by Ben Adams
“Has anyone else been by asking about them?” John asked, through the hole in the glass partition that separated them from the attendant.
“You’re the only ones,” the attendant said.
“She’s probably fine,” the sheriff said to John as they walked through double glass doors and into the parking lot. The hiss of hydraulics. “They were halfway to Albuquerque when we were at Leadbelly’s this morning.”
“Albuquerque,” John said, looking south. A Greyhound left the station and headed toward the highway.
“Tell you what, the sheriff in Albuquerque’s a buddy a mine. I’ll give him a call, see if one a his boys can run down to the bus station, see if Rosa made it.”
“Thanks, Sheriff, I appreciate that.”
The sun reflected off the exiting bus’s windows. It was an intangible, bright ball, existing only in reflected image. But it was real enough to blind.
“Goddamnit,” John said, shielding his eyes. “If Rosa was worried about something, why didn’t she talk to me?”
“Maybe she was protecting you.”
That morning, when she’d said goodbye, she was distant, pushing John away. But the way she kissed him, the longing, she seemed torn.
“That hadn’t occurred to me.”
They heard muffled departure times announced and turned as Professor Gentry ducked into the bus station. He loitered by the entrance, then sprinted to the bus station’s diner and packed his jacket pockets with napkins and ketchup packets.
“You should take Professor Gentry to your station,” John said, “show him the jail cell that guy was in last night.”
“Ha, I would, but I don’t want him bothering the rummies in the drunk tank. I’ll get Jimmy to take him home.”
“What are you thinking?” John asked.
“I’m thinking this is gonna be another one a them unsolved cases.” A fast food wrapper drifted across the empty bus lot. It brushed the sheriff’s boot. He leaned over to pick it up, but a gust of wind blew it underneath a Honda Civic.
“I don’t know. Someone once told me it’s not over.”
“You know, I try to do my job best I can, but I just ain’t equipped to handle people like Hollister.”
“I know the feeling,” John said.
“So, how much longer you gonna be in town?”
“Not sure. I got the motel room another night. Figure I’ll leave in the morning.”
“Wanna ride to your car?” the sheriff asked, thumbing to his squad car parked in the handicapped space.
“I think I’ll walk. It’s not that far.”
“All right, then. I’ll pick you up for dinner?”
“Sounds good,” John said. He wouldn’t be at the motel. Rosa had absconded to Albuquerque, and John needed to find her, protect her. As soon he was packed, he’d leave, dropping a note for the sheriff at the front desk. It would be an impersonal goodbye, a big city goodbye. But it would have to do.
He shook Sheriff Masters’s hand and walked down the street to the plaza. Halfway down the block, John heard the sheriff yelling and reeled around, and laughed as the sheriff tried to shove Professor Gentry into the car. The professor was like a dog that had escaped from its yard, running everywhere but home.
John checked the bullets in his gun and reinserted the clip. The faded cloth interior of his Saturn absorbed the metallic snap. He was parked down the block, on the corner, and had been watching the motel for over twenty minutes. But it was empty. Nothing moved. He set the gun on the passenger seat, next to the journal and photos.
The journal. It was the most dangerous object in the car. Scribbled by an ancestor, it completely rewrote John’s history. At first he thought it was preposterous, that he was the latest product of an alien breeding program. He had an expensive degree that said he knew how to pursue clues and solve puzzles, and, pondering the evidence and events of the past few days, he reached a disturbing conclusion. He gripped the top of the steering wheel, rested his head on his hands, accepted that the journal and everything in it was real. A tear dribbled down his cheek. As more tears flowed, John lifted his head and laughed, feeling sorrow and relief, because everything he knew about himself was false.
John sniffled and wiped his eyes and slowly drove down Baca Drive. He scanned the road as he crossed Grand Avenue, looking for anything that seemed unusual or artificial, a suspicious car, an unnaturally empty street, or Professor Gentry walking a diapered monkey.
He pulled into the motel parking lot and the pain in his stomach returned. It was stronger, like his intestines were twisting. John clamped onto his stomach and bent over, accidentally slamming his foot on the gas. His car careened through the parking lot, heading toward the motel room door. John braked hard, stopping between two parking spaces, spilling the gun and book onto the car floor. He decided, if the sheriff asked, he’d tell him that it was a strategic move, meant to confuse anyone who was watching, make them think he was lost or drunk, a pretty easy sell for a town where half the billboards advertised DUI attorneys.
John picked the gun and book off the car floor, grateful the gun hadn’t gone off, shooting him in the foot. He scraped up the pictures. The photo on top. John is opening a Christmas present, an inflatable Godzilla that he could punch and wrestle. His mother wanted to get him a Pound Puppy, thinking the giant lizard would be too terrifying for her young child, but his father insisted, saying John needed to learn that what he thinks are monsters are really just obstacles to be body slammed and pile drived. John lodged the photos in the book, surprised that seeing a photo could cause him to relive something as cool as getting a blow-up Godzilla. He carried the book and photos to his room, pulling out his key.
But at the door.
He stopped.
It was cracked a few inches.
But he’d locked it before he left, tugged it a couple of times to make sure.
The curtains were drawn. A soft lamplight shone through the crack. The maid’s cart was a few doors down, parked in front of an open room.
John took out his gun, put his back against the wall. Turning his head slightly, he smelled the crack. He didn’t know why he did it. It just seemed natural, instinctual. The scent confused him. He expected the room to smell like cleaning supplies. Instead, it smelled like peanut butter and bananas. There was only one person who ate that combination, a person who was supposed to be dead.
John tucked the journal and photos in the front of his pants, zipped up his hoodie.
With his back to the outside wall, he slowly pushed the door open. Keeping half his body hidden behind the wall, John spun and pointed the gun inside. A man sitting on the bed, watching TV, eating a sandwich. The sequins on his one-piece jumpsuit flickered like the nighttime neon on the Vegas Strip.
“Leadbelly,” John said, lowering his gun. “Jesus Christ. We thought you were dead.”
“Now, man, why would you think a thing like that?” Leadbelly asked, taking a bite of his sandwich. The bruises and swelling from the bar fight were gone. The skin on his face was smooth and the color had returned from the greenish-yellow of contusions to the tan of the Memphis Delta. Every hair in his pompadour had been intentionally arranged. His sideburns were focused and had been trimmed, ending right at his earlobes. And Leadbelly looked exactly like the King.
John holstered his gun and closed the door. “Because you went missing and your trailer was covered in blood. The sheriff even came out here.”
“Yeah, I saw y’all leave this morning. Decided to wait for you to get back.” He took another bite.
“You’ve been here all day watching soaps?”
“Well, man, not exactly.” The toilet flushed.
“Who’s in there?” John put his hand on his gun. The bathroom door opened and a heavyset Mexican woman in her mid-fifties walked out, buttoning her housekeeping blouse, smoothing and putting bobby pins into her dyed, black hair.
“Adios, Señor Elvis,” she said.
Leadbelly stood. He grabbed her around th
e waist with one arm and pulled her in, the sandwich still in the other hand. He leaned in, kissed her, then curled his lip and said, “Thank you. Thank you very much.”
She clutched her shirt and staggered out of the room. John heard her vacuuming the room next door through the wall.
“Man, Carmilta’s a big fan,” Leadbelly said, taking another bite of his sandwich.
“On my bed? Really? On my bed?”
“Don’t worry, man, she changed the sheets.”
“Well, that makes it alright,” John said.
“I told her you’d say that.”
“I spent all day trying to figure out what happened to you, and now I find you’ve been here with what’s-her-name.”
“Carmilta. Man, she’s a very sweet lady. Did I mention she’s a big fan?”
“On my bed? And please tell me you weren’t wearing that suit the whole time.”
“Oh, this,” Leadbelly said, smoothing some sequins on his chest. He tucked his thumb under the bedazzled lapel like a farmer whose cash crop was nacho cheese. “Man, this here’s my traveling suit.”
“Where’re you going?”
“That’s what I came here to talk to you about, man. My transportation has kinda, well, burned to the ground.”
“You talking about your trailer? I was there. My clothes still smell like a burnt leisure suit.”
“Yeah, well, I need a ride outta town.”
“If you think I’m giving you a ride anywhere…”
“You looking for Rosa, man? She didn’t go to Albuquerque.”
“How did you…” John recalled Rosa sleeping on her side, the sheet slipping from her naked shoulder.
“We’re going to the same place, man. All I need’s a ride.” Leadbelly placed his open palm over his heart like he was pledging allegiance to polyester, cheap beer, and unprotected sex. John sensed a rare sincerity radiating from Leadbelly, like he was projecting his earnestness. Even though John knew he could trust Leadbelly, his day had been dominated by riddles.
“Alright,” John said. “You want a ride out of town? Tell me why the Air Force was at your trailer. What do you have on them?”
“The Air Force? Man, they’re the sonsabitches I been running from. Been running since Vegas.”
“They’re the ones you borrowed money from? They’re the reason you burned your chapel?”
“Yeah, man. It’s like you said,” Leadbelly said, taking a bite of his sandwich, “I owed them some money and now they’ve caught up to me.”
“You’re going to have to try harder than that. What do you have on them?”
“They’re blackmailing me, man. Trying to.”
“They’re after you,” John interrupted, “because you have something they want. This.” He pulled out the journal. John didn’t toss it on the bed or put it anywhere Leadbelly could reach it. He held it, waved it, the photos flapping between the pages. Taunting Leadbelly with the journal, John felt tranquil, admitting a truth about himself, the journal, its implications, and he was agitated that the only person who could explain it to him was an Elvis impersonator.
“Oh, man, I thought I’d lost it,” Leadbelly said. He relaxed a little. “I’d a been in a heap a trouble. But you got it, man. That’s a good thing.”
“You sure? ‘Cause I know how you got it. You took it from Archibald’s house the day of his funeral, right before you burned the place.”
“How did you know, man?”
“It’s your M.O. Every time you run, you cover it up with a fire. You burned your trailer, your chapel, and Archibald’s house. Archibald’s house, the land where it used to be, it’s a Party Store now.”
“Yeah, man, maybe they’ll have a fire sale.”
“Not funny.” John waved the journal. “Are you in here? Does Archibald mention you?”
“Briefly,” Leadbelly said. “I’m his son, man, the one that was raised in New Mexico. Your great-great-uncle.”
“Are you kidding me?” John grabbed his hair and looked at the ceiling. A crack in the plaster cut through it.
“Sorry, you had to find out this way, man. I wish I could have been there for you, taught you how to play guitar, how take off a girl’s bra with one hand.”
“The important stuff, right?”
“I just wish things coulda been different. Hell, if they had, I coulda sang at all your birthday parties.”
“You were already there.” John threw a picture at Leadbelly. John is sitting at a table, crying as he blows out the candles on a cake shaped like a giant six.
“Hey, man, don’t be cruel.”
“Really? You’re quoting songs now?” John said, rolling his eyes. “This is just great. My great-great-uncle’s a fucking Elvis impersonator.”
“It’s not like that, man. I was one of Elvis’s body doubles, from ’69 to ’77, all the way to the end.” Leadbelly finished his sandwich and wiped his hands, brushing crumbs onto the carpet.
“That’s why you look like him? so you could spy on him?”
“Yeah, man. We found out he was spying on us. So, a group of us became his body doubles.”
“And being aliens, you were the perfect body doubles, copying his hair, voice, everything, right?”
“Yeah, man, all us body doubles were Sagittarians. Man, it was glorious.” Leadbelly looked at the curtains covering the window, cloaking them from the empty parking lot.
“Sagittarian? You all were into astrology, too?” John asked, thinking about the horoscopes just below the crosswords, and how he ignored their manufactured prophecies.
“It’s who we are, man, where we’re from, you and me.”
“Bullshit. I’m nothing like you. I don’t play dress-up. I don’t pretend to be something I’m not.”
“You sure about that?” Leadbelly nodded to the table, to John’s blank crossword.
“That’s you. You and all the body doubles, dressing up like your hero Elvis Presley, living off his scraps because you couldn’t make it on your own. Then he died and you went into hiding ‘cause you couldn’t take it.”
“After Elvis’s funeral, man, we all knew the Air Force would come for us. So, man, we decided to make a run for it.”
“Did they know you were aliens?” John asked. He squeezed the journal and the cover squeaked.
“Not sure, man. One a my buddies, he started getting these phone calls, real scary shit. So, man, we decided to take off.”
“But they didn’t know where you were, not until you fucked up and let someone take your picture. You even posed for it, waving to God-knows-what. And the Air Force got everything they needed from the reporter, right before they killed him. Then they put your place under surveillance. Followed you, found out about Rosa.”
“Yeah, man, I kinda fucked up.”
“Who told her to sleep with me?”
Leadbelly’s head jerked back. “Man, that’s not really for me to say.”
“The fuck you can’t.” John threw the journal at Leadbelly. He caught it, gently held the artifact. John charged him while he was distracted. He grabbed Leadbelly’s lapels, swung him around, slammed him into the wall.
“Did Jonathon Deerfoot tell Rosa to sleep with me?”
“Man, you’re worrying about the wrong thing.”
John reared back to punch Leadbelly. His hand started to ache. The aching grew into biting pain as the bones in his hand pushed their way to the surface, breaking through his skin, wrapping around and shielding each finger and joint until his fist was gloved by an exoskeleton.
“That’s awesome, man.” Leadbelly smiled.
“Fuck you.” John punched Leadbelly. He’d never punched anyone before and was surprised at how it felt. He smiled, exhilarated, but his smile faded as the adrenaline ebbed and he turned away, feeling guilt, shame at hurting someone. Even if it was Leadbelly.
“Oh, Jesus. Are you alright?” John asked, his hand on Leadbelly’s shoulder.
Leadbelly leaned over, his hand propped against the wall, its textu
red wallpaper slightly peeling. He straightened up, laughing, blood running from his nose to his chin.
“Alright, man, alright.” He held up a hand in mock surrender. The blood retracted, crawling past his lip, returning to his nose, healing.
“Why didn’t you do that the other day? after the bar fight?”
“I had to be convincing, man,” Leadbelly said.
“I’m sorry,” John said, staring at the bones covering his hand. “I didn’t mean…”
“Did you see what you just did, man? with your hand?”
The bones shrank back into John’s flesh. The splits in his skin sealed, as did any doubts John had about his ancestry, his present. It was the final piece of evidence that the journal and everything in it was real. He rubbed his hand, checking to see if it was softer, or would crack at his touch.
“Man, you’re embracing your Sagittarian side. That’s great.”
“Not if it means hurting people.” John sat on the bed, wrinkling the newly straightened comforter. Slouching, he looked at his hand, flexed his fingers. “This isn’t who I am.”
“This part of you, man. It can be whatever you want it to be. It can be amazing.”
“I don’t want any of this.” On the small table by the window. A pad of unused graph paper. His voice lowered to a whisper. “I just want to do my puzzles.”
“Man, tell you what,” Leadbelly sat next to him, “you get me outta here and I’ll tell you everything you want to know. Rosa, the pictures you took from my trailer. Man, I’ll even tell you about your dad.”
“Fuck him,” John said, an automatic response, then added in a whisper full of suppressed curiosity, “What do you know about my dad?”
“More than you, man. That’s for sure.” Leadbelly slid out a photo that was tucked in the journal’s pages, looked at it and grinned. “You look just like him, you know.”
“Fuck you.” John’s eyes watered up. He always assumed his dad was living in another part of the country with another family, and another son. Then his dad would visit him in dreams and try to convince John that he was the most important person in his life. Talking to Leadbelly, it occurred to him that his dad might be out there, hiding, and the only person who knew where to find him reeked of bananas, sex, and cleaning supplies. The police station number was printed on the hotel’s phone along with a pizza delivery place and other emergency numbers.