Twenty Nine
Coming in over downtown San Jose at sunset, Scootie could
see the racetrack oval of Chavez Park, the rectangular eye of the Fairmont’s
rooftop swimming pool. Looking north, he saw the line of planes descending into
SFO, including, just possibly, Juliana’s. He got in ten minutes early, but was
still surprised when no one at the baggage claim. He tried standing on the curb
in front of his airline. Nothing. He called Jackie’s house, but got her
answering machine.
It got to be an hour, and Scootie shifted from annoyance to
worry. This was not like Jackie at all, and given her recent troubles, there
was no scenario too morbid. He returned to the curb, counted his cash and
hailed a cab. The driver, a young Vietnamese man named Tranh, responded to
Scootie’s request with a look of surprise and hardly suppressed delight.
Scootie was thankful that Tranh spoke little English; it
gave him some time to sort out his thoughts. They joined the line of red
corpuscles climbing Highway 92, and it was a great relief to see the dark field
of the ocean. He guided Tranh to Jackie’s house, a large Victorian near the
high school that had been chopped up into apartments. He signed over his last
twenty-dollar traveler’s cheque for a tip, waved off a smiling Tranh, then
entered a steel gate and followed a trail of concrete squares to Jackie’s door.
He found Sable on the front porch, mewing pitiably, her head
ducked in a posture of anxiety. Scootie squatted down and carefully lifted her.
He found bits of leaves and dirt in her fur, as if she had been outside for a
while.
His knock brought no response. He tried again, and a third
time, the sound growing louder with each attempt. After the fourth, he felt a
vibration in the floorboards, then heard a thud on the door, as if someone had
fallen against it.
“Jackie? Is that you?”
He heard a faint “Yes” from the other side.
“It’s Scootie. Let me in, please.”
“No,” said Jackie. “Don’t want to.”
“Jackie. I’ve got Sable. I think you left her outside.”
Jackie cracked the door open. “Please let her in. Then go
home. Please.”
Scootie’s anxiety was working back to annoyance. He decided
to hold Sable hostage.
“Jackie, I just blew a sizable wad of cash on a cab, because
you were supposed to pick me up. Now, why won’t you let me in?”
From the dark interior came a feeble response. “I’m...
drunk.”
“Oh.” Sable grew restless in Scootie’s grasp, so he set her
down. The door opened, and he could see the silhouette of cat and mistress
fading into the kitchen.
“Come on in,” she said. “If you want. Want some wine?”
“Um, sure.” He felt his way to Jackie’s couch. There was a
ceramic piece on the coffee table, three Slavic women joined in a dance. The
one on the left was missing a leg.
Jackie returned with two glasses. “Shame, huh? Lost it in
the earthquake. Here.” Scootie took a swallow and broke into a fit of coughing.
Jackie laughed.
“Whoops. Sorry. I ran out of cabernet. This is port, from
Lisbon. Good shit. That is, if you’re expectin’ it. The asshole from Montana
bought it for me.” Jackie lifted her glass and calmly took down half of it.
Scootie settled into the couch. “Jesus, Jackie. You never
forget things, but you forgot me. You never get drunk, but... here you are. Are
we losing you?”
Jackie leaned forward, staring ahead with a glazed
expression. “Sort of a flushing process. First ya cry for a week, then ya spend
a week chewing your fingernails, playing the ‘Oh, what did I do wrong?’ game,
and then... then ya get drunk every night and ya turn into Bette Davis in All About Eve. I got it down to such a
system, they don’t even notice at work. Littel fatigue, bloodshot eyes, I just
tell ‘em it’s allergies.”
“Hmm. So how long does this stage last?”
“Get used to it, pal. Rex was worse than most.”
“Oh, speaking of...” Scootie reached into his shirt pocket
and handed her a pair of coyote teeth. “I brought you his fangs.”
“The Trickster,” said Jackie. “I hope you pulled ‘em out
personally.” She put her feet up on the coffee table and rested her head on
Scootie’s shoulder. “Sorry for leavin’ you at the altar, Scoots. Didja have a
nice ride?”
“Frankly, no. I was too worried about you.”
“That’s very sweet,” she said, and smiled. She ran a finger
along the back of Scootie’s neck. “Ya know, you got great hair, Scoots. Wish I
had hair like that.”
“Thank you.”
Her finger continued to wander, tracing the rim of his ear.
“These big ol’ earlobes of yours. Simply adorable. Y’oughtta get an earring,
big ol’ pirate hoop.”
“And what phase is this?” asked Scootie.
Jackie kissed the top of his ear and whispered, “This would
be the horny phase. Little revenge on the conniving ex-boyfriend. Whattya say,
Scoots? Y’wanna mess around?”
“I can’t.” He needed something to do, so he fetched his port
from the coffee table.
“Aw, why not? And don’t give me that horseshit about the
sanctity of friendship – ‘cause if you were really my friend, we’d be on the
floor right now.”
“I’m involved with someone.”
“Oh, yeah, right. Don’t kid an old girl, hon. If you had a
chick, I’d be the first to know about it. Now come on, be straight with me. Am
I really so friggin’ undesirable?”
Jackie’s eyes were backing him into a corner, but Scootie
could feel a draft coming in under the wall, a doorknob, an exit he had been
meaning to take for months.
“I’m in love with Juliana Kross. We’ve been sleeping
together for four months and keeping it hidden from everyone, even our closest
friends. I just spent the week with her in Wyoming.”
Sobriety crept over Jackie like a sunrise. She exhaled in
the shape of an “ooh” and sank back into the couch.
“Oh, Scootie. You are in some deep shit.”
Photo by MJV
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