Jealousy

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

For once, August showed no desire to leave when dusk came around. Instead, he settled down on the ancient flowered couch, smoking, loading clips, and staring at the television. He had it turned all the way down and a black-and-white movie played, the light flickering over every surface. I sat on the other end of the couch, folding laundry. He’d brought two big bags of it back from the laundry room downstairs, and while I was glad I didn’t have to trudge out to a Laundromat, I felt kind of weird about someone else washing my panties.

August had gone from once or twice letting me go out with him on sunny days to not letting me out of the house at all. He got takeout, or we ate omelets. I was beginning to get itchy, and if Dad hadn’t told me to stay put I would have at least snuck out on the roof at night. Just to get some air. All the movie posters on the walls were watching me with blank eyes.

There wasn’t even a plant in here. At least I could have talked to a philodendron or something. And the lack of natural light was really beginning to get me down. I’d taken to lying in front of the bedroom window, staring up and aching for some sun. But it was gray, the sky threatening snow. I was beginning to think sunshine was something I’d made up.

I held up one of August’s T-shirts. Ragged claw marks sliced the thin fabric. It was a wonder there was any shirt left. “What was this?”

“That? Oh. Just some trouble over in Manhattan.” He slid the bullets into the clip, each one going in smoothly. He didn’t have to look while he did it. His short Russian cigarette fumed in the ashtray, and I wrinkled my nose. On the screen, a very young Marlon Brando sat on a swing and fitted a girl’s white glove on his hand, looking up at a slim pretty blonde. “Got ’em cornered in a stairwell. Dark work.” August set the clip down, picked up an empty one. Muscle moved under the skin of his arm, left bare by a Rolling Stones T-shirt.

Dark work. Which meant I didn’t need to know any more. I nodded, knowing he’d see the movement in his peripheral vision. Tossed the shirt into my mending pile. He had a truly ancient Singer machine, and I’d started patching any clothes of his I could reasonably expect to. Usually T-shirt material is too thin to really repair, but I’d give it a try. At least I never had to ask twice for any supplies—he brought home exactly what I asked for every time. Except bread. He would never bring back any damn bread.

My hands moved without thought, too. I’ve folded so much laundry that I barely have to pay attention. August used a strange sort of fabric softener; it smelled lemony. “You gonna turn that up? I can’t hear it.”

“In a bit. This is not a good part for an impressionable young girl.” The last word came out as “goil.” His lips stretched in a wide, unsettling grin. If I wasn’t so used to him, I might almost have felt a moment of unease. But that was just Augie. He seemed to delight in squinching up his face in the weirdest possible ways. Just to keep things limber.

I folded a pair of his jeans. The blood had washed out just fine after some cold-water soaking. Even the greasy gunk ground into the knees had come out. Of course, it had been fresh when I got to it. “You want some coffee?” What I meant was, Are you going out tonight? But I didn’t dare ask, in case he decided to. Then I’d feel like I made him do it, and I’d wander around the tiny apartment cleaning things up or clearing a place to do some short t’ai chi. Wishing I could get out and run. Even just a trip to the corner bodega to get a pack of gum would have been fine. But no. August had stopped taking me anywhere, muttering something about smells. I was pretty sure I didn’t offend, what with a shower every day. So I didn’t ask any questions, just kept asking him to bring home a loaf of white so I could have a PBJ. I craved a PBJ like you wouldn’t believe.

I was so fricking tired of omelets.

“No thanks,” he said finally. “Staying in tonight.”

“Oh. Okay.” I found a pair of my jeans and folded them swiftly. Then one of August’s flannel shirts. I’d offered to iron them, but he got a weird look on his face and told me not to. I did some anyway, but when he came home and saw them he took the iron and put it somewhere.

Weird. But then, hunters are weird. Even Dad has his tics.

There. I’d thought about Dad. I’d never asked August when he was coming back. Sometimes a job will take awhile, right? I was sure he’d come back.

Wasn’t I?

I tried not to think about it. He’d always come back before. But . . . I was never sure, way down deep, if each time he did would be the last.

I looked at the television. For a guy with such a nice bit of plasma hardware, he didn’t watch a lot of it. When he did, it was always black-and-white movies. Why have a great TV if all you can see are shades of gray?

Someone banged on the door. My heart jumped into my throat like a jackrabbit on speed. I would have leapt to my feet, but August was already rising, grabbing his cigarette and taking one last drag before grinding it out. “Steady, princess.” He looked amused. “If there was trouble I’d be outside, leading it a chase. This is good news. I can smell it.”

Now I was folding a blue sweater. I carefully focused on the sleeves while August got the door. Please let it be him, I prayed. Please.

And then, wonder of wonders, God came through. I heard my father’s voice.

“Goddamn you, Dobrowski. Why do you have to live up three flights of stairs?” He stamped, as if his boots were full of snow.

August sounded amused. “It’s safe up here. You look like hell. Did you—”

Clipped and final. “I didn’t get him. Where’s Dru?”

August sighed. “Safe and sound. She’s obsessed with toast, of all things. Move, so I can shut the door.”

My eyes blurred. I let out a long breath, my shoulders sagging. My heart was thumping, a high hard gallop of happiness. I knew what luggage felt like at the airport the moment it was picked up, the instant familiar fingers closed on its handle.

It was Dad. He’d finally come back. He was here, and we were going to move on. Happiness filled me until I thought I would burst, and I swiped the tears away angrily. If I broke down crying he’d get That Look, like I was a weepy girl and he didn’t know what to do. But I couldn’t stop leaking. Now I could admit that I’d been afraid I would be stuck here forever.

Now it was safe.

I rolled the sweater up as if I was packing it in a box. He was here. It meant we were leaving.

I couldn’t wait.