Zipper Fall (29 page)

It was two hours before he turned to say good-bye.

“I think he really likes you, Wyatt,” he said instead, the look in his eyes serious. “Try not to screw it up.”

Grinding my teeth, I forced a smile at his well-meaning vote of very little confidence. He knew so much about me already, it occurred to me I might be able to bum some relationship advice out of him. The engine of his truck was running already, though, and I felt too self-conscious to chase after him. Once he was gone, I brought the boxes of donation items downstairs, where the Am Vet truck would pick them up in the afternoon.

The living room was now officially empty. The same couldn’t be said for the four boxes of keepsakes under Jack’s dining room table, but that was his headache. Vacuuming was mine. I cleaned the carpet, eyed the room, and repositioned the sofa and the coffee table. Then, of course, I had to vacuum again.

He really likes you. Try not to screw it up.

Not even the loud whine of the vacuum cleaner could silence Silverstein’s words in my head.

A
FTER
the morning’s chores, I came to realize my butt felt just about healed. In celebration of this, I walked almost everywhere that day. I marched over to Novack’s, where he approved my work, paid me another installment, and gave me a box of assorted cookies. Then I walked over to Pillory’s agency. Reyna received me with good cheer and pressed a cup of coffee into my hand; then, of course, I had to produce the box of Novack’s cookies, which Reyna began to nibble and Pillory eyed with reserve.

“So how is it going, Mr. Gaudens?” he asked, sitting in his usual ramrod-straight position, his facial expression giving away nothing.

I gave him a brief update on my projects, as though I still worked for him, and he nodded as he listened, inserting an occasional comment. Those comments were solid gold; I made sure to write them down later.

“Why don’t you call him Wyatt, Auguste?” Reyna said all of a sudden. “You know him well enough, don’t you think?”

Pillory hesitated, freezing in midmotion, seeming suddenly awkward. “Would you mind?” He rose his thin, ebony eyebrows high in his face.

“No, not at all… Auguste.”

“Very well then, Wyatt.” He sipped some tea, politely ignoring my cup of coffee, which was stinking up his conference room. “Reyna and I were wondering whether you and Jack would like to join us for dinner someday.”

I sat up so fast, my coffee almost spilled. “Um… I’d say yes, but I’ll have to check with my… with my… friend.” The last word was limp and flaccid on my tongue. I shrank into my chair when I realized I didn’t feel bold enough to admit to a lover. I thought Jack and I warranted the boyfriend status, but I wasn’t sure how he felt about describing us. “Friend” was a happy, generic term, good enough to cover most situations.

Reyna grinned. “Don’t forget today’s Friday.” She nudged me with her elbow, almost making me spill again.

“Oh yeah, you’re right! How time flies.” I nodded. “Same time, same place?”

Reyna was about to nod back, when Pillory—Auguste, that is—lifted his hand halfway, letting it hover over the teapot.

“What’s tonight?”

“Wyatt and I meet with our friends after work on Friday nights. We eat greasy food and drink beer. It’s loud and there’s music and we haven’t done it in a while.” Reyna eyed the quiet man with a measure of apprehension. “You wanna come?”

“No, I do not ‘wanna’ come. I’m perfectly happy at home, with a book.”

Reyna laughed irreverently at his peevish tone. “Okay, my misanthropic sunshine,” she chirped. “I’ll come home smelling of beer and smoke, but I’ll be happy to shower for you.”

Auguste huffed and looked away, making me wonder what made the two of them click so well. Reyna was loud and vivacious, even brash at times. Auguste had always been the silent type, every action a study in premeditated control. She must have barged right into his protected private space heedless of convention or propriety, and for whatever reason, he must have decided putting up with a woman who was like a wild force of nature was preferable to being alone. There was a lesson there somewhere, but I had yet to figure it out.

Next stop: my place. The elevator took me up to the sixth floor of my older, run-down apartment building, where most tenants were either very young or very old and lived on tight budgets.

Choosing not to use my keys, I picked my locks open just for practice. The door to my pad swung open, and I reeled as the stench of old garbage assaulted my nostrils. I’d been gone for over a week, and my old food leftovers had ripened inside the garbage can, turning it into a fifth-grade science experiment. I tied the bag shut and took it down the hall to the garbage chute.

Gross.

It didn’t take me long to realize the scent-containment properties of my old garbage bags had been vastly over-advertised, so I took the kitchen garbage can into the bath tub and filled it with soap and hot water.

A squeaky growl emanated from my belly; it was past lunchtime. Now, normally I’d fix myself a sandwich. Today, with great trepidation, I opened the refrigerator, alert for new, mutated life forms that might launch themselves at me.

I looked inside. Curdled milk, wilted lettuce, two cucumbers in a plastic bag now decaying into their typical primordial ooze. The plain yogurt container looked promising—I opened it only to shut it again, afraid the fuzzy, lacelike mold it harbored on its surface would crawl out and attack me.

The bread was moldy, the cheese was hard, and the two remaining apples smelled gross from everything else. Only the condiments were still good: mayo, ketchup, mustard, hot sauce. Hardly the lunch of champions.

After pulling another kitchen bag from under the sink and decontaminating the offending refrigerator, I opened the cupboards. There was a can of Spam, a bag of marshmallows, two cans of tuna fish, a jar of peanut butter, and several cans of off-brand chicken noodle soup I bought on sale a long time ago. I gave the soup a good second look. If I squinted hard enough, it was the most edible item around.

While the soup was heating in the microwave, I attacked the now empty fridge with a sponge and hot, soapy water.

Never again.

I’ll never leave food in the fridge like this.

Revolting.

The freezer happened to contain three leftover waffles; I toasted them just to be able to throw the box away. Having washed my hands, I sat at my little table, eating my chicken soup and cinnamon waffles, staring at a pad of paper. It was time to make a new list of things to buy.

Unless I wanted to throw away perfectly good food again, I’d make sure to buy only that which would last. Canned soups, chili, beans. Crackers. Evaporated milk in a can. Was I nuts? Didn’t I intend to
live
here anymore?

The thin, salty soup cooled before me as I inspected my shopping list, having added condoms, shampoo, a fresh razor blade….

A warm, fuzzy feeling washed over me and I wiggled in my chair, blood rushing to all the right places. I felt the delicious wisp of Jack’s silk underwear transport me to another time and place. I closed my eyes.

“Grrrawwwwhrrr!”

Oh yes.

Oh yeah, baby.

I strove not to touch myself.

“Grrrawwwwhrrr!”

Yanked out of my happy dream world, I fumbled for my phone and had to wrestle it out of the too-tight pocket. “Jack?”

“Hey, Wyatt… everything okay?” he asked, and a shiver shook the tendrils of sensuous memories off my shoulders at the sound of his voice.

“Ah… yeah. Why?”

“You sound a bit out of it. Where are you?”

“My apartment.” The silence stretched a bit after I said that.

“Oh yeah? What’s going on?”

“You should’ve seen my refrigerator. So gross! Agh.” I heard him laugh on the other end.

“I’ll be home late,” he said. “Something’s come up at work.”

“Yeah, me too—I have a thing tonight,” I said, distracted, as we both hung up.

I
FELT
like a vagrant, lugging my extra-long duffle bag full of clothing, pictures and books, and my grandfather’s cuckoo clock. His father brought it from Germany at the end of the World War II; it was a lovely antique and, despite the fact that it usually didn’t run, I’ve always been unreasonably attached to it. Then I had my backpack with my laptop and my gym clothes and climbing gear; I probably looked like I was moving.

Wait! No! I wasn’t moving. I still had my own place; I paid the bills and I even watered the cactus. It was just that wild, fuzzy feeling I had, like being wrapped in cotton candy.

Somehow, staying with Jack had become not only acceptable but even desirable. I had the hots for him, took a video of him, had his voice for my ring tone—my own place felt drab and cold, and it had nothing to do with the décor or the temperature.

Maybe I needed to redecorate. Yeah, then I could move back in.

R
EYNA
met me at the Loose Rock climbing gym almost an hour later.

“Early?” I cocked my eye at her with a sly grin.

“Yep! Auguste let me go early ’cause of your mystery here.” She nodded at the large, clear plastic bag full of Celia’s climbing gear.

We decided to climb first and see who else would show up. My muscles positively sang with joy at the exertion, my hamstrings screamed in pain after having been idle for too long, and the gunshot wound in my ass was but a distant, dull ache. I strapped into my harness for the first time in what felt like forever, and took my time ascending one of the easier routes to the top. Reyna belayed me down; then she took her turn, upping the ante by avoiding the easier and more obvious handholds and footholds.

“Boring.” I laughed. “I’ll try that route over there.” I nodded at the wall and noted the lack of easy routings before I chose my path and stepped up to the wall. I tied myself in.

Reyna anchored herself in first to floor anchor, which in this case was a massive bolt in the floor. Then I handed her the other end of the climbing rope. She ran it through her stitch plate, a simple breaking device she preferred over the GriGri.

“Belay on?” I asked.

“On belay,” she replied. I looked up at the nasty piece of work above my head. It had wide spacings, small handholds, and an overhang. I flattened my belly to the wall and started climbing. My fingers felt strong, and my toes were sticking to the wall like glue. In rock climbing, the real power comes from the legs, which is why women can be just as good and just as fast as men in this sport. My legs were fine, and I felt only a twinge of tension in my right glute.

Soon I was under the overhang. It consisted of a negative incline that jutted out at least a foot away from the wall and loomed over my head. There was a way to get on top of it, if I could only reach a foothold to my far right. I dug my fingers in tight and flexed my shoulders to keep steady. It was just a matter of balance. My abs were sucked to the wall. I let my butt hang out momentarily in an effort to use mere friction of my feet against the smooth surface. I smeared my left foot against the wall right before I crunched my lats in an effort to swing far out and catch my right toe on the foothold.

Almost.

Wheee!!!

Free fall—then a tug, then a harder arrest, and I was swinging fifteen feet above the padded floor, breathing hard.

Reyna let me down. “Your glute’s still bothering you,” she commented. “You’d had no trouble with this section before.”

I rubbed my sore butt, then I rubbed my aching hands and fingertips. “Yeah. It’ll come back, though.”

“Why did that guy shoot you again?” Reyna asked.

I’d never confided in her, uncertain of the reception I’d receive. Not everyone wanted to be best friends with a burglar and a thief.

Then again….

“If I tell you, it goes no further, right?”

She nodded. I looked around the empty gym; we were alone. I got us each a bottle of a vile, blue sports drink out of the vending machine. Bright blue… it reminded me of Jack’s eyes and then it didn’t seem so bad anymore.

I told her.

“S
O
YOU
’
RE
telling me only because you’re retiring?” Reyna asked. She had a speculative look in her eyes.

“I haven’t mentioned anything about retiring,” I said, suddenly peevish.

“Jack doesn’t like it.”

“Yeah.”

“Will you miss it?”

“I hope not.”

Reyna downed the rest of the blue liquid. “Too bad. Ever thought of getting a partner?” she asked, her eyes suddenly on me, her question loaded.

“Ever thought of getting a criminal record?” I shot back, sounding too much like Jack.

“We wouldn’t have to steal anything. Just think of the prank potential!” Her wistful voice awakened a latent desire deep in my soul. It’s been a while since I invaded somebody else’s space. I stared at the cold, blue drink and it seemed to stare right back at me, blue and unyielding. The choice between Jack and my B&E adrenaline fix was really no contest, and I was about to tell Reyna that when Tim walked in. He was an old friend of mine, and even though he and Reyna broke up a few months ago, they still manage to play nicely.

“Hi, you two,” he said and ran his fingers through his spiky hair. “So, Wyatt, what’s the mystery?”

 “I’ll tell you when everyone’s here,” I said. As if on command, I heard the front door slam shut, and a small Hispanic guy sauntered in.

“Chico, just the one we’re waiting for!” Reyna exclaimed and jumped to her feet, giving both guys a friendly slap on their shoulders. Then she turned to me. “Well?”

C
HICO
G
ARCES
was almost my height, but slightly narrower in the torso. He wore purple microfiber tights and a black, tight, sleeveless shirt. He earned his sinuous and well-defined muscles years back as a gymnast, and the conditioned gleam of his straight, black hair betrayed his fixation with his appearance. He was the type of guy who would have regular facials, manicures, pedicures, and massages, which he traded in kind for his services as a chiropractor. When we went to parties, we ribbed him over it incessantly, but he would just smile, toss his shiny hair to the side, and offer us another round of his awesome frozen margaritas. Right now, his nails were short and covered with two layers of clear shellac polish. Nails take an awful beating during rock climbing—mine were scraped and chipped constantly, never growing past my fingers’ natural length.