Page 62 of The Vow

“I’d love to, but I’ve had my fill of hot dogs for the year.”

“Oh, well, maybe next year.”

I saluted her and turned my chair so that my back was to the neighborhood busybody.

Solitude has been a shitty companion. I feel like I’m living outside of my body, staring down at myself as if I’m already dead. I expected Alex to call and arrange a time to pick up the rest of her things and especially her blessed crucifix, but no one has called in the last three days. Feelings of concern sometimes overpower feelings of disgust. I have no idea where she is and the part of me that still loves her is desperate to go and find her. Then foul images of her body wrapped around that of another man push their way to the forefront of my mind.

I didn’t need to turn my chair around to know who pulled into my driveway. If I could, I’d run inside and barricade the door.

Nick grabbed the newspaper from the mailbox and let himself inside the house. He left me on the porch, knowing I had no choice but to follow him. In a different lifetime, he’d show up randomly with a twelve-pack of beer and a couple of steaks and we’d sit in the backyard talking and catching up on each other’s lives. Without his encouragement and support, I probably wouldn’t have become a boxer, and in a twisted sort of way, I blame him for where I find myself today – alone in Nowhere Land.

“Yankees are doing pretty good this year.”

I found him standing at the island in the kitchen, head poised as if reading the paper.

“What do you want?”

“What do I want?” he asked, pushing the newspaper to the ground. “I want you to stop being a jerk.”

I once sparred with Nick to prepare for a fight with an underdog. He was strong, but not strategic. Standing in my kitchen, he was insulting me with his very presence, and I ached to knock him out in a good, old-fashioned fist fight, but these days, I weave through life with words.

“Too bad I’m not feeling generous to your needs. I want you to leave.”

“Tough shit, buddy. I have a lot more to say. She’s fine, by the way. In case you were wondering.”

“You talked to her?”

“Yeah, I talked to her. She came to me.”

Relief washed over the part of my heart where she still lived, probably would always live.

“You fucking lied to me. About the money.”

“So what? She asked me to. She was trying to help you, you miserable prick. Don’t ask me why. Oh, wait a minute. Maybe it’s because she fucking loves you?”

“You don’t know the whole story,” I said, wheeling myself to the living room. “If you did...”

“I know the whole fucking story.”

I’ve taken a lot of blows in my life, but I’ve never taken a blow to my ego. It was embarrassing to know that Nick had the same sordid images in his head. I was embarrassed for myself, and most of all, I was embarrassed for Alex who was the star of her own triple X-rated film.

“Jesus Christ. You knew this whole time? And you kept me in the dark?”

“I didn’t know until yesterday. I was clueless too. She confessed everything when you kicked her out.” Nick sat on the couch and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. He looked haggard. Then again, I wasn’t about to win any beauty contests. “When she first came to me, I asked her where she was getting the money from, but she begged me not to ask questions. ‘What you don’t know, can’t hurt you’, and all that.”

“You still lied to me.”

“Get over yourself!” Nick got off the couch and stuffed his hands deep into his pockets. He stood by the main window and stared outside where a sign went up in the location of the playground to announce a new business opening, because the world needs another tanning bed salon instead of a safe place for children to play. “What would your mother think?”

“Don’t talk about my mother.”

“Why the hell not!?” He asked, spinning around. “I’ve known her pretty much as long as you have. You think she’d be proud right now? Think of all the sacrifices she made to take care of your sorry ass.”

“Are you fucking comparing Alex to my mother?”

“A sacrifice is a sacrifice, buddy. And Alex didn’t mean to hurt you. How are you managing by yourself?”

I thought about the remnants of the clay pot in the trash. It was the only thing I kept that belonged to ma. Everything else was either thrown out or donated. Ma used to tell me stories about slow-cooking beans in it. Pop would heat the coals, and they’d sit together and stoke the fire. Light streamed through threadbare curtains while they dreamed the impossible dream. That pignata crossed oceans with them from Italy. For years, ma had it displayed on top of her refrigerator, and it only took seconds for me to bump into it with my chair and knock it off a pedestal table. Its fragments represented my shattered dreams.