Part 27 (1/2)
”So you do not stop looking.”
Delisle's locker was crammed. Adele banged her head softly on the wall. ”Oh Jesus f.u.c.king Christ.”
Danielle marched inside, taking over, checking boxes, s.h.i.+fting piles. ”I bet he hated it when you talked like that.”
”f.u.c.king right he did. He was always giving me s.h.i.+t about my language.”
”I never heard him swear. Not once.”
”A real choirboy.”
”Not really. He screwed around a lot, didn't he? That's what my mom says. A skirt-chaser.”
”Women liked him.” There wasn't room for two people to rummage. Adele stood in the doorway and watched Danielle being busy.
”Did you?”
”h.e.l.l, yeah, sure. We were partners for six years.”
”I mean like that.”
”What? No. He never made a pa.s.s at me. I wasn't his type. We worked together.”
”Would you have?”
”The subject never came up.”
”Did you want it to?”
”This is a f.u.c.king weird conversation to be having with Paulie's daughter.”
”I'm just asking because you're crying.”
”It's the dust and s.h.i.+t.”
”It's not that dusty.”
”Oh man, he was my partner, six years, he saved my a.s.s more than once, and I saved his, too. We were tight, the way partners get tight. Hard to explain.”
”No. I get it.”
”So you wind up . . . loving the person. In a way.”
”You're still crying.”
”I miss him.”
”I'm glad. I'm glad he had somebody who cares that much.”
”Okay, enough emotion. We've got work to do.” She took a deep breath. ”How do we do it?”
”Three piles, right, no, say four piles. Stuff to sell, stuff to give away - Sally Ann, Goodwill, whatever - stuff to keep, and stuff to toss. Call up Clear My Junk or one of those places, have them come around and haul it away. Okay?”
”Bless you.”
”Here's more records. Like five more boxes. You're keeping them, right?”
”Good Christ Paulie, what did you do, corner the LP market? I don't know if I've got room. I'll take them home, sort through them. If I wind up selling any, I'll put it into your school fund.”
”Don't worry so much about that. Another box of pictures. Hey. Here's one of you. Wearing your uniform.”
”I know, I look like a geek.”
”There are models out there who'd kill for your frame.”
”Yeah right.”
”I'm serious. What are you, six feet?”
”Six one.”
”Right, square shoulders, long neck. I'm telling you.”
”Face like a horse.”
”No way. But you don't wear makeup and you cut your own hair. That doesn't help. You could look way better.”
”Maybe next lifetime.”
”See, here's one of my mom all dolled up. She's not perfect, but she knows how to pull it together.” She handed the picture to Adele. ”It's about making the most of what you've got.”
The photograph had marks that suggested it had been framed at one time. Paul and Dylan O'Grady and their wives were at a party. There was a Christmas tree in the background and shadows and shapes of other partygoers. Many were in uniform. She might have even been one of them, somewhere in the crowd, on her own. Filling the frame were Paul and Dylan, both wearing tuxes, and their wives, wearing gowns. Jenny Delisle's dress was low cut and the photographer had caught Dylan O'Grady's eyes looking at her cleavage. Paul was oblivious, his attention elsewhere, but Dylan's wife knew where her husband's eyes were straying.
”Dylan O'Grady,” said Adele. ”You remember what his wife's name is?”
”I don't like him,” Danielle said. ”Mom said he made a pa.s.s at her after she and Dad split up.”
”Like an African name or something. Keyasha?”
”No.” Danielle stood beside her, having another look. ”Keasha.”
”Keasha, right. Now she looks like a model.”
”She looks p.i.s.sed. He's staring at my mom's b.o.o.bs and she's staring at the back of his head. She totally wants to brain him.”
”Men and women,” Adele said. ”It never stops.”
”You a lesbian?”
”Nope. Not that either.”