The Delivery (14 page)

“Remedy that, baby girl! As soon as we find him. No use in searching him down if you haven’t even tried his lollipop. What a waste that would be! What if you don’t even like it?”

“Oh, I’ll like it!”

But Tommy’s attention is elsewhere; he’s already lost interest. At the store entrance there seems to be some sort of commotion.

We push the cart laden with things we don’t really need past a cheap-suited store manager barking loudly in Spanish at a lower-lever parking lot employee. As we step out into the night, the ground in front of us illuminated by large halogen parking lot lights holds the most beautiful design painted all in white. They appear to be gravestones, deeply contrasted and glowing against the black tar, some of them hold skulls on top with illegible scripture. Other stones have soft flowing blurs escaping them, wafting off into nothingness—spray-painted spirits escaping woefully into the air.

This isn’t a happy picture; it’s full of fear and despair. It’s small and only a humble collection of a few lines, but with this man’s talent, the rudimentary becomes sublime. The lower corner bears his signature and next to it is a likeness of my contrast stencil-face, but it looks even better than the one we made. This one really looks like me.

Tommy marches ahead with the grocery cart and pops open the trunk. I strain my eyes through the dark to try to see him—maybe he’s nearby watching my reaction.

“Don’t bother. He’s long gone by now. He’s teasing you at this point, really. He’s playing a game of cat and mouse. He’ll come out when he’s ready.”

I slump into the passenger’s side seat and reluctantly pull on my seatbelt.

“I’ve been waiting so long. It’s making me crazy. I’ve been waiting three years, Tommy, not just three days in Tijuana.”

“I can’t believe you haven’t done him yet. I had a whole different vision going on.”

“I’m not planning on doing him. I’m going to find him and then deliver him to Mexico.”

“Why do you say it like that? He’s a person, not a pizza. What if he doesn’t want to go?”

“He told me he did. He has family there. I saw him in detention before he was deported. I promised to do something for him.”

“So you’re not in love with him?”

“I am. I think I am. I don’t know what love is. I’m his social worker. I could never sleep with him.”

I stare out the car window at the white spray-paint softly glowing against tar-black of the parking lot and the blue-black of the night.

Chapter 22

“W
ooo weee, girl, wake up!” Tommy whistles as he pulls the car into Paradise. I must have dozed off. We get out to unload too many bags of groceries for the one night we have left together.

Rocco and Claudia are in the garden, listening to opera, the volume at full boar. Claudia has a huge green parrot squawking on her shoulder and shifting its feet in an endless sidestep dance.

“Well, boys,” Tommy says, setting the groceries down by the white-painted iron garden chairs. “Lana is delivering him to Mexico because she’s his social worker. She isn’t going to have sex with him. So says the news of the day. We put her face all over TJ. If anybody at all wants her—they’ll know where to find her.”

Rocco is reclined with his eyes closed, and he’s got a pipe full of smoldering tobacco pressed tightly between his lips. The parrot squawks again and pecks at Coco’s wig, tonight’s style is a sharp, blonde bob. Rocco squints, his left eye open and removes his pipe.

“Well, someone will find you here. But I’m afraid we have to leave tomorrow.”

“¿Qué es eso? “ Coco coos as she puts the parrot back into a large wrought iron cage. “¿Es para mí?” she asks, coming over and taking the piñata from me.

“Yeah,” I shrug and smile at Tommy.

“Did you eat, mi amor? Are you hungry? Nobody is in the hotel. It’s Sunday night so I made espaguetti.”

“Any luck on social media?” Tommy asks Rocco who is once again reclined.

Rocco exhales a puff of white cherry-scented smoke, opens his eyes and nods. “I found him. He has his own account. I followed him with yours. He’s been looking in graveyards. I guess trying to find his sister. He must have found out she died.”

“Uhh!” I make a noise out loud without wanting to and run for my phone. My hands are shaking as I scroll through his pictures. Most are of his artwork and very few are of him. There’s a cut-off arm every once in a while or a bar shot with friends where he’s not really looking at the camera. There are some of his son, which, for selfish reasons, are painful to see.

“Lana is in love,” Coco announces, handing me both a beer and a shot of tequila.

“Not again, I don’t think my liver can handle it,” I say, taking both only to set them down again and tear through the pictures. The best thing I’ve ever come across in my life is way back in his account at the very beginning. Mozey posted a photo of me, him and Lex on some freezing, gray, Detroit morning. I remember my dad taking it with Lex’s phone. I don’t recall ever having seen it—I’m sure I’d remember it.

We all look so young it’s hard to believe it was taken only three years ago. My cheeks are pink from the cold, and I’m wearing my grandmother’s ill-fitting and outdated coat. Lex’s hair is a mess like he just woke up, but I do think the photo was taken the day we went to court. Mozey is dressed in all black and has a sort of half-smirk like he’s contented and feels warmly toward us. We could be three orphans or three Eastern European immigrants arriving at Ellis Island at the turn of the last century. You’d only have to change our wardrobe, our expressions would stay.

I smile and cry a few tears and pass the picture around to my friends. When they give me back the phone, I comment underneath the picture. I tag Lex so he can see it and also just to let him know how close I am to finding Mo. I hashtag the image #likefamily #bestfriends. I grin down at it and feel good. I’m still staring at the picture five minutes later, settled into a chair next to Rocco.

“What are you doing? Willing it to life?” Rocco asks, running his fingers through my hair. “Comment on his account, try to get this attention!”

“I already did,” I say, focusing back on the frame. My hands shake when Mozey comments back.

“#bestfriends? Really, Lana?”

“Whatever you want to be.” I write without thinking.

“Did you make that stencil? It was sick! I tried to reproduce it.”

“I had help. Let me find you. I want to see you—help you get to Mexico.”

“If I’m so off limits, I don’t want to tempt you. Make you lose the
no job
that you
don’t
have.”

Uff. That one bites. He’s belittling my work. He thinks I used it as an empty excuse. He’s got his reasons to be angry with me—maybe I deserve it.

“I need to see you.” I write back, stating the simple truth. It does flash through my mind that I’m creating a public record here—evidence to keep me from getting hired at my next job for inappropriate relationships with clients.

“I’m out back by the pool.” Mozey writes back, and I look up, glaring at Rocco.

“Did you know he was here? How long has he been at Paradise? Why didn’t you call me?”

“Just go,” Rocco says, waving me away with his arm.

“You’ so right, Lana, mi vida, es
divino
! Sooo sexy and strong! Muah!” Coco shouts, kissing her fingers as I run through her creepy garden with statues of naked men their pale limbs crawling with moss and ivy as if reclaiming them. I bang open the door and step out into the night. The air is still hot and heavy, and the lights at the bottom of the pool cast watery shadows that bounce and play on the wall.

Mozey stands at the far end clad all in black. He’s just adding his signature to a painting that covers the only wall that divides this oasis from an industrial sized parking lot. His mural is a lush garden riddled with birds. This had to be a comish piece because it reads Coco all over it, from the cheesy gold-braided rope framing to the intertwined lovers held in a naked embrace.

“Turned out well. Not really my style, but I dig her enthusiasm.”

“How long have you been here? When did you find out?”

“I saw your stencil this morning. Watched you paint it actually. Then I came over and started working on this.”

He shakes the can he’s holding to see if there’s any left and unzips his backpack, throws it in and moves toward me.

I want to run to him. I still want to do the Dirty Dancing lift. I want him to kiss me forever like I’ve never been kissed. I stand still and self-conscious instead, wondering if he thinks I’m too much of a stalker. Mozey probably gets more female attention than he can handle. What if I’m just a figure from a past he’d rather forget?

“So, now you found me.” He shrugs, jamming his thumbs into his pockets.

“Are you hungry? Do you want to get something to eat?”

“I’d rather just talk.”

I’d rather just fuck. Pull your hair, have you inside of me. Scream your name, grab your ass, suck you off until you come on my face.
What is wrong with me? I scold my libido for acting like this. What is it about Mozey that turns me into an animal? He’s probably devastated about his sister, overwhelmed with the lack of choice he now has regarding his own life. Can I cool down the cave-woman and maybe try to comfort him?

“I have a room here. Or we could go to the garden?”

“What’s wrong with right here?” Mozey says, stepping down on the heel of his shoe and pulling it off. He then steps on the other heel and starts to peel off his socks. He plunges his feet into the blue chlorine-smelling water after rolling up his jeans. I step timidly toward him, and when I get near him, I crouch down to take off my own sneakers. I’m close enough to smell him. I want to hug him and hold him.

We both have our feet in the water, and I notice mine are almost as big as his are, yet he’s so much taller. Our feet look so naked, and I freeze up, wondering if I’ve already crossed into inappropriate behavior just by getting close to him. But if anything is inappropriate, it’s me leaving the country to stalk and track down a former client from Pathways. I’m nervous enough to panic, and when Mozey casually moves his foot over through the water and runs his toe up the side of my arch, I shiver and feel the nerves run clear up my spine.

“So, Lana, what the hell are you doing in Mexico?”

His smile is wide, so I can tell he’s teasing, but it’s suddenly so blatantly obvious that I’m obsessed with him that I can feel nothing but embarrassment. Have I just spent the last four years of my life unhealthily pining for something that’s impossible? Did I leave a decent relationship because I’m delusional about a man who isn’t even interested in me? I’m older than him, we have different citizenship, and he’s got a criminal record. He’s got a kid and an ex-wife. The list is endless. What are we going to do to do? Get married? He’s only twenty-one, and I’m almost thirty. He probably doesn’t even want my help getting to Mexico.

“What’s up, Doc? Talk to me. Feel like going for a swim?”

He shoves me from behind, and it’s not just an encouraging push. It’s a full-fledged surprise dunk, and I swallow a gallon of chlorinated water in surprise. When I surface, he’s laughing, and I grab for his legs. His black jeans are rolled to the knee, and he quickly lifts his legs and scoots back on the tile.

“Arrgg!” I yell in frustration and slam my fists into the water.

“Hold up, I’m coming in,” Mozey says as he pulls his t-shirt over his head. His real-life sculpted chest and fabulous abs outdo any sculpted homoerotic man-statue in Coco’s Paradise garden. He unzips his pants, and my breath catches in my throat. He’s down to his boxers, and my pulse is in overdrive, treading water to stay afloat. He dives over me in a well-formed arc, easily splitting the water and soaring clear to the bottom. Then he rips up as swiftly as he went down, but this time aiming for coming up right smack underneath me. I flail my limbs and try to swim to the edge. He surfaces right beside me, glistening and smiling. In one move, he has me backed up against the pool his arms caging me on either side.

“Lana?” he says, blinking water from his lashes. “Things are different here. The rules don’t apply. No one can see us. The only judge here is you.” He says it sweetly, not in accusation, and he’s just inches from my face. I’m more nervous than I am excited. Maybe I should have used my teenage years to experiment with drugs instead of these last four days.

His slips his body out of the pool, his biceps bulge under his own weight. He sits back where he was and flings water from his hair. He grabs my hand and pulls me so I’m close enough to grab his leg.

“It’s hard for me to tell with you. I never know if you want me and you just don’t want to admit it or if you think it’s a bad idea and you only want to be friends. I feel like you go from hot to cold, and I can’t read your mind.”

I part my lips in surprise. I’m a huge pain in the ass, a closed, unreadable vault. And the thing is—I know it. I know I’m like this. I think I have issues with control.

“I’ll let you drive me to Mexico, Lana if that’s what you want. But I think you should agree to be my girlfriend the whole way there in return.”

“What?”

“No, don’t say anything,” he says, pressing the pads of his fingers over my lips. “You’d have to agree to acting like you really mean it. That would mean kissing and hugging and fucking—the works, until we get there. It’s what? —two days drive from here. We’d stay in a hotel every night and sleep in the same bed. You tell me all your secrets and I’ll tell you mine. We’ll be the best boyfriend-girlfriend team that ever lived. But we wouldn’t have to be a real one.”

“You’re crazy, Mo,” I say, my heart thumping its rabbit feet hard in my chest. I dive into the water and swim away from him to escape. Why is hearing him say everything I’ve ever wanted to hear both terrifying and disappointing and impossible to bear? Maybe because he’s only saying it in jest?

Mozey stands and pulls his t-shirt back over the body I’m aching to touch. I want to know every inch of his flesh better than I know my own.

“What do you say, Sweat Lana? Want to play?” He’s pulling on his jeans, and my heart is drowning in uncertainty. He sounds kind of mean. I want to be real lovers. I want him to genuinely desire me.

“When we get to Mexico City, you get to make the choice. We either keep playing the game or we call it off. But I’d appreciate it if you would pretend to be my girl when I go see my family. I haven’t seen them in ten years, and I think they’d be proud if I showed up with a beautiful, American-Russian girlfriend instead of with nothing, which is exactly what I got now.”

I submerge myself underwater until my lungs burn and I can no longer hold my breath. I paddle my arms to the surface and gulp in air then tip my head back to smooth my hair. My shirt is soaked and dragging me down, my shorts feel like heavy, wet tarp clinging to my body.

“Maybe you could come to the consulate with me and convince them too. That way they might expedite my papers, because I tell you, I’ve got no intention of staying in Mexico. I don’t even speak the fucking language,” he says, running his fingers through his wet hair. He’s angry and sarcastic, and I don’t feel like responding to him.

“Maybe if we pretend then you can let go a little. We’re not at Pathways anymore—that place is closed. You’re not my social worker—that’s just how we met. And I’m
not
underage, I never was. It wouldn’t be statutory rape.”

I pinch my nose and then snort out the excess water. I tear my t-shirt off in anger because it’s dragging me under. I’m wearing a full-coverage sports bra, but it doesn’t stop Mozey’s eyes from roaming my body with a lusty gleam. I slip out of my bulky shorts the whole while never breaking eye contact with him. They glide in slow motion to the bottom of the pool when I let them go, like wayward sails of a sinking ship. I stare into his face and lick my lips.

“Stop being so scared. The only thing inappropriate about our relationship is your inhibition,” Mozey says, walking backward toward the pool door. I tread in the bright blue water that flashes silver wake as I move my limbs. Then slowly I make my way to the edge of the pool. I look up into the dark sky where the stars are blurred in light pollution from this feral city. I cling to the rim like I’m clinging onto my old life. The one I had before Mozey reappeared and turned me inside out.