I head toward my Jeep.
“Hey, Danny,” calls Becca. “There’s two beds in the room if you want to just crash here tonight instead of driving all the way back to your place.”
“It’d be fine with me, Danny,” adds Christine.
I think about it. For two seconds.
“Good night, Becca. See you tomorrow, Christine.”
I don’t look back. I just keep on walking.
Hey, it’s what Ceepak would do.
I rack up a good seven hours of sack time and crawl out of bed a little after eleven.
This is why they invented Saturdays.
I tidy up my apartment. Okay, I pick up the socks and boxer shorts off the floor and toss then into a plastic hamper I should probably replace because I think it used to be white. Now it’s sort of grayish.
Hungry, I hop into my Jeep and head off in search of grilled Taylor Pork Roll, eggs, and cheese on a roll with salt and ketchup. It’s a Jersey thing.
A little after one, I swing by the tired mansion on Beach Lane. 1818 looks even worse in the sunshine. It’s not storm damage. It’s time damage.
I’m in a clean polo shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. I also forgot to shave. Like I said, it’s Saturday.
When I rap my knuckles on the screen door, Christine answers it. She’s in a cheery smock decorated with kittens and puppies, loose fitting green scrub pants, and pink-and-white running shoes. She smiles when she sees it’s me. I try not to wince when I notice how much make-up she had to trowel onto her neck to hide her ring of bruises.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” she whispers back.
“You okay?” I ask, wondering why she is whispering.
“Yeah. Dr. Rosen’s still asleep.”
I guess when you’re ninety-four, the rules about when you should wake up on Saturday are even looser.
“Thanks for setting me up with Becca last night.”
“Sure. So, do you have some place to stay tonight?” I’m whispering now, too. Don’t want to wake the old guy up.
“Yes. Dr. Rosen is letting me have the other guest bedroom.”