L^{ent
by Cindy Rosmus}

“Pancakes. And sausage. Love that stuff, man,” Danny had said. “Wouldn’t miss it for nothin’.”

But he did.

Cherie sat red-eyed at the vestry’s table with the syrup bottle in her hand. Twisting the cap this way and that till her hand was sticky. She’d got the last of the burnt sausages, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t hungry anymore.

He’d stood her up. On Fat Tuesday. The guy she’d met right here at St. Mark’s. The one who’d braided her hair at Saturday night Mass, the love of her life, hadn’t shown up for the Pancake Race.

“Tol’ja,” Beth said later. She was Cherie’s best friend: the wild one. She knew Danny from way back. “You’re lucky he lasted this long.”

Cherie choked back tears. They were in St. Mark’s lot. In Beth’s beat-up Camaro. No heat in the car, and with the windows wide open. On the radio was an old Bruce tune.

“He’s drinking again,” Beth said.

Cherie shrugged. Usually she got mad. Wanted to scream “Liar!” But not tonight.

“Probably drugs too.”

The rectory looked like a haunted house. How could Father Shaver live there alone? He needed a wife, Cherie thought.

“Listen to me,” Beth said.

“I feel sick,” Cherie said. She did, too. The half-pancake she’d eaten was no match for all the coffee she’d drunk. Both her heart and her head were pounding.

“Okay. You want the truth?”

No, Cherie thought miserably. She turned up the music.

“Tough!” Beth shut it off. “He’s hanging with the Sleaze again. Down Spit’s. Every damn night.”

Cherie shook her head. It made her feel queasy.

“He’s back to his old shit, Chere.”

Moira, Cherie thought weakly. Tattooed on his arm. His ex from Spit’s, the one with red…whose nose he…

Cherie just opened the car door in time.

“Sure you’re not pregnant?” Beth asked on the way home.

Cherie stared out the window. “No,” she mumbled. As close as they were, Beth didn’t get it. Nobody did.

The Camaro screeched to a halt outside the Valenti home. “Damn shame,” Beth said, “You had to meet him in church.”

* * *

Father Shaver wasn’t your typical priest. Balding, he had longish gray hair. Looked like a cross between an aging Sting and an aging Phil Collins. “The ‘Rock and Roll Priest,’ ” Cherie’s dad said sarcastically. Father Shaver played guitar. Sometimes in the middle of sermons, he’d pull it out and start singing. He preached about forgiveness. Joy. Love.

St. Mark’s wasn’t your typical parish. “Piss-copal,” was the way Cherie’s dad said it. Her parents had never forgiven her for converting. They were Roman Catholics from head to toe, though neither had been to Mass since Cherie was twelve. “Don’t matter,” her dad muttered. “The Pope is infallible, kid.”

St. Mark’s was filled with strange but nice types: young and old gays, punk rockers, ex-drug addicts. Real people. It shouldn’t have surprised Cherie that Saturday night last summer when she was leaning back in the pew and felt a slight tug on her hair.

First one side. Then the other. While Father Shaver preached the Gospel of John in his own words: “ ‘Hey, Pete,’ Jesus said, ‘You love me, right?’ ”

Cherie’s hair was so long, she could turn around without jerking it out of the guy’s hands. It was Danny. He was braiding her dark hair as if she were an Indian princess.

He smiled.

Just like in books, it happened. With just one look.

Danny was her type. The kind of guy she’d searched for in bars around town but had given up ever finding. Rumpled dark hair. Eyes that looked through you. And that mouth: small, but with that pouty underlip. “Pissed-off mouth,” Cherie’s dad called it. Even when he smiled, Danny looked pissed off about something.

He was dressed like he’d just got thrown out of a bar, in a ripped t-shirt, and faded jeans. A small gold crucifix was in his left ear. Good, Cherie thought. Means he’s straight. As he braided her hair further up, she felt his hand on her back, her neck. Already she was sweating from the ninety-five degree heat. Danny’s hand made her feel hotter than ever.

Smiling, she turned back around to hear the rest of the sermon.

“You’re not pissed, are you?” Danny asked, during the Exchange of Peace.

Cherie giggled. “You like pizza?”

Her dad owned Valenti’s Pizzeria. Six days a week Cherie helped out, answering phones and heating up slices, mostly for teens. For seven years she’d worked for her dad. “S’all yours someday,” he promised her, his only child. He would’ve died if he knew how much she dreaded owning the place. How much she wanted to run far away.

“Lousy town,” Danny agreed. “Fulla prejudice. People getting’ kicked around all the time.

“Me,” he said, holding his slice at an angle, so the oil dripped onto the paper plate. “I wanna play guitar. Sing. Maybe even preach.”

Cherie was thinking how long she’d been waiting to lose her virginity. Twenty-three she’d be soon.

“I didn’t know you were so…holy,” she said, eyeing his tattoos: something really freaky on his upper right arm, and the name “Moira” on his left forearm.

He smirked in the middle of a bite. “Not holy,” he said, chewing. “ ‘Saved’ is more like it. Grateful. I owe my sobriety to Him.”

Cherie wondered who “Moira” was. His girlfriend or, God forbid, wife. Hopefully his mother. “How long’s it been?” she asked, thinking more of Moira than of his sobriety.

He shrugged. “Don’t keep count. But it’s been a while.”

From the counter, Cherie’s dad was giving them looks. She’d purposely picked the table furthest away. “I always wanted to sing, too,” she told Danny in a low voice. “And sometimes I think about going to divinity school.”

Eyes wide, he wiped his mouth on the oily napkin. “I got an idea.”

A group of teens came in, and Cherie was glad. Her dad trudged toward them.
“What?” she asked Danny.

He took her hand. “We’ll form a band. Me, you. Coupla the guys. Maybe even Father Shaver.”

“The Rock and Roll Priest,” Cherie thought, her heart racing.

Danny held her hand to his lips. “You can sing back-up.”

* * *

“Oh, jeez!” Beth said, when Cherie told her Danny’s plan. “Gimme a break.”

Cherie felt like shoving her off the stoop. “Atheists!” she hissed.

Beth sighed. Then went off on Danny.

According to her, he was bad news. They knew each other from downtown. Hung out in the worst places: dopers’ houses, the sleaziest bars, down Monk Road, where kids went to get drunk, stoned, and laid in the dirt.

In those days, “Wild Child” Beth was skinny and hot, though she still dressed the same, forty pounds later. Only once did she fuck Danny, who “Looked exactly the same back then. Ripped t-shirt and all,” Beth said.

They’d done it in the back of his old van, the same one he had now, the gray one with all the Classic rock bumper stickers. “Born to Run,” said one. “Let It Bleed,” said another.

“That same night,” Beth went on, “The scumbag dumped me for Moira Mangano.”

Cherie choked on her Pepsi.

“Sicilian-Irish bitch,” Beth said. “Redhead. Loves to kick ass. Well, she didn’t get to kick mine. I booked.”

“How long…” Cherie could hardly get the words out. “I mean, does he still…”

“Nope.” Smirking, Beth picked a splinter of wood out of her “fat” jeans. “ Busted her nose.”

“Who?”

“Who do you think?” Beth yelled. “Danny Gallucci!”

When Cherie shushed her, Beth yelled it again. Over and over she flung Danny’s name over the tops of trees like clumps of shit. Cherie was glad her parents weren’t home. They didn’t like Danny as it was.

Suddenly Beth calmed down. “Anything you wanna know about him, just ask me. Never mind. I’ll tell you anyway. He’s twenty-nine. His mom’s a Jew. That’s why he was raised an Episcopalian. He’s got a nice cock, and knows how to use it. Loves animals. Watch him on the street — he’ll pick up strays.” She laughed, harshly.

“You’re this hurt,” Cherie said, “After all these years?”

“No, pissed.” Beth glared at her. “I got over the hurt part. And how he hurt me was nothing compared to what he put that redhead through.”

Cherie picked up her can of Pepsi, which had spilled on the grass. “But he’s different now. Sober. He goes to church every weekend. He even takes Communion.” The Host, but not the wine, she thought, relieved.

“Maybe he is,” Beth said. “For now. But he’s still got that temper. Like a time bomb itching to go off. Soon’s he takes a fucking drink…watch out!”

“He won’t,” Cherie said.

* * *

Beth had been right about the “strays.”

The night Cherie lost her virginity, Danny found a one-eyed tom cat down First Street. Its gray fur was as shaggy as the doormat Mrs. Valenti had finally thrown out. “Poor bastard,” Danny said sympathetically.

Cherie backed away. “Bet it’s got fleas.”

“Ya think?” Danny smiled up at her, then back down at the cat, which seemed content in Danny’s arms. Muscled, they were, now that he started working out. He couldn’t seem to find a job. Spent more time playing the guitar. Watching the few stars in that plum velvet Jersey sky.

She cringed. “Lots.”

He released the cat, which shook itself before waddling off. “Know what I’m gonna do?” He got up. “Run my hands through your hair!”

“No!” Cherie started running.

All the way down First Street, he chased her. The October wind blew her hair out behind her. She shrieked as he got closer.

They were headed for that wire fence outside the Skyway. Before she could change direction, he caught her by the hair. Together, they slammed into the fence.

Instead of howling with pain, they both laughed. He wrapped her hair around her hands. “Stop!” she said.

He did. Then looked hard into her eyes. For a moment, she was scared. Like he could see through her eyes and the fence to something horrible on the Skyway. She looked at his pissed-off mouth.

When he kissed her, she knew something was different this time. The way his tongue chased hers around her mouth, she knew it was out for more.

In between kisses, he licked her face. Then she was doing it to him. She felt him get hard against her. In spite of the cold wind, she was burning up. All over.

“Where’ll we go?” she asked.

“My van. S’right up the block.”

Beth, she thought, as they hurried toward it. But things were different now, Cherie thought stubbornly. He was sober. Saved.

Strays, she couldn’t help thinking.

Inside the van, it was as cold as outside. Colder once they began taking off their clothes.

“S’ my first time,” Cherie said softly.

In the dark, his smile looked less pissed-off. “Think I don’t know that?” She shivered as he unsnapped her bra. When he pulled down her jeans and panties, and pressed against her, she gasped.

An old packaged rubber was all he had, but it did the trick. She moaned with pain, but she liked it. When he finally broke thought, it felt like he belonged inside of her. “Easy,” he whispered. “S’ no rush, baby.”

When he came, he shivered. “Oh…God!” he cried. “Chere. S’been so long.”

She didn’t ask how long. She didn’t want to know. The name “Moira,” framed by wild red hair, hovered over them in the dark van. Cherie could almost see her: noseless, probably freckled, spying on them. Hating them both.

“I love you,” Danny said, as he slid out of her.

“Me…too.” When she pulled him back on top of her, she surprised even herself.
But there were no more rubbers.

He used his tongue.

* * *

When Danny dipped the Host in the Chalice, Cherie shared a look with the “Rock and Roll Priest.”

“Amen,” Danny said, then popped the wine-soaked Host in his mouth.

Monday night, Father Shaver stopped by Valenti’s. “Can you take a break?” he asked Cherie. “Sit with me while I eat?

“I’m worried,” he told her. “And I know you are, too.”

“He’s trying so hard.”

“Not hard enough,” Father said. “He should be in A.A. N.A., too.”

“He’ll go,” Cherie said, “When he’s ready. Saturday night Mass keeps him out of bars, at least.”

“So far.” Father sounded just like Beth.

“Pray for him,” Cherie begged. “Please?”

* * *

Two weeks later, Danny sipped from the Chalice itself.

“S’ the Blood of Christ,” he said defensively, when Cherie brought it up. “Lay off. Was hard enough getting’ through Christmas.”

For Christmas he’d given her a white stuffed cat. One of those Gunds. Cherie wondered where he’d got the money for it.

“Better than a real one, anyway,” Beth said. Cherie hadn’t seen much of her, lately.

The following Saturday Danny didn’t even go to Mass.

“Got a headache, babe. And tendonitis in my hands,” he explained to Cherie on the pizzeria’s phone. “But I’ll see you later, okay?”

She didn’t.

* * *

The congregation prayed. Along with Father Shaver, the ex-dopers and punk rockers—one with royal blue hair—laid hands on Cherie at the altar, and prayed for Danny to come back.

“Call if you need me,” Father said on her way out of the church.

Sobbing, Cherie ran all the way to First Street.

* * *

“ ‘The Sleaze,’ ” Beth said, “Is like his oldest friend. He used to bully us in grade school. Picture this nasty eighth grade fuck chasing little kids.”

“He’d rather be with him than me?” Cherie said.

“When he’s drinking, yeah. It’s no fun drinking in front of you.”

Cherie started to get out of the car, then sank back down. “How could this happen?” she cried. “He was doing so good! We were supposed to form a band. Preach together. Get married, and have kids. Run away from that damned pizzeria!”

Beth put her arm around her. Cherie nearly choked on her sobs. She didn’t care who heard her. If she woke up people’s kids. She wished they were all dead. Herself, too.

“Used to…call me…all day long,” she sobbed. “How could he just…stop?”

“It’s okay,” Beth said, once she’d stopped crying. “I know. I’ve been there.”

“Not when he was sober!”

Beth shut off the motor. “Tomorrow night,” she said, “We’ll go out. Down Spit’s. We’ll find him.”

Cherie looked at her in disbelief. “In a bar?”

Beth sighed. “What’re the odds?”

* * *

It was so long since she’d gone to a bar, Cherie didn’t know what to wear. She wound up wearing jeans, and Danny’s favorite of her crop sweaters: the white silk angora. It was so soft, Danny was always rubbing his face against it. Her make-up looked great, but her hair was too long for her to do anything with it. She hadn’t cut it since she was fourteen.

Please don’t, Danny had begged. For me? She held back tears. Remembering that time he’d braided it in church. That time he’d chased her…the first time they’d made love in the van…

When she saw Cherie’s forehead, Beth said, “You’ve gotta be kidding,”

Meaning the Ashes. Cherie knew Beth would bitch about that. “It’s Ash Wednesday.”

“Wipe ‘em off.”

“No!” Cherie looked up and down the street, almost scared of her own voice. “It’s a sin.”

“C’mere.” Cherie backed away, and Beth fell across the passenger seat. “I was just gonna move your bangs. Cover the Ashes a little.”

“I’ll do it myself,” Cherie muttered. Finally she got in the car.

Beth shook her head. “You kill me.”

* * *

Cherie was so nervous, they sat outside Spit’s for a long time. She looked around, as Beth suddenly got out of the car, and slammed the door. “It’s now or never!” she told Cherie.

Up close Spit’s looked even scarier. One of the front windows was broke, nearly shattered. The light in the Coors Light sign had probably died with it. Even with the door closed, Cherie could hear every word of the Slayer song on the jukebox inside.

She looked so pathetic, Beth laughed. The door opened, and voices came out. “Put that stick down. Yeah, you, motherfucker!” Beth walked into the big-bellied guy who was holding the door.

Spit’s was mobbed. Cherie was afraid to look around. What if Danny was here, in a place like this? Even worse, what if he wasn’t? For the first time, she felt self-conscious of the Ashes on her forehead.

“Whaddya want?” the barmaid demanded. She was the size of a quarterback, with bleached hair, and a long scar down the side of her face.

“Mug of Bud!” Beth said. It was so noisy, she had to yell. “Chere?”

Cherie had to think about it. All she ever drank were sweet things. Jolly Ranchers, Woo-Woos. She remembered something that had tasted like Strawberry Quik. “Tequila Rose?”

“The fuck is she?”

“Not ‘she,’ Lulu. ‘What,’ ” Beth said wearily. “That pink, creamy shit.”

Lulu looked so pissed, Cherie thought she’d climb over the bar. “Forget it!” Beth said. “She’ll have a Bud, too.”

“I don’t like beer,” Cherie said.

“Shut up and drink it!”

The first sip made Cherie feel like puking. “Keep going,” Beth said. “It’ll calm you down.”

When the beer was half-gone, Cherie found the guts to look around the bar. Some crew, she thought. Bikers in heavy leather and chains. Old Spanish guys. Here and there a druggy-looking black guy, or white trash. All clumped together, Danny had said about this part of town. So we know our place.

“See him?”

Cherie shook her head. How different they all were, from people at St. Mark’s. Even the wildest-looking churchgoers were no match for these losers. Yeah, she told herself. Some great Christian you are.

A three-legged dog hopped past. It was just too much.

“If he was here,” Beth said, “That mutt would be right by him.”

Cherie froze. “Beth?”

“He’s here?”

Cherie forgot it was rude to point. That the wrong person might kick your ass if she caught you with your finger in her face. Though she was on the opposite side of the bar, the girl was clearly glaring at Cherie. Cherie, and nobody else.

“Moira,” Beth said, but Cherie had already figured that out.

Her hair was bright red. She looked like her head was on fire. Plastic surgery had a hand in her striking face. Her “new” nose was a movie star’s, but Cherie wasn’t sure whose. Her eyes were evil, so evil Cherie wanted to look away, but couldn’t. It was like Moira had her under a spell. She’s a witch, Cherie thought. My God, that’s it. She’s making him drink again.

“He’s not with her.” Beth brought her back to reality. “He’s not even here.”

Cherie’s mouth was dry. She licked her lips, then found her beer. “Then where could he be?”

“You really wanna know?” Beth nodded toward Moira’s side of the bar. “That’s your source.”

Cherie shut her eyes.

“Finish your beer, then go talk to her.”

“I…can’t.” Her back to Moira, Cherie could still feel her eyes.

“Rather drive all over town?” Beth said. “It might take all night. And I’ve gotta work tomorrow.”

Cherie swallowed hard. “Come with me?”

As they approached Moira, Cherie felt herself get smaller and smaller. Moira’s eyes knew why they were coming. Without taking her eyes off Cherie, she picked up her bottle of Bud and took a slug from it.

Up close she was bigger than life. Her freckled fingers were bony, her nails about an inch long. They were painted the color of her hair. On some of the tips were jewels. Cherie imagined them imbedded in her eyes.

Rather than look into Moira’s eyes, Cherie studied her chest. Flat, it was. Her plaid shirt was opened to show the tattoo on her left breast. It said “DAN.”

Finally Cherie looked up at her face. It was stern. Smug.

“We’re looking for Danny,” Beth said from behind Cherie. “You seen him?”

Without changing her expression, Moira slowly shook her head.

The song changed. Something Latino came on. Somebody whooped with laughter.

“Do…” Cherie’s voice was thin. “Do you know where he might be?”

Moira smirked. Brought the beer up to her mouth. Without taking a sip, she put it back down. “If you don’t,” she said, “Why the fuck would I?”

“Sorry,” Cherie whispered.

Beth nudged her. “Let’s get outta here.”

Cherie was afraid to turn her back. “Thanks, anyway.”

They were almost at the door when Cherie heard a “Yo!” from the other side of the bar.

Moira was beckoning to her.

“You try Monk Road?” she asked when Cherie came back over.

“N—no.”

Moira smiled. “Meet’cha down there!” She started to get up. Cherie backed away, scared she’d pee her pants.

“Maybe!” Moira yelled, as Cherie hurried away.

Her raucous laughter followed them out to the car.

* * *

For a while they just drove around town.

“I was so scared,” Cherie murmured. In spite of the cold, she was sweating. “I thought she was gonna hit me.”

“I had your back,” Beth said. “But she still would’ve killed us.”

“It’s not fair,” Cherie whispered.

Beth pulled over, by the park. “Can I ask you something?”

Cherie didn’t answer. She was picturing Moira’s red head on Danny’s bare lap.

“Ever occur to you that…maybe it’s better this way? Maybe it is over, and you should just accept it?”

Cherie had known that was coming. “No!” she screamed. “I love him!”

“ ‘Cos he’s your first,” Beth said. “You never really forget your first.”

“I do love him,” Cherie said, fighting back tears. “He’s the best. Not like any other guy. He can’t help it if he has a problem, damn it!”

“Nobody’s pouring those drinks down his throat.”

“He…” One tear got away, and slid down Cherie’s cheek. “He used to say…it never bothered him to bring up the gifts…the bread and wine…at Mass. That he never even got tempted.”

Beth shrugged. “Well, he was wrong.”

“I guess.” Cherie nearly choked on the sob.

“Maybe…why don’t you try this?” Beth brightened. “Give him up for Lent.”

Through her tears, Cherie saw she was grinning.

“Just till Easter. What is that, like six months?”

“Six weeks,” Cherie said. “That’s not funny.”

“S’ your choice.” Beth started the car. “What’ll we do?”

Cherie wasn’t sure. Not once in her twenty-three years had she ever been down to Monk Road. She’d always been too scared. And till now, she’d never had a reason.

“Chere?”

In her mind, Cherie saw Danny’s face. The way he’d smiled that time he’d braided her hair. The look he got when he was praying with the others. Eyes shut tight. Intense, but at the same time serene. “Talkin’ to the Big Guy,” he’d called it once. She remembered this past Sunday, when all the hands were on her. Bring him back, she’d prayed herself. The harshest, most demanding, gut-rending prayer she’d ever prayed.

“You know,” she said now, “In all those programs like A.A….how they say ‘Let Go, Let God’?”

“I’m an atheist, ‘member?”

Cherie ignored that. “Well, I can’t. I just…can’t.”

Beth backed up, then turned the Camaro back onto the Boulevard. “So let’s go.”

“Down to Monk Road?”

“She oughtta know.”

All of a sudden Cherie felt strange. Panicky. Sick to her stomach. Like somebody had stuck a gun through the window and was aiming it straight at her head. Go home, a little voice warned her, or you’ll be sorry.

Beth picked up speed.

* * *

Monk Road was bumpy as hell. It was made out of hills of dirt. Above the road the sky was bright orange with toxic waste. It looked like Moira’s hair.

Just like last night, an old Bruce tune was on the radio. “ ‘Better Days,’ ” Beth said. “Could be an omen.”

“Think he’ll be mad?”

“Probably.”

Cherie pulled down the visor, inspected her face in the lighted mirror. Her eyes were swollen. The black tears had dried on her cheeks. “Christ,” she said, “I look like a raccoon.”

“Leave it. S’ so dark down here, nobody’ll notice.”

Cherie looked out the window. Monk Road was deserted. “I’m scared.”

“You should be.”

In the distance was a van. It looked gray, but could’ve been black, or navy. Cherie’s chest tightened. She could hardly breathe.

“That’s it,” Beth said for her.

They pulled up. The van’s back doors were open. Two guys—one skinny, one fat, were slouched on its floor. Cherie recognized Danny. Even in the dark, the other guy looked like trouble. “Chicks!” he said. “Oh, boy…”

“Hey, Sleaze!” Beth said, as she and Cherie got out of the Camaro.

“One chick,” The Sleaze grumbled. “And fuckin’ ‘Beth o’ the Bedspins.’ ”

“Kiss my ass,” Beth said.

Danny poked his head out of the van. He seemed unsure of who Cherie was, at first. Then it dawned on him. “Hi, babe,” he said. For once his tone matched his pissed-off mouth perfectly. He sat back down.

“What a rude fuck.” The Sleaze shook his head. The Camaro’s headlights shone on his face. God, he’s ugly, Cherie thought. Eerie-looking. Eyes bright in that acne-scarred face, which looked like a dead fat man’s. When he turned his head, she saw he had a tiny ponytail. “Get out the van and make nice with yer girl.”

Danny jumped out of the van. The look he gave Cherie made her think of Moira’s nails.

“Wanna beer?” ashed The Sleaze.

“Sure,” Beth said.

“N-no thanks,” Cherie said as he cracked one can.

“Too late,” The Sleaze said as he cracked the other.

“What’s up?” Danny asked Cherie.

She didn’t know what to say. As he stood there, hands on his hips, she studied him. He had on jeans with a clunky belt, pointy boots, and a leather vest. No jacket, she realized, then. It was March. Like forty degrees. And windy, yet. “Aren’t you cold?” was all she said.

“I was, before,” Danny said, “But now you’re here to keep me warm.”

She smiled nervously. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

The Sleaze hooted. “Fuckin’ stalkers, man. Get a restraining order fast!”

“Shut up!” Beth said.

“Don’t tell me to shut up!” said The Sleaze. “You fat, ugly bitch.”

“Look who’s talking!”

Cherie moved closer to Danny, who handed her the beer she didn’t want. “I missed you,” she said softly.

“Same here.”

She looked into his eyes. Even in the dark, they looked glazed. “You weren’t at the supper.”

He frowned. “What supper?”

“At Church. The pancake and sausage thing. Last night. You missed it.”

“Big deal,” The Sleaze said. “ ‘At’s what diners’re for, man!”

Danny reached into the van and got his own beer off the floor. Cherie’s heart raced. Except for that sip of wine in Communion, she’d never seen him drink. She was horrified. Saw it all in slow motion. His back to her, he raised the can of beer to his mouth….Head back, he gulped it, looking up at…the sky.

It was the saddest thing she’d ever seen.

Again her swollen eyes filled with tears. He crushed the empty can and tossed it behind him into the dirt. Then reached into the van for another.

“No!” Cherie begged. “No more, please?”

“Shee-it,” said The Sleaze.

Danny looked guilty, pissed-off, and amused. All at the same time. Shaking his head, he cracked the beer. “S’ my last one, babe.” He took a sip, then another. “Swear to God.”

“Cherie,” Beth said, as she crushed her own empty. “Let’s go.”

“Great idear!” The Sleaze said.

Cherie threw her arms around Danny’s waist. He held the beer up and out of the way.

“Come on,” Beth said.

“She wants to stay with me,” Danny said.

“I’ll be okay,” Cherie mumbled into his chest.

“You crazy?” Beth said. “I’m not leaving you here!”

“What’re we, fuckin’ psychos, or somethin’?” The Sleaze said.

Cherie clung to Danny like she’d never let go. She kissed his chest. He was so sweaty. And it was cold out…it didn’t make any sense.

“Go ‘head,” Danny told Beth, who shook her head.

He let go of Cherie, suddenly. “Go!” he yelled at Beth. “Get the fuck outta here!”

Cherie had never heard him raise his voice. Or curse. She backed into the van.

“You hear me?” Danny said.

“Cherie?” Beth begged. “Please come with me!”

Danny turned and took Cherie in his arms, nuzzling her neck. “She don’t wanna.”

Cherie didn’t. Danny’s lips, and tongue, on her neck, was all she wanted now. All she’d wanted all along. Whether he went back to church, or not. Drunk, or sober, she’d got him back. Her prayers were answered.

She looked over at Beth, who grimaced. Again Cherie felt the way she had in the car: panicky, sick.

“Bye,” Cherie said.

* * *

“Good riddance,” The Sleaze said, once Beth was gone.

Danny sat on the edge of the van. Patting his lap, he said, “C’mere, babe.”

As she sat down, Cherie felt his hard-on. “I missed you,” she repeated.

He set the beer down behind him. “I know.”

“Kiss me.”

It was the strangest kiss. Rough, as always, but with no heart in it. He tasted like beer, and something else….

Smoke. He tasted like smoke. But Danny didn’t smoke cigarettes. He never had.

“That was nice,” he murmured, when the kiss was over.

His clothes—even his hair—smelled like smoke. Besides leather, and sweat. When the wind blew, he got goosebumps on his arms. “You sure you’re not cold?” she said.

“I’m burnin’ up.”

“ ‘Cos you’re drinking,” she said. “Please…don’t drink any more. I’m here. Everything’s going to be OK.”

“Who says somethin’s wrong?” he demanded.

“That fat cunt,” The Sleaze said, “Who just left.”

“We missed you at Church,” Cherie told Danny.

He reached behind him for his beer. “My last one,” he said again, when he saw her face.

The Sleaze snickered. “Till when?”

Danny looked like he was thinking hard about it. He swished the beer around in his mouth before swallowing it. “Easter,” he said. “I’m givin’ it up for Lent.”

Instead of laughing, The Sleaze said, “Hey, that’s right. It’s Ash Wednesday, ain’t it?”

“Lemme see.” Danny moved Cherie’s bangs, squinting in the dark. His hand was ice-cold. “Can’t tell,” he said. “But if I know my baby….”

“Really?” she said hopefully. “You’re really giving up drinking for Lent?”

“Yeah.” He motioned to The Sleaze, who took something out of his back pocket.

“Maybe you’ll quit for good this time.”

“Maybe.” The Sleaze handed him something Cherie couldn’t see.

She kissed Danny’s cheek. “I love you.”

Something else he had now, too. It sounded like a lighter. One that didn’t work too good. He kept flicking it, impatiently.

But he doesn’t smoke, she thought again.

“I love you,” she repeated.

He didn’t answer. Finally he got the lighter to work. “All-right!” The Sleaze said.

Pot, she thought, cringing. They were going to smoke a joint.

She looked down at what he had in his hand.

A clear, tube-like pipe. With a rock in it. Danny ran the flame back and forth along it.

Crack.

“What’s your name, anyhow?” The Sleaze asked, after his first hit.

Any minute she would cry. “Cherie,” she whispered.

Danny inhaled deeply, almost choking. He started coughing.

“You French?” The Sleaze asked.

Cherie shook her head. Her eyes were filling with tears.

“Italian,” Danny said, when he’d stopped coughing. “Her dad owns Valenti’s Pizza.”

“ ‘At so?”

Again it was Danny’s turn. His cough was horrible. Through her tears, Cherie watched him closely. He looked like he was thinking of something equally tragic and funny.

After his next hit, he turned and gave her a strange smile. “You don’t have to be French,” he said, “To French-fuck.”

Cherie just looked at him.

The Sleaze laughed. “She good at it?”

Danny gripped Cherie’s jacket. “You kiddin’? With these?” She was never so aware of her breasts. He released her, roughly. She whimpered.

“We’re getting’ married,” he told The Sleaze, who was coughing up a storm.

“Best…man!” The Sleaze spat out. “Can I… wanna be the best man.” He handed the pipe to Cherie, who shook her head.

“You got it,” Danny said, and took a final hit.

“Wanna beer?” The Sleaze asked Cherie. She didn’t have the strength to say no.

Danny’s hand slid under her jacket. “S’just me,” he said, when she jumped.

“Not here!” she said. Suddenly she hated him.

“Why not?” The same hand worked its way down her belly. Then between her legs.

She clenched her teeth. “Dan!”

He shoved her off his lap. “You’re a bitch. You know that?”

“They’re all bitches,” The Sleaze said, “But she’s real cute. You lucky fuck.”

Cherie was on the ground, sobbing. Danny stood over her. For the first time, she was scared of him. “Real lucky,” he said. He started unbuckling that belt.

She got up on legs she couldn’t even feel. “No.”

He smirked. “No, what? I’m not doin’ nothin’.” He turned to The Sleaze. “Got any more?”

“Man, ya know we don’t.”

“Fuckin’ liar!”

Cherie held her breath. Slowly, she backed away.

He turned and pounced, knocked her back down. Around in the dirt they rolled, him laughing maniacally, her crying harder than she ever had in her life. He kissed her, but she didn’t want it. His tongue hurt, then gagged her. “Stop!” she screamed, when he gnawed on her throat.

“Please,” she begged.

He tore off her jacket, and yanked up that sweater he’d once loved. Her bra went flying. He bit her nipples so hard, she got chills.

“Give it to her good,” The Sleaze said smugly.

In horror, Cherie watched as Danny sat up, still straddling her. As he unsnapped his jeans, his look was a wild animal’s.

Just in time, she pinched him.

Howling, he backed off. She got up fast, not knowing where she’d found the strength, or the guts, to resist him. She hadn’t really hurt him, she saw. He was getting up, too.

Then she was running. “Get her!” The Sleaze yelled from his ringside seat.

Cherie’s heart felt the size of the van as she bolted up Monk Road. She could hardly see where she was going. It was too dark. No light in this darkness. The sky was the color of dried blood. Getting wider. Just sky and dirt. Wide, dirty sky….

The wind had got stronger.

Blowing her long hair behind her…

Way behind her.