What's Mine and Yours(25)

When Lacey May brushed by with a gallon of lemonade, Hank grabbed her by the belt loop of her shorts. “Baby, are you going to take the whole house? Let’s get moving.”

“All right.” Lacey May smiled, and it seemed real enough. How could he ever expect to know what went on inside Lacey May?

She ordered the girls to use the bathroom and run out to the car. They would see their father when they got back; he was spending the night. She turned out of the house, too, without saying good-bye. Soon only Hank and Robbie were left at the table.

The men stared at one another, and Robbie winked. He was as smug as ever, even if he looked ragged, beat. He’d walked nearly two miles in the heat from the bus station to the house.

“Shame we couldn’t go pick you up this morning, but I thought we’d be gone by now,” Hank said. “You know how long you’ll be needing to stay?”

“I haven’t thought that far. I’m just trying to soak it all in. My girls look good. Thank you for taking care of them.”

Hank wasn’t sure whether Robbie was sincere or trying to say he’d take over from here. He’d always had a way of making Hank seem like a fool, especially in front of Lacey. Hank offered him a cigarette, and Robbie waved it away.

“I remember, you know, the way you used to talk about her.”

“I was young,” Hank said. “And we talked about her together, didn’t we?”

“That was before she was my wife.”

“And before you were a junkie.” Hank felt his face heat up at his own boldness.

“It’s just a little problem I have.”

Robbie stood from the table unceremoniously and started calling for the girls, their names different in his mouth. Hank followed him out. Lacey and the girls were all hanging out the car, the engine running. Had they been waiting on him or Robbie? The opportunity to invite Robbie along to the beach hung in the air.

“I was thinking I could make us some dinner,” Robbie said. “We can all eat together when you get back.”

“We’ll probably eat on the road,” Hank said. “Chicken sandwiches or something. Don’t trouble yourself.”

“Please,” Robbie said, his tone forceful, as if he wasn’t pleading at all, and Hank buckled inelegantly. “Fine, but you might be waiting a long time. Who knows when we’ll be back.” It was like an instinct, to give in and follow his friend, more handsome, more charming than he’d ever be.

Lacey May lent him the keys to her car, although they all knew good and well the car had been Robbie’s, and it was still in his name.



On the coast, the land gave way to scorched yellow grass and salt marshes. The houses were slapdash and wooden, the air tinged with salt. Hank sped up to fifty-five, and the girls rolled the windows down and stuck out their heads. Lacey May was asleep, the skin on her thighs burned pink. A long-necked bird flew overhead, a heron maybe, its wings blue and gray.

Margarita unbuckled her seat belt to see, and, as if by instinct, Lacey’s eyes flew open. “Margarita Ventura, have you lost your mind! You sit your bottom down and put that seat belt on now.” She had to tell Margarita once more before she obliged. “You’re just like your father! You think everything is going to be fine when, sometimes, everything isn’t fine.”

Diane had the dog crowded onto her lap. At the mention of Robbie, she asked, “Uncle Hank, why couldn’t we bring Daddy to the beach?”

Hank tried not to cringe. The other girls called him by his first name, but it was as if Diane didn’t quite understand the arrangement. No one had told her to start calling him uncle; she’d come up with it on her own.

“You were right there, chickadee. He didn’t ask to come. He needs to rest. Besides, you’ll see him tonight.”

Noelle sucked her teeth. “Why are we even doing this dumb trip anyway? I hate the beach.”

“Quiet,” said Lacey May. “This is a nice thing. A day at the shore.”

Hank turned up the radio, cycled through the stations. A dirty rap song, humdrum gospel. A report about a teenage boy who’d lost his arm in a shark attack at Atlantic Beach. The malaise in the car was suffocating, which was the last thing he wanted. He was burning up a tank of gas to bring them to the ocean, and they were all thinking about how they’d rather be back home with Robbie.

“I’ve got a headache,” Lacey May said. “You got any aspirin?” She started unzipping the backpack Hank had set at her feet.

“Not in there,” he snapped, and Lacey May dropped the bag. In the top pocket, he’d packed sunscreen and cigarettes, a black velvet box with a ring inside. It was a big beautiful aquamarine, flanked by two little white stones, on a thin gold band.

Lacey May looked stunned, and he smiled to make up for his tone, but then he remembered his teeth and clamped his mouth shut. He had teeth so twisted they faced one another. He was planning to get them fixed—it might help them both if Lacey could love his smile. Robbie had been gifted a perfect set of teeth. It wasn’t fair, one of the many natural advantages he’d been given and squandered. He’d already lost one tooth, and, if he kept going the way he was going, he’d lose them all. Hank didn’t want to wish ill on his old friend, but he didn’t want to wish him well either.

Hank didn’t know whether Lacey had ever explained to Robbie about how they’d started. To Hank, those were technicalities, circumstances they had moved beyond to get where they were now. They were like roommates at first, except for when Hank reached for Lacey in the night, and she rolled toward him, willingly. He paid the bills; she cleaned up after him and the girls. Soon they were sharing rides to work, then sharing cigarettes, kissing on the mouth while he was inside her. Once, he overheard her tell another clerk at the store that her ex was in jail. Her ex. It gave Hank a wild hope that Robbie was out, and, maybe, he was in.