WAKING UP AT night with Timothy in bed between us was hard to get used to. Jimmi always slept naked and walked around the apartment without clothes. It was her way. During the day we sent him to YMCA camp. The kid had his own bedroom with a used Mac computer but he refused to sleep there. Most nights I’d be up and down anyway, smoking, moving from room to room in the dark like a ghost, my mind haunted, obsessed with some crazy shit or other that wouldn’t go away. I would read or write for an hour, then try to sleep again, going back to bed only to wake up later with the kid hugging me, attached to my arm or my leg.
Timothy turned six years old on the Saturday after the last day of the Orbit contest. For his birthday I went to Small World Books and bought him numbers one and two of the Anamorphs series by K.A. Applegate, a well-written sci-fi collection for pre-teen kids. The lady clerk said the paperbacks were advanced for a six year old and assured me of their popularity.
That night at home, the three of us were together with streamers, Hawaiian Punch, and a birthday cake. Timothy began opening his presents. When he got to mine, after tearing the wrapping open, he made a face.
‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ I said. ‘You told me that you appreciate fiction.’
The boy looked toward his mother but wouldn’t answer.
Jimmi saw the Anamorphs paperbacks and smiled. ‘Tell Bruno, mijo,’ she scolded.
‘No. It’s okay.’
‘I said tell him Timothy, for chrissake.’
He got up and padded quickly to his room and a minute later returned with a box. He set the container at my feet and opened the lid. All seventeen Anamorphs were inside. He piled them on the floor in front of me. ‘I like science fiction very much, Bruno, but I’ve read these. I can assure you they’re very engaging, especially The Underground and The Escape. I’ve read Goosebumps too. Basically, I guess you know, they’re written for children. I’m sure you would agree.’
‘Okay, then what about Tarzan? Have you read that? And Robinson Crusoe?’
‘My favorite novel is Stranger in a Strange Land. I’m currently reading Jurassic Park by Michael Crichton.’
I pointed to my gift. ‘No problem,’ I said, ‘I’ve got the receipt. I’ll take ‘em back. I’ll keep Michael Crichton in mind.’
Timothy began re-boxing his Anamorphs. ‘Bruno…have I hurt your feelings?’
‘I look a little stupid,’ I said, laughing, ‘but I’ll live.’
Ten minutes later he was gone, back to play in his room, warming up to scare the shit out of mankind.
To keep herself busy, Jimmi took a day gig at a stand on the Venice boardwalk. She said she hated lap dancing and that she was through. Too slippery. Her new boss was a huge Latino peddler everybody called Mister Jewels. He assigned Jimmi to a booth close to the Sidewalk Cafe, selling yo-yos and kids’ magic coloring pens that changed shades as you used them. Her commissions were good right away; sometimes a hundred and fifty dollars a day. After day camp Timothy would meet her and they would work the booth together. Jewels was smart, always insisting that Jimmi stand in front of the booth, pitching the tourist mooches and the beach crowd. Even pregnant and beginning to show, the people on the strand would see her in her halter top, her amazing good looks, and be drawn to stop by and spend.
Our sobriety is what seemed to bond us together. Sometimes I would come home and find notes taped to the refrigerator. Some were funny. ‘BD,’ one started; ‘I bought us steaks on sale three pounds and rice and beans and lots of other shit. A hundred and fifty bucks. You’ll see. Look in the fridge. Timothy made me go back and get him turkey hot dogs. Three packs. My kid’s nuts. After the dentist another hundred and sixty-five dollars for two cavities he tole me he’s now a vegetarian. Who knows where he got that shit. I think it was in a magazine in the waiting room. He won’t say why he won’t eat meat only that it’s eleemosynary. When I asked him what eleemosynary was he said I should look it up if I wanted to know. Leave me more money so I can get more rabbit food for the vegetarian. Bye bye sweetie pie. J.V.’
On weekend nights we attended AA at a meeting room called the Marina Center. And, on Sunday mornings, before she went to work, the big open air Venice Beach AA meeting.
The sex was good too. Eventually, off crack, when I didn’t demand or ask, Jimmi just started wanting to fuck. But we never kissed, and she always made sure to say we weren’t in love.
It became regular. In bed at night, after the boy was asleep, we would tiptoe into his room to screw. Her on top always, the room dark, arms folded across her eyes or locked behind her head, slowly, grinding in a circle twenty minutes at a time, her body shiny from sweat, hair stuck to her face and neck like locks of black seaweed. I was lost. Nothing had ever felt this good.
But still she was restless. I could sense her need for separateness. There was distance, a visceral anger. For a day or two sometimes, for no reason, she would avoid talking or looking at me and snarl at the kid. Occasionally, needing a change, she would stay out at night with Mister Jewels, drinking coffee with the tattoo people and beach peddlers from the Venice strand. I didn’t mind. Because mostly it was good. Us living together was good. I knew time would make it right.