“I’ll watch what I say.”
“Don’t do that. I would be bereft if you thought you had to censor yourself for me. It’s just, that girl gives me chills. I need to think about it a minute.”
“Bereft, huh? If that story bothers you, you’d never make it on the streets.”
“Sure I would. It’s not the story-I went to college, I saw my share of naked people doing it-it’s your perspective. She wasn’t a girl, for chrissake Mike, she was a human with a big problem.”
“Is this a male-female thing?”
“Not really. It’s more a cop-civilian thing. I think this one belongs in the excessive-shit pile with the fat hooker, Queen Esther, you wrestled to the ground and sat on, and that guy Philip you gave a head full of dummy bumps for resisting arrest. Good stories, but I have trouble putting you in the picture with them.”
He closed up on me the way he does when he feels defensive, shut me right out. I hated it. He bent down and looked at the knobs in the bottom row because he couldn’t look at me.
I said, “Find something?”
“No.”
I sat down on the floor cross-legged beside him and looked at the ranks of cupboard knobs, from Shaker-plain to rococo. “I like the white china ones. Very simple.”
He said, “Too simple.”
“We don’t need any knobs,” I said. “You know what we need?”
“Pulls?”
“Lunch.”
He gave me a sidelong, narrow-eyed glance, still defensive. “We need lunch,” I repeated. “And then we need a nap. What do you think?”
“We should go by the house and see how the guys are doing with the painting.”
“Lunch first,” I said, and stroked the underside of his chin, where the muscles were set and hard. “Then a nap.”
“Where do you want to eat?”
“At home. I want to eat at home. You and me, like a date, remember?”
First thing I did when we got home was take the telephone off the hook. I didn’t listen to any messages, and I didn’t pick up the mail. We made sandwiches and carried them into the bedroom to watch the first game of the Dodger double-header while we ate. He was very sweet, very attentive. Very polite, like with someone he didn’t know very well.
Propped up on pillows, we had a little party, got potato chip crumbs everywhere, argued about was the runner out on second or not, should LaSorda retire, and who was going to win the division. He began to relax with me again. And I relaxed. I was out before the seventh inning stretch, sleeping with my face against Mike’s tummy, his arm draped across me.
I woke up once, came to enough to notice that the television was off and Mike was asleep beside me. The second time I awoke, the sun was low in the sky and I was alone. I got up, groggy, and went out looking for Mike.
Mike wasn’t in the house, nor had he left a note. The telephone ringer was off, the message tape had been erased, the mail had been sorted. In my pile there were only a picture postcard from my parents-they were on vacation in the East-a reminder from Casey’s orthodontist, and a check from the tenants in my San Francisco house. I stuck the card on the refrigerator with a magnet.
I called security at my office building and asked whether an envelope had been left for me. The man who answered said there were several envelopes in my mailbox. He was holding a telegram and a big bouquet of flowers-he’d tried to call but couldn’t get through. I had him read me the card on the flowers.
“Congratulations, Ralph and the staff at SNN.”
“Keep the flowers,” I told the guard. “Give them to your wife if you have one.”
I thanked him. Then I went in and took a shower to wake up.
Just for a change, because I probably had not worn a dress for at least a month, I slipped into a flowery sundress I had bought for a friend’s outdoor wedding in June. Feeling vampish, I also put on some mascara and blush, went into Casey’s bathroom and borrowed some eye shadow. When I had finished, I was a vision. Home alone, but a vision.
I missed Mike.
I waited around for about half an hour, puttering. I felt so restless, though, that I traded my three-inch pumps for sandals and went out for a walk through the condo grounds. Waiting around is hard for me.
I was sitting by the pool in the long, deep shade of early evening, chatting with a neighbor couple, when I saw Mike’s Blazer come up the drive. I excused myself and ran down the sloping lawn to catch him, my skirt billowing around my legs, light and cool. When Mike saw me, he stopped in the middle of the street to wait.
“Why, Miss Scarlett,” he said, leaning out his window for kissing, “aren’t you pretty?”
“Yes, I am,” I said. He wore slacks, a sportshirt, and a secretive grin. I touched his arm. “You’re mighty pretty your own damn self.”
“Climb in,” he said. “We have reservations at the most exclusive eatery in town.”
“Do you need a tie? Do I need heels?”
“No, and no. Just climb in.”
I had to brush dog hair off my seat. “We should go check on Bowser.”
“We’ll do that right now; it’s on the way. Don’t worry about Bowser, though. He’s fine. So fine, he doesn’t want to leave his new yard for anything.”
Mike drove us east to the Pasadena Freeway, then dropped down into South Pasadena.
“Is this restaurant a new discovery?” I asked.
“Old place, new discovery.”
He pulled up in front of the house and parked beside the dumpster. The yard was still cluttered with building materials, but the trash-the old carpets and drapes, mostly-had been cleared away. No beer cans, no men.
Looking up at the front I had a sudden sort of electric jolt as I realized, truly realized for the first time, that this was our house. Me, Mike, Casey, and Michael. And Bowser. Not playing house, not shuffling back and forth between my house and his house, but living together in this place for two and a half years. Mingled furniture. Mingled destinies. Suddenly it scared me. Suddenly it looked like commitment. Might as well have been a ring on my finger.
I hung back while Mike unlocked the door, then I followed him inside, staying a few steps behind, making a little space between us.
The only light came from the tall back windows. Twilight, filtered through the leaves of the old avocado tree by the patio, painted the walls and the floor with delicate blue lace that moved with the breeze. I stepped into the shadow pattern, like wearing a veil as I crossed the room.
Bowser pressed his nose to the glass, tongue hanging out, tail wagging, happy to see us. I opened the door for him. “What time is our reservation?” I asked.
“About now,” Mike said. I couldn’t see his face in the failing light.
“Let me say hi to Bowse,” I said, “then we can go. How far is it?”
“Not far.”
Someone had given Bowser a new tennis ball. He dropped it on my foot. Mike went back inside as I stepped out onto the patio to throw the ball for the dog to fetch a couple of times while I checked his new water dish, poured some fresh kibble into his new bowl. He was more interested in having his head scratched and his stomach rubbed than in eating. He kept looking into the house behind me, and I knew he was searching for Casey.
“Casey’ll be home tomorrow, old man,” I said. He sighed and lay down and looked up at me with pathetic big eyes.
Mike came out through the dining room doors. I saw the flicker of candlelight behind him, heard Wynton Marsalis’s trumpet, “Taking a Chance on Love,” with his father Ellis accompanying him on piano, as soft and lacy as the shadows. Mike held his hand out to me. “Time to eat.”
Out of nowhere, I started crying.
“Don’t worry,” he said, coming to me, gathering me against his crisp shirtfront. “I didn’t cook the dinner. You’ll be okay.”
“It’s not the food that worries me.” I wiped my eyes and walked in with him.
Mike had made a small table out of two sawhorses and a couple of planks, and covered them with a starched white cloth, filled an empty juice jar with roses from the backyard and set it in the middle. There were two places set, and two folding chairs. The only light came from the candelabra on a ladder beside the table. The music came from a CD player on the bare floor.