She had heard stories that some people, when they hurt, when they were in a bad situation, psychologically abandoned their bodies. Talisa did not. Instead, she went deep within, and there she found peace.
That peaceful place inside her had sustained her through eight years of horror. No matter how bad things had gotten, she could contract to a mote small enough to slip into safety, and there she remained, within a tiny ray of light, feeling no slightest connection to the body around her.
And if things had gone wrong, if she had run out of money and needed to do things on the streets of Phoenix that she had never thought she would do, then it wasn’t Talisa that was violated, it was merely the darkness surrounding her light. They could never have her light. Their hands and their tongues and their sex never reached deep enough to touch her light.
Whoring was, after all, just acting. It was pretending to be someone or something that they wanted. And she was good at it, as she’d known she would be. She had only to pull back into the light. Then the dark part, the irrelevant part, could be shaped into anything she wanted it to be.
She was only acting, merely portraying a character when she paraded her wares, turned her head saucily when a car horn beeped. She was only courting an Oscar or an Emmy or a Tony when she went to her back or her knees in a hotel room, and told them how great they were and how much she wanted them, and by the way, for an extra ten bucks they could have her ass as well.
It was all just an act.
But she wasn’t acting now. She was more frightened than she had ever been in her entire life. Judging by the smell and the burning sensation between her legs, she had already soiled herself.
It had started with the pale man, the one who was tall and thin, and seemed to be covered with a sheen of thin, golden hairs so fine that they shone like oil under the streetlamps. He had pulled up next to her on Main Street, and she had approached the window as always, and been drawn into his eyes. For a moment, she had lost her place in her practiced spiel (Wannadate, baby? Lookin’ goodtonight, baby. Where’s your woman, can I be, could I be, do you wammetobe ya baby tonight?) and was lost in those eyes. Her stepfather had had eyes like that, on the occasions when he came home drunk, but not angry. Those nights, he would sit, watching television late and sipping beer. She would curl up next to him on the couch just to be near him. Sometimes, after her sow of a mother tottered off to bed he would look over at her with eyes like marbles frying in hot oil, and those blunt rough hands would close on her.
This man had eyes like that. He picked her up, told her what he wanted, and took her to the shadowed and secluded motel, where he said that the important man would be waiting.
At first she had been delighted, felt beautiful, desired, important.
And then came the swift, sudden pain around her throat, and she had awakened here.
Had she done something wrong? She could only think that getting in the car in the first place had been a terrible mistake. Had she failed to please? She couldn’t see how. She had given more of herself than usual, even offered some of the light, just a touch of the light, something special for a special evening. She had given him real smiles, real laughter, even allowed him to kiss her wetly.
And perhaps, just perhaps, that had been a mistake. Perhaps in giving something of her true self, she had offended him. Perhaps her mother was right. Perhaps she was utterly, irredeemably corrupt, and all she had to offer the world was her darkness.
The car stopped. She heard clicks and vibrations, footsteps, muttering. Then the trunk opened. She tried to kick up, but was blinded by the sudden flood of light.
Then she was crouching by the side of the car, naked, shivering in the night cold, still blinded by the light. She heard him say: “Run, bitch.”
“Why?” She was humiliated by the weakness in her voice. She tried to find a place within her that was strong, and confident, something to believe in about herself, a place to make a stand.
She tried to find the light, and couldn’t.
The tip of a boot found her ribs. She gasped, sudden pain flooding her, making her cry out with shame and surprise. “Because it’s time.”
Talisa found her balance, managed to fight her way to her feet, and on numbed legs began to hobble toward the safety of the open desert. Safe. Perhaps she could hide. “You’ve got two minutes,” he said, and then she heard the rustle of clothing.
She ran. Her feet were immediately savaged by rocks, and pine needles, and the shocking night chill. She heard her own voice praying, heard herself scream without sound.
Cramped and cold from her time in the trunk, her legs failed her, but adrenaline and a young, strong heart did not. Long ago she had read somewhere that an actress’s body was her instrument, and she regularly went to the 24-Hour Fitness center in Paradise Valley, pumped on the stairmaster, sweated through the aerobics classes, and did everything she could to keep her instrument in proper condition.
Talisa swore that releasing her had been a mistake. She could run. She could hide. She could think. She would survive. In school, long ago, she had run track, and knew that if you could just find a rhythm within yourself, everything came more easily. If she could just find that, just manage to breathe with her legs, just stop the fear from strangling her, just find a little speed … somewhere up ahead of her, she heard car sounds, truck sounds. A road. Or was that an echo?
Her ankle turned on uneven ground, and she tumbled, caught herself, scraped her hand on a clump of cactus needles. She went down to the ground, and stayed there for a moment, trying not to make a sound. Perhaps if she was silent, if she was very, very quiet, she could remain hidden. But was silence any protection? Was shadow?
Moonlight glimmered through the sparse cloud cover, its cold light bathing her in silver dust. There were lights ahead, and highway sounds. She wasn’t sure where she was. By the time she had regained consciousness in the car trunk, she had already been on a highway. North? East? She thought that they had headed north, away from the city.
That might be along the 17 freeway, although it was possible that the thin man had taken her east along the 10, back toward Texas.
Her eyes were adjusting. In some odd way, the depth of her fear was forcing her to a greater, deeper, hotter aliveness than she had ever known. It was forcing her to drop her acts. All of her acts. Not the salty hooker, seasoned and cynical. Not the blushing schoolgirl or the temporarily out-of-work actress, not the fantasy stepdaughter that she played so well.
None of those roles fit at all. And yet, it didn’t stop there, either. The old Talisa, good girl, bad girl, wronged child … none of those roles had much to do with this. It was as if every successive step peeled her a little closer to the core. And what she discovered in her mad flight, listening to the hard-packed sand crackle behind her, knowing that death was oh, so very close, was the part of her that wanted desperately to live. A part of her craved life, loved air. In those moments she knew that the dreams of Hollywood and fame and fortune and even romance were irrelevant. That what mattered was this, was the exhilarating joy of merely being alive, alive to feel the pain in her feet as she slashed them on rocks, alive to feel the hot wind whistling in her lungs, even alive to feel the fear chewing at her.
Because fear wasn’t so bad. There was one Talisa, running naked through the desert, and there was another Talisa, above the running Talisa, watching and aware and cheering her on. And it wasn’t completely fragmented, because the watching Talisa joined her, and there was a pure moment, when all the women-children within her flowed together, and they were as one.
And she was alive, so alive, and the crest of the hill was so close, and if she reached it, she could stand there, headlights splashing over her like waves, and they would see her naked body, and stop, and then—
Something hit her from behind. The air whuffed out of her. A moment after that she felt herself slam breathlessly into the ground, her mouth and nose crushed into the sand.
A knee in her back. A fevered, muffled
laugh.
Then the pain began. It wasn’t so bad at first, because she had the trick, the terrible trick she had learned at the hands of her stepfather back in El Paso. She gave the thin man the darkness, and didn’t even associate the gobbling cries for help or mercy or an ending with herself. It was too far away, too distant. It was just an actress, on a distant stage.
And finally all of the darkness was gone, and there was only the light, the real Talisa, no place to hide, no place at all. And the voice was her own, and the pain was her own.
And ultimately, the death was her own, and if it was hideously long in coming, it was, in the final analysis, as good as any death that had ever been given anyone, anywhere, at any time. And most importantly, unlike most things in Talisa Kramer’s short and unhappy life, it was hers and hers alone.
36
CLAREMONT, THURSDAY, MAY 31
Claremont’s largest movie theater was a triplex set in the corner of the main mall, sandwiched between an Arby’s roast beef and a Twilight Bowl with a sign advertising CHICKEN NIGHT TONIGHT!! in garish green letters.
Patrick generally liked the theater, except that they never seemed to have hot dogs: they were either just sold out, or the frankfurters were still frozen, or the dogs on the little rotisserie machine had been there since noon and were roughly as appetizing as week-old roadkill.
Patrick still wasn’t sure what was happening with his mom and dad, but there seemed at least a glimmer of hope for their future. Otis had stayed over one more time since that night of drunken rage, and if Patrick hadn’t heard his parents arguing through the wall, he would have felt that life was beginning to normalize.
Beside him in the darkened theater, his father chortled at the inane antics of two actors in a regrettably bad action-comedy. The actors were thrashing about to little effect, and in general seemed rather embarrassed. Theatrics like this popped Patrick right out of the illusion of a film, and reminded him that he was watching actors reciting lines in front of a camera. He hated when that happened, and it seemed to happen more often to him than it did to most kids. Even most adults.
His dad seemed completely into it all, rocking back and forth, laughing and pounding his hand on his knee, big booming laugh filling the theater. Usually Patrick was a little embarrassed by his dad’s exuberance, but considering they were two of only four people in the entire room, it was difficult to get himself to care.
Despite the empty theater and the bad movie, it was a chance for him to kick back, share popcorn with his old man, and for the two of them to be, well, kids together.
By the time the last bridge had been blown up, the last lame joke tossed off, and the credits rolled, Patrick and his father were the only ones remaining in the theater.
“Damn good movie,” Otis said, stretching. “Not many people here, though.”
“At least we could find a seat,” Patrick said brightly. He pitched his empty popcorn box into the trash as they passed. “Two points.”
Although it was only a little before nine o’clock, the theater lobby was almost deserted, one clerk and the manager watching them leave with tired, bored expressions. Patrick made a little check mark in his head, cataloging yet another career that didn’t interest him.
What did he want to do with his life? There were a ton of things that didn’t interest him, but he wasn’t at all sure what might. Doctor? Lawyer? Indian Chief? He felt a deep sense of confidence that he could have any career he was willing to commit to, but …
They were halfway across the parking lot now. The few cars parked here belonged to theatergoers attending other movies at the multiplex and bar patrons at the Lucky Lady next to the theater, so it took a minute to really register that his dad’s truck was surrounded by motorcycles. Cappy and four of his boys were there, along with Ellie Krup, who sported a lovely black eye.
Patrick got a little closer to his father, whose fists were already knotted. “You’re blocking my truck,” Otis said.
Cappy spit on the ground and rolled his shoulders. “Little bird said you wanted to talk to me the other night.”
Otis looked at Patrick. And then back at Cappy. “No. I didn’t.”
“Didn’t have any problem talking to my woman,” he said. Ellie flinched as he said the words. “Why don’t you talk to me?”
Otis’s arm wound tighter around Patrick. “Look,” he said. “I don’t want no trouble.”
“I just bet you don’t.” He hopped down off the hood of Otis’s truck. “Oops,” Cap said, without looking down or behind him. “Looks like you got a scratch on your truck here.”
“Where?”
Very deliberate, Cap pulled his hands out of his pockets. He was holding a half-dozen keys set on a brass ring. He ran the longest across the truck’s hood, leaving a jagged scratch. “Here,” he said.
Otis’s shoulders tensed. Patrick felt a dizzying jolt of fear, as if he had never completely left the nightmare on the bridge. “Dad, no.”
“You talk pretty big when you’re backed up by four men,” Otis said evenly.
Cap raised an eyebrow. He gestured toward the others almost as if he had forgotten they were present. “Oh. That? Ain’t nothing. They don’t get involved.”
“Right,” Otis said. He stood in front of Cap for a tense second, and then reached around him to open the door.
“’Scuse me,” he said with forced politeness.
He slipped Patrick into the truck, then walked around to the other side.
Cap clucked. Buck-buck-buckaw. “Fuckin’ pussy,” he said. “Nigger faggot.”
Otis paused. He looked through the window of the truck. Patrick shook his head an urgent no.
Otis closed his eyes, as if this was the greatest test of faith of his life. Then opened the door—
Cappy punched him on the left side of the face.
“Dad! No!” Patrick yelled, while another part of him screamed kick his ass.
Otis wheeled, and punched with a straight left hand that struck Cappy squarely on the nose. No getting past it now: the fight was on. Cappy was taller, and bigger across the shoulders, and his face glowed with anger. Patrick should have been terrified, was ashamed that he wasn’t frightened for his dad, but Otis had already hunched over, protecting his chin with his fists, turned a little sideways to protect his groin with his knee. He stepped back, shook himself, and slid back into range.
What Patrick knew, and Cappy didn’t, was that his dad had done a little boxing way back, and still knew how to put it together. Cappy was a bully, a bruiser, a thug. Otis could take him. If it was a fair fight, he just knew Dad could do it. God, please.
Cappy tried a kick that would have been merely sloppy on a football field, but was downright foolish in a street fight. Otis caught Cappy’s leg under his arm, and buried his fist almost to the wrist in Cappy’s swollen gut. The bearded man exhaled a huge gust of sour air, and stumbled back, gagging.
As promised, the other bikers were just watching. So far. Patrick didn’t just watch: he felt the action. His own hips and shoulders twitched as every punch was thrown. This was nothing like watching a fight on television or in a movie. It was sweat and fists flying, blood at the corners of mouths, muttered curses, grunts of effort, narrowed eyes and savage grimaces.
Cappy punched Otis in the face, then missed badly with a swing, stumbling to catch his balance. He pivoted to face him again. Otis took a big step in, and with skills unused since the glory days of high school, punted Cappy in the crotch.
Cappy sagged and doubled over, mouth pursed in an “o” of surprise. Patrick was sure that that was the end of it, would have to be the end of it, but incredibly the giant staggered forward and drove Otis into the side of the truck. He wind-milled, smashing Otis in the ribs with brutal roundhouse punches. Now Patrick was afraid. This was a slow-motion nightmare: every punch took forever to land, every snap of his father’s head lasted for an eternity. This was a syrupy world of pain and terror that seemed one with that terrible night on the bridge, lik
e a river of molten violence that flowed just beneath the surface of his life, erupting to the surface at its unknowable whim.
“Dad!” Patrick screamed.
Cappy smashed the side of Otis’s head into the driver’s window. The glass cracked, leaving a smear of blood from a cut ear. Otis’s eyes were glazed, his knees wobbly. Cappy wound up with a looping right—
The bikers cheered—
And at the very last moment Otis moved two inches to the left, slipping the punch. Cappy’s fist smashed into the window, through the window, cracking glass and breaking knuckles. The giant roared with pain and backpedaled. Otis grabbed Cappy’s arm, swung him in a circle, and smashed his head into the truck. Cappy bounced away, right into Otis’s fist. Left, right, left, right—Otis chopped Cappy down with a determined, almost workmanlike rhythm.
Cappy fell to his knees, and looked up at Otis with an expression of hatred mixed with a vast and almost childlike confusion. Then he toppled over onto the side of his face.
There was a moment of silence. The other bikers looked at each other, and their fallen leader. It was an ugly moment.
A blinking red light slid over them. Patrick whipped his head around in time to see a police cruiser turning their way.
Cappy pushed himself to hands and knees, and then staggered up. He looked from his men to Otis and back again. He wobbled to his bike, and looked back at Otis bleakly. He opened his mouth as if about to say something, then perhaps thought better of it, and just got on his bike. The air around him seemed to shimmer. Patrick thought that he had never seen a more dangerous human being in his entire life. Now, more than ever, Cappy frightened him.
Cappy rode away, his men following.
Otis limped to the truck, and slid in beside Patrick. He wheezed, fighting for air. They looked at each other for a long moment, then Otis stared straight forward into the darkness.
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