Hi Five

by Joe Ide

  “Let me see the new stuff,” she said.

  He got out his phone. He’d painted a series of horizons. They were gorgeous, ingenious, different things going on above and below the line of sky and water. She felt embarrassed about painting the feeling of a dog.

  “Amazing,” she said. “Really, Noah. These are great.”

  His face wallowed in the praise, his ears turning red. “I better go,” he said, rising. “By the way, there’s a Martin Basher exhibition opening at Anat Ebgi. Want to go? I could meet you there.”

  Basher wasn’t among Grace’s favorites but his work was interesting; installations about consumerism and retail architecture. It was a weird situation. She couldn’t tell Noah to back off because he hadn’t made an advance. Thankfully, she’d already made plans to go with Isaiah.

  “I’m already going,” she said.

  “Great. See you there,” he said.

  “Don’t forget the duffel bag.”

  This was turning out better than she’d thought. She’d be at the show with Isaiah, Noah would get the message, and that would be that.

  When Sal returned to the motel, Annie was in bed watching TV with the covers pulled up to her chin. “How are you?” she said.

  “Okay,” Sal replied, and that had been the extent of their conversation for the last two hours.

  “What are we going to do?” Annie said finally. “We’ve still got our loose end.”

  “Why are you asking me?” Sal said. “I’m the stupid cunt who fucked up everything, remember?”

  “Could we forget that for now?” Annie said. “What are we going to do?”

  I’ll never forget, you wait and see, bitch, Sal thought. He had come up with a plan in the hospital. “Angus hired IQ, right?” Sal said. “Angus is his employer.”

  “Yeah. What about it?” Annie said, changing the channel.

  “What if Angus was dead?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, if my employer was dead, I wouldn’t keep working for him, would you?”

  Angus sat at his desk with Weiner in his lap. He got up with the dog in his arms and wandered aimlessly around the house. Everything was riding on Isaiah coming through. Christiana wouldn’t last long in jail, caged up like a fucking zoo animal and the dykes would eat her alive. He went back to his desk, sat down and tried to calm himself. Looking at the photo helped. It was old, the colors fading, the silver frame tarnished nearly black. He wouldn’t let the cleaning lady touch it. It showed Angus sitting in a wheelchair, a woman standing behind him. She was small and dark, wearing a blue sweater and a smile so warm it spiked his heart with longing and regret.

  He’d split with Gia and was living in a gargantuan house on Balboa Island when he fell down the stairs and broke his hip. He had the hip replaced and was laid up for a while. He went through an agency and hired a nurse to take care of him. Her name was Virginia. She was forty or thereabouts. She’d recently arrived from the Philippines and had come to the US on a work visa. She told him she was pregnant but in her first trimester. Angus’s recovery time would be about six weeks. By the time she was too pregnant to work, he’d be on his feet again.

  His ugliness didn’t seem to matter to her. She looked him in the eye when they talked, smiled a lot, picked crumbs off his face, and read to him when he said his eyes were tired. She helped him with his physical therapy. She cooked for him and cleaned the house. She was quiet, undemanding and cheerful. But never submissive. Ask her to do something and she’d think a moment before she decided. She was in charge of herself, not him.

  Virginia was the kindest, most patient person Angus had ever met. He didn’t know people like that existed. It was like discovering a new kind of rose or that there was such a thing as sunsets. He paid her overtime so she would stay longer, and all the while he was waiting for her to laugh at him or steal from him or catch her on the phone telling her girlfriend that she worked for a circus freak.

  She talked about her family back in the Philippines. She missed them. She had a grandmother here but it wasn’t the same. The father of the baby had left when he found out she was pregnant. “Filipino men are bad,” she said.

  “All men are bad,” Angus replied, and she laughed. He told her about his legit businesses: car washes, parking lots, taco stands, beauty salons, but nothing else. He told her about Gia, but not Christiana. He told her about growing up in Welch and being a coal miner and living on Skid Row.

  If she wasn’t interested, she seemed interested, and after a while he got the feeling it wasn’t the story that involved her, it was him—the guy whose job interviews were three minutes long. Don’t be an idiot, he said to himself. That can’t be right. But when he thought about it, he’d been nice to her. He hadn’t asked her for a lap dance so she probably saw him as a gentleman. He paid her well so he wasn’t a tightwad. He didn’t swear in her presence, go on tirades or belittle his employees. He was different around her and he liked it. It took energy to be angry and suspicious and domineering. He could relax.

  She was plain but it didn’t matter. He wanted her, and as flamboyant and aggressive as he was in business, he was equally insecure and unnerved by her. She wasn’t in awe of his affluence. That made him anxious too, that his money didn’t count. It wasn’t part of the equation like it was with Gia, and Angus minus money equaled an ugly guy who was broke. He looked for signs of affection, of something beyond nurse and patient, but she was the same all the time. Maddening. He could read his customers like an issue of Guns & Ammo. Virginia was like the phone book in Braille.

  Unfortunately, she’d been right about his recovery. In six weeks, his hip had pretty much healed. He pretended it wasn’t; hobbling and wincing, using crutches and complaining. She was surprised since she’d helped him with his physical therapy. “Don’t go,” he said. “I still need help.”

  She was nearing the end of her second term but agreed to stay on. One morning, she came in early and caught him tossing a tennis ball at the garage and catching it again. “You look good,” she said. “Very healthy.” She took the tennis ball out of his hand. “You like me, don’t you?”

  “Well, sure, of course I like you,” he said sheepishly. “You take good care of me.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Angus. I mean like me.” He looked at his shoes.

  “Well, yeah, I mean, you know. Sure. Yes. I like you.” She touched his face.

  “You’re a good man. I know it in my heart.”

  Not long after, she moved in and the man who thought he’d be alone forever was loved. They got married in Vegas and Angus, to his stunned amazement, was happy. Happy had always been a word and that was all, said in sarcasm or to describe someone crazy or stupid or naïve. Okay, maybe happy was a little over the top. It was more about feeling—what would you call it?—normal, he supposed. He never knew what normal people did without the rush of danger, the fear of getting killed and the exhilaration of getting away with murder, corruption or somebody else’s money. He didn’t know what they did without real stakes. I mean suppose you’re an ordinary schmo and your quarterly sales numbers were down. What happens? You lose your Christmas bonus and your two weeks playing shuffleboard on a cruise ship to Mazatlán. Why is that a reason to get up in the morning?

  But Virginia had redefined normal. What that word really meant was taking pleasure in small things. Like getting up and having an actual breakfast with an actual human being, instead of gulping down a McShit burger with Dwight on your way to getting shot at, or watching TV with your wife cozied in your arms and taking walks to places you had heretofore studiously avoided, like parks and beaches and anyplace there were trees. It meant reading a book without feeling you were missing something and putting birdseed in the bird feeder and making a sandwich for someone besides yourself.

  Predictably, there were problems. Stay indoors your whole life with the lights off and never let anyone know you existed and there would still be fucking problems. Apparently, normal didn’t quench the need to be
a ruthless motherfucker and the undisputed champion of the illegal gun trade who took on all challengers and blasted them into oblivion. On that, normal had no effect. Angus had been that way long before he met Virginia and changing it would be like trading in his DNA for a bus pass or a used car. He decided he would do both. Strike a balance. Yin and yang. Good and bad. It went that way for a while. A perfect world. And then Virginia died in childbirth.

  Her grandmother took the baby. Angus was catatonic with grief. He hired a team of house cleaners to remove her smell. None of them could identify what he was talking about. They worked for a week scrubbing and washing and steam cleaning.

  “I still smell it,” Angus said.

  “I don’t smell anything,” the supervisor said.

  “Come back tomorrow and I’ll pay you double.” The team worked for another week but Angus claimed the smell was still there. In the end, he couldn’t stand it anymore. He sold the house at a loss and moved out of the neighborhood.

  Angus stopped looking at Virginia’s photo. Not because he wanted to but because his eyes were tired. He thought about taking a nap, but knew he wouldn’t sleep. He picked up Weiner and took her outside to pee. The grounds were beautiful. A black-bottom pool, lush garden, a white lattice gazebo nestled among the willows, aspens and sycamore trees. It could have been a garbage-strewn alley full of crackheads for all he cared.

  He couldn’t remember exactly when the guilt he’d suppressed for decades had come crashing into his conscience, or when he realized he might as well have chopped off his daughter’s legs or blinded her. In some ways, that would have been better. Those were disabilities that could be coped with, handicaps to be minimized. But this. This uncontrollable, unpredictable, invisible butcher knife that severed and cleaved, that separated you from yourself, that let you glimpse your wants, needs and aspirations just long enough for you to recognize them, and then they—and you—were gone again. And again. And again.

  He took a hot bath for the first time in years. He thought it was a waste of time but Virginia told him it was soothing and of course, she’d been right. He lay in the warm, soapy water looking at his bony feet and wondering how his life had become this fucked up, how he’d become so lonely. Only recently, he had realized that the need for love doesn’t go away. It doesn’t matter how callused and inhumane you are or what hideous things you’ve done in your life. The need might be dormant or cast aside or long forgotten, but if the meagerest possibility of love arose, however unexpected or unlikely, it exploded; tumultuous, unstoppable and rapacious. He had Weiner and no one else.

  He was thinking his life couldn’t get any worse when his phone buzzed. It was resting on the edge of the tub. He fumbled with it, dropped it in the water, cursed and retrieved it. Maybe it was good news for a change. It wasn’t. It was Gia. Between sobs she said, “Christiana’s been arrested.”

  The officers came to the condo and told her she was under arrest. Gia was hysterical but they ordered her to stand aside or she’d be arrested too. Christiana had to restrain herself from screaming when they cuffed her. The alters went berserk, everyone gathered in her head howling and sobbing at the same time. Christiana supposed she was switching out because she was in the elevator with the cops and when she returned she was in the back of the police car and when she switched out again they were on the freeway and the cop was saying, “Could you hold it down back there?” And the next thing she knew a frightening thing was happening. They’d just gotten out of the car and the officer was standing very close, bending over so their faces were even. He had an enormous bald head and small round eyes that seemed to see right into her brain. His voice was low and his breath smelled like cooked meat. He said, “You threaten me one more time, Miss Byrne, and you’re in for a very hard time.” Damn Marlene, Christiana thought, that temper of hers. She probably tried to seduce him first.

  Christiana was processed and fingerprinted. The switching out was going so fast she only got glimpses of things. A female officer telling her to stay against the wall. A big woman with a copper-colored wig saying, “You’re gonna get your ass kicked, bitch.” In a line with other women, the one in front of her turning and saying, “You one of them transvestites, ain’t you?”

  She was in a holding cell with three Latino women who had tattoos and looked at her like she was an angel food cake. Then she was on the floor, being beaten by one of them, who said, “You wanna fuck with me?” every time she hit her. And now she was sitting on a cot in a cell by herself. She was bruised all over, a clump of her hair was torn out. Other prisoners were yelling, the officers yelling back, the alters screaming and crying and cursing. She clamped her hands over her ears and tried to block out the sound but there was no way to block something if it was inside your brain and she prayed she’d switch out before she got up, took a running start and rammed her head into the cement wall.

  Isaiah was in the bedroom getting dressed for the Basher exhibition. Grace was excited. They were going to a gallery, her world. They’d drink wine and look at art and meet some people who weren’t cutthroats. She could show off a little too. Noah would be there and she’d be glad to be rid of him. He was in her head far too much.

  Isaiah came in, hurriedly, upset. Again. “What’s the matter?” she said.

  “Gia called,” he said. “Christiana’s been arrested. I have to go—”

  “—warn Stella,” she said.

  He didn’t apologize and her disappointment curdled into anger as he went out the door. She fumed a few moments. She was being small but couldn’t help it. She fed Ruffin, put fresh water in his water bowl and left for the exhibit.

  Stella’s concert was at the Terrace Theater. He’d forgotten all about it. She’d left a ticket for him at Will Call. By the time he got there, the concert was over. They had agreed to meet in the lobby afterward, and he stood around waiting as the audience streamed out of the double doors, talking and laughing. The space emptied and there was nothing but the shimmering chandeliers and a vast expanse of carpet, Vivaldi lingering like a scent. He rehearsed what he would say and each word sounded like bullshit before he said it. He couldn’t stand the idea that she might be crippled, that there would be no more performances, no more music, no more Stella.

  Stella and three other musicians came out carrying instrument cases. She hugged them in turn. “Thank you, thank you, I’ll meet you there.” They moved off and she turned to Isaiah. There was hurt in her eyes, a quiver in her voice. “Your seat was empty,” she said. “Where were you?” He opened his mouth but nothing came out. “It was my first solo performance,” she said. “It was important to me. My family was here, my friends were here, but not you. Not my boyfriend.” Tears ran down her lovely face. “How could you do that to me?”

  He explained about the case, about Angus and the threat. She was furious. “I don’t believe this!” she said. “This man is going to break my hands? That’s insane!”

  “I know and I’m sorry—”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “I don’t have anything to tell them,” Isaiah said. “He hasn’t done anything yet.”

  “Done anything? You mean I have to have my hands broken before he can be arrested?”

  “Stella, I—”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do, Isaiah? Go into hiding?”

  “Yes,” he said, adding quickly, “temporarily. I’ll have it cleared up in—” He didn’t want to lie. “Soon.”

  “You’re telling me that if I walk out that door, I’m in danger?”

  “Probably not, but I…I wouldn’t go home. For now.”

  She put her hands out, beseeching the heavens, as if to call back a future that was already destroyed. “How could you do this to me, Isaiah? I haven’t done anything! I’m not part of your world!”

  He was desperate to comfort her, but I’m sorry seemed inadequate to the point of insulting. He said it anyway. “I’m sorry. I had no idea he would—”

  “I don’t want to hear it!” Her wor
ds were like teeth, tearing the last bits of flesh off his conscience. “I’ll stay at my parents’ place. Call me when this is over.” She backed away, aiming a finger at him. “You and I are done, do you hear me? Completely done!” She whirled around and was gone. This woman who had come up the hard way and always knew she’d be a musician and worked at a laundromat when she was nine years old and could only afford three lessons and took two jobs in the summertime and earned a scholarship to a good school and played in Michael Bublé’s orchestra at the Mirage and worked for seven years to become first chair in the Long Beach Symphony Orchestra—was terrified and had every right to be. Her entire life was under threat and it was all because of him.

  The Basher show was stunning. His trademark paintings in gradated, shimmering stripes, his industrial installations intriguing and architectural. Grace liked his work more than she’d thought. Cherokee showed up. It was almost a surprise to see her outside the apartment, where they always wore sweatpants, no makeup or shoes.

  “Where’s Isaiah?” Cherokee said. “I really want to meet him.”

  “He couldn’t come,” Grace said. “Work.” She felt worse saying it out loud. Noah came in. She turned away so it wouldn’t seem like she was waiting for him. Had she been waiting for him?

  “Who’s that?” Cherokee said.

  “My old boyfriend from New Mexico.”

  “The one you told me about? Is he sniffing around you again?”