P.I. And Manny said it in English. When we first met we’d agreed to help each other learn the other’s native tongue, but only one of us made it.
I’d come to like the lively little square, but always felt a twinge of class guilt about driving a B.M.W., regardless of its age. Well, no relationship is perfect, I thought, which unfortunately brought me right back to Lou. I twisted onto the rear floor and worked the seat while pecking away at my reaction. Lauren wasn’t that much younger than Lou despite her good looks. Somewhere in her middle fifties, I guessed. We weren’t talking much more than twenty-some years here. Probably sported Spandex at a yoga class a few times a week.
I tasted my disdain and tried to swallow. I felt protective of Lou; but my reaction was more complicated than that, shaded with hints of stronger hurts and fears—stuff to avoid. So I scrubbed up a sweat—better success at something than nothing at all. Eventually, I uncorked my body back into the fresh air, reached into the glove compartment, and retrieved a joint. Before I sat down I took a last look at the damage. Manny was sure to shoot me a soulful look. The rear of the car, while acceptable, was no longer pristine.
Well, neither was I. I sat on the gravel, leaned against the oversized front tire, and welcomed the sun’s rays—another twenty-first century cancer monger but I wasn’t counting. I kept my eyes closed while I toked, letting myself fall into a pleasant swirl until, with a start, I realized I was high.
My eyes snapped open, the dead joint in my hand framed by a jean covered pelvis. I raised my head, my eyes meeting Lauren’s amused face. A strong face that now wore a light shade of lipstick and a hint of rouge. I quickly stood up, caught the whirlies, and carefully slid my ass onto the fender.
“Smells like good dope,” Lauren smiled.
“Pretty good.” My foot had fallen asleep so I pushed further back onto the hood to take off the weight. Somehow I wasn’t surprised by her familiarity with marijuana. “You look pretty good.”
“Thanks, but you don’t have to move away, I don’t bite.”
I grinned, but stayed where I was. “Who you kidding? I watched you nibble last night.”
Lauren returned the smile. “Extenuating circumstance. Paul and I are usually pretty good friends.”
I ignored her casual description of Ian’s suicide attempt. “Isn’t that a little unusual?
“Not really.” Lauren seemed no more eager to pursue last night than I was. “Over the last twenty five years or so there have been more rearrangements than total breakups among our old friends.”
“Rearrangements?” I took my flattened cigarette pack from my pant pocket, tilted them toward Lauren, then lit one for myself after she shook me off.
“Call it what you want. Paul’s been living with Anne Heywood for a long, long time. We were all close friends before the breakups and we still see a lot of each other. I don’t believe in throwing away whole chunks of your life.”
I grunted noncommittally. The idea of a friendship with my first wife, Megan, left me scratching my head. The same feeling I’d had when she fucked her way out of my life.
“Look,” Lauren continued, noting my distrust. “We laughed together, played together, argued together, and raised our children together. There was, is, no reason to reject your entire world because marriages don’t always work.” She moved a couple of steps closer to the Bimmer. “I’ve been happy for Paul and Anne and glad they’re part of my life.”
“You don’t have to explain,” I said, growing uneasily aware of Lauren’s attractiveness and my response. I immediately wanted to talk about anything—including Ian—rather than her personal life. But Lauren was quick to remind me I was part of that life.
“I’m not trying to explain, I’d like you to know who I am.” She held her palms upward, “You don’t seem thrilled about Lou and me. But I want you to know what you’re judging.”
I flipped the cigarette away from the car. “I’m not judging anything.” Disarmed by her directness, for that moment, I wasn’t. But when I thought of the previous night’s bitter interchanges with her ex-husband, today’s “we’re all friends,” and my response to her charisma, my ambivalence rushed right back.
“You’re being polite. Your karma is easy enough to read.”
I wondered about Lou’s notions of karma; he wasn’t exactly an old New Ager. “Lou means a lot to me.”
“It goes both ways. You mean an enormous amount to him. He’s pretty clear about that.”
“Lou’s usually clear about everything.”
Lauren nodded. “When he says something you can actually count on it. You can rely on him.” She grinned but there was sadness in her eyes. “It’s not something I’m used to.”
“Lou’s a good man.”
“Better than good.” Lauren paused then added quietly, “That’s why I want you to give me a chance. I want him in my life and if you and I don’t get along, well...”
I was embarrassed. “I’d never interfere with Lou’s friendships.”
“We’re more than friends, Matthew,” Lauren said gently.
Someone pushed a shopping cart into the chain-link fence that separated the grocery store’s parking lot and my back alley. The scraping rekindled my headache. I appreciated Lauren’s straightforwardness, her caring toward Lou, apparently her good looks, but right then there was no shaking my distance.
“Lou makes his own decisions, Lauren.”
She frowned and placed a hand on her cocked hip. “A touch disingenuous, don’t you think? You’re practically his entire life.”
I was spared from responding by the crunch of footsteps on gravel. Lou appeared around a corner of the building and walked alongside Lauren. “I didn’t realize you were back,” he said. “How is the boy?”
Lauren smiled, but the troubled look never left her eyes. “Ian’s doing great. I can bring him home in a few days.”
“That’s terrific! He must be strong.”
“Lou,” I blurted, “the boy tried to kill himself!”
Maybe it was the leftover stain on the car seat, maybe it was seeing them together, or maybe the ease with which they talked about bringing Ian home, but my criticism was harsh, and it stung. I saw Lou frown and Lauren’s hand pull off the scarf. Her thick, black hair dropped almost to her shoulders, youthful, despite wide streaks of natural gray. No more suspicions about dye.
“Don’t sound so damn sanctimonious,” Lauren said mildly. “I’ve already been in contact with a therapist. He’ll see Ian as soon as possible.”
I slid off the fender onto my wide awake feet. “I’m sorry, Lauren, I was out of line.”
She reached up and placed her hand on my shoulder. “That’s okay. You did me a huge favor and got rewarded for it with a ruined shirt, bloody car seat, and an ugly scene between me and Paul. I owe you the apology.”
I willed
