Amys Smile Ch 04

Liam was home. I didn't see him, but the shower was running and the pipes were doing their usual imitation of Niagara Falls. I plopped down on the couch and took a swig of the warm beer that was still where I'd left it and turned on ESPN. Ugh, tractor pulls are not my thing. I surfed the channels giving every station the standard 2-second shot at catching my interest; there was nothing on. I turned the TV off, and went up to my room.

Now that I really looked, it was kind of a pit. I walked over to where I'd stashed the Playboy and the scuzzy briefs. I picked them up and threw them both in the wastebasket. That was better. I figured if I could just take care of one thing a day, I'd have the room clean again in three, maybe four years tops.

I undressed and dropped my clothes in a ball on a chair. Then I got back into my sweatpants and a clean T-shirt, having already hung up my lucky Bulls jersey for next time. I do, after all, have some regard for the important things in life.

Liam was out of the shower by then and I could hear him slamming drawers in his room. I thought he must have been going out with Broom Hilda again.

I went downstairs to check out the freezer for something I could maul and microwave. I was still risking frostbite with my head in the box, when I heard Liam start swearing.

"Shit, shit, shit!"

That was different. Liam was usually too lazy to get upset over anything. A second later, I heard him slam down the stairs and then he was in the kitchen, dressed in his tiger striped bikinis and peering into the dryer like it held the meaning of life.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't have any Goddamn clean socks." He slammed the dryer shut with a tinny thwack. "I can't believe it. Amy forgot about my socks!"

Yeah, I thought, there's a sin right up there with child abuse, genocide and destroying the ozone layer. Liam started rummaging through the pile of clean clothes I'd left on top of the dryer. Okay, the pile of clothes I keep, on top of the dryer. They might get dirty in my room.

He grabbed a couple of stray dark socks and waved them in front of me. "Are these navy or black?"

I looked at them for a minute.

"Both."

"Good enough," he started to push past me, but I stopped him.

"Hey, what's her phone number anyway?"

"Whose?"

"Amy's."

He gave me this really disgusted look like I'd just said the most idiotic thing he'd ever heard. Then he rolled his eyes. "Dude, she doesn't have my socks at her house."

"You know Liam, this may surprise you, but I really don't give a fuck about your socks."

"Whatever," he shrugged.

"I just want her number, okay?"

"I don't know it."

"How can you not know it? You call her every day."

"It's 2 on the speed dial. She put it there. Can I go now? I'm late."

He took off past me and thundered up the stairs again.

I went over to the phone and punched the # sign and then the 2. It was busy. She was probably talking to Miriam.

This annoyed me though there was no reason it should. I honestly didn't know why I was calling Amy; I had nothing to say. In fact, when I thought about it, I didn't know what I would say if I actually got hold of her. I put the receiver back on the hook.

"Fucking H. Christ!" Liam screamed at the top of his lungs.

Now what? Were we out of toothpaste?

Down the stairs he stormed again. Except for my mismatched socks, Liam hadn't gotten any further in dressing.

"This is fucking unbelievable," he stormed, "she forgot to pick up my shirts at the dry cleaners."

Something inside me snapped, and it was my turn to go charging through the house. I jerked open the closet door and grabbed the shirts that Amy had hung there that morning.

"Here, asshole. Take the Goddamn shirts and get out of my sight." I threw them at Liam who caught them to his chest.

He looked at me like I'd just lost my mind. "What's your problem?"

"You, you piece of shit; you're my problem!" I closed in on him and he backed up. I looked at the shirts he was holding and my eyes narrowed. "I'm sick of the way you treat that girl. Did it ever occur to you, that maybe you could take care of your own fucking laundry?"

I reached over and grabbed the receipt off the cleaning and waved it in his face. "Christ Liam, you even let her pay for this!"

It was true. Amy's name and address were on the slip along with an imprint from her credit card.

"Hey, I'll pay her back."

"Yeah right," I shook my head and stood there a moment until I could speak in a more reasonable voice. "She's a nice girl, Liam, really sweet, with a good heart. And you don't even know that about her. You don't even care!" I turned on my heel and grabbed my coat out of the closet. Liam was still trying to defend himself when I slammed the front door behind me.

Luckily, I'd had my keys in my coat pocket. I jerked open my car door and slid roughly into the driver's seat. Then I jammed the key in the ignition, slammed the stick into drive and squealed out into the traffic. I had no idea where I was going, you understand. I just knew I wanted to get as far away from Liam the asshole, as I could.

I'd gotten about six blocks away when I realized I'd probably made a mistake. The rain was turning to ice now, and my predictions about Chicago turning into one big skating rink, were quickly coming true. One more block and a van up ahead fishtailed and slammed into a parked car at the curb. I took my foot off the accelerator and slid to a stop.

There didn't seem to be any way around it, I was going to have to turn and go back and face Liam. Not that I felt I had anything to apologize for; my problem with going home was I couldn't stand the thought of seeing him for a while - like the next eight or ten years.

I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel as I waited for the accident to clear. I looked around the car for a snack. It wasn't that unlikely, somewhere in the piles of cellophane and Mickey D bags, there could have been something edible.

It was while I was looking, that I saw I'd thrown the cleaning receipt onto the seat next to me. I'd still been clutching it when I'd stormed out of the house. I picked it up and looked at it. Hmmm, it seemed Amy lived another block over. It only made sense to try to get there rather than drive all the way home, right?

The traffic started to move again. I had to make up my mind, take a right turn at the next one-way street and go home, or drive another block, turn left and double back to Amy's. I put my foot on the brake and slid right past the stop sign and through the intersection. Hey, I can recognize a sign from God as quick as the next guy.

It took 15 minutes to drive those two blocks. Finally, I pulled in front of a greystone that had Amy's address over the top of the door. This was a much nicer neighborhood than where I lived, even if it was only a couple of miles away.

I got out of my door and fell on my ass. Oh, this was going to be a suave entrance. I managed to make it to the front door by practicing my old hockey skating technique, sans blades. God, I hoped she wasn't watching.

Of course she was.

She met me at the door, her eyes wide and her hand holding a cordless phone to her ear. I stood on her stoop with a wet ass and a runny nose from the cold, and hair that was already getting a crust of ice.

"It's Charlie," Amy said into the phone, not at me.

She listened some more as I accumulated more ice. "Uh huh. Uh huh. Oh, no." She looked at me like a deer in headlights. "I couldn't."

"Sure you could," I said. "If it means I can come in."

Amy gasped and reddened, and jumped away from the door. I slid past her into the foyer.

"I have to go." She said into the phone. "I'll call you tomorrow," and she clicked the off button.

"That was Miriam; she's a lot better."

I leaned over and checked out her phone ear. "Can you hear me?" I whispered.

Amy giggled. "Of course I can hear you."

"Amazing," I shook my head and icicles flew off my hair and hit the wall.

"Oh gosh, Charlie, I'm, sorry you must be freezing. Come on in and I'll make you something warm to drink."

I followed her into her living room and stopped. It was nice, very nice. Like somebody really lived there. All my friends just sort of camped out with used furniture and a lot of plastic crates for color. Amy, however, seemed to have gotten her decorating ideas from somewhere other than Wal-Mart.

She had a red sofa and two blue stuffed chairs that actually looked like they were all meant to be in the same room. She had a coffee table and a bunch of other wooden furniture that was light and modern and looked like it had just been unloaded off a boat from one of the Scandinavian countries. There were pillows everywhere, nice fat ones in different shapes and covered in all kinds of crazy patterns in bright, primary colors. The lamps were modern and plentiful, and the pictures on the wall had real frames and there wasn't a sports figure or rock star on one of them.

She even had knickknacks like my mom. Except Mom tends towards cute little figurines of kids with big eyes, while Amy had thick pottery and small, painted, wooden animals that I'd only thought could live in the mind of a Dr. Seuss.

"This is really great," I said.

"Thanks, I've always liked this kind of decor; so when I got a bonus last year, I decided to splurge."

I shook my head. I was having a hard time connecting the girl, with the bag lady clothes, with the woman who'd put together this warm and sophisticated room. Of course, I suddenly realized, the bag girl was gone and the woman who stood in front of me matched the room perfectly.

"Have a seat," she said.

I started to sit on one of the chairs, but half way down I remembered my butt was still wet and I popped back up. Amy saw my predicament and went to get me a towel, but when she came back; she was holding a pair of sweat pants that would have been a little baggy on Namu the killer whale.

"I found these in the spare bedroom," she said. "My dad left them here when my folks visited last. Why don't you put them on and I'll put yours through the laundry?"

I looked at them skeptically. Maybe they'd work as a sleeping bag, but I didn't think they were going to be much use as pants since there was no way they were going to stay up over my ass.

"They have a draw string," Amy said, reading my mind.

I took them from her and went into the bathroom to change. Two minutes later I was back again, looking like I was wearing Oprah's fat clothes and tripping over the drawstring ends that now dragged on the ground. I handed Amy my wet pants and dared her to laugh with my eyes. She didn't even crack a smile, bless her.

"Well at least you'll be decent this way," she said.

Which was certainly true. It was hard to tell I had legs in all that material, let alone see any other parts of my anatomy.

I sat down and Amy disappeared again, but she was back soon with two mugs that steamed from whatever they held. Amy handed me one and I looked into it. Oh God, it was hot chocolate, and it even had two big marshmallows melting on the top. I moaned in delight, as I took my first sip.

"Oh good," she said, pleased, "you like it. I didn't know if you'd really rather have a drink, but I'd just made a pot of this, so I thought I'd take a chance."

We sat and chatted as we both drank up the ambrosia. I was a little surprised that Amy didn't ask me why I'd come over, but as I had no explanation for that myself, I didn't call attention to her lack of curiosity.

"Would you like to stay to dinner?" She asked and taking the gleam in my eye as an affirmative answer, went off to the kitchen to check on the meal.

I'd smelled something cooking when I'd arrived, but I hadn't been able to identify it. Now my interest was piqued. I followed her to see what was on the menu.

She was stirring a big crock-pot of something and I walked up and peered over her shoulder. It was split-pea soup. My mouth watered and I had to move back before I started to drool on Amy's shoulder.

"I hope you like this?"

"God yes. Do you eat this well all the time?"

"Sure." She ducked her head like she had a big dirty confession to make. "I love to cook. I know I'm probably not supposed to admit it because it makes me sound like some throwback to the 1950's, but it's the truth."

"Hey listen," I raised my hand, "your secret's safe with me. Of course it'll cost you a plate or two of linguini now and then, and the occasional pot roast, but my silence comes pretty cheap."

"What, no cheesecake?" She shot back. "It's my specialty."

I sank to my knees and raised my clasped hands to my chest. "Well damn, in that case, I think you'll have to marry me to guaranty my silence."

Amy turned white. Oh shit, if I knew Amy, she was now worried that being here with me was in some way cheating on Liam. Which of course made no sense, seeing as how he was probably already out with Betty Boop wearing one each of my two best pairs of socks. I decided it would probably not be in my stomach's best interest to point this out to her however. I got up on my feet and poked at my pants.

"Or maybe not." I pretended to be ignorant of the shocked look on her face. "I wouldn't want to have to wear these things for real."

She smiled nervously and turned back to the soup. I talked some bullshit until she started to giggle and we were back on safer ground. We ate at her kitchen table on dishes that matched.

The soup was wonderful and I had to stop myself from having a third bowl. There were homemade biscuits that Amy whipped up in front of my eyes in a way that made me feel like a kid watching a magician pull a rabbit our of his hat. There was salad too. I'm proud to say I made that after I'd convinced Amy that I was competent to tear lettuce and slice tomatoes.

Amy made a pot of coffee and we took our cups back out to the living room. She apologized because there wasn't any cheesecake this time and promised to make it up to me at our next meal together. I told her I'd hold her to it, but really I wasn't that disappointed. By my count I'd had 5 cappuccinos and then there were the two cups of hot chocolate before dinner. I figured that was enough sugar to last me for the next decade or so.

I had to spread the fat pants I was wearing into a fan around my ass so I could sit comfortably and that reminded me of something I was curious about. "Your folks, they don't live around here?"

She shook her head, "I'm from Green Bay."

"A fellow cheesehead," I laughed, and then I explained. "I'm from Milwaukee. My brother Frank just moved to Green Bay though. He said it was because it was a good place to start a business, but I think he what he was really after was the ability to say he owns the Packers."

"Yeah," she agreed. "My dad is a huge fan. My mother won't go to the games with him anymore cause he's too embarrassing. She's says if the house ever caught fire, she'd be on her own because he'd be too worried about rescuing the picture of him with Vince Lombardi to remember she existed."

This sounded perfectly reasonable to me, but I could tell by the expression on Amy's face that it probably wouldn't be a good idea to say so.

"You have brothers and sisters?" I thought it was safer to change the conversation.

"No, unfortunately. My parents were both in their forties when they got married. To say I was a surprise is an understatement, there was no way they could have more kids." She shrugged. "I always wanted sibs though."

I snorted, "That's because you didn't have them."

"You come from a big family?"

"Yup," I nodded. "There are five of us. Which seemed like four too many when I was growing up."

"Five? Are your folks Catholic?"

"Un uh, just very, very fertile and pretty unlucky when it came to contraceptives. My mom always said if she could have talked my dad into a vasectomy, my brother, Frank, would have been an only child, so I guess since I'm the youngest, I should be grateful the old man is afraid of needles."

"Aw," Amy grinned evilly at me, "you're the baby!"

I looked at her disgustedly. "I'm the tallest and biggest and I think that the term baby no longer applies to me."

"I'll bet your mother doesn't agree."

She was right, but I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of telling her that. "So make me jealous; what was it like growing up as an only?"

"It was okay," but I didn't really think that was the truth by the look on her face. She saw that I'd noticed and went on. "Look, my folks are wonderful, they really are, and they just love me to death."

"Smothered you, eh?"

She giggled, "Oh yeah. Like I said, I was a real surprise, a miracle baby, my mother still calls me, and sometimes it's hard to take being treated like you're the second coming."

"Trust me," I raised one eyebrow. "I wouldn't know. By the time I came around, my folks were so relaxed about having kids they didn't even have a name picked out for me. They let my sister, Monica, who was five at the time, pick and she chose Charlie, well Charles really, at least that's what it reads on the birth certificate."

"It's a nice name."

"Well it's better than what Frank, who was seven, wanted to name me."

"Which was?" Amy asked.

I sighed, "Hoss. Bonanza was his favorite show."

Amy had the nerve to laugh. "What about the other two, didn't they have any opinions?"

"The twins? They were four and didn't have much of a power base in the family to push for anything special, but I think my mom told me one time that Corey was partial to Mr. Greenjeans and Samantha thought Lassie would be even better."

"So it's hereditary."

"What is?"

"Your being nuts."

I opened my mouth to protest, but then I thought about my family and decided this was not an argument I could win. "So what about you? Where did your name come from? Did your folks sit up nights with baby books or did your mother always dream of having a little girl named Amy?"

"I was named after my grandmothers, Amelia and," she screwed up her face. "Gertrude."

"Oh that's just wrong," I laughed.

"Tell me about it," she agreed. "And you don't know the worst. Amelia is my middle name."

"Gertrude Amelia? I thought your folks were happy you came along?"

She nodded, "Oh they were, but in the interest of being completely fair to both grandmothers, they decided to flip a coin to see whose name went first. Gertrude won."

"And you lost."

"First days of the school year were horrible," she admitted. "But don't get me wrong, I had a good childhood. My mom was great, she taught me how to cook and my dad was one of those dads who would read to me every night. They really tried their best."

"Sounds like it," I said, though I had this sneaking suspicion that for all their trying, Amy had, had a pretty rough time of it somehow. "My dad only reads the sports page and the sum total of my mom's baking is knowing how to open a Chips Ahoy package."

"Still," she said wistfully, "it must have been nice growing up in house with all those people... really lively."

"Really noisy is more like it."

"Sounds good to me. Our house was always so quiet."

I could see it then, a little girl with pointy ears creeping around an empty house trying to blend into the silence. And on top of that, she had folks who were as old as most of the other kid's grandparents and so in awe of having her that they treated her more like a valuable piece of porcelain than a little kid who sometimes just needed to be thrown up in the air and tickled.

She must have always felt like she was different. This was before the Baby Boomers had decided the way to have kids was to wait until you were too old to naturally fuck your way into parenthood and so, after buying the BMW, they'd spend six years in a doctors office, the guy beating off in a cup and the woman flat on her back, her legs in stirrups and a turkey baster stuck up her pussy. Which works, but still it kind of takes the fun out of having more than one or two kids.