‘Okay?’ Mr Tidmarsh asks Jacko, on his way out. ‘See you Monday?’
‘Yup. Monday.’
Jacko pulls on his V-neck. He’s never seen the point in keeping good clothes for special occasions. His dad did that, and see where it got him. A life in slob clothes, and a brand-new suit for the coffin. Billie finishes her typing. Loops her sweater around her shoulders, puts on some lipstick. Squints at herself in her compact, as if she’s alone.
‘Bye,’ she says nonchalantly to Jacko, and sails past his desk.
‘Bye.’ He clicks his new briefcase shut carefully, as if there’s something important inside, and follows her down the stairs to the street into the February sun. A wall of light and cool air. She stands on the sidewalk outside, putting a cigarette in her mouth. Without saying anything, as if they’ve known each other for years, Jacko pulls out his Zippo and flicks it under her cigarette. She smiles her thanks, and inhales. They are almost the same height, so their faces are near. They don’t look at each other. She begins to walk away, giving him a little wave. He lights his own cigarette, heads in the other direction, then quickly swivels and follows her. He has to walk fast. When he is a little ahead, he turns to face her and walking backwards, says, ‘Hey, what you doing for dinner? You like Chinese?’
Billie doesn’t stop walking, just half smiles, pityingly. He’s spunky, have to give him that. Poor guy. Dumped last week, she bets. He reads her look, almost says: Hey, just kidding. Instead says:
‘Could have a few drinks first. It’s early. We could go to North Beach. Vesuvio. There’s always some good music on Friday nights. Some great sax player’s been there every Friday this month.’
‘Oh, no thanks. I’m meeting someone.’
Something alerts him to something unpleasantly familiar. What is it? Her vowels? Her way of walking, slightly flat-footed? But she’s wearing very classy shoes, and she’s not wearing her hair in bangs. He notices things like this. No, she’s not a bit like the farm girls he grew up with in Sonoma. There is nothing wrong with this girl.
‘You got a date?’
‘Yeah!’ She laughs a little. Of course a date!
So he smiles crookedly, hoping his smile hints at a wealth of untold jokes. Jokes she’ll never hear now, the stupid girl. He boldly gives her the once over and says:
‘Well, have fun then!’
He turns on his heels and leaves her in his wake. Strides down Market Street. The sun is glinting off the sidewalk, even the bubble gum glows. The whole place is exploding in light. Billie’s hair, glinting gold. Goddammit! If he were in private, he would hit himself hard. Damn, damn, damn. Nothing like starting a weekend by making a fool of himself. He takes a deep breath and expels the humiliation. He’s Jacko MacAlister, goddammit. No girl is going to ruin his Friday night.
Billie, meanwhile, strides along a few more seconds, oblivious to everything but the loveliness of the evening, the prospect of her date later, the compliment of that new boy asking her out. Then she glances up to see him about to disappear round the corner of Pine Street, into the shadow of the Bank of America building. Lean, neat, an easy athletic gait, arms swinging like a man undefeated. Into the shadows he goes, and his shoulders are half gone, and his torso and legs too. A beat of a second more, and he will not be visible.
‘Hey!’ she shouts, but he is too far to hear.
Then she begins to run because something inside is lurching towards him, as if the sight of him is something she cannot live without. No idea why, or what she’ll say to him if she catches him. And when she opens her mouth to shout to him again, he turns around with a look of pure smart-ass delight.
JACK MAKES HOT CHOCOLATE FOR MILLY
SIXTY-THREE YEARS LATER
Tuesday July 31 2014
San Miguel, Marin County 8.34am
Jack MacAlister sat at the table taking pills. Statins, of course, for his cholesterol. And blah blah blah for his blah blah blah. So many pills he had to concentrate and order his throat to swallow, not regurgitate.
‘Jack!’
Jack kept swallowing pills, squinting at labels.
‘Jack! Jack!’
‘What? What is it?’ he growled. He’d been in a bad mood for so long, he couldn’t remember not wanting to strangle his wife. And he did love her, he did, damn it. Not that he often told her straight-faced. Here she came now, he could hear, he could even feel the vibrations of her clanking mechanical progress down the hall. The sight of her oppressed him for all sorts of reasons. She was not a pretty sight, with those continence things poking out of the top of her pyjama bottoms, and the stink of urine and today – yes, a whiff of shit. Her hair (no longer butter yellow – when had she stopped dying it?) was scraped into a ponytail tied with a rubber band. Her breasts were clearly visible when she leant over, because the top button popped off long ago and neither of them cared enough to find someone to sew it back on. There they swung, sad empty sacks.
‘Have you let the dogs out, Jack? I haven’t seen King since breakfast, and you know Jaspy could be anywhere.’
Her voice was cranky too. Her husband was so lazy, so selfish. He didn’t care about anyone but himself. Mister I’m-all-right-Jack! Look at him, just sitting there in his boxers and T-shirt, having breakfast while the dogs were God knows where. You could see his balls, for pity’s sake! Disgusting old man.
‘The dogs are dead,’ said Jack with some satisfaction.
‘Oh!’ said Milly, remembering with a thump. ‘Darn it!’
‘The dogs died ages ago, darling.’ And then, as if to punish her: ‘Jaspy was hit by a car and dragged half a block. King was put to sleep. Cancer.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Well. They were old.’ He felt guilt at her stricken face. Also, weirdly, genuine grief. Weird, because he’d hated the damn dogs. Hair everywhere, middle of the night barking, and a cloud of dog stink every time he opened the car door. The dogs had always been hers, not his. A series of drooling parasites dating back to the time Milly had been Billie; his terrible crime had somehow entitled her to dogs. Hell! But he felt momentarily close to tears, remembering the dogs and the way they used to act so glad to see him every time he came in the front door, even if he’d just been to the garage. And, oh no, here came actual tears, washing down his cheeks. The doctor had warned him to expect mood swings and tearfulness. Strokes make you cry like a baby. Though he’d never credited his own crying babies with a genuine reason to cry, now he wondered.
‘Oh dear, dear, dear,’ fussed Milly. ‘I knew the dogs were dead!’ Then, frowning: ‘Are you crying again? Silly boy. Cut it out, Jack,’ she said softly, as she moved noisily to the kitchen.
The tears obeyed; as quickly as they’d welled, they vanished. He went back to his pill popping. An idea occurred to him, while she and her whiff moved past. He held his head still to prevent the idea from sloshing out his ears, nose or mouth. He wasn’t sure how his thoughts leaked out, but those were the obvious places.
‘Jack.’
‘What?’ Irritated again.
‘What day is it, Jack?’
‘Monday,’ he replied with grim authority, and he glanced at the wall calendar automatically – before he retired, that used to work. One glance and he’d instantly known what day he was in, but what was the point of a calendar now? There were no recent or imminent events, like work meetings or parties, to anchor him to one particular day. He looked at the Chronicle and saw that today was actually Tuesday, but he didn’t correct himself. She’d never know, or if she did, she’d forget in three seconds. Who cared what day it was, anyway?
More than ever, he felt time was the problem. He was leaking not just thoughts, but time, and his life was in disarray as a result. His desk was littered with overdue bills, but hadn’t he just signed the checks to pay them yesterday? Perhaps it was not just himself becoming less solid and certain; perhaps the entire universe was slowly slipping its moorings, like the time his sailboat drifted from the dock into the bay. Perhaps time itself had run amok. That was more bearable, so he held on to this image. A sinking ship meant they were all in the same boat. Lots of company. Good.
‘Monday. Good. A beautiful day!’ she announced, flicking the kitchen venetian blinds open by turning each individual slat. Like the missing pyjama button, this had become normal. They used to talk about repairing or even replacing the blinds.
