Kiss Me, Judas

by Will Christopher Baer

  six.

  Eve drives. I sit in the passenger seat and whisper.

  Every time I close my eyes I’m dreaming. I am in the woods. My reflection is a knife blade. Throat and chest scratched and bloody, burned by the sun. The face blackened, hollow. Lips cracked and white with salt. I move in widening circles, away from the lake. I can still hear the water. She floats. Her face is gone. When the sun rises again I press the knife into my arm to make the ninth cut.

  An endless red light. Eve smiles at me. I turn my face to the window. There is a long white car stopped alongside us. The driver stares at me. His face is familiar and I realize it’s the cop from the hospital. The man with the blister on his mouth. I get out of the car and stand there clutching my stomach.

  Open the fucking window.

  I fall against the white car and slap at the roof. The window glides down with a soft electric hum.

  What’s the trouble, young fellow?

  I thrust my face into the car spitting like a cat.

  Piece of shit, I say. Follow me and find yourself dead in the morning.

  I beg your pardon, the man says. An elderly man in a camel hair coat. He wears glasses and has a fine white mustache. A black silk scarf is tucked around his neck. In the passenger seat is a woman wrapped in fur and heavy perfume. The old man is pointing a small antique gun at me; I think it’s a Derringer, of all things.

  I’m very sorry.

  The light is green and I get back in the Bug. Eve is smoking a cigarette. I look over my shoulder and the white car is nowhere to be seen. Eve doesn’t say a word. It has to be the drugs. I chew on my finger to convince myself I’m awake.

  What are we looking for? she says.

  I’m distracted, trying to find something on the radio that doesn’t make my skin throb. Eve hits the left turn signal. I look up and see the word Inferno blinking in red neon. What?

  She slides the car in between a cruiser on jacked-up wheels and a hump of gray snow. The engine dies abruptly. I notice that my fingers are stiff and brittle from the cold.

  Listen, she says. I like you. You have a nice face and in another lifetime I might find you mildly attractive. But Crumb says you’re dying and you’re obviously too pitiful to swing a bowling ball and you don’t think this is a date, do you?

  Oh, boy.

  And you’re old, she says. You’re ancient. It would be like having my stepfather grope me.

  I’m thirty-three.

  She smiles and lights another cigarette. Are you cold?

  Why do you ask?

  Because your lips are blue.

  I’m fine, I say. Let me have a drag.

  She leans over and holds the cigarette to my mouth. Her lipstick tastes like licorice. I blow smoke and try to smile. The facial muscles are still a bit vague from the morphine. Eve is patient.

  I want to know what we’re looking for, she says.

  A woman. Her name is Jude. White or possibly Asian and approximately twenty-five years old. A little taller than you and a nice body. Black hair with blond streaks. Tattoo of an eye between her shoulder blades. Last seen wearing a red dress. She has something of mine.

  Eve laughs. And you want my help?

  Of course. And by the way. In another lifetime I would gladly drink your bathwater. But Crumb advised me not to touch you, which reminds me. How old are you?

  Today is my birthday. I’m nineteen and I pee in my bathwater.

  My god.

  Let’s go. This is gonna be fun.

  Did you say it was your birthday?

  Yeah, she says. Why?

  I have a superstition. If someone tells me it’s his birthday, I give him something on the spot. A present from my pocket, whatever is there. I have given away some nice things: knives and watches and expensive cigars. On a few occasions I have had nothing in my pocket but loose change and chewing gum and I offered it as humbly as I could. I reach into my pocket and pull out Jude’s necklace, the black teardrop. I give it to Eve and she is so surprised and pleased that she kisses me.

  Inside the Inferno. A schizophrenic coupling of honky-tonk and gothic. Sawdust on the floor. Mirrors cracked and gleaming on every wall. Antique farm equipment and weapons hang from the ceiling. Hammers and sickles, a massive yoke and harness, crossbows and axes and bayonets. Christmas lights swing from the rafters. The bar is a long slab of unfinished oak and the bartender wears a monk’s robe. The waitresses are dressed as prostitutes and schoolgirls and French maids. Eve leads me to a dark table. I’m surprised to see actual bowling lanes; on several of them people are even bowling. A schoolgirl comes to take our order. She wears knee socks and an obscenely short skirt.

  Eve asks for beer and a whiskey shot.

  Two, I say. And bring me a glass of milk.

  The girl blinks and scratches her thigh. We don’t have milk.

  You must have water.

  She rolls her eyes. It’s a dollar if you want ice.

  I tell her I don’t care but she’s already walking away. I like this place, I say.

  Eve isn’t listening. She puts her arm around my neck and leans close. Her tongue flicks the edge of my ear. Someone’s watching you, she says.

  Where?

  It’s too easy if I tell you, she says.

  I let my eyes relax and wander. I’ve been a civilian too long. My senses are dull. But this is obvious. At the end of the bar is a knot of bikers. One of them has a big belly and white muscle shirt that’s too small. It clings to him like it’s pasted to his skin. Leather riding chaps and army boots. His left arm is in a cast smeared with oil and Magic Markers. He has matted blond hair and sideburns like the ears of a lazy hound. He is staring at me like I’m a sandwich and I’ve seen him before.

  Fat man with the broken arm.

  Gotcha, says Eve.

  The schoolgirl returns with our drinks. She brings two beers and two shots and a glass of tepid water.

  Enjoy, she says. Eve gives her ten dollars and tells her to keep it. I drink some of the water and wash it down with beer.

  I’ll be back in a minute, I say.

  I get up and walk straight for the fat man. He blinks rapidly and his face turns faintly red. He is surprisingly handsome, in a brutish way. I come close enough to shake his hand, to feel his pulse.

  Don’t I know you? I say.

  Then I veer off and head for the bathroom. I can see him in three different mirrors, splintered and turning to follow me. I step inside the bathroom and turn off the lights. Someone grunts and curses in a stall.

  Very sorry, I say.

  I lift my leg and palm the Smith & Wesson. I take a long shallow breath. The air is sour, like artificial fruit. It smells like violence. I take another breath and ignore my rattling heart. The bathroom door swings open and the fat man pauses, confused. The doorway a halo around him. I grab him by the throat and pull him inside, then switch on the light. I jam the gun into his left eye.

  Oh fuck me, he says. You’re the guy.

  That’s right. Who are you?

  I’m nobody.

  Did you hold me down, I say. Did you actually touch my kidney? Did you put your fucking fingers inside me?

  I don’t know you.

  But you do. You were in that bathroom the other night, at the Peacock.

  I don’t know you, he says. I don’t want to know you.

  And you watched her cut me open.

  His face falls. It was terrible, he says. I puked my guts.

  I don’t say anything. I hold the gun like it’s a feather.

  He eyes me carefully. Are you even supposed to be walking around?

  I’m fine, thank you. I’m a new man.

  He laughs and I jab him with the gun.

  Who are you?

  He squirms. My name is Winston but my friends call me Pooh. Like Winnie-the-Pooh.

  I poke him with the gun once more and he whimpers. This pleases me, but I shrug as if I’m bored and I might put a bullet in him for laughs. It was very nice meeting you, I say.
<
br />   Hold your horses. This isn’t the way it goes.

  Did she send you to scare me, Winston? Because you aren’t very scary.

  I’m stoned, he says. When I’m stoned I get soft.

  The skin is turning white around his eye. I pull the gun back but leave it in his face. Then I notice the sheen of tears on his cheeks.

  What the fuck. Are you crying?

  This isn’t the way it goes. You weren’t supposed to fuck her, he says. She slips you the little orange pill and you go to sleep and she cuts you open. You don’t fuck her. You don’t fuck my girlfriend.

  She’s your girlfriend, huh. Your sweetheart.

  Yeah, that’s right.

  Come on. Are you gonna marry her and move out to the suburbs? Fill her belly with little Winstons and hope she doesn’t burn the pot roast?

  His face turns red.

  Be realistic, Winston. How long have you known her?

  A week, he says. Five days. But I’m the only one who fucks her. And I should be the one holding a gun, okay. I got a gun.

  I frisk him quickly and find a snub-nose .32 in his waistband, the barrel clammy with his sweat. In his pocket I find a film canister. I pop it open with my thumb and there are a dozen small blue capsules inside.

  Muscle relaxers, he says. Blue moons. For my busted arm and some good shit, too. Ease the pain and make you happy as a cat sucking himself. I could get you some at low cost.

  That’s nice, I say. Where is Jude?

  One hundred dollars. For a hundred I can get you twenty of ’em.

  I give him my warmest smile. Winston, I say. Don’t be so fucking greedy.

  He grins, sheepish. Okay. For you I could do thirty for a hundred.

  It’s getting hot in here, I say.

  I might need the hundred up front, of course.

  Of course.

  I smile and he swings his cast at me like a chunk of firewood. I duck under it, stupid and shocked. I didn’t think he had it in him. But he narrowly misses smashing the cast to bits, his exposed fingers thumping into the side of the white sink behind me. He grunts in pain and shoves the fingers in his mouth.

  Oh, fuck me.

  I pull him close and hug him like a brother. He smells faintly of Jude. I fill my lungs with that smell. I stroke the back of his neck and take a fistful of his hair. I don’t pull it, not yet. His face is crumpled.

  I’m sorry, he says. I’m so fucking sorry.

  Take it easy, I say.

  What about a load of smack, he says. I can get you a ton of the pure white shit. It’s straight out of Turkey or someplace. It’s the best shit. It’s going to the top, with a fucking bullet.

  That sounds too good to be true.

  Believe it, he says. This shit is the truth.

  Winston, I say. I’m not a buyer. I’m the guy you’re looking for. Jude sent you to find me. To tell me something or do something to me. Remember.

  Pooh sniffs. She didn’t send me to do anything. I come here all the damn time. The beer is cheap and I like to throw darts. I meet lots of chicks here.

  I’m sure. But where is she?

  Well, he says. I don’t exactly know. But I do have a rendezvous with her tomorrow.

  A rendezvous.

  He shrugs. Business and pleasure. Has to do with the smack.

  Listen, Pooh. I’m tired of this and I have to pee and I’m going to shoot you in the eye if you don’t tell me the time and place.

  Tomorrow morning at the train station. Eleven o’clock. Jude likes to sleep late.

  I drop his pills in my pocket. Why don’t you stay home tomorrow? Watch cartoons and forget about Jude. I want to talk to her alone.

  He frowns and I can almost see his brain scrambling.

  Or else I could just shoot you.

  Pooh smiles. I think I will stay home tomorrow, after all.

  Do you like surprises?

  Oh, I love a good surprise.

  Then don’t tell her I’m coming.

  Okay.

  My legs are feeling watery and I suddenly want Pooh to go away. I give him twenty dollars and tell him to go have a beer.

  Hey, he says. Don’t tell her I cried.

  Don’t worry. I’ll tell her you scared me half to death.

  Pooh scratches himself. Can I have my gun back? It’s not even loaded.

  Are you ticklish? I say.

  He hesitates as if it’s a trick question. No, he says.

  Close your eyes, then. Think good thoughts.

  I press the .32 to his soft belly and pull the trigger. He flinches.

  When I come out of the bathroom Eve is arguing with another woman. I sit down and sip my whiskey. It tastes like burnt wood. The woman is long and skinny and bald. She turns to glare at me.

  Is there a problem? I say.

  She flicks her finger at me. Eve is with me, she says.

  I look at Eve and she shrugs. This is Georgia.

  My heart is still banging too fast after the encounter with Pooh. The stitches have begun to itch, far away and maddening. My hands are cold and damp and I hold one out to Georgia.

  I don’t think so, she says.

  Delighted, I say.

  Eve sits between us, her eyes closed. She looks so young. I retract my hand like a piece of machinery. Eve stands up and I see the blood rush into her face.

  Let’s go, she says. Do you want to go?

  I’m finished here.

  Georgia leans forward and gives me a curved shard of glass from a mirror, thin as my finger. I glance at it and see only my eyes. I’ll see you later, she says.

  In the parking lot Eve rubs snow on her face.

  It stops me from crying, she says.

  I take a breath and the frozen air stings my throat like nettles. I’m a bit dizzy.

  Are there any motels nearby?

  No, she says. You’re coming home with me.

  Home, I say.

  She takes my hand.

  It’s not far. Georgia lives with me.

  I lift her small, cold hand and hold it to my lips. I want to tell her how tired I am.

  It’s okay, she says. You can sleep on the couch. It’s velvet.

  seven.

  The water is warm, the temperature of blood. I swim through it, laboring. My limbs so heavy and strange. Lift my head to breathe and I can see the boat. Adrift, barely moving. A woman’s arm dangling over one side. Her fingertips gliding at the surface of the water like the legs of a spider, leaving no trace. The sun is high in a cloudless sky. Her skin is fair and will burn easily. I close my eyes and swim. I hear terrible echoes. When I open my eyes I am alongside the boat, near enough to kiss the woman’s hand. I pull myself up to look at her. She wears a short blond wig that seems to crouch on her head like a yellow, flightless bird. She is naked, as if she fell asleep sunbathing. She has small, delicate feet. Her face is a giant black hole that moves and shifts in the light. Tiny particles detach themselves from the hole and drift away to land on her thigh and I comprehend that this is a mass of flies. My handgun is in the floor of the boat. I pull it overboard and let its weight drag me under. I’m sinking fast and the water is much colder below. There is almost no light and I’m swallowing water, breathing it as I push the gun into soft black mud. I want to leave it but I can’t. There will be no fingerprints but mine and I don’t care. I push myself to the surface and choke in the open air. I swim away from the boat and regain consciousness on a cold floor beside a velvet couch.

  There is a dark face leaning over mine. The breath is hot and sickly sweet.

  Get on your fucking feet, she says.

  Georgia, I say.

  She flicks on a lamp and thrusts her arm at me. A dog bit me, she says.

  I blink in the yellow light. Her lips are raw; she’s chewing them.

  My arm, she says. Look at my arm.

  She has smooth skin, the color of chocolate. There is a small, crescent scar on her biceps and the mark of a recent needle. The flesh is otherwise undamaged.

  D
on’t you see it? she says. She’s breathing rapidly. Her eyes are like sunspots.

  There’s nothing there, I say. Close your eyes and it will go away.

  It’s still bleeding, she says. There’s blood everywhere.

  What kind of dog was it?

  Her face goes blank. There is a sharp pain in my foot. She’s squeezing it like a lump of dough.

  A black dog. Or yellow, I think.

  I pull my foot away from her and begin putting on my shoes.

  Do you want something to drink? I say. A glass of water?

  She hisses at me. Water is poison.

  I shake my head. Water is good.

  It’s rabies. I could have rabies, she says.

  Oh, yeah. You might be right.

  The basement, she says. You should lock me in the basement. If it’s rabies you will have to shoot me in the morning, shoot me dead.

  I fish out the blue muscle relaxers I took from Pooh. There are only ten of them.

  Open your mouth, Georgia.

  And her mouth pops open. As if she’s ten and I’m her uncle who always has gum. I place one pill on her tongue and push her mouth closed. I slip another one into her hand and she makes a fist.

  This should make you feel better, I say. If not, take the other one.

  And I lead her down the hall to the closet. There’s no basement, I say.

  She kneels obediently on some dirty sheets and blankets.

  I’m going to go out for a while, I tell her.

  Her face contorts and I’m afraid she will start screaming.

  Don’t worry, I say. If it’s rabies, I promise I will shoot you in the morning.

  Georgia smiles, rocking back and forth. I leave the door cracked. In one of the bedrooms I find Eve. She is curled into a ball in the middle of her bed, shivering. Her blankets are on the floor and I pull them over her. I sit on the edge of her bed and watch her sleep. I bend close enough to smell her breath. It is sweet, like toothpaste. It would be nice to have a daughter.

  My wife and I tried to make a baby. When things were good between us, when she wasn’t dying. She wanted one so badly, and we tried. Every night for months. I thought this was fine at first. All the sex I wanted and we did it in every room of the house. The idea was that the bathroom might be luckier than the kitchen and so on. We tried different positions that might improve the sperm’s ascent. I fucked her underwater and upside down. We used leather and dogs and vegetables and ice and cellophane and handcuffs to make it interesting. I fucked her fully clothed in the rain. Her face was ever a grim mask. She couldn’t enjoy it, she said. Because she had to concentrate. I fucked her until I had nothing left, until my penis shrank at the thought of her. None of it mattered because I was sterile and when the doctors told us so, her face became a death mask.