Mt. Moriah's Wake

by Melissa Norton Carro

  He noticed. “You and I are two of a kind, Jill.”

  “Jo,” I whispered, my throat feeling suddenly swollen with panic.

  “Yeah, Jo.” His lips grazed mine before his teeth bit down, ever so gently, nipping at my lips. “You’re a beauty, you know that?”

  Ordinarily, I would never consider myself beautiful. Close-set eyes, bushy brown hair that cascaded my small head like a tidal wave. But I also knew my sweater was low-cut, that my breasts were full, and that my tipsy body was dipping back and forth in an intoxicating way.

  Hands on his chest, I pushed back and smiled.

  “Maybe you’re drunk,” I teased. “In the light of day, I’m no beauty.”

  His hands tightened on my waist.

  “I guess I need to see you in the light of day then.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll have to report back on that in the morning.”

  And that’s when the fight or flight reflex kicked in. Time to jump, Billy. Something about the firmness of Dave’s hands, the look in his impenetrable eyes. Sober Jo was scared. Tipsy Jo was catching up.

  “I think I need to go to the little girl’s room,” I said, almost in a whisper. Doro’s metaphor for restroom was oddly comforting. I was okay: I was about to escape.

  “It’ll be hard waiting, but I’ll wait.” The floor bricks seemed more uneven and his hand more clammy as Dave released my fingertips directly into the bathroom.

  In the stall, I slid the latch and backed myself up to the door. But my breathing didn’t still. The train had come closer than usual.

  Squatting over the toilet, my feet navigating the wet floor, I gathered up my short denim skirt and assumed the position. It was drunk Jo who thought it was a good idea to multi-task. As I flipped open my Nokia to dial the cab service, the phone slid out of my hands and into the commode.

  “No!” I whispered, teetering in squat mode, praying that the auto flush light would not engage yet. But as I swung around and plunged my hand into the basin, the whoosh came and down my cell phone went, into the sewers of Chicago.

  Warm panic teased the back of my throat.

  “Settle down,” said sober Jo. “You’ve been here a good ten minutes. He’ll be gone. You can slip out the back door and hail a cab. You can do this.”

  But Dave’s was the first face I saw when I rounded the corner from the bathroom. He was directly blocking the back door—my Friday night escape route off the train tracks.

  “Jesus, I was about to go in there,” he leered at me. “You okay?”

  “Yes, I just think I need to head home,” I stammered. “I, uh, I need to get up early tomorrow.”

  “I’m an early riser myself,” he slurred, one hand on his crotch. “Come on, we can share a cab.”

  No, no, no, the scream inside me said. Too close, too close, it yelled.

  But I found myself out on the curb, Dave’s hand gripping my elbow so hard I was sure there would be marks. His other hand held my chin, and he bent down to kiss me, hard. His breath tasted like whiskey, and I pulled away.

  “Thanks but you don’t know where I live. I’m not in your direction.” Nice, said sober Jo. You didn’t give him an address. Good girl.

  “What, darling? You live with me.” Another kiss, this time with his eyes closed and his nails digging into my chin. “At least tonight you do.”

  “Let go!” I pushed, hard, against his chest. The train whistle screeching in my ears, I stumbled backwards and off the curb. I sat down hard in the street and saw two Daves over me, grinning.

  “Damn girl! You like it rough, huh?”

  He extended both arms and pulled me up into them. His lips were on my neck, now, and I was pressed so closely to him that I couldn’t breathe.

  “Stop!” I was screaming inside. So why did I only hear whimpers? Where was my voice?

  “Please stop,” I said again, louder. Gone was my bravado, and in its place cold white fear.

  And then a voice. Not mine. “I think she asked you to stop.”

  Dave tightened his grasp on me but lifted his head long enough to smirk.

  “And who the hell are you? Get lost dude.”

  “I’m Jo’s ride home,” said Tom Rivers. He extended a hand to me. “Ready, Jo?”

  “What the hell? Jenny’s my date.” Dave turned us around and stuck out his hand for a cab.

  “Not anymore she’s not.” Tom stepped forward, far enough to take hold of my free wrist. “Are you coming?”

  Four sets of Tom’s eyes were on me, and his hand was pulling. His grasp was as firm as Dave’s, but soft. Safe. His hand would lead me from the tracks.

  I attempted to wriggle free from Dave, but he swung me around until my hand released Tom’s. A cab had pulled to the curb.

  “Take a hike, loser. Get a new coat and maybe you’ll find your own girl. Julie’s mine.” Dave started navigating me from behind, hands on each shoulder, toward the idling taxi.

  But in three steps—long, gangly strides—Tom stepped between the cab door and us.

  “This is not gonna happen. She’s coming with me.”

  There was nothing threatening about Tom. His stature, perhaps, at six foot four, but his lankiness made him fodder for a strong wind, and his long bony fingers said he had never been in a real fight.

  But still. Something about the look in Tom Rivers’s gray eyes, something about the tone of his voice, sounded ominous. Perhaps I wasn’t worth fighting over. Maybe Dave realized there was a Michelle or Lauren or Amy waiting inside.

  “What the fuck ever,” he said, giving me a slight push toward Tom, who grabbed my hand and pulled me next to him. “Take the bitch.”

  “She’s not a bitch, and her name is not Julie.”

  Tom looked down at me now, stared at my lip on which I now tasted blood. “My car’s this way.”

  His hand clasped mine tightly as we walked the two blocks to his car. When he reached to open my door, I protested.

  “Thank you. Really. But I can make it home from here. I can call a cab and—”

  “I’m taking you home, JoAnna.” And then, as if he could read my mind, “Not all men are assholes, kiddo. But if you drink that way, you’re going to find them every time.

  “Now get in the car.”

  It was a fifteen minute ride to my hotel. Feeling nauseous, I rolled down the Accord window and stuck out my head to feel the wind from the lake. It was thirty degrees, but Tom didn’t question. I guess he realized the wind’s healing properties.

  To break the awkward silence, Tom cleared his throat and spoke. “Can’t believe S&H is still using that hotel. Wonder if the rooms have been updated any.” He waited for my response.

  I attempted a weak smile. “They’re not so bad. I have my own room. So that’s nice.”

  “Sweet.” And then, “How long are you going to live here?”

  “What?” I brought my face back in from the wind, and his came into focus: only one Tom now. And already the beginnings of a dull headache. Realizing what Tom meant, “Oh, I have until August. Then the rate goes up again, and I can’t afford it.”

  “Then what?”

  “What? Oh, then … I don’t know. Maybe I will leave Chicago.”

  Leave Chicago? Where did that come from?

  Tom didn’t question. Instead, “Well that would be a shame, Julie.”

  I glanced and he was smiling, dimples punctuating the kindness on his face.

  “Thanks for coming to my rescue—although I really had it under control.”

  “I’m no hero.” Tom grinned, the dimples expanding. “I was praying the whole time the guy wouldn’t pummel me. But I do have the big brother thing going on. I have three little sisters. I spent high school patrolling for girls needing rides.”

  “And tonight, were you just patrolling?”

  He smirked. “Hardly. I had to finish up the slide show that Adam’s taking on the road tomorrow. I was walking to the parking garage when I saw you.

  “No Tony’s for me anymore, although I spen
t quite a few Friday nights in my twenties there.”

  His twenties? How old was he?

  He continued. “Tony’s is the place to be when you’re new to Chicago and the ad game.” He leaned sideways and looked straight into my eyes. “It’s the place to be when you want to get laid.”

  His car pulled to the curb, and I found myself wishing the ride were longer. The next day I would want to remember the conversation.

  “Well, thank you. I’m good now.”

  “Which window?”

  “Window?”

  “Which window is yours? I’ll wait until I see a light go on.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to …”

  Tom sighed, leaning his head against the seat rest. “Listen, I’m tired, JoAnna. I need my sofa and a beer. But I can’t get to those until you tell me which window.”

  “Fifth floor, fourth window.”

  I leaned in the open car window after I had closed the door. “Thanks, Tom. I don’t think I needed saving, but, well, thanks.”

  He offered his hand to shake.

  “Sometimes when you think you don’t need saving, that’s exactly what you need, Julie, Jenny, whatever your name is.” His hand was warm and safe.

  And like home.

  Upstairs, I went to the window and saw his Honda idling. I turned on the lamp. A wave of the hand and Tom was gone. I sank down onto the chair, pulling my sweater around me, ready for my Friday night oblivion. Tears came. I tucked my feet up under me, trying to make myself as small as possible. I had dodged the train. I was safe.

  That night I dreamt of Tom Rivers and lighted windows.

  And train tracks.

  12

  PAJAMA PARTY

  ONE WEDNESDAY NOT LONG AFTERWARD, TOM FOUND ME.

  “Hey, the long-term hotel—you said you have a room to yourself?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay. Listen. I just bought a house—a bungalow with a very stubborn female owner. I close tomorrow, and she wants to stay in it six more days. Meanwhile, my lease is up and my boxes packed. My realtor doesn’t think it’ll help to fight it—so I guess I’m hotel bound.” He paused then continued. “But it’s Market week. No rooms within an hour away. So I have a proposition for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I only need a hotel for one week, right? And you have a private room, right? Two beds, you said?”

  I nodded, not believing what I was hearing.

  “How about we be roomies? I don’t snore, don’t eat crackers in bed. Lights don’t bother me. You won’t know I’m there.”

  My facial expression made Tom grin.

  “I know, it’s weird, but I’ll pay your hotel bill. It’s a good financial deal for you, and it’ll really help me out. And if you’re worried about what your parents might think, just tell them I’m gay and harmless.”

  At that my eyes widened. Those dimples, those eyes. That voice. I was distracted for … nothing?

  Tom smiled, reading my mind. “Yep, but I can be a good friend. So your parents have nothing to worry—”

  “My parents are dead.” I couldn’t say what drew me to Tom, but in his presence, I felt a calm, a security that I had lost. And his would be a voice to fill the loneliness.

  “Oh. Sorry and thanks. When did your parents … “

  “When I was eight. Car crash.”

  “Jeez, an orphan.” Seeing my expression, he hastened to add, “God, I can’t imagine—”

  “So, um, how do we move you in?”

  “So that’s a yes? Fabulous. Well, I’m going to leave my stuff in the moving van. It’s only six days, and it sucks to pay that, but what can I do?” His name was paged over the loudspeaker. “That would be realtor Don again. Scared I’m going to slime him out of his commission—as if I could.”

  He headed toward the door and glanced back.

  “I’ll be over around seven. What’s our room number?”

  Just as I said Room 504, I saw Rod Cheshire appear at Tom’s back. My face turned strawberry as I saw Rod’s expression.

  “We’re going to be roomies,” said Tom. “Tell her, Rod, I’m gay as they come.”

  Rod looked from Tom to me, then nodded. “Yep, that he is.”

  They were both gone in an instant, and I was left with my hospital brochure, finding split infinitives, dangling modifiers, inverted letters, and wondering what I had just gotten myself into.

  Tom knocked at seven o’clock sharp. I opened the door to find him with a jar of peanut butter in one hand and grape jam in the other.

  “I make killer pb and j’s,” he said.

  The surprise on my face must have registered.

  “Oh, I’m sorry; maybe you had dinner plans. I just kinda wanted to kick back here and watch TV. Do you like old movies?” Laying out tissues on the table, end to end, Tom set the bread carefully on top. He kept talking as he spread. “Hush … Hush, Sweet Charlotte is on channel thirty at eight.”

  “I love them, but not without popcorn.” Reaching into the dresser drawer, I pulled out the bag of buttery popcorn I had bought.

  “Ooh, love cholesterol. Crusts on or off?”

  I watched as Tom trimmed the crusts and then cut one sandwich into four precise little triangles. He noticed me watching.

  “I’ve been eating pb and j sandwiches this way since I was little. My mom always cut them that way for me and, well, I guess I’m my mother’s son.”

  “I’ll try mine that way too, please.”

  “Ah, I’m spoiling you.” He smiled and extended the sandwich puzzle pieces to me.

  It is unlikely I will ever forget that night. The environs were certainly not memorable: the cracked vinyl of the hotel chairs, the laminate table, the cigarette burn in the carpet where I sat. And yet when I close my eyes and travel back to that evening, I breathe in a sense of equilibrium, of serenity.

  After nine months alone in Chicago, I found myself talking almost nonstop during those evenings with Tom. I told stories of the Inn, about my college professor who used to attack nodding students with a foghorn, about faint memories I had of my parents, about my desire to write and my fear I would never write anything worth reading.

  “Are you bad?”

  “At writing? I don’t think so. I’ve been told I’m good.”

  “Let me be the judge. Tell me a story idea and let me read something you’ve written.” Observing my face, he read my thoughts.

  “Yeah, sure, you think I’m just a photographer. Well sometimes the best person to evaluate another creative person’s work is someone who works in a different medium.” He stifled a belch, the result of the Taco Bell nachos that had been our dessert. “I’ll prove my point tomorrow. I’ll show you the photos that are part of my portfolio—that are the work I love, not the stuff I do for the agency.”

  “I don’t have any of my short stories or poems here.” I stalled. “I mean, they’re boxed up.”

  “So just tell me what they’re about. Tell me the theme of one of them. This will be good mental exercise, get you over writer’s block.”

  Arrogance. Yet attractive. But gay—I remembered that. “Did I say I had writer’s block?”

  “Don’t all writers have writer’s block? I always see the writers at S&H running around sobbing, ‘I’m blocked! I’m blocked!’” His facial expression, the tenor of his voice and his frantic hand motions sent me into a real fit of laughter. Giggles I’d been suppressing all evening finally erupted.

  How long had it been since I laughed? I was like someone constipated whose bowels finally move in a near-orgasmic experience.

  Tom was channel surfing. “They lied, Hush … Hush, Sweet Charlotte is not on anywhere!”

  “I can tell you how it ends.”

  “I know, I’ve seen it at least twenty times.”

  “Wow, you really do have a passion for old movies.”

  “Yes and no. Some are better photographed. This one in particular. Sometimes I just freeze frame and stare at the way Bette Davis’s f
ace is lighted. Look how far special effects have come, and yet we can’t do any better than that today.” He sighed and turned off the TV. “I guess you could say I’m into faces. Especially the female face. I like to ogle.”

  “Well, if you’re going to ogle, I guess the face is better than the female body.” I blushed as I said it.

  “Nope, not the female body. No interest in that.”

  Tom’s was a mischievous grin, and somewhere inside me a question lingered.

  “No sweet Charlotte, so you’ll just have to regale me with one of your story ideas.” He started gathering the trash. A man who cleaned up: What was that stereotype? “Thought I’d let you off the hook, didn’t you?”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you one. I’m writing about an obsessive compulsive woman who is trying to get help through therapy.”

  “Interesting. What does she do that’s obsessive?”

  “Well, if she touches something with one hand, she has to touch it with the other. She applies lipstick, wipes it off, then applies it again, wipes it off, and then the third time she can keep the lipstick on. And she has to eat things in even numbers.”

  Tom pondered for a moment before speaking.

  “Okay, I get the touching, even the lipstick, but I think the eating thing is unrealistic. No one would go to such trouble.”

  “And are you a psychologist?”

  “Don’t get defensive. I’m just giving you my opinion as a potential reader. No one would do that.”

  “She does.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Jill. Sandra.”

  “Jillsandra?”

  “No, one or the other. I can’t decide.”

  “Okay, so we’ll call her JS. She takes a bag of Cheerios to snack on, and she has to count out the number before putting them in the bag.”

  “Of course not. No one would do that—”

  “Excuse me, didn’t I just say that?”

  “I mean, if you’ll let me finish, she eats an even number out of the bag, like in twos.”

  “Like Noah’s Ark. An underlying religious theme for the story!”

  Now I knew I was being mocked. But I wanted more.

  “Let’s turn the tables. Tell me what your private stock photos are about.”

  “Faces. I told you. I like faces.”