The last secret_ a novel - Mary McGarry Morris [7]
“And my headaches, that was the thing.” With the cold, they start up again.
“You got a record?”
“Yeah.” He laughs. A record. Perfect. That's it exactly. Half a lifetime gone, he'll tell her. And now it's payback time. Time to give back. To the needy. The truly deserving. God's battered children, all the ones who weren't born into the lucky sperm club.
He sits on the edge of the cot, unlacing his wet shoes. He puts on the clothes they gave him, threadbare pants and a ripped T-shirt, until his own are dry. He stretches out on the cot and opens the magazine. Now, with her face, it's coming back, her laugh, the sweet trust of her touch. Before what happened. It wasn't just the drunk, but him, too, going off the deep end. Lucky for her she ran. It might've been her. And now, lucky for him.
Like these pants, time has frayed the seams. Beginnings and endings run together. Even the women, he can't remember. Some, he didn't even like their smell. The headaches do that, heighten his senses. Smell, for instance, and hearing. Certain sounds are startling. Terrifying. He used to love the sound of a train, relentless in all its rackety force, or the drone of a low-flying plane, thrilling him with the possibility of its crashing before his eyes. The same with the quick gasp of a woman's voice. Now it's all dread. Steel sky lowering, walls pushing close.
The next morning is the social worker. Lisa goes over yesterday's form, gives him a list of jobs. The shelter has contacts with businesses needing help.
“Anything there look interesting?”
Three hundred pounds, anyway. He's disgusted by the flap of flesh that melds her chin to her neck. He is repelled by voraciousness, people who gorge themselves, drink too much, especially this one, silver bracelets jangling on thick, spotted wrists, the low V of her neckline crimping the freckled fat of her breasts, sausage into its casing, flaunting her flesh, why? For these miserable souls? He pictures her primping in the morning, leaning close to the mirror, swiveling on that red lipstick, all the while getting wet, thinking of the lucky stiff she'll turn on today. The air thins. Harder to breathe. Her fat cells, she sucks it all in. Pig. Disgusting pig.
“The dishwashing job's cool. Bannerman's, the steak house, they feed their help good.” She swallows hard; he imagines her snuffling food off the soiled plates coming into the kitchen to be washed.
“’Fraid I'm overqualified.”
“So's everybody, but it's a stepping-stone. That's what we're doing here. Inch by inch.”
“The rubber tree plant,” he chuckles. But, of course, she doesn't get it. “Tell you what. Give me the address. I'm heading east soon. A business opportunity.” He stands up when she hands him the address she's just written on the shelter letterhead. “This'll be my grubstake,” he says, folding the paper into his pocket.
“Yeah, you'll like their steak. I've eaten there before. And the Delmonico potatoes, they're to die for.”
“You know what a grubstake is?”
“No. My favorite's the porterhouse. Oooh, and prime rib.”
“You like to travel?”
“Nah. Airplane seats.” Shaking her head, she spreads her hands to indicate girth. As if he hasn't noticed.
“What about by car? You can get places that way, right?”
“I guess.”
“Best way to travel. Take your time. Stop when you want. I used to do that, drive for a living.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. One time I drove this old couple, LA. to Boston. Took our time.” He shrugs. “Stop when you feel like it. Grand Canyon. Vegas. Eat your way across.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Yeah. Go where you want, see what you want to