by Cora Brent
I wince over the imagery. “Better we all whore ourselves out in prime time living rooms across the nation, huh?”
Brigitte lets out a little hiss. “Cut it out, Ren. Negativity etches permanent wrinkles you know.”
“Yes, Lita. I know.”
She ignores the insult, pretends I’m not mocking her by comparing her to our mother. “This is a legitimate business venture. An entire brand will be forged. The Savages. We can remake ourselves.”
“Those aren’t your words.”
“So? That doesn’t mean they are untrue.”
I’m out of bed now, pacing the room. It’s a small room so it only takes three short strides to get from one end to the other. My apartment is sparsely decorated in a sleek contemporary modern style, courtesy of Ikea. There is a bed, a dresser, a couch and a small dinette. It’s neat and clean and boring. It suits me well. After switching on the single overhead light I perch on the edge of the memory foam mattress, the last vestiges of sleep gone. There’s no use in pretending that I’ll be returning to my Ferris wheel fantasy nap after Brigitte finishes with me.
“Look, I need some assurance that Lita stays the fuck away. I won’t even talk about it unless that’s a sure thing. No maternal surprises for dramatic effect, like we’re sitting down to dinner and she rings the motherfucking doorbell. I don’t want to hear a word about her or I swear I’ll walk.”
Brigitte is ready with an answer. “Oh god, she knows nothing. She hung up the phone when the producers tried to call her. She doesn’t want anything to do with us. Apparently she’s still playing house with the stroke patient she married, probably busily researching the best way to make him choke on a pillow.”
“I’m serious, Bree. It better be written into the damn contract. No Lita.” My headache has grown. I scrabble around in my nightstand for the bottle of Excedrin and swallow two pills without any water.
“I swear it, Ren. On my honor as your sister. I’m not all that excited to see her ever again either.”
My mouth twitches. Brigitte sounds so earnest. Brigitte is a fantastic actress. “You might have spent a big chunk of your honor when you appropriated my sole pair of Manolo Blahnik’s and broke the left heel.”
“You’ve a memory like an elephant. That was years ago. I apologized. I swear I still have some honor remaining. Consider it yours.”
“Does it have a name?”
“What, you mean the show?”
“Yes, I mean the show. What do they plan on calling it?”
“Born Savages.”
I should have swallowed the pills with at least one mouthful of water. I can feel every centimeter of their slow slide. For a second they pause. I imagine they are caught somewhere close to my heart.
“Clever,” I cough. “Who spent years getting an expensive degree for the right to think that up?”
“I think it’s cute. It works. I told you who’s producing it, right? Gary Vogel. He’s behind all the classier projects, the ones broadcast on the Biz Network that are centered around real names, not these cheesy game shows that cast common folk nobodies. He’s got the Kingston sisters signed on to live on a goat farm in Vermont during shearing season. Stop laughing! It will be quite artistic from what I hear. And get this. Gary happens to the producer for Bastion Brats.”
I groan. “You shouldn’t have reminded me. That thing is a tawdry disaster.”
“It’s one of the highest rated shows in the country. Wait, didn’t you used to be friends with Bitty Bastion like a million years ago in grade school? Before her exotic journey into twelve rounds of rehab, that is. Anyway, Bitty and Becky already have their own talk shows and the rest are swimming in more offers than they can keep track of. If those moon-faced morons can get that far, think of what we can do.”
“I’ll bet Gary told you that.”
“Does it matter?” She sounds excited again.
When Brigitte was a little girl she used to bounce maniacally on her toes whenever she got nervous or excited. It was endearing then. I picture her doing the same thing in her dumpy apartment. It’s still endearing.
“So you’re in, right Ren? I knew you wouldn’t hang us out to dry. Ava’s such a pessimist. She was terrified to even ask you.”
Once I say it there’s no taking it back. “Just the five of us, right? No other Savages.”
I can hear the smile in her voice. “What other Savages could there possibly be? We’re the only ones anyone is interested in.”
“Okay.”
“Clarify that ‘okay’, please.”
“You know you’ve got me, Bree. I won’t help you with Monty though.”
“Monty will be easy.”
“Monty is the opposite of easy.”
“Trust me. I’ll have Monty signed and sealed before you can say the word Arizona.”
Outside a siren wails and then surges into the distance toward some unknown disaster. “Arizona.”
The word brings out strange feelings in me. Of a place, of a time, of a boy….
“What other Savages could there possibly be?”
The question has haunted me long before my sister ever casually uttered it.
CHAPTER TWO
OZ
In this group two, are beginners and two are not. The woman worries me. She blinks weirdly fast and chews on the inside of her mouth while casting quick glances at the man beside her. They’re a couple, plainly still in that early uncertain phase. She’s too freaking eager to please him. It’s obvious to me that she’s not the underground type of girl. She’s the kind that breaks a nail flipping the tab of a beer can. I can do that; sort women out with ease. I’m almost always right.
The other pair is a father/son set from Nashville who tell me they’ve been caving a handful of other times in these rich Smoky Mountains. They are fine. They are the eager, appreciative types that I love guiding through the caves.
The woman – Leah is her name – grunts as she struggles through the small break in the rock. We’re trying to reach a cavernous room filled with complex formations, a caver’s paradise. But we have to hold on a minute because Leah’s plentiful tits don’t like the narrow pass. She shimmies a few inches deeper into the rock and grunts again.
“Fuck,” she spits and immediately seems alarmed that such a foul syllable came from her mouth.
The father and son titter just inside the room but Leah’s boyfriend looks mad. He throws her a scornful glare.
Right then and there I know what he’s about and I don’t like him. He’s one of those self-righteous bastards. You know the type, hugging his moral superiority like a security blanket or his mother’s left nipple. Meanwhile I’d bet my last bag of trail mix that the guy has done eight times as much dirty shit as the rest of us combined.
Well, that is if I don’t count myself. There’s no way this dude with his oatmeal face and orangutan limbs could beat me in a matchup of belt notches.
But I’m starting to feel sorry for Leah and her squished boobs at this point so I offer her a hand. She grabs at it gratefully and I haul her the rest of the way out of the rock.
“You made it,” I say with token enthusiasm, trying not to sound too happy because she could get the wrong idea. Women do that a lot. If it’s not the right place and time I always try to head it off, big tits or not.
“Oh jeez, thanks Oz,” she gushes and pats her chest, making sure that the girls are still intact. Or else she’s trying to direct my attention to their glorious shape. But her biggest problem is that it’s tough to look sexy with a sweaty face and trapped in a full body yellow jumpsuit.
Anyway, I’ve always sworn off banging my customers. There’s enough hot ass waiting up above without having to shop for it down here. Plus there’s something sort of tasteless about guiding a girl through the dark like a trusting lamb and then getting her on her back. Seems predatory somehow.
That doesn’t mean I’ve never done it. I have. Once. You won’t catch me admitting it out loud though.
“H
ot damn,” says the kid in awe as he adjusts his headlamp and gets a good look around the room.
I smile. This is the reaction I always hope for. I want them to feel enchanted, captivated, bowled right the fuck over that shit like this exists beneath their feet. It was how I felt the first time I ever stepped into a cave. I still feel that way every time I go underground and see things that the world above can never equal.
This place is called the Round Room and it’s at the very center of the honeycomb of underground passages that comprise the Guard Cave deep in the picturesque hills of Tennessee. I’ve been in and out of the whole labyrinth so often that I don’t even need a map. Despite the fact that I’ve been inside some of earth’s most stupendous caves I never tire of the sight of the Round Room.
As we edge our way in, I caution the group to take care because the rock formations can actually be quite fragile. The place is a wonder, a fantasyland of conical shapes that extend from the ceiling and bubble out of the ground. It’s such a strange sight that if you squint you might believe you are no longer on earth.
The kid’s dad is hunkered down and adjusting his headlamp as he examines one of the stalagmite cones. He lets out a low whistle. “How long did you say it would take for something like this to form?”
“A hundred and fifty years,” says his son, obviously proud that he remembered a few of the details of my long spiel before we started the tour.
I shine my light on the rigid, imperfect cylinder rising out of the ground. It looks like a gargoyle’s penis.
“Per inch,” I correct him. “Takes about a hundred and fifty years of constant drip for enough mineral residue to collect into an inch of stone.”
“Wow,” breathes Leah and she’s at my side with her arm brushing against mine. Her honorable semi-boyfriend who hates the word ‘fuck’ is somewhere in the darkness; discarded, rejected, at least temporarily.
The boy is full of questions. He’s a bright kid, maybe sixteen or so. He asks how many caves I’ve been in, how long I’ve been doing this, what’s the most awesome shit I’ve ever seen. He listens carefully when I answer.
Fifty-eight separate locations on three continents.
I’ve been with the tour company for nearly two years and before that I was a freelance guide for photography excursions in the southwest.
And finally, the most awesome shit I’ve ever seen actually wasn’t inside a cave, but I can’t talk about it in front of strangers. I can’t talk about it at all. Instead I just flip off some remark about the unique limestone caverns of Britain and the kid nods with satisfaction. He is named John, just like his dad, and he wears his enthusiasm proudly. I already know he’ll be a lifelong caver. He’s at the point where he’ll never look at the upper world the same way again. I reached that point a long time ago.
John Junior is disappointed when I tell everyone we need to move on but time doesn’t stand still down here, no matter how much it seems otherwise. The tour is only supposed to last until five and it’ll take a good hour to squeeze Leah and her unhappy tits back through the narrow passages.
By the time we get back to the surface the bad boyfriend has changed his attitude. He’s probably realizing that he’s on his way to sleeping alone tonight and that Leah likely has a few better options. He’s now helpful and attentive, circling an arm around her possessively as she grins and blushes. But I don’t miss the way she looks back at me with a kind of puppyish longing just before he firmly leads her away.
John and John Junior shake my hand and say what a damn good time they had, and that this was the best caving expedition they’ve ever been on. I tell them there’s plenty more caves around if you don’t mind investing a whole day to hike deeper into the hills. I hand out my business card and tell them to give me a call if they’re interested. I really do mean it. I wouldn’t even charge them for the trip.
Once I’m alone I just stand there for a few minutes and breathe in the honeyed feel of mid summer. By early October the green on the hills will disappear, replaced by a wild explosion of autumn color. I expect I’ll be around to see it. I’ve been lingering here far longer than I’m used to hanging around a single place but I’m enjoying the break. With my apartment in the nearby small town of Jacoby and my job as a guide, it’s been peaceful, a little dose of serenity in a restless life.
The harsh calls of some nearby wild turkeys interrupt the quiet moment. I shoulder my pack and take a quick tour around the cave entrance to ensure that not so much as a gum wrapper was left behind to stain the landscape. Then I cover the half-mile walk back to my truck in five minutes before deciding to swing by the office, figuring Brock will be around.
Brock Gardner is a former nature photographer who suffered a broken spine when he fell from a steep cliff in New Mexico while trying to get some money shots of eagles in flight. We were already friends and I’d been scheduled to guide for that weekend trip, but a painful stress fracture in my right foot kept me off the trail and put Brock at the mercy of some novice who didn’t understand his own equipment. Brock’s harness hadn’t been fastened properly and when he leaned back to switch the camera lens one of the critical lines snapped. He only tumbled for about fifteen feet but the jagged rock he landed on cut right through the eighth spinal vertebrae and that was that.
If you ask Brock about his wheelchair and useless legs he’ll tell you the whole story with a matter of fact quality, like he’s talking about horse racing or lacrosse, one of those things people find interesting but don’t get all busted up about. That’s just Brock. He’s a no bullshit kind of guy who couldn’t swallow pity if you tried to choke him with it.
Brock had grown up in these mountains. When he made me an offer I was glad to follow him out here and take a job at his fledgling adventure tour company. He’s a good guy, and one of the few people on earth who knows a thing or two about me.
“Cheeseburgers,” Brock announces. He tosses me a greasy paper bag the second I open the screechy aluminum door of the single-wide trailer that serves as company headquarters.
I catch the bag and sniff at the contents, my belly rumbling expectantly in response. “You hauled your wheels to town just to buy me lunch?”
Brock grins and shakes his head, closing the silver lid of his Mac. “Nope. Ashley stopped by with the goods. That’s one cute slice of tender blondeness, Oz. Poor girl looked so crestfallen by the news you weren’t around I thought about inviting her to sit in my lap as consolation.”
“Maybe you should have,” I grumble and slide into a rickety folding chair as I open a paper-wrapped burger. I’ll have it swallowed in two bites.
“Well then maybe I will,” he says cheerfully, “if you’re sure you’re pulling back from the table.”
I grab Brock’s water bottle and wash the burger down with a hard gulp.
“Have at it.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Honestly, I never sat down at that table. I just paused and grabbed a few mouthfuls of the appetizer on my way out the door.”
Brock laughs. He knows I don’t lie.
Ashley is a local girl, a waitress at the only twenty-four-hour diner in Jacoby. She’s cute as hell but lives in the low tide pool of human intelligence. Even though we had some fun sweating it up at my place a few times, at the end of the day I want more in a woman than a pretty face and a wet pussy.
“Harsh,” Brock says when he’s done laughing.
I shrug. “Truth.”
So what the hell do I want? Not much, just mind-blowing sex with a brain attached, a woman who’s my match in words and action. Anyone can fuck, but I want to feel like I can’t wait to hear what comes out of her mouth almost as much as I can’t wait to be inside her body.
I want something I once had for a short, vanished season and haven’t been able to replace. I doubt I ever will.
“Oz.” Brock snaps his fingers loudly. “Oz man, you’re a million miles away.
It’s stinking hot in the trailer. I pull off my t-shirt and wipe my face with it. “I’m
here. I’m just digesting, that’s all.”
Brock is studying me. He’s used to my casual attitude toward women so this fresh scrutiny has nothing to do with Cheeseburger Ashley. I meant it when I said he could take a crack at that if he wants to. Wouldn’t bother me at all.
“Got a call today,” he finally says.
“For me?”
“No.” He pauses. “California area code. Guy on the other end had one of those golden money voices that could probably convince a priest to shoot his own mother. He wasn’t looking for Oz Acevedo.”
My stomach does a sick little flip even though this isn’t unexpected. In the information age where everyone knows the location of everyone else’s last shit deposit, how long did I think I could hide?
Brock doesn’t need to say it but he does anyway.
“He thought he might be able to find a man named Oscar Savage here.”
I stare down at my knees. “He won’t.”
Brock’s voice is sympathetic. “I know. I told him as much but he knew I was lying like a dog. He asked me to pass along his contact info just in case Oscar made an appearance.”
I wish there was something stronger than water around. I don’t even ask. Brock is an old school teetotaler. “Did he say why Oscar should be interested in talking to him?”
“He said it was a family matter.”
My head whips up and I meet Brock’s curious green-eyed gaze. “He said that? Family matter?”
My friend nods and then grimaces as he’s hit with one of his frequent back spasms. “He did.”
When he’s done twisting his body sideways in the wheelchair, Brock hands me a bright yellow post-it with a name and phone number scrawled in black marker. I shove it into my back pocket and he tries to interest me in a fifty-mile drive to Gatlinburg for a better meal than cheeseburgers. When I shake my head he doesn’t push the issue.
“There a tour set up tomorrow?” I ask on my way out the door.
Brock nods. “Yeah, a quartet of old biddies who want to hike to the standing stones to perform some kind of female goddess worship.” He watches me. “New guy can take it if you’d rather have the day off.”