The Go-to Girl
by
Glen Bush
Standing at the top of the dimly lit stairs, the apartment door slightly open behind her, stood Gabriela. Her silhouette that of a puppet from a shadow play. Etched into my mind were her delicate facial features. From the first night I had met her, her body became the lines and colors of a topographical map. I could run my fingertips across the map and feel the steep ridges and sloping hillsides, the thick underbrush stealing sunlight from the canopy above. The meandering blues of the sweet stream water caused my fingers to quiver. No, I didn’t need the light to see her quietly palpitating frame, her eyes fixed on me, her lips spread gently apart. Her dark hair cut short, parted on the side as a mother would part her young son’s hair. The scent of Chanel lured me step by step. Halfway up the stairs I could make out the short nightgown, the black one, covering from breast to thigh. Only a few steps more and I would be standing in front of her, hoping she would wrap her arms around me, tightly, lovingly. The taste in my mouth was the familiar metallic blood. I touched my lips thinking she would soon be touching them. Cleansing them. I was an underground bareknuckle fighter. I dealt in blood, money, and anger.
“Come in. Let me clean you up.” Her relaxed voice, wrapped in an obscure accent, hinted of an eastern Mediterranean origin.
Her fingers held my right hand and coaxed me toward her bathroom.
“I’m sorry. I told you I’d never do this again. It was the only thing I could do. I had to fight, and now I had to see you.” I wanted my words to mean something, to be true. The blood coming from my mouth was painless, but the patience in her eyes caused me unrelenting pain.
“Don’t worry. I understand anger.” She then placed her finger on my lips and whispered, “Shsssh.” Guiding me to the vanity stool next to her bathroom sink, the one she used when applying and removing her make-up, she gently pushed my legs apart with her knee so she could wedge herself between them and reach both the medicine cabinet and my cut face.
“Don’t you want to know what happened this time?” I asked before she could apply the warm washcloth.
Without looking at me, squeezing the washcloth with one hand and reaching for the iodine with the other, she said, “No.”
“Why? Don’t you care? Don’t you …” The washcloth was inside my mouth, wiping the blood. She didn’t reply to my questions. She didn’t have to. I knew the answer. I always knew the answer. That’s why I was sitting in her bathroom instead of mine or some john in a bar wiping my own mouth with wet paper towels.
I could feel the warmth of her legs against my inner thighs. Her firm breasts, the nipples protruding just enough to force a subtle outline in her black chemise, perched in front of me like casually covered exotic fruit. For a quick moment, I wanted to embrace her, pull her toward me, kiss her breasts, feel her warm stomach against my cheeks, but a second metallic stream of blood and her firm hand wiping the remnant of the fight from me stopped those thoughts cold. I had no right to want, to desire, her. That was not what she was here for. She understood when and what she would do and why she would do it. She was my go-to girl.
The first time I had come here, I had made the mistake of thinking she was like any other woman. I took her kindness, her care, for a sign of sexual desire. She stepped back, tossed the damp cloth with my blood still on it into the trashcan, and pointed toward her door. “Never,” she said, “think I do this for your lust or mine. If you think that is what I want, then leave now.” The stern, hard words were jabs more painful than any opponent’s I had endured. That was over three months ago. Now we had evolved into a relationship totally different from any I had ever experienced or imagined. Spiritual. Well, perhaps more like a spiritual obsession. The physical was there—sometimes—but the spiritual was always present.
“I won tonight. I got the money in my pocket.”
“Good. Now, be quiet. I told you I don’t care.”
When she was finished cleaning my cuts, she had me remove my shirt and pants so she could put them in the washer.
“If you want, put on the jogging pants hanging on the inside of the closet door. If not, okay, too. I’ll make us a cup of oolong tea, then we can lie down, and you can tell me what you want to do tomorrow. I don’t want to hear about tonight.”
There was no question. She told me what she wanted me to hear, say, and do, and I followed her words. They weren’t instructions, they were words of solace.
Lying next to her, sipping the last of my oolong tea, I placed the cup on the end table and turned off the lamp. I could see the outline of her body in the light from the streetlamp. She reached over with her hand and brushed it gently over my eyes, closing them, and then I could feel her full lips press against mine.
#
In the morning, my cuts were a little swollen, but painless. She had drawn the pain from my wounds. And, as with every morning after a fight, she was gone. She left another note for me.
Baby,
There are scrambled eggs, sausage and croissants in the microwave. The coffee is ready. Enjoy.
See you around.
Luv, Gabby
I ate breakfast. When I was finished, I washed the dishes, put my clothes on, the ones she had removed from the dryer, and, as usual, left.
#
As I said, I met Gabby three months earlier. She had been standing outside the fight venue as if waiting for a cab. When she spied me, she walked up, touched my bruised face, and said, “You need to have this cleaned up. Come with me. I do this.” Miraculously, a cab appeared, and we went uptown to her apartment.
Twenty minutes later we were in her apartment. And she did just what she said she would do, clean me up. That’s when I made my clumsy move and she set me straight, real straight, real quick. When I apologized, she smiled. It was the kind of smile you never forget. When I woke up, she was gone. I immediately checked my pockets for my money. I’d been down that road before. Still there, all one hundred twenty-three dollars. That’s when I noticed the first of her notes, notes I still have.
Eddie,
There’s fresh coffee on the counter. Sorry, no time to make you breakfast.
Enjoy.
See you around.
Gabriela
Two weeks later, after my next fight, she was there again, still waiting for that cab. For the first time in my life, I was enjoying getting my face pounded into hamburger. She was there after all four fights that month. After my fourth fight, though, she told me she wouldn’t be outside the venue any longer. Instead, I should come to her apartment … if I wanted. I did want. I never told her when I would fight, but she was always waiting for me.
#
As the nights rolled on, I realized it wasn’t just the cuts Gabby was cleaning. There were less angry outbursts. My punches were more defined, less chaotic. My anger was fading. For over ten years, anger had driven me more than money. I had to get revenge against those who had hurt me. Today, I didn’t even know who they were.
#
Stepping into the outdoor ring surrounded by hustlers, whores, has-beens, and gamblers, the night breeze blew cool off the river bringing the stench of dead fish. While the Viking scowled from his corner, I thought of Gabriela. I didn’t care about the Viking. I knew what I wanted to do and say to her after this fight. For the first time I didn’t fight with anger or for money.
The Viking hurt me bad. My whole body rippled with pain. Doc stopped the fight. He’d put butterflies on the corners of both of my eyes. I collected the loser’s purse, fifty bucks, and gave it to Doc.
#
Cautiously, I grasped the handrail and slowly climbed toward her door. The top of the stairs was dark. Couldn’t she hear me? Suddenly, she was there in the light, “Eddie, I didn’t hear you come in.”
Before she could say anything else, I blurted out, “Gabriela, I love you!”
She stopped and looked at me. Her piercing eyes caught me like a left hook to the temple.
“Sure, Eddie, sure. But let me clean you up now. All that can wait.” Her words were warm but hollow.
“No, I mean it. I’m not fighting again. I don’t have to. I’ll get a regular job.” Kissing her on the cheek, I smiled and tried to hold her against me, but she leaned back so I could only wrap my arms loosely around her.
In the morning, she was gone. It had been a great night. Her lovemaking had removed all my pain. Even the cuts seemed to have dried up. She had given me a new life. Another note was sitting next to the empty coffee pot. I felt different this morning. It wasn’t like the other mornings. Last night wasn’t like the other nights. I crossed over some invisible line. We crossed over an invisible line. She was no longer my angel watching over me, cleaning me up, cooking breakfast for me. No, she was …
I read the note. I didn’t understand it. I read it again, and then a third time.
Eddie,
I’m so happy for you. You’re ready for that new life.
You won’t need me any longer to clean your cuts.
Luv,
Gabriela
Just the note. No coffee. No breakfast. No tomorrows. No anger. Only numbness.
Instead of going home, I decided to wait for Gabby’s return. At the corner, I bought a cup of coffee and the morning paper and settled down on a park bench across from her building. By noon there was still nothing. Eventually she would have to return. She would have to.
#
That evening, I went back to her building. The light was on. My hands were sweating. My nerves were twisted into balls of junkyard wire. Before I knocked on the door, I noticed it was slightly open. Pushing it in and calling her name, I looked around. There was a strange air throughout the apartment. A dryness. Like complete emptiness. As though Gabriela Rios had never been there.
“Can I help you?”
The voice startled me. Turning around I saw a man in work clothes.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Joe, the landlord. What d’ya want? Ya want to rent it?”
“Rent it? No! I’m here to see Gabriela. Gabriela Rios.”
“She moved this afternoon. Say, youse wouldn’t be Eddie, would’ya?”
“Yeah, I’m Eddie. Why?”
Reaching into his back pocket, he brought out a folded envelope. “Here, Rios left this for ya. Walking away, he called, “Close the door when you leave.”
Tearing open the letter, I sat down on the sofa and read it.
Eddie,
I’m sorry. My time with you is over. You’ve come a long way from that first night. You’ve a new life without anger. Free.
Enjoy, Gabby
I stuffed the letter into my pocket and walked toward the door. Before crossing the threshold, I needed one last look. Through blurry eyes, I whispered, “See you around.”
Bio:
Glen Bush is a retired English professor who now lives in the Lake of the Ozarks, Missouri. Since retiring, he has been writing crime noir short stories, urban fiction, walking his crazy Aussie, Myloh, and traveling with his family. His stories have been published in Misti Media, Yellow Mama, Crimeucopia, Murderous Ink Press, and Close to the Bone.
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