Page 6 of Wolf

“I can’t promise that.”

She looks as if she’s about to remind me of some other promises I couldn’t keep. She swallows hard, her throat bobbing as she gulps down the harsh words for the time being. “I would be willing to entertain the idea of… some help. Mom’s place is in pretty bad shape.”

“What kind of bad shape?” I’m good with my hands in many ways.

Julia averts her eyes, but they sneak back toward me as if she just can’t help taking another look. “You could come see for yourself.”

“You invitin’ me over?”

“To see the house,” she specifies, making it clear that this is meant to be a business-only visit. “To show you what I might need help with. You drink coffee still?”

“Yeah.” That actually piques my interest by itself. Any coffee she’s got has to be better than that paper cup-melting battery acid they serve behind bars. “Why don’t you go on and get a head start? I’ll follow in a few. If you’re done here, that is.”

“Yes, I am.” She steps away, moving as if her clothes weigh about sixty pounds. It’s like she doesn’t actually want to leave my side and that makes me grin. “I’ll… um, see you there.”

“See you there.”

Her next few steps are still effortful and heavy, but then she gets a little further away and her pace picks up. She’s soon hauling ass to the cemetery entrance, that fancy brick arch they installed for whatever reason. Speaking of ass, my eyes are glued to hers the whole way, watching how her buttocks move in her jean shorts. The hems are raw, the trailing fibers tickling over her smooth thighs. I want to take those shorts and rip them off her legs, part those creamy thighs and insert myself between them for old time’s sake.

I’m not doing this for her because I expect to get back in her pants, although I obviously wouldn’t say no. I’m doing this because she’s the one woman who ever meant more to me than just a casual fuck.

I track her even outside the cemetery, observing her as she passes down the street, until she’s a hazy, vague blob. Even then, I watch, until I finally can’t see her anymore. That’s when I look at her father’s grave.

I knew when he died because my brothers wrote me about it. A heart attack got rid of him three or so years into my sentence. Good riddance. The world is better off without him.

I spit on the ground in front of his headstone, the pathetic little marker that was surely the cheapest his family could buy, and then I walk away from him. I grab my bike and head for Julia’s mother’s house. I still remember where it is.

***

I timed my journey perfectly, pulling up to the curb at the side of the house at the same time as Julia is walking up the weedy front yard. Where there aren’t weeds, the grass looks all fucked up. Where there’s no grass, there’s patches of bare earth. The paint on the house is cracked and faded, and there are shingles missing from the roof.

Julia stands in front of the door, her arms crossed tight over her chest. “You can see the state of things.”

“What I can see is that your storm door is all fucked.” I reach past her and push at it. The hinges are barely hanging on, and the latch doesn’t seem to engage. It probably bangs around like crazy in the wind.

“It drives me crazy,” she admits. “I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know the first thing about any kind of yard work.”

I don’t know much either, but I’m about to turn myself into an expert real quick.

“Let’s… go inside.” She hesitates, then destroys her last chance to send me on my way.

We head in. I have never actually been in this place before.

The smell hits me first and it honestly reminds me of prison, the indescribable odor of a dirty living space. The rug covering the hard flooring in the foyer is filthy, caked with dried mud, and the carpeting past that hasn’t fared much better. There are stains and smudges all over, leaving the original color something of a mystery. The shoe racks are all in disarray and the same disorder extends to what I can see of the rest of the house. There’s a place for everything, but no place has been cleaned or organized in months. Or years. Dust clings to most surfaces and the pictures on the walls are hanging crooked.

Many things, I realize, are crooked. There’s a side table leaning over like it’s perpetually drunk.

What I can see of the kitchen is cluttered counters and water-stained surfaces. In the other direction, the hallway is full of random junk and boxes.

“I’d ask you to excuse the mess, except that’s the reason you’re even here,” Julia says. “Don’t worry, the coffee pot is clean. I made sure of that.”

She leads the way into the dirty kitchen. It smells like stagnant water and old food. She starts to fix the coffee; I notice the faucet continues leaking even after she turns it off. I notice a bunch of other things too, in my effort not to stare at her like a total creep. The confines of the house, of the kitchen, make her presence all the more tantalizing.

“You can get some mugs. They’re in the corner cabinet.” She measures out coffee grounds that, thankfully, smell fresh.

Opening the cabinet, I find it overflowing with mugs in precarious jumbles. I pull out two of them. They both have a little crust left inside, which I brush out with my fingers. Making a mental note to myself: Dishwasher needs fixed.

The coffee maker starts to gurgle and bubble. Julia leans back against the counter, arms crossed again. She looks at the floor, at the food-splattered microwave, at the stopped wall clock. Everywhere but at me. “I haven’t been back long enough to pick up properly or do anything,” she admits. “And with the whole divorce thing… I’m overwhelmed. I know it’s no excuse. This place is disgusting.”