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“Don’t indoctrinate my child about capitalism,” Ruthie calls out as Izzy opens the door to her bedroom.
I think but don’t say, Someone needs to indoctrinate you about capitalism.
I’ve heard enough about her bookmobile scheme from Danny to know it’s not going to make her squat unless she makes some changes, but she always accuses me of being overbearing and holier than thou art, and after a while a guy knows when he’s beat. Still, I’m smiling as I pad into the little room after Izzy, taking in the glow lights strung up around the canopy of the bed and the framed drawings on the wall—Izzy’s work. They’re probably better than anything I could sketch, and I say so.
“That’s not really true, Uncle Shane. You don’t have to treat me like a baby.”
“I’d never.”
She climbs into bed and points to the book on her nightstand, which looks like it’s at least a hundred pages long. “There it is. Mom lies next to me and uses that lamp to read. Can you do that?”
There’s definitely not room for a six-foot-tall man to lie down in her bed, so I say, “How about I sit on the ground next to you?”
“That wouldn’t be comfortable,” she says reasonably. “It’s kind of a long book. Why don’t you sit on my rainbow poof?”
She points to a puffy bag that looks like a rainbow swallowed a dog, so I pull it over and sit on it. The book is ninety percent pictures, thank God, but it still takes me fifteen or maybe twenty minutes to read it. By the time I’m done, Izzy’s eyes are heavy, and the sight of her snuggled up in bed brings back that warm feeling. “You get to sleep now, sweetheart,” I say, leaning in to kiss her forehead.
“Why’d you really come here tonight, Uncle Shane?”
“Because I wanted to see you and your momma.” It may not be the truth, the full truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God, but it’s not altogether false. Danny and Ruthie are grounding to me. They remind me of who I was—not an altogether comfortable reminder, but occasionally a necessary one.
“Goodnight,” Izzy says sweetly, and I shut off the lamp and leave her room to find Ruthie pacing the living room.
“Is she going to sleep?” she asks in a low voice. Her whole body seems to be humming with nerves, and without thinking about it, I reach out and run a hand down her arm. It’s an unconscious gesture, but it gives me a heightened awareness of her. Of her surprised look and the way her breath is coming out more quickly than usual. Of the softness of the sweatshirt and how much softer her skin would be beneath if I peeled it off. I shake off the thought. I may be physically drawn to her, and possibly her to me, but a physical connection can be found between any two people who find each other pleasing to look at.
“Yes,” I say, “her eyes were heavy. She’s probably already out.”
“Thank you, Shane.”
She hasn’t said that to me for years, maybe even decades, and the way she’s looking at me makes me feel like pulling her closer. Something weird is going on with me, no question. So I decide I’d better get the fuck out of here before things go farther south.
“You’re welcome. Well.” I clap my hands, and immediately feel like a blowhard. It would have tracked better if I were still wearing my suit and not these Brady Bunch pajamas. I clear my throat. “I’m going to go.”
She blinks at me, then nods. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best.” Flower, lying by the couch, gives a little whine like she’d prefer it if I could stay for more torment.
I slide my coat on and take the bag with the soiled suit. “I’ll be talking to you soon, Ruthie. Flower.”
“Can’t wait,” Ruthie jabs, but the words lack any of her usual heat.
I smile at her, then say, “Take it easy, kid,” because she’ll love that. Before she can do more than scowl, I head out the door for real. I feel a little lighter than I did when I arrived, which is ludicrous since my very expensive suit is covered in dog urine, and I’m wearing pajamas and a peacoat. Then again, I’ve solved my little problem, and I have a job.
A job.
The past couple of months have been interminable. Unacceptable. But I’ve finally found an escape, a way to turn the path ahead in the direction I need it to go.
Working for the legal beagle isn’t a permanent solution, but it’s something, and something is a hell of a lot better than nothing. It’s a stepping stone on the way to being myself again.
It doesn’t surprise me the slightest bit when the door to the apartment across the way opens the second I exit Ruthie’s place.
“There’s a dog in there,” Mrs. Longhorn says, pointing a withered finger at me. “I know a bark when I hear it.”
I make a mental note to call the apartment complex in the morning and settle the dog issue for Ruthie. She may think she can buy herself time by disguising the dog as a child or stuffing it into a bag or whatever plan she’s come up with, but she’s only fooling herself.
The old lady’s eyes widen as she takes in the sight of my-slash-Danny’s pajamas. “You went in there on a mission of sin.”
Interestingly enough, her tone is not disapproving.
I hold back an “I wish” and instead lift the bag holding my sodden suit. “Actually, ma’am, I’m embarrassed to admit that I made that sound when I pissed myself. Ruthie was kind enough to give me some pajamas she’d bought for her brother so I wouldn’t be embarrassed. But you caught me in the lie. I’ve had an overactive bladder since I was a kid. Can’t help myself. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to anyone.”
