‘Is Carson coming?’ she asks as I lock up.
‘I didn’t ask him.’
‘Why don’t you call him now?’
Her car has reindeer antlers clipped to the windows and a stuffed red nose on the grill. The nose is spattered with mud.
‘We didn’t say we’d see each other this weekend,’ I say.
She slides into the driver’s seat, inspects her mouth in the rear-view mirror. ‘You know that’s weird, right? You know you’re real weird about him?’
‘I know.’
‘You treat that boy right.’ She does a mafia accent, waggling her finger at me.
The road’s been ploughed since the morning, but it’s still a mess.
‘Why don’t you keep in a low gear,’ I say.
‘Will you chill out?’ she says. ‘I’m a good driver.’
‘I know you are. Anyone could lose control here.’
‘Listen. Anyone could die any time of day.’
Deenie says stuff like that when she means to make me feel better. Lately she’s been all up in my ass about yoga. I’m twenty-two, and she’s only four years older, but she likes to pull that shit sometimes because I don’t have a mom anymore and she’s not one anymore. She’s like, Quit worrying so much and then you won’t need those damn pills, but since she doesn’t ever get so afraid she can’t leave her room, it’s hard to take her serious. There are a lot of things I’m scared of, and I know it makes me hard to get along with at times. Some of the big ones are: needles. Swimming pool filters. Waking up in the night and seeing someone standing in the room watching me. Being buried alive. Pictures of Jim Jones where he’s wearing those creepy glasses. Cancer. Airplanes. Strangers. Hurricanes. Driving in bad weather, especially at night.
‘So anyways,’ she’s saying, and I realise I haven’t been listening. ‘Galileo dumped his daughters in a convent. You used to be able to do that when they were teenagers, but I mean they were real young.’
She’s taking the corners too fast. I think she’s talking about her niece’s school play. I remember she was going to see it the other night.
‘That is young,’ I say.
Deenie’s eyes slide towards me. ‘You still thinking about this fucking road.’
‘I can’t believe they still didn’t salt it.’
‘Jesus,’ she says. ‘You forget to take your pill today, or what?’ but I feel her slow down infinitesimally. We pass the turn-off for the RV park at Sugar Hollow.
‘What’d you do today, anyway?’ she asks.
‘My shift finished at eight. I came home and went for a walk.’
‘A hike?’
‘Yeah. I started at Carver’s Gap.’
‘How far did you go?’
‘Like six hours maybe,’ I say. The names don’t mean anything to her.
She whistles. ‘You must have done something real bad in a past life that you feel like you gotta punish your body like that.’
‘It’s not like that.’
‘How’s it like, then?’
‘It doesn’t hurt.’
‘Well, it sure sounds like it.’
Her radio is playing shitty pop but she’s got it turned down low. Neither of us says anything until we reach the intersection of the 19E.
‘You should tell Carson to come tonight,’ she says. She’s gentle but I can decode what she means: I want us to have a good night but I’m scared you’ll freak out and I’ll be too drunk to look after you properly but someone should.
She hands me her cell. I’ve got that greasy feeling in my gut. I don’t want to give the wrong idea about Carson. He’s a good guy. He loves his little girl. I haven’t met her yet, but that’s on me. He says he thinks we’d like each other. Haleigh is six. She lives with her mom most of the time, but Carson puts in a lot with her. He’s always picking her up from school and taking her places. He sometimes apologises, says, Sorry I can’t tonight, I got Haleigh, but he says it in a way that I know is not negotiable, and I like that. His little girl ought to come before me.
Some other things: he has a job driving oil tankers. His knuckles spell out FUCK CARS because he used to be a motorcycle mechanic. He bought me a pair of real hiking boots. When he was fourteen, he got arrested for stealing copper wiring. When he was sixteen, he got caught breaking into the mausoleum and stealing gold fillings from skulls. That’s the sort of thing that’d freak Deenie out, but I can understand it. Hunger makes you forget grace.
My fingers find the pattern of his number. He doesn’t pick up, and I’m spared.
The warm-up band is shitty, and the second warm-up band’s not much better. In fact, two of the same guys play in both, which probably explains why. We crack jokes for a while, but it’s hard to hear over the caterwauling on the stage.
At some point Deenie disappears. When I look around I see her standing by the bar talking to a stranger. He’s wearing a denim jacket lined with fleece and she’s sucking her drink through a straw and standing on one hip and I know what it adds up to and it makes me tired for her, even though I know she likes it. I spot a free booth and slide in across the sticky seats. I weigh the mass of what’s around me. Room edged with bodies, dull whine of overdrive guitars that makes me think of bees. I finish my drink and roll the ice cubes in my mouth.
‘You mind if I sit here?’ I see his figure looming at the edge of my vision.
‘Go ahead,’ I say, but I keep my eyes fixed on the stage, pretending I’m watching the band.
‘You here alone?’ he asks.
I shake my head. ‘My friend’s’—I drag my hand through the air—‘around someplace.’
He smiles. ‘I’m Rudy.’
‘Nice to meet you, Rudy.’
‘Are you into this?’ he asks, jerking his thumb towards the stage.
I shrug. I go to sip my drink and remember it’s all gone. I look around for Deenie.
‘You’re a tough nut, huh?’ Rudy says. ‘Whatsamatter—you don’t like men?’
The band finishes. At last I spot Deenie by the bar. She’s alone again, holding our coats, waving at me to leave.
‘I’m going now,’ I say.
I find Deenie waiting by the door. It’s snowing again, big wet flakes the size of a dime that slide down the back of my neck while I zip my jacket.
‘Who was that?’
‘His name was Rudy.’ I don’t look at her because I know she’ll be wearing that face of you’re-so-weird. I’m shivering.
‘You want to go someplace else?’ she says. ‘The band’s done. Thank Christ.’
‘See, this is what I don’t understand about going out,’ I say. ‘You never just enjoy the one place. You end up running around chasing shit all night, only there’s never anything worth chasing.’
‘I thought they were gonna be good,’ she shrugs.
I like how Deenie doesn’t apologise for shit that’s not her fault.
She unwraps us each a stick of gum. She starts saying the names of bars until I’m like, You choose. We link arms and walk that way until we have to break apart to avoid some ice on the pavement.
‘What about your guy,’ I say.
‘What guy?’
‘The cowboy in the fleece jacket.’
‘I gave him my cell. He can call if he wants to.’
‘He’ll call.’
‘Maybe,’ she says.
We’re standing in front of the bar. The windows are so fogged I can’t see anything inside but blurry shadows crossing lights. Deenie pushes open the door and stands aside.
‘Go on,’ she says. ‘First one’s on me.’
When Deenie’s drunk she gets this cloudy look. Hazy eyes. We stand side by side in the restrooms and I watch her redo her makeup. Powder to make her skin light up, silver dust under her eyes, slicks of black on the lids. When she fucks up one eye she says, Oh shit, can you pass me some TP real quick? If Deenie’s the waitress who makes you look twice, I’m the one you don’t notice. It’s funny, ’cause I’m a head taller than her. And w
e have similar hair—dark, and lots of it. But I’m straight-hipped where she’s round, plain where she’s long lashes and dimples, papery-skinned where she’s golden. I don’t mind that. I like to be not noticed. My legs have mountain muscle.
The bathroom door swings wide and we trip out, clutching at each other. Deenie stumbles into the cigarette machine. On the front is a perspex panel with a poster in it, lit from behind. It has a picture of two cowboys, and underneath it says Come to Marlboro Country. Deenie poses like one of the cowboys, tipping an invisible hat. She laughs. ‘I’m so fucked up,’ she says.
‘Let’s go.’
‘Hold up.’ She pulls me towards the bar. ‘I think I saw Mike coming out of the men’s before.’
Mike is a tattooist and also a hospital janitor, only he never seems to do either job. Whenever I see him, day or night, he’s shooting pool or about to head off fishing or driving his buddy Shaun someplace. He comes into the restaurant a lot, all hours, but he’s never on his way to or from work. I can’t figure out him and Deenie. They’re flirty, but in an easy way that makes me wonder if they didn’t fuck a long time ago and never since.
Sure enough, he’s standing by the dartboard watching a friend play. When he sees Deenie, though, he peels away from the game and the three of us sit at the bar. Deenie buys us shots.
‘Where’re you all going after this?’ he asks.
‘Home,’ I say, and Deenie rolls her eyes.
‘We got no plans,’ she says. ‘Hey, Mikey, what time do they close up at that tattoo place of yours tonight?’
‘Eleven. How come?’
‘I want one. She lifts her hair, touches the back of her neck. ‘Here.’
‘Not tonight, D.’
‘C’mon,’ she says. ‘This is my first Saturday night off in a month, and the whole thing’s been a bust. I need something to make it worthwhile.’
‘You know what you want?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I won’t do it if you’re drunk.’
‘I’m not.’
Mike doesn’t believe her. We’re all laughing.
‘Ask her,’ Deenie says, nodding towards me. ‘I been talking about it a long time.’
‘She has,’ I confirm. I don’t say that I think it’s a dumb idea. What she wants is her little boy’s date of birth in Roman numerals. I tried to tell her that people will ask what the numbers mean, and she’s gonna have to talk about it, but she didn’t see the problem. If my baby died, I would hate to have the conversation-starter on my skin, but what do I know.
Mike looks from my face to Deenie’s.
‘All right,’ he says. ‘But once it’s inked, it’s there forever.’
‘I know that, dumbass, I already got three.’
Mike raises his eyebrows. I guess they haven’t fucked yet.
‘Let’s go,’ Deenie says. Mike stands up so fast his head brushes the fringe on the light hanging over the bar, and we all laugh fresh.
The tattoo parlour is closed. Mike makes a big show of sneaking in, shushing us. It’s cold inside. He hits a switch and the whole place goes lightning-strike white. We quieten down. I hoist myself up onto a bench and sit with my knees tucked to my chest to keep warm.
Deenie fixes her hair in a bun, the way she wears it at work. Mike sits behind her, one leg either side of her chair. I can see a strip of dirty grey-white cotton where his jeans are sliding off his ass. He asks Deenie if she’s comfortable. He shaves the back of her neck with a disposable razor the colour of a tangerine, then wipes it down with rubbing alcohol. I feel like I’m watching a minor medical procedure. I saw a kid get a spinal tap on a TV show once. From where I sit, Deenie could be having her blood drawn to discover some rare illness, some evil division of cells. I’m so deep in the fantasy that, for a second, I forget what’s going on and where we really are. The tattoo gun hums and sighs. I keep expecting her to cry out, maybe reach for my hand, but her expression is dreamy and determined. I have a sudden flash of thought: that’s how her face would have looked when she was giving birth. It feels like I’m watching something private, but I can’t look away.
When he’s all done, Mike holds up a mirror so Deenie can see it.
‘You did a real good job.’ Her voice sounds like she hasn’t used it in weeks. ‘Thanks, Mike.’
He fixes a bandage over the numbers. Deenie swings her legs around so she’s facing us both. She presses her hands together and wedges them between her thighs. She shivers.
‘Oh. I just got cold all of a sudden. And I feel one hundred per cent sober again.’ She smiles.
Mike finds three beers in the back and we drink them fast, Deenie still on the chair that reminds me of the dentist. She and Mike swap stories, though it’s mostly Mike talking. I try to laugh at the right moments but I’m still so on edge. We drink another beer. My mouth has that gluey stop-start taste.
‘What do you want to do now?’ Deenie asks at last.
Mike’s knee is jiggling up and down. He scratches his ear. ‘I’ve gonna go pick up some chalk for a friend,’ he says. ‘You wanna come? See if they got anything you want?’
‘I don’t do that shit,’ Deenie says.
‘I don’t, either. They got other stuff, too. C’mon.’
Deenie looks at me with a challenge in her eyes. I don’t say anything. And that’s how we’re in the back of Mike’s car, flying down the highway again, a plastic bottle of Southern between my knees. The radio is staticky. I want to keep track of where we are. I put my forehead to the window. Streaming night. Gas station, church, high school, fields, pool hall, liquor store, billboard that reads TROUBLED? TRY PRAYER. I haven’t been to church in a long time. In Gainesville I caught the bus every week. But Sunday mass here makes me feel like I’m being smothered. People notice if you skip a week. People notice if you don’t want to hang around for chit-chat afterwards. It depletes me, that stuff. I think, if God exists, He would understand that.
I also think he probably doesn’t care so much about the number of Hail Marys you say, or whether you are neglectful of your prayers. Those rituals are mostly for us, anyway. I think He’s probably more concerned with how nice of a person you are. I think God’s smart enough to work it out without us sucking up to him, but not everyone feels that way. For example: right after I moved here, I went to confession and told the priest about falling asleep during mass. Then I explained I fell asleep because I’d been working a lot of nights. Then I felt I should explain what I was doing. I was working at Gussy’s. You know that place, Father? You know what kind of place that is? He did. I said I was sorry for it and all of my sins, and he gave me my penance, but I felt something in him shift. I don’t think I imagined it. I am the sort of person who is comfortable examining her sins, and I don’t mind telling the right person about them. But this priest was not the right person.
Mike pulls into a motel. It’s a two-storey place with concrete stairs and ugly wrought-iron banisters, so old that the lit-up sign still says COLOR TELEVISION. Mike jumps out of the car to tap at number 11. The door swings open and a little weedy guy stands there, middle-aged, and kind of shrunk. He blinks, because Mike’s left his headlights on and he’s standing full in their glare. The two of them talk a while. The weedy guy looks like he would have been bullied in high school and probably all his life, but I can see Mike is asking him for something and he’s not backing down. He lights a cigarette, squinting at Deenie and me through the windscreen. Mike gestures for us to come over. Deenie twists around in her seat to look at me.
‘Do you have a bad feeling?’ she asks.
I shrug.
‘You always have a bad feeling,’ she says, more or less to herself, and I hear the click of her seatbelt.
The guy ushers the three of us inside. It stinks like a teenage boy’s bedroom. On the wall is a mural of Adam and Eve. It’s a weird picture—they’re fat child-humans, but not in a cherubic way. There’s something grotesque about them. They stand in a rainforest of blues and greens, trees with figgy-
looking leaves. A cartoon serpent is coiled behind them. He looks sad, as if he’s sorry for what he’s about to do.
Mike’s staring at me like he’s waiting for a response, but I don’t know what the question was.
‘Whatever. At this point, a dime,’ Deenie says.
The guy adjusts his balls. ‘Angel will have something,’ he says. He knocks on the door adjoining the next room with his cigarette between his knuckles, smoked right down to the filter, and a woman opens it. Her big red tits and puddingy arms spill from her tank top. I look past her and see that there’s a mural on her wall, too, only it seems to be Moses among the cattails. She sees me looking. She smiles.
She and Deenie sit side by side on the bed like they’re old friends, and I hang in the doorway between the two rooms.
‘You want some too, honey?’ Angel asks me, her medicine bag open on her thighs like a giant slack mouth.
I pull my sleeves down over my hands. ‘You got any dexy?’
‘I just might, you know,’ she says. ‘I just might.’
There’s a scuff le next door, and when I turn Mike and the weedy guy are tussling. Neither of them is any good at it, and it’s almost funny to see them slapping and pulling at each other.
‘The fuck are they doing in there?’ Deenie asks, craning her head to see what I can. Mike’s a head taller, but the little guy’s full of sudden rage. He’s grunting like a pig. Mike pushes him against the mirror, and then into the plastic venetian blinds. They make a rippling sound.
‘Would you quit it,’ Deenie yells. There’s a series of muffled thumps and some more snorting, and then an explosion. It’s so loud the world goes white and silent. I realise I’m lying flat on the carpet on my belly, nose pressed to the ashy carpet, and for a moment I can’t move. Mike’s screaming, Fuck! Fuck! in a strange, high-pitched voice. Then Deenie’s boots are moving past my face. She’s stepping over me where I lie in the doorway, swearing, and I scramble to my feet. My blood’s going too fast, as if it’s going to split out of my limbs. The weedy guy is rolling around on the carpet like a beetle that can’t right itself. Deenie’s kneeling over him, pressing something to his thigh, and when she takes it away I see a dark flower on his jeans.
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