“Oh. Right. Yeah, you didn’t tell me your husband is Vin. We recognized each other at the picnic but when he didn’t say hi, I figured he was shy.”
“Huh?” I’m blinking at her non sequitur, trying to catch some footing in this complete left turn.
“He’s becoming kind of a legend over there. The newbie to end all newbies. The girls would all be taking a shot at him if he didn’t just talk about you every time.”
“Em.What?”
She’s reading my face, likely clocking some desperation. So she rewinds. “The bar, Sooth? Over in the East Village? Its whole thing is that it has a story open mic every night. Anyone who wants to tell a story can. But it’s a scene. A crowd. There are regulars. I go because it’s a good way to draw people without them caring. Vin started up maybe six weeks or so ago? He goes a few times a week. Though I’ve been missing him a bit because I come here on Fridays and I’ve heard that’s the night he usually goes.”
“You…are telling me…that my husband…goes onstage. And talks about me. In public.”
“At Sooth. In the East Village,” she repeats, like I’m slow. And then she glances at her watch. “The open mic started like twenty minutes ago.”
I’ve been practicing. I swear.
His words thrum in on every side. It’s the final thing hidden behind the door labeledRoz, You Are Missing Something.Therapy, yes. PTSD, yes. Clouds and tornadoes and the maze of his wonderful Vin brain. But…
He’s been giving me speeches recently. Complete thoughts.
Practicing.
He’s been telling me the story of Vin.
“I—have to go. Now.”
“Oh. Shit. Did I…” Em is trailing off, glancing between me and my hands packing my things so furiously that pencils are flying all over the place. “Did I fuck this up?”
“No! No. I just have to go.”
“Are you okay?” That’s Lauro. He’s bending down next tome, gathering fallen art supplies and helping shove them into my bag.
“Yes. Fine! See you next week!”
I realize all at once that as soon as I run out of this classroom, I’m going to leave the two of them standing awkwardly together. Exactly what Em has asked for help trying to avoid. But…(It’s mybutfrom earlier, resurrected, hanging once again in the air.)
“Hey,” I say to her, quiet enough not to draw the other classmates’ attention. “Just in case you need someone to say it out loud…Em, what if…what if that drawing he did of you, where you’re lovely and graceful and you took offense because you felt like it erased you? Well…what if that’sactuallyhow he sees you?”
And then I turn and run.
Twenty-Two
Sooth is justa really bad bar. Divey and sticky. It still reeks of decades-old cigarette smoke. Someone’s spilled a beer on the floor and no one seems to care. There are blinking neon lights behind the bar and a dirty mirror. Almost everyone I can see is drinking beer out of the can, I assume, because to drink something on tap would be to send a party invitation to botulism.
What isnotreally bad is the clientele. It’s a real smorgasbord of people in here, from (probably) every borough and every walk of life. Some of them have their arms around one another, others are sitting on laps. A few people are sitting directly on the bar because seats are very scarce. There’s a small stage in the back and ten or so high-top tables with people on barstools crowded around each one.
A woman with a wolf cut and a purple satin bomber jacket is on the mic, telling a story about going hunting with her uncle Ira. People are laughing and shouting commentary.
I go on tiptoes and scan the bar but don’t see Vin.
“You want to sign up for the open mic?” a man with a mustache whispers to me. He’s handing me a sign-up sheet. “There’s a few spots left.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I take the sheet. Big block letters at the top readTonight’s Topic: The big bad wolf.And then there are twelve lines for people to sign their names. Ten are filled out. The second-to-last name? Vin DeLuca.
The crowd erupts into applause and makes me jump. “Aaaaaaaand, let’s hear it one more time for Tammy Talia. Thank you, Tammy.” The man with the mustache is holding the mic with two hands and romancing the crowd. “Next up we’ve got the one, the incomparable, the inimitable LaVoya Loach!”
The crowd erupts for this person and I study the list. Tammy Talia was number six and LaVoya Loach is number seven. Which means there is only number eight before number nine. Number nine being Vin DeLuca. Vinny Green Eyes, to those of us who share a bed with him.
I scan the bar again and this time, I see him halfway up the room, leaning against the wall (not taking up a stool, of course), eyes on the stage. His arms are crossed.
