Knitting in the City 01 Neanderthal Seeks Human (41 page)

At one point
Ashley said, “Oh my God, Janie. How can you make everything sound like a police report?”

“Oh geeze…” Maria bit her lip, her blue eyes pinning me with concern, “Are you ok
, hon? I can’t believe that all happened this last week.”

“Obviously she’s ok.” Sandra interrupted, setting her knitting on the table and taking a gulp of her beer, “What I want to know is: who won the game of strip poker?”

Elizabeth grabbed my hand, “I can’t believe he owns the company. I did not see that coming.”

“I can’t believe Jon slept with your psycho sister.”
Ashley chimed in, “That bitch is
cr-aaaaa-zy
.”

“Who won the poker game, Janie?” Fiona’s soft voice drew my attention to her; her perceptive eyes were narrowed in a way that made me nervous.

I swallowed, “It was a tie.”

“Hmm…” Fiona pressed her lips together in a contemplative line, “So… then the two of you are dating?”

“I-” I shook my head as though to clear it, “I guess so.”

“And is that what you want?” Fiona pressed.

I nodded before I realized my head was moving, “Yes.” My chin trembled a little, “Yes but, it’s scary, you know?”

“Oh, Janie.” Fiona smiled at me, her elfish eyes twinkling, “That’s how you know it’s real.”

~*~

I texted- yes, texted- Quinn that night when I left knitting
:

Won’t be
organizing my comic books, instead am planning to pass out from exhaustion as soon as I make it home.

He responded:

Ok. I’ll take a rain check on the call. See you tomorrow after work. FYI guards will make sure you get home ok.

Then, a minute later:

I miss you. You should spend the night here tomorrow.

Then, thirty seconds later:

Or you could come over now. I promise I’ll let you sleep.

I thought about it.

I thought about it and my head said no and my vagina said yes and my heart said
I DON’T KNOW!! I’M EMOTIONALLY INHIBITED! LEAVE ME ALONE!!!

I was peripherally aware of and recognized the guards shadowing me on my short walk home.
Marie lived in our neighborhood, just three blocks away. Elizabeth had a night shift at the hospital and left the group a little early. It was a cold night and my cheeks stung as Chicago winds whipped against my face, threading through my loose hair and tossing it fretfully around my shoulders.

The cold air felt sobering. I responded to Quinn’s last text:

If I come over I won’t want to sleep. Go to bed.

I slipped my cell into my coat and
ascended the steps to my building. Almost immediately I felt the phone buzz in my pocket. I glanced at the screen as I undid the lock and headed for the stairs:

You should definitely come over
now.

I smiled, my skin warming, my cheeks turning pink. He could make me blush via text message.

I climbed the flights distractedly, touching the screen of my phone and typing a reply, grinning like a doofus.

No. We both need sleep. Go to bed.

As a second thought, and before I could stop myself, I added- because it was true and I suddenly wanted him to know-

I miss you too.

I opened the door to my apartment as I hit send on the phone, shut the door, and slid the lock. Taking a deep breath I leaned against the partition and allowed my head to fall against it, closing my eyes, wondering how it could be that I’d only been away from home less than forty-eight hours.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

I stiffened, my eyes opening as wide as saucers, and searched for the owner of the voice. Even before I saw her I knew who it was.

Jem.

She stood in the hallway, leaning her shoulder against the wall. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her chin was tilted up in the proud, stubborn way she usually employed when faced with… well, anyone.

She was
dressed in dark wash jeans, brown boots, and a white long sleeve shirt; clothes which were considerably tamer than I was used to seeing her wear; however, I reasoned, it was cold outside and I didn’t actually
see
her anymore. Her hair looked like mine: long and curly and generally unruly. It was even the same color. Even though she was at least two sizes thinner than me, I immediately understood why I would have been mistaken for her doppelganger, especially at a distance.

I blinked at her, won
dering at first whether she were real or imagined, hoping for the latter; before I could think to speak Jem’s raspy Peppermint Patty voice interrupted my internal debate.

“Well?”

I considered her for a long moment before asking, “How did you get into the apartment?”

Jem shrugged, “I pretended to be you. I told your super that I lost my keys. He let me in.”

“Well… that’s just great.” I sighed, heavily, and took one step into the apartment. I pulled off my brown wool jacket, hung it on the coat rack, and eyeballed her.

“Aren’t you happy to see
your baby sister?” She shifted, her lips pressing into an irritated line.

I walked past her into the living room then moved to the kitchen. I suddenly needed a drink
. Jem followed me, hovered at the counter, then leaned across it. She watched me as I poured myself orange juice and tequila.

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

I ignored the question and mixed the liquids together with a spoon.

“You any better at holding your liquor? Last time I saw you drink you passed out from five shots of vodka.”

“I didn’t pass out. I puked on my SAT proctor.” I wasn’t upset about it, not any more. I just knew it was important, when Jem was around, to be as accurate and precise as possible.

“Whatever.”

“Why are you here?” I took a long swallow of the tequila and OJ.

“I told you I was coming to visit.”

We stared at each other for several long moments; then I asked her again: “Why are you here?”

She straightened
slowly, crossed her arms over her chest, “I’m visiting Chicago and I need a place to stay for a few days.”

I shook my head, “You’ve been in Chicago for weeks. Why now?”

Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, her chin titled upward; “What do you know about that?”

I took another swallow of my juice then set it down on the counter. “I know a lot.”

She studied me; her glare, just as I remembered, hard and guarded. She spoke slowly as though carefully choosing her words, “Who told you I’ve been in Chicago for weeks?”

“Jon.” I rolled my glass between my palms to keep my hands bus
y, wanting to move, wanting to escape, wanting to punch her in the face, wanting to eat a granola bar.

Hello, random!

Her expression didn’t change, her gaze didn’t even waver. “He’s an asshole, you know.”

“So are you.” That granola bar was sounding better and better. I set my
drink on the counter and started pilfering the pantry.

“Yeah, but I don’t pretend about it. He justifies all his douche-baggy behaviors by
calling it love. Get me a glass.”

I glanced over my shoulder, watched her unscrew the tequila, “Now you’re going to drink my tequila?”

“Yes.”

I shrugged, moved to the cabinet which held
the cups, passed one to her then turned my attention back to the
Hunt for the Red Granola
.

“What was the plan, Jem? Why did you do it?” I didn’t precisely care
why she slept with him. Rather, I didn’t like the silence and it seemed like a reasonable topic of conversation given the circumstances.

“Blackmail of course.”

“Ah. Of course.” I found the granola bars and pulled out two, passing her one and ripping the other open with my teeth. I always struggled opening single serving items, like bags of m-n-m’s or condoms.

“He, of course, fucks it all up by telling you the truth.” Jem poured a hefty amount of tequila into the glass but didn’t drink.

“Why the blackmail?”

“I need the money.”

“Why?”

Jem held my gaze for a long moment, sniffed, then moved her eyes over the contents of the small kitchen as though taking inventory. She took a swallow of the tequila but didn’t grimace.

I took this opportunity to study her; for the first time I could recall, Jem looked patently uneasy. Abruptly, I found that I was enjoying the silence. I enjoyed smacking my lips when I took a sip of my Tequila and OJ and I enjoyed the way the loud crunch of the granola bar sounded magnified by her tense disquiet.

When it
became clear she had no intention of answering I decided to ask, with my mouth full of crunchy candied oats, “Can I guess?” a few of the loose pieces of my cereal bar flew from my lips and landed on the counter. It’s obnoxious and gross and I loved it.

Jem shifted
her weight from one foot to the other, swirling her neat tequila, still not meeting my gaze; “Sure.”

“
Ok, I’ll take three guesses.” I set my food on the counter, gulped my OJ, and cracked my knuckles. “Guess number one: You need the money to go to college.”

Her eyes lift to mine
; a small, genuinely amused, smile tugged at the corner of her lips, “Yep. That’s it. I got into MIT but I just need the two hundred and fifty grand to cover the books for my first semester.”

I return
ed her smile. I can’t remember the last time I smiled at her, sincere or not.

Slowly, I shook
my head, “No, no. That’s not it. Let me try again.” I cleared my throat, pursed my lips, and narrowed my eyes, “You plan to start a non-profit organization and need the startup principal.”

She nodded, “Ok, you got me. I want to help orphans learn how to
fish for lobsters. If they don’t learn about lobster fishing from me, they’ll just learn about it on the streets.”

“It’s not
generally called ‘lobster fishing.’ The main method for the Norway lobster is
trawling
, although the large Homarus lobsters are caught almost always with lobster traps-”

“Fuck off with the
Wikipedia bullshit, Janie.”

My smile broadened
but I could feel the bitterness behind it; my mouth tasted like vinegar. “Ah, but, I think that’s not it either. Ok,” I placed my index finger on my chin. I’m surprised that she’s playing along, joking with me, and it occurred to me that Jem might have no expectation that I’d ‘guess’ correctly. I inhale deeply; “Let me think…”

“Maybe it’s both of those. Maybe I want to go to college so I can start a non-profit.”

I snapped my fingers, almost startling her, “I’ve got it!”

“You found me out. I want to adopt all the Dalmatians in Boston and turn them into a fur coat.” Her voice was,
of course, deadpan as she said this. Jem lifted the tequila to her lips.

“No…” I hesitated, took another deep breath, “You’re running from a skinhead with crazy neck tattoos named
Seamus who wants to kill you.”

Jem held perfectly still, her eyes still on me, her glass in mid-air. I allow
ed several seconds to pass. I noted that she didn’t appear to be amused anymore.

My hand found and closed over the discarded granola bar wrapper; I crinkled it with my fingers and continued,
“And you need the money so you can hide.” 

Jem took another gulp of the brown liquid then lowered the glass. Her expression was inscrutable. It was the Jem I knew. I couldn’t remember a time when she didn’t look hard
, look at me and the world with a granite-like inflexibility. Her chest expanded slowly, like she was taking a calming breath.

“How do you know that?”
So quiet. Her voice was so quiet I almost didn’t hear the words.

I tried to mirror her impassive mask but knew I was failing. I could feel the heat of resentment pour out of my fingertips and eyeballs. I felt the chilling warmth of it in my chest and nose, in every breath I took. 

“Lucky guess.” I licked my lips; they tasted sweet from the OJ.

We stared at each other for a long time, silently. I wanted to yell at her, I wanted to ask her if she ever thought about anyone but herself, ask her when and why she decided to be the crazy Morris girl instead of the sweet, or gregarious, or well mannered, or any other option other than crazy.

She broke the silence, “I need the money.”

I sighed, glanced at my almost empty glass. My fingertips rubbed my forehead. I was going to have a headache.

“I know.”

“No, Janie, I
really
need the money.”

My gaze flickered to hers and I was surprised to find that fear had replaced some
, not all, of the boulder of inflexibility. I sighed.