upstairs and bring your tired old aunt a beer. After three hours of hearing those people whining about it, I need a drink.” She removes her coat and shakes it as though she were provoking a bull. “Goddamn, those alcoholics can smoke — quit drinking so they can turn around and die from cancer. I leave those meetings with my clothes stinking like they’re woven from cigarette butts.” She takes a seat on my mother’s folding chair, spreading the coat over herself like a bib. “Are you people cold or is it just me? Jesus, it’s cold in here. No wonder you can’t keep a tenant. Dale, did I ask you for a beer or did I not?” I love to make her ask me at least twice as it always makes the request sound more desperate: booze, booze, booze, booze. The longest I’ve held out is five times.
“Dale, go on now, get your aunt a beer,” my mother says.
I give Margery my “I have seen you naked” look, but, as always, it has no effect. She studies her coat for lint and says, “Did you hear your mother?” Margery is under the impression that I was set upon this earth to act as her personal slave. This time though, I don’t mind.
On my way out the door I grab my mother’s smock off the kitchen counter. I wait until I’m in the upstairs bathroom and then I remove the pictures from the pocket. There are three of them, Polaroids. One is a picture of Nick standing proud and naked against a paneled wall. His stomach catches the light. It is pale, covered with thick black hair and it stands out, like some-thing held before him. He’s got a drink in one hand and is using the other to point at his flaccid penis, as if it were not a part of himself but some rare, exotic creature briefly resting between his legs. In another picture I see his short, ringed fingers petting a woman’s breast. In the third I find a washed-out, horrified woman sitting naked upon an orange bedspread, waving her arms and trying to stop this from happening. The picture is blurred but I identify the woman as Elaine Petrakis, the hostess over at The Golden Key, the restaurant where Nick worked as a cook. I fan the pictures before my face and cast them into the sink, pretending to care. It’s a bit like trying to force yourself to vomit. I look up into the mirror and wail, “Nick, Nick how could you?” My face looks best when it is screwed into an expression of turmoil — in repose my features tend to come across as flat, like a face painted upon a plate. I examine my tortured self in the mirror and I like what I see — a guy who hurts, who really cares. “Nicky, how could you do this to me? Especially with Elaine Petrakis, the hostess, that same hostess who smiled my way every time I snuck into the restaurant to see you. Nick, you son of a goddamned bitch, don’t you know that I love you?”
I force myself to cry and admire the tears upon my cheeks. I watch in the mirror as my hand moves, broadcasting the sorrow across my face. “I loved you. Sweet Jesus, I loved you so much. Hold me. Just hold me.”
The perfect moment suddenly turns sour and I find myself embarrassed at the sight of myself. I didn’t love him. I do not feel betrayed by the photographs. Rather, I find myself thinking of that squirrel in his freezer, of squirrels baking away in that oven of his, and I say, “Nick, how could you? Why didn’t any-body tell me?” To eat squirrels that the cat dragged in that’s sick. And to think I ever even thought about kissing him! I mean, I might allow Popeye to lick my face every now and then, but that’s different. Popeye only caught the squirrels, he never ate them.
“Nick Papanides,” I say, spitting into the sink. “Let me tell you a little something, Mister. You can rot in Hell for all I care. You can. . .” I watch my saliva clinging to the rim of the basin and wonder where the bubbles come from. Is that air or are we all naturally carbonated? If Nick were to appear before me right this moment I might ask him that question
“Dale, go on now, get your aunt a beer,” my mother says.
I give Margery my “I have seen you naked” look, but, as always, it has no effect. She studies her coat for lint and says, “Did you hear your mother?” Margery is under the impression that I was set upon this earth to act as her personal slave. This time though, I don’t mind.
On my way out the door I grab my mother’s smock off the kitchen counter. I wait until I’m in the upstairs bathroom and then I remove the pictures from the pocket. There are three of them, Polaroids. One is a picture of Nick standing proud and naked against a paneled wall. His stomach catches the light. It is pale, covered with thick black hair and it stands out, like some-thing held before him. He’s got a drink in one hand and is using the other to point at his flaccid penis, as if it were not a part of himself but some rare, exotic creature briefly resting between his legs. In another picture I see his short, ringed fingers petting a woman’s breast. In the third I find a washed-out, horrified woman sitting naked upon an orange bedspread, waving her arms and trying to stop this from happening. The picture is blurred but I identify the woman as Elaine Petrakis, the hostess over at The Golden Key, the restaurant where Nick worked as a cook. I fan the pictures before my face and cast them into the sink, pretending to care. It’s a bit like trying to force yourself to vomit. I look up into the mirror and wail, “Nick, Nick how could you?” My face looks best when it is screwed into an expression of turmoil — in repose my features tend to come across as flat, like a face painted upon a plate. I examine my tortured self in the mirror and I like what I see — a guy who hurts, who really cares. “Nicky, how could you do this to me? Especially with Elaine Petrakis, the hostess, that same hostess who smiled my way every time I snuck into the restaurant to see you. Nick, you son of a goddamned bitch, don’t you know that I love you?”
I force myself to cry and admire the tears upon my cheeks. I watch in the mirror as my hand moves, broadcasting the sorrow across my face. “I loved you. Sweet Jesus, I loved you so much. Hold me. Just hold me.”
The perfect moment suddenly turns sour and I find myself embarrassed at the sight of myself. I didn’t love him. I do not feel betrayed by the photographs. Rather, I find myself thinking of that squirrel in his freezer, of squirrels baking away in that oven of his, and I say, “Nick, how could you? Why didn’t any-body tell me?” To eat squirrels that the cat dragged in that’s sick. And to think I ever even thought about kissing him! I mean, I might allow Popeye to lick my face every now and then, but that’s different. Popeye only caught the squirrels, he never ate them.
“Nick Papanides,” I say, spitting into the sink. “Let me tell you a little something, Mister. You can rot in Hell for all I care. You can. . .” I watch my saliva clinging to the rim of the basin and wonder where the bubbles come from. Is that air or are we all naturally carbonated? If Nick were to appear before me right this moment I might ask him that question
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