Now she climbed onto Arty's high broad seat, bit her lower lip, and launched herself down the driveway. She felt perilously tall, tall and wobbly as on the top step of a ladder. She reached the street, yanked the handlebars to turn, kicked out a skinny leg for balance, and was on her way to Nassau Lane. Arty had a bum ankle and needed to go to work. The least she could do was bring him his bicycle.
The morning was cloudless; stamped tin roofs gleamed like rubbed coins and threw angled shadows that were so precise they seemed painted on the street. Doves sang on telephone wires; dogs lolled, their paws clicking on the quiet pavements; hibiscus flowers yawned themselves awake. Debbi pedaled and grew more confident, she leaned into turns and let one hand dangle jauntily at her side. She smiled as she rode; the air tickled her gums and she almost let herself imagine that maybe she was on her way to make love with Arty, this tall nice guy who asked her things about herself and remembered what she'd said.
Arty at that moment was placing his coffee mug at the edge of the bathroom sink and stepping gingerly over the low sill into the shower. Random spurts and dribbles spilled out of his corroded showerhead. Some of the water hit his flank, some clattered against the lumpy-painted stall. He soaped his armpits and sleepily hummed.
Debbi skirted the cemetery, its blockish crypts shamed by the life-drenched promise of the morning. Palm fronds swayed and lifted, revealing yellow coconuts clustered close as giant grapes. She bounced down cobblestone lanes patched with tar and recalled the feel of Arty's hands around her face. She pedaled and she teased herself by pretending, just pretending, that maybe she was bold enough to appear at Arty's door and seduce him by the light of day.
Arty was shaving in the shower. There was no mirror; the process was one of memory and guesswork. He fingered his sideburns, traced out where they ended. He stretched his upper lip to trim beneath his nostrils. He craned his neck to shave under his chin; he nicked himself above the Adam's apple and didn't even realize it.
Debbi swooped into Nassau Lane, her red hair blown back from biking, her purple leotard just slightly damp with exercise and adventure. She coasted the last twenty yards to Arty's cottage, then attempted a bravura finish to the ride: Rather than hitting the brakes, she tried to stop herself by hooking a Christmas palm with her elbow as she scudded by. It was like trying to do-si-do a partner made of stone. The front wheel jackknifed as the bicycle pivoted around the tree; Debbi hugged the trunk like a koala to keep from falling.
She took a moment to regain her dignity before going to the damaged door.
Arty was brushing his teeth in front of the bathroom mirror when he heard the knock. He'd put a piece of toilet paper on his cut neck. He'd wrapped a towel around his waist; water was still dripping down his legs. Perhaps he should have felt fear at the approach of an unexpected visitor, but fear was a habit he hadn't yet learned, and the knock did not sound sinister. He rinsed his mouth and headed toward the living room.
They saw each other through the screen.
"Hi," said Debbi, as Arty pushed open the door. "I brought your bike."
Arty was a person who woke up blank, had to reclaim his life slowly every morning. "I forgot it wasn't here," he said. "Come in. Have some coffee."
She put one foot over the threshold, hesitated. "You're not dressed."
He looked down at his towel, noticed he was still holding his toothbrush, remembered he still had toilet paper on his neck. He shrugged. She shrugged and came in anyway.
She followed him through the living room into the narrow kitchen. She looked with rueful understanding at his small coffeemaker that had dripped two humble cups, a bachelor's dose of morning brew. She watched him, the long muscles in his back, as he reached into a high cupboard and produced a chipped blue mug. Her legs were tingling, maybe from the ride; her hands felt cold and electric, perhaps the aftermath of clutching handlebars.
She said, "Arty."
She said it just as he was reaching for the coffeepot. He didn't turn toward her right away, just looked over his shoulder. Then her eyes swiveled him around. He put the cup down on the counter. For a long moment she studied him. His arms and face were tan, his body was surprisingly pale. His chest was smooth except for a little tuft of hair along his breastbone; the tuft glistened, still damp from the shower.
Her hand reached out on its own to touch it.
Arty's arms went around her and pulled her snug against him.
The Godfather woke up from a fitful sleep with a dull headache so evenly diffused across his skull that it seemed it must have been spreading all his life. His temples surged with tiny tides; thumbs seemed to be pressing on his eyeballs. The soft pillow felt cruel against the back of his head; there was grit, corrosion, in the knob at the top of his spine.