A Blind Eye

by G. M. Ford

  “When have you ever seen a turtle without the shell?”

  “In the Bahamas. He was about to become soup.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “It’s life in the food chain is what it is.”

  They turned right, into the motel entrance. On the left, a minivan danced on its springs as a quartet of children screamed and scurried about the interior like crazed rodents. The father was inside registering. The mother leaned her head against the side window, her puffy eyes closed, seemingly oblivious to the din behind her.

  “How long have we known each other?” Dougherty asked.

  “Five, six years…why?”

  “Where were you born?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “It’s got everything to do with anything. I’ve known you for over five years. We were lovers for almost two years, and you know what?”

  The muscles along his jawline rippled. She went on.

  “I don’t know where you were born. I don’t know your mother’s name. You slipped once and said something about a brother. That’s the only way I ever find out anything about you. All this time. The countless hours we’ve spent in each other’s company and I still don’t know one goddamn thing about you.”

  “What’s your point?”

  She stopped walking, disengaged herself, and took a step away from Corso. “That hand pump in Rodney de Groot’s yard.” Her voice carried the slightest of slurs. “How did you know how to make that thing work? How did you know you had to pour water in it?” She raised both hands in wonder. “I’m from bumfuck-dirt-farmer Iowa and I’ve never even seen one of those things before. How come you knew?”

  Corso turned his back to her and looked up at the night sky. He could make out Orion’s belt and, higher in the sky, the North Star.

  “Well?”

  He spun on the balls of his feet. “That’s how we got water when I was a kid,” he said. “You’ve got to prime the pump or it will just suck air.”

  She cocked her head, looking for signs that he was kidding. He laid a hand on her back and guided her toward the stairs. He could feel her eyes on the side of his face as they climbed. Halfway up, she wobbled slightly and leaned harder into him, until he propped her against the wall, opened the door, and snapped on the overhead light.

  “Come on,” he said.

  Once inside, she walked a wavy line to the bathroom. Corso sat on the edge of his bed and pulled off his boots. He padded over to the TV, played with the buttons until he found CNN, and got it closed-captioned.

  He pulled both pillows out from under the spread, piled them against the headboard, and stretched out with a long, audible sigh. The clock in the lower-left-hand corner of the screen read 9:54 ET. George Bush senior was making a speech. Corso closed his eyes for a minute. When he opened them again, the clock read 10:09, and college football scores were scrolling down the screen.

  Suddenly, the overhead light went out, leaving the room bathed only in the flickering, multihued flashes of the television screen.

  He didn’t see her until her hand reached out and turned off the television. He was blind. He blinked several times, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the total darkness.

  He felt her weight on the bed next to him. Reached out and put a hand on her side. His fingers could feel the raised whorls and words etched on her skin.

  She leaned over and kissed him. Her heavy breasts flattened against his chest. His hands could feel the yellow lightning bolts on her back.

  “You’re going to regret this tomorrow,” he whispered.

  “I know” was her response.

  “You’ll take it out on me for days.”

  He could feel her smile in the darkness.

  “It’s how I square it with myself afterward.”

  “Is it worth it?”

  “We’ll find out, won’t we?” she said without hesitation, and kissed him again, harder this time, then stood up. Corso pulled his shirt over his head. And then, before he could do anything about his pants, she was on him again flesh to flesh.

  “You’ll be gentle with me now, won’t you?” he joked.

  “No,” she said, without the slightest trace of humor.

  32

  The old guy put his glasses up on top of his head and squinted at the poster. Above the swollen face of Nancy Anne Goff it read: “Reward.” Beneath the face: “Have You Seen This Woman? 346-9987.”

  “Quite a puss there,” the old guy said. “This used to be a mug shot?”

  “Just a bad picture,” Corso assured him, as he had everyone who’d asked that same question all day long. “You seen her?”

  “Don’t believe I have,” he said, handing the picture back to Corso.

  Corso plucked the poster from his fingers. “Be all right if I put this in the window?” he asked. The old guy looked toward the front of the store.

  “Take that orange flyer offa the door,” he said. “Elks Pancake Breakfast was last Sunday. Don’t expect they’ll be needing the space anymore.”

  Corso removed the BPOE breakfast flyer and replaced it with his own. The old man wished him luck. Corso gave him a wink as he closed the door.

  The day had started slowly. They’d languished in bed till nearly nine. Made love twice and then headed for the shower. Corso first, so he could run a few errands.

  Dougherty was still fluffing her hair with a towel when Corso returned with a pair of cell phones, a couple of staplers, and coffee and bagels for breakfast. They’d wolfed down the coffee and bagels, divided the pile of posters in half, agreed that Dougherty would take the east end of town and Corso the west, and headed out together, leaving one of the cell phones plugged into the wall for messages and pocketing the other.

  Corso checked his watch. Three thirty-four. What had started out as two hundred and fifty posters was now a rolled-up wad of no more than twenty-five. The rest decorated every Laundromat, beauty parlor, antique shop, and café in Midland, Michigan.

  He pulled the stapler from his pocket and tacked a poster onto the nearest telephone pole. Satisfied, he threw the last of the posters into a sidewalk trash bin. On this day in Midland, Michigan, no matter which way you turned, Nancy Anne Goff’s battered countenance stared defiantly at you.

  The river wind blew the tails of his coat out behind him as he strode down Prospect Street, making his way south toward Main and the motel. Scattered clouds, lined up end to end like dirty boxcars, moved east across a blue sky. He’d walked about four blocks when he heard her whistle. He stopped and looked around. Dougherty was behind him, ambling down the sidewalk in his direction.

  “Any luck?” he asked as she drew near.

  She grabbed his arm and pulled him down the street. “A woman at the discount food market thought she’d seen her before. Says she’s got blond spiky hair these days. Thinks she’s married to somebody who works for the company.”

  “That narrows it down,” Corso said sarcastically.

  “You?”

  “Nada,” he said, pulling her closer as they walked. “Everybody was pleasant, but nobody recognized the face.”

  “What now?”

  “You eat?”

  “Just the bagels.”

  “You want to do lunch?”

  “Something light.”

  “After that we return to our sumptuous room and await calls.”

  “Can we do that naked?”

  “I believe we can,” he said.

  She eased the big Pontiac into the diagonal parking slot and got out. She fed three quarters into the meter and then hustled south along Midland Avenue, the click of her narrow heels echoing off the buildings. Tommie de Groot had to stretch his legs to keep up. “Where we going?” he asked as they hurried along.

  “To the courthouse,” she said. “That’s where we start.”

  “That how you done it?” he wanted to know.

  “It’s—” And suddenly the words froze in her throat. She stopped. Stood still staring at th
e front door of Guzman’s Gallery. He watched the blood drain from her face until she was the blue-white color of skim milk. The cords in her neck trembled. She looked around. She spotted something halfway up the block and ran headlong in that direction, leaving Tommie to stumble along in her wake.

  A moment later she stood nose-to-nose with her own likeness stapled to a telephone pole on the corner of Midland and Trice. She gagged twice, and for a moment it seemed she might vomit. She reached out and steadied herself on the pole, as the street swirled before her eyes. Then used her fingernails to pick at the staples until the poster came loose in her hands.

  “That’s you,” Tommie said. “How’d—”

  “Shut up,” she hissed. Her chest heaved like a marathon runner’s, sending violent streams of breath whooshing out into the air. She looked around again and then, without a word, began to retrace her steps back to the car. Quicker now, nearly at a run, she moved across the concrete on the balls of her feet.

  By the time Tommie made the car, she had the engine running and the poster spread out across the steering wheel. When he opened his mouth to speak, she hit him.

  A straight right to the mouth. And then another and another. Tommie buried his bloodied face in his arms and took the punches in silence.

  She was panting now, her breath coming in gasps. “You stupid son of a bitch. You brought them here with you. You brought them to me.”

  Tommie had tears in his eyes and blood on his teeth when he looked up. “Nobody followed me. Swear to god. No way anybody followed me here.”

  She hit him in the mouth again, and again he buried his head. She jammed the car into reverse. Horns blared as she careened out into the street and roared off.

  She was screaming now, the inside of the car filled with her voice. “I shoulda killed you with the rest of them when I had the chance!” she screamed. “Swear to god, you wasn’t my own flesh and blood, I’d kill you now.”

  Beneath his arms, Tommie wept. “I didn’t,” he blubbered. “You gotta believe me…I didn’t….”

  The car fishtailed around a corner, tires howling. She stared out over the long hood, her face hard as stone. Tommie peeked out from under his arms and then sat up in the seat. She began breathing deeper now and eased her foot off the gas pedal.

  At the corner of Midland and Main she braked the Pontiac to a stop, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel as she waited for the light to change. A couple crossed in front of the car, walking arm in arm, engaged in animated conversation.

  “You gotta believe me,” Tommie said through the blood in his mouth. “I didn’t—” And then he stopped and stared out the side window. “That’s them,” he said. “The ones come to Rodney’s house asking about us. I’d know that big tall son of a bitch anywhere.” He pointed to the couple on the corner. “That’s them right there.”

  “We try to get the information over the phone,” Corso was saying. “Anybody wants to meet in person, we do it in broad daylight in some public place.”

  “You sound pretty confident we’re going to stir up some action,” she said.

  “A reward always brings the loonies out of the woodwork,” Corso assured her. “Yeah…we’ll get some action. No doubt about it.”

  Horns began to sound in the street. They turned their heads to see what the commotion was. A battered ’69 Pontiac blocked the intersection. Impatient engines raced. An 18-wheeler, five cars back, sounded its air horn. By the time the Pontiac lurched around the corner and disappeared from sight, the light had changed to red again. First in line now, a guy in a white BMW slapped the steering wheel with the flat of his hand.

  Corso and Dougherty walked slowly up the street. Occasionally spreading out, allowing passersby to pass between them, and then coming back together.

  “Last night was cool,” Corso said as they bumped shoulders.

  “This morning wasn’t so bad either,” she said.

  Corso agreed. They divided again to let a skate-boarder hurl himself down the block on plastic wheels. “I think maybe I’m through beating myself up over you,” Dougherty said. “Like maybe I can just appreciate you for what you are and not let all the other crap I’ve got stored up get in the way of a good time.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Of course it sounds good to you.”

  Halfway up the block, the Pontiac slid to a stop. She pulled a wad of tissues from a box attached to the visor. Handed them to Tommie, who dabbed at his broken mouth.

  “You sure that’s the same people?”

  Tommie nodded. “Dead positive. That’s them right there.”

  “Follow them,” she said. “Find out where they’re staying.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. “It’s all over here,” she said. “Time to fly away.” She jerked a thumb back over her shoulder. “How we gonna do that depends on who else other than those two knows we’re here. Now get going. I’ll drive around the block and catch up with you.”

  Tommie jogged up the sidewalk and peeked around the corner. They were a block away, walking north on Main, shoulder to shoulder, all kissy-face-like.

  He crossed the street, dodging cars like a matador, until he got to the river side, where he began to follow along as they ambled up the sidewalk together. On his left, the river steamed in the late-afternoon sunshine. On his right, the orange glare of the sun reflected off shop windows, forcing him to squint as he watched the pair cross Dexter Avenue and begin to meander out of the downtown core.

  He stepped behind the row of hedges separating Emerson Park from the street. In the center of the grassy lawn, a pair of teenage boys tossed a red Frisbee back and forth as a golden retriever ran from one to the other, frantically following the disk, leaping now and then, snapping at the spinning red blur they kept just out of reach.

  When the lovebirds turned right into the driveway of the Pine Tree Motor Inn, he scurried out from behind the hedge and ran into the street. Half a block back, she had the Pontiac nestled against the curb as he dodged a furniture truck on his way across.

  The couple walked hand in hand to the stairs at the back of the U, climbed to the second floor, and disappeared through the first door on the left. He followed until he could read the numbers on the door. Room 223.

  When he turned toward the street, the nose of the Pontiac was visible along the south edge of the driveway. He hurried over.

  “They’re in two twenty-three,” he announced.

  “Okay.” She took several deep breaths. “Better stop at the drugstore and the bank,” she said. “Then we’ll run back to the farm.”

  She didn’t look panicked anymore. She was wearing that stony face he’d seen before. The one she wore when bad things needed to be done. Like when she handed him the ax in Wisconsin and told him what to do. He breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was going to be all better now. She’d see to it, like she always did. And this time, no matter what they had to do, at least they’d be together when it was over.

  33

  We gotta hurry,” she said. “The girls’ll be home from school in twenty minutes. We gotta have everything together by then.”

  She threw a roll of duct tape into the brown canvas bag on the kitchen table.

  “I’m telling Gordie I’m taking you to the airport in Chicago,” she said. “Gonna have to spend the night. That way he won’t be looking for me till he gets home tomorrow night and wants his dinner.” She waved a hand. “Even then, he won’t worry none. He’ll just figure I broke down or something and go over to his mama’s for supper.” She looked over at Tommie. “You bring your gun?”

  “Two.”

  “Better bring ’em along,” she said. “We gotta try to wipe the slate clean before we fly away. Best as we can anyway.”

  “We gonna kill ’em?”

  “Not till we find out who else knows I’m here. Then we’re gonna take ’em out in the woods and bury ’em deep, where nobody’s ever gonna find ’em.”

  “We gonna leave Gor
die and the kids be?”

  “We’re not organized enough to do anything about them. His nosy-ass mother’ll know something’s wrong in a minute we mess with any of them.” She looked around the kitchen. “This is Mama May’s house. Mama May’s land.” Her eyes darkened. “And she never let either of us forget it. Not for all these years. Brought it up every damn time money was mentioned.” She caught herself. “Besides that, even if we did…you know…there’s no way to cover our trail. Nope. We take care of those other two busybodies, and then Gordie and the girls just wake up tomorrow morning and find me gone.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Way things been going around here lately, I expect they’ll be glad to see me gone. God knows his mama will.”

  She crossed the kitchen to the phone on the wall. Dialed. “Mama May,” she said after a moment. “I’m taking my brother to the airport in Chicago tonight. He got a good deal on a midnight flight.” She listened. “Yes,” she said. “I will.” Listened again. “I need you to look after the girls. Send ’em off to school in the morning.” She rolled her eyes. “Yes. Yes. I’ll leave him a note. I’ll have them ready.” She hung up and headed for the stairs.

  “I’m gonna pack a bag,” she said. “You get your stuff together, and then we’ll load the car.”

  The voice on the phone was a hoarse whisper. “How much is the reward?”

  “Depends,” Corso said.

  “I wanna see the money up front.”

  “You give me the information. I check it out. Then you get the money.”

  “By then she’ll fly away.”

  Corso sat up straight. Pointed at the phone. Dougherty stopped painting her nails and held her breath.

  “Fly away, you say?”

  “Sure,” the voice rasped. “Like a bird.”

  Dougherty set the nail polish on the nightstand. The arrows and vines and words that decorated her shoulders and chest gleamed Technicolor in the harsh overhead light.