Checker and the Derailleurs. Lionel Shriver
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“You own the sky?”
“Yes.”
She was so jagged, he was surprised by the roundness of her laughter. “Well, so do I.”
“I own every color,” Check went on. “I own this neighborhood. Most of all I own the Triborough.”
“I’ve wondered whose that was.”
“Mine. Shore to shore. We’re in love.”
“I’m jealous.”
Checker’s whole body was humming; the furnace and the rhythm of their voices were both trembling in the wooden bench now, as if a good song was playing loud. He closed his eyes. “My bicycle is jealous, too. Sure, Zefal’s pretty, thin, tight. But there’s something about a frame so big. Like a tall woman.” Hmm. At that point Checker decided to open his eyes and shut his mouth. Syria had edged away to turn down the annealer.
“And what’s your story?”
“When you’re twenty-nine, there isn’t one anymore, there are hundreds. And I don’t feel like telling any of them tonight.”
“Don’t,” Checker chided.
“Maybe later,” she said more kindly. “You said you had a problem tonight. What is it?”
Checker explained about Rahim. “So,” he finished, “I need a woman.”
“Common complaint. Where will you get yours?”
Lying on the bench, Checker felt a wave of nausea ripple from his feet to his throat, just as the elation had risen earlier that evening. He swallowed, the taste of his own saliva sour. He waited for the sickness to pass, and used the silence to make his next question seem to be changing the subject.
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“By the time most men reach thirty they’re picking out their headstones already. All that’s left is to fill in the dates. I’m not interested.”
“Do you ever want to get married?”
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Go ahead.”
Check said nothing.
“I said, go ahead.”
Maybe something flew into the furnace, something live. A strange smell passed over the two of them, like singed hair. His saliva was viscous from dehydration. “Syria,” he said thickly, “will you marry Rahim?”
“That’s better,” said Syria. “Now we’re there.” She sat down on the bench at his feet. “Now, you explain to me why I should do such a thing.” She patted his ankles.
“To do me a favor.”
“Oh?” She seemed amused. “You really think I’d be doing you a favor?”
“Both Hijack’s brothers were murdered in Iraq. If they send him back he’ll be axed right off the plane. Even if they don’t bother, he’ll be drafted. And Hijack says—he says it’s not a nice war.”
“What’s a nice war?” she asked mildly, not paying much attention. She held the toe of his tennis shoe.
Checker turned on his side away from her, resting his cheek against the warm wood of the bench as if it were a pillow. He felt like a small boy wishing he could clutch a ragged one-eyed bear. Instead, he reached down and stroked the leg of the bench, conscious of how hard it was. Checker almost never felt sorry for himself; it was a funny curled sensation, shaped like a sickle with a point on the end or like a very sharp question mark. “He’s my friend and he’s in trouble.”
“Why should I care?” She pulled her hand away and leaned back. “I met you ten days ago spying on my shop and making a mess of my alley. You’re a total stranger.”
It would be different if she was really trying to give him a reason why the whole idea was ridiculous. But no, she was forcing him instead to make a good case. “I’m not a stranger,” he said muddily, his cheek against the wood. “We’re alike.”
“That’s arrogant.” Yet she didn’t seem offended, and expected him to go on.
He couldn’t. He felt as if soon he’d have to go deeply and dreamlessly to sleep.
“Don’t women usually get paid for this sort of thing?”
“About three thousand dollars.”
“And how much money do you have?”
“Forty.”
“Thousand?”
“Dollars.” Checker sat up and pulled a scrumple of bills from his pocket. “Forty-three. But it’s not all mine, it’s the band’s. My share would be six … fourteen. Plus Hijack’s … $12.28, then.”
“Well. That’s at least six beers. Two apiece. A party.”
“How’s that?”
“For the three of us. You, me, and my husband.” She let him hear the sound of it. Checker winced. “How are you going to pay off any woman with $12.28?”
“And a lifetime’s admission to Plato’s?”
“Well, what’s the cover?”
“Two dollars.”
Syria did a quick calculation. “So, if I went every weekend, I’d start to break even after twenty-seven years.”
“Want to watch me drum that long?”
“Maybe.” Checker kept waiting for this to be a joke.
They both sat facing each other, leaning against opposite posts, their feet on the bench. Sensing they’d reached an impasse, Checker began to cheer up.
“You know, I’ve never much wanted a husband …” said Syria thoughtfully. “But I wouldn’t mind a wife.”
“What?”
“I teach all day, do bones at night. I get tired of carrots and bad Astoria pizza. My apartment looks like glacial slag. At the end of the month my clothes have gotten so filthy that I have to throw them away. I’ve lived this way for years. But it might be refreshing to clean up my act. Only, though, if someone else did the cleaning.”
“Are you serious?”
“What else could I possibly get out of this?”
Checker tapped the bench. “What all would you want him to do?”
“Cooking, shopping, picking up. Laundry, phone bills. I would like to see out my windows again, maybe even find the floor. Fresh flowers. I have a little money, can you believe it? The stuff accumulates from neglect, like dust. I wouldn’t mind having someone to spend it, which is only work to me. And once in a while he could have the afternoon off to go to the hairdresser’s or the garden club or to buy a new hat.” She laughed.
“There’s just one person won’t find this funny,” said Check uneasily.
“He’s Muslim, isn’t he?”
“Very.”
“This could be quite an education, then.”
“Maybe,” Checker warned, “for both of you.”
“You are talking about that lean, bright-eyed, dark thing at your heels last Friday, with the pretty teeth? A puppy dog. Needs housetraining.”
“If Hijack is a puppy, he bites. I don’t think he does windows.”
“He could learn.”
“I’m trying to tell you—Hijack