Florida Straits(3)

But Joey was not to be deflected. "Yeah, people'll look around and say, "Look at this crummy apartment I live in. It's got one stupid window that looks out at an airshaft. It's got one radiator that hisses like a mother and drips rusty water onna floor. It's so small my girlfriend can hardly fit her behind between the bed and the mirror.' Am I right, Sandra, am I right?"

"Look," she said, "the apartment's a dump. Who's arguing? You wanna move to Park Avenue, I'm ready. But Joey, people don't turn their whole lives upside down because they have a small bedroom."

"Maybe they should. It isn't like their lives are so terrific right side up."

Sandra was putting on lipstick. She tried to talk and got some on her teeth. "Joey," she finally said, "maybe life isn't supposed to be terrific."

"No? Then what's it supposed to be?"

"You know. Like O.K., organized, decent. Regular."

Joey put his coffee mug on the nightstand, sat up in bed, and hugged his knees. "Nah," he said at last. "Just decent? Just regular? Nah, I can't buy that. Besides, Sandra, can we be a little honest here? I don't believe that's really what you want either. Because if it was, you'd be a jackass to be with me, and I don't think you're a jackass. I'm never gonna be a working stiff, you know that. A regular guy hoping for a ten-dollar raise? I'd slit my goddamn wrists. I gotta do things the way I gotta do 'em."

"That's fine for you, Joey. But what about me?" Sandra turned to face him. She had thin bluish skin that flushed salmon pink in the cold, the heat, or the wind, and now a rise in blood pressure was making her cheeks gleam through her makeup. "I realize this is hard for you to grasp, but I feel pretty good about things the way they are. I don't mind it here. And I like my job."

"So you'll get another job," he said. "They have banks in Florida."

There was a certain expression, not severe, exactly, but immovable, that came onto Sandra's face at moments when she realized that a double helping of practicality was required of her. "You sure it's that easy?" she said.

Joey wasn't sure, it showed in his face. Sandra pressed her advantage. She squared her shoulders and straightened the placket of her blouse. "Besides, I like being able to say, 'I'm your Anchor banker.' I like the sound of it. I like the prestige."

"What prestige? Sandra, you're a teller at a drive- up window in Rego Park."

"And what the hell is wrong with that?"

Joey held up his hands as if fending off a punch. "Nothing's wrong with it. It's terrific. It's great. But don't make it sound, ya know, like I'm asking you to throw away a career in high finance."

"No," Sandra said, "all you're asking me to do is throw away the only job I've got, leave my friends, drop out of accounting class for like the third time already. And I'm supposed to do all this just because you've got something to prove to your father and brother?"

Joey let his hands fall so that they slapped against his thighs. He pushed a noisy breath past his gums and shook his head. "First of all, Sandra, he's my half brother. Second of all, this has nothing to do with them."

Sandra crossed her arms and leaned back against the dresser. Her mouth curled into what would have been a smirk except that her light eyes softened at the same time. "Joey, I thought we were being honest here. Let's face it—everything you do has to do with them."

Joey pursed his lips and looked down at the creases in the blanket, the way they fanned out, then flattened. He reached for his coffee mug and took a few seconds to hide his face in it and think. But Sandra went on before he'd come up with anything to say.

"Listen, Joey, I'm late. I'll think about it."

She slipped into a fuzzy white cardigan and sidled around the bed to give Joey a kiss. She was in the doorway when she turned and spoke again. "Joey, lemme ask you something. I know better than to look for any promises from you. O.K. But you're asking me to drop everything and move to Florida. Will you at least admit that that's like a serious thing to ask somebody to do?"

Joey absently smoothed the creases in the blanket. For a moment it seemed harder to answer the question than it would be to sit there sipping coffee until Sandra left, then quietly pack a bag and go away without her. Then he pictured the empty front seat of his car. "Yeah," he said softly.

"Yeah what?" Sandra pressed.

Joey looked down at his feet under the blue blanket. The radiator started to hiss and a drop of rusty water plopped into the pie plate that Sandra had put underneath the valve. "Yeah, it's like serious."





— 3 —

On the long ride south on Interstate 95, Joey Gold-man's 1973 Eldorado convertible burned five quarts of oil, drank up two hundred and thirty gallons of gas, and blew a right rear tire next to a water tank that said Lumberton, N.C. While putting on the spare, Joey tore a fingernail and spent the rest of the day trying to nibble it back into shape. It was the sort of thing you could do on cruise control.