For You

  * * * * *

  I made Colt waffles. We ate them both of us sitting on the counter. He helped me clean the kitchen, which I thought was nice until I realized he did this to delay taking a shower so he could do it with me.

  The shower we had was nicer than him helping me clean the kitchen. A lot nicer.

  We got ready for the day. This took Colt five minutes. It took me forty-five.

  We went to my apartment and got another load, leaving behind nothing but my bed, nightstands, lamps, dinette set, table and armchair. While we were in the truck with the boxes on the way home, we discussed the rest of my belongings and how it was too bad Mom bought that bed from Bud because now we had an extra one. Still, Colt figured he had enough room in his garage to store it all until we could find homes for it. I’d called my landlord and he was happy I was jumping my lease by a few months. Our town was a popular location for city commuters and retirees looking for accommodation that took less than three hours to clean so he had a waiting list.

  However, when we hauled the boxes into his house and went out to check the garage, we found Colt wasn’t correct, mostly because Mom put all the shit from his second bedroom in the garage.

  We stood staring at the stuff piled up in his garage, so much only a small amount of moving space was available.

  “I’m not a big fan of scraping ice off my car,” I commented, staring at all the crap in his garage and I felt his eyes come to me.

  “Feb, for two years, you parked under a tree.”

  I was seeing that being a detective’s girlfriend might not be as cool as I’d thought it would be, considering to be a detective you kinda had to be pretty sharp and you definitely couldn’t let anyone pull anything over on you.

  I looked up to him and replied, “Yeah, but I didn’t like it. You got a garage, we should use it. The truck won’t fit in here. My car will.”

  “It doesn’t have an electric door opener.”

  “We’ll put one in.”

  “Baby, I just put in an alarm.”

  Shit, he was saying he didn’t have the money.

  Denny Lowe was such an assface.

  “I’ll pay for it,” I declared.

  He gave me a Man Look which communicated the fact that he wasn’t a big fan of me paying for shit, seeing as I had a vagina and breasts. When we divvied up household responsibilities, his look foretold I’d get groceries, cleaning implements, clothing and linens with the odd knick knack or standing kitchen appliance thrown in. The garage was part of Man’s World, not to be touched by female hands or updated with the woman’s money.

  Then he wisely decided to let that go and tried a different tactic. “The boat’s gotta stay where it is.”

  I turned and looked out the little, high-up, square windows in his garage, which incidentally, seriously needed to be cleaned, to see the boat under the sided awning which would be a perfect fit for his truck so he didn’t have to clear snow or ice.

  My eyes moved back to Colt. “How ‘bout we build a side thingie for the boat? You can park your truck where the boat is.”

  “Maybe I didn’t mention that I got the full-on deluxe edition of an alarm,” Colt noted.

  I braved another Man Look. “I’ll pay for the side thingie too.”

  I didn’t get a Man Look because, instead, his brows snapped together before he asked, “You got that kinda cake?”

  “I moved my belongings to your house in two trips, using two cars and a truck, Colt. I go to work in t-shirts. I got a low overhead,” I pointed out. “Each month I have three CDs that mature in three different banks across the US of A.”

  “You cash in your CDs, you buy yourself a shitload of heels and a new car,” he said, or more like, decreed.

  It was then I asked the question I should not have asked. Not only was it my experience it was a useless effort to discuss clothes with men and therefore should be avoided it was also my experience you should never discuss cars with men. First, they knew more about cars than women, or more to the point, women if that woman happened to me. There were many men who even made cars a lifelong study but I, personally, couldn’t care less. Second, because they knew more and knew they knew more, men usually acted annoyingly smug when any car discussion came up. That alone was reason to avoid car discussions. Third, they tended to be right, which was the biggest reason of all to avoid such discussions.

  Even knowing all this, I asked, “What’s wrong with my car?”

  “Nothin’, ‘cept it was built during the Carter Administration.”

  Now he was pissing me off. I liked my car. Sure, it was old. Sure, it was small. Sure, it wasn’t all that attractive. But it got me from point A to point B, it had a kickass stereo and it started up every time.

  Well, most every time. It might need some coaxing on the really cold days.

  “It was not,” I defended my car.

  “Does it have airbags?” he asked.

  “No,” I answered.

  “Was it built in a time when there were airbags?” he asked.

  “No,” I answered, getting more pissed.

  “You get into a collision, baby, your compact will fold like an accordion and you’ll get stuck in that shit,” he said, looking back to the pile of stuff in his garage and the tone with which he said his next words meant he’d come to a decision. “You need a sedan.”

  Visions of me in a staid sedan, which probably had a shit stereo, flooded my head. Then I realized Lorraine owned a sedan. So did Chris Renicki’s wife, Faith. So did Drew Mangold’s wife, Cindy.

  And so had Melanie.

  My neck started itching mainly because of the heat which was collecting there, which was mainly because I was moving from pissed to pissed off.

  “We’ll talk about this later,” I said.

  He nodded and threw an arm around my shoulders, guiding me out but he did so while saying, “Soon’s this shit’s over, we’ll go to Ricky’s, look at some four doors.”

  I decided to completely ignore the words “four doors” which made my head get light and I suspected if I uttered those words my hair would turn instantly blue.

  Instead I focused on Ricky.

  Ricky Silvestri owned six different car dealerships in the county which meant Ricky had expanded the family business since when I was growing up, his Dad only owned four. Ricky was a born and bred car salesman and trained all of his employees in the art of sixty years of car salesmanship as passed down from father to son. If Colt and I walked into any one of his dealerships together, I would instantly become the invisible woman. If I walked in alone, they’d screw me three ways ‘til Tuesday.

  “I’m not getting a sedan,” I said as he closed the door to the garage.

  “I thought we were gonna talk about this later?” he asked, taking his arm from around me as he locked the garage.

  “We were, until you brought Ricky into it.”

  “Ricky’s a good man. He’ll swing us a deal.”

  Colt and I clearly had different definitions of “a good man”. I knew Ricky still played football with Morrie and Colt when they pulled together games every once in awhile. I also knew Ricky could hold his liquor and be quiet while fishing. But, from bar talk with Molly Jefferson, who was Ricky’s second wife, Theresa’s best friend, I knew he didn’t pay child support unless Theresa put out, or at the very least gave him a blowjob. Rumor had it Ricky took it hard when Theresa left him, seeing as he still loved her. Making matters worse, Theresa still loved Ricky, hence her putting out or giving head. Though she had little choice but to leave since he was screwing his secretary and everyone but Theresa knew it, until she found out.

  Since I usually kept bar talk to myself, instead of sharing any this with Colt, I said, “We’re not talkin’ us here, Colt, we’re talkin’ you. I don’t want a new car.”

  “And I’m not gonna bust my ass so you and me can survive this Denny shit and then be called to the scene of an accident and watch them cuttin’ your dead, mangled body outta that death trap you dr
ive,” he shot back.

  Yet another indication that being a cop’s girlfriend might not be as cool as I thought it would be.

  I decided, since I was forty-two years old and the time had probably come, to try and be mature.

  So I suggested, “All right, Colt, I’ll look at cars with you, not sedans and definitely not four door sedans, but we’ll have a look around if you consider helpin’ me clear out this garage, we get an electric door opener and we build on a shelter for the boat.”

  His brows collided again and he asked, “How many CDs you say you have?”

  “Nearly forty,” I answered, “but I haven’t mentioned the savings bonds.”

  His forehead cleared, he grinned and threw his arm around my shoulders again, leading me toward the house saying, “Shit, my girlfriend’s loaded.”

  I thought about it and realized I kind of was. I wasn’t a millionaire or anything but I reckoned I had enough money for a garage door opener, a shelter for the boat and to buy a new car, all of this free and clear. It would strike deep but it wouldn’t wipe me clean. There was more than enough to hold back for a rainy day even if we took a killer vacation thrown on top.

  So perhaps I hadn’t accumulated nothing in my life and actually had something to bring to the table. I had another impulse to do a cheerleader, pom pom jump but I squelched it mainly because Colt’s heavy arm was weighing me down.

  We went through the side door, hit the kitchen and I turned to Colt. “Play your cards right, baby, things could get exciting. You got a birthday comin’ up.”

  And he did, it was at the end of April, next month.

  His hand came up, fingers curling around the side of my neck and he brought me close.

  “I already know what I want for my birthday and you already bought it,” he told me.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  His head dipped so his face was close to mine. “You, in nothin’ but those black heels bent over the pool table.”

  I sucked in breath as an internal shiver rippled through my body. Something like that would forever make playing pool with Colt a delicious experience. Therefore, something like that was too good to wait for his birthday.

  I decided not to share this either as well as play it cool. “You don’t want me to wrap it up? Get a lacy teddy or something? Garters? Stockings? That kinda shit?”

  He grinned and put his mouth to mine.

  “Knock yourself out,” he said there before he kissed me.

  When he lifted his head, let me go, turned me toward the living room and smacked my ass, muttering, “Gotta get to the park,” was when I returned to thinking being a cop’s girlfriend was going to be all right.

  * * * * *

  Delilah and I sat on swings at Arbuckle Acres park while Palmer and Tuesday mostly ran around screaming since Dee had confiscated their cell phones and told them in that lovingly exasperated voice that only Moms could pull off to, “Go. Play. Be kids.”

  I personally didn’t think ten and twelve year old kids should have cell phones and neither did Dee. Unfortunately Morrie had taken them to the mall about three weeks ago and Morrie, also not thinking kids that age should have cell phones, bought them anyway because they begged for them and he was a pushover.

  The swings were a good place to be seeing as they pointed to the basketball court on which Morrie and Colt were playing one-on-one.

  It was sunny and in the upper sixties. I had on a black tank with a big, embroidered butterfly at the chest and a black, belted cardigan that went over my ass, faded jeans with a rip in the right knee and my black motorcycle boots.

  Colt had on a t-shirt, shorts and basketball shoes.

  He was dripping with sweat, breathing heavily and grinning all the while taunting Morrie, who was also dripping with sweat, breathing even heavier and still had the shiner Colt gave him. Further, Morrie was scowling and he was losing.

  “Why Morrie plays him, I’ll never know. Can’t remember the last time he took a game,” Dee muttered, her eyes glued to the men, just like me.

  Morrie was my brother and all but in a clinical, detached, sister way, I noticed not for the first time my brother was good-looking and, like my Dad, age was being kind to him. He was always a big, cuddly, handsome guy and all that remained but he was also beginning to get that look that interesting men had. The kind of men you took one look at and you knew it would not be a waste of your time to sit down and have a beer with them, or two, or three.

  Again, just like my Dad.

  In other words, Dee and I had a lot to glue our eyes to. In fact, it was a wonder Colt and Morrie, having their regular Saturday game, didn’t draw a crowd.

  I answered Dee’s question, “Because he loves bein’ anywhere and doin’ anything with Colt, even if he’s losin’.”

  She nodded because this was now and always had been an absolute fact.

  “Dee,” I called like she wasn’t swinging right beside me.

  “Yeah, hon,” she replied.

  “What made you decide to come work the bar?”

  She quit swinging for just a beat before she started again and answered, “All of this stuff happenin’, with that psycho and you and Colt and everythin’, I just got to thinkin’.”

  “Yeah?” I prompted when she stopped talking.

  “It’s stuff I been thinkin’ about awhile, just wouldn’t let my head get around it because I got pissed off first and acted on it, kickin’ Morrie out before I really ever talked to him. I was bein’ stubborn, thinkin’ I was savin’ face. But, I reckon, your parents made a go of it with that bar all their lives and Morrie, Colt and you are the best people I know. They didn’t have it any different than Morrie and me, they didn’t even have a sister who was at the bar all the time, doin’ most of the work. And they still made a go of it and raised three great kids besides. So, I thought, maybe I acted too quick and, with all this shit happening, I definitely thought life’s too damned short.”

  I nodded. She was right. Life was too damned short. I was just glad that Dee didn’t waste as much of it as me being stubborn and thinking I was saving face.

  Then, her eyes still on the boys, she changed the subject and said, “Colt’s so fast, almost a blur. You think he’ll ever slow down?”

  I watched my man move then jump, his arms up in the air, his wrists loose as he released the ball. It wasn’t a whoosh, it rolled the rim about a quarter of the way around, but it still fell in.

  To be kind to my brother, I didn’t whoop, but I wanted to.

  “You shoulda seen him play football, Dee,” I told her. “Fast and strong. Never seen anything like it. When he had the ball, if he was going, he was so fast, no one could catch him, so strong, even if they did, they couldn’t bring him down. If he bounced off another player, the crash the pads would make…” I trailed off as I heard them in my head like it was yesterday and all of a sudden memories flooded my brain.

  Colt running down the field, one hand out, one arm tucked and holding the ball; Colt dipping his shoulder, landing a blow, blocking for his runner; Colt walking to the sideline, yanking at the snaps of his chin guard then pulling off his helmet, his hair wet with sweat and a mess, his face the picture of what my father called, “in the zone”; the crash of the pads, the grunts of the players, the cheers from the stands.

  I was proud to sit with Morrie, Dad and Mom at Colt’s games at Ross-Ade Stadium at Purdue. It was cool watching Colt play college ball and it was a thrill seeing the name “Colton” on the back of his Boilermaker jersey.

  But nothing was more exciting than high school football, not back in the day and not now. The whole town went to all the home games, even me, Morrie and Colt. All bundled up, drinking hot chocolate with a shared woolly blanket on our knees, I’d sit in the stands shoulder to shoulder with Jessie and Meems and I’d see Colt standing with Morrie and Lore and half a dozen other guys at the chain link fence around the track that surrounded the field. Most of the guys shot the shit and jacked around, only partially watchi
ng the game. Not Morrie and Colt, if the ball was in play, their eyes were on the field. Not reliving glory days, no, they were on sacred ground, communing with their brethren.

  “Feb, hon, you there?” Delilah called and I tore my eyes from Colt and Morrie and looked at my sister-in-law.

  “Yeah, just…” I sighed then said, “Remembering stuff.”

  “Good stuff?” she asked quietly and it hit me then.

  I was remembering good stuff and for the first time in a long time those memories didn’t come with pain.

  “Yeah,” I said quietly back.

  She scooted to the side in her swing and reached out a hand. I scooted toward her and took it.

  “I like happy endings,” she said, tightening her hand in mine, swinging her swing a bit back and forth, keeping her feet to the ground but coming up on her toes and then going back to her heels.

  I squeezed her hand back, doing my own mini-swings, and said, “Me too.”

  Then we let go of each others’ hands, lifted our feet, the chains we were suspended from swung us sideways into place and we looked back at our men.

  * * * * *

  After Colt wupped Morrie, he drove us home while I made a mental note to bring a towel to drape on his seat in the truck. He was drenched. I’d never seen so much sweat and I grew up essentially with three men.

  Then for some insane reason, I shared this. “You need a towel for your seat.”

  “What?”

  “You’re sweaty. You need a towel for your seat.”

  “Feb, I own a truck,” was his absurd reply.

  “So?”

  “You can sweat in a truck.”

  “Is that a rule?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “You can sweat in a truck, certain vans and any car that was built before 1990. That’s the rule. You know what you can’t sweat in?”

  I knew where this was heading so I stayed silent and looked out the side window.

  He didn’t let it go which wasn’t a surprise. Colt had never been one to let anything go. Back in the day we’d argue, mostly because Colt never let anything go but also because I never let anything out. It wasn’t a good combination but we never argued mean. It was always about exasperation at each other’s understood quirks but it was also always tethered to love. Half the time we’d end an argument laughing our asses off.