You (You #1)(75)

Teddy salutes Officer Nico and I accept my fate. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“No,” he says. “But wait. How are you gonna pay for the train?”

Good question, Officer. I pat my lower leg. “Emergency credit card stashed.”

“That’s good thinking, Spence. Always be prepared.”

I bob my head. “Always.”

Nico assures me that “Leroy” will tow my Buick and get her back up and running. “And he won’t up-charge you, either.”

“You’re the best, Officer Nico,” and I shake his hand, firm.

He drops me off at the train station, which is almost as bad as the hospital. He helps me out of his ride and the loitering junkies scatter like roaches. I go into the station and sit. When he’s gone, I walk outside. I unzip my interior jacket pocket and pull out my wallet. I can’t believe they all believed my bullshit about my wallet being stolen. But then, I take another look at the poor doomed souls. Of course they believed me; look what they’re up against. I walk outside and hail a cab. “LC, please.”

The driver huffs and sneers at my Figawi hat. “You mean Little Compton?”

New England: All of the Bitterness, Most of the Boating, None of the Bullshit.





32


I wake up in a different boathouse, a good half mile down the beach from Peach’s home. Nico and Sue and the doctor were right about the warm front; we’re in a new world now and that storm feels like it must have been a mirage, an aberration. It really is like summer. It’s amazing how good fifty and sunny feels after you’ve been bleeding in twelve with a wind chill of go fuck yourself. And then, even more important, nobody found me this time. I think Mother Nature is atoning for my accident and I walk out of the boathouse and what a relief, to not be hit with icy wind. I hunker down in the tall grass in the dunes. You and Peach are just dots on the horizon. You’re both stretching; you’ll go running because you’re a good houseguest. My phone is dead, which is a problem, because if you wrote to me in the middle of the night begging for me to come, I wouldn’t even know. I watch you girls take off down the sand and I run through the dunes so I can duck just in case. When I get to Peach’s house, the cut on my face is throbbing again (fucking Curtis) but the back door is open, as I hoped. You’re not afraid here, which is good news for me.

Everything in the Salinger house is nice and everything in my family’s home back in the day was scuzzy and this isn’t even the house they live in. This is an extra! There is a whole drawer full of iPhone chargers and I plug in my phone. I make a cup of coffee in the Keurig and I promptly burn my tongue. I’ve tracked wet sludge all over the floor and ain’t that the way? It’s like the house knows I’m working class and wants me to pick up a fucking mop.

I use a dishrag because of course they don’t have paper towels. (I’m sure they’re saving the world.) I get down and scrub and I hate Peach. She’s dominant and clingy; she was rude to disinvite Lynn and Chana. I unplug my phone—10 percent charged—but still no text from you. I pocket the charger and go upstairs and find that all six bedrooms are in mint, clean, guest-ready condition. Peach is a seriously pathological sicko and I’m nothing like Peach. I always give you space. Elton John hisses low everywhere because of the state of the art sound system and I can picture Peach pleading with him in a court of fandom. She begs to be his number one fan but Sir Elton slams the gavel and sends a collections officer to seize all his music from that prissy cunt and she has to go work as a greeter at Walmart.

But, I have to say, the bedding is fucking rock star. You slept in here last night and it smells like you and I pick up the leggings you tossed on the floor and take in your scent. My face has calmed down in the warmth, thank God, and I wrap your leggings around my neck, tight, and I’m hard for you and I cum easily with you wrapped around me, tight.

There are only seventy thousand Ralph Lauren towels up in this joint so surely the Salingers won’t miss the one I use to clean up and my coffee is still hot and I kick back because it’s comforting in here and I deserve this. I rummage around in your duffel bag and line up your panties and bras and I have lost myself in you and now I am in trouble.

You and Peach are back in the house, downstairs in the kitchen, kicking off your sneakers, laughing or crying, I can’t tell. I can’t go down the back stairs and flee because the floorboards creak under my feet. I hear your voice and I hate old houses. They’re big-brother-watching and a guy can’t move a muscle without being found out. I take four giant steps into the hallway—coffee still in hand—and tiptoe as softly as possible into the master bedroom that’s almost directly above the kitchen. I crouch in the cedar closet just in case and once again I am closeted while you and Peach are free. I am sure that you are crying, not laughing, and I have to take a leak and there’s no choice. I piss in the mug.

Peach must be hugging you because I hear her kicking the wall in the mudroom, an architectural staple of excessively wealthy white people; they think you need a space exclusively dedicated to taking off your fucking boots. She kicks and grunts and drones, “No matter what I do my boots get so grimy. It’s like the winter wants me or something!”

She says she’s trying to make you laugh but you don’t think she’s funny (does anyone?) and she’s telling you to stop crying and you’re sobbing and I’m trying to piss quietly in a coffee cup and Peach is not very good at soothing you, Beck. I would do better, could do better. And I want to know what’s wrong. If you had reached out to me like you wanted to, I would be the one hugging you. Your crying is so loud that I feel safe leaving the closet and going to the door.