Women. Pretty women. I was suddenly surrounded by them, and my body went on Red Alert. I shrank to the end of the booth, and to my horror the blond sat down next to me. Right next to me.
I pushed up my glasses, even though they didn’t need it, nervously reached for my Coke, then instead picked up the straw in shaky hands and fiddled with the paper wrapper. I heard Mack sigh heavily, and I raised my head enough to peek at him from under my brows. He looked ten times worse than I felt.
He had taken his hand from his eyes, and his face shocked me. He looked old again – like he’d aged twenty years in a few minutes. His narrow face was gaunt – haggard. His stubbled cheeks were hollow, and when had the dark circles appeared under his eyes? I hadn’t noticed them before, but now they were so pronounced that l don’t understand how I could have missed them. In his eyes was misery, and hopelessness, good God – was he going to cry? I was so amazed by the transformation that I didn’t even think about the women for a couple minutes. But then the blond spoke.
“Can I buy you another drink?” she asked. Asked Mack, of course.
Mack faced the women – Maggie crouching at his side, the blond next to me, and the woman in the pink suit standing next to Maggie. The sorrow in his face was so acute that I felt my heart constrict when I looked at him, like someone was twisting it, wringing it out.
And the women? The women – all pretty, all feminine, all soft colors and jewelry – they looked hypnotized. I’m not kidding. All three were staring at Mack like zombies. I think if he would have told them to go jump in the lake, they would have said “Yes, Master,” and gone right out and done it. That’s what it seemed like. Only perhaps zombies isn’t the right word – they looked hypnotized, yes. But in a hungry way – a kid at Macy’s toy window. A dog before he grabs a big, meaty bone. They wanted him.
They wanted Mack.
It took a moment for his words to sink in, ’cause when he asked them all to please leave him alone, they just were still for a few moments. Then they all – Maggie first, wobbling to her feet, then the other two – left. They backed away a few steps – like when you meet a king, and you aren’t allowed to turn your back on him. Then they slowly turned, and Maggie went to the kitchen, the other two back to the bar, where they sat down facing our table, still watching us. Watching Mack.
With the women gone – even though they were still watching – I took a big breath and let it out. Safe. Safe again, with just my friend Mack, who was sipping his whiskey steadily.
I watched him intently for a few minutes; I was trying to figure it all out. Trying to figure out why those women were so attracted to him. He wasn’t good-looking – thin, tired, twenty years old going on seventy. He wasn’t well dressed. He had a crummy haircut.
Was it magic aftershave, the kind on TV that draws women like a magnet? I couldn’t smell any aftershave, and if I couldn’t I don’t know how the women at the bar could. It couldn’t be his wit or scintillating intelligence – those women had barely heard him speak. The blond said she thought she knew him, but that’s the oldest line on the book – even I know that. God damn it – what was it? What the hell was it? Pheromones?
Mack finished his whiskey, and Maggie brought my chili. She hung over Mack like a schoolgirl with a crush, but he only ordered another whiskey and water without looking at her. Disappointment was plain in her face. She left to get the drink. I crumbled the package of crackers into my chili; to my annoyance, she hadn’t brought the extra ones I asked for, that I always ask for, and that she always brings.
But I guess it didn’t matter, because after that close call with the opposite sex, I didn’t have much of an appetite left. And I felt anxious about Mack’s second order of whiskey – was he setting out to get drunk? Was he an alcoholic? I was worried about him. He seemed so fragile.
“Listen,” I said, pushing the bowl toward him. “I’m really not hungry – I haven’t touched this. Do you want it? You know, drinking on an empty stomach is not a good idea . . .”
He smiled a funny little smile with only the right side of his mouth. “You eat it,” he said softly, with a shake of his head. He didn’t look old any more. “It’ll help you grow up big and strong.”
I must have looked surprised, and his smile widened, and his eyes were suddenly kind and gentle. I couldn’t believe what he’d said – what grown man would ever say such a thing to another grown man? – and with a dig at my height, no less. I couldn’t believe it. But his sweet soul was glowing through those lonely eyes at me – and I was suddenly very very happy. I pulled the bowl back, and laughed a little, and then I dug in. Maggie brought his second drink, and again hung over him. She wiped her hands on her little apron, over and over; it seemed like an excuse to keep them busy so she wouldn’t touch him again. I understood the urge. I wanted to touch him, too. Ever since I first saw him, and stuck out my hand, I wanted to touch him. And right now I wanted badly to reach over and pat the back of his hand. From out of nowhere, a weird little shiver snaked through me – did it mean I was gay? But no, surely not. I don’t think being gay is wrong in any way, but I’d never, ever been even faintly attracted to other men. I never even did the adolescent experiments that I’ve read is very normal. I liked women – I’d always liked women. I fantasized about them, I desired sex with them, I wanted to go out with them. It’s just that I was too scared of them, too insecure, too self-conscious to do so. This desire to touch Mack – it was probably just the pity thing. I’m a sucker for homeless animals, and that’s what Mack was: a stray. A stray that I was determined to take home with me. Mack finished his second drink, and a third one by the time I rushed through my meal. He was steadily and deliberately heading toward oblivion, that much was obvious. There were several more attempts by women to get his attention, including one doe-eyed young lady who must have been all of eighteen and was the hardest to get to leave – even though she had a date who was smoldering resentfully at the bar. I started to get scared that he was going to punch us out or something, even though we both – Mack, and, with courage born of fear, me – were doing our damnedest to get rid of her. She said her name was Nellie. I didn’t know anyone named girls Nellie any more.
Mack downed a fourth whiskey while I was waiting for Maggie to bring the tab. Maggie wasn’t functioning any too well herself by that time. She seemed so dazed by Mack, the Human Magnet, that she was incapable of paying attention to what she was supposed to be doing. It was apparent that she was lost in his pheromones, or whatever – I couldn’t seem to be able to catch her eye to signal to her not to bring Mack anything else to drink, and me the tab. Finally I just went to the register near the bar and the boss got my tab for me and I paid and then went back to our booth and shooed Maggie away from Mack and got us both the hell out of there.
“You’re coming home with me,” I told him firmly as I helped him to the car. He wobbled, but in a dignified way, and wasn’t doing too badly for someone who’d drunk like he had, and on an empty stomach. Maybe he was used to it.
I got him into the car and buckled his seat belt. I glanced at the clock on the dash as I got behind the wheel – sure seemed like a lot more time had passed than that. Was my clock off?
Mack sat docile and quiet as we drove home, occasionally closing his eyes and mouthing or quietly mumbling something unintelligible. I gave silent thanks that he was a quiet, and not an obnoxious or belligerent drunk, though as slight as he is I don’t think even I would have had trouble subduing him. He really was ungodly thin. I began to think of fattening and healthy foods I might be able to persuade him to eat. I make good lasagna. I like to cook. And by the time I reached my house I mentally had Mack eating a huge plate of lasagna, buttered beans, garlic bread, and he was finishing with my homemade chocolate pudding, heavy on the whipped cream.
“Here we are,” I said cheerfully, and Mack slowly turned to look out the side window at my house.
“Big house,” he mumbled. I got out and opened his door, and he passively allowed me to help him out of the car.
It was only a little ways to the kitchen door – I never use the front – and I propped him against the trellis while I unlocked the door.
“Hi fellas – hi, we’re home.” My welcoming committee was in their usual places by the door and in the window facing the driveway. Pete and Jacob and Darling, my cats. ‘Look, it’s our newest addition,’ I was tempted to tell them, as I propelled Mack into the kitchen. As they had all been scared and thin and homeless when they were added, one by one, to the household, so now I had brought home one more. One more who was just as in need of care as they had been, so I knew they would understand.
They did understand. They stayed out from under Mack’s faltering feet, offering meows and purrs of salutation and good will. When I got Mack seated on a chair, they cruised his legs along with mine, but stayed out of his lap, at least for now.
“Steady there, Mack. Okay, fellas – okay. You’re hungry, too, aren’t you? Mack, are you all right? Are you going to throw up or anything?”
“Want to lie down.”
“Okay, the couch isn’t too far away – here.” I helped him into the sitting room and eased him down on the couch. I quickly fetched a big bowl and placed it on the floor by his head. “Mack, if you have to puke – in here, okay?”
“Uh huh.” He closed his eyes. The Gang of Three were in and out and around the couch.
“Don’t jump on him, fellas – it might make him puke, and this is the good carpet,” I told them. I guess it’s silly of me to talk like that to them, but I do. They’re all I’ve got. I don’t have friends. Or siblings. I don’t have a significant other. Even my parents deserted me in death. Except for four footed companionship, I’m all alone. I’d have a dog, too – or even more than one, but I’m often gone all day, and it wouldn’t be fair. Dogs get lonely. I know how that feels.
I went into the living room and got the afghan from the sofa there, and brought it in and covered Mack up. It was a granny square afghan that my Dad’s mother had made, the squares were bright and colorful and bordered in black. It was pretty, I’d always liked it. I covered Mack gently, and he didn’t respond. I went into the kitchen to feed the Boys.
It’s an old house. Victorian, with gingerbread along the wraparound porch. Yellow with white trim. Built during the 1880’s, big and wooden and drafty, high ceilinged rooms with lots of doors. I don’t know why they made so many doors in rooms then. It was my parents’ house, I grew up here, and now it’s mine. Even with the Boys, I rattle around in this big old place. Four bedrooms. One I use for my office, but there’s plenty of room. Plenty of room for Mack. I hoped he’d like it.
And with that last thought I put down the bowls of food and stuck the spoon in the sink and washed the can and put it in the recycle bin, and wondered what on earth I was thinking of.
What was I doing? Who was this guy? A total stranger – a hitchhiker, for God’s sake. That duffel bag in the back seat of the car could be full of guns, or drugs, or stolen money. I didn’t know this guy from Adam. He was obviously an alcoholic, and chronically depressed. What if he tried to kill himself? What if he tried to kill himself right here in the house, splattering blood all over my wallpaper?
Or he could be a murderer, a serial killer, or mentally ill. Lots of the homeless are nuts, so they say. He wouldn’t even tell me his last name. He’s spoken a bare five sentences to me, and here I am, gullible fool, bringing him home with me. I must be crazy. I don’t even own a gun. What if he decides to rob me blind? Or kill me for the fun of it? Or what if he just stays and stays, and I hate him and can’t get rid of him? Fatal Attraction sprang to mind, and I saw my big pasta pot with a cat inside, and my head began swimming with fear. What if he was gay, and tried to put the make on me? My stomach turned over and I felt sick. What if he had AIDS? Oh God, it all made sense now – thin, tired, old – Jesus!
Now just get ahold of yourself, Doug. Get a grip. Think. One thing you can do is go right out to the car and get that duffel bag and open it. And if it’s full of money, or heroin, or hypodermic needles, at least you’ll know. Then you can load him right back into the car and drive to the police station and turn him in. That duffel bag is probably all he’s got – all his worldly belongings. It should tell a lot about him, even without drugs or money. Get it. Get it, and open it, and see.
Well, that was a good idea. I went to the doorway and glanced at Mack – he was still asleep/unconscious. I went to the back door and out to the car, and retrieved the bag from the back seat – holding it gingerly by the handles, as if it contained a bomb, or a severed human head.
I carried it into the house, and put it on the kitchen table. Another fast check on Mack, and then I grasped the zipper and drew it open.
