Read I Sailed with Magellan Online
Authors: Stuart Dybek
I Sailed with Magellan (8 page)
So around three in the afternoon, Joe parked beside the rundown one-car garage behind Sovereign's house. The busted garage door gaped open, and he saw that Sovereign's Pontiac Bonneville was gone. Bonnevilles with their 347-cubic-inch engines that could do zero to sixty in 8.1 seconds were the current bad-ass carsâin Little Village, they called them Panchos. Sovereign's splurging on that car was what made Whitey suspect he was skimming on the numbers. New wheels and already leaking oil, Joe thought, as he looked at the fresh spots on the warped, birdshit-crusted floorboards of the garage. If Sovereign wasn't careless and all for show, he'd have taken that Pancho to the Indian.
Johnny Sovereign's back fence was warped, too, and overgrown with morning glories. His wife must have planted them. She'd made an impression on Joe the one time he'd been inside their house. Johnny had invited him, and they'd gone the back way, the entrance Joe figures it was Johnny's habit to use. Johnny didn't bother to announce their arrival, and they caught his wifeâVi, that was her nameâvacuuming in her slip. When she
saw Joe standing there, a blush heated her bare shoulders before she ran into the bedroom. She was wearing a pale yellow slip. Joe had never seen a slip like that before. He would have liked to slide its thin straps down her skinny arms to see if her blush mottled her breasts the way some women flush when they come. Sovereign's Pontiac was yellow, too, but canary yellow, and Joe wondered if there was some connection between Vi's slip and the car.
saw Joe standing there, a blush heated her bare shoulders before she ran into the bedroom. She was wearing a pale yellow slip. Joe had never seen a slip like that before. He would have liked to slide its thin straps down her skinny arms to see if her blush mottled her breasts the way some women flush when they come. Sovereign's Pontiac was yellow, too, but canary yellow, and Joe wondered if there was some connection between Vi's slip and the car.
He sat in the Bluebird and lit a cigarette, then unscrewed the top from a pinch bottle of scotch and washed down a couple of painkillers. Sparrows twittered on the wires and pigeons did owl imitations inside Sovereign's shitty garage. The alley was empty except for a humped, hooded figure of a woman slowly approaching in his rearview mirrorâa bag lady in a black winter coat and babushka, stopping to inspect each garbage can. Except for the stink of trash, Joe didn't mind waiting. He needed time to think through his next moves. From where he'd parked, he could watch the gangway and intercept Sovereign before he entered the house. He'd ask Sovereign to have a drink, and Sovereign would want to know where. “Somewhere private,” Joe would tell him. And thenâwhamâit came to Joe, as it always did, how he'd work it. He'd tell Sovereign, “Let's take
your
wheels. I want to ride in a new yellow Bonneville.” He'd bring the bottle of scotch, a friendly touch, and suggest they kill it on the deserted side street where the dragsters raced, a place where Sovereign could show him what the Pancho could do. He couldn't think of a way to get the shotgun into Sovereign's car, so he'd have to forget about that. Joe was scolding himself for not thinking all this through earlier when a woman's voice startled him.
your
wheels. I want to ride in a new yellow Bonneville.” He'd bring the bottle of scotch, a friendly touch, and suggest they kill it on the deserted side street where the dragsters raced, a place where Sovereign could show him what the Pancho could do. He couldn't think of a way to get the shotgun into Sovereign's car, so he'd have to forget about that. Joe was scolding himself for not thinking all this through earlier when a woman's voice startled him.
“Hi, Joe, got an extra smoke?”
“What are you doing here?” Joe asked.
“Trying to bum a Pall Mall off an old lover,” April said. “You still smoke Pall Malls, don'tcha?”
Her hair was bleached corn-silk blond and she wore a dress the shade of morning glories. Joe wondered how she'd come down the alley without his seeing her. The scooped neckline exposed enough cleavage so that he could see a wing tip from the blue seagull tattooed on her left breast. She looked more beautiful than he'd remembered.
“I thought you went to Vegas,” he said. “I heard you got married to some dealer at Caesar's.” He didn't add that he'd also heard she'd OD'd.
“Married?
Me
?” She showed him her left hand: nails silvery pink, a cat's-eye on her index finger going from gray to green the way her eyes did. Joe leaned to kiss the pale band of flesh where a wedding ring would have been, but he paused when sunlight hit her hand in a way that made it momentarily appear freckled and old with dirty, broken nails. She lifted her hand the rest of the way and sighed when it met his lips.
Me
?” She showed him her left hand: nails silvery pink, a cat's-eye on her index finger going from gray to green the way her eyes did. Joe leaned to kiss the pale band of flesh where a wedding ring would have been, but he paused when sunlight hit her hand in a way that made it momentarily appear freckled and old with dirty, broken nails. She lifted her hand the rest of the way and sighed when it met his lips.
“You used to do that thing with my hand that would drive me crazy,” April said.
“Hey, we were kids,” Joe said.
He worked back then for a towing service Whitey ran, and he'd met April when he went to tow her Chevy from a private lot off Rush Street. He'd traded not towing her car for a date. She was a senior at Our Lady of Lourdes High, still a virgin, and on their first date she informed him that she was sorry, but she didn't put out. That was the phrase she used. Joe had laughed and told her, “Sweetheart, it's not like I even asked you. And anyway, there's other things than
putting
out.
” “Such as?” April asked, and from that single question, Joe knew he had her. It was nothing about him in particular, she was just ready. “Imagine the knuckles on your fingers are knees and the knuckles on your hands are breasts,” Joe had told her, extending her index and middle fingers into a V and outlining an imaginary torso with his finger. “Okay, I see. So?” she asked. “So this,” he whispered and kissed the insides
of her fingers, then licked their webbing. She watched him as if amused, then closed her eyes. Even after she was putting out three times a day, nothing got her more excited than when he kissed her hand. “Lover,” she'd once told him, “that goes right to my pussy.”
putting
out.
” “Such as?” April asked, and from that single question, Joe knew he had her. It was nothing about him in particular, she was just ready. “Imagine the knuckles on your fingers are knees and the knuckles on your hands are breasts,” Joe had told her, extending her index and middle fingers into a V and outlining an imaginary torso with his finger. “Okay, I see. So?” she asked. “So this,” he whispered and kissed the insides
of her fingers, then licked their webbing. She watched him as if amused, then closed her eyes. Even after she was putting out three times a day, nothing got her more excited than when he kissed her hand. “Lover,” she'd once told him, “that goes right to my pussy.”
“Aren't you going to ask me if I'm still using?” April asked. “I'm clean. And I been thinking about you ever since I've been back in the neighborhood. I'm staying with my sister, Renee. Remember her? She had a crush on you, too. I dreamed last night I'd find you here, and when I woke I thought, Forget it, you can't trust dreams, but then I thought, What the hell, all that will happen is I'll feel foolish.”
“You dreamed of meeting me
here
?”
here
?”
“Amazing, huh? Like that commercial, you know? âI dreamed I met my old boyfriend in an alley, wearing my Maidenform bra.' Nice ride,” she said, gliding her fingertips along the Bluebird as if stroking a cat. She came around to the passenger side, climbed in, leaned back into the leather seat, and sighed. “Just you, me, and a thousand morning glories.”
Joe flicked away his cigarette and kissed her.
“You taste like scotch,” she said.
He reached for the pinch bottle and she took a sip and kissed him, letting the hot liquor trickle from her mouth into his.
“What are
you
doing here?” she asked.
you
doing here?” she asked.
“That information wasn't in your dream?”
“In my dream you were a lonely void waiting for your soul mate.” April took another sip of scotch and swallowed it this time. “Maybe we should have a private homecoming party,” she said.
He remembers driving with April down the alleys back to his place, stopping on the way at Bruno's for a fifth of Bacardi and a cold six-pack of tonic water, and later, covering his kitchen table with Reynolds Wrap and laying out lines of coke. He remembers
the plink of blood on foil when her nose began to bleed, and April calling from the bathroom, “Joe, where's all the towels?”
the plink of blood on foil when her nose began to bleed, and April calling from the bathroom, “Joe, where's all the towels?”
“Forgot to pick them up at the Chink's.”
“No towels, no sheets. Are you sure you live here? What's in the fridge? Anything at all? I dread to look.”
They lay kissing on the bare mattress while darkness edged up his bedroom walls. How still the city sounded. Between shrieks of nighthawks, an accordion faintly wheezed from some open window. Joe's bedroom window was open, too, and the breeze that tingled the blinds seemed blued with the glow of the new arc lights the city had erected. Before the mirror, April, streaked by the same glow, undid her ponytail. Mimicked by a reflection deep in the dark glass, she slipped her dress over her head. No Maid-enform bra, she was naked. He came up behind her and bit her shoulders. He could see what appeared to be disembodied blue handsâhis handsâcupping her luminous breasts. Otherwise he was a shadow. His thumb traced the tiny seagull flying across her breast. In the mirror it looked graceless, like an insignia a gang punk might have India-inked on his forearm. Her reflection appeared suddenly to surge to the surface of the glass, and he saw that the mirror was blemished with hairline fractures superimposed on her face like wrinkles. She flipped the dress she was still holding over the mirror as if to snuff a chemical reaction. It snuffed the residual light, and in the darkness he could feel something flying wildly around the room, and they lost their balance, banged off a wall, and fell to the bed. She took his cock, fit it in, then brought her hand, smelling of herself, to his lips.
Joe remembers all that, but none of itâthe booze, the coke, the Demerol, the waking up repeatedly in the dark already fucking âexplains how it can be afternoon, or what her morning-glory dress is doing left behind. He yanks the dress off the mirror and is surprised to find a crack zigzagging down the center. Maybe it was the mirror they'd staggered into. He staggers into
the kitchen and washes down a couple of painkillers with what's left in a bottle of flat tonic water, then palms Old Spice onto his face and under his arms, tugs on his clothes, and dials Sovereign's number. He knows it's not a good idea to be calling from his place, but that can't be helped. When Vi answers on the third ring, he asks, “Johnny there?”
the kitchen and washes down a couple of painkillers with what's left in a bottle of flat tonic water, then palms Old Spice onto his face and under his arms, tugs on his clothes, and dials Sovereign's number. He knows it's not a good idea to be calling from his place, but that can't be helped. When Vi answers on the third ring, he asks, “Johnny there?”
“He'll be home around four,” she says. “Can I tell him who's calling?”
Joe hangs up.
From the closet, he digs out a gym bag stuffed with dirty gym gear and canvas gloves for hitting the heavy bag. He lifts the mirror from the bedroom wall, bundles it up in the dress, totes it into the alley, and sets it beside the garbage cans, then throws the gym bag into the Bluebird. Joe drives down the alleys, formulating a plan for how to get the shotgun into Sovereign's car. Off Twenty-fifth, he scatters a cloud of pigeons and nearly sideswipes a blind old bag lady in a babushka and dark glasses who's feeding them. When he pulls up behind Sovereign's, Joe can smell the baking motor oil spotting the floorboards of the empty garage. Demerol tends to heighten his sense of smell. Wind rustling down the alley leaves an aftertaste of rotten food and the mildewed junk people throw away. He makes sure the alley is empty, then slips the sawed-off shotgun from under the seat and buries it in the gym bag, beneath his workout gear. The scotch bottle rests on top, and when he zips up the bag, the ghost of old gym sweat transforms into a familiar fragrance.
Marisol stands in the alley as if she's emerged from the morning glories. She has a white flower in her auburn hair. Her perfume obliterates the scent of pigeons, garbage, and motor oil he's come to associate with Johnny Sovereign. She's dressed in white cotton X-rayed by sunlight: a shirt opened a button beyond modest, tied in a knot above her exposed navel, and white toreador pants. The laces of the wedged shoes he used to call her goddess
sandals snake around her ankles. Her oversize shades seem necessary to shield her from her own brightness.
sandals snake around her ankles. Her oversize shades seem necessary to shield her from her own brightness.
“See you're still driving the B-bird,” she says, sauntering to the car. “That's cute how you name your cars. Kind of boyish of you, Joe, though when you first told me your car had a name, know what? I thought, Oh no, don't let this be one of those pathetic wankers who names his penis, too. Hey, I like the color coordination with the sport coat. That splash pattern is perfect for eating spaghetti with tomato sauce. Recognize this shirt? It's yours. Want it back?”
She still speaks in the fake accent that when they first met had Joe believing she was from London. He's not sure he's ever heard her real voice, if she has one. He'd heard she broke her Audrey Hepburn neck in Europe when she blew off the back of some Romeo's BSA on the Autobahn. Who starts these rumors about dead babes? Maybe Sal told him; Sal's a know-it-all with a rep for spreading bullshit. Well, fucking
allora,
Sallie, if a very much alive Marisol, trailing perfume, doesn't get into the Bluebird, help herself to a smoke from the pack on the dash, and ask, “Know where a girl can get a drink around here?”
allora,
Sallie, if a very much alive Marisol, trailing perfume, doesn't get into the Bluebird, help herself to a smoke from the pack on the dash, and ask, “Know where a girl can get a drink around here?”
Joe unzips the gym bag, hands her the bottle of scotch, and she asks as if she already knows, “What else you got in that bag, Joe?”
“Whataya mean, what else? Gym stuff.”
“Whew! Smells like your athletic supporter's got balls of
scomorza,
” Marisol says. “But what do I know about the secret lives of jockstraps.”
scomorza,
” Marisol says. “But what do I know about the secret lives of jockstraps.”
Joe looks at her and laughs. She always could break him up, and not many beautiful women dare to be clowns. Capri was funny like that, too, and no matter who he's with he misses her. Where's Capri now, with who, and are they laughing? Marisol laughs, then quenches her laughter with a belt of scotch and turns to be kissed, and Joe kisses her, expecting the fire of alcohol
to flow from her mouth into his, but it's just her tongue sweeping his.
to flow from her mouth into his, but it's just her tongue sweeping his.
“What?” Marisol says.
“I thought you were going to share.”
“Dahlink,” she says in her Zsa Zsa accent, “you don't remember I'm a swallower?”
Joe remembers. Remembers a blow job doing eighty down the Outer Drive on the first night he met her at the Surf, a bar on Rush where she worked as a cocktail waitress; remembers the improv theater he'd go see her in at a crummy little beatnik space in Old Town where sometimes there were more people onstage than in the audience; just say something obscene about Ike or Nixon or McCarthy and you'd get a laughâshit, he laughed, too. He remembers the weekend right after he got the Bluebird when they dropped its top and drove the dune highway along the coast of Indiana to Whitey's so-called chalet on the lake, water indigo to the horizon, and night lit by the foundries in Gary.
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