Body Copy - Michael Craven [33]
Tremaine parked between a beat-up ’71 VW Beetle and brand-new silver Maserati.
Tremaine knocked on Nina’s door. It opened.
“Donald, thanks for coming by,” Nina said as she ush-ered him in.
Tremaine realized now more than ever how pretty Nina was. Looking more casual than the first few times they had B O D Y C O P Y
met, standing there in jeans and a T-shirt, but somehow looking even better.
“Can I get you a beer?” she said.
“Yes.”
Tremaine had that feeling you get when someone invites you to their house, that good feeling, that feeling where the chemistry is just a little better, a little warmer than when you see someone in a neutral place. One person has reached out to the other and the other has accepted. Tremaine was glad to be there. He could even detect a little spark that she was glad that he was there. Not in a romantic sense, just in the way that says, we could be friends, it’s good to see you, have a seat, have a beer, let’s catch up.
Tremaine filled Nina in, sort of. Moving forward with Tyler Wilkes, with Evelyn Gale, just giving her brushstrokes, no details really. There weren’t any yet. The speculation?
That was only for Tremaine at this point. Nonetheless, he knew it was good to give a progress report, even if he hadn’t yet made much progress.
Yeah, that’s why he was over here. Not because he kind of missed her. Not because she was the type of woman his wife had been, the type that he wasn’t able to make it work with. Smart, sexy, deep. Hey, she’d invited him. After he’d called and said let’s get together.
But who’s counting?
Tremaine took a swig of his beer and looked around her house. This time he could take it in, he wasn’t rushing, wasn’t guided by the fact that she might come home any minute and say, What the fuck are you doing here?
He looked at all the books, really able to see her collection now. Man, there were some good ones, ones you 103
Michael Craven
wouldn’t necessarily expect to see on the same shelf. Robert Pirsig and Charles Bukowski. Toni Morrison and John D.
MacDonald.
“You’ve got some good books in here,” Tremaine said. “Ham on Rye. Bukowski. One of my all time favorites.”
“Me too,” she said. “He was a brute, but he had a heart.”
“I love the scene where Chinaski is walking down the street with his face covered in gauze because he’d had his bad skin worked on.”
“Yeah,” she said. “And at that moment he felt better than ever, because he didn’t have to face the world.”
“And he felt so good that he lit up a smoke and strutted down the street, gauze and all.”
They both laughed, enjoying that memory, that image.
Nina said, “He could be so vulnerable and so tough at the same time. It’s a good combination.”
“Yeah. And he’s funny. He says stuff that’s so bleak, but it’s somehow hilarious. I always wondered how he did that.”
“Found that tone.”
“Right.”
They stood there with their beers. Silent, for a moment.
Wonder what’s on her mind?
He said, “Did you always want to be a teacher?”
“Yeah. I haven’t been at it too long, but I like it a lot.
Lately, though, I’ve been concentrating on my book.”
“How’s it coming?”
“Slowly. But steadily enough.”
Tremaine wanted to say, “I’ve read some of it, it rocks.”
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But he knew that would probably get him fired. So he said,
“It’s about your divorce . . .”
“Nope. It’s about an ex-surfer who’s now a P.I.”
“You should consult with me. I might be able to help.”
Then she said, “Yeah, it’s about my divorce. But it’s really about any divorce. I think. I hope.”
“Like I said, you should consult with me.”
“I’ve got myself for that one.”
“Right . . .”
They had another drink and chatted more about her book and some of the other books she had on the shelf and she asked Tremaine about being