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.