by Teresa Tumminello Brader
Dancing with Grant exhausted and exhilarated Mia’s body, allowing her to forget what was preying on her mind. She hadn’t wanted to come to this suburban disco when her work friends had first suggested it. The electronic music was too loud and the laser lights were too bright, but she needed to do something besides stay home and mope. Flirting with Grant proved the remedy to ward off negative thoughts caused by her husband leaving her for a French Quarter chanteuse.
Grant’s lips brushed the side of Mia’s face. “Let’s go to your place.” His voice tickled her ear and she shivered. She couldn’t place his accent, the lilt at the end of the words, and had been trying to figure it out all night.
She ran her hands through her sweat-dampened hair, raising it off her shoulders and shook her head. “My brother’s there.” Her brother spent every Friday night at her flat because of its proximity to his early morning Saturday job. Grateful for his company, she’d left home tonight only after he’d gone to bed.
“We’ll go to mine. Let me tell my cousins we’re leaving.” He whirled back towards her. His olive skin glistened as a white strobe light flashed across him. “How old are you?”
“I just turned 25. Why?”
He shrugged. “You look young. I’m 22. That’s not a problem, is it?” He grinned.
“Not at all.” She reached her mouth to his ear. “I’ve always been attracted to younger guys.”
Grant pounded on the steering wheel to honk its horn when he saw his cousins’ car pull out of the cramped parking lot. The three young men lived with their grandfather in the River Parishes, an area Mia wasn’t familiar with, so she let Grant drive. She ran her tongue along Grant’s jawline until he almost swerved into the adjoining lane. Leaving the bright lights of Jefferson Parish, she felt plunged into the unknown.
Darkness shrouded the house, outside and inside, and Grant guided her down the hallway and into his bedroom. Cradled between him and the wall, her tight red dress on the floor, she cuddled into him as he lay on top of her. The bedroom door flew open and, before she could fully comprehend it, a large barking blur bounded onto the edge of the bed. Cursing, Grant dragged the dog out and slammed the door shut. Cackles of laughter resonated from the other side.
“I told ‘em I wasn’t sharing you. They’re trying to get me back.”
“What do you mean?” Mia struggled to stay awake.
“We have a deal. Whoever brings a girl home, we share her.”
“I wouldn’t have let that happen.” She was surprised that she wasn’t shocked or even scared, but she doubted his seriousness.
“I told ‘em I was keeping you for myself.”
*
The tall grass-covered levees blocked her view of the Mississippi as she headed away from the city. The diffused golden shades of the winter sunset surfaced in puddles on both sides of the road. Trim bungalows and decrepit cottages endured at the roadside. Mansions rested behind wrought-iron fences and rows of twisted live oaks. An occasional convenience store or whitewashed church broke the line of residences.
She parked off a gravel lane in front of a small red brick house with a mown lawn. Slapping her keys against her bare leg, she shifted from one foot to the other until the front door opened to her knock. Grant’s cousin stood on the threshold. Fair-skinned and stocky, he looked nothing like Grant and wasn’t much taller than she was. He said nothing, and Mia thought of the dog he and his brother had unleashed on her and Grant last night. Perhaps he hadn’t expected to see her again.
“Is Grant here?”
“In the shower. You can wait in his room.”
“John, right?”
“Yeah. Um, ya want a beer?”
She followed John into a tiny kitchen and caught a momentary whiff of onions and garlic. An old square table in a corner sported an immaculate vinyl cover and pristine salt-and-pepper shakers. A clean towel hung evenly over the oven handle. John grabbed two cans of beer from the refrigerator, handed her one and left the kitchen.
She followed a row of bookcases down the hallway from Grant’s room, stopping when she was across from an open bedroom door. John sat on a neatly made bed, polishing his shoes. She thought of her own rumpled sheets: why bother making the bed when no one else was around to care. John looked up as she examined the spines of the volumes.
“Are these yours?”
John nodded, and she continued to scan the shelves. A Confederacy of Dunces. Slaughterhouse-Five. The Name of the Rose. As she turned to convey her delight, a door opened between the two bedrooms. Grant, a white towel wrapped around his slim hips, appeared from a cloud of perfumed steam.
“Hey, babe.” Grant bounced on the balls of his feet and shook his head, drops of water flying from his dark hair. He bent down to kiss her; the subdued brown of his eyes startling her.
“You trying to steal my girl, cuz?”
“I was looking at his books.” Mia glanced back at John. “I’ve read most of these.”
“Yeah, he reads a lot. C’mon.”
*
Mia tapped her fingers to the beat of the unfamiliar country music coming out of the jukebox, half-listening to Grant’s chatter. Her eyes drifted to the brown paneled walls and the depleted men who sat at small tables drinking alone. Grant’s barstool jiggled as he fidgeted.
“Wait. Say that again.” Her fingers touched his arm.
“My grandpa’s friends will pay us—me, John and Mike. For stuff like stripping and letting them touch us. No way I’m touching them though.”
“Who told you this?”
“My grandpa.”
“He doesn’t care?”
“It was his idea. Easy money.”
She wondered if any of this was true. She couldn’t imagine John prostituting himself, but what did she really know about any of them, she asked herself.
“Where are your parents?”
“My dad works offshore. He’s around sometimes. Then he and my grandpa fight, and he leaves again. Granddad ran my mom off a long time ago. He hates women.”
*
She drove through the tree-shadowed neighborhood and Grant talked, his words suspended in the murkiness of the night. “Do you really like younger guys?”
“Yeah. I guess I always have.” She laughed. “When I was 17, I had a big crush on my friend’s younger brother. He was 13.”
“Funny you should say that, ‘cause that’s how old I am.”
She stared at him and then turned her eyes back to the road. “What do you mean?”
“I’m 17. If I’d told you that last night, you wouldn’t have come home with me. Or maybe you would’ve.” He leaned back, arms behind his head, and smiled.
The dog growled from behind the fenced side yard as they walked toward the dark house. Mia wondered if she should turn around to leave, but instead stepped inside. She told herself this would be the last time she saw him. Not wanting to wait, they dropped onto a wide padded bench near the front door. Her short black skirt was flipped up, no need for it to be removed. Gentle snoring alerted her to his falling asleep as soon as he finished. She rolled him off her back, slipped on her underwear and shoes, and quietly left the house. She didn’t want to wake him.
He called the next day. “I can’t believe I fell asleep. My cousins been ragging on me. Said I can’t have satisfied you.”
“I was satisfied.” She didn’t want to discuss it, didn’t like his talking about her with his cousins, with John especially.
Hanging up the phone she heard the voice of her husband berating her for being prudish and unadventurous, belittling her close-knit family for sheltering her all her life. She wondered what he would think now.
*
“Remember how I met up with Lainie and them in Fat City Friday night?”
Sitting at the desk next to Mia’s, Paul nodded and stacked a pale green ledger on top of another.
“I met a guy there.”
Paul swiveled in his chair. “And?”
“He’s good-looking. Young. Not too bright, but fun.” She chuckled. “Apparently, he’s straight, but he’s dancing at some gay bar in the Quarter tomorrow night. The Corner Pocket I think it’s called. He’s begging me to go. I probably shouldn’t, but will you come with me?”
“I know it. Not my kind of place, but of course I’ll go.”
“Corner Pocket … sounds like a pool hall.”
“Looks like a pool hall.”
*
The wind pushed them from the parking spot Mia found to the tavern on the corner. She drew her black cape closer, thankful for the tights she’d put on under her dress before leaving home. Paul pulled on the door of the Corner Pocket, and the heat of packed bodies and cigarette smoke hit them. The clientele milled about during a break in the dancing. Mia, knowing she was the only female there, felt as if a spotlight were trained on her. She stood closer to Paul, hoping to siphon excess confidence from his sturdiness. Holding on to his sleeve, she followed him to the counter where he ordered for them and then placed a bottle of beer in her hand.
“Boy, do I need this.”
They moved toward the back, close enough to the door to feel the fresh gusts of air that burst in each time it opened. Mia spied John heading to the entrance and leaned over to tug on his arm.
“You’re leaving?”
“I’ve been up there already.” John pointed his chin toward the bar. “You missed me.”
She was relieved. “Sorry about that. I wish we’d gotten here earlier.”
A smile relaxed John’s face. She wanted to ask him if he’d gotten tipsy or taken something before he’d hopped onto the counter. She couldn’t believe dancing in front of all these men was what loosened him up.
“There’s my grandfather. Guy with the beard.”
Her eyes followed John’s finger. The man stood near the bar, beer bottle in hand, surrounded by men his own age. With his full gray beard, extended belly and plaid flannel shirt, he looked as if he should be snoozing in a recliner with the TV tuned to a ball game. His face held narrowed eyes and a gruff expression.
Music boomed from the speakers. “I’m out of here,” John yelled.
“Do you want to hang out with us?”
“Grant’s getting a ride with you. No need for me to stay.”
Wanting to believe regret had crossed his face, Mia watched as John walked away. Paul nudged her. “Is that Grant?”
A body jumped to the top of the bar. Mia wondered if Grant, wearing only a brown leather thong almost the same color as his skin, was cold. She saw his bare feet, noticed that he was flat-footed. Fingers interlocked behind his head and pelvis thrust out, he gyrated to “Rock ‘n’ Roll Fantasy.”
Mia remembered her mother nagging her whenever she wore her Bad Company t-shirt. Years later she realized why her mom was bothered by the shirt, causing her to feel delayed teenage irritation. Bad Company was the name of a band she liked, not a label for herself.
Grant strutted the length of the bar, body moving in time to the tune, and bent down to allow the men to stuff bills under the strings of the thong. Mia glimpsed the back of his grandfather’s head and her stomach tightened. The man faced his grandson, the bottle of beer moving from and to his mouth. She felt she was inside a vacuum, no longer hearing the song, or the cheers and whistles from the men on the floor.
Fully dressed and smirking, Grant headed straight for her. Eyes wide, he kissed her on the lips and the spotlight aimed at her seemed to get even brighter.
“Let’s go. My grandpa don’t like girls in here.”
Annoyance prickled her and she strode out the door, Grant and Paul following. Struggling to breathe as they faced the wind, she recognized the historic house she’d visited on a grammar school field trip. She couldn’t remember its name, but hadn’t forgotten the peach-pink exterior and the shuttered guillotine windows. Two wait-staff employees in white shirts and black pants smoked cigarettes, shivering outside a closing restaurant. Fragments of their conversation floated on the air and then disappeared. The wind stung her eyes and she lowered her head.
Both the gale and their paces slowed as they turned onto Bourbon Street. If they’d turned the other way and pushed through the crowded blocks to the tourist magnets, they could’ve arrived at the new Lulu White’s Mahogany Hall, where her husband at this moment was probably listening to his paramour sing her late show.
Grant tossed his cigarette butt into a puddle reeking of stale beer and gripped Mia’s hand. Paul peered sideways at her and she smiled at him. They halted in front of the Parade.
“Y’all coming in?”
“Maybe,” she said. “But if we don’t, I’ll see you on Monday.” She reached up to kiss Paul on his cheek. “Thank you.”
Paul raised his hand in farewell as he walked into the nightclub. Music pulsed through the walls. She gazed up at two men on the balcony looking down at the narrow street. Their talk and laughter swirled around Mia and Grant standing below.
“I made 200 bucks tonight! And for what? Three minutes of dancing!” He grabbed her shoulders. “You’re so tiny.” One hand snaked inside the loose top of her dress and his long, slender fingers spanned the breadth of her breast. “Except here.” He laughed. The heat of his hand seared her flesh.
“Will you do it again?” she asked.
“Probably. Does it bother you?”
She thought of all the things she should say, but merely shrugged her shoulders.
A grin split his face. “You’re not jealous, are you?”
“Do you want to hang out with Paul for a little while?”
“Let’s get to your place. I can go all night.”
He pressed his body against her, his hands on her hips, his eyes locked onto hers. A brisk wind lashed against them and she buried her face in his shirt, her hands stuck in the pockets of her cape.
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