Listen, Babe, things didn’t work
out so well. That Fran, she’s got things tied up tight. Must be how my old man
wanted it, leaving it all to her. Figures, doesn’t it?
“Suit
yourself, only I’m leaving first thing in the morning,” said Fran.
“Really,
why?”
She spoke
of a brother out in Santa Barbara and needing a change of scene. It occurred to
Angie that she could do with a few more days away from Kevin. They’d come to
that hard point between lust and love and spent more and more time on their
bare mattress, a mattress she’d like some sheets for to cover the brown stains
of her period, and the yellow stains of her sweat.
“I’ve got
enough for one night at the motel, but after that I don’t know,” said Angie and
glanced at Fran, who stared firmly into space.
“I can
stake you to a second night.”
“Oh,
you’re sweet! But don’t you think it would be easier if I just stayed here?
After you’re gone, I mean. Don’t like to be underfoot.”
Fran
turned her leaky eyes on her. “I’m sorry, honey, you can’t.”
Angie had
visited last year with Boomer, Kevin’s predecessor. When they left Fran found
herself missing a silk scarf, a pair of gold earrings, and a fountain pen she’d
won in a church raffle. Angie sometimes wore the earrings and scarf. The pen
she’d never used. When her father called to report the loss, Angie blamed
Boomer. She said he was a recovering heroin addict (he wasn’t), and that he’d
spent time in jail (he hadn’t done that, either). Her father believed her.
Obviously Fran didn’t. Boomer, who knew nothing of the theft or the phone call,
moved out several weeks later when he realized Angie had been helping herself
to his wallet.
Fran
offered to ship the piano down. Ann Arbor to Dunston was a pricey distance, a
fact Fran regretted with a lift of one eyebrow. Angie wasn’t moved. There’d be
no distance if Fran had stayed put. When Angie struck out on her own at
seventeen, with no desire to finish high school, Fran pulled up stakes and
dragged her father back to her hometown so they could float on the sale of her
late husband’s grocery store chain, forget the past, and begin again.
Angie
wrote her new address on the back of a museum flyer Fran had on the coffee
table by the whiskey. The French Impressionists. February 4 th -
March 31 st . Gauguin, Renoir, Cezanne. Angie couldn’t imagine her
father going to see that kind of nonsense, but then with Fran her father always
thought he was better than he was.
“Well,
then. I’ll call a mover. They’ll let you know when to expect it,” said Fran,
and drained off her glass of whiskey. She stood and tugged the jacket of her
stylish black suit into place. Angie got up, too. She towered over Fran. Angie
was five foot ten, skinny as a boy, with size-ten feet. She’d stuck out at the
funeral with her torn jeans and red linen jacket. She looked down at the white
roots running through Fran’s dyed black hair and kissed her hard, right on the
top of her head. Outside, the heels of her cowboy boots banged on the wide
brick steps. Above her the sky was a tender blue, the yellow clouds a dream.
Fuck, she
thought. It would have to be a beautiful day.
***
The piano was an upright,
not a grand, and because a ramp had been built for a handicapped tenant some
years before, the movers were able to get it inside Angie’s apartment without
loading it onto a dolly.
Angie shoved
it around the coffee table, which she realized later could have been pushed
aside, to the wall by the kitchen. The wheels gouged the wood.
“Cool,”
said Kevin when he came in. Then, “Look what those morons did to the floor.”
“Yeah.”
“Better
not lose my damage deposit.”
He smelled
of cigarette smoke, which meant he’d been with Ramon again. Ramon was where
Kevin got his coke. If he had any now, it would have been on loan, because
Kevin’s father was still being a jerk. Angie had met Ramon only once. He was so
short she
out so well. That Fran, she’s got things tied up tight. Must be how my old man
wanted it, leaving it all to her. Figures, doesn’t it?
“Suit
yourself, only I’m leaving first thing in the morning,” said Fran.
“Really,
why?”
She spoke
of a brother out in Santa Barbara and needing a change of scene. It occurred to
Angie that she could do with a few more days away from Kevin. They’d come to
that hard point between lust and love and spent more and more time on their
bare mattress, a mattress she’d like some sheets for to cover the brown stains
of her period, and the yellow stains of her sweat.
“I’ve got
enough for one night at the motel, but after that I don’t know,” said Angie and
glanced at Fran, who stared firmly into space.
“I can
stake you to a second night.”
“Oh,
you’re sweet! But don’t you think it would be easier if I just stayed here?
After you’re gone, I mean. Don’t like to be underfoot.”
Fran
turned her leaky eyes on her. “I’m sorry, honey, you can’t.”
Angie had
visited last year with Boomer, Kevin’s predecessor. When they left Fran found
herself missing a silk scarf, a pair of gold earrings, and a fountain pen she’d
won in a church raffle. Angie sometimes wore the earrings and scarf. The pen
she’d never used. When her father called to report the loss, Angie blamed
Boomer. She said he was a recovering heroin addict (he wasn’t), and that he’d
spent time in jail (he hadn’t done that, either). Her father believed her.
Obviously Fran didn’t. Boomer, who knew nothing of the theft or the phone call,
moved out several weeks later when he realized Angie had been helping herself
to his wallet.
Fran
offered to ship the piano down. Ann Arbor to Dunston was a pricey distance, a
fact Fran regretted with a lift of one eyebrow. Angie wasn’t moved. There’d be
no distance if Fran had stayed put. When Angie struck out on her own at
seventeen, with no desire to finish high school, Fran pulled up stakes and
dragged her father back to her hometown so they could float on the sale of her
late husband’s grocery store chain, forget the past, and begin again.
Angie
wrote her new address on the back of a museum flyer Fran had on the coffee
table by the whiskey. The French Impressionists. February 4 th -
March 31 st . Gauguin, Renoir, Cezanne. Angie couldn’t imagine her
father going to see that kind of nonsense, but then with Fran her father always
thought he was better than he was.
“Well,
then. I’ll call a mover. They’ll let you know when to expect it,” said Fran,
and drained off her glass of whiskey. She stood and tugged the jacket of her
stylish black suit into place. Angie got up, too. She towered over Fran. Angie
was five foot ten, skinny as a boy, with size-ten feet. She’d stuck out at the
funeral with her torn jeans and red linen jacket. She looked down at the white
roots running through Fran’s dyed black hair and kissed her hard, right on the
top of her head. Outside, the heels of her cowboy boots banged on the wide
brick steps. Above her the sky was a tender blue, the yellow clouds a dream.
Fuck, she
thought. It would have to be a beautiful day.
***
The piano was an upright,
not a grand, and because a ramp had been built for a handicapped tenant some
years before, the movers were able to get it inside Angie’s apartment without
loading it onto a dolly.
Angie shoved
it around the coffee table, which she realized later could have been pushed
aside, to the wall by the kitchen. The wheels gouged the wood.
“Cool,”
said Kevin when he came in. Then, “Look what those morons did to the floor.”
“Yeah.”
“Better
not lose my damage deposit.”
He smelled
of cigarette smoke, which meant he’d been with Ramon again. Ramon was where
Kevin got his coke. If he had any now, it would have been on loan, because
Kevin’s father was still being a jerk. Angie had met Ramon only once. He was so
short she
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