Sweet Thing (13 page)

“What are you doing?” I shouted as I covered my body with my hands.

“I can’t see you, there’s a shower curtain,” he said, chuckling.

“Oh, you can see enough.”

“Well, I’m not looking. I just wanted to talk to you.”

I watched him cross his feet at the ankles and lean back, arms folded and his head down. He was making an attempt at some belated manners.

“What’s up, Will?”

“Are you okay? You seemed upset last night when you came in. Did something happen with Robert?” I sensed vague hope in his voice.

“No. I just felt like sleeping in my own bed. I’m sorry I woke you.”

He hesitated for a long beat before speaking “Okay… no worries. I’m going to work early… I’ll see you later.”

“Bye, Will.” Once he was out of earshot I cursed myself. Why didn’t I tell him the truth? Why was I being so fickle?

Over the next two weeks, I dove into the café workings. Martha and I sat down one evening and went over every line in the accounting books. The café was making a profit, albeit a small one, but enough to keep it open. We talked about the espresso machine that everyone referred to as the monster. On top of the fact that the milk steamer was slower than molasses, the machine sounded like the Tunguska Meteor falling to earth.

I showed Martha some pictures of the newfangled machines and suggested we get one; she looked moderately disappointed. I figured the old machine held some kind of nostalgic significance to her.

“It will save us so much time,” I pleaded.

“Does it make better espresso?”

“Probably not. I don’t know what to do. I’m just trying to think of ways to improve the business.” I waited for her to beg me to keep the old machine, but I knew Martha well enough to know that she would be creative about it.

“Mia, you have to ask yourself, what would J.C. do?” She arched her eyebrows and waited for my response.

“About the espresso machine?” I asked with a puzzled look.

“Yes, what would Johnny Cash do?”

Ah of course, my first man in black. Martha was being silly, but I think she hoped the joke would remind me that there is something to be said about character and the old machine had a lot of it. “Okay, the monster stays.”

Track 8: Hopes and Dreams

Will and I kept missing each other at the apartment. I hadn’t seen him for over a week except asleep in his bed on the mornings I left for work. I would leave his mail on the counter for him and every day I would notice more and more envelopes addressed to Will from record labels. It seemed that he was getting his career off the ground. My mind would wander to him headlining big stadium shows before going back to his giant, fancy bus with a different set of groupies every night. I would think
good for him,
but it still bummed me out. None of that had happened yet, but I couldn’t help but feel it was imminent.

One gloomy morning in July while I was rearranging the back storage room at Kell’s, I dropped a one-hundred-ounce can of stewed tomatoes on my foot. “Fuuuuuuuuuck!”All of lower Manhattan must have heard my cries.

Jenny came running in. “Oh my god, your foot.” She looked both shocked and disgusted. “We have to take you to the hospital.”

My foot was mangled. Who knew a can of tomatoes could do so much damage? My ankle started to resemble a giant puffer fish. My big toenail was hanging off and blood was gushing everywhere. I sat there reeling in crushing pain. Jenny hailed a cab and Martha arrived just as I hobbled out to the curb. Tears were flowing and I was biting my lip, hoping it would relieve some of the pain in my foot.

“Thank you for coming,” I managed to mumble.

“Oh, Mia Pia, poor girl. That must have been some of can of tomatoes,” she said as she stared at my foot with a sickened look on her face. “Jenny, why don’t you take her and I’ll cover the café, and Mia, you should not wear sandals to work!”

She had to throw in the mother-hen shit, which was laughable considering that Martha wore Birkenstocks every day of her life, even when it was snowing out.

We got into the cab and both yelled, “Bellevue Hospital!”

Jenny held my foot over her lap with an ice pack and a bloodstained towel. “I guess Martha must be squeamish. Did you see how she looked at your foot?”

“Uh huh,” I said with my eyes squeezed as tight as possible. I could barely breathe it hurt so badly; every bump we hit made me cry out.

“I’m sorry, Mia, we’re almost there,” Jenny said.

Once I was admitted at the hospital, they gave me some pain meds and took X rays. I had a hairline fracture on the top of my foot and other than the missing toenail, that was it. It still hurt like hell. While I was waiting to get my crutches and temporary cast, I told Jenny she could go. I knew she had to go coach a tiny-tot soccer team and it was getting late. She argued with me for twenty minutes and then I said, “It’s not like you’re gonna drive the fucking cab, Jenny! I’m fine, they’re giving me Vicodin.” I convinced her to go, but not before she talked to two doctors and a nurse, verifying that I would be okay to ride home by myself.

On the way to my apartment, I asked the driver to stop at a market so I could get dinner, which consisted of wine and chocolate. When we pulled up to my building, the cabbie got out and helped me onto the curb. I stuffed my prescription, along with the wine and chocolate, into my purse and wrapped my bag around my wrist. I hobbled into the stairwell. Once inside, I looked up and saw Will sitting on the landing outside of our door. He had his legs out in from of him with his elbows resting on his propped-up knees. His head hung down with his hands tangled in his tousled hair. A fragment of light streamed over his winged forearm. He looked like a fallen angel waiting to be let back into heaven. I made my way to the bottom of the stairs. When I hoisted one of my crutches onto the first step, Will’s head jerked up. He got up and bolted down, arriving at my side in two seconds. Appraising me, he asked, “Why didn’t you call me?” He grabbed my crutches and purse and tossed them aside.

I didn’t answer him.

When he reached his arm behind my legs to scoop me up, I protested. “No, Will, just help me get up the stairs.”

“You’re a hundred fucking pounds, I can carry you,” he said and then bent down and put me over his shoulder. He smacked my ass gently as he climbed the stairs with relative ease. “You’re a stubborn woman.” Will was surprisingly strong for a thin guy and I figured it must have been from lugging the band stuff around for years. He set me down on the counter and went to retrieve my things.

When he returned, he stood between my legs at the counter with his eyes narrowed.

“How’d you know?” I said.

“Martha called me. You should have called me,” he said, looking discouraged.

“What did she say?” I said, attempting to dodge the scrutiny.

“She just said you broke your foot and then she mumbled some crap about a breathing rose.”

I laughed. “That was a one-liner on friendship.”

“I guess. When I called the hospital, you were gone already. By the way, where the hell was Banker Bob?”

“Working.”

He squinted and shook his head. “Of course.” He looked repulsed but didn’t say anything more about it. I should have told Will that I hadn’t seen Robert in weeks, but I didn’t.

He reached down and grabbed my leg, holding it up to look at my foot, which was encased in plaster. A shudder ran through me and I realized it had been a few hours since my last pain pill. As if he could read my mind, he reached over and opened my purse, taking the paper bag out from inside.

“Wine, chocolate, and Vicodin? Really, Mia? I don’t think this is a good idea.” He was so serious it was touching, but I was really okay and I wanted him to relax.

“I’ll just have one glass, but I need a pill stat, my foot is killing me.” He got me a glass of water and handed me the meds and then he poured us both a glass of wine. “I want to get into the bath, but I can’t get my foot wet. Can you help me?” I could feel heat creeping over my cheeks. Will’s eyebrows arched and then he shot me a sexy smile. “No funny business!”

“Who, me?” he said as scooped me up. Once inside the bathroom, he set me down on the closed toilet and drew a bath. I reached over and dumped about a gallon of body wash in to make bubbles.

“Let me get undressed and I’ll call you when I’m done so you can help me in there, okay?”

“Sure,” he said and then walked out. The combination of the wine and pain meds was kicking in. Will was being perfect and respectful, but I wasn’t going to parade around naked with my foot in a cast. I wrapped a towel around myself and called him back in.

“Okay, I’ll lift you over and just leave your foot out until I can get something underneath it.” Once I was standing with one foot in the bath, he positioned towels on the side of the tub. “Mia, you’re going to have to let me see you so I can help you lie back, or are you going to take a bath with that towel wrapped around yourself?” he said with a smirk.

“No, I can do it myself. Just turn around for a sec.” He shook his head and sighed. I tossed the towel and then slowly sat down, holding my broken foot out of the water. I thought it must have been some kind of amazing Olympic feat considering how much work it was to sit while suspending one leg in the air. Once I was in, I rested my head back on a towel and sank into the water, positioning my cast on another rolled-up towel propped on the side of the tub. The water felt heavenly and I luxuriated in the bubbles. “I’m in.”

When he turned around I watched him drink me in slowly. Although the bubbles mostly covered me, I realized my position was insanely erotic with my legs open that way, lying back. The warm water consumed me and I know I must have been glassy-eyed from the meds. I studied his beautiful face as he stood there paralyzed; he was listening to God.

“Will?”

“Yeah?” he whispered.

“Do you want to get your guitar and play me something?’

“Sure… okay.” He turned on his heel and walked out. When he came back he had our wine glasses and his acoustic guitar. He never met my gaze; he just seemed undaunted. He handed me the glass and I took sip and set it on the side of the tub. As soon as he hopped up on the counter, he started strumming away. He played a long intro and then began singing the words to Van Morrison’s “Sweet Thing.” I watched him intently. He closed his eyes and let each word linger in the exquisite tone of his voice. His face was so determined and his hands were so precise. I was feeling woozy and aroused. I made sure Will’s eyes were closed and then I closed mine and let my hand travel down my body as the sound of Will’s voice resonated everywhere in me. I moved in and around myself, imagining Will’s perfect hands on me as he sang the words:

And you shall take me strongly in your arms again
And I will not remember that I even felt the pain
And we shall walk and talk in gardens all misty and wet with rain
And I will never, never, never grow so old again
Oh sweet thing, sweet thing oh, my, my, my, my, sweet thing
I felt the climbing, pulsing ache. With my other hand I grabbed at my breast, clenching my nipple between my fingers. Will’s voice was peaking and falling so beautifully and I felt the intense moment between my ears and down my spine and between my legs. I arched my back and pressed deeply into myself with steady pressure. As I came, I opened my mouth wide, trying desperately to stifle the breathy “Ahh” that spilled out. I felt my body curved slightly above the water. I sank back down, opened my eyes, and glanced over to Will, who had stopped singing. He continued strumming the guitar as he gaped at me, his lips slightly parted. And then with curiosity in his eyes, his mouth curled into the most sincere, small smile. It was like his expression said I don’t judge you, I want you to feel good, and then he whispered, “Hey, beautiful.”

“Hey,” I said, voice raspy. It was a moment where I thought I should feel embarrassed, but I didn’t. What Will had witnessed should have made me feel like the going-to-school-in-your-pajamas dream does. You know, when you’re a teenager and it feels like all eyes are on you; you’re the center of the universe. Then you grow up and realize it would have been awesome to go to school in your pajamas and the only reason why you had those dreams in the first place was because you went to school with a couple of assholes who would make it their goal in life to ruin you over wearing your Hello Kitty nightgown to biology class? That is what I realized in that moment. I wasn’t embarrassed that Will had witnessed such a private moment, because he didn’t make me feel embarrassed about it. Will was secure enough with himself to respect a moment that was so raw and personal.

Anyway, maybe I wanted Will to see, or maybe the wine and Vicodin
wasn’t
such a good idea.

“Are you ready to get out?”

“Yes.” When he walked toward me, I reached my hand out and let him pull me to my feet. He only let me stand there exposed for a second before wrapping a towel around me. After he lifted me out, I hopped on my good foot to lean against the counter.

“Do you want me to grab you some clothes?”

I looked around and spotted one of Will’s white V-neck T-shirts lying over the towel rack. “Can you hand me that shirt?”

He looked back, confused, but he grabbed it anyway and smelled it. Shrugging his shoulders, he said, “Smells fine, I guess.” I pulled the T-shirt over my head and then shimmied the towel out from underneath. The shirt fit like a dress and smelled like Will. I inhaled deeply.