Willow went through a thousand head trips about all the ways he was going to maneuver his neighbor into bed, then bam—there they were under the sheets, moaning and grinding away.
Nurse Dixie outmaneuvered him.
And he felt alive again, no shit.
—take that, Miranda!
She was almost thirty years younger, and it wasn’t just the freshness of her body that excited him. (Not that it wouldn’t have been enough.) No, it was the pure psychology behind her attraction, or his interpretation of it, anyway: that she likely had a thing for older men. Something about that theory was as hot as it was self-serving. And it wasn’t just the daddy thing that turned him on. It was the boldness of a youngster who said fuck it, who grabbed the old bull by the horns and took the perilous leap into AARP World. She wasn’t a knockout, but Jesus—the sly twist of her mouth, more pronounced than Adelaide’s, sent him over the edge.
The staying power of the things he loved in women always amazed him. The hair on their arms, the way they laughed or got shy when he looked in their eyes as they fucked, the sounds they made in bed while transported to another place. Women were a wild and messy feast. He loved the way they talked, the words they chose, hell, he loved the way they farted. The staying power of lovemaking itself amazed. By all rights, fornication was a foul, dumbly repetitive, crazy-stupid act, and that it managed to consistently transcend dropped the detective’s jaw. The way it could heal, the joy it brought, the intense spirituality of it—that fleeting fusion with all humanity. Willow got all misty and mystical just thinking about its divine puzzle.
“So how long you been a cop?”
“Longer than you’ve been on the planet.”
In the short while they’d known each other, they hadn’t really spoken all that much. Getting into bed hadn’t required the usual investment of time-consuming nonsense, which only spiked his crush. And now, just talking with the lady was one more aphrodisiac.
“Are you retired?”
“Not really,” he said. “I kind of have a new job”—he said it like that because he still couldn’t believe it—“that’s why I’m here in Macomb.”
“Aren’t you a little old to be playing Fast and Furious?” she said, with a crooked smile.
“Those guys aren’t cops. But you tell me,” he said, referring to recent events.
“Well . . . you were pretty furious—and not too fast, I’ll give you that.”
She winked, cuddling up. They made out a while.
I could fall in love with this woman . . .
He got up to pee and then Dixie did the same as he went to the kitchen for Diet Dr Peppers. She came into the living room and sprawled on the couch, fishing a roach from her purse.
“You smoke?”
“Nope.”
“ ’Cause you’re a cop?”
“ ’Cause I’m sober.”
“That’s cool. Mind if I indulge?”
“Actually, if you want to do that, Dixie, I’d appreciate it if you went outside.” He was matter-of-fact, not mean.
“No worries.”
She put the roach away and lit a cigarette instead.
“Temptation can be . . . tempting,” said Willow, trying not to sound defensive. “‘The phenomenon of craving’ and all that.”
“So you’re in AA?”
“I try to be.”
“I’ve been to some meetings—mostly Al-Anon. It’s crazy how many nurses and doctors I know are drug addicts. But I never really drank because it gives me migraines. My dad’s an alcoholic, though. And I never liked painkillers because they make it hard to poop. I do like weed but I don’t get too crazy. I take it mostly for my headaches.”
“Are you having one now?”
“Nope! You haven’t given me a migraine—yet.” She stared at the wall opposite them. “I love that you painted on that! I promise I won’t tell the landlord or you might have to arrest yourself.” She scrutinized the creation. “What is it?”
“What does it look like?” he said. “I mean, to you.”
“A fence?” She tilted her head. “Like, a fence lying on its side? It’s hard to . . . It’s kinda dark in here. But is it—”
“Train tracks.”
“Ah! Okay. Yeah, I can see that.”
“It’s kind of whatever you want it to be.”
She smiled and said, “C’mere, Rorschach,” then kissed him. Despite his older-man tricks, Dixie had all the power—it wasn’t even close. It was ridiculous the amount of power a woman had. “Willow . . . such a sad and beautiful name. ‘Dixie’—I mean, what does anyone think of? Dixie cups and rednecks. But Willow . . .” She began to softly sing, stroking his neck with her perfect, slender, chewed-up fingers. He’d always liked a nail-biter. “‘Willow, weep for me. Willow, weep for me. Bend your branches green, along the stream that runs to sea . . .’ Mom used to sing us to sleep with that.”
“Your voice is really beautiful.”
“Ya think? You’re lucky I wasn’t stoned! My singing tends to be a little more dramatic when I’m high.”
“That’d be okay. I like drama.”
“Careful what you wish for.”
After she left, around 10:00 P.M.—she had to get up at 5:00 for a morning shift—Willow lay on the couch, his mind wandering.
He thought of how good it would have been to smoke that weed. How good the sex would have been . . . not that it could have gotten much better. Replaying choice bits from their rumble in the jungle, he felt himself becoming aroused, like some kind of teenager. There’s hope for you yet, ol’ boy.
He went to the bedroom and tried to sleep. Sniffed the pillow where her head had been. Sniffed the sheets and started playing with himself, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was restless.
Hungry.
Without thought, he got up, got dressed and drove straight to the Early World Diner.
It was a quarter full.
Random folks: a solitary older woman, three kids with piercings and spiky hair, an old vet (not his neighbor) out way past his bedtime. Prolly got some bad news from the VA. Willow ordered fried chicken, a lifetime ritual he liked to indulge après sex.
The solitary woman walked toward him. When he glanced up, she smiled.
“Willow?” she said, eyes twinkling.
“Yes?”
“Annie Ballendine, ‘World’s Greatest Volunteer’—we met the other night at the hospital.”
“Oh! Yes—hi,” he said, his own smile fading.
She shook his hand and then plunked herself across from him. “You surprised me the other day.”
“How so?” said Willow, perplexed.
“I wasn’t expecting you so soon. But there you were. I came to you tonight—here,” she said, laughing, “because I didn’t want any more surprises!”
She charmed and terrified him all at once. “I don’t really know what you’re talking about.”
He was still trying to be affable. He wouldn’t want Adelaide to get a bad report.
“I understand,” she said. “I felt the same way when Jasper—Mr. Sebastian—paid me a visit my first time. But I didn’t have the luxury of being in a cozy little coffee shop, enjoying a lovely late-night meal. I was ‘in hospital,’ as they used to say. The nut ward.”
“What is it that you want, Annie?” he said, with an edge to his voice.
“What do I want?” She smiled. “Well, what I want is just one thing.”
Willow felt himself softly come asunder. He didn’t know what was happening (yet absolutely knew). The part that was ignorant dug in and spun its wheels. Would she ask for money? Blackmail him over some old felony? The spinning tires splattered mud in a frenzy, deepening the rut. Was she the mother of some douchebag he put behind bars, here to exact an explosive, fatal revenge?
But the part that knew stiffened, and made him wonder if he would be able to survive the ordeal that was coming. What ordeal, though? Instinct only told him so much. He felt like he’d been punched in the gut, waylaid by imperial powers commanding him to drop everything and set off on an expedition to climb Everest, without oxygen.
Their booth contracted, like the cabin of a train.
“Give me one thing, Willow,” she said.
“And what’s that?” he said numbly.
“Your attention. I want your attention.”