Sometimes Rachel

By
Will Christopher Baer

chapter 1 - nude, descending

White haze. I walk as if blind, following the dog. The streets are empty, hushed. Through an open window I see a family
sitting down to supper. Behind them a television flickers silent, bleeding colors. The dog stops to piss. Not my dog. I'm
keeping him for a friend. Traffic lights change red to green with no cars to stop or go. My boots scrape. The dog's collar
jingles. If I concentrate just so, there is the subconscious hum of something about to happen.
I scan the street and a rambling figure approaches, shape shifting through morphine white. Something familiar in the short
warped stride. Coming closer and I see it's a white male in middle twenties. Squat and muscular, wearing loose torn shorts.
One leg hanging longer than the other. Disintegrating gray T-shirt with ripped pocket and shapeless brown hat. It looks like
Owen, and now I remember. Someone said he was living around here.
It's been four years and I sift what news I've had. Owen's girlfriend supposedly had a kid. I can't remember the girlfriend's
name, though I fondled her once, drunkenly in a parking lot. Her phone number was written on my hand but disappeared
with dead skin and I never called her. I should have, because a few months later she was living with Owen. She stopped
bleeding and they were married by a judge. Last thing I heard they had an accident. Owen supposedly freaked out driving
high in the rain and went over a guard rail. The car rolled five times. He was barely hurt but she went through the window
face first, and the kid was born retarded or something. And since then I don't know. Owen was never exactly a friend, just
someone I knew in the fifth grade.
I think Owen will just fade past. Eyes flick over me and away. I hesitate. Owen stops and now the dog goes tense.
Thought it was you, Travis.
Owen. Heard you were around.
My place is down the street. Come up and say hello to Sally.
Owen's left eyelid is nervous, twitching under the brim of his hat, a fishing hat that was once white now brown with dirt. I
can't say no. His voice has
changed, mutated somehow, but I would know him anywhere. Dog sniffs his ankles furiously and I yank the leash.
What's your dog's name?
Not my dog. His name is Grinch.
Two claustrophobic minutes to the apartment building without speaking. Owen stares ahead and rattles keys around in his
pocket. The building is old brick. Small balconies with dark rusted screens. Heavy iron fire escape. The kind of radiators
that hammer all night. I follow Owen up creaking stairs. Dust rising. Owen wears rotting tennis shoes secured with duct
tape. Orange socks. Grinch whining from the throat. Finally the door and I have to say something.
How long you guys lived here?
Two. Maybe three years.
Owen fumbles with the lock while I calculate. The baby would be about three. It was surely not mine.
Where you working? I say.
Don't need to work. Owen approximates a grin. Insurance, he says.
The air is trapped inside. The mingling, intimate stench of wet carpet and cigarettes. Tomato sauce and fried egg. Puppy shit
and baby puke and semen and mold. Grinch is pulling and I unclip the leash. Owen takes off his hat, then his shirt. His head
is balding and soon he puts the hat back on. The heat is fierce
and the windows are shut.
Painted shut, says Owen. Take off your shirt, if you want.
I hesitate, then drag off my shirt. Drop it in a chair and follow Owen, who walks sideways crablike circling and his eyes
steady on me.
This is the living room, he says. Decent light in the morning but the carpet's all the time damp. Can't figure it out. This here
is the kitchen. Too small for doing much and the garbage needs going out. Hey. Let's get a drink.
No, I say. I stopped. Recently.
There's a beer I think, and some wine. Owen lifts a green jug. An inch of murky red.
I stopped.
Why?
Things happen, when I drink. I can't remember.
Owen's mouth hangs open. Good to forget, he says. Sometimes. What do you drink, then?
Coffee, most of the time.
Never touch it. Bad for my stomach.
That's fine. Really.
Well, says Owen. In here's the sunroom. Always little dust particles floating around in the light. If it was sunny you could
see. Bedroom is back there.
There is almost no furniture in the apartment. Boxes and dust and scattered trash. Listen but I don't hear baby sounds. The
bedroom door is closed. My
stomach growls. I smell oranges, bright and sweet. Left hand feels strangely numb and I make a fist.
That is some killer ink, says Owen.
He's looking at my chest. The tattoo is a boa constrictor, slightly coiled. The head is poised to bite the nipple. The work is
crude, with scars. It was done
when I was nineteen, at Fort Pillow, residential correctional facility for boys.
It goes all the way down, I say.
Down what?
Past my waist.
Oh, yeah. Let's see.
I hesitate, then sit on a coffee table to take off my boots.
Better take your socks off. Else get them wet.
Uh huh.
I take my jeans off. The boa's tail pokes out of my shorts and stops at mid thigh. I drop the shorts and stand very still. Owen
sighs, pleased. And then
Sally walks in from the next room. She wears a dirty white T-shirt and panties. Her hands are white, covered with fine
powder. Her face is ruined. Her mouth is twisted slightly, the lips don't meet. Her jaw and left cheek are shiny with scar
tissue and the left eye has been rebuilt. That she was once beautiful is
easy to see, a kid could see it, and I reckon that only makes it harder to bear.
I crouch and jerk up my shorts.
Look who's here, Owen says. It's Travis.
Travis. Her mouth jerks.
Hello, Sally.
I kissed her mouth in a parking lot, five years ago. Her lips were heavy and red, her tongue fierce. Now she sticks a finger in
her mouth and licks away
powder.
How are you? I hear you had a baby.
Oh, yes. A beautiful baby boy.
Her eyes are wild and bright.
I'd like to see him.
He's sleeping now. But maybe another time.
She smiles and sucks at her finger, staring coldly at Grinch. The dog has been sitting at my feet. Now he stands, slinks out
of the room. His nails are loud going down the stairs.
That's not my dog, I say. I should go get him.
Don't go, Owen says.
Sally is making noises like a bird chirping. She presses herself up against Owen, her hands moving over his chest and arms,
leaving pale streaks of the powder. Her mouth goes to his throat. Owen just stares hard at me. Sally grunts softly, pushing
with her hips. She steps back and shrugs out of the shirt. Her breasts are large. Stretch marks on her dark flat belly. Now the
underpants drop and she is naked against Owen. Her body is lovely.
I really have to go, I say.
No response from Owen. Sally makes animal sounds.
I pull on my jeans and look around. Where the hell is my shirt?
Sally's body wriggles against Owen, who responds only with his mouth. His hands never touch her. I find my shirt, tuck it
into my belt. I scoop up the dog's leash. My feet are wet from the mildewed carpet. The blood crashes in my head. Feels like
my eyes are expanding in their sockets. Mouth is hot and I try to swallow. Pull on my socks, torn cotton sticking against
skin. I get them on at last and focus on the laces of my boots. My fingers don't work. I hear what sounds like a groan of
protest from Sally.
I look up. She's sitting on the floor with her back to me, a posing nude. The ridged shadows of her spine like an exhibit at
the zoo. Owen is gone. Now the left boot feels too tight, like I have two socks on that foot. The laces are in sweaty knots
and I'm fucked if I'll try to work them loose. The leash is looped around my fist, a short heavy piece of leather with chrome
clip dangling. I have got to get the fuck out. I want to say something to Sally but I barely know her. Her
back is still to me.
There's a nudge at my left shoulder and I turn and Owen is kneeling beside me with a dead puppy cradled in his arms.
Holding it up to my face as if to let it kiss me and the expression on his face is that of a father offering me his newborn for
inspection. I go blank. This is not the baby. Owen thrusts the dead
puppy at me and I jerk my head back. I try to stand but Owen has the collar of my shirt in a fist, pulling hard and now I feel
the puppy's cold nose touch my
lips. I swing the leash and hit Owen in the face with the chrome clip and he falls over crying. The puppy drops like a piece
of firewood.
Grinch is waiting when I make the street.
Two days later, I go back. Tell myself I'm just in the neighborhood. I knock and there is a long silence before Sally opens
the door. She is dressed as before.
Dirty white T-shirt and panties. I can smell her. She looks at me then turns away. I follow her to the bedroom. She lifts a
large sleeping child from its
crib.
This is Henry, she says.
She holds the child by the armpits. His feet twitch and he makes a sucking noise.
Take him, she says
I hold the child to my chest. He's heavy.
Where is Owen?
He's gone. He took his things.
Do you have any money?
No. Some food stamps.
The baby wakes, screams in my face. Sally closes her eyes.
Give him to me.
What are you going to do?
She looks at me. The rebuilt eye blinks irregularly.
If you want, I say. You can stay at my place.
I help her pack some things in plastic grocery bags. She doesn't have a suitcase. The baby cries steadily. Rise and fall like
traffic. After a few
minutes it makes me sick, nervous. Sally has pitifully few clothes.
Sally.
What?
The baby is crying.
That's normal.
It doesn't sound normal.
Sally picks up a crumpled black dress. She pulls it on over the T-shirt.
I'm not Sally anymore, she says.
What do you mean?
I'm Rachel. From now on, you have to call me Rachel.
She leaves the front of her dress unbuttoned.
Rachel, I say.
That's right.
I look around. The apartment is nothing but a box of dust. The sun doesn't live here.
Okay. Are you
ready to go?
She wraps Henry in a towel. Her feet are bare.
What about some shoes? I say.
I don't have any.
Five years before. A Wednesday night at the Hole. A grinding punk band with junkie vocalist hunched on the drum riser.
The lyrics mangled like a person being sick. Plastic cups of warm dollar beer and mounted televisions white with snow. A
girl thin and catlike in leather jacket, wearing cowboy boots with bare legs. Slash of nose and fierce red mouth. I followed
her drunk outside. Piggly Wiggly parking lot. Skin pale green and lips black under buzzing lights. The smell of her lipstick,
chemical cherry. My back against a car. Long cool tongue
darting into my mouth and beer spilling across the hood. I reached under her
jacket and tore it open. She was naked under a thin T-shirt. She jerked my jeans
loose and held me in her fist. I pulled her into the car. Dark humps of clothing
and garbage on backseat. She was patient, sucking me a long time. A wasp crawled
along the armrest, waiting to die. I was drunk and trying not to be sick. She
stopped, eventually. I may have passed out. She scratched her number on my hand.
Blue ink wrinkled in sunburned skin and I promised to call her. I promised.

chapter 2 - fisher of men

I come home from work and Rachel sits on my bed with long yellow legs twisted
beneath her as if broken. She wears her hair pulled back to expose her face, her
scars. She's naked and a little drunk. She regards me warily, as if she doesnít
quite recognize me. Her one good eye is an impossibly dark blue, like a kidís
marble. The rebuilt left eye is pale and bright as the tip of a knife, and it
wanders. She has small curved feet. Pale web of stretch marks on her belly.
Breasts too large against her ribs. She has poor circulation and her skin is
always cold to the touch. She bruises easily. Veins stand out in her arms. Her
muscles ripple like shadows. She touches herself constantly. Her thumbs are
double jointed and she pulls them into impossible positions. Rachel creates
silence, heavy and bright. She picks at a scab on her wrist.
Where is the kid? she says, finally.
I told you. I took him to stay with my sister.
She stares at me with that marble blue eye.
Two days ago, I say.
Why?
Because you asked me to.
What did you tell her about me?
Nothing, I say.
And she nods, as if she knows Iím lying.
The bedroom is cool and dark, with squares of red velvet nailed over the
windows. Grinch sleeps in the doorway, growling in his dreams. The television is
on, a blue and white strobe. Droning sirens and muted laughter. I kneel between
Rachel's open thighs, my mouth numb and wet. Her stark shaved pubic bone is hard
as a tumor, her clitoris strange and elusive. She tells me to stop, finally. I
kiss her mouth gently, as if kissing a sore. Blue jean and soft drink and
underwear ads. Her arms are spread apart like dead branches against a white sky.
Basketball scores. Her eyes open, staring at the ceiling. The weather report.
She doesn't make a sound when I come.
In the morning she crouches naked on the toilet, smoking a cigarette, while I
shave. Black stubble against the side of the sink. I hold the razor under water.
Her face appears behind me. Her hair loose, falling to her shoulders, brown with
streaks of blonde and white. Her good eye watches me in the mirror. The other
one wanders. She reaches for a tube of lipstick left behind by a girl who waits
tables where I work. Rachel jabs at her crooked mouth and the lipstick is brown.
I lied, she says.
About what?
Owen. He didn't leave me.
My hand slips and I cut myself. Rachel stops with the lipstick. She stares at
the blood running down my cheek.
Are you kidding? I say.
He was at the clinic, she says. Selling plasma.
The cut swells with blood as I rinse the blade.
Let's go out for breakfast, she says.
The outdoor patio at a diner called Black Lagoon. Rachel smokes a cigarette,
staring at her water glass like it's a crystal ball. The waitress brings coffee
and toast. I reach for the butter and Rachel abruptly pushes her water glass off
the table, smashing it against the rock floor.
There was a bug in it, she says. A dead bug.
Do you want mine?
No.
The waitress approaches with broom and dustpan to clean up the mess but Rachel
cuts her apart with one glance and tells her to leave it. The waitress backs
away, uneasy. Rachel is calm. She crushes out her cigarette. The morning is hot,
blinding. I am unpleasantly sober. It's been five months since I had a drink and
I'm a slug on the edge of a razor. I chew a piece of ice and look at Rachel. She
is at once beautiful and destroyed, and she's a mother. Her name is not Rachel.
It used to be Sally and she has given no explanation for the change. The guilt I
feel when I look at her is irrational, I know. And still it staggers me. If I
had called her, she might not have hooked up with Owen. She might never have
gone through that windshield. I dump more sugar into my coffee.
Low buzz of locusts. A plague of Japanese tourists crowd the patio around us and
now I remember. The middle of August in Memphis. This is death week. The King
went belly up some twenty years ago. They found him bloated and stinking beside
the toilet on a hot night. The zealots have come from every corner of the
planet, as they do every summer, to pay their respects at the tomb of Elvis.
Broken glass glitters in the sun. Rachel points a finger at the tourists,
cocking it like a gun
Pow, she says. The ourists regard her nervously.
Sally, I say.
Don't call e that.
I think yu should apologize to the waitress.
She flics her cigarette at me and narrowly misses hitting me in the face.
Clouds race across the sky black as smoke. Thunder. We make it to the apartment
just as the storm opens up. The machine is blinking, a message from my sister
Zoe. The baby needs diapers, she says. Her voice is quiet and cold. Grinch paces
the apartment, nervous about the thunder. I find Rachel cleaning the kitchen.
The bright smell of bleach. She uses bleach on everything. She spills it on her
hands. She runs her fingers through her hair, which accounts for the streaks of
yellow and white.
Your hair is going to fall out, I say.
She is on her knees, scrubbing at the floor with a blue sponge. The floor is
perfectly clean.
That was Zoe, I say. On the machine.
Rachel looks up, hair falling around her face. The rain still comes down in gray
sheets outside the windows and she looks almost normal in soft half light. She
wears a pair of my old jeans, faded slipping down over her hips. I see the edge
of black underpants, a slash of brown belly. I feel myself getting hard.
Close your eyes, she says.
Why?
Play nice, she says.
I sigh and shut my eyes.
Can you see me? she says. I'm on my back, on the floor. I'm bleeding from the
mouth and you're fucking me to shreds. Can you see me?
I can see you, I say.
Open your eyes, she says.
I resurface and try to control my breath. I don't know what's wrong with me. I
turn on the overhead light and now I see the shadows of her face.
Come on, she says. Hit me.
I'm not going to hit you, Rachel.
Then go see your sister, she says.
Rachel dips the sponge into the bucket of bleach and water. She makes a fist.
Do you want to come with me?
No, she says.
It's a short walk to Zoe's place. The storm lets up and everything is steaming.
I stop at the Pig for diapers and cigarettes and ice cream. I desperately need
the sugar. I realize I'm sweating. I feel claustrophobic in my clothes. Zoe
lives in a garage apartment, down an alley. The smell of honeysuckle. Two dogs
sniffing at a rotten head of lettuce. One of them looks up growling and I kick a
rock in their direction. I can't believe how expensive diapers are.
I find Zoe in the bedroom, Rachel's baby sleeping beside her. Three years old.
He wears a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. It looks like a dress. Zoe
wears white bikini shorts and a man's blue shirt. Her legs are thin and pale.
She is a year younger than me. Asleep she could be sixteen. She is sweating in
her sleep, the blonde hair at her temples damp. Zoe is not my blood. She is my
stepsister. Her father, who I know as Big Jim, married my mother when we were
five and six. Zoe and I grew up in the same house and for a while we took baths
together, but then we stopped.
I kiss her on the ear whisper, Zoe, wake up.
She opens her eyes and touches a finger to her lips. She doesn't want to wake
him. I nod and go to the kitchen. The apartment is dark. A fan pushes air back
and forth. I fill a glass with water and find empty ice trays in the freezer. I
leave the ice cream out to soften. Zoe comes from the bedroom with a hairbrush
in one hand. Her nose is sunburned. She has skin delicate as a peach. Her shirt
hangs open. The lace edge of her bra.
It's impossible to get him to sleep, she says.
I brought the diapers.
We were up half the night, she says. I thought babies were supposed to cry
themselves to sleep, but he just cries harder. Zoe looks at me, smiling. I love
having him here, she says.
He's not normal, I say.
She brushes her hair with short even strokes.
He's three, I say. Shouldn't he be out of diapers?
I don't know, she says.
He doesn't even talk.
Look at his mother. Zoe bites the word.
I was thirteen when Zoe found a sick raccoon in the alley, half dead in the sun.
Blood in one eye. Black ants in gray fur. The belly hard and swollen and Zoe
said it must be pregnant. I said no, it's dying. It would be in the shade
otherwise. Zoe made me swear not to tell Big Jim because he'd kill it. She
stayed with that coon all day. In case the babies came, she said. She got a
black umbrella from the hall closet to block the sun. She put water in a Frisbee
but the coon never took a drink. Then it was time for supper. Zoe was a nervous
wreck until after the news when mom
and Big Jim went to sleep. She climbed out
the bathroom window and didn't ask me to go with her. I woke up and found her in
my room, crying. The coon was dead. I pulled her into bed with me and told her a
story. In the morning there was dirt in my bed. She buried that coon with her
hands.
Together we sit on the couch, listening to the fan blow dead air around. Zoe
puts her foot on my leg. I try to feed her ice cream but she shakes her head.
Are you working? I say.
Not so much, lately, she says.
Zoe is a photographer. Portraits of restless children, the odd wedding. I stroke
her foot. She was never ticklish.
Do you want to keep him? I say.
Zoe plays with a ring on her finger. What about Rachel?
I think it's what she wants.
I don't have a lot of money, for food and stuff.
Don't worry. I have money in the bank.
It won't last, she says.
Something will happen, I say. Something always happens.
I'll keep him, she says. Of course I will.
She kisses the corner of my mouth. I still hold her foot in my hands, pale as an
egg. Hundreds of brittle bones under the skin. I push her foot away and go to
the kitchen. I fill the ice trays. Henry wakes up screaming and Zoe rips open
the box of diapers.
On the street I see Owen lurking in a 7/11 parking lot. He's talking to a couple
skate punks, waving his hands wildly and no doubt spitting. The skate punks are
edging away from him and I don't think they're enjoying his story. I duck into
the Piggly Wiggly, hoping Owen hasn't seen me. I don't need anything but the
place reassures me. The way the electric doors suck open. The sudden noise of
cash registers and boys throwing open the paper bags. The smell of dust and oil
from the parking lot crashing with bread and flowers. I could buy flowers for
Rachel but she would laugh at me. I could buy dog food for Grinch. On wooden
benches along the front window, old men recline in the air conditioning. A muzak
version of Dear Prudence trembles from hidden loudspeakers.
A girl comes through the doors in a yellow dress.
She is about sixteen and limping, hopping on one foot like she has a rock in her
shoe. She holds a slip of paper in one hand. She examines it, standing with bad
leg bent. Dipping her head like a yellow bird. Her lips move slightly. She limps
off toward the produce, a red shopping basket dangling from her wrist. From
behind her hair is like Zoe's and I drift along behind her purely by instinct.
The limp grows more pronounced and she crashes into an elderly woman. I'm sorry,
she says. Her voice a bright whisper. Then with a backward arm the girl takes
down a pyramid of granny smith apples. The other shoppers keep moving, ignoring
the girl in the yellow dress. Apples roll and twirl in all directions. The girl
sits down abruptly and takes off her shoe. The yellow dress slips up her long
thigh, apples stopping green around her. She studies her bare foot
Do you need some help? I say
She chews her lip. No.
What's wrong with your foot?
She glances at me, fearless and pretty.
Think I sprained it.
How'd you do that?
She flashes her teeth. Softball. I was sliding into second.
She is very young.
Let me see, I say.
She shrugs and I crouch next to her. I examine her foot without touching it. She
smells of mint. The ankle is swollen, not badly.
Can you move it? I say.
Yeah. But it hurts.
I help her stand up. Her hand is small and slightly damp. The top of her head
comes to my throat. I tell her to put ice on the ankle when she gets home. She
nods. Over her shoulder I see Owen, grinning and bobbing his head. He comes
toward us, an open carton of chocolate milk in one hand. He touches his filthy
hat and the girl takes a step back.
Ma'am, he says.
Thanks, she says to me. Then drifts away.
Owen picks up a fallen apple and turns to watch the girl.
Not half bad, he says. He chomps the apple.
She's a kid, I say.
Old enough to fight back, he says.
What do you want, Owen?
Owen offers me the chocolate milk. The cardboard opening looks chewed on. I
shake my head. Owen's hair is stiff with grime. There's a moist red sore in the
corner of his mouth. His shirt is stained brown at the armpits, and he stinks.
He starts walking and I follow. I tell myself he is not my responsibility, and
still I follow. Owen leaves his chewed apple core on a shelf. He opens a bag of
cheese puffs and insists on sharing them.
Technically, I say. You're shoplifting.
Bullshit. Owen's lips are orange. I'm sampling, he says. The same thing as
flipping through a magazine.
He keeps moving and helpless I follow.
You know that puppy, says Owen. The other day?
Yeah.
I got him from the pound. Because Sally said she was lonely.
What happened to it? I say.
She mainly ignored it. Then one day it's dead.
How did it die?
Owen shoves in another mouthful of cheese puffs. He chews violently.
Are you saying she killed that puppy? I say.
You seem a righteous man, Travis. Ain't you?
What?
Owen leans in close. Are you a fisher of men? he says. Or a fisherman?
What the fuck are you talking about?
I was wondering, Owen says. If you might know where my Sally is now?
No, I say. I don't know where Sally is.
My Sally's gone, says Owen. Like a ghost.
I give Owen the high hat and get the fuck out of Pig. When I reach the
apartment, the front door is locked and Rachel is gone. Grinch goes bugshit when
I walk in. I guess he's glad to see me. I haven't given Rachel a key yet,
because she hasn't asked for one. The fire escape. She went out the fire escape.
I make a tomato sandwich and eat it sitting on the bed. I go to the bathroom and
wash my hands. Throw water on my hair. I have to be at work soon. I try not to
worry about Rachel. Tell myself I don't want to know where she is, what she's
doing.
I tend bar at a cavernous industrial shithole called, appropriately, the Hole.
The band hasn't started yet and the crowd is thin. The other bartender is out
back doing coke. I slog beer and ashes along the bar with a towel. A girl with
blurry red eyes and yellow hair takes a stool before me. She orders a draft. The
tap is slow. The beer is cheap and warm.
What's your name? I say.
She's high, twitching. Her upper lip is pierced with a silver ring and she sucks
on it. She wears a transparent gauze dress. Her belly is curved and hard. Heavy
breasts. Swollen nipples.
I stare. Are you pregnant?
The girl shrugs. Fuck off.
She pays for the beer with a handful of change.
Zoe calls at eleven. The music is loud, booming. I can barely hear her. My own
voice seems to bounce back at me. The mouthpiece is sticky and wet. Zoe screams
and I understand just three words. Rachel is here. I turn to the crowd.
Distended arms and hair and faces.

chapter 3 - silence brightly

Past midnight when I get out of the Hole. I replay my sisterís voice in my head.
Rachel is here. The words cold and flat. It might be nothing. Light rain
falling. The car stinks of bad milk. I crank the window down and smoke. The left
side of my face is wet. I park in the alley and when I get out of the car I hear
music, thick and distorted. Sounds like Elvis and it's coming from Zoe's place.
Little misunderstanding. The door is wide open and Zoe sits on the floor as if
she fell there. Sheís barefoot. She wears a short red dress, a cocktail party
dress. Like she stumbled out of bed in the dark and pulled something from the
closet. One strap falling down over thin white shoulder. She looks stoned. She
looks up as I turn down the stereo.
Where is she? I say.
The bedroom. With Henry.
What's with the music? I say.
Zoe shrugs. Rachel says the baby is deaf and that's why he can't talk.
Do you think so?
No. I think he has brain damage. From the accident.
What is she doing back there?
I don't know. Do you have a cigarette?
Are you okay? I say.
Zoe shakes her head. She looks tired, scared. I crouch next to her. I touch her
face. Her eyes are raw and dilated. She has a narrow lock of hair in one hand,
wet and curved like it's been in her mouth. A mosquito bite near her collarbone.
Between her small breasts the silk is crumpled, as if recently pulled and
twisted in a fist. The dress clings to her belly. I glance at her legs. She has
a small cut below one knee from shaving. And her thigh is badly bruised. Purple
skin in the shape of a mouth turning white along the edges. I touch it, and pull
my hand away. Her skin seems to breathe.
What the fuck is this?
Her lips shake and she starts to laugh. I light a cigarette and give it to her.
Did Henry do this?
She trembles and I move my hand up, along her inner thigh.
Zoe tries to inhale, choking.
Rachel, she says. Rachel bit me.
Rachel comes out of the bedroom, Henry asleep in her arms. She lowers him to the
sofa and reaches for her jacket. I stand to face her and she smiles.
Travis, she says.
What are you doing, Rachel?
I'm taking Henry.
Why?
Your sister is very sexy, she says. And delicious, as you know.
Fuck you.
But Iím afraid sheís not much of a mother, says Rachel.
I can only watch as my closed fist swings through heavy bright silence. Try to
pull it back but it's long gone. Rachel doesn't move or try to duck and I hit
her just below the throat. She crashes over a chair. Henry screams. I look at my
hand, then at Rachel. My head is buzzing with insects and I canít think. How to
stop this and it's already happened. Rachel lies crumpled on the floor, her
breathing ragged. She flashes a broken smile at me as she pulls herself up.
I sit on the couch, holding a glass of water. Muscles tremble in my legs as if I
have just narrowly missed wrecking my car. Rachel whispers nonsense to the kid,
who still cries violently. Zoe packs diapers and baby gear into a pillowcase.
She doesn't look at me. Her face gray and stony. I slap at my pockets, looking
for keys. Fingers numb. I remove the key to my apartment and give it to Rachel,
who takes
it without a word. She gathers the boy, the pillowcase packed by Zoe.
She doesnít say goodbye.
She doesnít love that child, says Zoe.
I donít answer. I donít know what the hell just happened.
She just wanted your fucking apartment.
Maybe.
Iím going to bed, she says.
Zoe walks away from me, pulling the red dress over her head. I stay up for a
while, smoking in the dark. I can hear Zoe crying in the other room, a soft
jerking sound. I strip to my underwear and crawl quietly into her bed. I wrap my
arms around her, around my sister but not my blood. The crying stops and now she
has the hiccups. I pull her hard to my chest and her lips brush my arm. She
kisses the crook of my elbow. The curve of her ass presses against me. I will my
erection to shrink but itís hopeless. Iím about as hard as I can be. Zoe doesnít
move away from me, nor does she move closer. Her breathing deepens slowly and
she mumbles in her sleep and my arms are bright with needles holding her.
Zoe was thirteen when she got her period. She was terrified and didnít want
anyone to know. I found her panties, smeared brown with blood. She had buried
them in the bathroom wastebasket, beneath a heap of ripped tissue. I imagined
she was afraid of what Big Jim would say. But the bathroom wasnít exactly safe
so I took the wastebasket outside. I burned the panties and tissue in the alley,
then scattered the ashes. I had ten dollars saved in a coffee can. I went to
Zoeís room and asked if she wanted to go to the store. Why, she said. I have
some money, I said. Iíll buy us candy. At the drugstore I held her hand. The
floors were bright and waxed. I let Zoe choose a bag of butterscotch candy, then
led her past the shaving cream, the Band-Aids and cold medicine. There were
dozens of different tampons and pads. Zoe was sucking the candy, her face red.
What kind do you need? I said. Her hand small and sweating in mine. Zoe just
shook her head. She said she was going to throw up and went outside. I found a
lady with a nice face and asked her to help me. She told me what kind to buy,
what size. Zoe was waiting for me outside. I gave her the box of pads and told
her to hide them in her room when we got home.
Morning, bright. I realize just how small Zoeís place is. She brings me coffee,
black and sweet. I sit in the armchair.
Are you still keeping that dog? Zoe says.
Grinch, you mean.
Do you think Rachel will feed him?
He's okay.
How long will you stay here?
Not yet noon and the sun is brutal. The heat is like a glove in my mouth. The
door to the apartment is open. A man and woman argue in the alley. Their car
won't start. Dead battery grinding. The man let his brother borrow the cables.
The woman can't believe it.
You trust her, then. Zoe stares at me.
No. I donít trust her.
Then how could you leave your dog with her? And Henry?
I am sweating so intensely I can taste salt on my upper lip. The fan blows
steadily, rattling as it turns. Zoe goes into the kitchen and crashes around.
Sheís worried, thatís all. I think of Grinch. The dog is full grown, a white
shepherd mix. He weighs seventy pounds and his jaws are massive. He would be
much harder to kill than a puppy. The kid, on the other hand. The kid worries
me.
Tonight, says Zoe. I think it might be best if you slept on the couch.
Yes, I say.
Zoe disappears for a while. Pipes crying in the walls and I decide sheís in the
shower. I stretch out like a corpse on the floor. I smoke cigarettes and stare
at the ceiling, searching for patterns in the grooved paint. The phone rings
twice and stops. Zoe comes out of the bedroom, hair dripping. She puts water on
to boil and soon brings me a cup of tea without speaking. She sits on a
barstool. She wears a long sleeveless white T-shirt, wet and transparent around
the neck. The tea is green, bitter. I blow on it, watching her. She smokes one
of my cigarettes. The ash grows long and fragile and I wait for it to fall.
Owen called, she says.
Fuck. What did he say?
Not much. I told him you weren't here.
And?
He said he could hear you breathing.
Motherfucker is crazy.
How did he get this number?
I rub my mouth. I gave it to him.
Why? she says.
I had to. I didnít want him to find Rachel.
She crushes her cigarette. A string of smoke rises.
Thatís sweet. What about me? And Henry.
Henry isnít here.
Zoeís eyes are needle black. I wish you would do something about this, she says.
In the bathroom I throw water at my face. I clean my teeth. I try to clean the
bathroom but itís hopeless. I hear a pounding, heavy and sustained, coming from
the front room. As if someone is beating on the front door with the heel of a
shoe. I come out of the bathroom and Zoe still sits on the stool.
Someone at the door, I say.
The pounding continues, now with long pauses.
I think it's for you, she says.
I go to open it and Owen stands there. The fishing hat is pulled down tight over
his skull. His eyes are swollen and red, his face sweating.
Hey, he says. You want to go to a movie?
Owen. This isnít it a good time
The matinee, he says. It's cheaper.
I hesitate. Come in, Owen.
Who is that? Owen takes a step back.
I glance around at Zoe. Pale yellow hair still dripping. The sun behind her.
Long white T-shirt. Long naked arms and thighs. Bright flash of panties as she
crosses her legs, like a shooting star. I stare hard at her and she presses her
thighs together.
Thatís Zoe, I say. My sister.
Oh. It's a pleasure. Owen's mouth falls open. The edges of his teeth glow like
silver. He scratches his throat. Do you like movies, Zoe?
Let's go, Owen.
My car is hot and damp inside, with the faint smell of dog. The engine coughs
and dies. I light a cigarette. I notice thereís a raw place inside my mouth.
Iíve been chewing it and canít seem to stop. The engine coughs, dies. Iëm
wondering how Owen got hold of Zoeís address. The engine catches finally and I
wait for it warm up. Try the radio but it's dead, and Owen commences to hum,
tunelessly.
I like your sister, he says. Might tell her to put some clothes on, though.
We weren't expecting you.
Huh. I told her over the phone I was coming, he says.
And howíd you find us? I say.
Owen shrugs. Followed my nose.
Right.
Anyway. Sheís got a nice little body. Maybe she's proud of it.
Be careful, Owen.
Sorry. I don't mean any harm.
Owen sits with his knees clutched together. I fasten my seatbelt and Owen shakes
his head violently. He hits the release button and my seatbelt snaps loose.
Dangerous, says Owen. I don't believe in them.
I stare at him. Howís that?
Like to cut your damn head off.
I refasten the belt.
That wreck me and old Sally had, says Owen. I wasn't wearing a belt. Not a
scratch on me.
Yeah. What about Sally?
The Lord wasn't watching out for her.
Oh. Why not?
Owen shrugs. She's a woman.
Right. What does that mean?
Book of Genesis. Woman eats that apple and her destiny is her own.
Owen again reaches for my release button and I stop his hand.
Tell me this. Are you an organ donor? Owen says.
No. As a matter of fact, Iím not.
Smart boy.
How do you figure?
Hell, son. They don't let you in Paradise with a missing kidney.
At the Paris Theater the porn flicks run all day. In the lobby they sell incense
and cock rings and wooden pipes. Condoms and cigarettes. Bright yellow popcorn
and candy. A silent black man stares at us from behind the counter. Owen shrugs
and defers to me. I hold up two fingers and put ten dollars on the counter, for
the tickets. Owen produces a wet clump of singles and buys a vial of rush and a
giant bucket of popcorn.
Extra butter on there, he says.
We enter the dark. I count maybe twelve heads. None of them sitting together.
Owen insists on sitting in the front row. He passes the bucket of popcorn and
begins huffing deeply from the vial. The popcorn smells like burnt hair and the
butter is slimy. I wish Iíd gotten some candy. Owen leans back with a blank grin
on his face. He offers me the vial and it's like sniffing bleach, dizzy at first
then a headache.
The first movie features a young girl with vacant stare and massive breasts. The
dialogue is minimal. The girl has car trouble. A salesman stops in a rental car.
He wears a bad piece, like a gutted squirrel. It slips down over his eyes as he
fucks the girl. They do it on the highway shoulder. The girl naked, on her
knees. There's a lingering shot of his penis going in and out of her asshole.
I bet you like that, says Owen.
Next, a truck driver comes along. He drags the girl into the back of his truck
and fucks her in the mouth. She appears to swallow his entire scrotum, and
presently jet of egg white come splashes across her greedy face.
Owen giggles, stuffing popcorn in his mouth.
Last is a highway patrolman. He reads the girl her rights and takes her to a
shitty motel. He handcuffs her to the bed and shoves his black billyclub deep
inside her.
Now, thatís what I'm talking about, says Owen.
Thatís got to be fake.
Owen jerks in his seat. Are you kidding me?
That thing is at least two feet long.
Don't know much about modern film do ya?
Like what?
Method acting, Owen says. It's all for real.
The credits roll and I get up. Outside the sky is white as a salt flat. Owen
follows me out. I smoke, leaning against the car.
The second feature is starting, Owen says.
I have to go, Owen.
Thereís still some of that popcorn left.
Owen, please. What do you want from me?
Nothing, he says. Iíd like us to be friends though. I figure we're friends you
have to tell me where my Sally is.
I don't know where she is.
Owen stares at the sky. Reckon I'll give you a call.
Do that, I say.
We'll get high and go to the zoo. The reptile house is crazy.
Zoe sits on the floor with photographs scattered around her. Black and white
body parts. Arms and legs and feet. Shoulders,
breasts and throats. She avoids
faces because of her portrait work. She uses a razorblade to dismember her
images. Some of these she will display alone on gray paper. Others she touches
with paint, using a fine hair brush. Her shirt is smeared with paint. She still
wears only the T-shirt and panties and I remember what Owen said. She knew he
was coming. She doesn't look up.
Be careful, Zoe.
What, she says.
The razor. Donít cut yourself.
I sit in the chair by the window. I smoke two cigarettes, one after the other.
My hands shake. I would kill somebody for a drink. I reach for the phone and
dial my apartment. Rachel isn't there but I tell the machine I want to see her.
I tell her to meet me for breakfast the next day, and name a cheap diner. I tell
her to bring Henry. My voice is hard, echoing back at me. Zoe looks up then. She
looks at me the way she used to, when we were kids.
Thank you.
I'm sorry, I say.
She gets up, walks toward me. Brown and green fingerprints like bruises on her
long thighs. She leans to kiss me. I turn and her open lips find my mouth then
pull away. The red tip of her tongue like a ghost against my teeth.
I made some iced tea, she says. It should be cold now.
I stare through her, touching my mouth. I think it's going to rain, I say.

chapter 4 - big empty

Voices drift past like television. Dead weight in my lungs. Rachel wears a short
yellow dress. Legs long and curved. I watch her from across the street. The
yellow dress is thin, transparent in the sun, and when she turns I can see the
dark angle between her thighs. She holds the struggling child to her chest. She
breathes heavily. Sunglasses black across her face and blue bandana tied around
her throat. She stops to shift the child and he throws open his mouth. Long
piercing cry. Rachel pulls open the heavy glass door of cafe and even from where
I stand I can smell the air conditioning.
I cross the street, watching them through the window. Rachel goes to a booth.
She removes the sunglasses and her face is defined by visible bones. Lips like a
cut across her face. The scars thick around her left eye. Her hair is tangled,
brown and white. She bends to put Henry on the floor, his feet drumming. A
waitress comes over, who says something, pointing at the boy. Rachel appears to
agree. She tries to lift him by the armpits. He jerks his head and tries to
bite. Blue of a vein at her temple and her mouth clamped shut. Grinding her
teeth. The boy is strong. He refuses to sit in a chair. Rachel releases him to
the floor, turns to glare at the waitress. Henry puts four fingers in his mouth.
Suck and chew. Rachel sits with her hands flat on the table.
I wait another minute before going inside. Hot air swallows behind me with swing
of door. I scan the room before facing her. The waitress is about forty. Her
legs are shapeless in fleshy tights. She has grease stains across her shrunken
bosom. Rachel is staring at me. Her mouth twisted, amused. The boy is asleep
now, safe under the table. My hands are dirty. Hair falls in my eyes and I brush
it back with my fingers. I am shivering in the sudden cold and now I sit down
across from her.
Iím sorry for hitting you, I say.
Long silence.
Does it hurt?
Bruised, she says.
I want the key to my place.
She licks her teeth. Do you have any cigarettes?
I grope myself for the wrinkled pack.
She pulls out matches, lights one, snaps her wrist and exhales through the nose.
You look like shit. Does Zoe tell you that? she says.
I open my mouth and immediately close it. Rachel places my key in the center of
the table. The waitress appears, a pad and pencil between dull nicotine fingers.
What can I get you folks?
Eggs, over easy. Hashbrowns, I say. And ice water.
Rachel smokes and says nothing. The waitress goes away.
Is Grinch okay?
The dog, you mean?
Yes. The dog.
Rachel shrugs. He's lonely.
I take a stone egg from my pocket, place it on the table.
What is that thing?
Owen gave it to me. He said it was found in the hand of a dead prostitute.
The blue coin of her good eye. She twists her lip.
Is that a threat? she says.
It's a gift, I say.
I'm not a prostitute.
That's right. You're a mother.
Rachel drags her nails across table.
My head feels clotted, as if hungover. Brief clarity then sick. But thatís not
possible. I have been hatefully sober. Rachel is watching me.
One thing, I say. Why did you bite Zoe?
Rachel laughs. An accident, she says. I was kissing her thigh and got excited.
How do you do that? I say. With your eye.
Do what?
It changes colors. When you lie.
No, it doesnít. She takes another cigarette.
The waitress returns with a tray. She unloads the food, two waters, and a
shotglass of sugar packets. I reach for a fork. The hashbrowns are yellow,
glistening. The child wakes up growling. Rachel pulls him to her lap and he
slaps a water glass to the floor. I take a small bite, then cover my plate with
salt.
The child howls, no. His only word. He kicks the table and Rachel's coffee
spills, spreading dark as blood. The waitress moves around us, pushing water and
glass with a mop. I look at the boy, then at my food.
Is he hungry? I say.
No. Give me your water.
I slide the glass over. Rachel tears open four sugar packets, dumps them into
the water, swirls it with spoon. She lifts the glass to the child's open mouth,
blows in his ear. He drinks noisily, becomes calm. For a minute he looks like a
normal baby. One fat red hand pulling his mother's hair. Rachel smiles, eyes
glittering. Ruined lips thin, almost touching.
Sugar, she says. I think heís diabetic.
A storm is moving in. The morning sky is dark and the waitress turns on the
overhead lights. Rachel is watching me.
I'm sorry, I say. I don't want to hurt you.
What do you want?
Zoe wants the baby.
Okay, she says. But I want money.
The waitress comes back, dangles the check in my face. I fish out a wad of bills
and coins scatter from my hand. Rachel whispering to child. I pick up a fallen
coin, put it in my mouth. The taste of dirt. I lift the stone egg, turn it in
electric light. Smooth gray with webs of pink. I offer it to Rachel and she
takes it.
Did Owen really give it you?
No. I found it.
What about the prostitute?
She was dead. Like I said.
What about Owen?
Owen. He's easily confused.
Outside the sky is contorted. Fat drops of rain. I swear her eye changes from
blue to gold. She reminds me to get money and we stop at a machine. Her voice is
slick. The wind blows hair in her mouth. She spits. I shove in the card, punch
my code. Salt on my lips and I wish I had something sweet. Rachel waits,
bouncing the child. The money is bright and new. I push it into my pocket.
She smiles. Do you want to carry the baby? she says.
Together we cross the street. Rachel walks ahead with arms swinging. Her elbows
remind me of scissors. The heavy smell of tar. She stops in the far lane and
crouches, her feet apart. The hem of her dress flapping in the wind. Muscles
jump in my legs, watching her. Her head is lowered between her knees, her hands
loose dangling. Warm raindrops crash around me, large as eyes.
I stop behind her. Henry is heavy and smells like urine.
Look, she says.
Black roots and stiff clumps of grass, knotted in the iron mouth of the sewer. A
clot of intestinal matter at her feet, the color of mucus. A bird, freshly
killed.
Broken wing, she says. Fell to earth.
The bird is large and black, a crow. It appears to be headless but the neck is
only crushed beneath its body. The light changes to green. With a finger Rachel
pokes the creature, rolls it over. A car approaches, fast. The crow's head is
mashed to its chest, the skull like jelly. Broken glass in a cloth sack, wet.
There's a car coming, I say.
The feathers appear to move. I glance at the boy. His thin hair is still.
There's no breeze at all and I realize Rachel is blowing on the birdís body. She
looks up, pleased. She returns the crow to its original position. The car blows
past us, its horn screaming. Rachel shrugs, smiling. Wrinkles twist around her
eyes.
Beautiful, isnít it? she says.
Come on, I say.
She walks away. I follow her to my apartment.
I break the elastic of her panties getting them off. I hold her down by the hair
and tear at her mouth with mine, fucking her on the floor. The laces of my left
boot in a knot, my pants tangled. I fumble with her bandana. Then her tongue
snakes into my ear. Her breath is white, hot. The pain is brilliant, shining but
distant. The telephone rings once, stops.
Then black.
I wake up blind, my hands numb asleep. Rachel is gone. The rush of needles under
skin. A shirt covers my face. I pull myself upright, naked but for one boot. She
must have gotten my pants off. The money. The right side of my head is hot and
throbbing. My throat feels sticky. I swing a dead hand and the phone crashes to
the floor. My own bed is unfamiliar and I smell vomit. I go to the bathroom and
run cold water over my hands. In the mirror my hair is rich with blood. Dried
and black around my right ear, which looks like nothing so much as a torn leaf.
I examine the wound, holding my breath. She bit off the upper half of my ear.
The toilet is right beside me and still I throw up on the floor. Acid in my
throat and nose. Dry heaves. I swallow a mouthful of bile. I dip my hand in the
toilet, splash water to my ear. The water burns and Iím bleeding again.
Porcelain cold and hard against my chest. I wait to be sick again. Itís coming
as sure as thunder.
Grinch appears in the doorway. He gives my ear a casual lick, then turns to eat
the vomit.
I kick at him, weakly. Then I hear a low whimper. Henry is asleep in the
bathtub.
Tucked under the boy's round head is a scrap of paper. I glance at it and the
words swim in my head and I put it in my pocket for
 later. I arrange the boy in
a nylon knapsack, padded with some clothes, so his melon wonít bounce too much.
Zip him up around the armpits. I wrap the end of the dogís leash around my fist
and clip it to Grinchís collar. Near to passing out. The dog pulls us down the
street. He seems to know where heís going. The wind is to our backs, thank god.
My hair is stiff with blood. People turn to look at me and I feel strangely
serene.
I canít manage the door. Zoe opens it and Grinch bolts through, the leash
trailing behind. He finds the toilet and lapping noises echo. Dimly it occurs to
me that Rachel was probably starving him.
Travis. Your head, says Zoe.
I give her the knapsack. She unzips it and holds the baby as he slides free.
The boy is heavy, I say.
What happened to your head?
I brought some extra clothes, too. And the dog.
Travis, she says.
I just hope the little fucker didn't piss on my clothes.
Travis, she says. Why is your hair full of blood?
Zoe is screaming.
Her hand on my head and the ear burns at her touch.
I look around, confused by the horizon. Zoe please. I just want to sleep.

chapter 5 - perish the sun

For two days I stink and fester on the couch. Zoe cleans my wound but I won't
let her bandage it. The bleeding stops anyway, and she smears it with
antibiotic. My skull aches so badly I think Iím blind. Zoe won't let me have
aspirin because the bleeding might start again. She brings me iced tea cloudy
with sugar. I put the melting cubes on my eyelids. She brings a mirror so I can
look at the ear, a torn birdís wing. Grinch sleeps on the floor beside the
couch. Zoe moves, rippling like water around us, doing mother and baby things.
Her small soft feet whisper across the wood floor. She thinks I fought Rachel
for the baby and I donít tell her different. She sings to the boy when he cries.
I wake up and my head feels clear. Looks like mid afternoon. My bladder burns
and I desperately need to bathe. My legs feel funny when I get up. I hear voices
and splashing. Zoe is in the bathtub with Henry. I stand in the doorway and she
smiles at me. Henry has soap on his head. He slaps the water with his tiny open
palms. Zoe asks how I feel. Her small round breasts are shiny and wet. She makes
no move to cover them. I stare at them a tick too long. I feel cold as hell. Iím
freezing. I feel sterile.
I feel better, I say.
I bend to kiss the top of her head and it occurs to me that she can smell me.
She can smell Rachel on me. Henry squeals and chatters. I lift the toilet seat
and urinate loudly.
He's talking more, she says.
He sounds like a fucking monkey.
She doesn't answer and I turn to the mirror. My hair is just long enough to hide
the shredded ear.
Henry goes to sleep without a fight. Zoe and I stay up, drinking coffee. Talking
back and forth in meaningless splinters. Zoe curls up next to me on the floor.
Her hand restless on my stomach, moving like a spider.
Iím sorry about everything, I say.
Donít be, she says.
Iíll work on that.
How is the couch, she says. Comfortable?
It's not bad.
Come to bed with us. With me and Henry.
I follow her to the bedroom. She wears a short cotton nightgown with nothing
under it. She bends to pet the dog and I see a flash of dark blonde pubic hair.
I wear a pair of ridiculous striped boxers she found in her closet. They
belonged to some boyfriend of hers, I donít ask which one. Henry sleeps between
us. Grinch is a shadow in the doorway, watchful. I try to control my breathing,
I try not to move.
Henry is crying and the bed is wet between us. Zoe gets up to tend to him and I
head for the bathroom. When I come out of the shower Zoe is gone.
She left me a note.
Gone shopping. Henry needs clothes. Keep an eye on him, please. Change the
sheets if you donít mind & please put some medicine on your ear. Back soon. Iíll
cook a nice dinner tonight and weíll eat together, the three of us.
Love, Z.
I rip the rancid sheets from the bed and leave them in a knot on the floor.
Henry seems to be learning to walk. He pulls himself up, wobbling with small
fists on the table. I smoke and stare at the television. I open the door for
Grinch. The dog sniffs around the alley, pisses on some shriveled wildflowers
and comes back. Henry falls over, his head cracking against the floor. He
wriggles there like a beetle. I go to help him and faraway, in the back of my
head, I hear screaming.
Zoe crashes through the screen door carrying shopping bags, groceries. She has
treats for the dog. I tell her she looks beautiful. She nods and asks where
Henry is. I donít answer and she finds him asleep on the kitchen floor. His face
is grimy.
Travis, she says.
What.
Don't let him sleep on the floor. It's not healthy.
She carries the boy to the couch. After we put the groceries away she wants to
show off the baby gear. Little white socks and red Chuck Taylors. Overalls and
pajamas. A baseball cap and t-shirts with Batman and Bugs Bunny. Henry wakes up
and she strips off his dirty clothes. She dresses him up in a new outfit. He
doesn't resist. The hat is adjustable and she cinches it tight. Yosemite Sam,
pistols blazing.
I smile and make approving noises.
Isn't he cute? she says.
Oh, yeah. He looks just like Owen.
Really? I think his eyes are like yours. The same green.
He isn't mine. Remember?
White silence.
Did you change the sheets? she says.
I didn't, actually. I forgot.
Iím making pasta for dinner, she says. Clam sauce and a salad.
That sounds good. I'm sorry about the sheets.
I got ice cream, she says. For later.
Zoe goes to the kitchen and begins chopping vegetables. She talks out loud as
she works. She doesn't wait for me to answer. She seems happy.
After dinner, I gather the dishes and pile them in the sink. I dump in liquid
soap and crank up the water, staring through the wall as the bubbles form. Hiss
of insects outside. I light a cigarette and balance it on the windowsill, then
start washing the dishes. I feel so sober itís like my skin is made of bleached
wood. I could kill someone. Zoe sits on the living room floor with a book. Henry
stands next to her, unsteady. He holds onto her blonde hair. Zoe reads aloud
from Winnie the Pooh, her favorite when she was little. I finish the dishes and
come to sit beside her and listen. I massage her feet. Her legs are bare. The
mark of Rachelís mouth is almost gone.
Your legs feel cold, I say.
She keeps reading. I reach under her shirt and stroke her ribs. My finger grazes
the lower curve of her breast. She isnít wearing a bra. Henry has sinus trouble.
His breathing is hoarse and labored and Zoe abruptly pushes my hand away.
Aren't you going to be late for work?
No, I say.
Henry flops over onto Zoeís lap and begins to howl. I pull away from her, gather
my keys. I leave for the Hole.
The night is deathly slow. I rake in eleven dollars in tips. At closing there's
a drunk who won't leave. The bouncer has gone home. Keith comes out of the back.
Fucking sucks, he says. Eight bucks, I got.
He starts to comb his hair, squinting into the dirty mirror. His nostrils are
raw. A lit cigarette hangs from his mouth.
Pull me a draft, Travis.
I reach for a glass. Foam spurts from the tap. Keith notices the drunk.
Let's go buddy, he says.
The drunk is muttering softly. Abruptly he starts crying. He has a crumpled
dollar in one hand. Maybe an inch of beer in the bottle before him.
Let's go. Hey.
The drunk doesn't answer. Keith slips the comb into his back pocket and pats his
hair. He comes around the bar fast and without pausing knocks the weeping drunk
off his stool.
I said let's go. Fuck.
Keith takes a handful of hair and collar, starts dragging the drunk toward the
door. Then changes his mind, swings the drunk up against the wall. He slaps him
across the face. The sound is wet. I dip my thumb into Keith's beer, rub it
across my lips. Tell myself to hate the taste of it.
What's the matter? You fuck. You fuck.
Keith slaps the drunk again and again. Then he looks at me.
You want some of this?
The drunk is hanging from Keith's fist like a sack of clothes. I come around the
bar and study the drunk close. Breathing heavy like a wounded horse.
Think he fainted, I say.
What the hell? says Keith. Give him some.
I bring my fist up from below the waist, slow and heavy, as if Iím wading
through water. I put my weight into it and at the last moment everything
accelerates and like a hammer my fist sinks into the drunk's belly. Breath
escapes his mouth, the smell of sick. Keith releases him and he collapses to the
floor. I feel calm and faraway. Together we drag the guy to the curb and dump
him.
In the car on autopilot and I forget where Iím going. I arrive at my own
apartment and it smells empty. It doesnít smell like me. I slap at the light
switch and I get nothing. Try another one and still nothing. The electricity has
been cut off. I light a match and look around. Feel like Iím seeing it for the
first time and it's really an ugly little place. The furniture is torn and
broken and the windows are all blacked out, like a crazy person lives here. The
television and stereo are the only things of any value. I take the TV down to
the car, thinking Iíll hit a pawnshop tomorrow. The rent will be due soon,
though Iím not sure I want to pay it. Iíd rather live with Zoe. I know itís not
really a family. It barely resembles one. Iím dead inside and Iím shacked up
with my stepsister, a borrowed dog, and a retarded kid. I shake my head and go
back upstairs for the stereo. On the couch is Rachel's bandana. She must have
left it the other day, as I have the only key.
Zoe is still awake when I come in. Her eyes are raw and shifting.
Whatís wrong? I say.
Owen was here. He just showed up.
Why did you let him in?
The door was open. It was hot in here. He just walked in.
Did he see the kid?
No. Henry was asleep, in bed. But
there was a pacifier on the table.
Well. Did he see it?
I donít think so, she says. I think Grinch made him nervous.
Good. What else?
He got me high.
Thatís nice, Zoe. What was it?
He said it was hash but it tasted like dirt.
How do you feel?
Stupid, she says.
Her hands are white, tangled in a knot.
Zoe. Did something happen?
He asked me to go to the zoo with him.
Jesus. What did you say?
I told him to call me. I was afraid to say no.
Don't worry. If anyone goes to the zoo with Owen it will be me.
Is he going to take Henry away?
No, I say. Donít worry about it.
Zoe lights a cigarette.
Did you hear me? I say.
Zoe smokes.
He looks like Gilligan in that hat, she says, finally.
In the morning Iím restless, jumpy. Zoe is feeding the boy. I tell her Iím going
out and not to answer the phone. I stop at a pawnshop downtown and unload the TV
and stereo for forty bucks, then just drive around a while, aimless, smoking.
Almost noon and the sky, thank God, is like flesh on a slab. I donít think I
could stand to see the sun today. The streets are deserted. I stop for coffee at
the corner store. The owner is an old Greek woman named Odessa. She likes me and
always remembers my brand of cigarettes. I remind her that I owe her a dollar
but she waves it away, tells me to keep it. She says a fresh pot is almost
ready. I wait, looking at a magazine. A woman about my age comes in. She wears
cutoff jeans and a sweatshirt, canvas sneakers unlaced. Three little kids trail
along behind her. She acts like their mother. She tells them to hush so she can
think. The little girl gets milk and cheese and butter, holding them in her
shirt. In the back of one aisle the two brothers find a bag of sugar, spilled
open on the floor. They hunch over it, shoving and muttering. They spoon it up
with fingers, smearing their mouths white. The woman hollers at them to get out
of that shit. The smaller boy stops and moves away. I pour coffee into a cup,
peel open the cream substitute. The other boy is eating sugar as fast as he can.
Odessa watches the mother. I stir my coffee. The mother sees her boy still bent
over the sugar and her face twists into a knot. She comes up behind him slow and
silent. She looks at me and touches a finger to her lips. I stare back at her,
stirring my coffee. In a fluid motion the woman slips off one sneaker and smacks
the boy in the back of the head, with a sound like a paddle slapping water. The
boy chokes, spits a mouthful of ropy half-digested sugar, and pitches forward on
his belly. He rolls over on his back and refuses to get up. The other kids run
outside. The woman is screaming at the boy and now Odessa comes around the
counter with a baseball bat in hand. I come to life and step between them, then
think better of it. On my way out I leave two dollars at the register. The boy
and girl wait together by a payphone, sullen and watchful. I feel like I should
reassure them, tell them everything is going to be okay, but I donít think it
is.
I pick up a whore two blocks away. She looks ravaged but she's young and skinny.
Dark red hair shiny with product. Slick white dress clinging to her hips like
rubber. Pale yellow stains under the arms. High silver boots splattered with
mud. She gets into the car, clutching a silver purse. She stinks of perfume and
her face is strangely lopsided. Thereís something wrong with her nose.
What? she says.
Nothing. Is your nose broken?
She wipes it, violently. You a freak? she says.
I shrug. The car idles.
Okay. What do you want?
Whatís on the menu?
Twenty Iíll blow you. Fifty for the whole throw.
I give her fifty dollars. She counts it and slips it down one boot.
And I don't do any freak shit.
I ease the car away from the curb and drive toward the river. She complains
bitterly about the broken radio. I tell her it only works sometimes, when I hit
a bump. She grunts and sniffs. I park near the old bridge. The whore looks out
the window.
I hate the river, she says.
Don't look at it.
She snaps open the silver purse and gives me a condom, then yanks the white
dress up around her waist. She doesn't wear panties and she has no pubic hair at
all.
Wait a minute, I say.
What for?
The condom is bright green, slippery under plastic. Hot breath of wind through
my car window, the stink of the river. I have an image of my stepfather, Big
Jim, drunk and gutting a fish.
Let's get out of the car, I say.
She stares at me. I push open my door.
Let's go, I say.
No way, she says. I don't do it in the grass.
In the backseat she crouches over me, the heels of her boots tearing into cloth
seats. She pulls the dress over her head and drops it to the floor. She has
small breasts with big pink nipples. I suck one of them briefly. It tastes like
a cigarette. Her mouth is open, a string of spittle hanging from the lower lip.
Her breathing is ragged and from this vantage I can see her nostrils are nearly
collapsed. I wrap my hands around her throat. She stares out the window, blank.
My thumbs find the soft hollows under her jaw. I squeeze just hard enough to
stop her breath and now her eyes focus. I release her and let my hands fall like
stones. Iím inside her but I canít feel anything. I close my eyes and again I
think of gutted fish.

chapter 6 - darkness visible

Zoe waits for me at the apartment. Dark smile when I come through the door. She
wears a black bikini top and a white cotton skirt, soft and transparent as a
puff of smoke around her thighs. I mutter hello and go directly to the bathroom,
wash the stink from my hands and face. When I come out I see that Henry too is
dressed to go out. He wears army green overalls and a Batman t-shirt. I look
around. There's a picnic basket on the table, a blue blanket. Two baseball
gloves. A bottle of wine.
Are you hungry? she says.
Starving.
Good, she says. I thought weíd have a picnic.
Okay. Where do you want to go?
To the river, she says. Maybe the sun will come out.
I would surely violate some law of physics if I returned with my sister to the
same spot where I entertained a whore less than an hour ago, and possibly burst
into flames. So I drive to Martyrs Park, a small oasis of green high on the
bluffs overlooking the river. The park was named for those who died while
tending victims of the yellow fever epidemic that wiped out half the city in
1879. Zoe walks slowly toward the bluffís edge, Henry trailing along beside her.
I carry the picnic gear, Grinch trotting beside me. I glance up at the memorial,
a looming sculpture in black iron of bodies narrow and grotesque in a mass
grave. Together Zoe and I spread a blanket in a patch of grass.. The sky is
white with clouds. The heat is almost visible.
In the distance a family plays some kind of game, sort of like kickball. The
father is a fat man in short pants. He kicks the ball impossibly far and the
kids chase it. The mother sits in a folding chair. Along the concrete path, two
boys are training a pit bull. They hold a broomstick high between their naked
chests. The dog hangs there, motionless with jaws locked. He wears a chest
harness. One boy jabs at him with a screwdriver, trying to make him flinch. Zoe
tosses me a glove and I move back a few yards. She gives Henry something to play
with. He flails around on the blanket while Zoe and I just play catch, the way
we did when we were kids. The ball flashing back and forth straight as a rope.
The slap of leather. Grinch runs in a circle, barking. I tell Zoe she has a good
arm for a woman. She throws the ball harder.
The pit bull hangs like a stone between the two boys.
Grinch is watchful as Zoe unpacks the food. Henry yanks viciously on his tail.
The dog growls but never shows his teeth. I give Henry the baseball, hoping to
distract him. He promptly throws it high in the air, and it thumps the dirt at
his feet. Zoe takes the ball away from him.
It might land on his head, she says.
Thatís the idea, I say.
Very funny.
I have a terrible hunger and quickly destroy two turkey sandwiches and an apple.
Then a piece of lemon pie, wash it down with sweet iced coffee from the thermos.
Zoe eats a handful of grapes. She opens the wine, asks if I mind her drinking.
No, I say.
Henry smears his sandwich in the dirt. I extract it from his sticky fingers and
toss it to the dog. Grinch swallows it whole, gagging on the bread. I feel
bloated and sit back to smoke.
Zoe drinks half the bottle of wine.
She takes off her skirt, unfastens the strap of her bikini. She lies on her
stomach in the gray sun. Grinch goes to sleep. I sit beside him, my hand on his
ribs. I can feels the dogís heart thumping, his breath going in and out. Henry
crawls a few feet away. He pulls the head off a dandelion and eats it. A wasp
hovers nearby and I wonder idly if it will sting the boy. I look at Zoe. Her
feet are smooth and curved. Her long legs are pale against the blue blanket. She
reaches back with a finger to adjust her bikini bottom. Her ass is round and
firm as a peach. I look away, at the boys with the pit bull. They lower him to
the ground, wrestling the stick out of his mouth. They strap a muzzle over his
face. One boy clips a chain to the harness, holding on with clenched fists. The
other boy puts on black motorcycle gloves. Over and over he slaps the dog's face
with the flat of his hand.
Zoe and I were five and six the last time we took a bath together. Mother sat on
the toilet, a cigarette in hand, one leg crossed over the other. Smoke twisting
blue from her lips. She looked up from her magazine and warned us not to splash.
The phone rang and she went to answer it. I immediately peed in the water. Zoe
hollered and tried to kick me. Mother thumped the wall with the heel of her
hand. We held our breath and went silent so she wouldnít come back. Bored, I
began flicking my little dick back and forth and soon it was
hard. The water was
shallow. Zoe watching me, curious. She moved closer and lowered her head to
examine my thing. It looks silly, she said. She leaned closer and took it in her
mouth and I became very still. The water around us was like glass. She sucked at
it like it was her thumb. I was scared and hot. I saw black flowers in my head,
then Zoe spat out my dick and claimed it was like having a worm in her mouth.
I smoke cigarettes in the shadow of the martyrs until Zoe wakes up. She asks me
to refasten her bikini top. Even though there has been no sun, her back is
burned. It's almost dusk, the sky is edged with purple. The sky looks like a
bruise. The park is deserted. Across the river the clouds are stretched and
black. Henry is curled up like a bug, snoring on the blanket. Grinch beside him.
How long was I sleeping?
Maybe an hour, I say.
What were you doing?
Nothing, I say. Thinking.
Why do you look guilty?
Iím just thinking.
Zoe reaches for the wine and I throw a stick for Grinch. Zoe smiles at me and I
lean to kiss her, to taste the wine on her mouth. She's drunk and kisses me
harder than she might otherwise. Her tongue darts into my mouth and I remember.
We taught each other to kiss like that, when we were in junior high. She stops
and pulls away.
We should be careful, she says.
Of what.
She takes one of my cigarettes and I light it for her.
It's not normal, she says.
I don't care.
Still, she says. It scares me a little.
Do you like it?
Sometimes. She blows smoke.
Grinch stands at the edge of the blanket, watching us.
Dark when we get home. There are three messages on the machine from Owen. I am
too tired to care. Zoe puts Henry on the couch. He doesnít wake. I sprawl on the
floor, drained by the heat. Zoe lies down beside me and promptly passes out, her
lips red with wine. I carry her to bed and undress her. Zoe is naked on her
back. Her hair falling loose against the white pillow. Her skin is burned, red
with gold. She's beautiful and I cover her with a sheet. I take off my clothes.
I remember the messages from Owen and go to make sure the doors and windows are
locked. I unplug the answering machine and leave Henry sleeping on the couch
with the dog. I crawl into Zoeís bed without touching her.
I donít remember falling asleep. The dark is blue and endless and I am violently
awake. My skull pulses, like I have a fever. Zoe beside me. She hovers between
sleep and waking, her hand moving fierce between her thighs. Sheís so wet I can
smell her. And Iím hard in my own hand, my skin aching. Zoe mumbles and moves
her legs further apart and I am dying to be inside her. She moves her hips,
pulsing faster and faster against her own hand. She cries herself awake, her
orgasm rocks the bed. Her body slows and finally stops, and she trembles as I
come on her belly.
In the morning Zoe doesn't want to talk about it. She smokes one cigarette after
another. Henry cries like a machine. I start a pot of coffee. There isn't any
cream. Zoe likes cream with coffee and I offer to go get some. She shakes her
head.
Zoe, I say.
She watches her cigarette burn. The telephone rings.
I'm going out with Henry, she says. I'll be gone all morning.
Where? I say.
I have to see someone.
The telephone still rings.
Where are you going? I say.
I want you to be gone when I get back, she says.
The telephone still rings.
What? I say.
This isnít healthy, she says.
Zoe, please.
We arenít a family, she says. Her voice breaks.
The telephone rings. Close my eyes and try to feel something. Eleven times the
phone rings and finally I reach for it.
Donít, she says.
I get in my car and just drive around. The radio is working for once. I turn it
up so loud it sounds like something on fire. Grinch rides in the back seat,
worried. As if he did something wrong. I scan the street, looking for the whore
with red hair. Irrational, I know. But I feel like this is her fault and I want
to do something to her.
Eventually I give up. I stop at the bank. I wait in line to get a balance
statement from the machine. It looks like I gave most of my money to Rachel.
There is barely enough left to pay the rent and eat for a few days. I withdraw
it all. Tell myself I need to find Owen. He doesnít know it, but heís not going
to bother Zoe anymore. Iíll tell him Sally left town, Iíll make something up.
She took the train to New Orleans. It might even make sense. She lived down
there for a while. She danced in some shitty club. Owen will believe me. Iíll
give him some money for the train, enough to get him there. I steer myself to
the Paris Theater. The same black guy is behind the counter. He nods, as if he
recognizes me. His eyes penetrate, soft as a whisper.
Do you remember me? I say.
He grunts and touches himself. The popcorn smells like hair.
Is that popcorn fresh?
He laughs. Never. Not since I been here.
Does anyone ever eat it?
Only your friend. Freaky white boy. Extra butter.
Have you seen him?
Not today. But itís still early.
I consider going to the zoo. I imagine Owen wandering around, stoned. Fearful of
the snakes and muttering to himself. Eating licorice and chewing his lips.
Across the street is a liquor store. Eleven in the morning, theyíve just opened.
I walk in and take a bottle of vodka from the freezer. It's going to be a hot
day. I give the clerk twelve dollars. Folded in my wallet is Rachel's note. Damp
with sweat and torn. I go back to the car. Sit in the driverís seat with the
windows rolled up. I talk to Grinch. I tell him weíre waiting for Owen, that the
vodka is for him. The bottle is white with frost. I tell Grinch itís a birthday
present. To make Owen trust me. Then we can fucking be friends. The dog growls
in his sleep. I unfold the note. Rachelís handwriting is cramped and jagged. The
ink has bled and most of the words are lost.
I donít hate her sexy good mother animals are good
mothers no emotion mother lion ate two of her cubs were sick
Henry I wanted you Josephine said only she would have you
beautiful girl I make you sick you fuck me you hate me
accident I was excited so much blood kill someone
because it's silly donít be surprised if you see me be glad
Sally
sometimes, Rachel.

chapter 7- crucible

The bottle is warm, body temperature. Empty. I pick at the red label. Mutter the
words to some song I can't remember. It's a beautiful song though and I fumble
with the volume knob on the radio. Nothing. I look out the window. Paris
Theater. Something cold touches the back of my arm and I jerk my head against
the car door. Dog in the back seat. Cold dog nose. I say hello and the dog
whines, thumping his tail. The grinch. I lean over and push open the other door.
Tell the grinch to go on, take him a piss. Stay out of the street, boy. I watch
him through the window. Smoke. I want to smoke a cigarette.
Something banging on roof. Hollow metal. Someone knocking. Wide lips with
mustache leaning in window. Shiny silver tie dangles from throat. Hey fuckface
this ain't no park. Get yer sucking dog and move this car out my lot. Laughing,
Iím laughing. Tell the mustache I feel great. Five minutes yer sorry fuck. Okay
okay okay fuck. No problem, I whistle for the grinch. The car won't start. Look
down and key is broken off in ignition. I hit the dashboard once, twice. I beat
the dashboard until my fist is purple still laughing. I guess weíre walking,
Grinch boy. Lock the car as I get out. Stare at the broken key, stupid. Tell the
grinch what we need is a cold beer.
Long walk and hot as a mother. Too early. Nobody home this place. Neon beer
signs in window dark. Face flat on black glass. The grinch flops down on
sidewalk. Tongue hanging out pink. Thirsty boy. I know. Next place is open,

though. Sweet's Place. Dark velvet cool inside jukebox glow. In pocket are two
twenties and a ten and cigarettes. Put money on bar flat. Focus and speak
without slur. Draft and a shot of vodka and some water. Tell old man Sweet the
grinch is my seeing eye dog and I need him. Legally blind but I can see little
bit.
Muscle control no good bathroom stall and door hangs one hinge. Cigarette on
toilet edge burns out yellow track. Slow piss burn. Blue ink words swim on
brick. Only thing white man fears is black dick. Under that says die nigger die
and come suck it. Little ugly man leaning into white chrome. Want to get high
good shit the best. Smiling he says twenty bucks or blow me and he unzips pants.
I am shaking head no thanks. I swing my fist swinging ugly dwarf man bobs
sideways and Iím almost falling. Throw another and hit him in throat. Ugly man
falls over cock in hand. Then Iím kicking his face stomping him with heel of
shoe and blood flash dark. Zipper caught on pants and wet shoes is time to go.
Girl says come with me. Her face lost in shadow. I am crammed in car, back seat.
Hand up her dress. Then come to a party. Dark house floors wet and slick
vibrate. Bodies slam into walls. Scream and smoke. Drag through kitchen then
outside. Drums and feedback whine black guitar. In silence brightly sleep calls.
Glass breaking colors sharp relief and fire in pit. Flames move fingers shadows
running. Bodies leaping pit. Girl stumbles leg on fire laughing says it feels
like ice. Then on sidewalk watching someone vomit and strange tongue hot in
mouth. Hand pulling my dick. Do you have any money give me the money. Back
inside house girl with terrible face whispering tight pants. Bedroom with guy
his face dark only teeth and hat pulled low. Lock fucking door it's hot and
windows painted shut. Girl circling like wolf. She blows in my ear my torn leaf
and laughs. Take your shirt off. Blue flame. Heat it slow don't suck on it like
a cigarette boy take it deep inside
like a dick let it get in your blood. Black
light. Hold your breath hold it hold your breath. I canít see the girl but I can
feel her I can almost touch her.
Dark, wet grass. Thin trees shake half moon white. Voices carry from a house.
Mosquitoes rape the skin but my hand won't lift to slap. Cigarette between
fingers but I don't remember lighting it. On the ground next to me is a heavy
piece of wood. Polished surface and slightly curved. One end sawed off the
length of my arm. This is an axe handle. The house is familiar. I put the
cigarette to my mouth. Tongue like ash and I spit. The skull hurts. I decide to
enter the house, to find someone, anyone. My legs heavy in wet jeans. I leave
the axe handle where it lies. Iíve been drinking. And by the taste of my hole,
smoking rock. I wonder where Grinch is.
Stink of incense bitter and music throbbing. Bodies on the floor whisper curses
as I stumble over distended arms and legs, strange and boneless. Muscle and sigh
under sliding flesh. Bright doorway is the kitchen. White and black tile floor
buckled with water damage. A young boy stands at the sink, his chest naked. He
sways from the hip. His left nipple is pierced, glitter of gold. Another boy
sits on the floor, his baby face trembling. He sneezes repeatedly. The sides of
his head are shaved, tattoo of pterodactyl under black stubble. The first boy
offers a carved wooden pipe.
The shit, he says.
Excuse me, I say.
Push past the kid to get to the sink. Hold myself upright with one hand, grope

for the faucet. Open mouth under water turning cold. Rinse the ash and spit.
Then I lean on the sink.
Have you seen a dog? I say. A big white dog.
The boys look at each other and giggle.
Where is the bathroom, then?
Boy on the floor sucks air through teeth.
Where?
Upstairs, he says.
The carpet is muddy gray and wet. Narrow hallway with doors on each side. Legs
unfold along the walls. Colorless facial features. Eyes and lips moving slow
without recognition. A bare light bulb wobbles above and shadows jump as arms
rise and fall, smoking. No one speaks to me. I open a random door to the sound
of fucking. Two girls and a boy. Lit by candles their bodies seem unstable.
Faces hidden in black crotches. Eating each other. I mumble, sorry. I just want
to find a bathroom. Lock the door for five minutes. Sit on the edge of
porcelain, study the mirror to make sure the face looks like mine. Next door is
a bedroom. Bare futon mattress on wood floor. Clothes heaped. Only light is from
a reading lamp aimed down in corner. Shadows huge and liquid crawling walls. On
the futon is a white male facedown. Sleeping or unconscious. His back and
shoulders are bloody. The wall above mattress splashed red. I linger for a
moment then pull the door softly shut.
I find a bathroom and the face is still mine. Iím wearing a t-shirt, dark blue.
The ruined ear, scabbed and tender. I hold both wrists under cold water. My arms
feel steady. I take off my shirt. The chest and stomach look normal. Dark stains
on the shirt and I press it to my face. Liquor sweat cigarettes perfume salt. I
canít separate them but the dominant scent is Rachel's. The date on my watch
says 9 July. Thursday. I was born on a Thursday but was it Thursday when I put
this blue shirt on. When I left Zoe. I wasn't planning to see Rachel. I was
looking for Owen. I wanted to tell him something, I wanted to do something to
him. I throw water on my face and chest and use my shirt for a towel. Open the
medicine cabinet, find aspirin and diet pills and vitamins. I take two of each.
Then suffer the shift. Dull flash remember, then rapidly to black. We took our
shirts off because of the heat. Windows shut to keep the air still. Eyes white
unblinking. Blue flame hissing like a jet. The rock twisting bubbles slow
cooking. Every detail agony. Skin shining with sweat. I recognize the face.
Pulse thick and breath stopping.
I run back down the hall, blue stained shirt still in hand. The body on the
futon hasn't moved. The room stinks and I slam the door. My fingers find the
throat and thereís no pulse. I lift the reading lamp from corner. The bulb
smells like burning flesh. The mattress around the head is brown. Roll him over
and thereís a tearing sound. His forehead is stuck with dried blood. He's been
hit in the head with something heavy, his nose and mouth bashed in. He looks
different without the fishing hat, but itís Owen. His head is small, the bald
spot pink. Shadow of a beard and thick lips pale. The scabbed cold sore in the
corner of his mouth. Owenís eyes are open, black with clotted blood. His body is
laced with cuts, some of them to the bone. Tendons and gray ropy tissue have
been pulled from his arms. One of his thumbs has been sawed off.
My hand slips from the bloody shoulder.
I sit down beside the futon, notice a small black backpack open on the floor.
Dig through it and find cottonballs, rubbing alcohol, hemostat, baking soda,
torch, and pipe. A crumpled pack of cigarettes, a wallet. I extract the last
cigarette from the pack. I try not to touch anything else. The stains on my
shirt. The axe handle in the yard, slick and wet in the grass, the length of my
arm. I have a knife in my pocket but I donít want to look at it.
The axe handle is gone. Someone came along and took it. Or else I can't remember
where I was napping. Time to disappear. I didn't see anyone in the house I knew
but they might well know me. I tend bar in a pretty popular dive. Everybody
fucking knows me, it seems. I start walking. Not exactly sure what part of town
this is, Iím so disoriented. Check my pockets and find seven dollars, some
coins. The knife. Ring of keys, one of them broken. My wallet is gone. I want to
find a payphone, but who to call. Zoe is not speaking to me. Rachel might know
something but she will surely lie to me.
The sickness is setting in. Stomach fear and raw ache in the head. The memory
guilt of sleepwalking. Twelve hours Iíve been in the black.
Find a working payphone, shut myself inside and still feel exposed. I have four
quarters and I know I will have to call Rachel. Even if she lies she might give
me half the truth. The truth, mangled and stillborn. I try Zoe first. She may
not want me but she loves me. Dial the number and let it ring. Two in the
morning and I get the machine. I say her name and wait. The machine disconnects.
Dial tone. Without thinking I plug in more coins and dial my own apartment.
Rachel answers on the second ring.
It's me.
Who is this?
Travis.
It's late. I'm trying to sleep.
What are you doing there?
Travis. What do you want?
What are you doing at my place?
This is my place. I live here.
Doesn't matter. Is Grinch there?
The dog? I haven't seen him.
I lost him. I lost Grinch.
Is that why you called?
Listen. Rachel. Were you with me tonight?
I don't think so. I've been home all night.
Really. I can smell you on my clothes.
What are you wearing?
A blue shirt.
I'm wearing a white dress. I borrowed it from Zoe today.
Rachel please.
A white cotton dress, like a nightgown. I feel like Ophelia.
For godís sake, Rachel.
Was it a nice party?
No. It wasn't nice.
What do you want?
I want to come home.
Iím sorry.
I pay the fucking rent.
The power is off.
Rachel. I think I'm in trouble.
What do you mean?
I think I did something.
Are you sure you don't remember?
No. I don't.
Travis. What did you do.
I don't know. I don't know.
Itís good to forget.
Rachel. I need a ride. I left my car somewhere.
I have your car.
I shove a fist into my left eye and try to think. The car key is broken, the nub
still on my ring. Rachel asks where I am, and now I look around. Near the
hospital. The parking lot brightly lit. Insects hissing. Thereís a waffle house
down the street. I can smell fried bread and salt. She tells me to wait for her
there.
I stand outside a minute, paranoid. Thereís only one customer inside, a shaky
looking old guy. He holds a coffee cup in two hands, trembling as if confronting
his mother's breast. The waitress is a heavy woman leaning over the counter with
a yellow sponge. I should be safe. The waitress will call me honey. I open the
door, nervous under sudden white light. Look down. The stains on my shirt. I go
directly to the bathroom, noting that thereís an old world cigarette machine in
the corner. In the bathroom I turn the shirt inside out and put it on again, and
itís marginally improved. I come out and takes a booth facing the door. A radio
behind the counter is tuned low to a country station.
The waitress smiles. What will you have, dear?
Coffee, please.
After a minute a saucer and cup rattle before me.
Are you alright? she says.
Her face is pale and kind. She's chewing gum.
I think so, I say.
Cream with that?
No, thanks.
Shuddering silence. I ask her to give me change so I can buy cigarettes. She
nods and dips into her pouch as I pull out one dollar after another and a long
stretching moment later I stand before the machine with a handful of quarters.
My hand is unsteady and I tell myself to be careful. Finally, the machine rings
true and I collect the pack below.
Can I get a square from you little brother?
The old man. The skin wrapped around his skull is of two colors. Patches of
yellow and brown. His clothes are rotten. I shake out a cigarette and as he
reaches for it I see his fingers have been broken countless times. The old man
licks the butt and shoves it deep into his mouth, gray lips collapsing around
it. He blows a massive cloud of smoke.
Thank you.
No problem.
The old man wrinkles his mouth and sniffs. You hurt yourself?
No.
He grunts. You smell like blood.
I back away from him, touching my ear.
The waitress fills my cup three times and asks if I want a menu. She sounds
worried about me and finally I agree to a piece of pecan pie. She empties my
ashtray. I begin to think
Rachel isn't coming. She went back to sleep. I mention
this to the waitress as she delivers my slice of pie and she just nods. Whatever
you say, honey.
I wonder where the hell Grinch is, where I lost him. I try to remember meeting
up with Owen. I remember looking for him. He was looking for me and I reckon we
found each other. Owen had a rock and wanted to smoke it. I was drunk as a lord.
Throwing money around. I can still taste the coke in my lungs, my teeth. Like
the smell of oranges left over from a dream. I close my eyes and try to
reconstruct. If Rachel was in that room I can't see her. Owen's face, crushed.
Something started in the perfect shadows. Eyes flashing like hammers. The twist
of a mouth. Owen pressed me about Sally, the baby. I told him I didnít know
anything. Owen pushed me and said the wrong thing. What kind of guy fucks around
with his own sister. There was a piece of wood leaning against the wall and I
picked it up. I could do that. I could do anything.
Reflection of a police car rolls through dark windows. Two cops get out and walk
toward the door. Short sleeve summer uniforms, gun belts bulky with gear. Black
boots bright. They come in and take seats at the counter, Billy clubs dangling.
An empty stool left between them. Faces at an angle to mine. Cop faces. They are
young and leave their hats on. The waitress brings them coffee. Hello boys, she
says. You look tired.
They nod and mutter.
The old man concentrates on a plate of biscuits and gravy. I stop breathing. Try
to be very still in my booth. Not looking for me, theyíre not looking for me.
These boys are off duty and they don't give a shit. Iím invisible. I could
scream and set my hair on fire and they would ask for more coffee. After a
minute I feel myself begin to twitch. My head is tilted to one side. Lips barely
parted, breathing. My cigarette burns untouched in the plastic ashtray. I lift
my cup and it's empty.
I am now openly staring at the cops.
Headlights sweep the window and go black. I turn and see my own car parked
beside the police cruiser. I canít tell if anyone is at the wheel. Turn around
and one of the cops is looking at me. Heís looking at me. His eyes curious and
hard. My hand goes numb and I drop the coffee cup. It clatters on the table,
spinning. I catch it before it hits the floor. The cop stands, stares through
me, tugs at his belt. He walks toward the bathroom. The other one is murmuring
to the waitress.
I turn to the window again. I see a girl in a white dress, running barefoot in
shadows. Sheís running away. I put my money on the table. I walk slowly to the
door and outside. The girl is gone. My car is idling, the windows rolled down. I
open the driverís door and the dome light flicks on bright. I climb in as the
car coughs and dies and the interior goes dark. Thereís just enough light coming
from the waffle house to see. In the backseat Grinch is curled very still, as if
asleep. He doesnít look right and Iím afraid to touch him. I fumble around to
restart the car but thereís no key. The ignition casing is gone, hammered off.
Thereís a screwdriver on the dashboard, next to my wallet. On the passenger seat
is a fishing hat, smeared with blood and mucus. The vinyl seat is sticky and
wet. On the floor is a black piece of wood the length of my arm, the axe handle.
I reach for it and my hand comes away with bits of what my head screams is brain
matter warm and wet stuck between the fingers. I wipe them violently on my
jeans.
The stink of copper.
Grinch has not yet moved.
Thirty seconds tick by distinct as raindrops on scorched earth. I reach around
and put my hand on the dogís head and my heart stops briefly as Grinch thumps
his tail and presses his cold nose to my skin.
Hey, boy. Letís get out of here.
I tell myself I have to be cool. I have to act like this is the most ordinary of
ordinary days and I have all the time in the world. I pick up the screwdriver
and stab it into the ignition. The car makes a terrible grinding noise and
refuses to turn over. I screw my eyes shut and try again and again the noise is
sickening.
Now footsteps.
Do you have a problem, boy?
I open my eyes and the cop is leaning in my window, one hand on his belt.
In the rear view mirror I see once more the flutter of a white dress disappearing like a moth in the dark.
End.