When I place the last page on the coffee table and look up, Portia is biting her knuckle and staring at me. She’s wearing her old Mötley Crüe Theatre of Pain T-shirt, a pair of silk panties, and nothing else.
“So?” she says.
“Best novel I’ve ever read.”
“Seriously?”
I point to the tears running down my face and say, “Look at me. I’m a fucking mess.”
“And the sun’s up. You read the whole thing straight through.”
I stand and take Portia in my arms.
Directly into her ear I whisper, “This book is so you. And I love you. Therefore, well, you can do the math.”
“Do you think he’ll like it?”
“Who?” I say, smelling her hair, my tired eyes closed.
“Mr. Vernon. The book’s dedicated to him. Didn’t you see?”
“I did. And how could he not?” I say, wondering if our old English teacher’s even still alive.
“Do you think it’s publishable?”
I know absolutely nothing about the publishing industry, but I say, “Yes,” again anyway. Then I add, “I’m proud of you. It’s a huge accomplishment, finishing a novel. And I really did love it. I love you.”
I reach down and put my hands on the silk stretched across her wonderful ass, thinking I am definitely getting lucky after reading her novel straight through, but then she says, “I’m going to start revising right away. I’ll have a lot of questions for you, so can you be on call today for me?”
“Sure,” I say, because it’s what she needs, and then I lose Portia again to her office.
CHAPTER 28
A few weeks later, when I arrive at Danielle and Tommy’s, I’m relieved Johnny Rotten’s not there. Danielle’s on the couch looking tired, watching TV. I notice that she’s got her arms covered again, but I’ve already gone there once, and she came up clean. Portia’s right. Danielle’s a big girl. And tonight’s about Portia and me.
“Hi there, little sis,” I say.
“Hey,” she says. “Tonight’s the big night, right?”
“Yep.”
“Think she’ll say yes?”
“Hope so.”
“She will.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“She’d be a dumbass not to,” Danielle says, smiles, and then looks back at the TV.
There’s something going on during this moment, but I’m not quite sure what it is. Danielle seems happy for me, but she also seems resigned somehow. No hug. No kiss. Just a simple vote of confidence. I can’t quite figure out what’s off, but something deep down inside knows all isn’t right. It’s a moment that will haunt me for years, and somehow I know it right then and there. But I shake it off. “Tommy here?”
“Yeah. He’s so excited for you—and Portia. He’s in his room.”
Danielle’s wearing an oversize Hello Kitty sweatshirt, hugging her thighs to her chest underneath the fabric. Her chin is resting on her knees. She looks like a kid, sitting like this. I remember when she actually was a little girl and I was her big brother, back when we used to watch MTV videos, alone in the apartment we rented from an old woman who had cable, wondering when our drunk mother might make her next appearance in our lives.
“Do you have on any pants under that?” I ask, going for humor again.
“I gave up the pants. Going through a Winnie the Pooh phase,” she says and then flashes a mischievous smile.
I make another attempt at peace. “Danielle. I only asked those questions about your arms—this is stupid. Can’t we—”
“It’s okay, Chuck. Seriously. I’m not mad,” she says, looking directly into my eyes.
I want so much to believe her, and so I do, even though she’s chewing her bottom lip and tapping her toes.
“Okay,” I say.
I knock, but Tommy doesn’t answer. I hear his headphones buzzing, so I push open the door.
Tommy’s little back is toward me. His headphones look gigantic on his kid-size skull. He’s sitting at his desk, banging his head to the beat of his music and writing something. I watch him headbanging away and scribbling. He looks so content that I hate to interrupt, so I just enjoy watching him for a minute or so.
When I finally tap his shoulder, he turns around and then his arms are around my neck and I have him in the air. The old yellow Walkman I gave him long ago falls to the floor and the music stops playing.
“What are you listening to, little man?” I ask.
“Too Fast for Love. Mötley Crüe,” he says, and gives me the devil horns.
“You have that on cassette tape now?”
“I taped it off the vinyl. Recorded over one of your old metal mixes. Put Scotch tape over the holes on the top of the cassette. Mom showed me how.”
“You taped over one of my masterpieces?” I say, but I’m only joking. I’m impressed by the little man’s ingenuity.
“Too Fast for Love is the masterpiece.”
“You are correct, little man,” I say. Tommy’s still in my arms. Our faces are only a few inches way from each other. The kid’s skin is so smooth, young, and unblemished. I wish I could stop time and keep Tommy just the way he is, because for a kid who loves bubblegum metal, he has the most innocent, pure heart. “But why would you want to listen to a secondhand bootleg recording of the best Mötley Crüe album ever, when you have it on vinyl?”
“Put me down and I’ll show you,” Tommy says, so I put him down. He runs over to his dresser, pulls out a large square he’s covered in paper and tape, and hands it to me. He’s written on it in red crayon: