in,” she said again, emphatically. Behind her, standing in the tiny hall at the doors to the apartment’s bathroom and bedrooms, was the boy who owned the dog. He was holding a pair of slacks in one hand, barefoot on the wood floor, wearing boxer shorts and brushing his hundred dollar haircut back with his hand, looking at Bailey, who didn’t really know what to do.
Bailey stepped inside and the air conditioning hit him full force. The dog loped back to the blond boy. The boy put his pants on.
Claire, having added a pale blue oxford shirt, tried to shake off Bailey’s stare, looked away, looked back, then again, the same gesture, and failing, started talking.
“Oh stop. It’s the middle of the night and you have come to my place ostensibly to return some money at—” She checked the clock on the microwave on the kitchen counter, squinting. “—at four forty-five a.m., which is not really banking hours, you know, after failing to appear at a dinner at which you agreed to appear and which was bought and cooked as per agreement, if you know what I mean. So stop fucking staring at me.”
“I think you’d just better go,” the boy said.
“Dave,” Claire said, and shot a glance at him.
“Okay,” he said.
“This is Bailey Long,” she said. “My old flame. Love of my former life. Bailey, Dave Boyette, my fiancé.” She slid up on a barstool beside the counter.
“Hi,” Bailey said, and then to Claire, “We ran into each other yesterday.”
Davey
, he thought, still trying to assemble the pieces of the situation into something coherent. The old man called him “Davey.” “Somebody put a cat in my car,” he said, and then he thought, She won’t get that, that doesn’t make any sense at all. “It’s a long story,” he said. “This kid carries a gun, did you know that? It’s in his car? It’s one thing to hang around with teenagers, but
armed
teenagers?”
“Look—” Dave began, but this time Claire only had to look at him. He sighed. “Okay,” he said.
“Bailey, this is Dave Boyette. My fiancé,” she said, and wiggled her toes in her sock, pointing. “The one I told you about.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t take you seriously,” Bailey said.
“You probably should have,” the boy said, advancing into the front room for the first time, passing between Bailey and Claire and walking around the counter into the kitchen, taking a new tack. “Do you want a beer or something? Pepsi?” His dog came with him, shy of Bailey, settling on a throw rug near Claire’s feet.
She slid off the bar stool. “Well, if we’re going to have … conversation,” she said, “I’ll feel more comfortable with some clothes on. I’ll be a minute. You boys can start over, how about?” she said, and walked back into the bedroom.
“She’s a great lady,” Dave said, breaking the silence. “You want something?”
“Beer. A beer,” Bailey said. He sat at the table off thekitchen by the front window and took the money out of his shirt pocket, set the roll in front of him and counted off eight hundred dollar bills, his debt. “Listen, I’m sorry about the other afternoon. It really wasn’t my cat.”
“So you’re the big gambler,” Dave said. He handed a bottle over to Bailey and took a chair across from him. “I go down there sometimes.”
“No, I’m a department store salesman who plays too much blackjack,” Bailey said, looking around for Claire.
“What’s all that?”
“Money,” Bailey said.
“I could tell that much.” Dave sat back in his chair. “You’re making this harder than it has to be, you know? I’m trying to get along, and I really don’t have any reason to.”
Bailey settled his head in his hand and shook it gently. This must be what it comes to, he thought. Sitting here sick at your stomach, getting advice about life from a teenager. This is how you pay for rank stupidity, for slovenliness, for falling a little short at everything your whole life long.
He
Bailey stepped inside and the air conditioning hit him full force. The dog loped back to the blond boy. The boy put his pants on.
Claire, having added a pale blue oxford shirt, tried to shake off Bailey’s stare, looked away, looked back, then again, the same gesture, and failing, started talking.
“Oh stop. It’s the middle of the night and you have come to my place ostensibly to return some money at—” She checked the clock on the microwave on the kitchen counter, squinting. “—at four forty-five a.m., which is not really banking hours, you know, after failing to appear at a dinner at which you agreed to appear and which was bought and cooked as per agreement, if you know what I mean. So stop fucking staring at me.”
“I think you’d just better go,” the boy said.
“Dave,” Claire said, and shot a glance at him.
“Okay,” he said.
“This is Bailey Long,” she said. “My old flame. Love of my former life. Bailey, Dave Boyette, my fiancé.” She slid up on a barstool beside the counter.
“Hi,” Bailey said, and then to Claire, “We ran into each other yesterday.”
Davey
, he thought, still trying to assemble the pieces of the situation into something coherent. The old man called him “Davey.” “Somebody put a cat in my car,” he said, and then he thought, She won’t get that, that doesn’t make any sense at all. “It’s a long story,” he said. “This kid carries a gun, did you know that? It’s in his car? It’s one thing to hang around with teenagers, but
armed
teenagers?”
“Look—” Dave began, but this time Claire only had to look at him. He sighed. “Okay,” he said.
“Bailey, this is Dave Boyette. My fiancé,” she said, and wiggled her toes in her sock, pointing. “The one I told you about.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t take you seriously,” Bailey said.
“You probably should have,” the boy said, advancing into the front room for the first time, passing between Bailey and Claire and walking around the counter into the kitchen, taking a new tack. “Do you want a beer or something? Pepsi?” His dog came with him, shy of Bailey, settling on a throw rug near Claire’s feet.
She slid off the bar stool. “Well, if we’re going to have … conversation,” she said, “I’ll feel more comfortable with some clothes on. I’ll be a minute. You boys can start over, how about?” she said, and walked back into the bedroom.
“She’s a great lady,” Dave said, breaking the silence. “You want something?”
“Beer. A beer,” Bailey said. He sat at the table off thekitchen by the front window and took the money out of his shirt pocket, set the roll in front of him and counted off eight hundred dollar bills, his debt. “Listen, I’m sorry about the other afternoon. It really wasn’t my cat.”
“So you’re the big gambler,” Dave said. He handed a bottle over to Bailey and took a chair across from him. “I go down there sometimes.”
“No, I’m a department store salesman who plays too much blackjack,” Bailey said, looking around for Claire.
“What’s all that?”
“Money,” Bailey said.
“I could tell that much.” Dave sat back in his chair. “You’re making this harder than it has to be, you know? I’m trying to get along, and I really don’t have any reason to.”
Bailey settled his head in his hand and shook it gently. This must be what it comes to, he thought. Sitting here sick at your stomach, getting advice about life from a teenager. This is how you pay for rank stupidity, for slovenliness, for falling a little short at everything your whole life long.
He
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