South of Bixby Bridge

by Ryan Winfield

  I clear my throat. What was all that about? I say.

  Paul grins, uncorks the bottle of wine. Tara had one of her little fits, he says. She ordered the maid to pour out all my alcohol but I saved the Pétrus—800 bucks a bottle and impossible to get.

  I don’t understand, I say.

  I left a few bottles on the yacht. Come on, sport, don’t tell me you haven’t opened one yet.

  You said you don’t drink anymore.

  Paul’s grin widens and he says,

  I don’t drink any less either.

  Grabbing a wineglass from the bar, he fills it and holds the glass out to me. I shake my head. I say,

  I just spent two months drying out.

  Relax, Trevor, he says. It’s just one glass.

  Thanks, but no thanks.

  Paul stretches the glass closer to me. I insist, he says.

  I shake my head. Paul’s grin fades. His eyes get serious. You wanna play in my world, he says, you gotta pay!

  I turn away from him and grab my jacket from the chair. Paul smashes the wineglass against the fireplace. Red wine drips down the white limestone mantel and hisses as it hits the flames. I spin around to face him. He says,

  Where you gonna go—back to that shabby-ending motel? You go there and you’re crawling back into a bottle eventually anyway. We both know that!

  I try to steady my nerves, think before I respond. If treatment did anything, it made me self-aware. Drinking is bad news for me. Truth is I’m scared to drink. Scared to go back to that place it takes me. I don’t want to beg, but I put on my best pleading voice and say,

  Please, Paul—you know I just got out of treatment.

  I know you did, he says. And I’ll bet they brainwashed you with a bunch of God shit there. They did, didn’t they? What did God ever do for you? I’ll tell you what he did—nothing. But I did. I delivered you from that shit-hole motel and put you on my yacht. I gave you back your Porsche. Can’t you see those people are just weak and that’s why they need God.

  Paul grabs the Pétrus and guzzles from the bottle. Wine drips down his chin like blood from a slit throat. Then he pulls the bottle away, licks his lips. He reaches for another wineglass and fills it. He thrusts the glass beneath my nose, holds the wine an inch from my lips. He winks and then he says,

  It’s not as if I’m asking you to marry me, Trevor.

  My mind races a thousand miles an hour over my memories looking for something to believe in, something that will tell me Paul is wrong. But I can’t find it. He’s right. Nobody did shit for me until Paul gave me a job and a place to live.

  Paul holds the wineglass steady to my lips. He doesn’t blink and his eyes are so glassy-black I can see myself reflected in the firelight there. I look down. I can see the red wine glowing in the glass. I can smell it too. Sticking just the tip of my tongue into the glass, I taste the wine. Every decadent drop delivers craving straight to my brain.

  I take the glass from Paul’s hand, raise it to my lips and take a sip. I swirl the wine around in my mouth, feel the alcohol soaking into my cheeks, and then the road falls out beneath my racing thoughts and my mind goes quiet. I didn’t even know I’d been fighting these last two months, resisting the relief, clawing at the ledge, until I feel myself stop and relax into the drop. Feels good to surrender. Feels good to be powerless. Feels good to be falling.

  I raise the glass and drain it. Paul says,

  Feels like the first time after so long without it, doesn’t it?

  As the wine warms away the cold ache in my gut, I say,

  Feels like relief.

  Paul hugs me with his free arm. He says,

  They don’t call it spirits for nothing, killer.

  I sink into a chair beside the fire. Paul pours two more glasses of wine. Your problem was you were drinking cheap booze, he says.

  I take a deep breath and relax for the first time in forever. I say,

  Fill the glass this time, will ya?

  Paul looks over at me proud. He says,

  There’s my boy!

  18 Like What You See?

  Nails hammer into my throbbing head. My eyes ache. My mouth is dry. My memory of last night develops with my vision like a brittle Polaroid in the bright morning light. The search in the woods for the wine. My surrender to that first drink. Getting lit by the fire with Paul. Glass after glass—how many bottles, three, maybe four? I’m lying in Paul’s study on the hog-hair sofa. Someone draped an afghan over me.

  I pull myself up. Too quick. My vision goes white. I rest my head on my knees and massage my temples but the hammering continues. Tossing the afghan aside, I stand. When my legs stop wobbling, I release the sofa arm and search the bar for something to drink. There’s nothing. Any evidence of last night has been erased—even the fireplace mantel is clean. The hammering sounds again. It’s not in my head—it’s in the next room.

  I walk into the hall and follow the sound. Stepping under a tall passageway arch, I peer into the great room. And there she is—

  Tara.

  The woman from the photograph on Paul’s desk, the woman jumping the horse. She’s standing in the center of the room. Long golden folds of hair cascade down her back, just grazing the top of her perfect ass. Her skintight black leggings tuck into her Ariat riding boots. She’s facing away from me, addressing two Mexican workers on ladders. They’re hanging a painting above the mammoth marble fireplace, an oil painting of a tall gray horse alone on a rocky hill at dusk—the type of haunting painting you can stare at for hours. But I can’t take my eyes off Tara as she purrs directions to the workers—

  I think a little lower, dears. More to the left. Ahhh, that’s it. Right there. Yes. Yes! That’s the spot.

  Tara turns to face me. Her eyes are even greener than they are in the photo on Paul’s desk. Her skin is pale but sun-kissed and her pouty lips part just enough to show the tips of her white front teeth. The blood rushes from my throbbing head and my dick gets hard. I forget about my hangover. She says,

  Bonjour!

  Ah . . . good morning.

  Yes, it is. Who are you?

  I’m Trevor.

  What are you doing here, Trevor?

  I’m—I’m—well, I came to deliver something.

  You’re a delivery boy, Trevor?

  No. I work for Paul.

  A smile flirts with the edges of her mouth. She raises her delicate hand, points her index finger in the air and motions for me to spin. She says,

  Spin around for me, Trevor. Go ahead—turn around. Let me get a look at you.

  I don’t want to turn around but something in her voice makes it impossible for me to decline. I turn a slow circle, being careful to not stumble and look like a klutz. When I return to face her, a smile rises on her face and her green eyes glow. She says,

  I see what Paul means. Do you like what you see, Trevor?

  Sure, I mean what—do I like what?

  Why the painting of course, she says.

  Tara glides across the room toward the open kitchen. As she passes me, she brushes my hand with hers and electricity shoots up my arm. She pulls down two coffee mugs. I’m sure you could use some coffee, she says.

  Where’s Paul?

  I didn’t mean to mention Paul and as soon as it comes out, I wish I hadn’t said it because Tara puts one of the coffee mugs back. She says,

  He’s in his office.

  On Saturday?

  His office here, silly. It’s just down the spiral stairs at the end of the hall. Go find him and tell him he has my blessing.

  Your blessing?

  He’ll know what I mean, she says.

  DESCENDING THE STAIRS, I find Paul’s office door ajar and lamp light leaking out from inside. I push the door open. Paul sits at his desk leaning over something. I tap on the open door and say his name but he doesn’t answer. I step into the room and approach the desk. When I’m close enough to look over his shoulder, I see he’s building a ship in a bottle.

  Selecting a
hand-forged tool from a dentist-style tray, he pushes it in easy, and then stands up the mast of the ship. I say,

  I always wondered how they got those ships in there.

  Paul doesn’t look up. He says,

  You should have knocked first, sport, I would have warned you—everything loses its magic once you realize it’s just a trick.

  As he drives a cork into the bottle with his palm, I look around the office and see 5, 10, 20—a fleet of ships in bottles lining the shelves and I wonder if Paul built them all. I say,

  About all the wine last night—

  Did you meet my wife? Paul says.

  Yes, just now. Upstairs.

  What did you think?

  She seems great, I say, really great. Oh, and she said to tell you that you have her blessing. She said you’d know what she means.

  Paul laughs. He sets the ship-in-a-bottle on a shelf with the others. Then he opens his desk drawer and tosses the confidential envelope onto his desk, the envelope I delivered from the office last night. He says,

  Tell me what you think of these.

  I pick up the envelope. It’s already been unsealed. I open the flap and slide out several facedown 8x10 photos. I turn them over. They’re color photos of Benny Wilson naked and balls deep in a young man on a motel bed. I remember Benny in his conservative suit, but here in the photos undressed, he’s flabby and pale, but his face is twisted in ecstasy just the same as when he bit into his lobster cakes at lunch last week. I say,

  Benny Wilson?

  Paul grins. Yep, he says, locked up in a bottle.

  So he’s gay, I say, so what? So are lots of people—

  Not married people, he says. And besides, that’s his intern there he’s got his little cock buried in.

  Then it hits me. Yesterday after lunch when Paul said Benny wasn’t as straight as he lets on, this is what he meant. And the only reason I can think to have these photos is to blackmail Benny.

  You’re blackmailing Benny? I say.

  Paul smiles. No, he says. You’re blackmailing Benny.

  I’m blackmailing Benny?

  When you deliver Benny those risk assessments he asked for, you’re going to give him these for lagniappe.

  For what?

  A little bonus with his new account. He can jack off to them while he reads the reports.

  I’m not a blackmailer, Paul!

  Lighten up, kid. Benny’s the one fucking around on his wife with his intern and using the CalTEARS expense account to do it. A man who does that deserves what he has coming. We’re just getting him to do what his board wants him to do. It’s not blackmail—it’s encouragement. It’s hedging. It’s what we do.

  Paul takes the photos from me and slides them back into the envelope. Then he puts his arm around me and says,

  When we land this account, you’ll be set up for life. You’ll have so much shit you’ll have to hire people to keep track of it all. Now come on, let me give you the nickel tour and show you a little of what I mean.

  IN THE LIGHT OF DAY, I see what I missed driving up last night. The estate is a sweeping horse property. The mansion faces west across green lawns that separate it from a long stone and timber stable. I’m too caught up going over our conversation about the photos to hear much of what Paul is saying about the property. He’s pointing things out with his free hand and carrying the envelope at his side as if it were nothing more than the morning paper.

  We drop down past the stable to the white fence wrapping the riding arena. Tara is on the far side of the arena adjusting the saddle stirrups on a tall gray horse, the same horse from the painting hanging above the fireplace. Standing next to Tara is a giant of a man with a mop of straw-blond hair. When Tara climbs on the horse, he’s still almost eye level with her in the saddle.

  Tara looks back at Paul and me. She trots the horse to the end of the arena past a bar jump set in its center. Then she turns and gallops the horse toward the jump. Her blonde hair streams out behind her. They leap and the horse’s rear leg catches the bar, knocking it to the dirt.

  Inside the stables, a long hallway echoes with snorts of horses looking out from U-shaped openings in the bars of their paddocks. There’s not a crack in the polished concrete floors. Gleaming brass fixtures fasten together the wood stalls. The whole place smells like horse sweat and money.

  Tara enters from the other side with the blond giant behind her leading the horse. As we walk toward them, Paul says,

  Why don’t you just move up here, Heath? As much money as it’s costing me to fly your sorry ass back and forth every week.

  We might just take you up on that, Tara says.

  Paul ignores Tara’s reply. He says,

  From now on, you’re flying coach.

  Tara lifts a warning eyebrow. Careful, Paul, she says.

  Paul chuckles and turns to me. Trevor, meet Heath, he says, the only man on earth big enough to get under a 17-hand thoroughbred, pick it up, and adjust its back.

  Heath’s hand swallows mine. I say,

  You’re a horse chiropractor?

  Heath smiles and nods. Tara says,

  The best—and he’s a masseur.

  You two already met I understand, Paul says.

  Tara tosses her hair. Yes, we bumped into each other. Trevor here was admiring my portrait. Weren’t you, Trevor?

  I don’t know what to say and I just stand there like a dope. Tara smiles and tugs at Heath’s shirt. She says,

  I want you to check Ava—she’s heavy with Conan’s foal.

  Heath closes the gray horse in its stall then follows Tara from the stables. As they disappear around the corner, Paul says,

  You think she’s fucking him?

  I think you’d know, I say, that guy’s a monster.

  Yeah, I’ll bet he's hung like a horse, Paul says, and then he laughs. Pointing to the gray horse, he says,

  This stud here is Conan.

  The horse in the painting?

  Paul nods. Tara found him on a trip we took last year to the Isle of Man, he says. Poor bastard was put out to pasture and abandoned. Of course, Tara fell in love.

  I reach in and scratch behind Conan’s ear. Paul says,

  Tara had to have him. And Tara always gets what she wants. I spent days tracking down the landowner. He had no idea what kind of horse he’d left out in the cold. Old Irish bastard sold him cheap—couple thousand bucks. Of course, it cost me 10 grand to fly him here. Now he lives like a king—fucking my mare, whose bloodline traces back to the Godolphin Arabian.

  Does she race him? I say.

  Tara wanted a stud, Trevor. Prick doesn’t jump too well yet, but he sure can fuck!

  PAUL LEADS ME from the stables in silence. I must have slept late because the sun has already fallen behind the trees and it casts a soft golden glow onto the estate. My head is still reeling over last night, this morning, the photos. I’m as overwhelmed as a kid at a carnival is. As we get up near my Porsche, Paul says,

  Nice car. It’s a little small to be sleeping in though.

  It was my mom’s.

  Looks like it could use a new top.

  It’s an ’83, the first year for a convertible.

  Paul runs his free hand through his thick hair. He says,

  There’s nothing like feeling the wind in your hair.

  Yeah. Mom swore she would put the top down one day and drive south! Drive so far south she’d never have to put it up again.

  Well, that lard-ass loan shark sure took you for a ride with six grand at two times usury.

  Thanks for getting it out of hock, Paul, I say. I’ll pay you back every penny.

  Pocket change, kid.

  Paul holds out the envelope of photos. Several silent beats pass as I make up my mind. Then I lift my left hand and close my thumb and four fingers around the envelope and when Paul lets go, the envelope hangs limp from my hand.

  Paul nods once and grins. Then he reaches into his coat pocket and hands me a BlackBerry and charger cable sealed i
n a clear plastic-freezer bag. He says,

  Look, Tara and I will be in Paris until Christmas. You’re on your own. Keep this phone turned on. Deliver the photos to Benny. Do not fuck this up, kid!

  Then Paul reaches into his other pocket, pulls out a money envelope and slaps it against my chest. He says,

  And this is to hold you over.

  Tucking the photos under my arm, I take the money envelope from Paul. I open it and thumb through a thick stack of 100s—it must be $10,000. I say,

  That’s a lot of holdover!

  Like I said, spare change, kiddo.

  Then Paul sweeps his arm over the estate. You see all this? he says. We land this account and you’ll be staked real good. Have your own mansion with your own showstopper in the stables.

  I’ll do everything I can, sir.

  Paul’s face cracks into a smile. He says,

  There you go with sir again.

  Then he turns and trots up his entry stairs. As I’m getting in my car, he turns back and calls from the door. Did she make it? he says.

  Make it?

  Your mom. Did she make it down south?

  No—she died.

  19 Worth Overdoing

  The drive back is a blur. There are questions I need to answer, things I want to consider, but thoughts dart across my mind like bats chasing bugs. Every time I focus on one thought, another snatches it up and swallows it—900,000 thoughts chasing each other in the dark.

  The distance between me driving north last night and me driving south tonight can’t be measured in 24 hours—it can’t be measured in time at all. I’m in another body, in another car, driving on another road, thinking another person’s thoughts.

  I can’t focus because the envelope of photos sits next to me like a dead body. I reach over and toss the envelope in the backseat.