This Lullaby(26)

I moved my arm out from under his hand. “Which house is yours?”

“It’s not messy at all, see? It’s beautiful. It’s nature in all its simplicity. . . .”

Then I saw it: the white van, parked crookedly in the front yard of a little yellow house about a hundred feet up. The porch light was on, even though it was broad daylight, and I could see the redheaded drummer, Ringo, coffee shop employee, sitting on the front steps with a dog beside him. He was reading a newspaper; the dog was just panting, its tongue out.

“. . . the natural state of things, which is, in fact, utter imperfection,” he finished as we jerked into the driveway, spraying gravel. The French fry slid off the console, leaving a grease trail like a slug, and landed in my lap. “Whoops,” he said, grabbing it. “Now, see? That was a first, good step in conquering—”

I looked at him, then moved my hand, hitting the automatic lock: click, and the button on his door shot up.

“—your problem,” he finished. He opened the door and got out, taking his bag o’ grease with him. Then he bent down, poking his head back in quickly, so that we were almost face-to-face. “Thanks for the ride. Really.”

“Sure,” I said. He didn’t move for a second, which threw me off: just us, there together, eye to eye. Then he blinked and pulled away, ducking out of the car and shutting the door. I watched as the dog on the porch suddenly got up and made its way down the steps, tail wagging wildly, when it saw Dexter coming. Meanwhile, I was noticing that my car now stank of grease, another bonus. I put down the window, hoping the air freshener hanging from my rearview was up to the job.

“Finally,” the drummer said, folding his newspaper. I put the car in reverse, then made sure Dexter’s back was still turned before brushing my finger over the gearshift console, checking for grease. My dirty little secret.

“It’s not six yet,” Dexter said, reaching down to pet the dog, who was now circling him, tail thwacking against the back of his legs. He had a white muzzle and moved kind of creakily, in that old-dog way.

“Yeah, but I don’t have my key,” the drummer said, standing up.

“Neither do I,” Dexter told him. I started to back out then had to stop to let a bunch of cars pass. “What about the back door?”

“Locked. Plus you know Ted moved that bookcase in front of it last night.”

Dexter stuck his hands in his pockets, pulling them out. Nothing. “Well, I guess we just have to break a window.”

“What?” the drummer said.

“Don’t panic,” Dexter said in that offhand way I already recognized. “We’ll pick a small one. Then you can wriggle through it.”

“No way,” the drummer said, crossing his arms over his chest as Dexter started up the stairs, moving to check out the windows on the front side of the house. “Why do I always have to do the stupid shit, anyway?”

“Because you’re a redhead,” Dexter told him, and the drummer made a face, “plus, you have slim hips.”

“What?”

By now I wasn’t even waiting for a gap in traffic anymore. Instead I was watching as Dexter found a rock around the side of the house, then came back and squatted down in front of a small window on the far end of the porch. He studied it, then the rock, readying his technique while the dog sat down beside him, licking his ear. The drummer stood behind, still looking miffed, his hands in his pockets.

Call it rampant control issues, but I couldn’t stand to watch this. Which was why I found myself pulling back up the driveway, getting out of my car, and walking up the steps just as Dexter was pulling his arm back, rock in hand, to break the window.

“One,” he was saying, “two . . .”

“Wait,” I called out, and he stopped, the rock tumbling from his hand and landing on the porch with a thunk. The dog jumped back, startled, with a yelp.

“I thought you left,” Dexter said. “Couldn’t do it, could you?”

“Do you have a credit card?” I asked him.

He and the drummer exchanged looks. Then Dexter said, “Do I look like I have a credit card? And what, exactly, do you need purchased?”

“It’s to unlock the door, idiot,” I told him, reaching into my own pocket. But my wallet was in the backseat, buried in my purse.

“I have one,” the drummer said slowly, “but I’m only supposed to use it for emergencies.”

We looked at him, and then Dexter reached up and smacked him on the back of the head, Three Stooges style. “John Miller, you’re a moron. Just give it to her.”

John Miller—his real name, although to me he was still somehow Ringo—handed over a Visa. I opened the screen door, then took the card and slid it between the lock and the doorjamb, wiggling it around. I could feel them behind me, watching.

Every door is different, and the weight of the lock and the thickness of the card are all factors. This skill, like the perfect toss of an Extra Large Diet Zip, was acquired over time, with lots of practice. Never to break and enter, always just to get into my own house, or Jess’s, when keys were lost. My brother, who had used it for evil at times, had taught me this when I was fourteen.

A few pulls to the left, then the right, and I felt the lock give. Bingo. We were in. I handed John Miller back his card.