Clown Girl - Monica Drake [44]
I said, “Comes with the terrain.”
“Or is it suffering for Rex? ’Cause I think you could do better, if that’s what it’s about.” He put a second hand on my other shoulder. Leaned down. He lifted his fingers through my hair, and each hair tingled my scalp, my spine, my nerve endings. “You’ve done better before.”
I had to laugh. “You?” I asked. “Ha!”
He said, “I’ll work on that sore thigh, if you want.” His breath was thick with smoke, sweet with the residue of pot and bitter under cigarettes.
“Bad idea.” I sat back and twisted to push his hand away.
He said, “Why get uptight? I’ve done it before.”
“Rex and me, we’re a team. It’s not just about suffering, it’s love.”
Herman straightened up, rubbed his face. He said, “Hey, I’m not trying to bust up your monogamy, just being friendly. You look shot, I give you support and there you go reading into it.”
“Read into this—Rex is what I need. That’s it.”
“OK, OK. Keep up the Mary Tyler Moore act, all the way, huh?”
“Whatever that means.” I shifted on the couch and reached for my hat.
“It means, you should watch yourself. You might appreciate a little generosity now and then.” He nodded toward the banging sounds in the kitchen. “She’s ready to put you on the street, but it’s my place. I say you can stay until Galore gets back. It’s a favor, because I like you, and you could recognize it. But bottom line, Nita, if you bring cops around, you’re out.”
Out?
“The favors wear thin,” he said.
Like Crack, Herman was ready to cut me loose that easily: Practice the pratfalls, or I’m out. Stay away from cops, or I’m out. I needed the clown work for cash to move from Herman’s house, and needed Herman’s cheap rent to save money until then.
I needed to stay away from the cop, for all reasons.
I was only a name cut in Herman’s arm, a needy tenant, a friend who kept coming back. I was four letters of straight lines. Nita, that meaningless blur of tattoo. Italia-Natalia-Nadia, banging pans in the kitchen, had a better answer with the mystery of her ever-shifting name, the way she disappeared sometimes. When she was gone, Herman always wanted her to come back.
I’d rather she disappeared.
“Thin ice,” Herman said. “Skating on cracks.”
“So’s your brain,” I said. “That cop has his own beat. I didn’t bring him around.”
And then there was a knock on the door. Herman and I, we both jumped. Italia clattered pans in the kitchen. Herman looked at the door like he’d never seen the door before. I didn’t move. Italia didn’t come out.
Herman asked, “Who is it?”
Like I could see through walls. I whispered, “Maybe it’s for you.”
The knock sounded again.
God help me if it was Jerrod. Thin ice, thin ice, thin ice.
Herman inched closer, looked through the peephole. He took his time. I stood behind him, afraid to breathe. He opened the door.
A high, scratchy voice said, “We gots your rubber chicken.” I couldn’t see past Herman’s shoulders. “Pluu-ucky?” the voice said. “We gots Plucky here.”
Plucky! How my heart leapt at the name!
Herman said, “I don’t know what you’re peddling, but we don’t need any plucky shit, and we don’t want any rubber chickens.” He started to close the door. I ducked in and put a hand out to keep the door open. A short woman in worn sweatpants held a faded rubber chicken by the neck. She shook the chicken as though tantalizing. Her tongue showed at the side of her smile. Half her teeth were gone. One rubber foot was gone from the chicken too. The other rubber chicken foot was pale, a bleached and weathered pink.
“Ree-ward?” she said. Then she hacked, turned away, coughed again, and stomped a foot. The chicken in her outstretched hand danced a gimpy jig to the rhythm of her cough. “Where’s the ree-ward?” she choked out again.
I said, “That’s not my chicken.”
I tried to close the door. The woman threw herself in the way. She said, “What do you mean? It’s a rubber chicken, just like in the pitcher. Reward, it says, right here.” She shoved the chicken between her knees and used both hands to check the front pocket on her hoodie. When she pulled