The Sound

by James Sperl

  Stephanie cleared her throat, her eyes dancing skittishly among her friends before speaking. “Well, it’s…it’s not likely since her clothes, her car, and all her personal belongings were still at home.”

  “Have you seen Mr. Fortner?” Travis said. “The guy looks like a relative of the Elephant Man. You’d probably take off too if you realized you’d married a textbook example of a Cro-Magnon.”

  “Nice,” Rachel said, her tone humorless.

  Travis held out his hands as if they were receptors of adulation. “What can I say? Speaking truth via a no-bullshit filter is but one of the many public services provided by yours truly.”

  “Yeah?” Stephanie said. “What are some of the others? A what-not-to-wear model? A spokesperson for erectile dysfunction? The poster child for prophylactics?”

  Valentina and Rachel chortled, Rachel high-fiving Stephanie, but Clarissa had difficulty finding humor in anything to do with Travis.

  “If I didn’t know any better,” he began, “I’d say you were trying to hurt my feelings. Though I do find it interesting you gravitated toward penis-related themes while attempting to insult me. Are things okay at home?”

  Stephanie, ever so casually, raised her middle finger.

  Travis beamed proudly then glanced at Clarissa—it was all she could do to keep from shooting to her feet and making a beeline for the exit. That and hurling her pint glass square at his model-ready face.

  He’d changed quite a bit since the last time she’d had the displeasure of seeing him. What had it been, five years? Six? It wasn’t until this very moment that Clarissa realized how much time had passed. Thank God for small favors. But here he was now. Back from who knew where. His sandy-brown hair was longer than it used to be, and he had filled out, his previously lanky frame having acquired some bulk in all the right places. He looked tan too. His smoke-hazel eyes popped against his coppery skin, and the stubble peppering his face was just enough to sell the bad-boy vibe he was clearly going for. Were it the first time Clarissa had laid eyes upon him, she would have likely found herself smitten. But she knew Travis. More than she wanted to admit.

  “What do you want?” Rachel said curtly.

  Travis paused from rolling a cigarette to place a splayed hand over his chest in mock offense. He glanced over his shoulder toward two tough-looking men standing nearby, both of whom Clarissa hadn’t noticed before.

  “What do I want? Well, that’s a rather direct and, if I may say, rude question.” One of the brawny men sneered, as Travis turned back around and faced Rachel. “Fortunately, I’m not easily offended. So I'll take your question at face value. My response: I saw four beautiful young ladies enjoying a night out and thought I would inquire as to whether they would like to take their evening to the next level.”

  Travis produced a small sealed plastic baggie with four white pills inside and set it on the table. He didn’t check to see—nor did he seem to care—if anyone in the bar noticed.

  “It’s my personal blend,” he said. “Guaranteed to fuck you to the rafters. And I’ve got an even better formula I’m working on that’ll make this look like aspirin. Just a couple days out from prime time.”

  Clarissa had seen enough.

  “Okay, I’m out of here.” She sprang from her chair and knocked the table, causing every drink to splash. “I’ll talk to you all tomorrow.” She took two purposeful steps toward the exit when Travis’s voice cut through her friends’ pleas to stay.

  “Whoa, Princess,” he said with no small amount of condescension. “I am many things, but let it be known here and now that Travis Austin is not one to bring a night of revelry to a premature end.” He pocketed the baggie as he stood then flipped his handmade cigarette into his mouth. He flamed it with a brass lighter he had produced from somewhere. “I’ll leave.”

  “You can’t smoke in here,” Rachel scoffed.

  A devious smile crept onto Travis’s lips. “No?” He inhaled and blew a jet of smoke into the light hanging over the table. He peeked left then right, and when no one arrived to ask him to put out his cigarette, he shrugged. “Guess it must be more of a suggestion.”

  Stephanie sat up poker straight and crossed her arms defiantly. “When are you going to stop peddling that shit, huh? Isn’t it time you grew up? I mean, the whole high school drug dealer thing was cool, you know, fifteen years ago, but now it’s just sad and pathetic. Why don’t you try something different like, oh, I don’t know, getting a real job?”

  Travis pretended to consider this. “It’s an interesting idea. But having mulled it over thoroughly, I’ve reached the conclusion that I will seek traditional employment once my current vocation ceases to provide me shitloads of cash. And by shitloads, I mean fuckloads.”

  Clarissa didn’t have words. Actually, she had plenty but none she felt comfortable saying in a crowded bar. She wanted to scream full-lunged into Travis’s smug face. What an egomaniacal ass! Who the hell did he think he was? And then to try to deal her and the others, as if they were the sorts of people who bought what he was selling? Travis’s physical appearance may have undergone a metamorphosis, but his loathsome personality traits had remained woefully unaffected.

  “So is that all your life’s about? Money?” said Stephanie.

  “Is there anything else? Oh, wait. There is—power.”

  Stephanie shook her head in disgust. “Doesn’t it matter to you how many people you harm doing what you’re doing? How many lives you ruin?”

  Travis’s Cheshire-cat smile shrank to an even line.

  “What I’m doing? The lives I’m ruining? I’m sorry,” he said, turning again with feigned incredulity to what Clarissa assumed was his two-man security detail before facing forward again, “did I miss something? Am I forcing my product into anyone’s hands? Do you see me holding a gun to anybody’s head to buy from me? Allow me to answer for you: No. I do not. It’s simple business, ladies, supply and demand. I supply a product the people demand.”

  Rachel reached for her drink but only held it. “But your product is drugs. Drugs that cause people to act crazy, make bad choices, and screw everything up.”

  “I see. But alcohol would never do that, right?”

  Rachel started to take a drink but let the glass hover just below her lips.

  Travis pinched out his cigarette and pocketed what remained.

  “You all want to paint me as some evil warlord, some shady, corner-street punk who deals inferior product out of a plastic grocery bag in the wee hours of the morning. But that’s not who I am or what I do. I’m sorry if all of you have failed to recognize the lucrative nature of the drug trade, but let me fill you in on a little secret: it’s not going away. People will always be looking to get high, whether it’s a simple pill or a mainline stick. It’s how we’re wired. People want to get off. Hell, I’d even go so far as to say they need to get off. Am I so bad because I recognize it? Because I’d rather be an entrepreneur than pump gas?” He paused, but no one interjected. “Go ahead and keep telling yourselves you’re different the next time you spliff up on your sofa at home or take a painkiller that wasn’t prescribed to you, or even open that second bottle of wine.” Travis looked at everyone, landing on Clarissa last. “Glass houses, ladies.”

  He removed the chair he had brought with him and handed it to one of the two stone-faced security men. The burly man, who bore a serpent tattoo on his neck, promptly took the chair and returned it to a nearby table teeming with rowdy guys.

  “Well,” Travis barked, smacking his hands for punctuation, “it’s been a pleasure. If any of you should change your minds—”

  “We won’t,” Clarissa said, her stare so searing she thought it could melt steel.

  Travis tipped his head. “As you say. Enjoy the rest of your night. I’m sure it’ll be a hoot.”

  With a half-bow, he turned and clapped his two guards on the shoulders. He crossed the room and joined a group of college-aged kids. Clarissa slunk back into her chair, her eyes pinned to him
.

  “What an asshole!” Rachel blared.

  Stephanie rolled her eyes. “Uh, you think? The guy’s a total scuzzbag.”

  “I don’t know,” said Valentina. “He’s not that bad. Actually, he’s kinda hot.”

  Clarissa’s head drooped along with her shoulders. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

  Valentina sat up. “What? Oh, come on. You can’t tell me those eyes don’t get any of you even just a little wet. Sure, he’s a dealer. Acknowledged. But why can’t a drug dealer also look like a Greek god?”

  “I think I’m going to throw up,” said Rachel, who proceeded to mime puking in her glass.

  “Save room for me,” Clarissa added.

  Valentina flipped a lock of hair over her shoulder and sat back. “Well, I think you’re all full of shit. Especially you, Clarissa. If he’s such a troll then why’d you date him?”

  Clarissa’s face drained of blood even though her heart had double-timed it.

  “I never dated Travis Austin. Ever.” She glanced around the table; the need to defend herself just bested her desire to toss the rest of her beer in Valentina’s face. “We had a brief…thing in high school. Very brief, but we never went out. I promise you that.”

  What happened with Travis was ancient history. But just thinking about said history made the hairs on Clarissa’s arms stand up and her stomach squirm. The one-time affair had been a mistake of monumental proportions born of adolescent lust and inebriation. That she had never told anyone the details of that night was something she was quite content to take with her to her grave.

  She leveled her gaze at Valentina.

  “And why the hell are you bringing up high school? That was sixteen years ago. Everybody’s changed since then. You want me to start going through your laundry list of old flings? Derek Boyd? Mark Sanheiser? John Alpers, for God’s sake?”

  Rachel winced. “Ewwwww. John Alpers?”

  Now it was Valentina’s turn to look uncomfortable.

  “Not my proudest moment, but he wasn’t so bad back then.”

  “Whatever,” Stephanie said. “He had future plumber written all over him.”

  “Be nice,” Clarissa said with a teacherly air.

  Stephanie fake-slapped herself. “Bad me. But seriously, you and Travis? I never knew that.”

  Clarissa shifted in her chair. “Yeah, well…like Valentina said. We all have our bad moments.”

  “I always heard he was smart,” Rachel said.

  “Not just smart,” Valentina put in. “Like, crazy smart.” She turned to Clarissa. “You remember what his G.P.A. was?”

  Clarissa shook her head. “It was off the charts. Pushing four-point-oh all the time, as far as I knew.”

  Rachel frowned and sipped her drink. “So how did he go from that to becoming a pusher? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Actually, to him, it makes perfect sense,” Clarissa said somberly. “He saw the big picture all the way back then. He knew his options were either a high-paying desk job—which he could have easily landed if he’d wanted one—or an even higher-paying private business.” Clarissa shrugged. “He just chose the most lucrative of the two. It's just that his is more morally questionable.”

  “Did you know he was like that back then?” Rachel asked. “Like, all into drugs or whatever?”

  The amount of information Clarissa didn’t know about Travis Austin could have filled volumes. “Not then. I just thought he was this interesting, wicked-smart guy.”

  Stephanie scooped up her drink. “I heard he even got into Stanford, but didn’t go. Obviously.”

  All eyes pinned to Clarissa as if she were the authority on all things Travis Austin. On this point, however, she happened to know the answer.

  “It’s true,” she said. “Along with Brown and Columbia. He probably could’ve gotten into Harvard or Yale if he’d tried.” She plucked her beer from the table and finished the glass in three massive gulps. “He could’ve done whatever he wanted.”

  She recalled how nonchalantly he had mentioned his college acceptance record to her while they sat atop a friend’s car at a party. The memory came back to her only now, it one of many from that night she had blocked out.

  Rachel’s lips formed into a snarl. “But he decided to sell drugs instead? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  Clarissa shrugged. She wanted to be done talking about this, about someone who didn’t deserve to have a conversation dedicated to him.

  “Well, it’s like he said,” she began, as she raised a finger and flagged down the waitress, “he saw where the money was and went after it.”

  “No, I get it,” Rachel said. “It just seems like a waste of talent.”

  “Now, hold up,” Valentina said, sitting forward. “Who are we to judge? When did we all get so high and mighty? He’s right. He’s not forcing anybody to buy from him, and he's not physically hurting anyone. So what if he wants to sell drugs?”

  “Really?” Stephanie scoffed. “You think those two buffoons with him are there to 'not hurt anyone'?”

  Valentina tossed her head from side-to-side. “You’re splitting hairs. Politicians and pop stars have bodyguards too. Point is, who are we to come down on him? More and more places are legalizing pot. Who knows what’ll be next? I’m just saying, I don’t think it’s fair to attack him over this. We can’t fault a guy for making a living just because we disapprove of it. Don’t you think, Clar?”

  Clarissa found Travis across the bar, his body half-submerged in the shadows, as he chatted up a trio of twenty-something girls in too-short skirts that left little to the imagination. She could barely make out his darkened face, but she could see enough to know that he was looking at her. His re-lit cigarette hovered like an ember of hellish fire in front of his face.

  “No,” she said finally. “I can’t fault him. Not for that.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Clarissa’s head throbbed. She was getting old. There had been a time not so long ago when she could put away a six-pack with youthful efficiency, peppering her consumption with a few choice shots of whatever liquor had been laying around and still wake up the next day with nary a hitch in her step.

  Not anymore.

  The fourth beer was the tipping point (Ugh—no beer puns!). On a typical evening out, a pint usually sufficed, sometimes the occasional second finding its way to the table amid mild protests, maybe even a third. But four? Four turned out to be the difference between waking up dopey and just plain waking up. When her alarm blared this morning, it had taken every bit of effort to roll over and crawl her hand the three feet to the clock to palm-smack it off. For a hazy moment, she wondered if the strange noise from the previous morning had returned, but even its sustained clamor failed to attain the same level of obnoxiousness as the pre-dawn, post-drink blare of a punctual alarm clock.

  It was all Travis’s fault.

  She’d had no intention of getting lit last night. In fact, she wasn't all that much in the mood to drink, but the first beer had gone down smoothly. She should have stopped right there. The perils of binge drinking were particularly steep for her when she considered how out of practice she was, but she drop-kicked moderation out the door after Travis showed up.

  She was still trying to reconcile exactly what she felt when she saw him. Was it anger? Rage? Shock? She supposed those emotions were front and center, but something else was there she had never experienced, something about him that was different beyond just the physical. Was he good-looking? Sure. His transformation from mildly handsome guy to buff stud was impossible to ignore. She could admit that though it would take a gun to the head for her to say it aloud. But pleasing looks didn’t always translate to attraction, and in his case, of that she was sure. No, a different emotion had crept up on her and surprised her, something she had never felt about him even after all these years and even after what he had done. It took some time after she woke up to wrap her head around the elusive emotion and corral it into something that made sense, but
after a long, hot shower and a steaming cup of joe, she was able to distill it down: fear.

  Something about Travis frightened her. She hated him after that night, her reason more than justified, but she had never feared him. Not like this. Perhaps she should have. It certainly would’ve been the more prudent emotion to hold onto, but she had always been too mad, too furious, to allow for anything else. Now things were different. He was different. She saw darkness behind his eyes, something sinister that hadn’t been there before. When she considered last night, Clarissa thought it was a combination of surprise and rehashed memories that had upset her, but it wasn’t—it was fear. And it was instantaneous. She didn’t know if Travis was back for good or just passing through, but she sincerely hoped it was the latter.

  The flip-sign on Aunt Mae’s entrance read “Closed” but Clarissa knew the door was unlocked. It always was at this time of the morning, even though the restaurant wouldn’t open for another forty-five minutes. She pushed the hand-smudged glass inward and trod into the dining room.

  Mary was already setting down place mats and silverware on the tables when she looked up to see Clarissa’s half-stooped form trudge inside.

  “Morning, Clarissa,” she said chirpily. Her grin snapped to pursed lips upon seeing Clarissa. “You’re looking a little rough this a.m. Everything okay?”

  Clarissa fumbled in her purse for her sunglasses—even though the sun was only a partial orb on the horizon—and pushed them onto her face with a clumsy shove.

  “Everything’s great,” she mumbled, “as long as I never hear the word ‘beer’ again.”

  “Oh, one of thoooose nights,” Mary said. She stood, dug a finger into her blond-frosted pixie cut, and scratched. “Well, have heart. Just like most men before their wives, it too shall pass.”

  Clarissa cracked a smile. “Colorful as always, Mar.”

  “This is what I do.”

  Shuffling along the bar, Clarissa rounded the end and headed for the kitchen. She turned just enough to call over her shoulder. “I’ll be out in a minute to help.”