Here's one more! This story is….well, I like the way it's turning so I might keep it up. Thanks to those who've been so sweet to me-I appreciate it infinitely. You know who you are. Read and enjoy, and should you feel compelled, drop me a line. After all, you're the reason I post what I've written anyway. Much love
luce
The road passes by slowly, as though in a dreamscape. The sky is gray, and he wishes they were back in the oven warmth of California when everything had been so vague and hopeful. A cool sea wind blows off the shores, through the open windows while a pale sun beats down heavily on them.
They're heading down towards New York. She hasn't said anything since they left Martha's Vineyard, and so he's assumed a tight-lipped control of the situation. She seems so small all of a sudden and it's tearing at him, guilt curling up in his chest, clutching at various things, making them hurt.
She chose, he thinks, rationalizing this. It was her choice and she made it.
But this truth offers no comfort.
He makes telephone calls from small gas-stations along the way. She sits in the car dully, a shadow of her former self. She is no longer dancing in the parking lot in her cowboy boots and frayed shorts. She is no longer buying junk food, rating the taste tests, making Crossroads references to piss him off, calling him nicknames like the Lone Ranger.
She just sits there.
One time he came back from a phonebooth to see her repeatedly striking the lighter, trying to produce a flame. A cigarette hung limply from her mouth, and she seemed queerly concentrated on it, as though it were the only thing in her line of vision. He had taken it from her mouth and pried her hands off the lighter. She had not resisted.
Her head lays against the headrest, turned on it's cheek away from him.
She hasn't read anything on the way down.
When they reach New York, it's almost a relief. He hopes maybe here something will happen, a breakdown, a crackdown, that she'll finally let everything out instead of limiting talk to small, dull, inconsequential comments. Yes, no, thank you. Even in despair she is polite.
He doesn't know what to do. He's never cared to deal with anything like this before. When they enter the city, it's late afternoon. The tall buildings are gleaming in the muted sunlight, reflecting steel and glass; he weaves his way down the packed streets, steering skillfully around taxis, through intersections, and cutting through alleys. Now they're lower down in Manhattan, somewhere around Tribeca. She looks out the window, examining everything quietly, staring, drawn up tight inside herself.
He finds a place to park, and grabs their bags. Pulling her to her feet, he draws her into the airy Tribeca loft world, up series of stairs, on a creaky elevator, finally coming to a steel door. There, he punches in some numbers, and the door opens. Inside is a large open room, empty, save for a mattress and a mini-fridge, along with a table and a few other small articles scattered around. The floor is parquet, and there are newspapers, phone lists, maps, and other strange papers plastered all over the wall. There is a thick book by the telephone filled with addresses, notes, observations, and a small pile of textbooks.
He pushes Rory towards the mattress. She takes off her flipflops, lines them up neatly, and lays down on top of the blankets. He throws one of her blankets from the car over her, and turns out the lights.
Exiting, he locks her in.
Standing outside on the sidewalk, he fights the feeling tightening in his throat, making his eyes sting. He begins to run, determined, until he reaches the corner.
The quarter clinks, and the tone buzzes.
Two rings. Then,
"Hey."
"Ricky. It's Jess. I'm up at your place."
"Sup, man. Hold a sec."
There is some shuffling on the other end, a female voice, and Ricky's lower tones. Jess smiles grimly. Nothing has changed.
"Had to get outside," says the voice on the other end. "Get the lock no problem?"
"Yeah, sure," he replies. Then he clears his throat. "Listen man, I need some money."
Ricky's chuckle is static on the line.
"Some chick. First you want the loft. Now you need some money. Who you got with you this time, player? Paris Hilton?"
"Nah. Just some chick, not important. I'll be up there for a week, and I'll need one thou."
A static crackle.
"You know what that mean, man. I need a runner for Central."
"Are you shitting me? That place is wired! Half of NYPD got lookouts over there!"
"See, that's why I need a runner. I have a hard time finding people."
"Ricky c'mon man. I can't afford to have nothing happen to me. I got this girl on my hands."
"If something happens to you, I'll take care of her," laughs Ricky slowly.
"The fuck you will," he spits out.
A pause. Then,
"Alright, bro, no problem. Can you do SoHo? I've got a few nice ladies there that might enjoy looking at you."
Jess stiffens.
"Fine."
"Fine. 11 ok?"
"Sure."
There is another pause, then Ricky makes a call, and gives Jess an address.
It's darkening outside. He's walking rapidly down a street, up some stairs, and then he's inside a nice little apartment where someone is giving him a suit, the cash, and a small collection of little blue Ziplocs.
"This is respectable trade, man. Try to act like you got some manners. Try to look like you came from Martha's Vineyard."
Jess stifles a laugh.
It takes him two hours. It's now eight o'clock. One more.
He buzzes an apartment on the Upper West Side, near the park.
A gentle voice answers.
"Southhampton 23'd," answers Jess.
Then he's being invited into a plush room, pre-war molding and antiques and expensive ferns everywhere; a chandelier sends trembling patterns over the thick white carpet.
Mrs. Delancey-Stanton seats him on the jacquard upholstered couch.
He lays out the contents of the briefcase.
"Valium, Benzedrine, Demerol, sleeping pills, Codeine Tylenols, your regular uppers and personality pills, and Phentermine. The total cost is 4000."
She smiles, a polite, modulated smile.
"Thank you, darling," she answers, handing him the neatly bound bills.
And then it's over.
He takes a taxi back to Ricky's, returns the cut, suit, and briefcase, and takes his share. He's not sure what to do next. He's thinking about her, has been all night, and the way that navy blue makes her eyes glow pale behind the dark iris. He fights tears again. He can't believe this is happening to him, he can't believe it's been so long and now he is thawing again, like ice, liquid burning under his eyelids. A harsh sob tears itself out of his throat.
He goes to Saks.
The lady that approaches looks at him carefully, almost gently.
"Can I help you?"
He nods, and takes a deep, ragged breath.
"I need some clothes…for a girl….she's..about your size and height, skinnier, blue eyes, small waist, a little wider in the hips. I need something nice, something that a person at Yale would be wearing. Maybe a sweater, ….or…a."
She senses his distress, and puts her hand on his arm.
"Don't worry. I know just the thing."
She pulls out cashmere sweaters and clean cut white shirts, a brown a-line skirt, a navy blue long sleeve and a pale blue dress with navy trim. He buys her a pair of pearl earrings, because he's noticed she doesn't have any. The knot in his throat shows no signs of leaving.
Out on the sidewalk, he draws his mouth into a tight line and fiercely clenches his eyes.
When he opens the loft door, she's up, cheeks flushed with sleep. There's only one light on, and she's standing by the huge windows, staring out at the street below her. He's brought Chinese, and he puts it down on the table and puts the bags down and approaches hesitantly. But she seems calmer somehow, as though in some way the crisis has passed. Her eyes glow darkly in the dim light.
"Where did you go?" she asks simply.
He shrugs. Something clenches in his chest again.
"I got you food," he says. "And some other things….It gets cold at night sometimes…"
She approaches the bags slowly and curiously, her eyes unwilling to let his go.
Slowly, she keels down on the floor. He sits on the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight together.
She takes each item out, laying it gently on the floor. She looks for tags, but there are non; she can tell by the names that they have cost a lot. Slowly, she runs her hand over the fabric and there is something very sad in her eyes.
"They're so beautiful," she whispers, looking up at his.
Hands trembling, he comes close to her. He takes the earrings out of the little box and gently jabs them through her earlobes, fixing the backings. His eyes are glistening, and she softly touches his damp eyelashes and says nothing.
Heads bent, they kneel there together in silence.
She slowly takes off her shirt and pants, and zips up the brown skirt and slides into the soft navy blue cashmere.
She does not speak but takes his face in her hands and softly presses her feverish lips to his trembling ones in a long, slow, measured kiss that erases the need for words. Tears are pouring down her flushed cheeks and she is shaking.
And for the first time since Massachusetts, the hand clenching his heart disappears.
They eat later in a companiable silence. He has taken her up on the roof, where they look out over Manhattan. The lights are glittering in the darkness, and beyond them they can see the vastness of the ocean, dark and restless, beckoning.
Her head rests on his shoulder, her eyelashes still sticky from crying. A wind blows her hair, and it flutters against the back of his neck. He puts his arm around her, and she nestles into him.
"What now?" he says gravely.
"I contacted Yale today while you were gone. They've agreed to let me defer until next year-they're saying it's almost common practice. Until then, I guess, I need to work to make enough to pay," she replies, her tone calm and even, but a bit tremulous.
His eyes stare out in the distance, shocked by a sudden though.
She sighs deeply.
"I don't know what I'll do to make enough. I guess maybe I can move back with my mom and work as a waitress. I hear they can make up to 20,000 a year and maybe for the rest I'll be able to take out a loan."
He fumbles with his next though, and makes a rapid decision.
"You won't have to."
She looks up at him in shock.
"This is my fault. I'll make it up to you. I have means."
She stiffens.
"Jess, I haven't asked you where you got the loft or the money but I don't want it if it's going to put you in danger."
"Rory, stop."
"I don't care!" she replies, volume raising. "I won't do this to you! I won't let you!"
"You don't have a choice."
"I had a choice, and I made it. Now I'm with you, and I won't let you change my mind."
They sit there at a standstill, looking out over the glittering darkness.
"Rory, listen to me," he begins in a low tone. " I have a friend who's made good. What he does isn't strictly illegal, per-se. It makes good money, 1000 a day sometimes! This is New York, we sell to rich people not poor people and we don't get involved with other dealers! This isn't Spun, this isn't morbid Hollywood. This is clean, direct, and involves recipients who have a reputation to protect."
She is tight lipped and unresponsive. He continues.
"I can work and you can go to college somewhere cheaper, so that you won't be a year behind! Listen Rory, you cast your lot with me. And I refuse to let you pay for it. If it costs me in the end, it doesn't matter, I'll get small jail time, no big thing. You're the one that has it, you're the brilliant one who can't afford to give anything up and I'm going to do everything I can to make sure you don't. This is the end. No argument."
She lets out a small sob.
"And what if I refuse? What if I go back home?"
He shakes his head.
"Rory, you know you won't be able to get a load without your grandparents help. You can work two years as a waitress if you want and you still won't be able to get the 25 thousand plus that it takes just to pay for tuition! This is without living expenses for a year: clothes, food, movie tickets, books, transportation, and tickets to all the functions you'll need to attend! This is not high school, the costs will be overwhelming! What about gas for your car, check ups, etcetera?"
"Stop it!"
"I'm right and you know it! What'll happen if you don't get the money? If you have to give up Yale? If you move back home away from me, why did you come here with me in the first place? Why didn't you just stay at Martha's Vineyard?"
By now she's crying again, head buried in her hands.
He grabs her by the shoulders.
"Rory say yes, Rory, I'll take care of you just say yes."
Her answer is almost inaudible.
"What?" he asks softly, wanting to make sure.
"Yes, yes!" she cries, her hands muffling her voice.
She's giving in.
And they sit up on the roof, and he holds her until it gets too cold, and then they go inside and crawl under the covers.
"There's one condition," she whispers into his neck. "I'm coming on a run with you tomorrow. If I don't like what I see, it's all off."
He sighs.
It's morning. He's gone, and her heart sinks, wishing she knew where.
There is one more thing, she thinks to herself. A very important thing.
She crawls sleepily towards the telephone, grabbing the receiver. She dials the familiar number, and as it starts ringing, she becomes wide awake and alert.
A woman's voice answers.
Rory's lip trembles.
"Mom?"
