A Changed Man (27 page)

Vincent says, “How bad did it look at the dinner? Did you think I was dying?”

“No,” says Bonnie. “Not really. I mean yes. I was terrified.” Well, of course, she was alarmed. Vincent passed out onstage. He’s her friend. She thinks she can say that by now. Obviously, she was worried. Her friend was in trouble. Vincent knows her well enough to know that everything scares her. So why does Bonnie feel as if she’s made a major confession? She can never tell him that she knew he’d eaten nuts and didn’t try to save him. But what would he have wanted her to do? Run onstage and drag him off?

Could she possibly have the tiniest crush on Vincent? That’s the last thing Bonnie needs. Which is probably why her subconscious, which must have known about this for some time, has decided to withhold the information until this supremely inconvenient moment. Why now? She’d thought he was going to die. Vincent’s an astonishing guy. He gave a great speech tonight. He put his survival on the line for a cause that represents the opposite of everything he once stood for. Everybody admires him. He’s the one Larry Ticknor wants to impress.
New York Times
reporters cozy up to him. And he talks to her about her kids. Why shouldn’t Bonnie notice?

“Hey!” Vincent’s waving his hand in front of her face. “Are you okay?” He’s turned toward her as far as the plastic bucket seats will allow. And suddenly Bonnie’s acutely aware of his knees, her knees, his hands, her hands, aware that she’s forgotten everything—the chance that someone might be calling Vincent’s name, the Ticknors, Meyer and Irene—that she needs to remember.

“I’m fine.” Bonnie can’t look at him. She’s too busy worrying about the fact that the air-conditioning is raising ugly bumps on her arms. “I guess I was scared. Did
you
think you were going to die?”

“I
was
dying,” says Vincent. “But I had to outrun it. Make it wait till I finished. I had the speech all worked out in my head. I wanted to get through it. Like staying awake when you’re driving and you’re really tired. You can do it if you need to. Listen. I want to get the tattoos removed. Do you think I could ask the doctor about that laser thing?”

Does Vincent mean the ER doctor? He’s hardly the person to ask about laser tattoo removal, but Vincent—their feral child—doesn’t know that. All he knows is that he’s going to see a doctor. How tenderly Bonnie feels toward him, how protective, how moved, and also how proud of herself that he wants the tattoos gone. She feels that it has something to do with her. Of course, Meyer is part of it, too. But she can’t help thinking that some affection for her has contributed to Vincent’s desire to get the signs of his former life blasted off his body.
Affection.
The word soothes Bonnie. That’s all it is, or will be.

“You
do?
” Bonnie’s shocked by the sound of her voice: tentative, pliant, girlish. Some balance between them has see-sawed and come to rest in a different place.

How long has the nurse been calling Vincent’s name?

“Vincent?” Irene says. “Are you alive?”

Vincent and Bonnie jump up.

“You must be exhausted,” Bonnie says. “I can hardly see to unlock the door.”

Vincent
should
be wasted. It’s four o’clock in the morning, and he’s certainly had one action-packed hell of a night. But something, maybe the epinephrine shot, has left him so wired that his visit to the emergency room and the long ride home have failed to slow him down.

Vincent and Bonnie linger in the front hall like guests waiting for someone to ask them in and tell them what to do. Vincent’s in no rush to scurry off to his room and get a front-row seat for the instant replay of the evening’s high spots.

It’s Bonnie’s house. Let her decide. Bonnie heads for the kitchen. Vincent follows, a moment later.

“Can I get you something?” Bonnie asks. “A cup of tea? A glass of water?”

Vincent says, “That would be great. I mean, I’ll have some water.”

Vincent lives here. He gets his own water. This is not their normal m.o. But sure. She’s being Nurse Bonnie. She probably feels guilty. Did she know there were nuts in the salad? Bonnie’s not his mom. Vincent’s been on his own for years. He never expected Margaret to monitor what he ate. Not that Margaret was likely to add crushed macadamias to the KFC Big Bucket, or to the burgers and take-out cole slaw she served on special occasions. Margaret made him wash the dishes, which was fine, especially after that once she came up behind him at the sink and pressed her hips against him. That was soon after they met. The whole time they were together, he kept hoping it would happen again. He’d get hard just thinking about it. What exactly did Margaret get tired of? Was it really that he wasn’t going anywhere? Margaret should have seen him tonight.

“Flat or fizzy?” Bonnie asks.

“Plain. Whatever,” says Vincent.

Water, for Vincent, comes from the tap. But now he defers to Bonnie and her two-dollar bottle of Italian bubbles.

Bonnie’s crouching in front of the refrigerator, reaching back for a bottle, when suddenly she looks up and back over her shoulder at Vincent and gives him a funny smile. And somehow Vincent knows. He knows. He could fuck Bonnie if he wants to.

Where is
this
thought coming from? To be honest, it’s not the first time. Lately, he’s been acutely aware of Bonnie’s…physical plant. Like tonight, at the emergency room, when his name was called, and he and Bonnie stood up at once, and her hip brushed against his. It’s hardly a surprise that a near-death experience—and the joy of finding yourself still alive—might leave a guy feeling horny. Vincent has got to be careful. This is not just about sex.

Bonnie fills the glass and brings it to him. Their eyes lock for a beat too long. So it’s not his imagination. She hands him the glass of water, and then, as she stands in front of him for a good while after she should have moved, it’s perfectly clear. It’s obvious. It can’t be anything else. Something is definitely happening here, whether Bonnie knows it or not.

In theory, Vincent could allow this state of suspended sexual buzz to continue for a while, at least until he figures out what to do about it. But sad experience has taught him that in most cases, it’s now or never. There’s a moment of possibility, and once it’s gone, you can never get back there.

Vincent puts the water down on the counter. Bonnie’s still standing in front of him. She hasn’t moved.

Bonnie takes off her glasses.

Vincent leans down, and they kiss. In a way, he’s just being a gentleman. But it feels great to kiss Bonnie. It would feel good to kiss anyone. Any
thing.
His lips have practically atrophied from months of underuse.

The kiss lasts long enough for Vincent to start thinking and pull back, catch his breath. Get his bearings.

Bonnie’s face is morphing in front of his eyes into a giant question mark. Does he want to fuck her? Definitely. But maybe it’s the epinephrine, or maybe he’s really changed. Maybe that science experiment they’re running on him has worked. Maybe he’s grown up, or learned to think, or figured out that there are situations in which it’s not a great idea to be led around by his dick.

Now, for example, he needs to weigh how good it might feel to go to bed with Bonnie against the probable consequences, which are: wrecking his whole new life. Sex with Bonnie would be the opposite of casual sex. There would be repercussions. Complications. Someone would get hurt.

Vincent’s barely handling what he’s got to handle already. Bonnie needs to cut him some slack. It’s four in the morning. He nearly died. He’s not in the greatest shape to begin a…romance. Let’s take it slow. See what develops.

But already it’s gone too far. Whatever happens now will cost them.

He puts his hand on Bonnie’s shoulder. He kisses her lightly on the lips, then draws back again, more in control this time, and says, “I don’t know how to say this. But this isn’t my most shining hour. I should probably pack it in, get some rest…” He smiles. “If you want, tomorrow we can start again where we left off tonight.”

No sensible person could argue with that. He’s leaving the door open. No one could get their feelings hurt, not even a woman. He said they’d continue tomorrow. Does that sound like a definite no? They have all night to think, and tomorrow they can look at things in the clear light of day.

Bonnie puts her glasses back on. Is she disappointed? Embarrassed? Relieved? He can’t tell. If he doesn’t know that, he doesn’t know her well enough to fuck her. Where did
that
thought come from? It’s something a chick would think. All this time, he’s pretended to change, and now it seems he has. Be careful what goofy expressions you make, your face could freeze that way.

Bonnie’s left her body. Her face is a total blank. Bonnie the Woman has disappeared, and Bonnie the Mom takes over.

“How
are
you feeling?” Bonnie asks.

“Fine,” says Vincent. “Tired.”

“Me, too. We should probably get some sleep.” Bonnie kisses his forehead, as if she’s saying good night to her kids. So it’s over. It’s not over. It happened, and whatever happens now cannot erase or change that.

Bonnie says, “All right, then. I guess I should go to bed. What a night. You’ve really been through something. Did anybody bother to tell you that your speech was brilliant?”

“Was it?” says Vincent. “Thanks.”

“Well, if you’re sure you don’t need anything…Promise you’ll wake me up if you start not feeling well.” Then without looking at him, Bonnie says, “Do you think I should try calling the kids? Maybe just to check in? They’ve had a tough night, too. Poor Max—”

“It’s late,” says Vincent. “Probably everybody’s asleep. I’m sure the boys are okay.”

“Okay. Good night, then,” Bonnie says.

“See you tomorrow,” says Vincent.

“Sleep as long as you like. I told them we’d be coming into the office late. And if you’re not feeling well…”

“I’ll be fine,” says Vincent. “Good night.”

Vincent waits till Bonnie leaves the kitchen. Then he turns out the light.

As he passes Danny’s door, he considers a light raid on the kid’s stash. Fainting must have softened his brain. How can he even
consider
getting high and winding up twice as paranoid? He needs to go the opposite way, down instead of up.

He’s still got that Vicodin he put in his pocket before he went out. But it’s a Xanax moment, ten milligrams at least. He locks his door, then drags his duffel bag out from under the bed and brushes it off. That’s how long he’s been here: the dust balls are growing dust balls. How much longer can he get away with this? Eventually, they’ll call his bluff and send him packing. But what exactly
is
his bluff? Vincent can no longer tell. These peace and love types have gotten to him. He no longer knows who he is.

The weather is bound to get volatile if this…thing with Bonnie goes any further. It’s going to change the climate. And not for the better. Well, fine, he never imagined that it would last forever, his sweet second chance in the spare room of some soccer mom’s house. A sitting duck for Raymond and his friends to find and fuck with.

Vincent gropes in his bag, the ritual check required to set his mind at ease. There’s always that hit of panic before he finds the money and the pills. He’s been careful lately, not taking one every night, partly because he hasn’t felt the need, and partly because he’s afraid of running out. He’s made a dent in his Vicodin stash, but he’s still got most of the Xanax. How can he find a writing doc with Bonnie all over him, twenty-four/seven?

He thought about asking the fourteen-year-old Pakistani chick playing ER doctor. But he couldn’t think of a reason why an allergic reaction would indicate an immediate need for painkillers or antianxiety medication. Doctor, do you have anything for those times when I’m afraid I’ll pass out again? It might have worked. It might not have. He couldn’t, with Bonnie watching. Should he have said he’d hit his head? That would have meant X-rays and tests. If he gets his tattoos lasered away, will they give him pills? He wants them off, regardless. They sent the message they needed to send, and now he no longer needs their services. In fact, he finds them embarrassing and unhelpful in his new life.

His mind is in full lab-rat mode, bouncing off blind alleys. If he takes a pill, at least he won’t have to worry about his supply. Or worry about anything: one advantage of self-medication. He puts a pill on his tongue and chews, alarmed to note that its texture has gotten crumbly.

He removes his shoes and lies on the bed to wait for the Xanax to pull up the blankets and tuck him in. Instead of which he finds himself in some snit about wrinkling the rented tux. The rental joint would enjoy sticking Bonnie and the foundation with a hefty surcharge.

Vincent gets up, strips down to his shorts, lies down again, gets up, goes over to the light switch, and decides to leave the light on for a few minutes more.

Anything to avoid that inevitable moment of lying alone in the dark, with no distractions, no buffer between his brain and the fact that he didn’t fuck Bonnie. He no longer recognizes himself. Who has he turned into? Some creep who would pass up the first free sex he’s been offered in a year. Though it wasn’t exactly free sex. Free sex is like free lunch. And this would be even more costly than most. Bonnie—his boss, hostess, caretaker, mom, there’s no word for what she is. You don’t screw that up just for sex.
Just
for sex?
Anything
for sex. That’s what most guys think. But Vincent’s no longer most guys. He’s become the kind of jerk who
would
work for Brotherhood Watch, some worried, cautious loser, concerned about
consequences.
He’s become the male Bonnie.

Maybe Vincent is being smart. Or stupid. Fucking Bonnie would have felt good, it might have improved his situation. Cemented his position. Sex would have changed the power balance. They could have followed wherever it led. Now he might never know what it would have been like. What the hell was he scared of?

Bonnie took off her glasses. She offered. He turned her down. From now on, it’s up to him. She’s not going out on the same limb twice. But Vincent can’t imagine when in the daily routine of their lives—breakfast, car ride, office, car ride, dinner with Bonnie’s kids—he can bring the subject back to sex.