Thirty

Tommy stood by the information booth at Grand Central Station. He watched the recent arrivals pour off the platforms and merge with the crowd of commuters on the station floor. When he saw that the Westchester train was due to arrive, he pushed through the streams of business suits and moved closer to the platform. Cheryl was one of the last people off the train. She stood gathering her possessions, a single strand of auburn hair hanging over into her eyes. She was dressed in a long cable-knit sweater, black leggings, and ankle boots. She had an overnight bag slung over one shoulder, a handbag over the other, and she carried a bulky plastic trash bag that looked like it contained clothing. Tommy slipped up behind her and said, "Can I help you with that?"

"Jesus!" she said. "It's you. I was about to go for my can of mace."

"Sorry," said Tommy. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"This is a surprise," she said. "What are you doing here?"

"I figured I'd come by and meet you, maybe take you downstairs to the Oyster Bar for some Wellfleets and a bottle of wine," said Tommy.

She handed over the plastic trash bag. "Sweaters," she said. "My mother. She goes to some flea market up there with her friends and buys me sweaters. I say, 'Ma, no more sweaters please,' but she won't stop. I got sweaters with ducks on them, sweaters with moose, elk, reindeer, little bunny rabbits. I thought, maybe she'll run through the animal kingdom and it'll stop. But she's back on ducks. I got four more of them in the bag."

"Do you ever wear 'em," asked Tommy.

"Are you kidding me?" said Cheryl. "I give them to the church on the corner. I walk around my neighborhood now, I see these guys with cardboard cups bummin' money in my sweaters."

"So how do you feel about some oysters? They've got Wellfleets," said Tommy.

"How did you know which train?" asked Cheryl.

"I knew you were coming in this morning so I just hung out. There were only two trains."

"You waited here for two trains waiting for me? What are you being so nice for?"

"I don't know," said Tommy. "I felt like it. I missed you." He avoided her gaze.

"You're acting suspicious," she said, stopping in her tracks. "Did something happen? Somebody die? Am I fired?"

"No, no, no, everything's fine," said Tommy. "C'mon, let's get some oysters, I'm starving."

"Did the restaurant close?"

"No. I just felt like meeting you at the train, taking you out to lunch," said Tommy as he turned toward the stairs.

Cheryl cocked her head and spoke to Tommy's back. "Did you fuck somebody? Is that what this is about? You fucked somebody, didn't you?"

Tommy stopped and turned around. He started to say something, then hesitated.

"You fucked somebody didn't you?" said Cheryl. "You can say so, I won't be mad."

Tommy attempted an ingratiating smile. "Well..."

"Who did you fuck?" asked Cheryl. "Somebody at work?"

"C'mon, please," said Tommy, half turning. "Can we talk about it over lunch—"

"Did you fuck STEPHANIE?"

Tommy looked down at the floor and didn't deny it. "Well he said. He put down the plastic bag and moved toward Cheryl.

"You fucked Stephanie!? " she said. Cheryl coldcocked him with a right hook that seemed to come up off the floor. Tommy stumbled backward, tripped over the plastic bag, and went down. He ended up sprawled flat on his back on the crowded station floor. Hurrying commuters stepped over and around him saying "Sorry" and "Excuse me." One chunky woman in a blue dress with running shoes stubbed her toe on Tommy's head. It took him a few seconds to get to his feet. He looked around for Cheryl. She was gone. Tommy picked up the bag of sweaters and headed for the exit.

He managed to wave down a taxi on Forty-second Street and directed the driver to Cheryl's Perry Street address. She had hit him below the left eye, and he reached up and felt the swelling. The left eye was tearing, and his vision out of that side of his head was blurry. He wiped a tear off his cheek with his sleeve and saw the driver looking at him in the rearview mirror. Tommy twisted in his seat so he could catch his own reflection. There was a large reddening welt and the eye itself was bloodshot. Tommy tried to smile, and shook his head ruefully.

The cab driver, a pale, craggy-complected man with a greasy blond ponytail, caught his glance in the mirror.

"Somebody really popped you one there, buddy," he smiled. "You want to go to Emergency?"

"No, I'm fine," said Tommy. He slid down a ways in his seat and tried to avoid the driver's glance. "I walked into a door."

"Sure," said the driver. "I hate when that happens."

TOMMY WAS STANDING there in the hall, holding the bag of sweaters, when Cheryl answered her door.

"Don't be upset," said Tommy.

"I'm not upset," said Cheryl. "I'm mad."

"Please," said Tommy.

"I'm grossed out," said Cheryl, standing in her doorway, one arm blocking the way. She looked at Tommy's eye. "Wow!" she said. "I did that?"

"It was a nice punch," said Tommy. "You really got your shoulder into it."

A fat tear rolled out of the bloodshot eye. Tommy made the most of it, dabbing at the eye with his sleeve.

"You fucked that cunt," said Cheryl. "Anybody else, I wouldn't mind so much."

"I'm sorry," said Tommy. "I was drunk."

"That cunt. I should bust her in the fucking mouth too," said Cheryl.

"I'm sorry," said Tommy. "I'm really sorry. I was really, really drunk. It just happened."

"You are a complete fucking asshole," said Cheryl, taking a longer look at the eye.

"I know," said Tommy.

"That looks really bad," said Cheryl. She stepped back into the apartment, unsure what to do. "Can you see out of it? You're not going to go fucking blind on me or something like that, are you? Even though you fucking deserve it."

"No, I'll be fine," said Tommy, sliding through the open door. "I could use some ice, though. Its swelling up like a motherfucker."

Cheryl went over to the refrigerator and took out a tray of ice cubes. She found a towel hanging on the bathroom doorknob and emptied the ice into it.

"You better do it," said Cheryl. "I'm not inclined to be gentle right now."

Tommy took the towel and pressed it against his eye. He tilted his head back and slowly sat down on the double bed in the middle of the room.

"If I owned a chair, I'd be telling you to get off my fucking bed," said Cheryl.

"I'm sorry, Cheryl. I'm really sorry," said Tommy from underneath the towel.

"Fuck me, fuck my friends, is that it?" said Cheryl. "You're getting the bed all wet." She found a clean towel on top of the storage cabinet in the corner and tossed it onto Tommy's chest. He tucked it under his head and lay back down.

"I hope it hurts," said Cheryl.

"It does," said Tommy. "It hurts like a motherfucker."

"Yeah, well. . . You're not the injured party here. I'm the injured party. Me," said Cheryl.

"I think this qualifies as an injury," said Tommy. "The cab driver on the way down asked if I wanted to go to Emergency."

"All right, all right, let me see it," said Cheryl. She lifted a corner of the ice pack and peeked at the eye. "That's not that bad," she said, wincing slightly. She put the ice pack back on the eye. "You gonna sue me now? Call up one of those lawyers on TV? Maybe you can garnish my tips." She moved the ice pack roughly, so it covered all the swelling.

"Ouch!" said Tommy.

"So everybody in the restaurant knows, right?"

"Nobody knows," said Tommy.

"Yeah, right, nobody knows. That cow has told everybody on the floor by now, are you kidding me? She's back there with a fucking bullhorn right now probably, in the waiters' station. 'Ladies and Gentlemen. Please be advised: I fucked Cheryl's boyfriend!' I feel like I'm gonna throw up."

"I didn't know for sure I was your boyfriend," said Tommy, sitting up in bed.

"Well, let's see," said Cheryl. "We've been sleeping in the same bed for the last four months. I seem to remember we were having sex on a regular basis . . . I guess . . . " Cheryl slapped herself in the face. "What the fuck am I saying? What am I, an idiot? I can't believe what I'm saying, am I some sort of whining little airhead? You're right—I'm not your girlfriend. What the fuck does that mean? You can fuck anybody you want?"

Tommy reached over, but she pulled away.

"I want you to be my girlfriend," he said. "I don't know what the fuck that means, but you know. . . partners in crime and all that. We never talked about that, you know? It's not an excuse. I did something wrong. I know that. It's bad manners. Bad form. I know. Whatever it is we are . . . I . . . I betrayed you kind of. And I'm sorry about it. I was drunk, I was depressed, you were away. It never would have happened if I hadn't been so drunk. All this shit has been going on lately and I just got all fucked up in my head."

"What shit has been going on?" asked Cheryl.

"I've been having some problems with my uncle," said Tommy.

"The gangster? That uncle?"

Tommy nodded.

"What does your uncle have to do with your fucking Stephanie? That is utter fucking bullshit. That is really lame, Tommy You're having trouble with your uncle and you have to fuck Stephanie? Is that what you're saying?"

"I can't really. I don't want to talk about it," said Tommy. "Okay? I'm having big problems? I don't want to get into it, but I'm having really serious problems right now with shit that has nothing to do with the restaurant or you or me or anything else. Guinea problems. I got into some trouble and I'm worried about some things."

"Was she any good?"

"What?"

"Was Stephanie any good? She seems to think she is."

"I can't remember. I was drunk."

"So it was bad?"

"I told you it . . . I told you—I was drunk. It lasted around twelve seconds."

"So you do remember," said Cheryl.

"I remember that it was unmemorable," said Tommy.

"So where did you go? Where did you do it?"

"I really don't want to talk about it, okay? I'm embarrassed."

"You did it in the fucking restaurant, right?"

"Downstairs," said Tommy.

"Dry humping in the dry-goods area? Delightful."

"I'm sorry," said Tommy. "I'm sorry it ever happened. If I could go back in time and fix it, I would. There's a lot I'd do over again."

"What does that mean?"

Tommy sat up completely, feet on the floor, and held the ice pack over the towel. "I'm in a lot of fucking trouble, alright? A lot of trouble. I've never been in so much trouble my whole fuckin' life, that's how much trouble. The cops could come and take me away any fuckin' minute, that's what kind of trouble."

"What? Are you gonna tell me you're in the fucking Mafia or something, now, Tommy? 'Cause that's bullshit. You're a fucking cook, okay? You're gonna have to do a lot better than that."

Tommy looked her in the eyes and put one hand gently up to her elbow. "I'm in serious shit. Serious, serious shit. I've been going nuts for over a month now, worrying about it. I've been going so nuts I thought I was gonna lose my mind. The other night, I was drunk and I was lonely and I wanted somebody to hold me and tell me everything was gonna be alright."

"So, instead you took Stephanie downstairs and threw it in her. That's what your mother's for, Tommy. Go home and cry on her shoulder."

"It's my mother's brother, my Uncle Sally, who got me into this, okay? I can't talk about it. I can't tell anybody. The fucking FBI came and talked to me the other day. Alright? The FBI . . . I'm sitting there having breakfast and the FBI comes right up to my table, right there in the Pink Teacup, and starts messing with me, dicking around with my head. They got files on me and everything. Can you believe that? They even know where I eat breakfast!"

Cheryl looked surprised. "Are you shitting me? Are you kidding? You're not kidding, are you? The FBI?"

Tommy nodded.

"What do the FBI want with you? What do they want, a fuckin' recipe?"

"They want to know about something my uncle might have done."

"You didn't do anything, right? Why are they bothering your

"Cheryl, I don't know. I don't know. Because I'm there. Because they feel like it. Because they think I did something with him. They want me to rat on my uncle, alright?" Tommy ran his hands through his hair, put the ice pack back on his eye, and flopped back down on the bed.

"So why don't you tell them?" asked Cheryl.

"It's a fucked-up situation," said Tommy.

"They're not going to put you in jail," said Cheryl.

"They said they will," said Tommy.

"Just 'cause you don't talk to them, they can't put you in jail . . . They can't do that. Can they?"

"I think they can."

"Why? What is your problem? Why don't they just arrest your uncle, he did something wrong?"

"They think I saw something. They want me to be like a witness," said Tommy.

"Witness to what?"

"I really don't want to talk about this," said Tommy. "I shouldn't have really said anything at all."

Cheryl moved closer to Tommy and lay down, resting on one elbow, beside him. "Listen, Tommy," she said, "You were doing real well there for a while. I was almost forgetting about what a sleaze-bag you've been. Almost, but not quite . . . Now what is it that's so bad that you have to get drunk and fuck the house slut for?" She took the ice pack off Tommy's eye and tossed it in the sink. She ran her fingers through Tommy's hair, through the wet strands near his eye, pushing them back off his forehead. "You're gonna have to tell me. If you don't tell me, I'm gonna go in there tomorrow and kick Stephanie's ass into outer fuckin' space."

So he told her.