I smoke and drink at the table for a time, glancing out the balcony doors every now and again. It’s quiet out in the neighborhood this evening, and I’m sure it’s because of the Dogwood Festival. I handed over the Impala to the ass today so his daughter can smile and wave. As I think about it, just the whole day in general, my foot starts to tap and there’s a dull ache behind my eyes. I flick the lighter open and closed, turn the beer can around and around, then I spring up from the chair.
After a quick shower, I leave my apartment, go across the alleyway. I open the gate to his aunt’s yard like I did last night. And Paul was just hanging from my neck like an intoxicated orangutan, muttering shit about Texas. Without me meaning it to, a private grin forms on my face.
Last night I just went to the back door, but I feel funny about it now, so I walk around to the front and knock.
After about a minute, Paul’s aunt opens it and appears behind the screen.
“Oh,” she says. “Mister…?”
“The name’s Asher.” I pause. “Listen…is Paul here?”
She gives me a look over.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “About last night. I didn’t know he’d get…what I mean is, I didn’t really watch how much he was drinking. Just figured he was like any fella, had been out before, you know?”
His aunt gives me a flat smile. I don’t see much resemblance between him and her except for the thick dark hair. And she’s a big lady. Not fat, just big boned and tall.
“Well, I appreciate you bringing him back here,” she says.
“Was he all right?”
“He’s fine.” She looks at me for a handful of seconds. “Paul is…well, he’s had a hard time the last couple months.” She hesitates there and looks at me like she’s trying to decide something, then minutely shakes her head. “Anyway, I’m glad he’s made a friend, but…could I ask a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Could you make sure he keeps out of trouble?”
I nod, give her my word, then he appears just behind her, the reflection of his glasses behind the screen.
His aunt turns. “Paulie, your friend’s here.”
He sticks his hands in his pockets.
“Hey.” I attempt to make my voice sound light. “You wanna go do something?”
He looks at her and looks at me. My mind turns over and over what his aunt just said, like turning over rocks. He’s had some trouble in his life, and worry begins to worm its way into me; worry cloaked with care.
And I’m not happy about it. At all.
Paul lifts his head, his eyes shining with humor, and nods. “Okay.”
Well, maybe a little bit.
I don’t say anything when he puts his arms all the way around me and rests his hands on my abdomen.
I don’t say anything when we park my bike at the far end of a row of cars and follow the smells of roasted peanuts and kettle corn. I don’t say anything when all the festival lights come on and everything is electric confetti, sugary sweet, and spinning laughter.
I say nothing and Paul says nothing as he walks along beside me, glancing over every so often while we look at booths of games, prizes, and food. There’s an announcement about the Miss Dogwood thing, and I decide I can live without it.
I’m vaguely excited. I loved these kinds of things when I was a kid. One of my best memories of Jimmy—just the year before I fucked things up—was at the state fair. He took responsibility for me, held my hand, and led me around. We sat in these rickety wooden seats and watched this lady jump on a horse and leap from a high dive into a pool. I thought they were hurt, but the horse and the lady came up out of the water and they were fine. She took a bow.
Nothing bad ever seemed to happen as long as Jimmy was looking out for me. I guess that’s where everything in my life went wrong.
And there’s no one to blame but me.
“You want to get a beer?”
Paul’s voice startles me, and I turn to him. He’s backlit by the carousel. There’s a breeze and it tousles some of his hair. It’s not a flutter anymore. It’s more like an ache.
