Vox(29)

“He’s nice,” I said.

“I bet he quotes from Gray’s Anatomy while he’s eating you out.”

I put my notes to the side. “The book or the television show?”

This time, Jackie sneered.

“He doesn’t talk politics, Jacko.” It was my pet name for her, or had been. “That’s all I hear in this fucking city.”

“One day, hon, you’re going to change your mind.” She tossed a paperback onto our thrift shop sofa, which I’d spread out on. “Read this. Everyone’s talking about it. Everyone.”

I picked up the book. “It’s a novel. You know I don’t read novels.” It was true; with five hundred pages of journal articles a week, I had no time for fiction.

“Just read the back cover.”

I did. “This would never happen. Ever. Women wouldn’t put up with it.”

“Easy to say now,” Jackie said. She was in her usual outfit: low-rise jeans; a cropped T-shirt that didn’t cover her belly, which Jackie didn’t care to hide, even with its slight paunch; ugly-but-comfortable sandals; and three hoops in her right ear. Today, her cropped and spiked hair had a few green streaks in it. Tomorrow, it might be blue. Or black. Or cherry-cola red. You really never knew with Jackie.

She wasn’t unattractive, but that square jaw and sharp nose and oil-drop eyes of hers didn’t have guys banging down our door for her company. Jackie didn’t seem to mind, and I found out why one night in September after she’d dragged me to a party. It was less of a party than a Planned Parenthood commercial with snacks and booze, both of which Jackie sucked down as if Armageddon were set for tomorrow morning. We didn’t have a lot of spare change for liquor and junk food, although Jackie always managed to find a few bucks to keep her in cigarettes.

Christ, she was drunk. I ended up having to half carry her back through cobblestone streets to the apartment, no small trick when the person you’re carrying is trying to chain smoke.

“Love you, Jeanie,” she said when I finally got her through the door.

“Love you too, Jacko,” I said automatically. “Want a cup of tea or something?” We didn’t have any tea, so I popped open a can of Coke and tried to feed her a few aspirin.

“I want a kiss,” she said after she’d fallen onto her bed, taking me with her. She smelled of patchouli and red wine. “Come here, Jeanie. Kiss me.”

What Jackie wanted wasn’t a kiss; it was full-on spit swapping.

The next day over coffee, she laughed it off. “Sorry if I got a little crazy last night, hon.”

I never told Patrick about that.

“Whatcha thinking about, babe?” Patrick says, startling me and sending a peeled Roma tomato squirting against the backsplash.

What am I thinking about? Maybe where Jackie Juarez ended up, whether she decided to convert, or whether she ended up in one of the camps along with the rest of the LGBTQIA crowd. My money’s on the camp.

Reverend Carl dreamt up the idea, which was a hit with the Pure Majority until they balked at the idea of putting gay men and lesbians in cells with each other. It would be counterproductive, they argued; think what they’d get up to. So Reverend Carl modified his plan and decided to pair one woman and one man in each cell. “They’ll get the idea soon enough,” he said.

Of course, the camps are only a temporary thing, “until we get on track,” in Reverend Carl’s words.

The camps aren’t camps at all; they’re prisons. Or they were prisons before the new executive orders on crime were signed. There isn’t much need for prisons anymore, which isn’t to say there’s no crime. There is, but the criminals don’t need to be put anywhere, not for long.

I answer Patrick after cleaning up the red mess of tomato on the tile. “Nothing.” Pulse. Ding. You’re out, kiddo. The clock’s hands have decided to move at a snail’s pace since our telephone rang.

He gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Another few minutes, and everything’s going to be back to normal around here.”

I nod. Sure, it is. Until I find a cure.





TWENTY-TWO




Dinner, despite my best efforts at my mother’s sauce, is a disaster.

Sonia isn’t here, but in her room. I stayed with her for an hour after Thomas of the dark suit and dark attitude came and removed the counters. He did have a time with Sonia’s because she wouldn’t stop wriggling away. She even bit his hand on the second try. No blood, but Thomas yelped like a surprised puppy and cursed under his breath on the way to his car.

“It’s all right, baby. You can talk now,” I said, soothing her when we were alone in her room.

She said one word: “No.”

“You don’t have to go to school anymore,” I said. “We’ll have our own classes here at home. We’ll read stories. And when I’m at work, you can watch cartoons over at Mrs. King’s house.” I hated the idea of Sonia spending even a minute in the company of Evan and Olivia King, but I hated it less than sending her back to PGS.

Everything lately seems to be a choice between degrees of hate.

At the mention of school, she started bawling again.

“You don’t really like it there, do you?” I said.

She nodded.