Bewilderness

by Karen Tucker

  Paulo came by and paid us. Cash as promised. Sure enough, he kept dropping hints about a lucrative side business he thought the two of us might be perfect for, especially after he saw our numbers, but Luce was so far off in her own thoughts that his little insinuations and coded language didn’t register so much as a blip on her radar. He had the majestic planetary proportions that Pandora had mentioned, with an old Ron Jon Spring Break 2009 tee stretched across his belly even though it was autumn. Pale linen trousers, leather flip-flops. A stack of shell bracelets rattled gently as he followed Luce around our booth. When it became clear his wooing methods were going nowhere, Paulo gathered up his sack of tickets and gave Luce a regretful look over his shoulder. “You ever change your mind, you call me anytime. Day or night, I mean it.”

  She zipped up her hoodie and shrugged past him. As I hurried after her, the Victoria’s Secret girls let out a scornful laugh.

  It wasn’t until we were walking back to our car that Luce began to snap out of it. She turned to me. “Listen.” Her voice was small and unsteady. “I’m sorry again about what I said before. Thing is, I don’t exactly have a great track record when it comes to friendships. Somehow or other I always fuck them up. But I don’t want to ruin things with you, so . . .” She snuck a cautious glance at me. “Can we maybe forget everything and pretend it never happened?”

  I thought of Wilky, and the way he and Luce looked at each other. I thought of my father smiling up at me from his hospital bed. I thought of the rolling pink sun that morning, and all the other incalculable losses I knew were rushing straight toward me.

  I slipped my hand into Luce’s and held it tight as possible.

  “Already forgotten,” I said.

  AFTER LUCE ASKED ME TO HANG ON TO HER PHONE, she kept everything on the level. Attended every 1:30 meeting. Daily one-on-ones with Greenie. No one sketchy showed up at our house unannounced. And yet I had zero doubt that she was thinking about using. Of course she was! Believe me when I say that if someone you love ODs and doesn’t survive it, more than anything you’ll want to medicate yourself out of that particular torture—even if it means dosing yourself with their exact same poison. There’s more than one way to get close to someone.

  It was me who found Wilky’s online obituary, which set things rolling down a different hill altogether. The two of us were at the kitchen table drinking our morning coffee. Luce kept turning to stare out the window, unable to keep up a conversation for more than a few seconds despite my best efforts. At last I gave up and started messing around on my phone. I told myself I only wanted to find something funny on Reddit so I could make her laugh a little, but I guess part of me was also thinking about Wilky. It wasn’t long before I found myself typing his name into my browser. Bam! Up popped his obit. Without thinking, I read it aloud. There weren’t any details about what happened, as if the way he’d died was somehow humiliating or shameful. All it talked about was his cheerful personality and how he was always helping others. His military service, his college degree. Instead of flowers, mourners were asked to donate to the Melanoma Research Foundation, which seemed like a sneaky way of implying he’d died of skin cancer instead of addiction. At the end were the names of surviving family members. No mention of Luce.

  The funeral was listed as private, but a memorial service was being held that Sunday. His parents were hosting it in their home in Greensboro. As soon as Luce heard that, she announced we were going to borrow a car and drive ourselves up there. Never mind she’d never met his family or that Wilky hadn’t talked to any of his relatives since getting his Bad Conduct Discharge. As gently as possible, I suggested we might want to sit this one out. Getting caught behind the wheel could land us in some serious trouble since we still had suspended licenses, not to mention his mom and dad might not be all that eager to meet us.

  She set her coffee mug down with an angry thud. “Fine. I’ll go without you.”

  As fast as I could, I told her I wanted to go, of course I did. More than anything. “It’s just we weren’t invited. I don’t want to upset anyone, is what I’m saying.”

  “It’s a memorial for fuck’s sake! People are supposed to be upset. Besides, no one sends out invites, you’re just supposed to show up, cry, eat some macaroni salad. It’s called being a human being!”

  By this point I was scrambling to open up Google Maps. “Okay, you’re right, we’ll take a bunch of back roads to get there and avoid all the state troopers. We’ll make this work. You want me to ask Boz about borrowing his car? Or maybe Carmela.”

  “We’re not asking anyone from the rooms. Greenie finds out we’re driving, she’ll make us do a bunch of step work.” Luce looked at me. “I know. Call Nogales.”

  “No way,” I said. “Forget it.”

  “Knowing him, he’ll probably want to drive us up there himself. It’s perfect.”

  “I already said no!”

  “Okay okay, don’t get all worked up,” Luce said. “Give me my phone then. I’ll text Lonny. He owes us.”

  An alarm somewhere inside me began beeping. Not super loud—more like your microwave letting you know your tater tots are ready. A relic from our former life, Lonny was a skinny old Gulf War vet who had the highest tolerance I’d ever encountered. Never sold his meds, except maybe a few tramadols on occasion. Still, I didn’t want him getting anywhere near Luce. “I’ll hit him up. You’ve got enough to deal with.”

  A moment passed and Luce relented. “Fine.” She angled her head toward the window and soon she was drifting back to the place she’d been before the whole obituary weirdness, wherever that was.

  Once he heard the situation, Lonny agreed to loan us his old Mazda coupe on the condition we return it first thing the next morning. It was American-cheese yellow—not great for dodging law enforcement. Luce insisted on driving, which I wasn’t crazy about either. Even before getting popped for possession she had two speeding tickets on her record and that’s not counting all the times Nogales or one of his buddies let her off with a warning. But the Mazda was a stick shift and I sucked at stick shift, so that was that.

  The morning of, we woke early and took our time getting ready. The only black dress I owned was the one I’d worn to my dad’s funeral a few years earlier, but if I didn’t let myself think about it, it wasn’t too upsetting. Luce’s only black dress was a strappy lace mini, which she paired with her favorite high heels. Neither of had us black coats, so we made do with our army surplus parkas, and after checking the taillights and brake lights to make sure they were in order, we got in the car and set out for Greensboro. I was in charge of navigation, and between watching my phone and looking for cops and thinking about Wilky, it wasn’t long before the low-level nausea I’d had all week ramped up into high digits. I glanced at Luce. “You sure about this? It’s not too late to turn around if you want to.”

  She took one look at me and went back to driving. “You better not barf all over this car.”

  Despite the endless looping side roads and spotty cell service and the sheriff’s deputy who tailed us for four sweaty miles before turning onto an access road, we made it to Wilky’s parents’ place without any problems. A two-story brick house at the end of a cul-de-sac, it looked harmless enough. Black shutters, red door, a chimney with pale smoke curling skyward. You could tell by the sweetish odor in the air they weren’t burning any old trash-tree firewood either and had gone for something fancy like applewood or cherry. They’d also sprung for a valet service, but it wasn’t so hard to find a spot for the cheese-mobile a couple streets over. As we walked back to the address, Luce kept pulling at the hem of her dress, trying to yank the fabric a few inches lower. I told her everything would go great and she should try not to worry. “I mean let’s be real. They’re just people.”

  “Hope you’re right,” she said with a final tug.

  Once we got inside though, their home felt cozy, welcoming even, despite being huge and built for rich people. Sunken living room with a fireplace at one end and a
grand piano at the other. Built-in bookshelves that ran floor to ceiling. A fat brown leather sofa with a bunch of fat leather armchairs to match. On the rear wall hung a giant painting that was nothing but a bunch of crude slashes of green with a few muddy splatters, so hard-core in its ugliness you could tell it was worth a fortune. Maybe one day Luce and I would have a painting like that.

  We hung our parkas on the rack by the entrance, hiding them among sleek wool trenches and satiny puffers. After spotting the buffet set up in the dining room, we decided a little something on our stomachs might help us relax. You should have seen the spread these people had going. We loaded our plates with everything from shrimp-and-grits shooters to miniature chicken-and-waffles to bite-size pieces of salmon carved into roses. Rich people sure must like tiny food. Luce, who could really put it away when she was nervous, wrapped a bunch of raspberry thumbprints in a napkin for later. When she slid them into her purse—a fake Louis with greening hardware—a woman with a cropped bristle of hair peered down at us over a pair of fancy black glasses. Definitely not the kind of person who bought purses out of the back of a Pontiac Grand Am. She took a step closer. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Wilky’s aunt Nora.”

  Luce glanced up at her, her face softening with pleasure. “Oh my god, it’s so nice to meet you. I’m Luce. Wilky’s girlfriend.”

  As Aunt Nora took this information in, her expression shifted from the whole scolding-professor vibe to something else entirely. Like she’d just encountered something she felt a little disgusted by. Without saying anything else she headed toward what I guessed was the kitchen. Even her backside looked confused and angry. I turned to Luce. “Maybe we should try to find his mom and dad.”

  Nearby, a guy with a floppy brown topknot and an Ultimate Catering apron was pouring wine behind a little portable bar set up for the occasion. From the way he was struggling to fill a tray of plastic cups without spilling, you could tell he was pretty inexperienced as a server. Either that or he was pretty baked. I motioned to Luce and we made our way over. “Excuse me,” I said. “Can you point out the parents?”

  He blinked at us. “What parents.”

  “You know,” I said. “The reason we’re here in the first place?”

  “The guy who ODd,” Luce said a little too loudly.

  “No way,” he said. “What happened?”

  Instead of answering, Luce plucked a cup of wine off his tray and sniffed it. “Wow, someone busted out the good stuff. Nice legs too,” she said, giving it a swirl. She looked close to tossing it back in a single swallow and as calmly as I could, I took the cup out of her hand, put it back on the tray with the others, and led her over to the piano where it was less crowded.

  We stood there eating in uncomfortable silence. All around, you could feel glances sliding over our bodies. It’s true my old funeral dress could have been let out a few inches and Luce’s stretchy black mini and teetering stilettos weren’t exactly going unnoticed. She leaned into my ear. “Is it me, or is this place Puritan Central?”

  “Episcopalian if I had to guess. Listen, we hit the road now, we can still make the 1:30.”

  “For your information,” she said, examining a mini–crab cake, “I’m not going anywhere. Not until I meet Mr. and Mrs. Rowland.”

  I looked at her. Damp eyes, red nostrils. The bloom of chin acne that arrived like clockwork every twenty-nine days. Something in my chest went hot and spiky. There are people in this world you’ll do anything for, even if you know you’ll regret it later.

  “Okay, sure,” I said.

  I was scanning the room for potential Wilky parents when a man’s voice came out of nowhere. “Pardon me, can I ask you girls a question?”

  We looked up in a single motion. It was like the future silver-haired version of Wilky had materialized right there before us. Luce’s hand flew up to her mouth and even I took an uneasy step backward.

  The man introduced himself as Wilky’s father. “I’m told one of you is Wilky’s girlfriend?”

  Luce nodded, her face rumpling with sorrow.

  “Nice to meet you, sir,” I said. I told him our names and offered our condolences.

  “Thank you, dear,” Wilky Senior said. From the tender-looking pouches under his eyes you could tell he hadn’t been sleeping and from the sickly-sweet odor of whiskey that radiated all around him it was clear he was pretty drunk. He turned to Luce. “I’m so sorry we never got to meet before this. I feel absolutely terrible about it.”

  Luce wiped her cheeks with her wrist and did her best to smile up at him. “Same.”

  They started chatting. Cautiously at first, but it wasn’t long before they were sharing all sorts of memories about Wilky, exchanging stories. They even worked up a small laugh at one point. It hit me that if I could just find his mom and bring her over, we could wrap up this whole memorial business and still have time to make our meeting. I excused myself, telling Luce I’d be back in a minute, but she kept her eyes fixed on Wilky Senior as if I didn’t exist at all.

  I headed past the wine station and the buffet and into the white-hot lights of the kitchen. Maybe Aunt Nora, who must have steered Wilky’s dad in our direction, could point me toward his mom. But the room was empty except for a gloomy-looking woman standing at the far end of a butcher-block island. She was only a few years older than Luce and me. She had a wineglass in one hand and a bottle of red in the other.

  “Can I help you?” she said.

  I told her I was trying to find Wilky’s mother. “You don’t happen to know where she’s at, do you?”

  The woman looked me over. She had on a skinny black suit and one of those short fashiony haircuts where the top part is longer than the sides and bottom. Sort of like a fancy crest on a bird. “Sorry, but how do you know Wilky exactly?”

  Not wanting to get into details, I said we’d met back during his days at 82nd.

  The answer must have satisfied her because she lowered her gaze long enough to take a hefty swallow of wine. “She stepped outside for some air. I’m Kit, by the way. Wilky’s sister.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said. “It’s awful.”

  She nodded. “Want some?” She waggled the bottle.

  I told her no thank you.

  “More for me then.” She topped off her glass.

  For a few minutes, Kit and I made small talk. Turned out she was the co-owner of a steakhouse in downtown Greensboro—the kind of place where servers wore jackets and ties instead of greasy aprons and the prices ended in even numbers instead of 99 cents. When I told her I waited tables she brightened in pleasure.

  “I bet you’re good at it too. I can tell by looking, you know how to hustle.”

  “I do my best,” I said. “Yes sir, I’d love to pick all the raisins out of our carrot salad for you. More ranch coming right up. Split the check eighteen ways with eighteen different credit cards? I’d be delighted.”

  “Half sweet tea, half unsweet?” said Kit. “You ever get that one?”

  “You have to make a whole special pitcher just for their refills,” I said. “Last week a woman came up to me at the computers and asked if I’d stir a packet of Equal into her White Zin before I brought it to the table. Like what kind of person does that?”

  “A sociopath,” Kit said.

  We were still laughing about that when a weary gray-faced woman came into the kitchen, struggling to carry a large cardboard box. “Give me that,” Kit said, hurrying over.

  “I’m fine.” The woman heaved the box onto the counter. “This keeps up, we’re going to need a second freezer.”

  Kit lifted the flaps and peered inside. “Green bean, tuna, macaroni. Oooh, is this King Ranch Chicken?”

  “Courtesy of the book club. Take anything you want for you and Tiana. Right now even the littlest whiff of casserole makes me sick.”

  Although the woman was a lot shorter than Kit, on the petite side even, she had a sturdy, no-nonsense way about her that made her appear much bigger. Broad-shou
ldered, zero makeup, hair pulled back in an efficient knot. Even the way she was unloading containers of food onto the counter had a military sort of precision. I took a step forward. “Mrs. Rowland?”

  She glanced up. “Yes dear?”

  I introduced myself and said I was sorry for her loss, that I was a friend of Wilky’s.

  On hearing that, she paused long enough to give me a forlorn smile. “My goodness, you kids have all grown up so much I can’t keep track of you. You went to Greensboro Day together, right? Or was it Montessori.”

  “Actually I didn’t meet him until a couple years ago. I’m here with Luce. Wilky’s girlfriend. She’s been wanting to meet you.”

  Mrs. Rowland stopped unloading the box altogether and turned to me with renewed interest.

  “We’re heartbroken about what happened,” I said. “The whole thing was a total shocker.”

  Kit came over and slid her arm into her mother’s. “We can put the food away later. Why don’t the two of us go check on Dad.” She tried to lead her mom out of the kitchen.

  Mrs. Rowland pulled herself free, her face white with anger. “Get the hell out of my house,” she said to me.

  Next thing I knew she was backing me out of the kitchen. “You understand? Go find your little friend—”

  “Mrs. Rowland—”

  “—and leave before I have you arrested for trespassing.”

  “Please,” I said. “We’re not here to cause trouble.”

  Mrs. Rowland stared into me with wild electric eyes. “You’re telling me you didn’t get my son back into drugs, you didn’t get him kicked out of the army, you didn’t give him those goddamn blue pills they found in his jacket?”