Snake Face

by Amber Foxx

  “Yeah.” His voice went tender with affection. “He sleeps on my shirt. I’ll send it overnight. Find a post office on my way tomorrow.” He sped up in a surge of anxiety. “But that’s too late. He could die. Jesus. He could die, and I let him, I didn’t lock the van, I fucked up. Oh, fuck, I’m sorry, Jesus—”

  “Shh. Take it easy, sugar. Cats are tough. They can hunt and climb. You’d be surprised. I found some that’d been out for a week and they were good to take home, fine as frog’s hair.”

  A sniff and a weak laugh. She’d used the expression on purpose to get that laugh, to break the cycle of panic and grief. “But he won’t be. He’s got no claws. And you saw him—he’s fat.” Jamie’s voice faded to almost nothing. “Really, really fat.”

  It was true. The cat was in bad shape for surviving outdoors, but she had to put a good spin on it. “Then he won’t starve. Can you write down my address?”

  “Yeah. I think I have—” A pause. “It’s no use, is it? It’ll be too late. You’d have to be right here, right now, or he’ll die. I have to wait ’til sunrise. Then I can see him. I bet I’ll see him.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?”

  “Motel.” A long pause. “I’ll drive a lot tomorrow. I have to wait for him.”

  She could picture Jamie waiting all night in that wretched old van. He wouldn’t give up. He fought hard, if not wisely, to survive, and she had to admire that. “Okay. You do that, sugar. He might be right there looking for you, too.”

  “I think so. Yeah. He’d miss me.”

  “Be safe while you wait. Take care of yourself. And if you still need me to find him, you send me that shirt and I’ll try to see him soon as I get it. I promise.”

  She gave him her address, listening to him scramble, drop something, swear more than usual, and apologize several times in the process. He read it back to her twice to make sure he hadn’t rearranged any letters or numbers, she corrected the mess he’d made of her zip code, and he got it right the third time.

  “Thanks, love.” A long hesitation. “Will I see you again?”

  She hadn’t planned anything, but sooner or later of course she’d see him, even if it was another accident like their meeting in Mesilla. “Yeah. I’ll see you sometime.”

  “Hooroo, then.” He sounded a little happier. “Catcha.”

  Mae ended the call and returned to the couch. “Sorry about that. Jamie lost his cat out on a highway on his tour.”

  Stamos slipped his arm around her shoulder. “And he calls you? “

  “I can find it. Like I did Hal and Jeff.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I forget that you are psychic.” He said the word with amused relish, and ran a hand over Mae’s hair. “One of many mysteries about you.”

  She had never thought of herself as mysterious, and the phrase struck her as funny. “What’s the other mystery? I can clear it up.”

  “What goes on in your heart and mind.”

  “I reckon not as much as you think.”

  With a warm chuckle, Stamos turned her to face him and touched a finger to her lips in a suggestive caress. “You are marvelous.”

  “What made you say that?”

  “You could read my mind if you wanted to. Know all about my old girlfriends and my ex-wife, whatever you want, and I don’t think you’re even curious.”

  “We’ve talked. We know enough about each other. Anyway, I told you I don’t go prying with that power. It’d be wrong.”

  His smile radiated delight. “And as for what I could know about you? You say there’s nothing there.”

  “I don’t mean nothing, like I’m empty-headed or something. I mean, no agenda. I’m just here and now, doing what I’m doing.”

  “That is precisely what I want.” He stroked her cheek with one finger. “I think we understand each other well.”

  Stamos restarted the biology DVD, and they resumed their dinner, but she couldn’t get back in the mood she’d been in before. The study session didn’t feel like a date anymore, and she hardly even felt like studying, she was so distracted. In spite of what she’d just told Stamos, she was no longer happily in the here and now. She felt as if Jamie were there, or as if she were with him, leaning on the van at some Oklahoma rest stop, waiting for the cat to come back.

  Chapter Seven

  Sunrise brought nothing to Gasser’s dishes but birds. Jamie searched the trails again, walked a short way into the woods off the path and called one last time, but there wasn’t even a tuft of orange fur to suggest the cat’s passage. Surrender hurt, but he had to give up on his vigil and start driving.

  As soon as it was time for post offices to open, he got off I-40 in a small country town to mail the cat-hairy shirt to Mae. He had to ask directions, get lost, and ask again, but it was worth it for hope of a sort. Sylvie gave him hope, too, if she’d ever get back to him. He hadn’t quite lost everything.

  He felt as if he had. The empty space on the passenger seat haunted him every time his hand started to seek Gasser for reassurance when traffic made him nervous. Poor Gasser. Alone and lost. If he was even alive.

  Somewhere in Appalachia after sunset, the van began to struggle as if it couldn’t breathe. Fuck, I manage to keep my head on straight and my van is having a panic attack. Jamie pulled over, shut it off, and got out. Too exhausted to feel any new distress, somehow all he could think of was that Mae was born in this part of the world and that her ex-husband was a mechanic.

  Standing beside the ailing Aerostar on the side of Interstate 40 while trucks roared down the steep grade at heart-shaking speeds, he wished he could see the land better. Mae’s mountains. The stars were faint behind a haze of humidity on one horizon, and on the other thunderclouds bubbled up against the moon.

  How strange, to see storm clouds in early December. It should be time for snow, or it would be in Santa Fe. The East was strange. As the first clap of thunder exploded, he jumped back in the van.

  To his surprise, when he turned the key, it started. The van had limited power, though. The fast-rolling trucks on the rain-slicked, storm-blind roads felt like predators on the tail of slow, easy-to-catch prey. Like Gasser.

  Jamie spoke encouraging words to the van, patting its dashboard and massaging its steering wheel, urging it up the next incline. Solid walls of rain slammed down. Flashes of lightning rocketing off the mountains illuminated signs that said Watch out for falling rocks.

  The van demanded time out. He rolled it into a scenic overlook area, grateful for the serendipitous timing, or he would have been rolling downhill backwards. Was it Tuesday morning now? No, Tuesday night. No. It was so late it was Wednesday morning, and he had to sing tonight, with no instruments. Still had to struggle on. The only way he’d get any sleep would be a nap while the van rested.

  Before tilting the seat back, Jamie took his phone out of the cup holder beside him and turned it on. He felt like calling Mae. No, not at this hour. What if she was sleeping with that inhumanly perfect Greek? Don’t think about that.

  The phone beeped. Text messages. The first was from Sylvie. Sent hours ago.

  You don’t remember me? I remember you. Finishing your tour?

  Of course he didn’t remember her. He’d asked her who she was. Asked her a lot of questions. This was her only answer? It wasn’t even an answer at all, just a stupid chatty question like they were sitting at a bar. What in bloody hell was the matter with her? She’d rescued his stuff, so she had to know how valuable it was. Had to know how urgent it was for him to get it back. It was too late to call and shake the answers out of her. No one would be awake at this hour.

  Just as well. He was so tired and frustrated he would probably say something he’d regret. To his savior. He texted back. Fixing his typing mistakes took a maddeningly long time. His peculiar disability was so severe that Wendy had shown him how to turn off the auto-correct function in his phone. It made him say even stranger things than his typos. He didn’t clean them up for friends and family. For Sy
lvie, though, he had to be clear and patient.

  Trying to finish. Have you called police? Sorry, don’t remember you. Call this afternoon. Talk, please. I should be in Asheville by four I think. Five. Thanks.

  He sent it and turned off the phone, exhausted. It must have taken half an hour to get all those letters right. Falling hard into sleep, he felt like the van when its engine cut out.

  Jamie arrived in Asheville barely in time to check into his hotel and get ready for the night’s performance. Out of habit, as soon as he was in his room he opened the curtains to look at the van. It looked tired.

  What was he doing? There was nothing in it. No need to check on it any more.

  He took his phone into the bathroom to call Wendy while he prepared to shower and change clothes.

  “It’s about time you got in touch,” she said. “Did you get my messages?”

  “Sorry. Yeah. Should’ve answered. Been driving. Sleeping. Drinking toxic sludge.” The little coffeemaker on the counter by the sink seemed to say Dare you. Want more coffee? “Hardly know what day it is.”

  “But you’re in Asheville, right?”

  “Yeah.” He shed the day’s clothes onto the floor, meeting himself in the expanse of mirror under unflattering fluorescent light. Scars everywhere. Left shoulder and arm from rock-climbing fall number one; right shin from fall number two; the belly scars from desperate moment number two; left hip from fall number three. Nothing he could do about those, but he stood straighter, trying to see if he could get rid of the inch, that aggravating little layer of fat that made him look soft in the middle. The Greek probably didn’t have an inch. “The van’s been kind of fucked. Not sure what’s wrong. Just made it.”

  “Get it checked tomorrow. You’ve got the day off.” Wendy sighed. “You know how to get to the Old Stone Watering Hole? It’s downtown, an old warehouse. It’s the biggest space you’ve been in for your whole tour.”

  “Got the directions, yeah.” Then the night’s concert zoomed in. “Fuck. Do they know I’m—Jeezus. I’ve never done this. All vocal. What if my voice gives out?”

  “Don’t ever yell again. You’ll be fine. They’ve got good sound equipment there, so they say. That women’s drum group I told you about will get there early so you can try out some of their drums and teach them some vocals, do whatever you want. They’re amateurs, just play for fun, but they’ll fill the gaps for you.”

  He turned on the shower and stepped in, holding the phone out of the water. “Sorry you have to keep rescuing me. But, Jesus, thank you. And—” He stopped, took a breath. His thoughts were getting in a twist. Gratitude, guilt, hope, all these rescues. “It won’t be like this for long. Did I tell you the good news? Dunno what I’ve said. Got so wrapped up with losing Gasser.”

  “No, you definitely didn’t tell me any good news.”

  “Sorry. Been in a fucking time warp. Someone in Austin found my instruments.”

  “Found them? You said it looked like a theft.”

  “Hang on a second.” He set the phone outside the tub, ducked his head under the water, dumped the inadequate little hotel shampoo on his head, then leaned out again and got the phone. “Sorry. Washing my hair. I mean, she found them for sale and bought them. Even got my bike wheels.”

  “How would she know those were yours?”

  “The instruments?” Scrubbing, he realized he should have brushed his hair before he got it wet. He hadn’t brushed it for two days, he’d run out of conditioner, and hotels only provided shampoo. As if no one had long hair. Why was that? “Guess she’d seen me play.”

  “She could recognize your instruments, I get that. That didgeridoo is one of a kind. But bike wheels?”

  Taking time to rinse his matted hair, he tried to think about the bike. It had been in the van, but unless the wheels were part of some strange buy-flutes-didg-and-drums-get-two-bike-wheels-free deal, it didn’t make sense for anyone to know they were his. He’d been too upset, hungover, and tired to notice this. Getting back out from under the showerhead, Jamie picked up the phone again. “Dunno. It is kind of weird. Have to ask her. We’ve only texted, haven’t talked yet. Thought she might call by now.”

  “Call her, for God’s sake. You’ve got her number. You need that stuff back. And you can’t afford to pay for your own things. This could be some kind of scam.”

  “You think?” He’d never questioned it. “She hasn’t asked for any money.”

  “You have to report it. Call the police back and tell them about her.”

  Call them back? He’d never called them at all. It didn’t make sense to do it now. “Why? If she can just give the instruments back to me, I can skip all that, right? I mean, if she’s not asking for money. Just helping me out.”

  “You don’t have a fairy godmother who magically knows those are your bike wheels.”

  Suddenly, he could see it. “Yeah, I do.”

  The woman at Locally Loco, that little weaselly-looking one, had helped him unload. He didn’t remember who had helped him pack things up when he was drunk, but it might have been her again. A vague image of a small female driving the van trailed through the muck in his brain. She had definitely seen the inside of the van, and seen the bike with the blankets pulled back. He felt guilty for not liking her now. She had to be Sylvie. “I figured it out.”

  Wendy sound incredulous. “You did?”

  “Yeah.” He turned the shower off and got out, toweling off with one hand, his back to the mirror. Mae’s Greek probably looked in the mirror a lot. Listen to me. I’m jealous. I’m fucking jealous. “She couldn’t have paid much to the thief. She’s a bar waitress. Helped me unload. It has to be her. I was so rotten when I left, dunno who loaded the van. But I think it was her. And it had to be cheap to buy the stuff. She said it was at a flea market.”

  “I don’t care how cheap. Don’t pay to get your things back. Talk to the police.”

  “Why can’t I pay her? Am I that broke?” He walked to the bedroom, dug in his luggage for a comb. The process of combing his hair made him wish someone would do it for him. Groom him the way he groomed Gasser. Sad thought. It’d be nice to give him a brushing and a bath now. “I mean, sales have been good, right?”

  “Yes, your music is selling. You’ve had great reviews. But you’ve got the rest of the tour to do. You’ll have expenses. That card was loaded with what we budgeted for the tour, and you’re already over budget for the first half.” She referred to the prepaid AmEx card he was using for the trip. It allowed him to function like a financially normal person, but her next words rubbed in the fact that he wasn’t one. “We lost money on Memphis. And you’ve still got to pay your bankruptcy lawyer.”

  The old medical bills for his femoral neck fracture. Somehow he’d not thought of that since he’d left. Strange how he was getting numb to the debt when he still felt the pain in his hip. He’d quit physical therapy for lack of money and paid for that decision with a chronic impingement. “Can I afford him?”

  “It’ll cost you around twelve hundred, but—”

  “Ouch.” He hit a big knot with the comb. “Sorry—hair. I don’t have bloody twelve hundred dollars.”

  “You’re getting there. You will make enough if you’re frugal. No more missed shows. No more extra days at hotels, either, sleeping all day. And no paying some thief to buy back what she stole from you.”

  “You haven’t heard me. Sylvie hasn’t asked for money.” Jamie made a final attempt on his hair, and gave up. Just wear a hat. He dropped the comb back in his suitcase and pulled out his last set of clean clothes. Laundry tomorrow. “I trust her. I just wanted to pay her back because she’s a waitress.”

  “We’ll fight about this later. You’d better get off the phone and get ready for your show. I want you to have a good one. You’ve got a whole new audience discovering you, you know. Have you read your reviews?”

  “Nah. Haven’t been online.” He had to use hotels’ public-use computers. A laptop was another expense he’d put o
ff while living with his parents. Just as well. It would have been stolen. He put one arm into the sleeve of a shirt, changing the phone to his other hand so he could do the other sleeve. The thought of the unaffordable laptop triggered a new round of dread. Bankrupt. No one would rent to him. Much as he loved his parents, he didn’t want to live with them again after the tour. “How will I get an apartment when I get back?”

  “Why are you thinking about that now?”

  “Dunno. Mind jumps around.” He stared at the blue window. Fuck. He could see his reflection. The curtains were open. He’d been in such a fog he’d been standing in front of it naked. Shocked, he yanked the curtains shut. How could he have stood there like that? “Jesus. What in bloody hell is the matter with me?”

  “You sound strange. What’s going on? Are you panicking?”

  “Nah. Sorry. Just tired.” He would have to get ten hours sleep tonight to get himself together. If he could sleep without Gasser. “I’m getting strange. Doing stupid stuff.”

  “Should I have someone come get you? I can call the woman who leads the drum group.”

  “What are you going to tell her?”

  “That you don’t know your way around Asheville and that you’re really tired.”

  “Yeah, guess so.” He sat on the bed, realizing he was hungry as well as tired, and flipped through the room service menu. Nothing vegan. “Jesus, hate to be a bludger, but could this person maybe bring me a sandwich? There’s nothing vegan on room service except this little ‘side salad.’ ”

  “Fine. I’ll ask her.” A hint of exasperation. “Anything else you need?”

  “Nah. Thanks. I’ll be better tomorrow.”

  He hung up, finished dressing, and walked downstairs, then ran back up. There was no way he could eat in the car and then do a show without brushing his teeth. He had a fear of dentists, and a kind of obsessive worry about stuff stuck in his teeth. While he was in the room again, he made a list on hotel notepaper of everything he needed to do to avoid fucking up further. If he could keep himself on track somehow, cross things off the list, he would be all right. As he finished the list, he looked up and saw his roo lying on the bed.