Sunburn(82)

She yanked in a quick breath, bit her lower lip, pulled her eyes away. Shame and frustration scraped at her insides. She thought about how hard it was to change a life, how tough to escape the old neighborhood. The neighborhood—she used to think it was made of buildings and street signs and fire hydrants; now she understood it was really built of old mistakes, old humiliations, everything that marked you, if only in your own mind, everything that shrank your world and held you back. "Arty, I guess I should have told you. There's been so little time—"

"It doesn't have to matter," Arty said, hoping to his soul he meant it. "It's just that—"

"I want to tell you about it," Debbi said.

"I've got no right to ask."

She reached up, grabbed her red hair in her fists. "These secrets! These fucking secrets, Arty. They're really not worth going crazy over. . . . Listen, I have a long sad history of picking Mr. Wrong. Maybe a shrink could tell me why I did it, maybe it's just the guys I met. Ya know, neighborhood guys. A year or so ago I dated a guy named Mikey. Seemed nice at first. They all do, right? Well it turns out he's a lunatic, a cokehead, a major dealer. A couple of months, I do the typical stupid thing, I try to look the other way. Then finally I've had enough, I go over to his place to break it off, and that's the day he's busted. He's away for five years.

Me, no record, never done anything worse than playing hookey, I get probation. Lady judge. She says to me, 'Miss Martini, I think you're innocent. I could let you off, but I don't think I'd be doing you a favor. Probation'll give you a reason to think a little harder.' "

"So you fall in with Gino," Arty could not help saying.

Debbi sighed. "Stupid. I know. But it's not like he said, 'Hi, I'm Mafia, wanna go out?' You don't know at first. By the time ya find out, you're a little bit involved—"

Arty touched her hand. "You don't have to go on with this."

She looked down at the place where they were touching. Loss washed over her like clammy water, she felt it far more intensely than before he'd reached for her, when they'd been separate, guarded. "You don't wanna see me anymore," she said. It was not a question.

"I didn't say that."

She looked off at the water. There were no waves, but small ripples collapsed on the shore and made a soft boiling sound against the rocky sand. "Arty, don't do anything against Vincente because of me. Promise. I couldn't live with that. I made mistakes, I'll pay for them."

"But—"

She shushed him with a long finger placed against his lips. "Maybe you should take me home now."

He looked at her. Her face was soft, the big eyes chastened, the mouth pouting with the knowing irony of someone watching a chance go by, a dream become a perfect absence. He looked at her, and for an instant he imagined that what he felt was merely pity; it was his own loss masquerading as compassion. Then he understood with throat-closing clarity that her chance to change her life was his own best chance as well, her winning-through his own best stretch toward the high victory called happiness. He took her face in his hands and kissed her. Her surprised mouth was not ready to be kissed, the pout ripened to passion only slowly. "Home with me?"

She didn't answer for a moment, then nodded a yes against his neck. Buoyant on the wing of second chances, they headed toward the cottage where Gino waited, his pistol in his lap.





46


"Yeah, I think about dat sometimes," said Bo the philosophic thug. "In a vague kinda way, I mean. Gettin' old. Feelin' useless. Like ya can't do duh things ya useta do, everything's an effort. Mus' be a bitch. What the fuck can ya do about it?"

"Ain't nothin' ya can do about it," said Bert the Shirt. His half-blind shedding dog was in his lap, twitching in and out of sleep. The silent television threw random splats of color around the room.

Bo squirmed, plucked at his trousers, seemed to be trying to rearrange his guts, get his tubing at a different angle. "Like Pretty Boy," he said. "My partner. He don't think about it. He don't think about nothin'. Sometimes I think he's better off. 'Course, he's all fucked up wit' drugs."

Bert nodded.

Bo winced, just slightly; the spasm made the scarred side of his face hike up like a rising curtain. His pants squeaked as he shifted on the vinyl couch, then he said with delicacy, "You'll be OK a coupla minutes, Bert? I gotta go ta duh bat'room."

Certain things the old man could do as well as ever, maybe better. He kept his voice gruff and natural, his long face perfectly composed. "Sure," he said. "I'll do the dishes."

Bo rose, a little gingerly. Bert got up with him and headed for the kitchen.