Hallelujah Ch. 06

She's running to the car before I even come to a stop. Hell, she's flaying across the lot as soon as she sees me turn in. Her long, loose brown peasant skirt matches her hair in the way it flaps in the soft breeze. Even from afar, and with her naturally tanned skin, I can see that a welting bruise is hugging to her left cheek. Shrinking distance between reveals a cut on her lower lip, and an almost imperceptibly faint discoloration around her right eye. For the first time since I ran for my car, it occurs to me to wonder what precipitated this argument with her husband. Especially coming so soon after our little get-together, which she assured me he was fine with. Somehow, I doubt that was the case. And now I'm taking her back to my apartment.

I'd better not tell Buck about this. He'll never forgive me.

As she opens the door, I grab a few stray fast food wrappers from off the passenger seat and throw them in back. One of the wrappers, upon lifting up, exposes the small cigarette burn on the seat cushion. No hope for hiding my shame now, is there? Not that I mind; I doubt if she even notices or cares.

Jasmine all but falls into the seat, and although she clearly controlled her crying while she awaited my heroic return, tears are now washing her face for her as she leans awkwardly over to bury her face in my neck. I wonder if they sting. I'm not entirely sure what I should say, but I do know that I should offer some kind of encouragement.

So I say: "It'll be alright."

If you can think of a sorrier thing to say to a battered half-stranger who you used to love and still have a lingering testicular tingle for, let me know.

She's sniffling as she pulls back, and leaving mystery moisture on my collar. She looks at me, a silently pleading expression on her face. I know I have a second chance, here to sound like a hero. But what kind of words might a hero use? Think, Jake! Ask yourself: what would Harrison Ford say?

I reach out and curl my forefinger under her jaw, rubbing my thumb over the front of her chin, and say, "I didn't kill my wife."

She scrunches up her face. "What?"

"Never mind. Where are your things?"

"I didn't...oh, Jake. I didn't bring anything with me! I'm such a mess, I didn't even think."

"That sounds like my whole life."

"I'm really sorry about this. I didn't know...who else I could call."

"Your family still live in the area?" She shakes her head. "Friends?"

Another shake. "We...we got into that married couple thing where our friends were just that: our friends. Not mine, not his. Other couples, mostly. And they..." her brow furrows, and she looks away, "...I didn't want to put them in the middle. I needed someone neutral."

That gets me thinking. "This isn't the first time, is it?"

"Yes it is," her voice is small. "It's the first."

"Jasmine."

"It is, Jake! He..." she swallows hard, "...he's a good man."

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Good men don't beat their wives. "Then I have to ask: does it have something to do with us? With lunch?"

She shakes her head.

"You're sure?"

A nod.

"So. If it's not common practice, and it's not because of some misunderstanding about us," I draw that part out, indicating my doubt, "then what's the story?"

"Jake," she says, looking at an elderly couple coming out of the restaurant and touching the swelling around her eye, "can we just get out of here? Please?"

"You're not going to tell me?"

"Jake. Please. Drive."

"Yeah. Sure." I put the car into drive and pull out of the parking lot.

We ride for a time in silence. I'm boiling over with questions, but it doesn't seem right to keep pushing them at her. I have to hope that she'll tell me everything when she's ready to. Instead, I decide to focus on the future.

"Are we going to need to go clothes shopping?" I ask the windshield.

"I don't know," she responds, also choosing to talk to the glass in front of her rather than look in my direction.

Ok. Attempt number two: "What should we do about your car?"

"It doesn't matter."

I sigh deeply through my nose, and this seems to knock her out of her little trance. She turns quickly in my direction, and puts a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry. Really, Jake. I'm just...it's hard to think clearly right now." She waves her hand over herself. "I'm kind of a mess."

"I can't blame you. I only ask because I don't know if these things would cross my mind, were I in your shoes."

"You mean if your husband beat you up?"

"Well, I mean, other peoples' husbands usually beat me up, so I don't really need one of my own."

She giggles the kind of manic giggle that women sometimes get after a good cry.

"We are a pair, aren't we?" she says. Something in her tone makes it sound like she's asking me for something. I don't respond. She touches her eye again. I can see already that the swelling is going to get worse.

"You'll be better off if you leave it alone," I tell her.

"I know that. It's just...I've never had one before."

"Really?"

"Really." She sighs. "I'm sure glad you came, Jake. I hope I'm not imposing."

Are you fucking kidding me? She doesn't want to impose? But now seems like the wrong time to point out that I'm supposed to be at work, that I haven't been able to reach my friend to run interference for me, and that the rumor is they're going to have to let somebody go sometime soon. So I just say, "It's alright."

Jasmine stares out the window in silence for a few minutes. Every third breath or so is a deep one. I'm just about to put my player on shuffle to cover up the discomfort when she suddenly takes one last deep breath and says, "I shouldn't have called you. I should have just checked into a motel. Or...or something."

"I don't mind," I assure her. "Really."

"That's sweet, Jake. But I still shouldn't have called you. What will he think when he finds out?" She sniffles, and the waterworks threaten us again. "It looks so bad."

I'm stunned. "What!" I cry. "How does this look bad? Because we dated, once upon a time? How does that compare to that black eye he gave you? How does it compare to hitting a woman?" I shake my head. "You've got nothing to feel guilty about."

She bites her lower lip. "It looks so bad," she says again. "What will everyone think? God." She puts her hands over her eyes like she has a headache, or is shading herself from the sun. "What will I tell my mother?"

"Well, if I were you I'd start with 'Hey, Mom, while I have you on the phone, just wanted to let you know that AJ punched me in the face!'" I'm toeing the line, but I'm getting pissed off. Damn it, she's the one who asked me for help, and he's the one who caused all this mess. Why do I feel like I'm a part of the problem? Like coming to get her made me the bad guy of the story? And why is she talking like she should care what AJ thinks? Shouldn't he be the one freaking out and feeling guilty? "You know," I snap, "the Jasmine I remember wouldn't give two shits what everybody thought. Especially when somebody else was the problem."

She gives me a pitying look that drives me nuts. "Oh, Jake. You don't understand."

I notice that I'm speeding. "I sure don't. Jesus." I ease off the pedal. "Maybe I'm out of line here, but it seems to me like everybody else should be worried about how you feel, not the other way around."

"But it's my fault. Jake, I know that sounds crazy, but it really is."

"What the fuck-"

"Can we not talk about it?"

I don't answer, and neither of us has anything else to say for the rest of the drive.

My apartment's a mess, but I really don't care anymore. I'm not out to impress. Hell, I halfway wish I'd left her at the restaurant. Jasmine sits down heavily on the couch and lays her head back on the cushion.

"It's not a hideaway," I tell her, grabbing the phone. "I'll have to get an inflatable, or something, if you decide to stay."

"I shouldn't," she says. "God, I shouldn't. But I really don't want to...be alone." She laughs a humorless laugh. "I'm such a mess right now."

"If you're worried that AJ is going to think that something improper is going on, then this probably isn't the place for you to be," I admit. " Do you...I mean, do you know what you're going to do?" I'd almost asked her about divorce. Tasteless question.

"He's going to leave me. God," she moans.

"Jasmine, he hit you!"

She wipes away a tear. "Jake, this is my mess. But I hope you know that, even if coming to you was a mistake, I appreciate...everything."

I shrug, and I'm starting to dial Bud's cell when I notice that the machine is blinking. Oh, shit. I press play.

"Jake," the fuzzy speaker calls out to me, "this is Neil down at Anderson's Electronics. Listen, uh, I'm sure you had a good reason for not coming in today, and this call isn't about that. I'm sorry to say this, but...well, business is slow. You know that." I already get where this is going, and I just want to scream at the answering machine. Neil Posnick is always soft, always kind, but especially so when he's firing somebody. "Anyway," he continues, "we need to cut a position and I'm afraid yours is the easiest one to cut. It's all about those early afternoon hours. Again, real sorry. Your hours just happen to be the ones that we can cut with the least resistance or shuffling." He pauses a moment. "Uh, if you can finish out the week, let me know. But if you don't care to, I understand. Bud and the guys can pick up the slack." A pause. "I'm terribly sor-" the machine hangs up on him, promptly gaining my respect.

A soft voice from behind me asks, "Is this my fault?"

Like I'm going to say yes. "It's nobody's fault. I knew it was coming, I guess. I'm just glad it wasn't Buck. After what he did for me, I'd feel awful if they cut him and kept me."

"Buck?"

"My neighbor. A real good guy."

"Oh! The guy from the fight! The one who saved you!"

I wince. "Yeah. That one." I'm suddenly aware that I'm embarrassed. Of my behaviors, of my apartment and car, of losing my job, of my life. Of letting Jasmine back in.

I wonder who I'm directing this embarrassment towards, though. Not her.

"What will you do now?" she asks.

"I don't know." It's mostly true.

"I can appreciate that," she smiles. "Aren't you producing now, though? I thought you had a song on the radio."

"I do, but my share in that one will be small. What's worse, royalty payments are on a fixed cycle, so I won't be getting a dime of it until December."

"Oh. But you're going to produce more songs, right?"

"Yeah. Eventually. And in the meantime, I'm flat broke."

"I could help. Give you a loan or something. I feel like I owe you that much."

I open my mouth to respond, but I'm interrupted by a song that comes out of nowhere. I'm at a loss for a split second, but it's only her phone.

"Shit," she mutters, fishing it out of her pocket. "It's him. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Don't say anything, okay?" She presses a button, and says, "Hello?"

I can barely make out a male voice at the other end of the call, but I can't hear it well enough to even tell if it's an angry voice or a shameful one. She listens. "No, I didn't," she says, her voice coming out small and guilt-ridden. "What does it matter, AJ? I'm someplace safe." More talking. "Because I don't know if I want you to find me. I don't know what to do. I'm scared-" something quieter stops her. "I know. And I'm so, so sorry. I didn't-" another interruption. "Don't say that. You know that's not true." Neither of them speak for a moment. "AJ?" she asks. "Can we talk about this? Someplace...someplace neutral, like a restaurant?" He responds. "I don't think I want to do that." Words. "You know why not." More. "Yes. That would be fine." A question. "No. Tomorrow. I'm tired, and...my face hurts." He says something longer then hangs up, apparently without goodbye.

Jasmine takes a deep breath, holds it, and wipes at her eyes with her fingers. "That went a lot better than I'd hoped," she admits. "He didn't even yell."

"You're going to meet him?" I ask, absolutely floored. "For what?!"

"Jake," she says, "I know I'm imposing on you, and you're being very sweet to help me, but I'd prefer it if I could just not talk about it right now."

"I'd prefer that you did. It's frustrating, being pulled into this and not knowing."

"I promise you," she looks at me, "it's a lot more frustrating from where I'm sitting. I know this isn't your fight, and I know you want to help, but just...just don't, okay?" She sniffs. "I can find someplace else to stay."

"No," I wave my hand. "No, this is fine. But when this is all behind us," I wave a pointed finger in her direction, "you're going to have to either open up and give an explanation or buy me more than a few bottles of quality tequila to help me forget it happened at all."

She giggles. "Deal." She looks around the room, really inspecting it for the first time. "Men. You really would live like dogs if not for us, wouldn't you?"

"We don't eat our own poop."

"I'm not convinced." Another giggle.

I look at her, this woman who affects me so much, who I would love to just forget about forever. "Yeah. Me neither."

"You're all so scruffy when we don't watch out for you." She eyes me. "I like the beard, though. I didn't tell you that before, at the restaurant. But I do. It makes you look older."

Okay. I'll admit it. I feel a little pleasure at that. But it pisses me off to do so. "Listen, I need to make a call," I tell her.

"Okay."

"It's kind of private."

"Oh." She stands up. "I...uh...where should I go?"

"I have half a bottle of wine in the fridge and a nice deck chair out front."

She nods, coming over and opening the fridge. She makes a face when she sees the condition it's in.

"Glasses are above the sink on the left."

She pulls the bottle out, a cheap Cabernet that Buck would roll his eyes at if he saw it. "I won't need one," she says, pulling the cork out and heading for the door.

I watch her go, just another bug on the windshield, and pick up the phone.

A woman answers on the second ring. "Blackbird studios," she says, "how may I help you?"

"Jennifer, it's Jacob Currie. Is Bennie in today?"

A pause. "He is."

"I need to talk to him."

"Jacob, he isn't going to talk to you. You know that."

"Not even for a two minute phone conversation?"

"No. To be honest, I won't even ask him. I don't need the stress."

I sigh. "Then I won't make you. I'm on my way there, right now. I'm asking for fifteen minutes, and then I'll leave him alone forever. You can either tell him that...or not."

"Jake-"

"To be honest, I'm hoping you'll tell him, Jenn."

"Okay. I'll tell him."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

Jasmine has managed to make most of the wine disappear in the four minutes it takes for me to make the phone call and shove some more peanut butter in my face.

"Where are you off to?" she asks.

"To go eat crow," I tell her, "and then probably shit it all out."

"Then I won't ask to come with," she makes a face.

She is slouched down in the chair, feet up on the deck rail, looking miserable, and something about the way she looks hits me as incredible sexy. It could be the way the peasant skirt sinks down between her legs, offering the tiniest hint of the structure of the body underneath. It's less revealing than any pair of jeans, but it gives the impression that one is stealing a glimpse at secrets one is not supposed to see. It could be the way her hair is slightly disheveled and yet still seductively perfect. Or maybe it's simpler than that: the way her small hand is wrapped around the wine bottle at just the point where it starts to dip inward, becoming narrower, so that she's grabbing it at the spot where it is closest in girth to a...

I need to get out of here.

"Do you want me to pick anything up while I'm gone?" I ask her.

She shakes her head. "I saw a grocery store down the road when we came in. I think I'll just walk down there."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. People will stare, but who cares."

"That's the girl I used to know." She doesn't say anything to that, so I keep going. "I should be gone about two hours. I'll give you the key, so you can lock it when you go."

She nods, contemplating the skyline. I get the feeling I'm interrupting something.

"Okay, then," I offer lamely, "I should go."

And I do.

-=-

Jennifer gives me a look as she waves me by.

"He hasn't locked the door," she says, "but he's definitely not happy."

I toss her a guilty smile, but I don't break stride. Squaring my shoulders as best I can, I open the door and stride forcefully into his office. Bennie is there, talking on the phone. He doesn't look at me as I walk up to his desk. Instead, he swivels his chair around so I'm looking at its back, and continues his conversation. I take it for what it is; he's expressing his opinion of me, and our meeting will go all the better if I allow him that.

"What's the price?" he asks the phone. Whatever it says in response is obviously not the correct answer, because he takes a brisk tone and gets louder. "That's strange to me, because I would swear that you just told me that it had a little over one hundred hours of use. Is that incorrect? Okay, but then that sounds like about the price I could get it for new." A pause. "Then sell it to him. What do I care?" He listens, then snorts. "Yes, I suppose you should. Goodbye." He swivels just enough to reach out and hang up the phone, but stays facing the opposite wall. His chair back is a little higher than usual, so I really only see the top four inches or so of his scalp. I feel like I'm getting ready to talk to a James Bond villain.

He sits quietly for a moment. I could offer the first word, but I know what my goal is here and part of it is letting him fuck with me a bit. Finally, he says, "I fired you for a reason, Jacob. You're not welcome here."

Time to kiss some ass. "I know that what I did was inappropriate for an engineer," I say, "and I will add as many adjectives on to my apology as you want me to. I will. But if you'll agree to book the Teddy Fields project then I won't be here as an engineer and I won't be working for you. Hell, in a way you'll be getting paid to put up with me...I thought you'd enjoy that."

He grunts. "That's all well and good. But I have to stand by the work that comes out of my establishment, and I don't think much of your work."

"I know that. But I think quite a lot of your studio, and right now you're letting your anger at me burn bridges between you and a label that has brought you a lot of good business over the years."

"They'll get over it," he itches his nose, "and they'll do it quickly. Money has a way of greasing the machine."

"You're doing a shitty job of proving that right now."

He spins the chair around at that. Now I can see, for the first time, that in spite of his calmly condescending voice he's plenty pissed. His cheeks are blotching red, and his eyes are lit up. "Fuck you, Currie!" he snaps. "You think this is a business problem? Is that all you see, when you look at your monumental fuck up? Business?!"

What else would it be? I try to see some other way it could be taken. I get nothing. "Yes. I guess I do," I admit.

He leans forward, elbows on the desk. "Then you're an idiot. A wet-behind-the-ears jackoff idiot. Why do you think Walter Russell was so upset about you circumventing his wishes? Why do you think he got as mad as he did, over some Teddy fucking Fields track? Jesus, Currie...why do you think I fired you rather than give you a second chance to prove yourself? Don't you know that I realize how good your fucking song was?! Don't you know even that?!!" That last one catches me off guard, and I stare at him.

"I honestly don't know what you're implying," I admit.

He stares at me a moment, and takes a deep breath. "Jacob, how old do you think Walter Russell is?"