We Live in Water: Stories

by Jess Walter

  One day in mid-December, toward the end of the deal, I bought Julie and Kevin each a slice of pizza at the place across from Powell’s. I explained that we were going to have to quit after Christmas, but that I’d use them for other things if they wanted work. Of course, I wasn’t really going to use them again; but you always want them to think that you might have more money for them so they stay loyal.

  I’m up for anything, Kevin said quickly.

  Julie said nothing.

  How about you? I asked her.

  You don’t want her, Kevin said.

  Kevin and Julie had some sort of secret. She shoved him like she was trying to shush a seven-year-old.

  What’s goin’ on, I asked.

  Julie gave her money to Greenpeace, Kevin said, and then he broke into laughter.

  She just stared at the ground as Kevin told the story. She’d gone to that shaggy Saturday market in Old Town and there was a Greenpeace booth under the Burnside Bridge. She’d stood there reading the material and looking at these kids behind the booth—so earnest, such believers. And then she just . . . snapped—took all the money she’d saved from our gig, almost twelve hundred bucks, and donated it.

  Christ, Julie, I said.

  But that’s not all, Kevin said. Then she tried to get me to donate my money, too. This was what really broke him up.

  As Kevin told the story, Julie’s eyes got teary again. It made me feel better, she said quietly. Then to Kevin: I thought you might want to feel better, too.

  I feel fine, he said, as he bit into his pizza.

  Julie, I asked gently. You think what we’re doing is wrong?

  She gave a tiny nod.

  That’s because it is wrong, Julie, I said. I’m the West Coast distributor of wrong. I leaned forward. Now I could tell you that we’re no different than any other business or some shit like that. I could tell you a million lies, Julie, but just ask yourself this: do you think for one second those kids at the market can save a fucking whale?

  She looked up. They can try.

  Come on. You know this is a hard goddamn world. You know what the world does to helpless things, don’t you, Julie?

  Yes, she whispered.

  That’s right, I said. You know. Those whales are fucked. So fuck the businessmen and fuck Nordstrom and fuck your creepy stepdad and your blind mother. And if you wanna go home to your mom and her husband and save the whales, then fuck you too, Julie.

  Now, I’ve given this speech—or some variation of it—fifty times. But I’ve never had happen what happened with little Julie. She jerked a little when I mentioned her stepdad and mom and then she stood up. You’re right, Danny, she said. Thanks.

  And just like that she walked away.

  I know a girl we can get, Kevin said.

  I just sat there, watching her walk away, thinking about the sliver of girl who lived under those clothes—that back, that waist—and wishing I’d said something else. So that was it. We were done. I told Kevin I’d see him in two days, when I came back through Portland, but I didn’t figure to see either of them ever again.

  That week I picked up my regular load in Bellingham and started south. I made my drop in Seattle and collected the money, made my drop in Olympia and collected the money, and I drove south on I-5 toward Portland. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about little Julie. And I didn’t really plan to do it, but I got off the freeway and drove to Union Station, where I’d met them.

  Kevin was there. I tried to ask casually about Julie.

  She got the shit kicked out of her, he said.

  Who did it, I asked.

  He shrugged. He said she sometimes hung out in this boho coffee shop, and sure enough that’s where I found her, in this foul, patchouli-smelling shithole, reading a book, wrapped up in those layers of hippy clothes. When I got closer I could see a yellowing bruise below her eye. Her bottom lip was fat.

  She flinched when she saw me.

  Who did this? I asked.

  She looked confused. No one.

  And that’s when I knew. You went home, didn’t you? After I told you to. Did your stepdad do this, Julie?

  Those tears again. She stared down at her lap and sobbed.

  I sat in the booth next to her and put my arm around her. Carefully, like she was made of glass. It’s okay, I said.

  I took her to the Heathman. The valet tipped his silly British hat to her, and she smiled. I took her upstairs so she could shower and clean up. I wanted to be in that room, but I also didn’t want to be in that room. I went to Nordstrom and bought her some clothes. She was wearing the white terrycloth hotel robe when I got back, staring out the window. I left the clothes on the bed and told her I’d be downstairs in the mezzanine.

  The clothes were too big—a pair of pants, a sweater, and a heavy coat—but she didn’t seem to mind. We ate on the mezzanine, in front of the fire. She glanced up at me once over the tall menu. She said she was vegan. Of course. When she ordered sun-dried tomato pasto ravioli I wanted to kick the waiter’s ass when he corrected her: pesto.

  She ate like it was her last meal. I was careful not to talk about anything. When we were done, I had the valet get the car. We climbed in. It was eight-thirty.

  I told her what I wanted to do.

  No, she said. Please don’t. It will make it worse.

  Listen, I said. I promise you . . . whatever happens, this will not make it worse. I wanted to grab her hand, but I didn’t. This is a hard world, Julie. That’s all.

  They lived in Beaverton. We turned in front of this little strip mall; she smiled and pointed at the Coffee People where she used to work. She stared out the window and shrank inside her new coat as we got close.

  That one, she said in a whisper. I parked. It was a big white house leaning out on four big porch pillars. Everything about the house pissed me off—the black shutters, the Christmas lights. But what really got me was the black BMW in the driveway. Here I was driving a Buick Lucerne and this molester rolled in a BMW?

  Please, she said. I changed my mind. Don’t. Let’s just go.

  I grabbed her little shoulders. Listen. I’m gonna talk to him. I’m not going to hurt him. Okay?

  Then she grabbed me and hugged me and even under the sweater and the new coat I could feel that tiny back. She was shaking. I turned the heat up, pushed her gently back into her seat, and climbed out.

  I walked up to the house and rang the bell. There was a little reindeer next to the door. Honestly, I don’t know what I was planning to do. All I know is that when he answered the door, something about him set me off.

  He was probably fifty, with black hair parted on the side like mine. He was in good shape, but his face was flabby, like he’d recently lost a bunch of weight.

  Can I help you? he asked.

  It was as if my hands belonged to someone else. I pushed him backward into the house. I don’t know, I said. Can you fuckin’ help me?

  He fell and scrambled backward.

  I kicked him, a dull sound, like someone clapping with gloves on. Yeah, you can help me, you fuckin’ child molester. And that’s when I realized I was going to kill him. I’ve done a lot of shit, but I’d never killed a guy before.

  He crab crawled toward the steps. Deb!

  And a woman called from upstairs, Carl?

  Stay in your room, Deb! I yelled up the stairs. And I kicked him again, harder, in the ribs. It took the wind out of him, and he collapsed against the stairs. God, I wanted to kill him. But I thought of Julie, and I bent down and took him by the hair and spoke calmly into his ear. You ever touch her again, and I’ll kill you so slowly you won’t even realize you’re dead. Do you understand me, stepdad?

  Yes, he said. Please. . .

  And even though I wanted to keep stomping him, I stood and started for the door. Restraint: that’s what keeps a guy in business. On the foyer wall were pictures of Deb and Carl and two little kids. The assholes didn’t even have a picture of her.

  I think that’s when I k
new. I stepped out onto the front porch. The Lucerne was gone. I stood there a minute doing the math. I patted my suit coat. My wallet was gone. The hug. Sure. I glanced back at the house, wondering how she’d chosen it. Did her actual parents live around here, or was it just random? In a hatch in the trunk of my car was sixty grand from my Seattle, Olympia, and Portland drops. I hadn’t made the Salem, Eugene, and Ashland drops so there was another thirty or forty thousand in weed behind that hatch. I stood on that porch, thrilled by the audacity of it all, a moron’s smile on my face.

  Every pop is bad luck. Who’d have thought, for instance, that as nice as that neighborhood was, a cop would live nearby? But a property crimes detective was kitty corner, and apparently Deb had called him from upstairs. So while I stood grinning on the porch, the fat son-of-a-bitch came huffing across the street, yelling and drawing down on me. I had no choice but to drop and put my arms out.

  I was still smiling as he cuffed me, and still when they hauled me in front of a judge the next morning and arraigned me on assault charges.

  I have a great lawyer, a guy who does more contracts work than defense stuff, but even he said I was screwed. I had apparently really scared poor Carl, who, coincidentally, was the stepfather to those kids in the picture. I bonded out and eventually pled to a misdemeanor assault with a big fine and restitution but no jail time. I had to send Carl a letter of apology. I sort of told the truth—that I had the wrong house and I was sorry. Of course, I had to replace the Lucerne, and make good on the money and dope that Julie stole, but in a way I was lucky. What if I’d killed poor Carl? For nothing.

  I didn’t like spending the night in Portland after that, but I did stop a few times to ask around about her. It was as if she’d never existed. I found the puff Kevin working at a Quiznos, but I was convinced she’d played him, too. He didn’t even know her last name. I asked about the day she got beat up. Did she tell you to tell me about it?

  No, he said. She said it was nothing and I shouldn’t worry about it.

  It was all so subtle. Amazing . . . all of it. I’d made my share of mistakes—selling weed to Kevin so that she figured out what I was doing in Portland; falling for that crying shit; leaving the car running because she was cold.

  But it wasn’t me. It was all her. It was all so subtle; she’d just let the whole thing come to her. Make them want to give you the thing you want to take.

  Everything felt . . . fragile after that. Something like that happens and it shakes you. And once you realize how creaky and frail everything is, you start to imagine yourself making mistakes. And then, I suppose, it’s just a matter of time.

  I had always figured the roll would come from below, but when I finally got ratted, it was by the guy on top, the guy I bought my dope from. He wore a wire for a month while they had me under surveillance. They even had GPS on my car to get my contacts. Four months to the day after Julie scammed me, they arrested me with four pounds of bud in the back of the new Lucerne. I pled to six years.

  Four days before that arrest, I spent one last night in Portland. I hadn’t planned to do it, but I was tired. And maybe nostalgic. I got a room at the Heathman, sat on the mezzanine, and had the sun-dried tomato pesto ravioli. Next morning, I went down to Old Town for the Saturday Market. The place was full of shitty artists, tie-dyed deadheads, and pottery assholes selling henna tattoos and alpaca scarves.

  There was no Greenpeace booth.

  I was about to leave when I saw her, skinny little redhead boho chick walking away from me, wearing the coat I’d bought Julie that day. I ran after her. Hey!

  I didn’t know what I was going to do. I just wanted to talk to her.

  But when the girl turned, it wasn’t Julie. Just a redhead in a coat. I’m sorry, I said. My mistake. She said, It’s okay.

  It is a hard goddamn world. But for a second or two, this redhead girl and I stood still in it as people moved all around us, like two stones in a river.

  Please

  TOMMY GOT HIS KID SATURDAY, first time in three weeks. —What the hell, Carla?

  —My folks made us stay a extra day I swear.

  Carla’s boyfriend Jeff was twitching, yellow-eyed, had a big red abscess on his arm. He worked his jaw, didn’t even look up from the TV.

  Tommy sent the kid to the truck. On the front porch he leaned in to Carla. —Your boyfriend’s chalked up.

  Carla flinched. —No he ain’t.

  Tommy left her, walked to the truck. —Hey Dad, the kid said.

  —Mom stay with you at Grand-mom’s last week?

  —No. Just me and Grand-mom.

  —She take you for that pizza you like?

  —Yeah. With them balls you jump in. Grand-mom couldn’t have no pizza ’cause a the tube in her stomach.

  Tommy fired the truck. He was relieved it rolled over. —Know where your mom went to?

  The kid shook his head. —I found a dollar in them balls.

  They went to the mini-golf. Tommy parked on a hill in case he had to coast-start. The kid didn’t hold the putter right. Tommy thought he did good anyway.

  —Jeff ever watch you hisself?

  —Sometimes.

  —He take you anyplace?

  The kid looked up. —I ain’t supposed to say.

  —You ain’t supposed to keep secrets neither.

  —We go to stores.

  —Grocery stores?

  —Yeah.

  —How many?

  —I don’t know. Lots.

  —Other people go?

  —Yeah.

  —They buy cold medicine and stuff?

  —Uh-huh.

  —Then what, you all meet back at the car?

  —It’s a van.

  They had nachos for dinner. And Pepsis.

  Back at Carla’s, Tommy had the kid wait in the truck. Took the steps two at a time and didn’t knock. Had Jeff against the wall fast. —Stay away from him.

  Jeff didn’t say a thing. Carla neither.

  Tommy wanted something hard to hit but Jeff was soft. Empty clothes. So he turned to Carla. —Leave the kid with me if you’re gonna do that shit.

  And then he said —Please.

  That was the thing. Didn’t even know why he said it. But after the boy went inside Tommy sat out front in his truck, shaking with something. He just kept thinking that word, please, Carla standing dumb at the window, chewing a nail and watching him.

  Don’t Eat Cat

  1

  AT NIGHT I DEADBOLT doors and hard-bar windows, and it’s not bad living in the city. I stay home a lot. Turn off outdoor lights, bring in garbage cans: simple, commonsense stuff. Obviously, I don’t have pets. I leave my car unlocked so they won’t break the windows looking for food and trinkets. Play low music all night to drown out the yowling. But nights aren’t bad. Daytime is when I get fed up with zombies.

  I know. I shouldn’t call them that.

  I’m not one of those reactionaries who believes they should be locked up, or sterilized, or confined to Z-Towns. I think there are perfectly good jobs for people with hypo-endocrinal-thyro-encephalitis: day labor, night janitors. But hiring zombies for food service? I just think that’s wrong.

  That particular day, I’d had another doctor’s appointment, and had gotten the unhappy results from a battery of invasive tests. I was already late for a sim-skype in Jakarta when I popped into the Starbucks-Financial near my office. I got to the front of the line and who should greet me behind the counter but some guy in his early twenties with all the symptoms: translucent skin, rotting teeth, skim-milk eyes—the whole deal. Full zombie. (I know: We shouldn’t call them that.)

  His voice was ice in a blender. “I help you.”

  “Grande. Soy. Cran. Latte,” I said as clearly and as patiently as possible.

  He said back to me in that curdled grunt: “Gramma sing con verde?”

  I stared at him. “Grande . . . Soy . . . Cran . . . Latte.”

  “Gramma say come hurry?” His dull eyes blinked, and he must’v
e heard the impatience in my voice—“No!”—because he started humming the way they do when they get agitated. “Gran-maw!” he yelled, and the manager, standing at the drive-thru banking/coffee window behind him, turned and gave me a look like, Dude . . . and I looked back at the manager (you’re blaming me for this?). The other people in the Starbucks-Financial all took a step back.

  Look, I understand the economics. I work in multinational food/finance. I know there has been some difficulty in staffing service jobs in the States since the borders were closed. More than that, I get the humanity of hiring them. Hey, my ex-girlfriend started shooting Replexen after researchers made the connection between hypo-ETE and the popular club drug. Marci actually chose that life. So, yes, I know how their brains work; I know abstraction and contextual language give them problems; I know they’re prone to agitation; but I also know that, as long as they’re not drunk or riled up, zombies can be as peaceful as anyone. And yes, I know we’re not supposed to call them zombies.

  But come on? Gramma sing con verde? What does that even mean?

  That day, the Starbucks-Financial manager came over and put a hand on the zombie’s shoulder. “You’re doing fine, Brando,” the manager said. He was in his fifties, in a headset, tie, and short sleeves, one of those sorry men who try to overcome a lack of education and breeding by working up from food service into retail finance. The manager smiled at me and then pointed to “latte” on Brando’s touch-screen sim, and they debited the sixty bucks from my iVice while I walked over to the other line. And over at the drink counter who should be making my actual coffee but another zombie, a girl who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, standing there dead-gaze-steaming my soy milk.

  Two zombies. At morning rush hour. In a Starbucks-Financial. In the multi-nat/finance district of downtown Seattle. Really?