorsey insisted on accompanying him to the front step—she didn’t want him to faint on the doormat as she drove away. Shaw, in turn, insisted on bringing his bottle of wine with him, saying she should go on home and get her groceries in the fridge, he was a grown man and could take care of himself, etc.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dorsey said as they went up the front walk. Shaw surprised her by peeling off to go around the side of the house.

  “Kitchen,” he said, gesturing with his injured arm. “I don’t want to bleed all over her carpet.”

  He must have learned the layout of the house when he delivered the rocking chair, she surmised. He knocked on the wooden frame of the screen door wit
h his good hand. They could hear low music playing inside the house and smell something good cooking. Pot roast, maybe.

  “Shaw! What happened?”

  Dr. Melba had flung open the door with all her usual vigor and seemed shocked by the sight of a bloody Shaw on her doorstep, although his scarlet stains were more Beaujolais than Type O.

  “Well, come in, come in,” the doctor told the both of them before Shaw could explain. After a three-second examination of his cut, she took him off to the bathroom to clean up. During the approximately ten minutes they were gone, Dorsey checked her watch and the clock on the wall about five times. Sarah was due to meet her at the house at seven and she hadn’t even started cooking yet. She fidgeted while she waited, wandering around the kitchen and peering at Dr. Melba’s possessions. She hadn’t put much of a personal stamp on the house yet, but to be fair, she had been working hard on building up her practice in the six months she’d been in town.

  Finally, the doctor and the patient returned to the kitchen. Shaw now sported a small bandage on his forearm and was wearing a clean T-shirt touting the Chicago marathon. Dorsey thought it was a bit above and beyond of Dr. Melba to loan Shaw a shirt, but maybe she was hoping to gain him as a permanent patient. In any event, he looked much better and had some color back in his cheeks.

  “Well, thanks for waiting, Dorse,” he said, “but I’ve got it from here. You can go home now. I’ll settle up with Dr. Porter.”

  “Don’t you want a ride?” she said.

  “No, I’m cool. I can walk.”

  Dorsey guessed he didn’t want her to drop him off at his date’s house because he didn’t want her to know who she was. Probably a Lucchese, although Shaw usually had better judgment than that. Yuck.

  “Don’t you have raw chicken in the truck?” Shaw reminded her, clearly ready for her to be gone.

  She did. And she was anxious to get home and start cooking. Not to mention she needed to change out of her work clothes herself.

  “All right,” she said, “then I guess I’ll see you—whenever.”

  “Whenever,” he said.

  “Thank you, Dr. Porter,” Dorsey said politely to the other woman.

  “Oh, call me Melba,” she replied, which surprised Dorsey a bit, but pleased her as well. Out of her white physician’s coat and work attire, she seemed more relaxed in her home setting. She was casually dressed in sandals and a sundress, which made her look younger and less intimidating. Almost kind of cute, Dorsey thought. Well, almost.

  “Okay, thanks, Melba. Have a good evening.”

  “You too, Dorsey.”

  * * *

  She was only halfway through chicken Kiev when the front doorbell rang at seven o’clock exactly.

  “Come on in!” she hollered. “I’m in the kitchen!”

  She heard the front door open and close. Heard the clunk of Sarah’s bag being dropped on a chair in the living room. Heard Sarah’s distinctive, unhurried, heel-to-toe gait approach. She’d read about women getting weak in the knees but always figured that was romantic bullshit—what she was feeling as her lover drew near was far from weakness and most definitely not in the knees.

  “Sorry,” Dorsey called halfway over her shoulder. “I’m running a little late here and I’ve got my hands full of chicken breasts.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Sarah murmured in her ear as she came up behind her, encircling her waist with her arms, then sliding her hands up to gently caress Dorsey’s breasts. She kissed Dorsey’s cheek, then the nape of her neck, rubbing up against her back.

  “Not fair,” Dorsey said, grinning. “Let me go so I can wash this goo off my hands and give you a proper greeting.”

  “There’s a joke in there somewhere, I think, but I’ll settle for a kiss,” Sarah said, releasing her from the embrace. Dorsey washed and dried her hands at the sink, then pulled Sarah in for a long, slow kiss. And then another.

  The kiss finally ended, but the moment lingered. Dorsey opened her eyes to find that Sarah’s were still closed. She tightened her arms about her and touched her lips to Sarah’s temple.

  “Sorry about dinner not being ready,” she said. “I got caught up at the store, then I had to help Shaw with something and I—”

  “Hey, slow down, slow down, take a breath,” Sarah said with mock alarm, sliding her hands down Dorsey’s arms as she took two steps back. “We’ve got all night together. Right?”

  Dorsey took her advice literally and breathed in deeply, then out.

  “Right,” she said with satisfaction. “All night. Goodman’s in GC overnight and I’m not expecting Shaw home, either, so we’ve got the whole house to ourselves for at least twelve hours. And Mags and her mother aren’t due back until Sunday afternoon, right?”

  “Affirmative. So how can I help with this goo situation?”

  Dorsey finished up the chicken while Sarah made a salad, then set the table in the dining room. They worked well together, Dorsey realized. There was no competition between them. They complemented each other, encouraged each other, razzed each other, had a hell of a good time together. It wasn’t any one big thing—it was all the little things. She laughed more with Sarah than with anybody else—even Mags, she thought, with just the tiniest twinge of conscience.

  It was odd, when she thought about it later, that it was cooking with Sarah—cooking, of all things!—that first made her realize she had fallen in love. This wasn’t just a summer romance for her. It wasn’t just sex with the Naked Silver Lake Goddess. It had grown into something much deeper and wider. Something so huge it almost scared her. Something she had always dreamed about, but never thought was meant for her. True love? She had no way of knowing, nothing to compare it to. But when she looked at Sarah, it filled her up inside. She didn’t just want her physically. Something about being with Sarah made Dorsey feel like she was finally coming to life after a long hibernation. She loved touching Sarah, making love to her, exploring her body—but she also loved her patience, her kindness, her humor, her sense of adventure, her mischievous streak, her curiosity, her intelligence…

  She put the chicken in the oven and set the timer, then got the fancy cloth napkins from her mother’s china cabinet. Sarah was just finishing setting out the silverware and crystal goblets. Dorsey stood by her side and admired the beautiful table. It was all very domestic. Very…tranquil. As Sarah entwined her arm in hers, Dorsey felt like she’d known her all her life.

  “Are we done?” she said. “What else can I do?”

  “Hmmm,” Dorsey replied, adding a napkin to each place setting. “Looks pretty perfect. Oh, wait, you can light the candles. Let me find some matches…”

  “No problem,” Sarah said, “I’ve got a lighter in my bag.”

  Surprised, Dorsey watched as Sarah returned from the living room with an ornate, heavy-looking silver cigarette lighter in her hand. She carefully lit both of the deep red tapers.

  “Uh…do you smoke?” Dorsey asked her, hoping she’d hidden at least some of her disapproval of the habit. She’d never smelled any smoke on Sarah, though—surely she didn’t smoke?

  “Oh, no. I quit smoking a few years ago, thank goodness. This was my grandfather’s lighter. He died when I was in college. It’s just a keepsake now, although it does come in handy once in a while, like for candles. I can’t quite bring myself to throw it out. It reminds of him, you know?”

  “I know. I feel the same way about my dad’s workshop, I guess. Hey, would you like to see it? We’ve got about forty-five minutes until the chicken’s ready.”

  “Only if you show me the rest of the house as well.”

  Dorsey gave Sarah the full tour of the big old house in the waning daylight, saving the workshop for last. As they stood in the doorway, Sarah inhaled deeply, taking in the aromas Dorsey loved so much—the smell of the different woods, even the turpentine. She bent over the dining room table Dorsey was currently working on to look closely at the wood, then ran her hands over its shining, smooth surface. She lo
oked up at Dorsey, who was standing there shyly awaiting her opinion, with something close to amazement.

  “This is spectacular, Dorse. It’s just so beautiful. And I can’t wait to see what you’re going to do with the chairs!”

  “Well, thanks,” was all a blushing, but delighted, Dorsey could manage to stutter in reply.

  “No, I mean it,” Sarah earnestly insisted. “Seriously, Dorse, you should be selling this stuff for thousands of dollars, not giving it away. I don’t know if you know how talented you are.”

  “It’s just a hobby…”

  “Collecting stamps is a hobby, baby. This is art! I can see your heart, your soul in every piece of your work, Dorsey. I can see what it means to you. And it’s beautiful—just like you are.”

  Dorsey looked at her for a long moment, her expression solemn, her eyes shining. But she didn’t speak.

  “Did you hear me?” an impassioned Sarah demanded, taking a step toward her.

  “Yeah, but…did you just call me baby?”

  What could have been another epic make-out session was cut short by the shrill buzzing of the kitchen timer, heard across the yard through the open kitchen window.

  After dinner, they sat entwined together in the oversized recliner in the living room that was Goodman’s prize possession. It was big enough so that even his extra large frame could stretch out in it and relax after a hard day at the store. It was more than big enough for the two of them. Sarah sat on Dorsey’s lap with Dorsey’s arm around her while they shared a bowl of ice cream and watched an old movie on cable, a favorite of both of theirs as it turned out: The Deep with Jacqueline Bisset, Robert Shaw, Nick Nolte and Lou Gossett, Jr. Okay, mostly with Jacqueline Bisset.

  And when it was time, they went through the house together, turning off all the lights, then hand in hand, slowly down the stairs to bed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Saturday morning. Sarah was asleep in her arms. Dorsey relished the chance to watch her sleep. These moments with Sarah had become so precious to her. She carefully pushed a lock of coal-black hair away from Sarah’s forehead, then ran a fingertip lightly over her delicate eyebrow, just to feel the smoothness of it under her finger.