Whitechurch by Chris Lynch Page B

is and is not out the window. “Don’t say love and cocksucker to me in the same sentence, all right?” I finally say.
    “Oh, Christ,” he says, looking over my shoulder.
    Again, I don’t need to look. “Guess we shouldn’t be rushing into the private-eye business, huh Pauly?”
    He continues staring, tries smiling without looking guilty, does not. I can feel her hovering over my shoulder. And I am not displeased. Not displeased that she’s here, that she’s found us, and not displeased that Pauly’s squirming.
    “Have a seat, Mary Martha,” he says.
    Okay then, this is different.
    “Jesus,” I say.
    “What’s up with you?” Mary Martha asks, smiling. “I thought this was a party.”
    “Who’s watching the station?” I ask her, as if that’s really my problem.
    “Lilly,” she says with a giggle.
    “ Lilly ?” Pauly and I both gasp. We scramble to the window as if we can catch a last glimpse of her at the station, which we can’t. We can imagine Lilly laughing at us, waving, flipping a finger, perhaps.
    Pauly throws himself back into his seat and mounts a major pouting campaign.
    I sit once again across from him. “Hey, don’t be antisocial,” I say, finding myself suddenly, uncharitably cheery.
    “Ya, it’s a party, remember?” Mary Martha says.
    “Ya, well who invited you?” Paul wants to know.
    “Duh,” Mary Martha says.
    “You told Lilly,” he says.
    “Duh,” she says.
    “Good for you, Mary Martha. Take no prisoners. Take no shit.”
    “Take a hike,” Paul says to me, and it feels more like a party every minute. I could like this. Lilly’s out of the picture, so I can stop sweating that and I can admit how much that was eating at me. Mary Martha has called Pauly’s bluff and now he’s got to deal with it. He’s going to have a make up eight more poems pretty quick.
    For once, Pauly’s made to reap what Pauly has sown. For once, I am free and clear.
    Mary Martha means business too. “You were so nice a few minutes ago. Are people right about you, psycho boy?”
    Pauly cuts such a look at her now, I’m myself taken aback, which ain’t good. He’s dark here, head pointed down, eyes turned up, so the effect is like he’s lighted from below, eye whites scary white set in dark dark socket holes.
    “Who calls me psycho boy? Tell me who, and I’ll go to their house and gouge out their hearts. I am not psycho.”
    Points for ol’ Mary Martha. She gets the joke even before I do.
    “Knew you were going to say that,” she says.
    The lights come back on all over his face which, when you are here close up and liking him, you can see, is about the most open and touchable face you could find. He loves it when people are not worried by him. Even better than when they are.
    “How come you changed your own name?” Pauly.
    “How come you cut your own hair?” Mary Martha.
    “Hah.” Me.
    “I didn’t do this,” Paul says. “It was him.”
    Mary Martha looks at me. “I thought you two were friends.”
    “Tickets, please” is what we hear now. The conductor comes to collect. We all give up our tickets, and the guy whips out his little doohickey that puts a million holes in the tickets. When he’s done with me and Pauly, he stares at Mary Martha like a disapproving father. Disapproving of us we can assume.
    “Hi, Chet,” she says pleasantly.
    “Hi,” he says, and punches her ticket so many times there’s more of it on the floor than in her hand.
    “So what happened?” Pauly wants to know.
    “Buy me a drink first and I’ll tell you.”
    Pauly laughs. He loves to be pushed around like this. Then he looks to me. The money, remember.
    “Fine,” I say, because I am truly getting in a party mood. I feel light, like there’s nothing on me. Pauly’s the one at work now. Think I might like the switch today, me playing Pauly troublemaker, while he tries to clean up his own mess. “Lemme just run to the dining car and see what I can do.” But before I can go I have one