Clown Girl - Monica Drake [42]
“How long?” I asked. “How long is a reasonable length of time?”
He watched me with those sad, discouraged Steve McQueen baby blues. “A movie and a cup of coffee,” he said. He shook his head. “About that long. No longer.” Then he powered up the window and pulled away.
9.
Lost Chance
EARLY EVENING, I LIMPED HOME FROM THE RUINS. THE air was golden and dusty, the sun an orange balloon floating over the peeling, patched roofs of Baloneytown. A pack of Krumpers on a corner lot gave me a nod, like I was a distant relation. It was a generous move, because I could barely walk, while they were dancing their hip-hop hearts out.
At the co-op, Herman met me at the door. “Inside.” He nodded a tight nod toward the dark room behind him.
“Like that isn’t where I’m already going?” I leaned into my circus cane and limped up the porch stairs. The wooden steps shook and tipped under the weight. Herman closed the front door fast behind me, as though to keep a wily dog in—or to keep prying eyes out. The living room was dark behind heavy orange curtains.
I dropped the cane and pink bag of tricks on the couch, kicked off the sweaty clown shoes, and took off the sunglasses. My face was tight with sunburn. I reached for a light switch.
Herman caught my hand.
“No lights,” he said.
I said, “Sorry, I forgot.” That house rule—to keep the electricity bill low so Herman could run the grow lights.
He said, “Nice act, Clown Girl. ”
“Huh?”
“The cop and the talking clown, two birds on a lawn mower, the full production for the whole neighborhood. In front of my customers.” He raised an eyebrow.
I sighed and sank into the dog hair-matted couch. “How was I supposed to know the lawn mower was stolen?”
Herman frowned. “What—you thought that dirtbag you bought it from was a Costco representative?”
I said, “It doesn’t mean it’s stolen just because—”
“And you know I don’t want a gas mower around anyway. House rules.” He lifted a curtain and peered out. Herman’s ponytail slinked left and right along his back as his head jerked side to side. Herman, my lovely ex, once with the soul of a poet, now was an unwitting advertisement for the evils of pot. If I were to sketch him as he stood, I’d call the piece Pure Paranoia. Talking to the window, he said, “So, you’re dating cops. Tell me that isn’t true.”
“Dating?” Revise the title: I’d call the piece Deluge of Delusion.
A slim shaft of setting sun cut into the room when he lifted the curtain. My eyes adjusted. Across the room Nadia-Italia sat curled on an overstuffed chair in one dark corner. She unfurled her big legs and heavy arms, stood, and padded toward Herman. “Hermes—,” she started to say.
“Why on earth would you call that dating? I don’t usually get arrested on a first date.”
In a falsely high voice, meant to be mine, Herman said, “Did anyone ever say you look like Charles Bronson?” He let the curtain fall back into place.
Nadia-Italia laughed and rubbed Herman’s arm. “It’s the kisser, right, baby?” she joined in, her voice dropped lower than usual—but not much lower.
“Steve McQueen,” I said. “Not Bronson. You guys work all afternoon on that act? Maybe it’s time to take it on the road.”
“I know who needs to hit the road,” Italia said. With one finger she flicked a crumb off the phone table, and the crumb disappeared into the dark, dust, and dog hair.
In the room’s dim light, with shadows along each curve of muscle, their arms summer-brown and tank tops loose, Herman and Nadia looked like a charcoal drawing, all soft edges, perfectly sketchable. Herman’s black ponytail rested along his neck and outlined the curve of his skin as it found its way to the muscles of his back. Nadia-Italia was an overfed, Egyptian-eyed cat. The two were a pair of sleek leopards appraising a babe in the woods. It was almost lovely, almost funny. But Herman’s voice was sharp, his eyes narrow. And I was the fool babe.
“Hermes, she stole a lawn mower,” Italia said. She yawned as she said it. “How lame is that? Now she’s hanging with the sheriff