I reached over the compartment between our seats and took his hand. I didn’t look at him. I didn’t smile. I just held and enjoyed the feeling when his fingers returned my grip.
On the last bend in the road before the turn into Nelson’s drive, I noticed a car in the rearview mirror. It was a late-model, midsized sedan, generic and white. Everything about it read fleet vehicle. Either it was a rental car or government issue.
Nelson’s home was filled with light and art. Saying it was a log cabin was to say it was made of logs, but the accuracy of the description stopped there. We entered through the garage side that faced the road, but he escorted me directly to the front side that was shaped like the prow of a ship made mostly of glass. It looked out over a deck of cedar plank and rail poles onto a Vista Vision view of a wooded canyon wall that dropped 200 feet to the lake. The room itself was all wood grain, glass, and art. Some of the art was obviously his own, but most pieces—framed original paintings and bronze statues—were by others and given special treatment. The exception was one corner between a huge river-stone fireplace and the bank of windows. That space was for working. There was an easel with all the tools of his trade on a spattered drop that protected the hard pine floor.
“Would you like something?” he asked.
I shook my head and pointed to the painting sitting on the big easel. “That doesn’t look like what you’re known for.” It was a portrait of a woman wearing a niqab, only her very expressive eyes visible over the dark fabric. “I thought you only painted landscapes.”
“Actually, my first big success was a painting of a pair of old cowboy boots. Not so much the painting itself, but the poster, then T-shirts. It was licensed by the boot company for advertising. That let me quit my job and paint full-time.”
“And her?” I nodded at the painting of the Muslim woman.
“I saw her once in Iraq. She was just standing there against a wall, watching as we passed.”
“You remembered her enough to paint her years later.”
“It’s all memory, I think. Even if I’m looking at it while I paint. A photograph is perfect memory of one fraction of a second. Painting is like a slow-motion memory and anything but perfect.”
He was beginning to sound sad again. Sad or tired or both. I was about to say something about leaving him alone to rest when he asked if I minded waiting a moment while he took a shower.
“Not at all.”
For a few minutes I looked at paintings. The landscapes were there, some racked in the work area, some hanging on display. Other paintings were what drew me, though. They were like mile markers in life, a place where a crossroads had been passed or a new destination had been spotted in the distance. Faces and places with people moving, life roiling and active and imposing itself, not just life, but Life—capital L—marked the difference between then and now. I liked the new work so much more.
After I had pawed through Nelson’s work, uninvited, I went to his bedroom. In the bathroom beyond, he was showering and the water must have been hot. A fog of steam seeped from the cracked door.
I moved close enough to listen to the water splashing against his skin. The same heat that washed over him billowed out to caress me. The scent of soap, simple and strong, carried out on the frothing air.
I want to be in there with him.
Proximity was temptation, I’ll admit it. I imagined myself undressing and getting into the water with him. Then I wished I was the kind of woman who would. I had to correct my thinking. I was the kind of woman who would. I was just the kind of woman who couldn’t.
Still, the warmth and scent of the air drew me to the door, where I pushed it fully open and let myself bask.
“I’m at the door,” I told him and I stopped on the threshold.
He was in a glass shower with every surface fogged. Within, he was a barely darker shade of gray feathered out to white.
“You’re not coming in, are you?” he asked, but it was really a statement. The tone was not teasing or disappointed. It was just a fact and understood.
“No. Do you mind that I’m here?”
His hand came up to the glass and wiped away a narrow slice of mist right at eye level. Then he looked out at me. I was reminded of the painting on his easel, the woman in the niqab. Or more accurately, I thought of the lingering memory of the woman’s eyes.
Nelson’s eyes had a weight to them as well. As quickly as I felt the weight, he let it go and a smile fell into his look. “There is only one other place I would want you to be.” There was the tease, the easy good humor.
I want to be naked for those eyes.
“I need to shave. Hand me the razor by the sink?”
That brought me all the way into the room. I’m sure that was his thinking. After handing the razor over the top of the glass, I was tempted to open cabinets and drawers looking for anything feminine. One box of tampons and I would be running. But there was nothing feminine about the room. It wasn’t masculine, either; more temporary, like a hotel bathroom.
“How long have you lived in this house?” I asked.
“A year.”
I thought of my year. Then I thought of my last decade. It was like this room. Time waiting to be filled in.
My head began swimming in the heat, but a shiver of cold ran down my spine. It settled in between my thighs. I took a step, not to go anywhere but to shift my body. The pants I was wearing felt tight and my hips tingled with an internal blossoming, a waking feeling of both warmth and chill. It was a confusion of needs that walked on tiny feet up my body. Under my bra my nipples hardened and I couldn’t pretend ignorance of what I was wanting anymore.
Nelson shut the water off.
I took a long, deep breath of the moist air.
He opened the shower door and then reached through to grab a towel from the bar.
As I stepped back the thought that I should turn away entered my mind. That’s all it did: It entered and just waited to be noticed. I took no notice or action.
When he stepped out, the towel was wrapped around his waist. His face and scalp were freshly shaved, pinking his skin and making him look almost boyish. Water was still dripping from his shoulders and running in thick drops down his chest, pulling all the hair and my gaze downward. The center of his body was gaunter than I had expected. He had lost more weight than I had imagined. I could tell by the line of his ribs and the skin of his belly that looked both tight but soft. Even though his stomach was flat, the front of the towel covering his hips wasn’t.
He wasn’t aroused but he was definitely aware that I was in the room.
I wanted to say something. Nelson stepped forward and put his hands on my face and drew me into the softest, most genuine kiss I had ever experienced.
As soon as our lips parted, though, what he had said about painting and memory passed through my mind. This was a moment just like that. I couldn’t help wondering if a year from now, or twenty, this moment would be as static and real as a photograph or painted, filtered through my thoughts until it becomes more than it ever could have been.
That’s the funny thing about memory. Everything colors it. Everything that comes after the event and everything that precedes has a say in the remembering. The real irony is that it works the other way around too. All those things in your memory can conspire in delicate, black whispers to color every moment of your life with shades of meaning. My memory paints my life with color, pale and drained of vibrancy until everything is surrounded by a spent and split cocoon. It offers no protection; instead, it seems to confine me within the filmy chamber at the same time as it invites in all the terrors of the world. Inside a dirty translucence with echoes both of color and history, I fight until I have to break away.
It wasn’t graceful. I made excuses. At least in my mind they felt like excuses. In word and deed I’m sure they were much less. That’s to say, I ran from the room. I ran from Nelson.
* * *
I didn’t run home. That would have been a s
ane action. And while I might not have been sane, I wasn’t quite insane. I had sense enough to leave the county I was employed in to get drunk. Up in Christian County there was a place I knew but was not known in. It was new and still not quite broken in. The old place was called Wooly’s before the fire. The owner had been keeping fireworks in the basement to sell at a summertime roadside stand. When the place went up, everyone within ten miles watched the show.
Wooly’s was now Shep’s, Wooly having gone up with a bold white chrysanthemum burst. People in the area now call the finale of any fireworks display the big Wooly. Shep had rebuilt a much nicer place, killing the character of the red-painted cinder-block roadhouse. He still served cheap food and beer along with the music of local bands.
It was Friday-night crowded when I got there. Exactly what I needed. Inside, I took the only booth I could get and sagged into red glitter vinyl to hide and drink. After the first beer I had another with a whiskey back. I don’t care what anyone says about drinking for pleasure or loving the taste, you don’t have a boilermaker unless you mean business. The whiskey was house brand. That meant it was about as strong as hard water. But it was cheap enough to get the job done and enjoy the ride getting there.
I thought about the jar in the console of my truck. Clare Bolin’s whiskey. If I needed to get quick about it, that was my hole card. Drinking blew away the dust that always seemed to hang at the edges of my vision. It let the colors come but muted the meanings. For me it was like watching my own life on television with the sound turned off. I knew what was there, but didn’t have to listen anymore.
The waitress was a pretty older woman who had been here even when the place was Wooly’s. I had heard her name before but didn’t know it. Everyone called her Angel, from the song about Angel being a centerfold. She had been a feature in a men’s magazine once upon a time and still had the looks to draw men’s eyes. The thought occurred to me that I should ask her, but when she came to the booth she carried a highball glass with two fingers of something good.
“Here you go, sugar,” she said as she set the glass in front of me.
“I didn’t order this,” I said, but never looked at the glass. I was looking at her and honestly I was thinking that there was probably not a scar on her body.
“I’m thinking you probably don’t need it, either. Fella over the bar ordered it. I’ll tell him to take a hike for you, if you want. Maybe call a ride?”
I couldn’t think of anything to say. I kept looking into her eyes. They were green. I wanted to ask her what it was like to be beautiful. I imagined the look on a man’s face—Nelson Solomon’s face—when the last of Angel’s clothes hit the floor and she was naked for him. I bet they looked at her with joy.
Since I didn’t answer, she said, “Either way, this is your last one, hon.”
“Who bought this?” I asked.
“He did.” She gestured to the bar where Major Reach was standing with a mug of beer and a lethal smile.
Angel asked if I knew him and I said I did. She looked like she didn’t believe me. Then I said that I wished I didn’t know him. She believed that. I could tell by the way she looked at me, then over to Reach. Angel nodded at me like she knew everything and nothing more ever needed to be said, then left. Men watched her as she walked. So did I. When I looked away, Reach was sliding into my booth.
“I hated to see you drink alone,” he said.
“I hated to see you too,” I hit back.
He grinned. “That hurricane’s blowing tonight, isn’t it?”
I wish I could say I threw the drink in his face and walked away. I can’t and it tasted wonderful, despite the company. After a big first swallow I said, “You followed me.”
“You killed Rice.”
“Are you stupid enough to believe that? And here I thought you were just a pissant, wind-up soldier who got his feelings hurt when I didn’t roll over and let you push me out of the service.”
“Just doing my job.”
“Bullshit,” I said and followed it with a long swallow of whiskey. When I sat the glass down it was almost empty. Ice tinkled loudly. “Bullshit,” I said again, then closed my eyes and touched the scar. The liquor wasn’t working as fast as I had hoped. “You did what you were supposed to do. But you never did your job.”
“Yeah? What was I supposed to have done differently?”
“You were supposed to believe me. Even if I couldn’t prove it. Even if everyone in the world lined up to lie for the men that did that to me.”
“I’ll tell you what I believe now. I believe that you’re going to face charges for murder.”
“What murder?”
“Rice. Probably even Ahrens someday. Whoever I can make the case on.”
Hearing those names turned the world upside down. The pair of them had done terrible things to me and never been punished. Now I was being accused—
I remembered what my father had asked me. Was I having problems with the Army? Obviously I was, but how did he know? Something else struck me that I’d ignored before. When we’d talked at the office, Reach had made a point of telling me that he was working with the Inspector General and the DoD. That’s how my father knew. Those were the people he did consulting work for.
“What’s the bigger picture?” I asked Reach. “You’re not here for a decade-old murder.”
“Maybe I am. Maybe not. But that’s what I’m going to put you away on.”
Not for the first time I decided that there was no reasoning with this man. I didn’t understand him any more than I could understand those who assaulted me. Any more than I could understand myself. But at that point I was past trying to understand. I reached out, sliding the highball glass across the tabletop, then dumped what was left right into Reach’s lap. Then I got up to leave.
Reach did just what I expected and wanted: He grabbed my arm and pulled me back. Hard. I was drunk by then. Not so drunk that I would get into a fight with an investigator from the DoD, but I will admit I was drunk enough to be vicious. Even though I knew I wouldn’t be proud of it later, I said, “You’re hurting me.”
That’s all it took. A person, especially a cop, should always be aware of his surroundings. Reach was used to being protected by his rank and his position in the Army. But Shep’s bar was pretty far from anything to do with Army life. It was actually pretty far from the rest of the country in a lot of ways that he didn’t yet understand.
Reach was the only black man in a redneck bar and I had said he was hurting me. Before he could let go of my arm there were three men with huge belt buckles and actual cowshit on their pointy-toe boots standing in front of him. They all kept their gaze locked on him as one asked if he was bothering me.
I said, “This guy’s been following me all night. I think he’s a stalker. I wanted to go home but I was afraid.”
At the same time, I played the damsel-in-distress card and the race card. Not pretty, but there it was. Let Reach deal with it.
He surprised me. He had enough sense to keep his mouth shut when one of the cowboys said, “You can go home now. We’ll make sure no one follows you this time.”
I left him standing there beside the booth with a wet crotch and clenched jaw, staring hate at me as I walked out to the truck.
* * *
It was Billy who found me later that night. After leaving the bar I had made it all the way back to the dirt strip where I first met Clare Bolin and found Angela Briscoe. I can’t really say I recall the drive. Only blind luck kept anything memorable from happening. He rolled up behind me with the light bar on. The flashing red, blue, and white lights looked like a low-flying UFO creeping up out of darkness. The light bar died and the spot came on as Billy pulled up alongside. He swept a million candlepower of blue-white pain into my eyes and over the truck for a long moment before killing it and stepping out of the cruiser.
“The hell, Billy,” I called out as soon as he was on his feet. “The hell? What the hell? Couldn’t you tell it was me?”
<
br /> “Oh, I knew it was you. I just wanted to be sure you were alone.”
“Who would be with me out here?” I asked without thinking. Then I realized what he was suggesting. We catch a lot of kids out parking and sparking on these roads. I laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Billy asked.
For a second I thought about that then told him, “I don’t really know.”
He seemed to do a little thinking of his own before he asked, “Are you armed?”
“Of course I’m armed,” I answered. “You know I am.”
“Would you give me your weapon and your keys, Katrina?” That made me smile. “I like it when you call me Katrina.”
“I know.”
“You do? Then why do you call me Hurricane?”
“I like calling you Hurricane. It fits you more than you know.”
“Maybe,” I said and handed my service pistol and keys through the window. Then I started crying. Started again. My face was wet with tears I didn’t remember. With the back of my hand I wiped my eyes. It’s one thing to cry, it’s another thing entirely to be seen at it. Billy turned and went back to his car in slow, careful steps, giving me privacy and distance. He secured my gun and keys in his car before coming back around to the far side of my truck and climbing into the passenger seat.
It’s funny, but the one thing I really noticed when he closed the door behind him was that he had no soda in his hands. Billy sat there for a minute not looking at me. He stared forward out the front glass and into the darkness at nothing that I could see. Two people staring together into nothing will never see the same things. When I looked at him again he had settled more into the seat and closed his eyes.
“You suck at this,” I said.
“At what? Sleeping?”
“Talking. Finding out what the problem is.”
A Living Grave Page 9