If Tomorrow Never Comes (11 page)

           
Though a faint smile, neutral
without hostility or triumph, curved the old coot’s mouth and her tone was
mild, there was a ruthless purpose tainting every word.
 
“I don't know anything about you, my dear,
but I do know my Jake.
 
When he feels
strongly about something, he's rarely wrong.
 
However ad versed I am to violence, you must understand I will follow
his instructions to the letter until I’m convinced otherwise.”

           
Pausing delicately, with a lift of
an eyebrow, Margaret's eyes returning to normal size, softened as they shifted
over Jordan the smile Margaret offered was so warm, Jordan felt touched by the
sun.
 
“Now, our time together can either
be pleasant or unpleasant, the decision is yours. What will it be, my dear?”

           
Surrender was advisable, there was
no fighting “The Devil” and “Mary,” an absurd combination Jordan conceded.
 
Like it or not, the only way she’d escape the
mess she was in, was to cooperate, the certainty making her suddenly very sick
to her stomach.
 
Feeling bewildered and
confused, in retaliation she resorted to a sarcastic loud snap, “All right,
I'll do anything you say, just put that damn gun away.”

           
Margaret returned the gun to her
apron pocket as if they'd been talking in a companionable way.
 
With admirable warmth she replied, “I may be
old, fat and ugly, but I'm far from deaf, therefore, in the future, darling,
please lower your voice.
 
I’d also
appreciate it if you didn’t use vulgar language, it’s quite unnecessary.”

           
Uncertain as to the woman's
intentions, when Margaret approached, Jordan shifted nervously to grant
space.
 
As if a spy on a mission Margaret
cautiously stepped into the hall looked both ways then signaled with her
pointer finger for her to follow.
 
Jordan
was positive the amused smile jerking on the old fool's lips was that of
lunacy.
 

           
“Well, come on, dear, we don't have
all day.
 
What Jake doesn't know won't
hurt him?”

           
 
Long before Jake came home that evening, as if
the day had been uneventful, Margaret and Jordan returned to his apartment to
watch television.
 
In truth, it had been
a day Jordan would never forget.

           
Sunshine beaming through two
sparkling clean windows greeted her upon entering Margaret's flat.
 
The ray's filtering through white lace
curtains twisting in the wind were painting patterns on a minefield of knick
knacks and fussy little pieces of furniture.
 
Peaking from beneath a tattered but thoroughly vacuumed hooked rug was
well worn wood flooring.
 
An earth tone
sofa and matching chair both boasting crocheted doilies on their backs and arms
to camouflage wear with small wood tables accenting both ends faced a portable
television.
  
The cream color walls
appeared freshly painted and exhibited several diverse shaped, creatively
arranged country scenes.
  
On a short
wall, open bookcases held neatly arranged paperback and hardcover treasures
systematized according to size.
 
Two
windows sandwiched an old upright piano, its top adorned with lace doilies and
dissimilar sized picture frames apparently revealing Margaret's life story.

           
Encouraging Jordan to explore,
Margaret secured the door, placed the key in her other apron pocket and entered
the kitchen.
 
Fluttering around the
galley sized space she opened the refrigerator, shuffled through cabinets, and
several drawers to prepare the food necessary for a young girl to regain her
health.

           
Meanwhile, surprising even herself,
Jordan made a conscious effort to avoid the windows where wafting from the street
below she heard horn's, children's screams and giggle's, women's gossip.
 
As if robbed of the one thing she desperately
needed to survive she took in deep breaths of the fresh air continuing to toy
with the curtains while becoming enchanted by the photos.
 

           
Examining the pictures, she watched
the subjects change year by year, one of Margaret when she was young and indeed
beautiful and a man the image of perfection, she presumed to be her
husband.
 
Several baby pictures, and
group pictures and then, one that was impossible to ignore.
 
There was no mistaking those eyes, she knew
before asking, the photo was of Jake and another young man.
 
Lifting the picture, she inspected the
immaculate stylish suit, shiny shoes, and handsome face peaking from beneath a hat.
 
As her thumb unconsciously eased across
Jake's face, her chest heaved, and weakness inflicted her knees.
 
Despite the man next to Jake who was younger
and better looking, Jakes face captured and held her attention.
 
At once, she wondered what terrible things
happened to alter the once handsome image.
 

           
Margaret touched her shoulder; she
jumped and almost dropped the photo.
 
“Yes, it's Jake.
 
I’m sure you
agree he was handsome.
 
You would never
know he was thirty-three in that picture, would you?
 
It was two years ago and, next to him is my
son, John.
 
The two of them were
inseparable, and such monsters, they drove me wild.”
 

           
Like a cloud floating over the sun,
Jordan watched as the past enveloped Margaret how her warm, sunny expression
turned dark and brooding then thankfully brightened again as she painstakingly
returned the photo.
 
“There's a lot you
don't know about my Jake.
 
Now, come on,
breakfast is getting cold.”

           
The smell of Margaret's omelet would
have sent a heathen to heaven, let alone the taste.
 
Jordan ate until her stomach felt as though
it would burst. Determined to enjoy the luxuries of food as long as she could,
she topped it off with toast smothered with butter and jelly washed down by several
glasses of milk and juice.

           
It had been much too long since
Margaret had someone other than Jake to pamper.
 
Sipping her coffee, delighted with her guests' antics, she planned to
have Jordan on her feet looking healthier and more beautiful every day.
 

           
Margaret had secret aspirations of
her own.
 
Jordan just might be the long
overdue answer to her prayers she thought.
 
She’d already made Jake sit up and take notice, jarring the grizzly from
a long winters nap.
 
Whether he knew it
or not, Jordan was beginning to breathe life back into a hollow man.

           
Hours passed while Margaret’s tales
of her son and Jake’s friendship, of John’s addiction and death, mesmerized
Jordan.
 
Regretfully, as if on purpose,
she skimmed over the person in Jake's life other than John responsible for
stealing his reason to live.

           
The full extent of Margaret's
shrewdness was not apparent until Jordan finished lunch, that's when she was
marched toward the bathroom with a towel, a washcloth, and a new
toothbrush.
 
Her instructions were in
return for her meals she was to bathe and scrub herself spotless.
 
In parting, Margaret warned that if she
didn't pass inspection, she would personally see that it was done.
 
Inwardly Jordan chuckled; Margaret had
implemented her concept of compromise quite successfully.
    

           
An hour later, spit polished, Jordan
entered the kitchen surprised to discover a snack spread before her, and
Margaret insisting she eat again.
 
Ice
tea washed down a giggle as Jordan wondered what the old coot would request in
return.

           
When Jake entered his apartment that
evening and his eyes converged on Jordan, Margaret had to chew her bottom lip
to prevent a smug smile from curling them.
 
Though unable to see his eye's flash in her direction, there was no
mistaking the heat, the intensity making her quickly gather her belongings and
exit before Jake collected his thoughts enough to scold her.

CHAPTER 12

           
Stomping into the bedroom, tossing a
garbage bag onto the floor, like a tidal wave Jake moved to the kitchen.
 
Yanking open, the refrigerator door he
retrieved a can of beer, and then heaved the door closed so hard the appliance
shook.
 
The long swigs of beer, the deep
drags on a cigarette, his ideas of anger management, did nothing to eradicate
the sight of Jordan that he was trying hard to ignore.

           
It was not the oversized shirt, the
jeans hugging her legs slightly tighter, the slouch socks and sneakers, all of
which he knew were the workings of “Mary” herself, but Jordan's face.
 
Polished clean, her skin shined with fresh
color, the dark circles beneath gold somewhat faded.
 
Fine strands of multi colored blonde hair
were definitely puffier, her hands clean, her lips. . .
 
He should have known better than to trust two
conniving women together, it was a conspiracy, for cripes sake.

           
Demented, that's what he was forever
bringing Jordan to his apartment an admission that crushed the empty beer can
within hands of steel before retrieving another.
 
He was angry with himself for wondering why
Jordan was the first thing he looked for the moment he opened the door, why he
was so relieved to find her there, why he didn’t miss the slightest detail of
her, why he even noticed.
 

           
The only conclusion, he'd lost his
marbles, the result of exhaustion, malnutrition and over work, still, he
couldn’t stop.
 
He was in hopes that
tonight would be the first of what would uncover Scorpios' trail, mulling over
the mere possibility completely obliterating reflections of Jordan.

           
With elongated, obstinate strides,
he came to face the television, a determined flick of his wrist switching it
off.
 
Turning to confront Jordan, he
bellowed, “Your clothes are in the bag in the bedroom.
 
Put them on.
 
There's a jar of camouflage on the top of my dresser for your face.
 
You have ten minutes.”

           
When Jordan stood, Jake's chest
swelled so pleased was he that she intended to comply.
 
Instead, sauntering toward him using
exaggerated movements, she reached around him to flick the television back
on.
 
“I was watching a program, if you
don't mind.”

           
Goddamn, she knew just how to light
his fire.
 
Almost breaking the knob Jake
angrily twisted it off again.
 
“Oh, but I
do mind.
 
Now you heard me, move,” the
last word said with enough gust of wind to separate the strands of what few
wispy bangs covered her forehead.

           
Despite the fury evident in his
furtive eyes, digging her feet in, Jordan stiffened quickly.
 
Again, she had the nerve to turn the
television back on.
 
Arms crossed, chin
raised in defiance, her posture stiffer still, she countered, “Make me!”
 

           
In a flash, Jake started to raise
his hand, but reconsidered in time.
 
Like
bulls measuring each other, both stood their ground.

           
The nearness of Jordan’s skin
blasting him with a spring fresh fragrance and her Golden nugget eyes'
sparkling with renewed vitality radiating her hatred was making the ice inside
him begin to melt ever so slightly.
 
Although he wanted to escape the unexpected torture he couldn’t knowing
that giving in would be a grave mistake.
 
“That's it, isn't it?
 
You want
something in return, don't you, what, the White House, glass slippers, or, a
castle perhaps?” He was screaming of course.