5.
 They saw a lot of each other, and soon she moved in. She was a singer, she told him; picked up some good money as a cocktail waitress. He went to hear her sing, and that was great; she had him on the stage, introducing him as the great Mick, painter we are going to all be hearing from. He went to the airport cocktail lounge, and that wasn't so great, watching her elegant figure float amid the tables while huge airplane tails lumbered by outside, and she flirted constantly with all the men; Mick left early.
He painted her, and she loved the attention. She would assume any pose he wanted, for example on the dresser, wearing only a bikini, holding the edges with her strong little fists, extending her impossibly reachy legs to one side entwined, while her small tight butt rested on the doily. She had the patience of a model, and he began to feel really excited about her. They'd be walking arm in arm on the street at night, and he'd have a vision of how he wanted to paint her next, and they'd hurry back home, up the creaky wooden stairs, down the dark hallway, to his room where he'd peel away her clothes and show her how he wanted her to sit on the bed.
While he painted her one spring night, Ben and Mary had their final argument and Mary left. She never came back. He heard the door slam, heard her cursing in the driveway, heard the poorly mufflered engine of her car roar away down the block.
A day or so later Ben knocked on Mick's bedroom door. Lisa was away at work. It was late in the afternoon, and Mick had been distracted by the noise coming from a moving van and a crew of men next door. "Mickey, we gotta talk." Ben sat down on the bed, looking weary and disheveled. He looked big and old and worn out in his sweaty tank top undershirt. "Now I been good to you, right?"
"Sure, Ben." He washed out his paintbrushes.
"Mary ain't coming back. I figure she's going to hire a lawyer when she can afford it and get a divorce."
"I'm sorry—."
Ben held up his hand. "No, no. It's meant to be. We can't get along." He rose and stuck his hands in his pockets. "In the meantime, Mickey, there's something I am mighty embarrassed to ask. I feel real low about it. I'm ashamed, but I got no choice."
"Whatever you need, Ben, I'm your brother."
"You're a good man, Mickey. Say, here's what I need. You and Lisa here, you're not exactly getting rich, I know, but you're steady. I'm just in the middle of getting my ass kicked and all. What do you say we split the rent three ways until I can get it together again?"
"Sure, Ben. I'll talk to Lisa. I'm sure she'll understand." It seemed reasonable. I was hurting for dough, he was only kicking in about a quarter of the rent, and Lisa wasn't paying anything at the moment.
Later that night, when they were in bed together, Mick remembered about the rent and told her. The window was open, and Cartwright and Bolton was quiet except for a chorus of crickets. She touched his nose thoughtfully. "I'll have to see, Mickey."
He felt a thrill of alarm. "If you can't—."
"I'll have to check my savings, Mickey, and figure out what I've got coming in."
"It was dumb of me to—I'll tell you what—forget I ever mentioned it." He felt like a fool. What right did he have to ask her for money? He felt almost, well, in love with her, and he didn't want to make things difficult for her. Didn't want to lose her. That would make things difficult for himself. He reached over to kiss her, but she had turned her face away. "Night, Mickey," she whispered, lightly reaching up to touch his cheek with her fingertips. The long red nails rasped on his skin, and he caught her fingers in his hand and kissed them.
The next afternoon before she went to work, Mick did hear her speaking with Ben. Their voices were even, and muffled, not because they had anything to hide, but because Mick was upstairs painting and they were downstairs in the kitchen. It sounded like a matter of fact conversation—two adults talking, discussing things sensibly, making a deal. Sounded like she'd pay a third of the rent after all, without further prodding, and that made Mick sigh with relief. He wasn't bringing a whole lot in.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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