Crazy for You

  They’d done it other places, too. Like in her bedroom while her mother slept next door; Debbie had been at a slumber party and Darla had whispered, “I want a party, too,” and Max had climbed a tree and almost killed himself getting in her window. And in the backseat of Max’s old clunker, a hundred times it seemed like, although it couldn’t have been more than a couple dozen, really. Even in the front seat of the station truck once. They’d taken it to the drive-in because the seat was higher, they could see better, and then they’d only seen the first half of the first movie. Hours, she thought. We touched each other for hours. It had been the first time she’d come, the first time she thought, I get it, the first time she’d realized why girls were dumb enough to get pregnant because you’d take chances for that kind of glory.

  She could really see her nipples now, poking against the chiffon, and she wanted him so much she was breathless with it.

  Which was when she realized he wasn’t coming in the bathroom.

  She opened the door into a pitch-dark bedroom. “Max?” she said and walked cautiously to the bed in the light from the bathroom, trying not to trip over anything that might be in her path. “Max?”

  She turned on the bedside light. He was stretched out on top of the duvet, his handsome face slack in complete unconsciousness.

  “Max?” She crawled on the bed and shook him a little. “Honey?”

  He took a deep breath in stages, almost sighs, and she realized from seventeen years of sleeping with him that he was out cold. Even if she managed to wake him up, he’d just blink at her; he’d still be asleep, really.

  This was what she got for waiting until bedtime.

  Of course, when she didn’t wait for bedtime, he was horrified. Just like that damn Bill.

  She was so mad, she punched him in the shoulder, and he frowned, but he didn’t wake up.

  She let herself fall back onto the bed beside with a scream of frustration, but that didn’t wake him up, either.

  Nothing was going to wake him up. Not even the trump for the second coming.

  Just thinking about coming made her furious all over again, so she punched him one more time, then crawled under the covers to put herself to sleep.

  Saturday morning, Darla got out of bed, and Max peered at her blearily as she headed for the bathroom.

  “What are you wearing?” he said, still half asleep, sounding vaguely interested.

  “Nothing you’ll ever see again,” she said and slammed the bathroom door.

  Seven

  When Carl Brookner called Quinn from the bank later that Saturday morning, she was sitting at her island counter on one of her new white counter stools eating her breakfast pancakes in her house—her house—while her dog sat at her feet hoping patiently for leftovers, rolling in the whole experience and loving it. This was all hers, all this sunshine and comfort and freedom and polished wood, a place to make new plans and begin new adventures. Like Nick. She was going to have to get a lot more aggressive about Nick—

  Then the phone rang and when she answered, Carl Brookner said, “Ms. McKenzie? There’s a problem with your loan. I’m afraid we’re going to need twenty percent down instead of ten.”

  Quinn stood stunned for a moment. “That’s another seven thousand dollars. Why—”

  “Right,” Brookner said. “We’re holding your check for the first seven thousand until the closing on April fifteenth, of course, so you can bring the rest by then. You know how it is, with you being a single woman and all. We just need a little more up front.”

  But I don’t have it. Quinn hung up, feeling scared and guilty. This was what messing with banks did to you: made you feel inadequate and poor. She looked around her sunny kitchen. And vulnerable. Last week this time she hadn’t known she wanted this house. Now she was terrified she’d lose it.

  She picked up the phone and dialed Darla, ready to dump her troubles, but Darla got to hers first.

  “You can have your nightgown back,” she said as soon as she heard Quinn’s voice.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “He was so tired he passed right out.” Darla sounded defeated. “He never even saw it.”

  “That’s my fault.” Quinn patted her lap and Katie jumped into it, politely not eating off Quinn’s breakfast plate although she stared at it with an intensity that made her quiver. “The move. Maybe—”

  “No,” Darla said. “It wasn’t the move, it’s our marriage. Nothing is going to work. I’m doomed.”

  “No, you’re not.” Quinn broke off a piece of pancake and fed it to Katie, who sighed with gratitude and relief before she took it. “We just have to time this better. Send the kids to sleep someplace else so you can start earlier in the evening when he’s not so tired.”

  “And to think I used to fight this guy off me,” Darla said. “Now I have to fit his biorhythms.”

  “Yeah, well, his brother isn’t exactly a ball of fire, either,” Quinn said.

  “Maybe it’s genetic.”

  “No, it’s the routine,” Quinn said. “They’re both used to the way things have always been, and they’re holding on to that. We just have to shake them up a little so they notice things are different. Blast them out of their routines.”

  “Blast,” Darla said.

  “Yeah.” Quinn nodded. “I’ve been thinking about this, and I think we’re both going to have to get a lot more aggressive.” Katie nudged her arm with her nose, and she fed her more pancake.

  “Aggressive.” Darla took a deep breath.

  “The other times were just practice runs,” Quinn said. “This next one will work.”

  “Maybe.” Darla’s voice was doubtful. “Enough of this. Tell me something cheerful. How’s life as a homeowner?”

  “My loan just went bad,” Quinn said.

  “What?” Darla sounded outraged, which felt good.

  Quinn explained, ending with, “I have some money left in my savings, but I’m still about five thousand short.”

  “I’ll give it to you,” Darla said. “We’ve got money in the college funds—”

  “No. But I could use another kind of help.”

  “Anything.”

  Quinn swallowed. “I can probably get three thousand on the cash advance on my Visa.”

  “Oh, God, the interest,” Darla said.

  “I’m not in a position to be picky. But I’m still two thousand short. And tech director for the play pays a thousand.”

  “Go for it.”

  “Yeah, except it’s sets and costumes and I don’t know a damn thing about sewing and hair.”

  “I’ll do it,” Darla said.

  “I’ll pay you back later,” Quinn said. “When I’m solvent again, I’ll give you half the pay.”

  “No, you won’t,” Darla said. “Think of it as a housewarming present. In fact, think of it as a down payment on my rent because if Max doesn’t respond pretty soon, I’m moving in with you. At least you pay attention to me.”

  When Darla had hung up, Quinn tipped Katie off her lap and called Edie. “Is that tech offer still open?”

  “Yes,” Edie said immediately. “We start Monday, six o’clock. It’s yours, and I’m so relieved. I thought a parent was going to have to do it again this year.”

  “If you can think of anything else,” Quinn said, “I need two thousand dollars by April fifteenth.”

  “You won’t have this money by then,” Edie said. “You’ll get half by the fifteenth, minus withholding, and the rest at the end of May. How about the lights contract? That’s another seven fifty.”

  “I don’t know anything about stage lighting,” Quinn said.

  “Neither do I, and I’ve been doing it,” Edie said. “Take the contract.”

  “Right,” Quinn said. “I’ll take it.” She hung up and did some fast figuring. If both contracts paid half on the fifteenth, and she used her Visa, and she didn’t eat for the next month…

  She’d still be short.

  “I should never have blown t
hat two twenty-nine on that extra toothbrush,” she told Katie, who looked worried. “No more throwing away money on long shots.”

  Katie sighed and lay down at Quinn’s feet, her head on her paws.

  “My sentiments exactly,” Quinn said.

  Bill tried to talk to Quinn the next week at school, for her own good. “This house is a bad idea,” he told her. “It’s falling down, and you can’t fix it. Why don’t we—”

  “Bill, there is no we,” Quinn said. “And the house is fine. If anything needs fixed, there’s Nick or my dad or Max. Or me. I can learn to fix things. I’m staying in the house. Now go away, I have to teach.”

  “Nick.” He shook his head. “Even Max. That’s a bad idea. People will talk.”

  “Bill,” she said, closing her eyes, shutting him out. “Go away.”

  It was frustrating because she was so hard to get hold of since she was now putting all her energy into some damn play Edie was doing and roping Jason and Corey into it, too, by promising students extra credit if they worked on it; but the good thing was, that gave him a reason to stop by after school the next day. “Play practice doesn’t start until six,” she told him when he tried to discuss the boys’ involvement with her. “If it gets in the way of ball practice, they can quit the play.” When he stopped by again the next day, she said, “Bill, we have nothing to talk about ever again. Go away, please,” so he was forced to do something to bring her back. Patience was all well and good, but it was time for some offensive action, and he knew what he had to do: get rid of that damn dog and that damn house.

  The next day, he signed out on his planning period and went to the house. It was such a horrible place, there had to be something wrong with it, something dangerous, something he could use to get her out of there. He was just going to walk around a little; but knowing that slut of a woman next door was probably watching, he parked on a side street and let himself quietly into the backyard through the alley gate again.

  Once there, walking around the yard wasn’t enough. He really needed to see inside, to see all the horrors that were waiting for her there, all the possibilities for convincing her to leave. He tried the door, but it was locked; even jiggling the handle and leaning on it didn’t budge it, although it did bring that damn dog to bark at him, pulling back a lip to snarl, too. Damn thing was dangerous, it would bite Quinn, he was right to have tried to have it put down. He looked next door to see if that woman was watching and went to the other side of the house. Only a vacant lot on that side. Safer.

  He tried the side door, but it was locked, and then the basement windows—it would be a squeeze, but he could come out through a door, after all—and they were all locked, but while he was leaning on one, it cracked and broke so that he could reach through and open it, and after that, sliding through into the basement was fairly easy.

  When he went up the basement stairs, the dog went crazy, snarling but backing up as he climbed. He looked around the kitchen—pretty, cozy, freshly painted blue and white with Quinn’s Night Kitchen print on the wall next to her red colander just like it had been in their apartment—and tried to ignore the damn yapping, but finally he’d had enough and he opened the back door and kicked it yelping out into the yard. Even if the nosy bitch next door looked out, she’d just see the dumb dog. He was safe.

  He went into the dining room and found himself in a lot of warm sunlight, some from the tall windows on his right—his window; he looked at the broken shutter with affection—some from the matching windows in the living room at the front of the house, through an archway. But the place was dingy and cold, old plaster with cracks and woodwork with peeling paint, and the sunlight wasn’t enough to make it better.

  Unfortunately, plaster cracks and ugly paint weren’t enough to get Quinn out. He’d have to find something much worse.

  He moved into the living room and stood in the middle, turning slowly. There was an old red chair by the front windows with an octagon table beside it. Beside the chair was a brown basket made of wide strips of wood. Bill sat down and opened it. Yarn and stuff, Quinn’s crochet.

  She’d be making a blanket for their baby. When she came back to their apartment, they’d sit and watch TV, and she’d crochet for the baby.

  The yarn felt soft and weightless in his hand, a sort of denimy blue color; Quinn knew they were going to have a boy. Like Jason Barnes. They’d call him Bill Junior, but Quinn should have part of his name, too, and Quinn could be either a boy or a girl, so William Quinn Hilliard it would be. A great name. He let his hand close on the yarn and it became a fist. A really great name.

  He let the yarn drop and stood up.

  There were bookcases around the fireplace full of Quinn’s art books—he tensed a little, thinking, Those books belong in our apartment—and he let his hand slide over the smooth surface of shelves and the mantel, touch the face of an absurd gold clock there, linger on the spines of her books, drift over the polished top of the octagon table. If he touched these things, they’d be his, too.

  On the other side of the room, the old red couch from her mother’s took up too much space. The damn thing was huge, six feet long, almost a bed. The thought made him clench his fists again, but there was no reason. If she really wanted that couch, they could have it at their apartment. With a nice tan slipcover. Late at night, he and Quinn could stretch out on that couch and watch the news, the weather, the scores, flip between the late night shows and laugh. And then he could turn the TV off with the remote and reach for her—

  His breath came quicker and he tried to turn his thoughts. This wasn’t about sex, they’d never been about sex, they were about better things, family and school. He looked back at the chair—it was safer to think about—and saw the yarn again. He bent down and picked up a ball of the yarn, a small one, one she’d never miss, and shoved it in his jacket pocket. He’d keep it as a reminder that she’d be back with him crocheting for Bill Junior soon.

  He caught sight of the clock on the mantel and straightened. He was running out of time.

  He went to the front door and then remembered the back way was better, he was parked in back. But as he turned, he saw a key on the bookcase closest to the door. He tried it in the front door and it worked.

  Of course she’d keep a key close to the front door. The doors had glass windows, so she had to have a key lock on both sides, but she’d keep a key near for convenience, in case of fire. That just made sense.

  He weighed the key in his hand.

  If he had his own key, he could come in any time, look around, make the plans they needed for their future.

  Except Quinn would miss it if it weren’t there.

  And he had to get back to school, he’d taken too long to get in, he was running out of time.

  He went out to the car, holding the gate open just long enough for the dumb dog to rush out yapping. Then he closed the gate, trapping the dog outside again, and drove off. On the way back to school, he dropped the key off at Ronnie Headapohl’s hardware store and asked for a duplicate. When he got back to school, he used the pay phone in the hall to report that a dangerous dog was running loose on Apple Street and had bitten him. Yes, it had broken the skin, it should be put down. He gave his name as Harvey Roberts and made up an address to make the complaint official, and then he hung up feeling as though he’d made huge strides even though he hadn’t found anything wrong with the house.

  Two hours later, he signed out of school on his lunch break, picked up the key, and went to Quinn’s again. The dog was nowhere around and the new key worked perfectly. He put the original back on the shelf and went back to school relieved. There he found a message from Betty at Animal Control that his dog had been picked up and had reportedly bitten somebody.

  “We’ve been having trouble with it,” he told her when he called back after school. “I hate to say this, but just put it to sleep. It’s going to be easier on all of us that way. I’ll come in and pay the fee tomorrow.”

  He hadn’t lied, he tho
ught as he hung up. Once things were back the way they belonged, life really would be easy for everybody again.

  “So is Lois still dating Matthew?” Quinn asked Darla over pizza after school.

  “Yeah, but she doesn’t seem too happy about it,” Darla said. “It’s like without Barbara to bitch about, she doesn’t have a life. She keeps needling me about her, like I’m going to bond with her and do a Bank Slut duet.”

  “It must be tempting,” Quinn said.

  “Not really.” Darla put her pizza slice back in the box half-eaten. “Max wouldn’t cheat. Hell, he doesn’t even have the energy to do me, let alone Barbara.”

  “I was thinking about that,” Quinn said. “It occurred to me that a nightgown that appealed to Bill was probably not something that would appeal to Max, anyway. Like maybe you should go for something really in-your-face.”

  “How about I grab him by the throat and say, ‘Fuck me or die’?” Darla said.

  “I was thinking more about black lace,” Quinn said. “You know, something incredibly tacky. The kind of thing guys like and we laugh at.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Look, you’ve learned a lot,” Quinn said. “Don’t ask him in front of windows or other people, and don’t wait until he’s too tired. I’d say you’re almost there. Don’t give up now.”

  “You really think so?” Darla shook her head.

  Quinn leaned forward and closed the pizza box. “I know so. Come on, let’s hit the mall right away. I can’t stay long, Katie’s home alone, but I can sacrifice another hour to save your marriage.”

  “Can I?” Darla said.

  “Hey,” Quinn said. “No defeatism. Let’s go buy you something that’ll drive your husband crazy.”

  “He already has one of those,” Darla said. “Me.”

  In the five days since Nick had helped Quinn move he’d managed to push her to the back of his mind where she lurked and made him uneasy. That was the trouble with change, he told himself. It never made you feel calm. The best he could do was ignore the fact that she existed, always difficult but then impossible when Bill stopped by the station after practice.