She Poured Out Her Heart (40 page)

“You know what? I came to give her the money back. So we'd be square.” He took his wallet out of his back pocket, opened it, and fanned the bills at her. “See?”

“Not really my business.”

“Well, now that you've made it yours, or she made it yours, you can go ahead and tell her I was here. With her money.”

“I'm not sure when I'll talk to her.”

“And I'm not sure when I'll have money in my pocket again. Just tell her.”

Jane didn't answer. She was waiting for him to leave so she could go back inside and deposit the cookies and card. Instead he stood alongside her and leaned against the car. “This is yours, right? You mind? Some people are tetchy about their cars.”

“No, feel free.”

“Toyota,” he pronounced. “That's a girl car. At least it's not a minivan.”

It was Eric's car. He had the kids, so today he had the minivan. “What do you drive?”

“I'm in between cars right now. No wheels.”

“I guess you can get by without in the city. Public transportation.”

He shook his head at this and looked out to the street. He did not seem excited about the merits of public transportation. Since he didn't seem to be going away, Jane said, “So what's a boy car?”

“A manly car,” he corrected. “Dodge Ram 1500. With a Hemi V8. I used to have a '98. It was only a V6. But it drove like a bat out of hell.”

Jane couldn't think of anything to say to that. No opinion. Patrick said, “Or you could go hog wild and get a Hummer. You're not much of a car person, are you? I can kind of tell. What did you say your name was?”

“Jane.”

“Jane. Right. Where do you know Bonnie from anyway?”

“College. We were roommates.” She relaxed some now that Patrick did not seem likely to do anything violent or alarming. Bonnie had painted him in the blackest colors. But now that she'd met him, Jane thought he was harmless, maybe a bit on the simple side. And, as advertised, quite the physical specimen. If you gave him a handlebar mustache, he could have been one of those Irish boxers of the last century, posing barechested in fighting stance.

He said, “You're the one with the kids, right?”

“That's right.” And the husband. She didn't want to think about the timing, Patrick and Bonnie vs. Eric and Bonnie. Although it seemed pretty obvious. The two of them and the two of them. They must have overlapped. It made Jane queasy, she didn't want to think about it. Except of course you had to think about it.

She held out the basket of cookies. “Do you want some of these?”

“What are they, peanut butter? Awesome. Thanks.” He took two and popped them into his mouth. His jaw slid back and forth and his lips smacked. He saw Jane staring at him. “What?”

“Nothing.” It was like watching a horse eat. “I was going to leave these for Bonnie, but she doesn't need them all.” Patrick was eyeing the basket. “Go ahead, help yourself.”

“You're sure?” He took two more cookies, then two more with his other hand. “You make these? Outstanding. Bonnie don't know what she's missing.”

She could still leave the card. “Excuse me,” Jane said. She walked back inside and slid the card underneath Bonnie's door. Behind her she heard the sound of a door opening, then clicking shut, but when she turned around, no one was there.

When she went back outside, Patrick was still making himself at home, sprawled on the hood of her car. Really, he was comical, a big, cookie-eating kid. He couldn't have been more unlike Eric. Bonnie wasn't one to limit herself. But once in a while, for God's sake, couldn't she at least try? Eric wasn't one to deny himself. She was tired of both of them.

“I'm not going to wait any longer,” she told Patrick. “Do you want a ride home?”

He did. He didn't bother to pretend polite reluctance. He got into the front seat and tried to adjust it so he fit. “I guess you really do need a manly car,” Jane told him.

“No, I love riding with my knees up in my face. I don't live super far. Lincoln Square.”

He told Jane he had plenty of room, honest. And he did, but he pretty much filled the space. She was not accustomed to having so much, well, manliness all up in her face. It was going to take some getting used to.

This time she did use the GPS. This amused Patrick, who said he could tell her where he lived, but Jane said she would have to get herself home again, and so kept it on. They didn't say much as Jane tried to keep up with the synthetic chirping voice. She would have been entirely lost without it. Whenever she thought she might be heading east, she found herself going south. Buses clogged her lane, intersections confounded
her. Patrick tapped his fingers on his leg, shifted his weight, sighed. He could at least not convey boredom and impatience so clearly; she was doing him a favor, after all. Or maybe he was ADD? Bonnie hadn't said so, but then Bonnie wouldn't much notice or care. Not as long as she could get his clothes off. Somebody's clothes off. There were things she had to stop thinking about. Except that she could not stop thinking about them.

Patrick said, “That's really cool, you and her being friends for so long. It's kind of not usual for girls.”

“Why is that?” Jane asked, busy with navigating a left turn against traffic.

“I don't know, girls seem to fight over stuff more. They get jealous more. Stupid stuff. Whose hair is bigger. I guess that's important to you all, I can't figure it.”

“That is not what women fight about. Women, OK? Not girls.”

“Ah.” He shrugged. “You say potato, I say potahto.”

The GPS was giving her a new set of directions, telling her to turn when she'd thought she was done with turning, and Patrick had begun some annoying explanation of how “girl” was really a compliment, a term of endearment, and most girls, excuse me,
women
, understood that, when he said, “Hey! Where you going? It's right here.” And Jane stepped on the brakes in mid-turn and the next instant was hit from behind, hard, in a thudding crush of metal.

Both of them jolted against the dash. The seat belts threw them back again. A moment of shock when Jane chose not to believe what had just happened. A horn was sounding, the driver of the car that had hit her laying on the horn in angry bleats. “Whoa, you all right?” Patrick asked, and she said she was, because nothing obvious was broken or bleeding, and he said he guessed he was all right too. “I didn't mean, stop dead in your tracks, you know?”

Jane reached up to fix the mirror, which her head must have knocked against. The view was unfamiliar because the red hood of another car
now filled the back window. The driver, a pissed-off–looking young guy, was already out of the car, waving his arms and talking into a cell phone. At least he didn't seem to be hurt. She supposed she would have to get out too. She opened her door.

“Hold up,” Patrick said. “You should sit a minute. Breathe.”

“I'm fine,” Jane said, unhooking her seat belt. She wasn't quite fine, since her head seemed only loosely attached to her neck, but she thought she'd do.

“How about you turn the engine off before you do anything else.”

Good idea. She shut off the car and stepped out to the street, holding on to the roof for balance. “I'm sorry,” she said to the other driver. “How bad is it?”

“What the fuck were you doing, huh?” He had one of those simple-minded haircuts, the sides shaved and the top all flopping curls. His car, a late-model red Mazda, appeared to be trying to mate with Jane's Toyota, crawling up its back end. Jane couldn't tell what her car looked like beneath it.

“I said I was sorry.”

“Yeah, being sorry doesn't keep you from being stupid.” He was busy taking pictures with his phone. He wore a red T-shirt with a drawing of a skull wearing a bandana headband over long hair and sunglasses, pointing a gun.
OUTLAW
, it read, in block letters. “What's your problem, huh, you drunk or something? You stopped in the middle of the fucking intersection!” He wasn't very tall. He didn't look much like an outlaw.

“Sorry,” she said again, uselessly. “I wish you wouldn't use that kind of language.”

“Oh, sorry, heavens to Betsy!” he said, in a hateful, mincing voice. “You mean, fuck? Fuck fuck fuck fuckety fuck. Stupid bitch. You better have all kindsa insurance. I'm calling the cops.”

“I have my insurance card,” Jane said, hoping that she really did have it. She kept it in her wallet but she couldn't remember the last time she'd seen it. She guessed she would have to call Eric too.

“Screw your card. My whole front end's messed up.” He tried to jiggle the Mazda's bumper to free it, gave up, and kicked at Jane's car. “What?” he said to Jane.

“Nothing.” She had been staring at his hair and turned away, embarrassed. Why would anybody want to look like that?

Traffic clogged behind them as people saw what had happened and had to stop and back up.

There was more horn honking. A small crowd had assembled for the purposes of admiring the wreck and trading opinions. Jane turned away from them. She felt tears starting in her eyes from helpless, stupid weakness.

“Hey Richie.” Patrick had squeezed himself out of the car door. “What the hell, man?”

“Oh, hey Pat.” Richie did a confused double-take.

“What's the big hairy deal? Be nice to the lady. There's a reason they call them accidents.”

“Why'd she stop, huh?” Richie said, less furious now, but unwilling to give up his grievance. “Stopped cold. Don't say she didn't.”

“Well you hit her from behind. That's not so good.”

Some shut-down part of Jane's mind flickered back to life. She recalled that this was true, it was not, generally, a good thing to hit somebody from behind.

“It still run?”

“I don't know, I can't even move it. It's all hung the fuck up, see?” Richie said, slapping at the hood. “Ow.”

“The bumpers are locked. Help me lift it off. Hey!” he called into the crowd of onlookers. He seemed to know a number of them.

Patrick took off his leather jacket and tossed it into the Toyota's front seat. They conferred together, then some of them began pushing and bouncing on Jane's trunk, while Patrick and the others tried to lift the Mazda's front end. They made a great deal of grunting and heaving noise, broke off, conferred again, and tried once more. The rest of the
crowd cheered and shouted their suggestions. Patrick's jaw clenched with effort. Metal scraped against metal. It was as if she had blundered into some terrifying ceremony of men, who roared and swore and sweated and strained and egged each other on.

A police cruiser drove up, its blue lights revolving. An officer got out and made his way over to the two joined cars. He was one of those slow-walking policemen. The men working on the cars sounded more urgent now, hoarser. “Chrissake, wait till I . . . You got it? All right, PUSH!”

Finally there was a metallic groan. The Mazda bounced loose and its front wheels landed on the pavement. A cheer went up. Richie started the Mazda and revved the engine. Jane went to see what the Toyota looked like.

It wasn't as bad as it might have been. A deep, V-shaped crumple to one side of the license plate and some long scrapes across the length of her trunk. Patrick joined her, breathing hard and looking pleased. His face was red and his shirt was tracked with sweat. The veins stood out on his throat and forearms. It occurred to Jane for the first time that this was what people meant when they said they were “pumped up.” They meant it entirely literally. The extent of her ignorance about ordinary things still amazed her. “Tires seem OK,” Patrick told her. “You might want to get the suspension checked.”

“Thanks,” Jane said, although that seemed inadequate, given all the muscular effort that had gone into the production. “I mean, thanks to everybody. I wouldn't have known what to do.”

“Ah, it was kind of fun,” he said modestly, and Jane understood that this was true. They had all enjoyed the chance to hurl themselves against heavy objects and work their will on them.

Richie and the police officer stood a little distance away, talking. Richie had worked himself up again and was waving his arms around.

“Uh oh, here comes trouble,” Patrick said in a jolly tone, as the police officer left Richie and approached them. Jane felt twitchy and nervous,
the way she always was around police, even when she was being the most blameless of citizens.

“This your car?” he asked her. One of those silly questions that you still had to answer. Jane said that it was. “You know you aren't supposed to move anything at an accident scene, right?”

“I've never been in an accident before,” Jane said. The officer gave her a brief, sizing-up glance. She hoped she looked as pitiful as she felt.

“Oh come on, Dougie,” Patrick said. “We were just trying to clear the way for traffic. Anyway, it was my idea, give her a break.”

Did Patrick know everybody? He was a bartender, he probably did. The policeman did not look like a Dougie. He was middle-aged, square-faced, with small, staring blue eyes. Maybe he was one of the cops Bonnie knew. She didn't want to think about Bonnie right now.

Officer Dougie asked Jane for her license and insurance card. She handed them over and he went back to his patrol car with them. Richie backed the Mazda up against the curb. He popped the hood and some of the men who had helped push gathered around to lean over the engine. “I think I need to sit down,” Jane said. Some adrenaline that had propped her up until now was draining out of her. She felt hollow, shaky.

“Sure, hey, let me pull your car over to one side, OK? Then you can wait there. Don't worry about these guys, I'll talk to them.”

These guys, Dougie and Richie. Was everybody here called by a kid's nickname? Jane watched Patrick start her car, move it to the side of the street. Even at such a short distance, he drove the way he walked, with a swagger. He got out and opened the door for her. “There you be. Rest easy, now. Don't worry about Dougie, he's a peach. The worst part's over.”