Nine Inches, Page 2

  “The thing I don’t get,” he said, in that squeaky, holding-it-in voice, “is how your boss even knows my number.”

  “Don’t look at me. I didn’t give it to him.”

  “And how’d he know I was selling?” Adam released a cloud of smoke so big I couldn’t believe it had all been stored inside his lungs. “It’s not like I’m advertising.”

  I shrugged, not wanting to tell him that it was common knowledge that he sold some kind of killer weed, the source of which no one could pinpoint. We lived in a small town, and you couldn’t keep something like that a secret for long.

  “You know what?” I said. “Don’t even worry about it. I’ll just give Eddie his money back. It’s no big deal.”

  Happy was sitting at our feet, panting cheerfully, thick body heaving, tongue lolling sideways from his mouth. Adam leaned forward and kissed him on top of his big square head. When Adam looked up, I could see that the weed had kicked in. His eyes were cloudy, his face dreamy and trouble-free.

  “Chill out,” he told me. “I’ll take care of you. I don’t want to jam you up with your boss.”

  I DIDN’T realize I had a problem until my next run-in with Lt. Finnegan. This time I wasn’t speeding and hadn’t violated any traffic laws. I was just minding my business, heading back to Sustainable around nine-thirty on a Wednesday night, when an unmarked Crown Victoria popped up in my rearview mirror, that familiar white-haired douchebag at the wheel. There were no flashing lights, but he tailgated me for a couple of blocks before finally hitting the siren, a quick bloop-bloop to get my attention.

  We were right by Edmunds Elementary School, the quiet stretch of Warren Road that runs alongside the playing fields. I pulled over, his car still glued to my bumper, and cut the engine. It felt like a bad dream, the same cop stopping me for the third time in less than two weeks.

  I was fishing around in the glove box for the registration when he startled me by tapping on the passenger window — he usually approached from the other side — and yanking the door open. Before I could react, he had ducked inside my car and shut the door behind him.

  The Prius was pretty roomy, but Lt. Finnegan seemed to fill all the available space. He reached down, groping for the adjuster bar, then grunted with relief as the seat slid back.

  “That’s better.” He rotated his bulk in my direction. He was wearing civilian clothes, khakis and a sport coat, but he still looked like a cop. “How are you, Donald?”

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “Not that I know of.”

  “Then why’d you pull me over?”

  “I didn’t pull you over.”

  “Yes, you did. You hit the siren.”

  “Oh, that.” He chuckled at the misunderstanding. “I just wanted to say hi. Haven’t seen you for a couple of days.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I nodded as if this made perfect sense. “I just assumed — ”

  “I get it.” He laid his hand on my knee. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”

  I waited for him to remove his hand, but he kept it where it was. I could feel the warmth of his palm through the fabric of my jeans.

  “Umm,” I said. “You know what? I really have to get back to work.”

  “You’re dedicated,” he observed. “I like that.”

  “I just got hired. I’m trying to make a good impression.”

  He tilted his head, giving me a thorough once-over. I was uncomfortably aware of his aftershave, a sharp lime scent that mingled badly with the stale pizza funk inside the car.

  “You seem a little tense, Donald.” He lifted his hand off my knee and placed it on my shoulder. “I bet you could use a backrub.”

  I shook my head, but he didn’t seem to notice. His left hand was already cupping the back of my neck, squeezing and releasing, exerting a gentle, disturbing pressure.

  Oh, God, I thought. This isn’t happening.

  “Just relax, Donald. I’m really good at this.”

  He slipped his hand under my collar, his fingers rough against my skin, tracing the knobs on my spine.

  “Please don’t do that,” I told him.

  He pretended not to hear me, shifting in the seat so he could get his other hand into the act. He went to work on my right arm, stroking and kneading my shoulder. I could hear him breathing raggedly through his nose, as if he were climbing a hill.

  “Wow,” he said in this faraway voice. “Your deltoid’s really tight.”

  “Stop it!” I twisted out of his grasp, scooting away from him until my back was pressed against the door. The violence of my reaction startled us both.

  “Whoa!” he said, raising both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Jesus.”

  “I don’t want a backrub,” I told him.

  “Okay, fine.” He sounded a little hurt. “Take it easy, Donald. I was just trying to be nice.”

  “Could you please get out of my car?”

  He turned away, scowling at the empty street in front of us. There was something sulky and stubborn in his posture.

  “I really don’t get you, Donald.” He said this with weird conviction in his voice, like we’d had some kind of long history together. “I just don’t understand what you’re doing with your life.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ve been asking around. People say you’re a pretty smart kid.”

  “Yeah?” I was flattered in spite of myself, glad to know that people still thought well of me. “So?”

  “So what’s the deal? How come you’re not in college?”

  “I’m taking a gap year.”

  This was the explanation my parents and I had agreed on, but I could hear how lame it sounded.

  He heard it, too, and snorted with contempt. “A gap year to deliver pizza? What was that, your lifelong dream?”

  I should have just kept my mouth shut. But I didn’t like the way he was looking at me, like he had the right to judge me.

  “I’m trying to save some money,” I said. “I’m going to Africa in the spring to work in an orphanage. Is that okay with you?”

  He didn’t answer right away, and I could see that I’d caught him off guard.

  “Africa, huh? What country?”

  “Uganda.”

  “Wow.” He sounded skeptical, but I could tell he was impressed. “Good for you.”

  Just then my phone started buzzing. It was Eddie. I held it up so he could see the display.

  “You mind if I take this, Lieutenant? My boss is wondering where I am.”

  MY STORY about the orphanage wasn’t exactly true, but it wasn’t just a load of random bullshit, either. For most of the spring and all of the summer, it had been an actual plan, the answer I gave whenever anyone asked about my future. It was a pretty good answer, too, which is probably why I dusted it off for Lt. Finnegan.

  According to my mother’s Monday-morning analysis, the fatal flaw in my otherwise excellent college application had been a lack of genuine humanitarian service. She was pretty sure the admissions officers had seen right through my meager list of good deeds — a Walk for Hunger here, some Toys for Tots there, a weekend with Habitat for Humanity, a handful of cans for the Food Drive.

  “There was no follow-through,” she pointed out. “It was all for show, like you were just checking some boxes.”

  “I was,” I said. “I thought that was the whole point.”

  Unbeknownst to me, she started doing some research on the Web, scouting out programs that offered young volunteers an opportunity to demonstrate their commitment to the less fortunate, putting their skills and ideals to the test in challenging third-world environments. She was especially impressed by an organization called Big Hearts International, whose mission was to connect college-age Americans with “the struggling but resilient children of sub-Saharan Africa.”

  “Just think about it,” she told me. “This could be a real game-changer.”

  “Africa’s pretty far away,” I reminded
her. “And kinda dangerous.”

  “It’s just for a few months, Donald. I really think you should consider it.”

  I’d filled out the application in mid-May, when it became clear that I wasn’t going to be saved by the wait list at Duke or Grinnell. The way I figured it, my options were either Africa or community college, and I really couldn’t see myself at community college. By the time graduation rolled around, Big Hearts had already assigned me to an orphanage in Mityana, Uganda, not too far from the capital city, whose name I kept forgetting. Heather was almost as excited as my mom, clutching my arm, beaming at me like I was some kind of saint.

  “This is my boyfriend, Donald,” she kept telling her relatives. “He’s going to Africa in September.”

  That’s who I was for the rest of the summer, the Great Humanitarian and Intrepid World Explorer, Friend to the Struggling but Resilient Orphans. If nothing else, this identity got me through a lot of awkward situations, gave me something to contribute to what would otherwise have been extremely painful conversations about distribution requirements, course schedules, Greek Life, and Facebook groups for admitted students. Jake bought me a pith helmet at a secondhand store, and I used to wear it when we went to the beach or the movies, sort of as a joke, but also as a badge of honor, a token of my good intentions.

  I swear, I was all set to go. I updated my passport, got my shots, read a whole bunch of books about AIDS and genocide and colonialism, even drove to Connecticut to meet with a volunteer who’d just finished the program, this skinny, haunted-looking dude whose arms and legs were mottled with bug bites.

  “It’s pretty freaky,” he said, scratching himself like a monkey. “You wouldn’t believe the poverty over there. But it’s like the most rewarding thing I’ve done in my entire life.”

  The last two weeks of August were like one big going-away party, the population of well-wishers dwindling nightly until I was the only one left. I had a few days to finalize my packing and spend some quality time with my parents and little sister, who was starting her freshman year in high school. My mom baked a cake on my last night, and we sat around talking about what a great adventure I was embarking on, how I was going to learn some real-life lessons that couldn’t be taught in any ivory tower. Then I skyped with a bunch of my friends and had a long goodbye talk with Heather, during which we both promised to be faithful during our separation. We’d had sex for the first time the night before she left, and we reminded each other how amazing it had been, and how we couldn’t wait to do it again over Christmas vacation.

  “I love you,” she sniffled. “You take care of yourself, okay?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I told her. “I’ll see you soon.”

  That was it. I went to bed feeling brave and melancholy, ready for my big journey into the unknown. But when I woke up the next morning, I couldn’t move. I wasn’t sick; it just felt like my body had been sliced open and pumped full of wet cement.

  “Come on, sweetheart,” my mother said from the doorway. “You don’t want to miss your plane.”

  “I’m not going,” I said. “It’s not fair.”

  She withdrew and my father appeared a few minutes later. He told me that I needed to get my ass moving, that I’d made a commitment and damn well better stick to it. He said there were orphans in Uganda who were counting on me.

  “Fuck the orphans,” I said.

  “What?” I could see how shocked he was. “What did you say?”

  But by then I was crying too hard to repeat myself.

  •••

  I REALLY didn’t know what to do about Lt. Finnegan. I thought about talking to Eddie, or maybe to my parents, possibly even writing an anonymous letter to The Clarion, our terrible local paper, just to let someone know what had happened, but I wasn’t sure what good it would do. In the absence of any proof, it would just be my word against his, and I had a feeling my word wasn’t worth all that much at the moment. The only thing I knew for sure was that I didn’t want to quit my job. I liked working at Sustainable and liked having a good reason to get out of the house at night. My parents were still pissed about Uganda and never missed a chance to remind me of how badly I’d let them down.

  In the end, I decided to keep my mouth shut and my fingers crossed, and to drive as carefully as possible. I stuck religiously to the speed limit, checking my rearview mirror like a murderer with a corpse in the trunk, never failed to use my turn signal, and came to a complete and lingering halt at every stop sign, even though I knew it didn’t matter. If Lt. Finnegan wanted to pull me over, he could do it whenever he felt like it, regardless of whether I’d broken the law.

  To my surprise and immense relief, the safe-driver strategy seemed to work. Two weeks passed without incident, and I started to wonder if maybe I’d overreacted, letting a minor problem mushroom in my imagination into something more important than it really was. Very slowly, I began to let my guard down, to relax and enjoy the job again.

  I was in an especially good mood on the Saturday after Halloween, which happened to be crazy busy. It was like half the town had suddenly come down with an uncontrollable urge for gourmet pizza and had all called in their orders at the same time. Amazingly, Eddie and Ignacio handled it without a single glitch — not even a botched topping or a transposed address — and the customers were unusually patient and forgiving. No one yelled at me for being late or forgot to tip. By the time the rush was over — it was a little after eight — I had a big wad of bills in my pocket and one last pie to deliver, to a guy named Roy in Starlite Court, an ugly brick apartment complex over by the train station, where a lot of senior citizens lived. I’d only been there once or twice before.

  I found Unit 5 and pressed the buzzer for Apartment B. While I was waiting, a text arrived from Eddie asking if I wanted to party with him and the Polish girls after we closed up. He was a lot friendlier now that I was acting as his go-between with Adam, ensuring him a regular supply of what he liked to call the Magic Love Bud. The door opened and I looked up.

  “Donald.” Lt. Finnegan’s smile was warm and welcoming. “I was hoping it would be you.”

  For a second or two, words failed me. I couldn’t understand what he was doing here, standing in the doorway in a shimmery blue bathrobe with white piping. It looked like something a boxer would wear before a fight, except shorter, exposing a lot more thigh than anyone wanted to see on a guy his age. I must have been staring too hard because he reached down and tightened the belt. The robe was still pretty loose on top, displaying a triangle of tufty white chest hair.

  “Pizza for Roy?” I finally managed to say.

  “That’s me. Large sausage, right?”

  “That’ll be sixteen dollars.”

  “Could you bring it into the kitchen?” He took a step back and beckoned me inside. “I left my wallet in the bedroom.”

  I was about to tell him that it was our policy never to enter the customer’s home when it occurred to me that this might be a good time to make an exception. I stepped into the cramped foyer and followed him into the hallway.

  “You go ahead,” he said, stopping outside the bedroom. “I’ll be right with you.”

  I continued into the kitchen, set the insulated pouch on the countertop, and pulled out my iPhone. It only took a couple of swipes to find the Voice Memo app and touch the red button to record. By the time he emerged, the phone was back in my pocket, and the pizza was out of the pouch.

  “Smells good,” he said.

  If I’d been him, I might’ve taken an extra minute or two to put on some clothes, but he was still just wearing that pervy robe. It was looser than before, providing an unobstructed view of his broad chest and bulging belly.

  “I think you’ll like the sausage,” I told him. “It supposedly won some awards.”

  Lt. Finnegan slipped one hand inside the robe and began absentmindedly massaging his left pec. It was bright in the kitchen, and I noticed a pale scar on his knee, one of those old-time Frankenstein sutures, like the
stitching on a softball.

  “You hungry?” he asked. “I can’t eat that whole pizza by myself.”

  “I’m on the clock.”

  “How about a drink then? I got soda and OJ. Beer, too, but that’s probably not a good idea.”

  “Maybe just some water.”

  He took two glasses from the dishwasher and filled them straight from the tap. We never did that at home, only drank from the Brita pitcher. We sat down at the table and touched our glasses.

  “Cheers,” he said. “It’s nice to have some company.”

  I let that pass, even though company hardly seemed like the right term for the guy who delivered your pizza. He smiled at me. His expression was shy, strangely boyish.

  “I like you, Donald. You’re really easy to talk to.”

  I took a sip to calm my nerves. The water was tepid, with a sweet, chemical aftertaste.

  “We hardly know each other,” I said, speaking slowly and clearly for the benefit of the recorder. I didn’t feel great about what I was doing, but I knew it had to be done. “We only ever talk when you pull me over.”

  “I know.” He laughed, like this was a cute story we would someday share with our friends. “It’s crazy, right?”

  “You pulled me over three times last month. And the third time, the night you were in the unmarked car, you tried to give me a backrub. It kinda scared me, Lieutenant Finnegan.”

  He stiffened a little, and I could see I’d hit a nerve.

  “Look, Donald, I’m really sorry about that. I got carried away, you know? I do that sometimes. But I hope you’ll give me another chance.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He gave me a sly look, like he thought I knew exactly what he meant.

  “I mean, you can’t get a good backrub in a car. You need to be able to take your shirt off, stretch out on a bed, and relax.” He reached across the table and laid his hand on mine. “Why don’t you come by after your shift tonight. That way we can take our time.”

  I slid my hand out from under his and stood up.

  “Please listen to me, Lieutenant Finnegan.” My voice was shaky, and I was surprised to realize I was on the verge of tears. “I don’t want a backrub. I didn’t want one when you pulled me over, and I don’t want one now. I think you have a problem, and you should probably get some help.”