Another shrug. “Only one thing I know for sure about the Rosen family. Little Arnie was Dr. Rosen’s favorite. He called his grandson his ‘living legacy’-the heir to the ‘Rosen bloodline.’ He even hoped Little Arnie would grow up and become a dentist and restore ‘our family’s good name at U Penn.’”
“He certainly has the smile for it,” I say, remembering all those photographs hanging on the walls of Dr. Rosen’s home.
“No doubt about it. He’s a good-looking kid. Nice face.”
Christine doesn’t add any commentary.
Like how Little Arnie is lucky he didn’t end up with his father’s face, which sort of resembles the bongo-thumping chimpanzee with the beatnik beard from one of those monkey-of-the-month calendars.
“I guess now that Dr. Rosen is dead,” says Christine, “the two brothers will split everything. David will get his half of the house, Michael his.”
When our clothes come out of the dryers, Christine goes to this tall, flat table in the back of the laundromat and starts folding her things, even her undergarments. For me, this is a novel concept. Usually, I just stuff everything back into the brown paper bag I brought it in and go with the rumpled look.
Tonight, however, I pretend like I always fold my clothes and match up my socks. After watching Christine in action for a minute or two, I even figure out how to do it. Sort of.
And then I drive Christine home to my place, which is now, temporarily, her place.
“You want to come in?” she asks.
That vanilla scent from those candles in my apartment? It’s on her skin and in her hair, too. Her chocolate brown eyes are wide and eager. I can feel heat radiating off her body. As the windows start fogging up, I feel like I’m sitting in a cozy sauna with a warm batch of Nestle Toll House cookies.
“Ceepak’s probably waiting up for me,” I say. My voice cracks the way it did back in sixth grade on the word “me.”
“Well, maybe one day, Danny Boyle, you’ll let me show you how much I appreciate all that you’ve done for me.”
“Okay,” I say, making sure it comes out deep and low. “Some day.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart.”
Christine leans in and kisses me. On the cheek. The move jostles everything her halter-top was supposed to be halting.
But somehow, I keep my hands firmly gripped on the steering wheel.
I need a beer.
I’m not sure Ceepak has any in his fridge. At least not the real stuff. Ever since his time in Iraq, he’s big on Near Beer-stuff like O’Doul’s and Coors Non-Alcoholic.
So I pull into the parking lot for Neptune’s Nog Discount Liquor Outlet.
It’s another flat-roofed building the size of a small supermarket with every kind of beer neon glowing in its front wall of windows. Bud. Miller. Corona. Sam Adams. Blue Moon.