Kid nor I could make it through the week without her. She is a pain in the ass sometimes. She can be tough. But I trust her. More important, I think the Kid trusts her.” I spoke calmly, rationally, kindly. “She wears more facial jewelry than Marilyn Manson’s whole fanbase, and she’s got forearms the size of my calves. And I think she’s a lesbian, though, honestly, I’d be afraid to ask.”
It was her turn to stare out the window. Then she said something I never thought I would have heard from her again. “I’m sorry.”
We both took a moment to take that in. I wanted to say I was sorry, too, but I couldn’t think of anything to apologize for.
“I was reacting,” she continued. “I meant to ask if you were seeing anyone.”
A water moccasin slid through my lower intestine. I was all too conscious of her long bare legs, the gravity-defying lift of her million-dollar breasts (they’d been insured when we were first married), the faint scent of Bolt of Lightning, and the memory of a limo ride in Paris our first year together. I felt a rise in my pants.
“We had us some times,
cher
, didn’t we?” She said it casually, as though she didn’t know exactly what I had been thinking. “So, are you?”
“Am I?”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
When in doubt, tell the truth; it’s easier to back down from the high ground. Another of my father’s aphorisms.
“I am.” My throat was tight, and I almost coughed it out.
Angie laughed. “
Mais,
boo, you sound like you swallowed a
tooloulou
.” She patted my thigh. “I’m happy you got youself
une bebelle foh de gogo
.” Angie the Cajun—one of her playful poses. Once I would have enjoyed it; now it sounded practiced, forced. I had a rare flash of insight about my ex-wife; Angie was as uncomfortable as I was.
• • •
THE ELEVATORS at the Ansonia were built to carry grand pianos. With just the two of us riding up together, the space felt impossibly small.
“Angie.” I paused, not sure of quite how to proceed.
“Anh?” she said after five seconds of dead silence.
I jumped in. “When you take the Kid through the lobby, you can’t walk on the black tiles. Only on the white ones. I should have said something before we came in, but I didn’t want to sound like a nutcase.”
“That is just what you sound like. What are you talkin’ ’bout?”
“Holes. The Kid thinks the black tiles are holes. He gets scared. It’s just a . . . a thing, but it’s . . .” I couldn’t think of what it was. It made sense as long as I didn’t have to say it out loud.
“Foolish?” she snapped.
“Important,” I said. “And don’t be surprised if he’s not talking. He goes through these periods.”
She was one degree from boiling over. “You said he was getting better.”
“He is. You’ll see.”
The elevator glided to a stop and the doors slid open. Angie seemed to bite back some reply and then stepped into the corridor. I did a quick hop-skip to walk with her rather than follow.
I wanted her to see the Kid was doing well. He goddamn was doing well. She’d left him locked in a room at her mother’s when caring for him had become inconvenient. I took him to school every morning. Checked his scrambled eggs for spots. Made sure he had clean blue clothes to wear on Monday. I was the one who wrapped him up tightly in a sheet at night until he fell asleep. And sometimes two or three times more through the night when his terrors came on. And when I walked through the lobby I was careful to step on white tiles only—even when the Kid wasn’t with me. And why in hell should I be worried about proving something to her? She was the one who’d stolen him away eight months earlier, only to abandon him back at her mother’s. And if I hadn’t gone and brought the Kid back, he might have been in the truck that day and . . .
I took a long breath and counted the beats as I released it.
“And if you think of it, say something nice
It was her turn to stare out the window. Then she said something I never thought I would have heard from her again. “I’m sorry.”
We both took a moment to take that in. I wanted to say I was sorry, too, but I couldn’t think of anything to apologize for.
“I was reacting,” she continued. “I meant to ask if you were seeing anyone.”
A water moccasin slid through my lower intestine. I was all too conscious of her long bare legs, the gravity-defying lift of her million-dollar breasts (they’d been insured when we were first married), the faint scent of Bolt of Lightning, and the memory of a limo ride in Paris our first year together. I felt a rise in my pants.
“We had us some times,
cher
, didn’t we?” She said it casually, as though she didn’t know exactly what I had been thinking. “So, are you?”
“Am I?”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
When in doubt, tell the truth; it’s easier to back down from the high ground. Another of my father’s aphorisms.
“I am.” My throat was tight, and I almost coughed it out.
Angie laughed. “
Mais,
boo, you sound like you swallowed a
tooloulou
.” She patted my thigh. “I’m happy you got youself
une bebelle foh de gogo
.” Angie the Cajun—one of her playful poses. Once I would have enjoyed it; now it sounded practiced, forced. I had a rare flash of insight about my ex-wife; Angie was as uncomfortable as I was.
• • •
THE ELEVATORS at the Ansonia were built to carry grand pianos. With just the two of us riding up together, the space felt impossibly small.
“Angie.” I paused, not sure of quite how to proceed.
“Anh?” she said after five seconds of dead silence.
I jumped in. “When you take the Kid through the lobby, you can’t walk on the black tiles. Only on the white ones. I should have said something before we came in, but I didn’t want to sound like a nutcase.”
“That is just what you sound like. What are you talkin’ ’bout?”
“Holes. The Kid thinks the black tiles are holes. He gets scared. It’s just a . . . a thing, but it’s . . .” I couldn’t think of what it was. It made sense as long as I didn’t have to say it out loud.
“Foolish?” she snapped.
“Important,” I said. “And don’t be surprised if he’s not talking. He goes through these periods.”
She was one degree from boiling over. “You said he was getting better.”
“He is. You’ll see.”
The elevator glided to a stop and the doors slid open. Angie seemed to bite back some reply and then stepped into the corridor. I did a quick hop-skip to walk with her rather than follow.
I wanted her to see the Kid was doing well. He goddamn was doing well. She’d left him locked in a room at her mother’s when caring for him had become inconvenient. I took him to school every morning. Checked his scrambled eggs for spots. Made sure he had clean blue clothes to wear on Monday. I was the one who wrapped him up tightly in a sheet at night until he fell asleep. And sometimes two or three times more through the night when his terrors came on. And when I walked through the lobby I was careful to step on white tiles only—even when the Kid wasn’t with me. And why in hell should I be worried about proving something to her? She was the one who’d stolen him away eight months earlier, only to abandon him back at her mother’s. And if I hadn’t gone and brought the Kid back, he might have been in the truck that day and . . .
I took a long breath and counted the beats as I released it.
“And if you think of it, say something nice
Similar Books
