Tilt - Alan Cumyn [34]
Or maybe . . . she was tilted.
Stan stepped slightly back and launched a high side kick at his own reflection in the full-length mirror on the wall by the brown towels. It was a perfectly executed blow that left a footprint at face level but shattered nothing. Mark of a master. He wiped the footprint off with toilet paper, and when that still left a murky smudge he wet the toilet paper and wiped again, and when that left greasy streaks he used his hand, then the tail of Janine’s shirt.
The dull, blotchy spot that remained on the mirror was about the size of his own face.
—
Down the darkened hallway. Janine’s room was at the end with the door closed. Two other bedroom doors loomed. One was to a study, which had a desk and a computer and a nice view of the front lawn. The other room, darkened, had its door only slightly ajar. Stan had the feeling that someone was in there dying.
Stan slid past it, didn’t want to look.
He knocked quietly on Janine’s door.
“Everything fits,” he whispered.
“Great.” Her voice sounded cool. Did she want him to push open the door and come in? “I’ll be down in a minute.”
Instructions clear.
Stan descended the thickly carpeted steps. In the kitchen Janine’s dad whirled amidst controlled confusion. Saucepans bubbled, pots steamed, hot oils spat and hissed while the big man poked, adjusted, fiddled with lids.
“How are you in the kitchen, Stan?” her father asked.
“Do you need any help?” Stan took his hands out of his pockets — out of Janine’s pockets — in preparation.
“This is perfectly under control. All I’m saying is a man ought to have at least one dish under his command. One never-fail. Are you a basketball player?”
Stan smiled. “I am, actually.”
“Then you know. When the heat’s on, you’re down to the last shot, the defense is tightening like a vise.” Barehanded, Janine’s dad picked up a scalding hot iron-handled frying pan. “You need something you can rely on.” He waved it like it was a badminton racket. “In the kitchen, for me, it’s chicken-leg spaghetti. I wooed Janine’s mom on it exclusively. It’s dead simple. Buy some spaghetti sauce, pour it in a pan like this, dump in the chicken legs and cook it all slowly. The secret’s in the spices. This is true for all of life, practically. Onion, of course. But garlic first. The older you get, the more you put in. Basil. I’m starting to really appreciate basil. And rosemary. Rosemary and chicken are practically a perfect marriage. Peppers — green and red, maybe a little bit of —”
The front door opened and Stan felt the draft pull him around. A woman appeared in a brilliant purple and silver headscarf and a raincoat so yellow it nearly vibrated. She had shopping bags in her hands.
“Not spaghetti chicken again!” she said. She peeled off her coat. “I told you I was handling dinner!” She squinted at Stan. “Janine, honey, what are you wearing? The dance is tonight!”
Janine’s dad walked past Stan into the hallway and wrapped the woman in his big arms.
“I’ve got dinner covered,” he said. “And this is Stan —”
She squinted again. “You’re Stan?”
Stan failed to reply, as if indeed he might be an imposter. The moment grew so awkward that Janine’s mother seemed almost forced to say, “I’m sorry. I took my contacts out in the store, they were hurting so much. I’m blind as a bat like this.”
She pushed her husband aside and hugged Stan fiercely. She was a tiny woman, mostly bone.
“Janine has a shirt exactly like yours,” she said. “Thank God she isn’t —”
Suddenly Janine was at the base of the stairs in a killer black dress with a slit up to her waist, practically, and black leggings and a big silver buckle and white cowboy boots.
She was so beautiful, Stan felt his jaw soften, his hinges melt.
Her hair really was black now, and her eyes seemed dark, dark. She didn’t look like the same girl at all.
What was she doing going out with Stan?
“I see you’ve met my mom,” Janine said.
Janine’s mother was still clenching him.
“I didn’t know he was coming for dinner,” she said. “But he’s got a good feel to him.”
—
“The main thing I tell my