Fifteen Minutes to Live

by Phoef Sutton

  Frank slammed the glove compartment shut and swore. “Damn it, no registration, no nothing.”

  “It doesn’t make sense.” Carl had said all this before. “If she’d just taken off with the car, like she did with mine, all that stuff would be in there. Unless the car was already stolen? Or somebody just gave it to her, but didn’t want it to be traced?”

  “Is that what doesn’t make sense to you?” Frank asked, “Is that the part that doesn’t make sense?” He got up out of the car and walked into the house.

  Carl had reclaimed his car from the high school parking lot and driven it home, and Frank had insisted on taking the Mercedes himself. He’d followed Carl to the house, full of enthusiasm, sure that a thorough search of the car was bound to turn up the vital clue that would prove Jesse was still alive and tell them where she’d gone. Instead, nothing. Nothing but Carl’s story.

  When Carl came in he found Frank at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee.

  “I’m not making this up,” was all Carl could think of to say.

  “Of course not, you’ve probably got a tumor of your own.”

  Carl sat down across from him. “I know there’s no reason in the world for you to believe me…”

  “There’s no reason for me not to.” Frank set the cup down and looked out the window. “Martin is always telling me to put all of this behind me, to get on with my life. But the thing is, before Jesse, I never really had a life. I had a routine. I did things. But aside from the accident,” he gestured with his prosthetic arm, “nothing ever happened to me. But she happened. And it was like a train wreck. It was big and painful and beautiful and every second mattered. You know what Beaudelaire said about love? It’s ‘an oasis of horror in a desert of boredom.’ But it’s still an oasis. Our time together, that’s the story of my life. Everything before her was just the boring set up. Like the first hour of a mini-series, the part that’s just padding to stretch it out for three nights. And the time since she’s gone, that’s just been some sort of weird, dragged out anti-climax. I can feel myself sitting in the audience watching my life and wondering, ‘why isn’t this movie over?’” He laughed and sipped his coffee. “So, if this is just some psychosis of yours, or some bizarre con game, it really doesn’t matter to me, at least it’s a part of my story.” He shoved the coffee cup aside and looked intently at Carl. “So what else have you got?”

  Carl felt suddenly on the spot, like a third grader called on by is teacher unexpectedly. “How about Jeff?”

  Frank looked up sharply. “What about him?”

  He told Frank about Jeffrey’s letter and how Martin had claimed he’d visited the week before her death.

  Frank grunted thoughtfully and Carl asked him what was wrong.

  “Well, that’s not true,” Frank said. “I was practically living in the house then, I would have known. Jeff hasn’t been back for over a year.”

  “Why would Martin lie about that?”

  “I don’t know.” Frank was hunched forward now. “He hasn’t been able to find Jeff yet, right?”

  “That’s what he told me.”

  “Are you sure Jeff wrote the letter?”

  Carl coughed. “You think Martin forged the letter?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But why? So we’d think Jeff visited when he didn’t? What would that get him?”

  “I don’t know. You’re right, never mind.”

  “If you could see that letter,” Carl said, “would you at least know if Jeffrey wrote it?”

  “I suppose, but what’s the point?”

  “Let’s look at it from another angle. Maybe the letter isn’t supposed to convince us that he came, maybe it’s supposed to convince us that he left.”

  “But if he never came, who’d care if he left?”

  “Frank, that letter is the only reason everybody thinks Jeff is still in Peru. And because they think he’s off, running around in the jungle or the rain forest or whatever they have down there, no one thinks it’s strange that he can’t be found. But what if he’s not there. What if that’s what Martin is covering up?”

  Frank stared at him in disbelief. “You think Martin did something to Jeffrey?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “What then? Jeffrey’s the one that killed her? Oh that’s right, nobody killed her, she’s still running around out there.” He stood up, quickly, his chair skidding on the floor. “Why the fuck am I sitting here listening to this? I’m getting to be as crazy as everybody thinks I am.”

  He made his way to the door and as he passed the phone, it rang. He picked it up automatically, not thinking, because that’s what you do with a ringing phone. When he put the receiver to his ear, the blood drained from his face.

  Then he was croaking, “What? Hello?” and hammering on the lever, trying to preserve a lost connection. Carl didn’t even remember moving to his side.

  “What is it?” Carl asked.

  “She got cut off,” Frank said.

  “Who?”

  “Jesse,” he said, very quietly.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Bad penny, Ryan thought as he pulled into his driveway. She keeps turning up like a bad penny.

  She had a bag of groceries in her arms and she craned her neck to look at him as he climbed out of the car. She didn’t seem at all satisfied by what she saw.

  Ernie the car wash man came from around the side of the house and smiled at him warmly.

  “Hey, Mr. Ryan, you know this girl?”

  “No, I don’t Ernie.”

  He shook his head in disappointment. “Damn,” he said, “Damn, damn.”

  “That’s what I told you,” Jesse said. “I don’t know why nobody listens to me.” She sat down on the curb looking quite forlorn. “I wish somebody knew what was going on.”

  “What is this, Ernie?”

  “I’m sorry Mr. Ryan, but I thought I saw you drop this girl off in the Von’s parking lot. Didn’t I see you, didn’t I wave to you?”

  “You did Ernie, but…”

  “But you don’t know her?”

  This was the curse of friendliness, thought Ryan. Here was a man he’d made the mistake of smiling at, or giving a little business to out of charity – as if a man couldn’t wash his own car – a man he’d chatted with to show that he had no sense of class or race superiority. And it all came around now to bite him in the butt.

  “Well…” he began.

  Fortunately, Ernie wanted to tell his story.

  “’Cause I saw her wandering around the parking lot like she didn’t know where she was and didn’t know what she was supposed to do and I knew the look ‘cause I got a brother who’s a retard and he always got this look on his face like he don’t know where the hell he is. Then she goes into the store and after a while comes out with these groceries and starts wandering around the parking lot like she’s looking for her car. Well, I know she ain’t got a car, ‘cause I saw you drop her off, or someone who looks like you just when you were there. Anyway I figure it looks like it might rain anyway so nobody’s gonna want a wash so I go up to her and ask her what’s wrong. She says she thinks somebody stole her car, but I can tell she’s not really sure herself. I figure she must belong somewhere so I offer to take her home and she isn’t sure at first if maybe she should call the police instead, but she says since she can’t really remember where she parked her car anyway she might just look stupid. So she says okay.”

  “So we get in my old car and I drive her home but she don’t even really know where she’s going ‘cause when we get to her house she says that’s not it, somebody took it and she’s real upset. You know, life’s not so easy for people with all their brains but for retards it’s a real bitch of a place, and I think an intellectual guy like you can appreciate that, right Mr. Ryan?”

  “Yes, you’re very enlightened Ernie.” Ryan was quite irritated by the fact that Ernie had a car of his own. He’d always assumed Ernie was an impoverished, homeless person. What
was the point of being charitable to someone who wasn’t impoverished or homeless?

  “Thank you, thanks a lot. That means a lot coming from you. Anyway, I’m starting to wonder what the hell I should do with her when I remember that you dropped her off, or it looked like you did and I figured I’d bring her here and maybe you’d know where she belonged.”

  “How’d you know where I live, Ernie?”

  “I looked you up in the phone book Mr. Ryan. I ain’t the retard.”

  “Of course not, Ernie.”

  “But if you’re not the one, I guess I’ll…” he looked over at her with a frustrated sigh. She rooted through her groceries, pulled out an apple and started eating it. “Look at her, she’s just like a kid. I mean I’d just think she was one of those fucking street nuts but I thought I saw somebody drop her off and hell, she had money for groceries. I guess I better call the cops. Not that they’ll do anything…”

  “Don’t do that, Ernie.”

  “Why not, Mr. Ryan?”

  “Well, to be honest Ernie, and this is a little embarrassing, I do know her.”

  He looked at him with blank surprise. “You do?”

  “Yes. I – I’ve been having a little trouble with the wife,” Ryan never said things like ‘the wife,’ but this seemed the proper time to begin, “she gets jealous over the littlest thing. And so when I found this lady…she was hitchhiking on an off ramp and she didn’t know where she was going so I loaned her a little money and dropped her off. I figured she’d call a cab or something, I didn’t realize she was…disabled. The only reason I denied it was, well, I didn’t want my wife to misunderstand.”

  “Oh, I see. So why can’t I call the police?”

  “Well, that might be something of a shock, don’t you think? I mean, look at her.” She was sitting on the steps, munching the apple and giving them bored, dirty looks. “She’s never had anything to do with the police. Why don’t you let me look after her?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that, Mr. Ryan.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want you to get in trouble with the old lady.”

  “I’m willing to take that risk, Ernie.”

  “Aw, but this isn’t fair to you. Let me worry about it, I didn’t mean to dump trouble on you.”

  The hell you didn’t. “It’s no trouble, Ernie. In a way I feel responsible.”

  “Why?”

  “I just do. Why don’t you go home and I’ll take care of this.”

  “Hey, I got an idea. I’ll just drop her off at the Galleria. She can be somebody else’s problem.”

  “I don’t think that would be right, do you? Don’t you think we all have a moral responsibility to each other as human beings?”

  “Well yeah, but not when it’s this much trouble.”

  “Let me take care of it, Ernie.”

  “And your wife, what’s your wife going to say?”

  “My wife’s out of town.”

  “Then what were you worried about her for?”

  “I’m an idiot, Ernie.”

  “No you’re not Mr. Ryan.”

  “Thank you, Ernie. I really want to do this.”

  “Well, okay.”

  He turned to go back to his car. Ryan hustled up to him and spoke to him very quietly. “But if anybody asks you, this didn’t happen, okay?”

  Ernie stared at him blankly. “Why not?”

  Unbelievable, Ryan thought. “The wife,” he said with a patient smile.

  “Oh right. You’re not gonna try anything with her, are you?”

  Ryan looked stunned. “What?”

  “Well, I don’t really know you that well, do I Mr. Ryan?”

  Then what the fuck are you doing here? he wanted to scream. “Trust me. She’ll be perfectly safe. I remember she had a phone number with her. I’ll call it, somebody’ll come pick her up, everything’ll be fine.”

  “I could do that.”

  “Please let me. You see, I felt very guilty about dropping her off like that. This’ll let me make up for it.”

  Ernie looked at him. “Oh, I see.”

  “Good, so why don’t you go now?”

  “Okay.” Ernie walked over to Jesse who had just finished her apple and was smoothing out her dress, trying to wipe the dirt off it. “Jessica, I’m leaving you here with Mr. Ryan, is that okay?”

  “Who is he?”

  Ernie looked up at Ryan, surprised. “She doesn’t know you.”

  “Come on, Jessie, I’m Ted Ryan. I’m Carl’s friend, I’m going to take you to Carl, remember?”

  She was standing now, relieved and smiling. “You know Carl?”

  “Sure I do. And his friend, the one armed guy, what’s his name?” Mistake, Ryan thought when he saw the puzzled look come back to her face. Cover, move back. “Carl Rooney, right? I have his number. You wait here, I’ll give him a call, he’ll come get you, okay?”

  She looked from him to Ernie once, then said, “Okay.”

  Ernie smiled. “Good. Bye, Jesse honey, take care of yourself. You give me a call Ryan, let me know how it all turned out.”

  Ryan smiled and said, “Right.” Right I’ll call you, you bastard and see if I ever let you wash my fucking car again.

  He took Jesse’s arm and led her up to the door. “Come on Jesse, let’s wait inside, it’s cooler.”

  Inside, he shut the door quickly and watched Ernie’s old wreck lumber out and head down the street.

  “Who is that guy,” Jesse said. “Do you know that guy, is he crazy?”

  Ryan took Jesse’s arm again and led her to the bedroom. He pulled a pair of jeans and a t-shirt from his wife’s drawer and threw them on the bed.

  “Change into these,” he said.

  “Why?” She was scared now, damn it. It would be easier if she wasn’t scared, but he didn’t have the energy to reassure her.

  “Cause you look like hell.”

  She looked down at her dress, feeling a little ashamed. That was better.

  “I don’t even know this dress.”

  “Good, then you won’t mind me burning it.”

  Now, you said that deliberately to scare her. Does it really make a difference?

  “Burn it?”

  The dress had to be burned, he thought, just in case they did try to check that dust. And she had to be far away. He’d load her in the car and drive for an hour, drop her off in Long Beach or somewhere where no one could make a connection.

  “It’s a joke, don’t you like jokes?”

  She sat down on the bed, running a hang through her greasy hair.

  “Christ, is everybody crazy?”

  “Not everybody.”

  She stared back at him suddenly and he didn’t even think of looking away. “I want to go home.”

  He picked up the clothes again and tossed them at her. “Put these on.”

  She caught them and threw them back in his face. “No.”

  Ryan shoved her back onto the bed and climbed on top of her, cupping his hand under her chin. “Listen bitch, you don’t have a home. I killed your family and burned down your house and if you don’t change like I say, I’ll get you too.”

  She laughed again. “You’re crazy.”

  He let her sit up. “I don’t think so. I think you’re the crazy one. You’re the one who can’t remember anything, where you got your dress, who I am, where your house went. You don’t even know you’re a mental case? He grabbed one of his wife’s old fashioned hand mirrors off the bed table. “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen. I’m getting out of here.”

  He grabbed her arm and held her. “You’re seventeen? Take a look.” He held the mirror up to her face.

  She didn’t react at first, then suddenly the mirror was cracking against his forehead, her hands were slapping at his face and her legs were kicking at his knees. He fell to the floor, swinging his arms wildly to keep her off him.

  He tried to crawl under the bed, but the feet kept kicking at him and then the mirro
r started pounding on his back, the edge digging into his ribs. He tried to turn over so it wouldn’t keep hitting the same place. A foot came up to kick him again and he grabbed it and bit at the ankle, tasting blood.

  The mirror came down on the back of his head. He heard glass breaking. He reached up and grabbed a hand – he hoped it was the one he’d caught in the trapdoor. He pulled on it as hard as he could, slamming it into the sharp corner of the bed table.

  He shifted around so he could move his other arm and swung it up with all his strength into some part of her that was soft and she backed off, gasping for air. He pulled himself up onto his feet, blinking his right eye to keep the blood out of it.

  He reached up to wipe it off and she was on him again, clambering on top of him, forcing him to the floor on his knees. He reached up and started yanking on her hair.

  He threw himself to the floor and she toppled off him. He clambered to his knees, found her face and started hitting it with the sides of his hands till she stopped yelling and didn’t look like she wanted to get up anymore.

  Grabbing onto the blankets, he pulled himself to his feet and kicked her. He saw that she was trying to crawl under the bed just like he’d been doing before. He decided to stop.

  He sat on the bed for a moment, listening to her crying under the bed. He remembered the blood in his eye again and went into the bathroom. Pray God she hadn’t done any damage to his face, anything he’d have to explain.

  There was a small cut on his forehead and it was bleeding like the dickens. It would stop soon though, and he could comb his hair down to cover it. Other than that he looked fine. There were aches all over his body, so he took his shirt off and there he hadn’t fared so well. There was one big welt on his back. Tomorrow he’d be covered with bruises. He pulled off his trousers – there was a gash on one ankle. He didn’t even remember how that had happened, but it was already starting to clot.

  He put his clothes back on and went into the bedroom. He pulled her out from under the bed. She didn’t resist much, she was crying too hard. She was going to look a lot worse than he was. There was a black eye already starting and he could see where a clump of her hair was gone. There was a bite mark on her ankle, but he thought that only made them even. He started taking her dress off.