Lies You Wanted to Hear (7 page)

***

Three days after we got home from the funeral, Jill had her baby, a little boy named Terrence Kyle O’Shea Jr. They planned on calling him TK. When Matt and I went to visit them in the hospital, Matt looked at the baby and beamed. He asked Jill if he could hold him, then picked him up with gentle nonchalance like it was something he did every day.

“Hey, TK,” he said. “What do you think about your first day out here in the big wide world? Everything fine so far? This is easy living, kid. Enjoy it while you can. Pretty soon your old man’s going to turn you into a Red Sox fan and make you miserable for the rest of your life.”

Jill’s mother and sister were in the room with us. They smiled at me the way The Ladies did, reminding me that this guy was a catch.

Matt and I went back to my place and made love. The next day I realized I’d forgotten to take a pill. I wasn’t sure when, sometime in all the commotion of the past week. I felt a twinge of guilt but didn’t say anything to Matt. It wasn’t like I
wanted
to get pregnant. Not like the last time.

Matt

The new task force was called Together with Trust—TWT. Good name, bad acronym. Rank-and-file cops, who viewed us with a tinge of jealousy and suspicion, quickly dubbed us the “twits.” My partner was a nineteen-year veteran named Javi Veliz. The two of us hit it off immediately. We were assigned to the Roslindale and West Roxbury neighborhoods, which Javi knew well. He had a great knack for drawing people out and getting them to vent. We spent a lot of time talking to small-business owners, listening to their problems and trying to get them to hire some of the neighborhood kids part time. Javi was an entrepreneur himself. Over the years he had built up two businesses of his own, a flower shop and a three-car limousine service.

One evening Lucy and I went out for a drink with him and his wife, Colleen. Colleen was first generation Boston Irish. She was tall and skinny, with green eyes, red hair, and a face that turned pretty when she smiled. Javi and his family had come to Boston from Guatemala when he was six. With his long nose and copper skin, ink-black hair and trim goatee, he could have passed for a Saudi prince or a South American drug lord. He and Colleen told us they were high school sweethearts.

“The only girl I’ve ever kissed,” Javi said.

Colleen rolled her eyes. “My father wasn’t exactly happy with the situation. He called Javi the blankety-blank little spic the first two years I went out with him.”

“Now it’s just the spic,” Javi said, laughing.

“The only thing that saved him was being Catholic,” Colleen said.

They had three daughters and a son. Colleen said they’d been having trouble with their boy recently. He got caught skipping school, and she and Javi were trying to decide how to punish him.

“He’s a good kid,” Javi said. “A little dreamy, that’s all. I was a
criminal
when I was his age.”

Lucy and I chuckled.

“He isn’t kidding,” Colleen said.

Lucy said, “Do tell.”

“Master cat burglar,” Javi said. “I’d find a cellar door unlocked, crawl up a fire escape to an open window. In and out quick, though things got dicey once in a while.” The waitress came by, and we ordered another round. I’d already heard a lot of Javi’s stories, but he seemed to be ratcheting things up for Lucy.

Javi said, “One day this cop, a big burly guy named Jimmy Bohan, catches me with a pocketful of stolen watches. Bohan knew my papi. Poor guy drove a cab twelve hours a day, six days a week. All he wanted was for us kids to live the American dream. Finish school and get a decent job, get married and have a bunch of kids. Bohan’s got his hand on my arm like a vise. Wants to know what my father’s gonna say when he hauls me in. I’m thinking, Forget about getting sent up to Thompson’s Island, man. First thing my papi’s gonna do is beat the living shit outta me. Then he’s gonna stick my ass on the next plane back to Guatemala so I can work twelve hours a day on my uncle’s chicken farm.”

Javi lit a cigarillo with his gold lighter, then Lucy’s cigarette. She leaned forward, the top two buttons of her Western shirt undone, and I saw him take a peek.

“Bohan took the bag and let me go. Said he’d jump on my head with both feet next time I stepped out of line. Lesson learned. I ended up becoming a cop.”

“That’s a wonderful story,” Lucy said, touching his arm. “A lot of police officers wouldn’t have been so compassionate.”

I said, “What happened to the watches?”

“That’s the best part. The day I graduated from high school, Bohan gave me this.” He pushed up the cuff of his sleeve to reveal a rectangular-faced Cartier with a tiny sapphire in the stem-winder. “Creative rehabilitation, partner. That’s how you reach tough kids in the neighborhoods.”

“Winning hearts and minds,” I said.

Javi chuckled. “Nah, man,
con
amenazas
y
sobornos
.” He translated for the women. “With threats and bribes.”

Lucy said, “Do you guys speak Spanish to each other on the job?”

“Depends on the topic,” Javi said. “We switch back and forth. Spanish is a
romance
language. We use it to talk about women and food. English is for sports, money, and police work. Politics and religion are off limits in any language.”

“What do you say about us women?” Lucy said.

He gave her a killer smile. “Only how much we love you.”

“Good answer.” She was getting drunk.

Colleen said, “Where did you learn Spanish, Matt?”

Before I could respond, Lucy said, “In Puerto Rico. From a pretty
señorita
.”

“Enid,” Javi said. “I’ve heard about her.”

“A
need
, indeed,” Lucy said. “He can’t mention her without blushing. If she shows up here, I’ll scratch her eyes out.” She meowed and clawed the air and grinned at me.

“I think it’s wonderful you learned Spanish,” Colleen said. “I wanted Javi to teach our kids, but he couldn’t be bothered.”

“I love Latin women,” Lucy said. “They have so much
flair
. They’re so up front about everything.” She pulled her shoulders back and stuck out her tits.

“
Si lo tienes, muéstralo
,” Javi said. “If you got it, flaunt it.”

“Yeah,” Colleen said, shaking her head. “You should see his sisters.”

The conversation drifted to other things. At the end of the evening, Javi insisted on paying the bill.

In the car on the way to Lucy’s, I said, “Well, you put on quite a show.”

“A
show
?”

“With Javi.”

“I was being friendly with your partner. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Not like you’re gonna take him into the back room and fuck his brains out.”

“Oh please.”

“That’s how you were acting. Getting him to light your cigarette, letting him look down your shirt. Colleen and I were sitting there with our jaws hanging open.”

“Listen, if I wanted to…” She looked away for a moment, then turned back to me. “I’m sorry. I was just having fun.” I didn’t say anything. “Don’t be mad, Matt.
You’re
my guy.”

“Am I?”

She sighed and put her head on my shoulder. Why did I try to make her say it twice?

Later, in bed, Lucy said, “Tell me about the
señorita
.” She never said the name even when she knew it. It was always the
señorita
, the nurse, the Chanel girl.

“She was short and muscular. Pretty face, frizzy brown hair.”

“With that smooth, whiskey-colored skin.”

“Yes,” I said.

“And dark nipples.” I nodded as she unbuttoned the top of her nightgown and let it fall open. “Were they like big chewy gumdrops or hard little jujubes?” She pinched her own.

I reached for her, but she moved away.

“Tell me,” she said.

“Little and hard.” My body felt light, caught in the spin of her game.

“Did she like you to bite them?”

“Yes.” A lie.

“Show me.”

I nipped her and she let out a sharp yelp. I had never been with a woman so bold. She wanted words, fantasies.
Tell
me
how
the
nurse
sucked
your
cock
, she’d say.
Did
she
like
it
from
behind?
I responded meekly. A disappointment, I know. Sometimes she begged me to hurt her. She didn’t say how. One night I bit her on the shoulder until she cried out in pain. She had a purple bruise for a week, which neither of us mentioned.

She pushed my head lower. I kissed her belly. She had a tattoo of a Chinese umbrella in the bend of her hip. The first time I saw it I asked her what it meant.
Something
for
a
rainy
day
, she said.

She was one of a kind. Fantastic. Beyond explanation. I felt like a man on a high wire. Like that crazy Frenchman who walked between the towers of the World Trade Center. I hate heights. I have to turn away when they show footage of him bouncing on the wire, taunting the police, defying the wind. One little slip and he was a dead man. But if you asked him, I’ll bet he’d say it was the one time in his life when he never felt more alive.

***

One day after work I got a call at my apartment from Sandor.

“Matyas, why you don’t come see me and bring your beautiful Lucy? Don’t tell me you break up with her.”

“No, no, Sandor, she’s fine. Everything’s fine. I’ve been real busy.” I hadn’t been to the Café Budapest since a week or two before my mother died.

Sandor told me he’d gotten stopped the night before for speeding. It was on the Jamaicaway. He was doing sixty in a thirty-five-mile-an-hour zone. “When officer ask me for license and registration, I tell him I know I am speeding, sir, but, please, do you know my nephew, Matt Drobyshev.” He chortled. “The policeman, he give me funny look and say, ‘You’re Drobo’s uncle?’ ‘Oh yes,’ I tell him. ‘My sister’s boy. My
favorite
.’ The policeman, he say, ‘You need to slow down, Pops. Tell Matt Richie Harrington says hello.’ You see, Matyas, you save me again.”

“Richie and I were at the academy together. He’s a good guy. We play basketball at the Y sometimes. I’ll tell him thanks.”

“Yes, please. Now I want to repay you. Yesterday someone give me tickets for—”

“Come on, Sandor. You do too much for me already.”

“No, no, listen. I have two tickets for
Annie
in New York for next week. Saturday night. Everybody in restaurant is talking about it. They say is best show in years. You take your beautiful Lucy.”

“Sandor, I…”

“Please, you take.”

“Sure, okay. Lucy will be thrilled. You’re too good to me, Sandor.”

“No, no, I am not lying what I say to policeman, Matyas. You are part of my family.”

“Thank you, uncle,” I said, choking up.

I wanted to tell him about my mother’s death, but I didn’t know how to begin. The funeral had been over a month ago. Every time I thought about her, I felt a tightness in my chest. I missed her voice. I missed simply knowing she was there. At times something would happen, nothing dramatic, just some funny incident on the job or a story I heard, and I’d wish I could call her up and tell her about it. More than anything, I wanted to talk to her about Lucy.

***

I hung up the phone and saw a cockroach scurry across the floor. Living with Kreider was becoming untenable, and I had been thinking about getting my own apartment. Actually, my real goal was to get a place with Lucy, but I was wary of rushing her. I considered telling her I was going to buy a condo with my mother’s insurance money and see how she reacted. If she wanted to take the next step and move in together, she’d find a way to let me know. For all my hesitation, I felt like we were getting closer every day. She was more open and affectionate. Sometimes she spoke of “we” and “us.” She had stopped peeling the skin off her thumbs, even gained a few pounds. She still hadn’t said “I love you,” but when she did, I’d know it was true.

I waited a few days before I told her about going to New York. I wanted to make sure I had everything lined up. I said it was a surprise, just be sure to bring something special to wear for the evening. She laughed and said she couldn’t wait.

We went out to Wellesley to see Jill and Terry and the baby. We were in the living room drinking wine and eating cheese and crackers. Lucy sat sideways on the couch with TK resting on her propped-up knees.

“I can’t believe how
alert
he is,” she said to no one in particular. The baby was staring at her with his big blue eyes. “Yes, little man, I mean you. You. You. You.” Each time she said it, she kissed him on the tip of his nose.

I was sitting on the floor beside her; Elton John was on the stereo, singing “Bennie and the Jets.” Lucy held TK’s tiny hands, moving them back and forth to the beat of the music. I took a sip of wine. Lucy smiled at me, then reached out with her thumb and brushed away the red wine whiskers from the corners of my mouth.

It was an offhand gesture, but it seemed as intimate as anything she had ever done in bed.

Lucy

It was December first, the sky dark at quarter to five as I crossed the intersection at Harvard Square with my fellow jaywalkers, drivers honking their impatience. Every Thursday after work, I’d walk ten minutes up Mass. Ave. for my appointment with Carla. Some days the idea of sitting down with her while she cajoled me into talking about the can of worms I called my life was more than I could bear; other days our sessions were my refuge, as if she were the only person on the planet who would let me be completely honest and give me an honest response. Today I was of both minds. At lunchtime, I had gone to a clinic and peed in a cup, my period long overdue; tomorrow I’d call them and find out what I already knew. I still hadn’t told anyone and figured I might as well start with Carla.

Carla was vintage Cambridge, one of those stringy earth mothers who dressed in neo-peasant cotton, no makeup, long salt-and-pepper hair, two broken teeth on one side, which gave her a goofy smile. She had worked for an international aid organization in Africa and was married to a Nigerian man with skin the color of carbon paper. I had no idea what Carla’s credentials were; there were no framed diplomas or certificates on her walls, just a great collection of African masks.

I arrived at her office a few minutes early and sat in the anteroom and thumbed through a copy of
Newsweek
with President Carter’s beer-swizzling brother Billy on the cover. Behind the closed door, the woman who had her regular appointment just before mine let out a manic laugh. Ten seconds later, Carla’s office door swung open, and the woman came out with her arm in one sleeve of her coat, a look of horror and relief on her face as if she’d nearly been run over by a bus. She and I had been nodding at each other every week for several years but had never exchanged more than a hello. I hated to admit it, but it always made me feel better imagining her problems were worse than mine.

When I went into the office, Carla paid me a rare compliment, saying I looked “becoming” today, and I wondered if I had acquired a bloom in the early stages of my pregnancy, never mind that I’d been throwing up every morning for the past two weeks. We made small talk for a few minutes, and I told her Matt was taking me to New York for a big weekend.

“Lucky you,” she said. “To do what?”

“I’m not sure. It’s a state secret. He was really cute about it. Told me to be sure to bring an evening dress and a couple of casual outfits. That’s all he would say.”

“You think it’s something big?”

“You mean some life-altering question? He’s been dropping hints. I think he’s going to ask me to move in together.”

“What will you say if he does?”

“I don’t know.
Maybe?
It’s a big decision.” As if having his baby weren’t.

“What’s holding you back?”

“He’s a good man, Carla. I don’t want to hurt him.”

“Give him a little credit. He knows what he’s getting into.”

“Not really.” She didn’t catch the hint, or chose to ignore it.

“You and Griffin never actually moved in together, did you?”

“Not officially.” He spent most nights at my place but never gave up his own apartment.

“So moving in with Matt would be a big deal for you?”

“Very.” My eyes shifted to the wall behind her desk. “I see you’ve got a new mask.”

She turned to admire it. “Yes, it’s from the Igbo people.” The face was white with stark black lips and two black pipes protruding from either side of its mouth, black rings around the eyeholes, a black dog perched on top of its head.

“I love it,” I said. “It’s really scary. The masks are such a neat part of coming here.”

“Some of my clients tell me they’re put off by them.”

“Yeah, I can understand that. Too many eyes watching you.”

She smiled and said, “Let’s get back to Matt. Tell me again why you’re hesitant to move in with him.”

“Like you said, it would be a big deal. Plus, I’m not sure I’m in love with him.”

“Have you told him that?”

“I haven’t said I was. I guess that’s the same thing.”

“But he’s told you?”

“Once.”

“And you liked hearing it?”

“I was touched, yes. Granted, it was two minutes after he told me his mother died, but I give him an A-plus for courage. He knows how skittish I am.”

“Skittish maybe. But you’re the one who’s in control.”

“You think I’m afraid of letting myself be vulnerable?”

“Are you?”

“Not with Griffin I wasn’t.”

“But now…” she said.

Now I’m fucking pregnant! It doesn’t get any more vulnerable than that. I found myself shutting down, not wanting to tell her my secret; I managed to mumble and dodge my way through the rest of the session without letting her draw it out of me.

I walked home from Carla’s and got in my car and drove straight to Jill’s. She was on the couch in the great room off the kitchen, nursing TK. She touched her finger to her lips for me to be quiet. I took off my coat and sat in the big armchair.

“Is he sleeping?” I said softly.

Jill nodded. “Little bugger’s been cranky since he woke up this morning. This is the first time he’s been down all day.” She unhooked the baby from her breast and tucked him into the corner of the couch beside her.

“I was in the neighborhood,” I said. I picked at my thumb.

“This isn’t about your trip to New York with Matt tomorrow, is it?” Count on Jill to cut to the chase. “Please tell me you haven’t backed out.”

I shook my head.

“So, how bad is it?”

I took a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.”

“Okay.” Her expression was unreadable.

“It’s not official. I get the test results tomorrow, but all the signs are there. Backache, tender boobs, morning sickness. My boss brought a cup of hazelnut coffee back from lunch yesterday, and I had to race out of the office to keep from puking at my desk.”

“You’re going to tell Matt this weekend?” It sounded like a question, but it wasn’t.

“Yes.”

She leaned forward. “And keep the baby?”

“Of
course
, Jilly.” It devastated me that she might think I wouldn’t.

She let out a whoop and rushed over and hugged me. Seconds later we were all crying—her and me and the baby—then Terry walked in the door, and Jill and I started laughing, fat, happy tears streaming down our faces, and he looked at us like he’d wandered into a loony bin.

“It’s a girl thing,” Jill said. She scooped up TK, who had decided to take his discontent to the next decibel, and handed him to Terry. “He’s been asking for you all day.”

I grabbed my coat. “I have to go,” I said to Jill. “I’ll call you later.”

I drove home feeling an enormous sense of relief. Now that I had said it—
I’m pregnant
—I couldn’t conceive of my life in any other way. This baby was a blessing. Matt would be euphoric when I told him, not like the last time when Griffin and I had such horrible fights. After the abortion, I had a recurring nightmare in which I kept finding the dead fetus in various places around my apartment. It was tiny as a pearl and perfectly whole. I would come across it in an ashtray, beneath my panties in the bureau drawer, caught in the strainer in the kitchen sink. Now, as I drove home, I had an unshakable feeling that I was carrying a girl, a daughter who would live and grow, giggle and sing and call me Mommy. Life didn’t have to be complicated; happiness was there for the taking. I had known that since my second date with Matt. How could I look into the eyes of our child and not love her father?

***

I called the clinic Friday morning, and a nurse confirmed that my pregnancy test was positive. She calculated the due date as July 19. I sat at my desk, grinning like the Cheshire cat, doodling 7-19-78 on a notepad, trying to imagine the look on Matt’s face when I told him. Should I do it over dinner or matter-of-factly as we were strolling down the street? In bed after we’d finished making love? I wondered if the other women in the office could guess what I had been talking about when I was on the phone with the clinic, and almost wished that they could.

When I got to my house after work, Mrs. Stansbury was in the front hall sorting through the mail. I said a cheerful hello, but she scowled and handed me a catalog and a few envelopes. Her snub took me a little aback; she’d become much more amiable since Matt the Light Bulb Changer started coming around. I glanced through the mail as I walked up the stairs to my apartment on the third floor, happy to see that one of the envelopes was a blue aerogram, a rare letter from my brother Mark, who was working in New Zealand.

“Hey, babe,” a voice above me said.

I looked up, so startled I dropped Mark’s letter and nearly lost my balance.

“Oh my god, Griffin, what’re you…?”

“Sorry.” He stood on the landing, grinning, the apartment door open behind him. “I didn’t mean to make you jump out of your skin.”

I picked up the letter and charged up the stairs, pushing him aside as he tried to put his arms around me. He followed me into the apartment and closed the door. His parka was lying on the coffee table. Through the doorway of my bedroom, I could see my half-packed suitcase sitting on the foot of my bed. Matt was coming to pick me up in less than an hour.

I spun around. “Griffin, this is insane. You can’t come barging into—”

“Lucy, I’m sorry.” He lifted his empty hands. “You’re right, I should have called first. I tried ringing the bell, but you weren’t home, and I still had my key so I…” He gave me a coy shrug. He’d grown a short beard, more red than blond.

“This is unbelievable. What do you
want
? What are you doing here? You’ve been gone for eight months. Then all of a sudden you show up and
what
? We pick up where we left off? Or are you just passing through, looking for a quick fuck?”

He seemed genuinely hurt, a look I was unfamiliar with. “I came back to see you. I just want to talk.”

“Talk? Really? What was that clever little maxim you used to say? The more time we spend talking about us, the less us-ness there is to talk about.”

“Come on, baby, just listen. I’ve had a lot of time to think since I’ve been gone, and there’s one thing I know for certain—no matter how fast I run or how far I go, every road keeps leading me back to you.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I know you’re skeptical,” he said. “Hell, you
should
be. But here’s the simple truth. I love you, Lucy. I love you and I need you in my life. I tried a hundred different times to say that over the telephone, but I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me. Afraid I wouldn’t believe it myself. I had to come here and say it face to face. If it’s too late, I…” His head drooped in desolation.

I would have given a queen’s ransom to hear him say this six months ago. But what did it matter now if his words were true?

“I’m sorry, Griffin. You need to go.”

“I don’t want to lose you, Luce.”

“Please, go.”

He stared at me for a moment, then nodded and held out his hands. “A kiss for the road?”

“Go.” I took a step backward; I didn’t want him to touch me. “Get the fuck out of here!”

He nodded, then angled his head toward the doorway of the bedroom. “Looks like you’re going somewhere for the weekend?”

I shrugged.

“What’s his name?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Just tell me his name.”

“Matt. His name is Matt.”

“Are you in love with him?”

“He’s everything you’re not, Griffin. Gentle, reliable, honest,
faithful
.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Yes, I’m in love with him.”

He took out a cigarette and offered me one. I shook my head, and he shrugged and lit his own. “What time is he picking you up?”

“In about forty-five minutes.” There was a ripple of panic in my throat. “I want you to go.”

“No, I think I’ll hang around and meet this fellow. Congratulate him on winning my girl.”

“Please, Griffin, don’t do this.”

“Lucy, I came back for
you
. I’m not going to turn around meekly and walk out of your life.”

I was on the verge of tears, my voice a whisper. “Please, you have to go.”

“All you have to do when he gets here is look me in the eye and say, Griffin, this is Matt. This is the man I love.” He took a drag on his cigarette. “That’s it. You do that and I promise you’ll never see me again.”

“Get out of here, you asshole!” I put my hand on my head and clutched a fistful of hair. I felt like I was in a high school play, gesticulating, overacting, saying my lines all wrong. I wanted to walk offstage but I didn’t know which way to turn. I had a feeling I was about to do something incredibly stupid—maybe screw up my entire life—and nothing could make me stop.