The Axeman's Jazz

Instead he said, “You want to have lunch or anything?”
    To her surprise, she did. She definitely didn’t want him to paint her—she was hideous in purple—but she found herself hating to leave him.
    “Sorry,” she said. “Already booked.”
    Very sorry.
    He was like her—a native who was really an alien. No wonder Conrad thought he was weird.
    * * *
    Abe had chosen the restaurant carefully. He had agonized over it and had finally come up with Arnaud’s. Probably Missy had only an hour, and probably she didn’t drink, but perhaps she could be persuaded to linger, to have a Bloody Mary, maybe even a glass of wine. He had chosen Arnaud’s partly because she was young and it was old; it would seem stable, maybe even intimidating. He would seem to be treating her with great care. And it was the sort of place that lent itself to a leisurely time, a gracious time; more of her time than she wanted to give if he was lucky.
    He knew she would bore him, that she wouldn’t have anything to say to him, but he liked to look at her and he knew how to talk to her. He’d feel okay with her—not the stupid, awkward way he felt with Skip, so huge and so … what?
    Self-confident.
    He didn’t care much for self-confident people. Why the hell had he asked Skip out anyway?
    Because 1 ask them all out.
    Every fifth or sixth one went. He’d had no idea Missy would.
    She came in wearing a peach miniskirt that showed off a mile of leg and a matching short top that kind of swung loose at the waist. Sometimes when she leaned a certain way you could almost see skin. He sucked in his breath.
    She was looking all around, confused. He waved, realizing she didn’t really know him.
    “Abe?” She still wasn’t sure it was he. “Am I late? I’m so sorry. I had a client and”—she shrugged—“it just went over. The time, I mean.”
    She was as nervous as he was.
    “Thank you for coming. Would you like a drink—a sherry, maybe? Just a tiny little something.”
    “No thanks. But you go ahead.”
    Damn. If she’d drink, she’d lose track of time, forget she had to be back.
    When they’d ordered he thanked her again for coming. “I was feeling really down and you made me feel so much better with your share the other night.”
    She blushed. “I guess that’s what the program’s for.”
    It really was a good way to meet women, but he wished to hell they were less sanctimonious women. “Sometimes I don’t really feel like I can say what I need to in front of the whole group.”
    “Really? I find the group incredibly supportive.”
    “I don’t know. Maybe I’m shy.”
    She looked shocked. “Shy?”
    “Maybe I just don’t have as much recovery as I thought I did.”
    He watched her face change from puzzled to sympathetic, shift before his eyes into codependent gear.
A useful word,
he thought.
I love it to death. You go to the group, the group defines what it takes to make them take off their clothes; and you go out and do it.
    He said, “I’ve just been feeling really vulnerable lately.”
    She said nothing, being far too busy melting.
    “Do you have kids?”
    “No, but I really want them.”
    He smiled, a sad smile as if through tears. “They’re life’s greatest pleasure. Really. You just can’t know till you have them.”
    “How many do you have?”
    “Two. Two girls.” He clenched a fist. “God, I miss them!”
    “Miss them! What’s happened to them?”
    This time he went for brave nonchalance, spreading his palms, shrugging. “Oh, the usual thing. Divorce. She got custody. It’s the American way.”
    Her eyes burned, her cheeks flamed. “I think that’s so wrong! A father is just as much a parent as a mother.”
    “I just feel so helpless.”
    “Are you working the steps?”
    “I try,” he said. “It’s so hard.”
    “You’ve got to let your higher power take over.”
    He loved it. She didn’t have a shitload of “recovery,” that was obvious. Ten minutes flat and he’d manipulated her into giving advice. In a way this was almost more fun than getting them in bed—watching them fell all over themselves trying to do what they were going to the damn group to avoid doing.
    “Oh, Missy, you’re right. You’re really right. It’s just so damn hard to let go.”
    “I know. Believe me, I know.”
    She looked so terribly sad, so young, so much like one of his daughters that he forgot to feel triumphant as he took her hand and squeezed; as she let him touch her for the first