The fish tank bubbled behind her. She picked up the container of food and dropped in a pinch of flakes. She watched the goldfish swarm the food for a minute, and wished that she were in the water with them.
Then she stared back down at the Play-Doh bust for a few moments until her vision blurred once again and she didn’t bother to wipe away the tears. Her fingers found the pair of kid scissors and she turned them over in her hand a few times. She felt along the blade of the scissors, pressed her index finger against the steel edge hard enough to leave a mark.
Her mother’s words about meeting with the grief counselor echoed in her mind. It’ll help you come to terms with what happened … And help with the guilt.
But how could it? How could someone help remove the paralyzing guilt that squeezed at her from the inside out, slowly crushing her? That pain would never go away. Never.
She placed the blade against the tender skin on the inside of her wrist, closed her eyes, and pulled back with a hard yank. She could feel the sting as the steel sliced open the skin, then she pressed down harder and did it again. And again. Her forearm felt as if it had caught on fire, the pain rippling all the way up to the shoulder. Alice kept her eyes closed as beads of blood rolled down across her palm and off her fingertips, but for a few brief moments of time, the anguish of Jason dying leaked away as well.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FEBRUARY 2011
ALICE HAD ALWAYS imagined that riding on an Amtrak train would be a little fancier than traveling on a bus, that the seats would be bigger, more comfortable, and that the service would be warm and friendly, the staff striving to make sure everyone’s travel experience was pleasant. But it wasn’t. Not even close. The seats looked and smelled dirty. The material a tropical pattern. Blue, green, yellow, and orange. All the colors faded and worn, covered with grime, coffee stains, and old pieces of pink chewing gum. The windows were smudged by the hands of children and uncovered sneezes, the headrests stained by greasy heads.
Alice lost count of how many Budweisers she consumed. She knew she finished off two before they arrived in Philly, had a couple more during the layover, and a couple more since pulling out of the 30th Street station.
She glanced down at her one-way ticket to Wilmington, North Carolina, clutched in her hand and noticed that she still had stains of red dotted on her skin. When she had stepped up to the ticket kiosk, her mind was blank, not having any real clue of where she was headed. All she knew was that she needed to get out of Harrisburg. The ticket woman had to ask her twice what her destination city was. Alice stared at the woman, then to the screen behind her that listed all the various destinations, and a name entered her mind like a slap to the face—Elton. Her eyes wandered to the last city listed on the board: Wilmington, North Carolina.
Go to Elton’s, her inner voice instructed. She didn’t second-guess it as she paid for a one-way ticket to Wilmington. From there, she would have to take the bus down to Shallotte. She didn’t really like the fact that she was going back home—or where home used to be—but Wilmington would only be a quick pit stop before heading to Shallotte. She wouldn’t stay in Wilmington. She couldn’t.
Get to Shallotte. One decision down.
Alice managed to keep the seat next to her empty as most of the others filled up around her. Maybe it was the toxic cloud that loomed over her. Or maybe it was obvious that she just walked away from a trailer containing five dead men.
The beer performed its purpose. With its mellow buzz, she felt a little calmer, a little more resolved. She would get things figured out in Shallotte. Once she got down there, Elton would help her sort things through and decide what to do next. Everything would be fine. Alice drank some more beer. It was still cold and tasted pretty good.
* * *
Alice watched as a young girl—maybe fifteen—hustled into the car with her head down, shoulders bunched up under her chin like she wanted to disappear. The young girl didn’t make eye contact with anyone as she searched for an empty seat. Any empty seat. Alice could smell the girl’s desperation, but the young kid wasn’t traveling alone—maybe she wanted to be—as a middle-aged burnout sporting a long blond ponytail, carrying two cans of Budweiser, trailed after her. Like a lot of guys wearing a ponytail, his hair was pretty thin on top. Wouldn’t be long before he was bald. The man stood tall and rail thin, like a good gust of wind would send him down on his ass. His jeans and green work shirt were well worn and dirty, and his construction worker boots were caked with old mud, the color of mustard. A name patch was stitched above one of his shirt pockets: Buddy.
Buddy followed the young girl to the seat in front of Alice like a cat tracking a mouse, alert and curious and ready to pounce. The nature of their relationship appeared to be newly acquainted, if you could call it that.
The young girl was pretty. Caramel-colored complexion, free of acne or blemishes of any kind. She looked like she could be the next Noxzema girl. Big blue eyes, almost too wide for her face, gave her a cartoonish appearance and a look of complete gullibility. Her jaws worked on a pink wad of bubblegum and she didn’t speak in full sentences. Mainly uh-huhs and uh-uhs when Buddy asked her a question or made a lame attempt at levity. As the young girl became more and more withdrawn, Buddy got more and more confident, sipping on his can of Budweiser. This back-and-forth went on for a half hour or so, but Alice kept watching anyway—a train wreck waiting to happen.
Buddy leaned in close to the girl, and she, in turn, pressed up as close as possible to the smudged-up window. “Fuck. I hate Philly. I really do. It’s a real shit-hole if you ask me.”
The girl didn’t respond. She just kept snapping her bubblegum. Chew, chew, snap. Chew, chew, snap.
“Hope I never set foot in that city again, you know?” He stretched his arms over his head and cracked his back, thereby invading every inch of the girl’s personal space, but didn’t seem to care. “Born in Philly. Grew up in Philly. Served my time. I’m done with it. You?”
The young girl nodded her head. Not really an answer, but that was all she offered.
“Yeah. Got a construction gig all lined up down in Fort Myers. Construction work in Philly is a pain in the ass. Dickheads always stealing your tools. Homeless people and druggies breaking into work sites and camping out, pissing and shitting everywhere.” He proceeded to play with his ponytail now. “Florida’s nice, man. Ever been?”
“Uh-uh,” the girl answered, wide eyes staring out the window. She looked like she wished that she was anywhere else.
“Yeah. It’s fucking nice. Warm twenty-four seven. No shit weather. I mean, they get rain, but I like the rain. What about you? You like rain?” He didn’t really give the girl a chance to answer. Just kept on yapping. “Yeah, people down in Florida don’t go sticking their nose in your shit either. They leave your shit alone. Go about their own goddamned business. The blacks are different down there, too. No offense, but the blacks in Philly are assholes. You know? Down in Fort Myers, they’re just black people. No attitude, like the whole world owes them shit.”
“Uh-huh,” the girl said.
“What’s your deal? You look like you’re half and half. Is that right? Half black, half white?”
“Uh-huh,” the girl repeated.
“Yeah, that’s the way to do it. Best of both worlds, right? Black people like you. White people like you. Shit, your mama must be pretty.”
The young girl just nodded this time.
“Yeah. That’s cool.” The guy took a sip of beer, kept playing with his ponytail, stroking it like a pet ferret. “You want a beer?” He held out one of the cans of Budweiser.
The girl shook her head.
“You sure? You don’t drink or what?”
The girl gazed around the train car. She appeared too scared to get up and move, and too scared to stay put. Her big blue eyes rimmed red, on the verge of losing it altogether. The girl glanced back at Alice for a moment, fear and desperation eating up her face, then looked away quickly, too uncomfortable with
direct eye contact.
Alice knew what was going on with the girl. Pretty obvious. Alice had been living it for the last six years. Running from a life that didn’t work and had nothing left to offer. The young girl was scared—just like Alice when she made the decision to run. But after months, or years, of being trapped in a situation that seemed unfixable, all the daydreaming and planning didn’t prepare you for taking the big leap. Running. Leaving all the misery behind and living life as a runaway, knowing in your heart that it wasn’t going to get better, so why not pack up and take your chances on your own? Alice had been convinced that her life was unbearable. That it couldn’t get any worse.
Alice almost felt bad for the young girl. Almost. The kid was starting a journey that would rip her apart, piece by piece. Life on the streets was soul-crushing. But she wasn’t Alice’s problem. Alice sipped on her beer even though it wasn’t that cold anymore.
“Man, you wouldn’t say shit if you had a mouthful of it, would you? Christ. Lighten up, already.” He drank the Budweiser like water. “Shit. I don’t bite or anything.”
The young girl nodded. Kept peering out the window.
Buddy emptied the beer down his throat, produced a foamy belch, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Where you headed to anyways?”
The young girl stared down at her hands and squirmed closer to the window. “I have someplace to go.”
Pffssst. He cracked open the other Budweiser. “I say bullshit to that.” His playful, optimistic tone melted away a little. “You got no place to go, do you?”
The young girl clutched at her purse and moved to stand, but Buddy slid a rough hand on her thigh and kept her in place. “Come on, honey. Don’t be like that. Just trying to be friendly and shit. You don’t got a problem with someone just trying to be friendly, do you?” He kept his hand on her thigh.
“I think I’ll move. To another seat,” the young girl answered, more of a plea than statement.
He grinned and patted her inner thigh. “Nah. You’re fine. What’s your name anyways, sweetheart?”
The young girl shifted under his touch. “Please. I’m sorry, but I just want to move to another seat.”
Buddy chuckled and kept his hand right where it was. “Nothing to be sorry about. Just tell me your name. No harm in telling me who I’m sitting next to, is there?”
The young girl hugged her purse like a stuffed animal. “Delilah,” she whispered.
“Shit, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Now come on and have a beer with me.” He took the young girl’s hand and pressed the cold can of Budweiser into her fingers.
The girl recoiled from the can like it was a bag full of dog shit and snapped to her feet. The Budweiser tipped over and doused his blue jeans with an eruption of white foam.
“What the fuck?” He grabbed the can and held it out in front of him, beer suds leaking all over the floor.
The girl skirted past him, stepping on his work boots, and rushed down the aisle with her head held low, knocking against armrests and elbows as she made a reckless retreat.
“Goddamn.” Buddy stared at the mess on his jeans and boots and shook his head, jaw grinding. “Fuck this shit.” Then he stepped into the aisle and followed right after the young girl.
In the seat behind them, Alice watched the guy storm off, still mumbling and swearing under his breath. His fists clenched at his sides and his long, greasy ponytail snapped back and forth like a cat’s tail. Alice knew where this was headed. Guys like that hated rejection. The scumbag was immature, insecure, intolerant—just to name a few. The kid may as well have called the guy a faggot. She hit his hot button and he wasn’t about to let it slide. He was just getting started and the young girl was in no condition to defend herself.
Alice glanced down at the duffel bag wedged between her feet. “Christ.” She didn’t really consider herself a Good Samaritan. For Alice, it was always every man for himself. Karma would never be kind to her because she was not kind to it. But she picked up the duffel bag anyway, got to her feet, already regretting the decision.
CHAPTER NINE
THE LATE-AFTERNOON CROWD hunched over two-top tables covered with cheap red vinyl, nursing draft beers and munching on processed chicken fingers, overcooked sliders, and undercooked French fries. Like most low-rent strip clubs, the food wasn’t necessarily good, merely edible. Mainly truckers, construction workers, and college students who enjoyed eating their lunch while watching topless girls spin around poles. A few men sat up at the bar, sipping drinks and searching for answers they would never find in the bottom of their glasses.
The Frisky Pony’s windows were tinted black, curtains drawn, making it dark enough to pass for night. Like Vegas casinos, daylight’s not good for business, so give the clientele the pseudo comforts of night. A smoke machine wasn’t necessary—cigarette smoke hovered in the air, thick and gray and oppressive. It was as if smoking was a requirement to enter. Patrons, cocktail waitresses, the bartender. Everybody sucked on cancer sticks.
A techno beat thumped, out of synch with the pulsating lights over center stage. A bleached blond with thicker thighs than the night dancers went through the motions of her routine on the pole, grinding her ass into the metal shaft, her breasts not so much jiggling—barely moving, in fact—due to their freakish implant size. The left breast happened to be larger, rounder, and firmer. The silicon bag perched too high under pink flesh and it seemed dangerously close to bursting from the result of a hard sneeze. The right one, although still bigger than a cantaloupe, looked like a partially deflated balloon. Matched together, they created the effect of perfect imbalance.
The dancer—Summer was her stage name—moved with little grace or passion. Each gesture, each shake, each smack of her dimpled ass well rehearsed and timed to the music, but her face stood void of expression and emotion. Summer was not in the moment, her mind somewhere else, someplace else, as she arched her back and slid down the pole until completing a painful split. This particular move always hurt her knees, but management required each dancer to perform at least one crotch-exposing split per routine. Summer jammed her index finger into her mouth like she was taking her temperature, then traced her right areola, the size of a silver dollar, and lifted the sagging breast as if in an effort to even up the pair.
The male spectators that gazed up at her, with mouthfuls of processed beef and chicken, weren’t prone to harsh judgment against unbalanced breasts. They were tits. They were big. And they were both naked for their viewing pleasure. At the very least, the enormous set of jugs distracted them from Summer’s stretch-marked paunch that hung over her red G-string.
The entire scene would be completely depressing and demoralizing for both dancer and spectator without some form of intoxication. Summer drank a few vodka and grapefruits before her routine, and would have a few after it. As for the handful of male observers, beer went down like warm milk.
The front door swung open, giving way to an intense blast of unwanted sunlight, and the drinking, munching, and gawking group of patrons reacted to the light like a coven of vampires. The men held hands in front of their eyes and leaned away from the light as if fearful of bursting into flame and ash. Summer kept dancing, though. Sunlight or no sunlight.
Silhouetted by the blast of natural light stood the outlines of two men, one ridiculously tall and wide, the other small and slight. The view of the two men was like the opening shot of a Looney Tunes episode, a father and son cartoon pair. Then the door swung closed behind them, and as the welcome return of darkness settled back in, the rest of the customers resumed shoveling French fries into their mouths and stared back at Summer’s less than masterful performance.
The two men remained at the threshold and waited a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the dark, then the one built like a fourteen-year-old paperboy walked straight to the bar with the lumbering gorilla trailing a few paces behind him. The small-framed man crawled up on a barstool, took a pack of Salems from his crisp suede jacket, and lit up.
The man’s facial features matched his physique, soft and childlike. Pale white skin, rosy at the cheeks from the bitter air outside, and a pair of shocking blue eyes. His delicate lips worked the cigarette, smoke funneling out from his tiny nostrils, and his thin fingers with their perfectly clipped nails strummed on the bar top. His hair, neatly trimmed and combed and parted off to the side, gave him the appearance of a Norman Rockwell character. He looked like he should be off earning a Boy Scout merit badge or sitting at the edge of a pond in Mayberry with a fishing pole in hand instead of perching on a ratty barstool at a strip club. He was a man permanently trapped inside the body of a child—a man-child.
Despite the appearance of youth and innocence, there was something off-putting about the diminutive man. Although well dressed, well groomed, and polite-looking, it was his smile that proved most troubling. It was the smirk of a boy who just did something cruel to the neighborhood cat. Mean and twisted little thoughts dancing around in his head. The man’s lips pulled back to reveal a set of perfectly white teeth, mashed together like that of an evil ventriloquist’s dummy. In fact, with the large, hulking mass of a man towering behind him, the two men looked like a Vaudeville routine waiting to commence.
The bartender, a hard-living thirty-year-old woman with broad shoulders and jet-black hair buzzed short, wiped away water rings and tossed empty beer bottles into a trash can as she made her way toward the men. A Newport dangled from her lips. Both nostrils pierced with a silver stud. She was used to all types here at the Frisky Pony. And, as she did with most customers, she avoided eye contact as she slung coasters on the bar in front of the two strangers.
“Get you fellas a drink?”
The small man maintained his spooky little grin and answered, barely moving his lips. “That would be fine. A white Russian, please. Ketel One if you have it.”
The bartender said that she did and looked up at the giant. “Anything for you?”
The Guilt We Carry Page 6