Kiss Me, Judas

by Will Christopher Baer

  What happened? I say.

  Her eyes fix on me, narrow and blue. You were asleep in the middle of the road.

  I’m not dying.

  She sighs. No.

  Then remove these straps, please.

  Relax, she says.

  Take off the fucking straps and let me out.

  Relax, she says. Those are for your safety.

  Where are you taking me?

  She squints at me. The hospital.

  Oh, yeah. And who is paying for this?

  The woman shrugs, then writes a few words on the clipboard. The rapid click of a mechanical pencil as she ejects a piece of broken lead. Her hand moves lazily. She could be deciding my future, or merely doodling. She could be sketching a three-dimensional box, as if she’s on the phone with a dull salesman.

  You are, she says. Or your next of kin.

  At the hospital, I refuse to change into one of those foolish gowns. I don’t want any sticky questions about weapons. I’m poked and prodded by one unsmiling male intern who assumes I came in to beg for painkillers. I have no insurance and I’m wasting his time. He asks about my scar and I tell him I recently had some work done on my bladder. He doesn’t laugh. Alexander pushes through the powder blue curtain that hides one exam area from its neighbors. His cheeks are rosy as ever, his hair thin as silk. He smiles when he sees me. The intern wipes sweat from his upper lip and scowls at me. I’m not only a malnourished junkie found crumpled before oncoming traffic, but I must be queer as well. The horror. I’m tempted to roll off the table and cut his throat or at least force him to watch me give Alexander a long, sloppy kiss but really I’m too tired to do anything but flap my hand.

  How is he? says Alexander.

  He’s dehydrated, says the intern. Among other things.

  Alexander looks mildly disappointed. The intern shrugs and tells me to roll over.

  Why?

  I’m going to give you a shot.

  No, thanks.

  He stares at me, his eyes hooded. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a while.

  What’s your name? he says.

  I smile. I don’t want a shot.

  This is a nutritional supplement, he says.

  You don’t care if I take it or not, do you?

  No, he says. I don’t care.

  Okay, then.

  I slide my pants down and I’m sure my skinny ass is a sorry sight. The intern is rude and unsympathetic but he’s good with a needle. I barely feel a thing. Then he tells me to relax, to wait. He disappears and I’m alone with Alexander, who sits on a stool, spinning around like a kid.

  I found you, he says. I went out for coffee and I just happened to glance down the road. I saw a shadowy lump and I thought someone had run over a dog. But then I recognized your pants.

  My ass is getting sore and I rub it briefly, staring at him.

  I like these pants, I say.

  Anyhow, he says. I checked your pulse and everything and called the ambulance.

  Did you drag me out of the road?

  No, he says. I didn’t want to move you. In case you had a spinal injury.

  I laugh at that and my mind drifts. Something else is wrong with me. The bag of smack that Jude supposedly planted in my guts, for instance.

  Alexander smiles. I waved the traffic around you, like a cop. I always wanted to do that.

  I hear Crumb’s dry voice: maybe there’s a bomb inside you, a tumor.

  Or a litter of puppies, I say.

  Excuse me? says Alexander.

  Nothing.

  The paramedics didn’t want to take you at first, he says. They said you were drunk.

  I was drunk. But that offends me.

  Anyhow, I talked them into it. I told them I was a friend of yours.

  A friend, I say. The word floats between us like a speck of dust.

  I thought so, he says.

  Silence.

  Alexander plays with a discarded stethoscope. I close my eyes and listen to my gurgling belly. There’s nothing in there. The intern pokes his head through the curtain.

  You’re finished, he says.

  Alexander frowns. Are you sure?

  There’s nothing wrong with him.

  I was wondering, I say. How much for a couple of X rays?

  What? he says. You don’t need X rays.

  Humor me.

  Well, he says. It depends on your deductible. And the radiologist’s fee.

  I don’t have insurance. And radiologists are overpaid geeks.

  He glares at me. Don’t waste my time.

  How much?

  Two thousand dollars, maybe.

  I whistle and sigh, then pull out my wallet and start counting.

  This isn’t a barbershop. You don’t just get X rays because you feel like it.

  Would you deny me medical treatment?

  Alexander clears his throat. Why do you want X rays?

  I lift my shirt to expose the scar. There’s something inside me.

  The intern laughs. Like what?

  I whisper and twitch as if stricken by palsy. Rosemary’s fucking baby. I don’t know, okay. I don’t know. That’s why I want X rays.

  Calm down, says Alexander.

  Please, says the intern. Take your friend home and tuck him into bed.

  He’s not my friend, I say. He’s just a salesman who was nice to me.

  I see. Have you had episodes like this before?

  Every day, I say.

  The intern shakes his head. I will be happy to call for a psych exam.

  I have a gun, I say. And I want those X rays.

  This is sad, he says.

  Oh, you motherfucker. I want to talk to someone else.

  The intern backs away smiling and he calls for someone else. He calls security. Alexander has become green and I think he’s sick to his stomach, as if he just realized he is terribly lost in the woods. I walk out with a fat rented cop who breathes through his mouth. He tells me he has sinus trouble and I want to tell him that he should keep his weaknesses private, that sometimes I’m guilty of the same random intimacy. I pay nine hundred dollars for the ambulance and the B12 shot. I call for a cab. Alexander and the cop with sinus trouble wait outside with me. Alexander scratches compulsively at his sunburn, the dead skin falling from his arm in gray flakes. I’m an asshole and I try to apologize. I nearly offer him money. He chews at the side of his mouth and doesn’t look at me.

  thirty.

  The cab unloads me before the Seventh Son and I slink across the parking lot to my room, to our room. I imagine the roses lie half crushed on the floor, on the bed. One of the maids will find them tomorrow. She will be a single mother, overweight and uneducated. She will hate to see such pretty things wasted. She will put the roses in water and watch them die and I laugh at myself. The roses were not real.

  I push open the door to our room and Isabel turns to grin at me like a car, her mouth bright with feathers. She wears the red wig, the dead stolen hair of Rose White.

  Are you lonely? she says.

  Terribly.

  She stands on one foot, her arms uncoiled at her sides. She is pale and fleshy.

  I could strangle you with that hair.

  Isabel laughs. Jude told me you were easily excited, she says.

  She lazily adjusts the wig, her bare arms raised above her head. She tucks a stray red wisp behind her ears. She licks her lips and sits down on the bed. I might be a madman but I think she’s wearing the same silver dress as before. Perhaps I’m dreaming again. I’m only looking through a peephole. I watch her cross her legs and I have to tell myself she’s not Lucy. My mouth is hot.

  It didn’t take you long to find us, I say.

  Jude is so predictable, she says. She’s like a bird, returning to nest.

  How did you get in?

  The manager, she says. I told him I was your wife and I wanted to surprise you.

  Oh, I love a surprise.

  I sink into a chair, wishing I had a glass of gin to swirl
casually in my left hand.

  Where is the dear girl? says Isabel.

  She walks around the room, touching things. She reclines on the bed, her legs slightly apart. She’s wearing the white garter belt again and this time it’s cartoonish. I could bash her skull with a hammer and it would only bounce off. She would give me a wacky smile as her rubber skull popped back into place.

  Jude isn’t coming back, I say.

  What a pity.

  But I’m glad you’re here. I was just thinking of you.

  Nice thoughts, I hope.

  Did you have any fun in Denver?

  I was such a slug, she says. A fat, lazy slug.

  But you did find time to kill a woman named Rose White.

  And the weather was positively beastly, she says.

  Did you kill her for her stethoscope? I say. And her little green scrubs?

  I painted my nails and ate room service all day.

  Because you can buy that shit at any drugstore.

  She smiles. I love those little shrimp cocktails.

  You stole her fucking hair.

  She hisses at me. I invented Rose White. She never existed.

  Her body was found yesterday, in the trunk of a black Mustang.

  That’s so strange.

  Tell me one thing. Where did you get my gun?

  Oh, she says. It fell into my lap. Your little wife gave it to me.

  Jude, you mean.

  Who else?

  The tiny room spins and I smile. What do you want from me?

  I want you, she says.

  Fuck you.

  Where is the icebox? she says.

  I gave it away. I sold it to an ugly little man in Las Vegas.

  She blinks rapidly and I study her. She doesn’t look like Lucy at all, not really. The hair and clothes and the body are the same. But her face is a fucking mask. Her eyes look right through me. I swivel my head around woodenly. There must be something to drink in this room. The toilet flushes with a sudden boom and I turn to look at Isabel. Are we not alone, I say. The Blister walks out of the bathroom, drying his hands on a white towel. He wears the fur coat and a white silk tie and a smile like dry ice.

  Oh, this gets better and better.

  I believe you know my ugly little brother, says Isabel.

  The Blister sits down gingerly, as if the furniture is simply too cheap and dirty.

  Hello, I say. My name is Phineas Poe.

  He sneers. Such wit.

  What is your fucking name?

  Isabel sighs. His name is Jerome Gore.

  I sink into the bed. I have had such a long day.

  Isabel takes off the red wig and tosses it aside. It crouches on the floor like a headless animal and my mind is coming apart, like a frayed and tangled piece of rope. The Blister laughs, or chokes. I tell myself to think of him as Jerry. My hands float before my face, disconnected and useless. Isabel runs fingers through her own sleek black hair. It is cut exactly like Lucy’s was, before she lost it. She smiles and wets her lips with a flashing tongue.

  Which do you prefer, she says. Sex or violence?

  I try to smile. What’s the difference, really.

  And I slap at my pockets, desperate for a cigarette. I’m about to ask Jerry if he has any when Isabel takes two steps and she’s so close to me I can smell her. She stinks of eucalyptus. She flips open an engraved silver case and slides a cigarette between my lips. Thick black smoke drifts between us and I feel better.

  Just knock him on the head and be done with it, says the Blister.

  Shut up, she says.

  He sighs. Have your fun, then.

  Isabel reaches between her breasts and unzips the silver dress to her waist. She wears a white lace bustier. Her skin is bright with warm, thick blood moving beneath the surface. She’s alive, she’s Lucy and I just want to touch her. I want to pull her close and tell her how sorry I am. I want to push her gently to the floor and kiss the pulse in her throat. I want to breathe her new life. I want to tell her a thousand things and close my eyes and disappear into her. But she’s an illusion, a specter.

  The Blister groans loudly and flicks on the television. He finds a tennis match on cable and settles back in his chair. Isabel picks up the telephone and the Blister glances at her.

  Are you calling room service? he says. Because I would love a cup of tea.

  Isabel yanks the plug from the wall and throws the telephone at him. It barely misses his head and he gives her a filthy look.

  Turn it off, she says. Or else I’m going to make you wait outside.

  Don’t be such a slut, he says.

  Maybe I should wait outside, I say.

  No, says Isabel.

  The Blister mutes the television and shrugs.

  Isabel is naked now and my eyes betray me. I steal a long, hungry look at her. Her breasts are larger than Jude’s, her belly softer. She has a wild black bush of pubic hair, and her thighs are creamy white and not so long and muscular. I can imagine them wrapped around my head. They are Lucy’s legs.

  She smiles and says, do you like me?

  No. I don’t like you.

  Look at me, she says. Touch me. I could be your wife.

  I throw a towel at her. Have some shame.

  Yes, the Blister says loudly. Do us a fucking favor.

  Why, she says. Why did you give the icebox to such a pig?

  I shrug. He seemed to want it.

  But it was empty, she says.

  Oh, no. It was packed full of heroin.

  Heroin, she says. Her face grows slowly, frighteningly dark.

  It was excellent stuff, I say. The best.

  Whose was it?

  I believe it was Jerry’s.

  Isabel walks across the room, slowly. Her bare ass swaying as if it’s Saturday night and she can’t decide whether to go out or just wash her hair.

  Jerome, she says. Where did the heroin come from?

  The Blister stares at the silent tennis match. He takes out a giant gun exactly like the one I took from him in Vegas. He gives me a faint smile and places the gun on his thigh. Isabel laughs at him.

  You spent the money on heroin, didn’t you. What else did you buy?

  That was a slick Lincoln town car you were driving around Denver, I say.

  He looks at me. You’re a mouse, he says. A bug.

  And that’s a nice fur coat, I say.

  Isabel takes the Blister’s gun from him and unloads it. She drops the bullets to the floor like shiny pebbles. She slips the gun back into his lap, snug against his crotch. The Blister’s face is changing colors, humming with blood and I imagine his little penis swollen and pulsing under her thumb. He wants to fuck her, to kill her. He’s terrified of her. I can almost sympathize.

  My. That is a lovely fur, she says. Is it otter?

  Take your hand off me, sister.

  Isabel looks at me over one shoulder.

  This is so embarrassing, she says. My youngest brother, Horatio, is dying. He has an immune deficiency disorder and he badly needs a kidney.

  The Blister shows his teeth. Horatio has AIDS, you stupid cow. He’s queer as a blue moon.

  Be careful, she says.

  Your brother needs a kidney, I say. He needs my kidney.

  Yes, she says. I hired Jude to find a suitable donor. And she found five.

  Five, I say.

  Isabel shrugs and explains that Jude accessed the medical files of nine hundred inmates and medical patients. Eleven of them matched Horatio’s blood and tissue type, five of them were scheduled for release. And then it was a matter of elimination. One suffered chronic hepatitis, another tuberculosis. Two of them were very unattractive, she says. They were genetically inferior.

  What?

  She smiles. You were the best-looking, by far.

  What difference does that make?

  None, she says.

  I stare at her. Would you borrow a pair of shoes from an ugly girl?

  What kind of shoes?

 
; Oh, god.

  She bites her lip. Ironic, isn’t it?

  Oh, yes. It’s bad poetry.

  It was really a simple transaction, she says. It was like ordering lingerie from a catalog. But my father foolishly gave Jerome a suitcase full of money and sent him to make the exchange.

  I was unstoppable, says the Blister.

  A disaster, she says.

  I was the spy that came in from the cold and the cops were licking my bootheels.

  Isabel laughs as if her head will fly off.

  Jerome came home in a fury, she says. He said that Jude cheated him, that she took the kidney to another buyer. He needed his little sister’s help.

  Isabel touches her fingers to the Blister’s lips.

  Oh you wet bitch, he whispers.

  Actually, I say. I think she gave the kidney to some orphan.

  The Blister bites into Isabel’s hand as if it were a piece of fruit. Her face turns white.

  I still have my knife in the wrist sheath and I shrug and it’s in my hand, cool and untrembling. My knees are like water, though. I take two endless steps through mud and black sand and push the point of the tanto into the Blister’s ear. If I sneeze or flinch or tremble, the Blister has brain damage. He opens his mouth, blood on his lips. Isabel jerks her hand free and whirls away from him, screeching like a mad bird. I’m not sure if she’s dancing, if she’s about to attack. I glace at the Blister and he too is uneasy. Isabel whirls prettily and kicks him in the mouth with her bare heel. The Blister rolls to his knees, the big gun in his left hand. He picks up two of his loose bullets and reloads, spitting blood. I stare at him lazily. I don’t even reach for my gun. The Blister backs away from us, the gun pointed at Isabel, then at me. He pulls the trigger and the hammer falls on an empty chamber with a vaguely disappointing little click. The Blister throws open the door and is gone.

  Isabel is breathing hard, drunk with her own blood.

  That was beautiful, she says.

  It was interesting.

  She licks her lips and leans close to me.

  What’s the matter? she says.

  Are you kidding?

  I would have spared you this, she says.

  Yeah.

  The room is shrinking. I’m stupid with hunger.

  My brother is such a pill, she says.

  What happened to his hands? I say.