Bad Intent

Chapter 25

“It was after the Watts Festival one year, maybe the first year they held it, I don’t remember. Twenty years ago I guess.” Mike picked up a big plumber’s wrench from the shelf and set it in our shopping cart. We were cruising a hardware warehouse for a few essentials, some elbow joints, socket plates, a lot of spackle; our date. “Anyway, all of us who worked the festival-police and sheriffs-we went down to this vacant lot afterward, street dead-ended at the Artesia Freeway. They were still building the freeway so there was no one around, just a lot of dirt. Used to be a nice neighborhood, till the freeway took it out.

“So, we got some cases of beer and went down there, built a fire, starting unwinding. Pretty soon the girls started coming. I don’t know who put the word out, but you never saw so many girls.”

“Women,” I said.

“Girls,” he said, sorting through a bin of spackle blades. “It’s my story, so they’re girls.”

“Pig,” I said.

“Exactly. Back then, we were pigs, they were girls. You gotta know the language of the times or you’re not going to get this story at all.”

“I’ll try to keep up.” I was pushing the cart. The story was hard to listen to, more truth about Mike than I really needed at the moment. That’s exactly why he was telling it, a sort of test to see where I drew my line, how much truth I would take in before I stopped loving him. I had tried to change the subject a couple of times, but he always came back to the ugly day in the cul-de-sac.

“People were doing the dirty deed all over the place. Everywhere you looked, naked bodies.”

“What were you doing?” I asked.

“Just hanging. My partner got lucky on the hood of our car. I was sitting inside watching his little white ass pumping against the windshield in front of my face. Just pump, pump, pump. Funniest thing you ever saw.”

“And you just sat there?”

“Yeah.” He handed me a brown paper drop cloth. “So, I’m sitting there and this girl comes up to me and she says, ‘I’ll do you right here. Anything you want, but I won’t take it in the ass.’ “

“And did she?” I felt squeamish hearing all this, squeamish the way I felt when batons and fists entered his stories. We had moved a long way from the Olgas always trying to sit on his lap to where this conversation began.

“No,” Mike said, looking at the shelves. “She told me she’d already done ten guys by mouth. That really did it for me. I didn’t want her breathing the same air as me.”

“She did this for pay?”

“Nope. Just for the fun of it.”

“Was she pretty?”

“Not bad.”

While Mike was busy with wood putty, I walked away from him, pushed the cart over a few aisles to the cupboard knobs display because I didn’t want to get into something with him. All day there had been an edge.

Mike and I argue back and forth all the time-cop, Berkeley liberal; natural foes. It’s usually a lot of fun. We both posture and exaggerate our opinions just to jerk the other’s chain. This story disturbed me. Especially the just-for-fun part.

Mike came up behind me. “Find something?”

“No.” I bent down to look at the knobs in the bottom row because I didn’t want to look at Mike. I heard him take a big breath.

“It was a long time ago, Maggie. Things were different then.”

“Did I say anything?”

“You didn’t have to.”

I straightened up and turned to face him. “I love your stories. You know I do. This one’s hard to take.”

“I’ll watch what I say.”

“Don’t do that. I would be bereft if you thought you had to censor yourself for me. It’s just, that girl gives me chills. I need to think about it a minute.”

“Bereft, huh? If that story bothers you, you’d never make it on the streets.”

“Sure I would. It’s not the story-I went to college, I saw my share of naked people doing it-it’s your perspective. She wasn’t a girl, for chrissake Mike, she was a human with a big problem.”

“Is this a male-female thing?”

“Not really. It’s more a cop-civilian thing. I think this one belongs in the excessive-shit pile with the fat hooker, Queen Esther, you wrestled to the ground and sat on, and that guy Philip you gave a head full of dummy bumps for resisting arrest. Good stories, but I have trouble putting you in the picture with them.”

He closed up on me the way he does when he feels defensive, shut me right out. I hated it. He bent down and looked at the knobs in the bottom row because he couldn’t look at me.

I said, “Find something?”

“No.”

I sat down on the floor cross-legged beside him and looked at the ranks of cupboard knobs, from Shaker-plain to rococo. “I like the white china ones. Very simple.”

He said, “Too simple.”

“We don’t need any knobs,” I said. “You know what we need?”

“Pulls?”

“Lunch.”

He gave me a sidelong, narrow-eyed glance, still defensive. “We need lunch,” I repeated. “And then we need a nap. What do you think?”

“We should go by the house and see how the guys are doing with the painting.”

“Lunch first,” I said, and stroked the underside of his chin, where the muscles were set and hard. “Then a nap.”

“Where do you want to eat?”

“At home. I want to eat at home. You and me, like a date, remember?”

First thing I did when we got home was take the telephone off the hook. I didn’t listen to any messages, and I didn’t pick up the mail. We made sandwiches and carried them into the bedroom to watch the first game of the Dodger double-header while we ate. He was very sweet, very attentive. Very polite, like with someone he didn’t know very well.

Propped up on pillows, we had a little party, got potato chip crumbs everywhere, argued about was the runner out on second or not, should LaSorda retire, and who was going to win the division. He began to relax with me again. And I relaxed. I was out before the seventh inning stretch, sleeping with my face against Mike’s tummy, his arm draped across me.

I woke up once, came to enough to notice that the television was off and Mike was asleep beside me. The second time I awoke, the sun was low in the sky and I was alone. I got up, groggy, and went out looking for Mike.

Mike wasn’t in the house, nor had he left a note. The telephone ringer was off, the message tape had been erased, the mail had been sorted. In my pile there were only a picture postcard from my parents-they were on vacation in the East-a reminder from Casey’s orthodontist, and a check from the tenants in my San Francisco house. I stuck the card on the refrigerator with a magnet.

I called security at my office building and asked whether an envelope had been left for me. The man who answered said there were several envelopes in my mailbox. He was holding a telegram and a big bouquet of flowers-he’d tried to call but couldn’t get through. I had him read me the card on the flowers.

“Congratulations, Ralph and the staff at SNN.”

“Keep the flowers,” I told the guard. “Give them to your wife if you have one.”

I thanked him. Then I went in and took a shower to wake up.

Just for a change, because I probably had not worn a dress for at least a month, I slipped into a flowery sundress I had bought for a friend’s outdoor wedding in June. Feeling vampish, I also put on some mascara and blush, went into Casey’s bathroom and borrowed some eye shadow. When I had finished, I was a vision. Home alone, but a vision.

I missed Mike.

I waited around for about half an hour, puttering. I felt so restless, though, that I traded my three-inch pumps for sandals and went out for a walk through the condo grounds. Waiting around is hard for me.

I was sitting by the pool in the long, deep shade of early evening, chatting with a neighbor couple, when I saw Mike’s Blazer come up the drive. I excused myself and ran down the sloping lawn to catch him, my skirt billowing around my legs, light and cool. When Mike saw me, he stopped in the middle of the street to wait.

“Why, Miss Scarlett,” he said, leaning out his window for kissing, “aren’t you pretty?”

“Yes, I am,” I said. He wore slacks, a sportshirt, and a secretive grin. I touched his arm. “You’re mighty pretty your own damn self.”

“Climb in,” he said. “We have reservations at the most exclusive eatery in town.”

“Do you need a tie? Do I need heels?”

“No, and no. Just climb in.”

I had to brush dog hair off my seat. “We should go check on Bowser.”

“We’ll do that right now; it’s on the way. Don’t worry about Bowser, though. He’s fine. So fine, he doesn’t want to leave his new yard for anything.”

Mike drove us east to the Pasadena Freeway, then dropped down into South Pasadena.

“Is this restaurant a new discovery?” I asked.

“Old place, new discovery.”

He pulled up in front of the house and parked beside the dumpster. The yard was still cluttered with building materials, but the trash-the old carpets and drapes, mostly-had been cleared away. No beer cans, no men.

Looking up at the front I had a sudden sort of electric jolt as I realized, truly realized for the first time, that this was our house. Me, Mike, Casey, and Michael. And Bowser. Not playing house, not shuffling back and forth between my house and his house, but living together in this place for two and a half years. Mingled furniture. Mingled destinies. Suddenly it scared me. Suddenly it looked like commitment. Might as well have been a ring on my finger.

I hung back while Mike unlocked the door, then I followed him inside, staying a few steps behind, making a little space between us.

The only light came from the tall back windows. Twilight, filtered through the leaves of the old avocado tree by the patio, painted the walls and the floor with delicate blue lace that moved with the breeze. I stepped into the shadow pattern, like wearing a veil as I crossed the room.

Bowser pressed his nose to the glass, tongue hanging out, tail wagging, happy to see us. I opened the door for him. “What time is our reservation?” I asked.

“About now,” Mike said. I couldn’t see his face in the failing light.

“Let me say hi to Bowse,” I said, “then we can go. How far is it?”

“Not far.”

Someone had given Bowser a new tennis ball. He dropped it on my foot. Mike went back inside as I stepped out onto the patio to throw the ball for the dog to fetch a couple of times while I checked his new water dish, poured some fresh kibble into his new bowl. He was more interested in having his head scratched and his stomach rubbed than in eating. He kept looking into the house behind me, and I knew he was searching for Casey.

“Casey’ll be home tomorrow, old man,” I said. He sighed and lay down and looked up at me with pathetic big eyes.

Mike came out through the dining room doors. I saw the flicker of candlelight behind him, heard Wynton Marsalis’s trumpet, “Taking a Chance on Love,” with his father Ellis accompanying him on piano, as soft and lacy as the shadows. Mike held his hand out to me. “Time to eat.”

Out of nowhere, I started crying.

“Don’t worry,” he said, coming to me, gathering me against his crisp shirtfront. “I didn’t cook the dinner. You’ll be okay.”

“It’s not the food that worries me.” I wiped my eyes and walked in with him.

Mike had made a small table out of two sawhorses and a couple of planks, and covered them with a starched white cloth, filled an empty juice jar with roses from the backyard and set it in the middle. There were two places set, and two folding chairs. The only light came from the candelabra on a ladder beside the table. The music came from a CD player on the bare floor.

Mike pulled out my chair with an elaborate flourish. “Madame,” he said, and kissed the back of my neck when I sat down.

Before he could go away, I pulled him down to me by the hand, brought his face to mine. “Everything is beautiful,” I said. I still had a lump in my throat and a vague sense of foreboding.

“You only think so because it’s dark in here. Couple more days, though, and it will be beautiful.”

“I wasn’t referring to the house.” I raised his hand to kiss the backs of his fingers.

“If you don’t stop now, the food will get cold.”

“Better call the waiter, then.” I let him go, but he lingered long enough to curl my toes before he went to fetch the caterer-wrapped meal from the kitchen.

Salad, pasta something, chocolate mousse, and fresh raspberries. It looked nice, but I could hardly swallow anything except the dry champagne. I couldn’t take my eyes off Mike across the table from me. The thing is, I was trying to imagine growing old with that face beside me, across from me, all around me all the time. It is a world-class face, so I must be a hard sell. I was very unsettled.

Mike’s plate had hardly been touched, either. Marsalis, pere et fils, were playing “The Very Thought of You.”

Mike watched me, without saying anything, as I picked up my glass of champagne and walked with it over to his side of the table. He leaned back in his chair and looked up at me, questions in his expression. When he held out his arms to me, inviting me onto his lap, I shook my head.

“Dance with me,” I said. As he led me around the freshly sanded floor, I kissed him, beginning at the point of his chin and working along his wonderful, craggy face all the way to his ear. When I got there, I whispered, “I love you, Mike.”

He responded by nuzzling my neck. I had chills that had nothing to do with the breeze coming through the open windows. From somewhere, while we danced, he pulled out a small gold box and offered it to me on his upturned palm. My stomach did a roller-coaster fall; I was grateful I had foregone the pasta. I lost the music and stepped on his foot.

“What is that?” I asked. I didn’t really want to know, and I did not touch the box on his hand.

“Open it,” he said, smiling like a kid at a birthday party, embarrassed when the birthday girl got to his gift, but excited, too.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t trust small boxes.”

“Open it. Trust me.”

Well, I trust Mike, so I did it, I opened the box. Inside, under the cotton, I saw a flash of gold in the candlelight and nearly chickened out. When I finally pulled away the cotton, I found a shiny new key attached to a gold heart by a heavy chain. The heart was engraved with an M and had a clear stone set on either side of it. It was pretty. I think I was relieved it wasn’t a ring, but I can’t be sure.

“Whose M is it?” I asked, holding it up, spinning the heart in the flickering light. “My initial, or yours?”

“It’s ours. This is the key to the front door of our house.”

“Thank you.”

“What did you think was in the box?”

“I hadn’t a clue.”

“You were nervous about it.” He said this with tooth-sucking, teasing sureness.

I said, “Are you going to dance with me or are you going to try to pick a fight?”

“Of course, there are a lot of M words. I guess it could stand for a lot of things. Want me to list a few?”

“No.”

“I want to talk about M words.” He took me in his arms again and danced me across the room and out onto the brick patio. His voice was next to my ear. “There’s, mar…” He drew it out sadistically. “…igolds. And, marbles. Don’t forget Margot-a funny name to give a little baby.”

“The only thing funny here is you, big guy.”

“Ready to dip?” He dropped me backward, pulled me up again, finished with a spin that brought us face to face. With our noses almost touching, he said, “Margot Eugenie Duchamps MacGowen?”

“What?”

“Marry me.”