Cracked Pots

by Heather Tucker

  I skip tutoring and take Todd a milkshake. I tell him his job is waiting and all the hounds have been called off.

  “You positive?” he asks.

  “Only rabid hog we have to worry about is the Dick.”

  “Doc says I can go home next week.”

  “I’ve a few ideas that are going to end our time in crapdom for good. Just rest.”

  I head to the pool to watch Mikey back at his swimming lessons. Aaron smiles, then blanches. “Ari, have you slept at all since the funeral?”

  I fill him in on the whole mess. “No sooner do I get Mikey out of his friggin’ cast then Todd’s in one.”

  “Does Mikey know?”

  “Does that kid need anything else to worry about?”

  “No, he doesn’t. And you cannot go out with that guy.”

  “Tino’s actually my best shot at ending this. I think he’d kill the Dick if I asked.”

  “Then ask.”

  “I’m just not up to more blood on my hands, even if it is the Dick’s. With Len’s money only nine weeks away, Mikey and I are safe as houses. The Dick really needs it and he needs me alive to get it.”

  “How can he?”

  “Easy. Commit me and administer it on my behalf. If I go missing, start looking at Queen Street, then Whitby Psych.”

  “He can’t do that.”

  “You never see the movie with Elwood and his imaginary rabbit, Harvey? There’s documented proof that I have animated conversations with a seahorse.”

  “You got rid of that.”

  “It was just a partial file. Besides, they’d have no trouble forging something.”

  “Do you have to go back tonight?”

  “All we have to endure is ten-minute check-ins after school.” I nudge his arm. “Sabina made perogies.”

  Ari Zajac should go to the workroom and do homework. Instead, I shower, put on comfy clothes, and join a real family around the TV. I’m adrift before Green Acres ends. I’m not sure who gives me the blanket, but I know it’s Aaron coaxing my head to the pillow, and maybe, just maybe, I feel his lips on my forehead and “Goodnight, sleeping beauty” in my ear.

  I look like the cat spit me out when I drag myself into school on Wednesday. Kendra cheers, “She’s here. Told you she would.”

  Frig, Jasper, what’s on today?

  OFSAA round robin, maybe?

  Coach Palmer says, “Grab your gear, get on the bus, and play today like persons who could change the course of your stars are watching.”

  My gear has been in my locker, unwashed for almost three weeks. It could be on account of my stink, or my rage, but the Jarvis seniors are undefeated going into the last game. I scan the stands and see my coach with Strazda and a tower of a man. Rows below, I spot Ricky. I peel over before the game starts. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothin’. Just went to see Todd and he said you were playing. He was really hoping to come to this one.”

  “Thought you had to be back on base.”

  “Not ’til twenty-one hundred.”

  “Could you go meet Mikey and bring him here?”

  “No prob. And pizza on me after?”

  A uniformed soldier makes for a prickly hug, but an impressive one nonetheless. When I take my place on court, Cassie asks, “That Jake?”

  “No, my big brother.”

  “Cool.” She smiles at him like she’s reclaimed the chunk of her soul BS butchered. It’s the way of shit, eh, Jasper.

  Yeah, it stinks less the further you get from it.

  Post-game, I’m summoned. Tower-man is from the Canadian Volleyball Federation. He states more than asks, “June first, there’s a four-week clinic at McGill. I want you there.”

  Palmer says, “I’ll arrange it with school.”

  Strazda asks, “Ari? You in?”

  I, Ari Joy Zajac, am distancing myself from Irwin shit, ASAP. “Barring mayhem, I’ll be there.”

  Forty-Eight

  On Thursday, Aaron is waiting outside Jarvis. I sigh. “What now?”

  “Thought you might need a lift.”

  “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Well, you’re scaring the shit out of me.”

  I stop, sharp. “Aaron, you swore? Why’re you scared?”

  “You can’t go out with that guy.”

  “Don’t worry. Tino’s the man of my schemes. I’m going to start dating him.” Aaron looks like he might hurl as I tug him onward. “Strictly for protection. When the Dick sees we’re an item, I’ll become the crown princess of crapdom. Why aren’t you in school?”

  “Said I had a headache. I haven’t taken any sick time in five years.”

  “So, I’ve got you lying and swearing?”

  “I do feel sick about tonight.” He pulls away from the curb. “Where am I taking you?”

  I finger count. “Pick up Mikey. Crapdom check-in. Jennah’s to get stuffed into fine-dining gear, then to some place called Winston’s.”

  “Swanky place.”

  “You’ve been?”

  “Not on my budget.”

  When we arrive at the craphouse, Mikey asks, “You want to see my tent, Aaron?”

  “Oh, let’s leave that for a day the Dick isn’t home,” I say. I know from my Zodiac pictures that Aaron grew up in a pretty house, simple, ordered, godly clean, likely smelling of lilacs in the spring and apple crisp in autumn, and I can’t face the shame. “Stay here while I give the Dick his distemper shot.”

  Mum’s stained chair is at the curb for trash day. I don’t miss her, do I, Jasper?

  Dunno. Don’t miss the piss stink for sure.

  The Dick opens the door. Face chalky, lips pale as lard. “You still on with Tino?”

  “Yep.”

  “You got a minute?”

  “Just.”

  I’ve never known an Oreo to last more than five minutes in crapdom, but there’re a dozen plated between us as we sit at the stained table. “Um, just want you to know I’m makin’ a new start. Tino and me settled on terms. End of April we’s movin’, Shirley and me. When Theresa’s money comes in, you do right by me and I’ll let Mikey decide where he wants to be.”

  “What’s right?”

  “Fifty-fifty? ’Course most of that’ll go in the bank for Mikey.” He dips a cookie in cold tea. “I’m on track at work, hundred and ten percent. Closed that case of those hookers who were roughed up. And that bloody O’Toole’s finally off my back.”

  “How?”

  “He knocked up the wife’s sister. Carmie’s so pissed she’s gonna spill all she’s got on him to Halpern. Hell, he’s likely halfway to California by now.” A cookie hunk blots out his front tooth. “Whaddaya say?”

  “Sounds reasonable. I’m going to be late for my date.”

  When I return, Mikey asks, “What took so long?”

  “It’s a chess game. Just studying the board for our next move.” From the side mirror I watch Mum’s throne diminish as we pick up speed. The queen is dead. She’s really gone.

  Mikey hops out at Sabina’s. “You coming here after?”

  “No, I’ll sleep at the nest. Jennah’s giving you a lift to school tomorrow, so be ready by seven thirty.” He accepts without a gripe being shuffled from place to person and waves bye.

  Jennah is waiting on her steps, like a kid excited about her new life-sized, dress-up Barbie.

  I say, “You’ve got to make me look like a hundred thousand bucks.”

  Aaron sits on the clean sofa, entertained by the twins while Jennah goes to work. I’m taller than Jennah, so her black velvet dress comes above my knees and my boobs plump out of it, just a little. Whatever she puts on my hair makes it a party of serpentines, half up and half down. “Hold still, Ari.”

  “Easy on the war paint.”

  “Just a
little glow and sparkle. Now my diamond drop.” She fastens the platinum chain and the stone looks like an arrow pointing to my cleavage. “Where’s Nia’s ring?”

  “In my pack.” Satiny legs and polished feet slip into patent pumps.

  She fishes it out, slides it on my finger, then turns me to the full-length mirror. “I’d say a hundred million bucks.”

  Aaron glances over his shoulder, nearly dumping Dylan into the coffee table when he stands. “Holy.” He swallows. “Holy.” He inhales, exhales. “Hoooleee.”

  “Stop singing the doxology, man, and get her to the restaurant.” Jennah hands me a shawl and a little purse. “Knock ’em dead, sis.”

  “I need that box I left here.” She retrieves the black box and I’m ready to make a deal.

  Aaron drives in silence to the restaurant, runs around, and opens my door. “Maybe I should wait out here.”

  “I’ve money for a cab.”

  “You going to your friend’s place after?”

  I nod.

  “You scared?”

  “Yeah, of walking in these shoes.” I inhale seeing Bernie and his wife heading into the restaurant. “Is it seven forty yet?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Jennah said I should be at least ten minutes late.”

  Okay, Jasper, let’s net him. A girl knows when she looks good. She knows when men are looking at their dates with one eye and her with the other. It’s a fancy-schmancy place with a tuxedoed man ready to help. “I’m meeting Mr. Constantine.”

  “Right this way, miss.”

  Tino stands, drinking me in from toe to tit. Tuxedo man pulls out a chair for my box, then one for me. “Would you care for something from the bar?”

  “Club soda, please.”

  Tino shifts in his seat. “You look va-va-voom.”

  “You’re spiffed up pretty fine yourself.”

  “Are there sharp objects in that box?”

  “Just a little gift. Best pot out of the east.”

  He loosens his collar. “I-I’m not into . . .”

  “You should be scared. Look inside.” Cautiously he uncovers one of my best pieces, terracotta and turquoise bleeding through moon-white glaze. He reads the card: Every being born from this earth is clay, unique, priceless, and easily broken. Handle with reverence. “I made it.”

  “It’s beautiful.” He bites his cheek on the inside while fingering the sea spirit climbing over the side. “I seldom receive poetic gifts.”

  “Everything’s a poem if you let it be. Neruda wrote an ode to his socks.”

  “What you said at your mother’s funeral was poetic.”

  “Have to say, it was weird seeing you there.”

  “Just paying my respects.”

  “Liar. You were protecting your investments.” Another Tuxedo comes with my drink, menus, assorted bread bits, and fills Tino’s glass. Tino motions to my empty wine glass. My hair dances when I shake no. “Never touch the stuff, and if you don’t want to piss me off, you’ll go easy.”

  “You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you.”

  “You kidding? What-the-hell-am-I-supposed-to-do-now is my middle name.”

  “But that doesn’t stop you from moving forward.”

  I should never read and speak at the same time. “It does exactly that. I don’t look behind to the dwindling fires or ahead to the looming inferno. I just go for a little internal dip, with a seahorse.” His loud laugh makes Jasper jump. I fold the menu. “You order. I just don’t like bloody meat or any organ that once thought, spoke, saw, or purified.”

  “What about smelled?”

  “They serve noses here?” He hides his smile behind his elbows-on-the-table hands and settles into getting his money’s worth in questions about my life. I answer all the usual small talk intrusions. “Okay, my turn. Are you happy?”

  A swig of wine swishes back and forth in his mouth. “You don’t start small, do you. Are you happy?”

  “I keep at least one room inside open for happiness.”

  He taps my ring with his fork. “Is there a young man in that room?”

  His neck blooms when I lift my eyes full in his face. “I have spectacular people in my life. This was a gift from a woman who took me in when I was a scared kid; she gave me the earth, sun, and stars and never asked for a thing in return.”

  “And who put those exquisite hands on a hot stove?”

  I turn my palms up to the old scars. “I went into fire for something I wanted.”

  “What?”

  “A treasure box of hope.”

  “Hope?”

  “Letters from my aunts. So, answer my question.”

  “Why’d you want to know?”

  “People are stories. I can’t write without barging in past the front door. Could’ve asked if you’re sad, pissed, scared, or constipated. Happy seemed a more palatable appetizer.”

  “You want to be a writer?” he asks.

  “You have a pen?” He slides a sleek gold beauty out of his jacket and I write on a scrap of tissue. You should be a righter. “A teacher told me I should be a writer and this is what I thought she meant and I knew just what that was because every night my aunts whispered in my ear, ‘Everything will be all right, Ari. Dream.’ And I thought what a great thing it’d be to be righters like them.”

  We talk through his steak and my chicken stuffed with creamed heaven and potatoes so tiny they must’ve been grown on a leprechaun farm. Despite journalistic probing, he reveals nothing about what makes him work, but I sense doors opening under his fine suit.

  “Eat your vegetables. The asparagus is spectacular.” He declines and tuxedo man takes our plates. “Please tell the chef he could give my Polish aunt a run for her cooking crown.”

  The waiter smiles like he has a cozy house and kids happy to see him. “Would you care to see the dessert menu?”

  “I’ll have the chocolatiest thing in the kitchen, please.”

  He bows a little to Tino. “Mr. Constantine?”

  “A brand—uh, make that two chocolate things and coffee.”

  “Tea for me, please.”

  “I imagine you’re quite the dancer, Ari.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “The way you move is mesmerizing.”

  “You can ease up on the flattery ’cause there’s not a chance of any sheet-shimmying between us.”

  He smiles. “If I thought there was, you wouldn’t be nearly as intriguing as you are. Bed partners are a dime a dozen. Good dance partners are rare.”

  “I know, right?” Jennah told me to leave a little on my plate but the fluffed-up chocolate has me wanting to lick the unforkable bits and snatch Tino’s, too. I steal a bite from his plate. “My fiddler’s got the moves, but he’s always making the music. I haven’t had a spectacular turn around the floor since my papa was alive.”

  “So, you do dance.”

  “I have Poland in one foot and Nova Scotia in the other, so I more fly.”

  “I know the agreement was dinner, but would you come to my club? Just one dance? Night’s still young.”

  I tip his almost ten o’clock watch. “Obviously you don’t have to get up for school tomorrow.” He nods and lifts his hand for the check. “Are there ladies peeling off their knickers at this place?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll make you a deal: give the waiter a good tip and a dance is yours.”

  A tidy stack slides out of his wallet and into the folder. We stand, and in Jennah’s shoes I top him by inches. He motions to the door. “Shall we?”

  Our Tuxedo lifts his voice over the silvery music. “Sir?”

  Tino looks back. “Thank the lady.”

  Entering his sparkly club, Tino puffs up proud. To write him into a story, I’d have to shave off the clichéd edges:
the coat over the shoulders, the stripe in his suit, the big gold ring. I’d give him a little more height and free up his hair, but the nightclub would be this: 1920s wood and chintz meets 1970s neon and chrome. Swing jazz explodes from the band and my feet fire remembering the times Len danced me like loose spaghetti to like music. I edge toward the floor. “Well, man, can you dance or what?”

  “Not while there’s a no touch rule in place.”

  I nab his hand. “Armistice ’til midnight.”

  I don’t mind being with the big cheese bully because the sea of people part, giving us the floor, and if he thought he got his money’s worth over dinner, he hits the jackpot with the dancing. By our second dance, my shoes are off, his jacket gone, and the man dances like a little of Fred Astaire lives in him.

  By half eleven, he’s panting and I say, “I have to go.”

  The band slows to some Ella Fitzgerald seductive blues and he extends his hand. “Not for any deals, just for the love of the music.” His scent is subtler than expected, fresh citrus. We drift around the floor, and with his arm around my waist, I feel his want.

  I remain in his embrace while the walls absorb the sultry afternotes. “You can dance, Mr. Constantine, so there’s happiness in you somewhere.”

  His hand lingers on the small of my back. “A drink?”

  “No, a cab.”

  “I’ll drive you.”

  “No. This is where we say goodnight.”

  “Tony will take you.” He floats Jennah’s shawl over my shoulder. “Thank you for the finest evening I can remember”—lips brush my cheek and my name on his exhale trickles down my neck—“Ari.”

  In the back of a big black car, the hides of selfless cows cushion my bum. He’s hooked, Ari.

  Having a shark in our corner suits me just fine. “To the Riverboat, Antonio.”

  Tony squints into the rear-view. “Boss said take you to your door.”

  “Well, my good man, I’m in charge of where this lady goes.”

  I climb out and down the stairs to a coffee house half-full of people with no better place to go. I exit through the back, walking barefoot down my alley in the cool spring air. I’d swivel and bolt if I didn’t recognize the shape sitting on my bottom step as Aaron. “Hey, cowboy. What’re you doing here?”