Unknown Man #89

When he was lying on his back, looking at the ceiling, she said, “Where are you?”

“I’m here.”

“What’re you thinking?”

“I was wondering, should we have the ham or the chicken? We could brown some onions and green pepper, put in some tomato sauce…” He felt her move and looked at her, propped up on an elbow. “Why? What were you thinking?”

“Nothing,” Denise said. “I’m not going to tell you now. You’re thinking about food.”

“Come on, tell me.”

“I love you,” Denise said. “I absolutely adore you and I’m in love with you.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah, because I’m in love with you.”

“Do you know you said it? You said, making love to somebody you love.”

“It’s something, isn’t it? We’re all set, we’re stuck with each other.”

She lay back on the pillow and was silent. They could hear the surf and the wind gusting through the open window. She said, “But what if after a while…”

“What if after a while, what?” Ryan said. “Do you want to know everything that’s going to happen to you, or you want to take it a day at a time and be surprised?”

She said, “Couldn’t I know just a little of what’s going to happen?”

“Maybe,” Ryan said, “it depends. What’s worrying you?”

She said after a moment, “I was married before.”

“I know you were.”

“I wondered if… you ever pictured me with him. The kind of person he was.”

“I don’t think of him as a person,” Ryan said. “I think of him as a number.”

“You do?” Puzzled. “What number?”

“Eighty-nine. That was the number he had in the morgue. Before he was identified.”

“Oh. You saw him?”

“I saw him, but the only thing I remember about him’s the number. The man who had it’s gone.”

They went out in the sun for five days and turned brown and felt better, both agreed, than they’d ever felt in their lives. Though sometimes when he was silent she would ask him if everything was all right. He’d say, Everything’s fine. She believed him and it would be enough for several hours or until she felt the need to ask him again. She knew about living one day at a time and not worrying about things that might never happen. She felt comfortable and happy being with him, and when they made love she was sure of him beyond any doubt. But she would feel him leave her in his mind and wonder where he was, if he was sorry and had misgivings and was escaping, if he was only being nice to her because she needed someone. She would say to him, standing in the kitchen, “Hold me.” Then it was good again. She could feel he loved her. He told her, often, he loved her. She would say, “But-” And he would say, “Why don’t you just believe me and not think about it?” He would tell her every day to feel and try not to think so much. She said, “But what if I feel and I get scared of the feeling?” He said, “What’s wrong with being scared?” He said, “You have to leave yourself open and take chances and that can be scary, you bet. But if you don’t take chances, what do you win?”

You make molded salads and watch Name That Tune.

She could cross that one off, one less option to think about. And living alone was dumb. So why not bet on Ryan? If she felt good with him, natural, herself, and was happier than she’d ever been, what was the problem? As long as he would reassure her from time to time.

The fifth day the feeling of anxiety would not go away. They didn’t talk or smile at each other as much or as naturally. He’s had enough, Denise thought. He’s bored. She asked him if he wanted to do something, go somewhere. He said, No, he didn’t think so. She didn’t ask him where he was or if everything was all right.

She said, “Your back’s not going to get very tan.”

She was lying on a towel on her stomach, her face turned to Ryan, sitting in a canvas chair with his straw hat tilted low on his eyes, staring at the ocean.

“My back gets whatever it can,” Ryan said. “I don’t like to lie down like that unless I’m go

His tone was all right, but he was quiet, inside himself, deeper in there than he had been during the previous days. She had to think up things to say to him. Maybe put him on a little. She raised her face from the towel, looking at the sky.

“We’ve been lucky with the weather.”

He didn’t say anything.

“It’s going to be eighty today, light showers expected tomorrow.”

Ryan looked at her now. “Is that right?”

“One winter in Bad Axe the snow was so deep,” Denise said, and stopped. “You want to know how deep the snow was?”

“How deep was it?” Ryan said.

“It was so deep outside you had to shit in a shotgun and shoot it up the chimney.”

“That’s pretty deep,” Ryan said.

Denise lowered her face to the beach towel. “So are you.”

Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Finally Ryan said, “Okay.”

Denise didn’t say anything right away. She watched him lean over and fish inside the straw bag for something. He brought out his wallet. Denise raised her head a little.

“Okay, what?”

Ryan took out a five-dollar bill, reached over, and let it fall on the end of the towel, by her face.

“Mr. Perez. Let’s go get him.”

“How?”

“I’ve got a couple of ideas.”

“Is that what you’ve been thinking about?”

“Part of the time,” Ryan said. “You want to go after your money? It’s up to you.”

She liked the line of the straw hat brim, low over his eyes as he looked at her. She liked the quiet sound of his voice and his brown arms and the way he sat in the canvas chair, waiting.

She said, “Why don’t we get it and come back?”

Ryan smiled. “Why don’t we?”

He called and reserved seats on an Eastern flight out of Miami. They had to hurry to make it. They packed and dressed inside a half hour. Denise remembered something as they were ready to go and they put the leftovers in the refrigerator for the maid: ketchup and mustard, pickles, oleo, bread, a ham shank and the two inches of Almaden red that were still in the bottle.

20

RYAN HAD TO wait while Rita got the coffee, escaping, giving herself time to think, standing over there by the tan coffee urn that matched the beige tones and fabrics of the law office. She came back past the palm tree plants on the file cabinets with matching ceramic mugs and placed one on the desk next to Ryan.

“Thanks,” he said. “Look, you can’t get in any trouble. All you’re doing, you’re typing up a complaint and a summons. Nobody’s going to ask who typed it.”

Rita sat down at the desk and made room for her coffee mug. “You want to threaten him, is that it?”

“I want Mr. Perez to see he could get tied up in court,” Ryan said, “if Mrs. Leary decides she wants to bring suit.”

“Mrs. Leary, or you could call her the complainant,” Rita said.

Ryan smiled. “That’s what happens I get in a lawyer’s office. Okay-Denise could bring suit.”

“Well, why doesn’t she go ahead and do it?” Rita said. “If Perez is being such a prick about it.”

“Because I don’t think we have to. Going to court, it ties him up, it ties everybody up.”

He could see Rita was trying to get out of it. Maybe she was mad, holding it in. She said, “I don’t know. God, I’ve got a shit-load of work to get out today.”

Ryan leaned closer to the desk. “It’s two sheets of paper. What’ll it take you, ten minutes? An ace typist.”

Rita gave him a tired look. “Ace typist. I’m surprised you didn’t bring a box of candy.”

“Or a Baggie,” Ryan said. “Okay, I’m asking you as a favor. I guarantee you won’t get involved.”

“You two must be pretty close by now,” Rita said. “A week in Florida.”

“Five days,” Ryan said.

“Are you in love with her?”

“Yeah, I guess I am.” He felt good saying it. Rita could do whatever she wanted.

She didn’t say anything right away, looking at him with a thoughtful expression, maybe remembering the two of them together, feeling her impression of him, maybe appreciating him more than she had before. She said, “You’re a nice guy, Jack. I just hope you don’t fuck up.”