Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [29]
He applies a dressing and helps me to sit up.
—You were lucky the surgery was healing so well. I could probably take out the rest of the staples, but we may as well leave them in. You might need them. The real risk is infection. I’m going to give you some penicillin. Other than that, you need rest and pain management. You’ve already flunked out on getting rest. So what do you have for pain?
—Vicodin.
—Uh-huh. Take them. That thing is going to hurt like hell. Clean the wound once a day. Get some Advil for the swelling. Have the sutures and staples removed next week.
—Right. Thanks. Anything else?
He’s packing his stuff away. Yvonne grabs his coat from the bed and brings it over.
—Anything else. Yeah. Call the cops and stop fucking around. Whoever did this to you needs to be locked up. Before they hurt someone who cares about their life.
I try to give him money. Bad call.
I’m sitting at the table now instead of lying on it, fingering a deep knife scar in the oak grain and watching Yvonne in her Knicks jersey while she makes me a waffle. She’s doing a great job of not asking questions, but the way she clunks down the waffle plate on the table in front of me is a good indication that the levee will soon break.
I tear into that waffle. She makes great waffles, warms up the real maple syrup and everything. Besides which, I really don’t want to see her sitting across the table from me, drinking her coffee and rolling up a Drum cigarette. Waiting. I finish the waffle and the half grapefruit she cut for me and my water and the O.J. and, man, was I hungry. I look at the empty plates and close my eyes for a second. I want to stay here. I want waffles three times a day and the smell of her cigarettes and the sound of her kiln roaring, firing a new piece, and Bud sleeping on her too-hard futon and just to stay here. I open my eyes, push back from the table and look at Yvonne. She’s leaning back in her chair, feet up on the table, staring across the room out one of the windows that looks toward the Hudson. Her jersey has slipped up her thigh just enough for me to see that she has no underwear on and I feel a little horny all of a sudden. She takes a sip of coffee and drags on the cigarette. I make a little throat-clearing noise and she turns her head slowly to look at me and hear what I have to say.
—Baby, I have to get out of here.
She takes another drag. She put a Leonard Cohen album on her old turntable earlier and now “Suzanne” is playing; such a beautiful song. She exhales a cloud of smoke and looks back out the window.
—Fair enough.
I stand up. It’s so nice in here, so warm.
—Do you, babe, do you know where my stuff is?
She looks at me.
—Sure.
She takes her feet off the table and the legs of her chair bang down on the floor. She gets up, takes a last drag off her smoke, drops the butt on the floor, and grinds it out with her bare foot. She walks over to the living area and digs around under the futon frame until she comes up with my bag and then sits on the bed and reaches over to stroke Bud where he lies still sleeping. I go sit on the bed too and start putting on my boots.
My body is sore as hell, but my head is pretty straight. A beer would help most of the aches. My boots are tied. I pull an old black sweater from my bag, stand up, and put it on. I’m looking around for my jacket, but I can’t find it. Yvonne reads my mind, gets off the futon and walks over to one of those rolling clothes racks you see in the garment district. It’s what she has instead of a closet. She pulls an old leather jacket off a hanger and holds it out to me.
—You didn’t have one when you showed up yesterday. Take this. It’ll fit.
I come over and take the jacket. It fits perfectly and has a nice lining.
—Thanks.
—Sure.
I go back to the bed, get my bag, and zip it up.
—Something else.
—The cat?
—Yeah.
—How long?
—I’m not sure.
—Fair enough. I’ll get his stuff from your place, OK?
I look at her.