Bull Mountain

by Brian Panowich

  “That’s cool. I’m just being friendly. I’ll shut up.”

  Angel felt a twinge of guilt for snapping at the guy. She was all bandaged up, after all, so why wouldn’t he ask? “No. Look, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be rude. I got into a . . . situation recently, and now I’m just trying to get out—way out.”

  “Jeez, sounds rough.”

  “It was.”

  “What brought you to Jacksonville in the first place?”

  She laughed. Here she was, beaten, bandaged, badly dressed, covered in bruises and track marks, hadn’t showered in more than a week, and answering that question embarrassed her. Angel considered Hattie for the first time. If she wasn’t so foul and down on herself, she might have found him cute in a Peter Pan kind of way. She had to admit, though, it was nice talking to a decent guy. “It’s a dumb reason.”

  “Can’t be that dumb if you’re gonna up and move to another state. Tell me.”

  “I wanted to be a singer.”

  “A singer?”

  “Yeah. I told you it was dumb.”

  “No, it ain’t. That’s cool. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket. What kind of singing?”

  “Rock and roll, I guess. A little country, too.”

  “Like Linda Ronstadt? I love her.”

  “A little,” Angel said. She was brightening up some. No one ever wanted to talk to her about her music. Mostly people just rolled their eyes. “I like Ronstadt, but I wanted a harder edge. More like Janis Joplin, you know?”

  “Like her stuff with Big Brother and the Holding Company?”

  “Yeah.” Angel was excited now. Not many people she met knew the music she listened to. The smile she wore made the wounds in her face throb. “But my idea was to make it a little more southern, like picture Janis singing for Lynyrd Skynyrd, or something.”

  “Ah, that’s why you came to Jacksonville and you didn’t head the other way toward California.”

  “Yeah, I thought I’d get inspired if I lived in the same town those guys were from. I thought some of what they had might rub off on me.”

  Hattie unstrapped his rucksack and offered his peanuts again. This time she accepted. She popped an entire handful in her mouth but immediately regretted it. It hurt to chew.

  “Still could, you know.”

  “Still could what?” she said carefully from the side of her full mouth.

  “Still could make it big. You got plenty of time to get back out there.”

  Angel finished chewing before she responded to that. “No,” she said. “No, I can’t.” She was suddenly cold, and hugged herself close around her midriff. She stared back out the window. “Things have . . . changed.” She closed her eyes and thought about another one of her stupid decisions. In the three months she’d worked johns for Pepé, she’d at least made them wear a rubber. That, or she was slick enough to get one of those stupid sponges in place first. That bastard—Gareth, Pepé had called him—he refused. She was too scared to argue. No, she wasn’t scared. She was into him, so she gave in to him. She was just stupid, and that was nothing new.

  “You okay?” Hattie said.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  “Well, I sure don’t see why you can’t make another run at the whole singing thing, Angel. I mean, you sure are pretty enough.”

  Instantly Angel was hyper-aware of how much of her body was uncovered. She tried not to show it, but shrank up a little in her seat out of instinct. “Thank you,” she said, polite but frigid. He’d gotten her talking. It was her fault. Here it comes.

  “I mean, a girl with your kinda looks, and your figure, could go all the way, for sure.” Hattie lightly rubbed a finger down the smoothness of her thigh. Angel continued to shrink. “You don’t even know if I can sing,” she said. She wanted to scream.

  “I’ll just bet you sing like an angel. I bet that’s how you got your name.”

  Angel stared out at the whirl of buzzing trees and highway markers. “That’s not my name,” she said. “That’s just what someone else decided I should be called. My real name’s Marion.”

  “That’s a pretty name, too, Marion. A pretty name for a pretty girl.” Another pudgy finger down her thigh. He shifted his weight to press closer to her. She thought she might puke. Two months ago she would have screamed in his face and punched him square in the nuts, but now all she could see was the face of that man at the hotel, Gareth Burroughs. He’d almost killed her. He would always be right there to remind her how little she mattered. How helpless she really was. She hugged her belly tighter.

  Hattie kept talking, kept groping, but she stopped responding. He said something about getting a drink. Finding a quiet place to “talk” when the bus stopped in Destin. He said he knew just the place. She bet he did. She closed her eyes again and hugged herself tighter, trying to disappear into the cocoon of her thin, damaged arms—to squeeze herself out of existence. She had to believe this time around things would be different. If she could just get back home, things had to be different. They just had to. It wasn’t just about her anymore. Things were going to be better for her in Mobile.

  Better for her and the baby.

  3.

  Marion stood in front of the Grand Central diner on Dauphin Street, holding a pay phone to her ear and a menthol 100 to her lips. It rang twice.

  “Hello.”

  “Mama?”

  “Marion? Is that you?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “Oh my God, baby, where are you?”

  “I’m home, Mama.”

  “Oh, thank the Lord. Tell me where you are, and I’ll send Roy to pick you up.”

  Marion switched the phone to the other ear as if the first one were defective and she had heard her mother wrong. “You’ll send Roy? Mama . . . ? Is he still . . . ?”

  “Is he still what, honey?”

  “Mama, Roy’s the reason—”

  “Marion, honey, please don’t start that up. You’re home, baby. That’s all that matters. We’ll work it all out. Where are you?”

  Silence.

  “Marion, baby? Are you still there?”

  “I . . . I got to go, Mama.”

  “Marion, wait. Your father’s changed. He’s a good man. It was all a misunderstanding.”

  “He’s not my father.”

  “Marion, baby, please. Tell me where you are and we can all sit down and work it out. You’ll see. He’s a wonderful man, and he misses you very much.”

  “Mama . . .”

  “Hold on, baby, he wants to talk to you . . .”

  “Mama!”

  “Hold on . . .”

  “That you, pretty bird? You come to your senses? You wanna come on home now?”

  Click.

  Marion tossed her cigarette butt to the ground and immediately dug in her purse for the pack to light another. She savagely flicked her Bic until the flame held, and she pulled in as much smoke as her lungs could handle. She dropped another coin in the slot and punched another number. It rang three times.

  “Hello?”

  “Barbara?”

  “Holy shit. Marion?”

  “Yeah, girl, it’s me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m home. I’m over by Grand Central. Can you come and get me?”

  “Hell, yeah, I can. Just let me get the keys from Tim, and I’ll be right there.”

  “Thanks, Barb. And Barb?”

  “Yeah, girl?”

  “I need some clothes, too.”

  “Um, okay. I got you. Anything I need to know, Marion? I mean, Tim is cool and all, but is there anything I need to tell him first?”

  She looked down and rubbed her flat belly. “Goddamn, Barb. I just need some clothes and a shower, can you help me or not?”

  “Of course I can. I’ll be there in twen
ty, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Click.

  4.

  Marion caught her reflection in the glass pane of the diner’s door, right above the HELP WANTED sign. A week’s worth of healing and Barbara’s magic makeup skills weren’t enough to cover up the ugly done to her in Jacksonville, but it was going to have to do. If Marion didn’t show back up at Barb and Tim’s place today with a job, she wouldn’t have anywhere to go back to. She wasn’t going back to Roy’s. She’d take her chances on the street before asking that son of a bitch for anything. The baby cooking in her belly was about ten weeks, by her estimation. That was kicking up the timetable, too. If she started to show before she could find work, nobody would hire her. Nobody wanted a scar-faced ex-whore, much less an unwed pregnant one. She straightened out the sleeves of the borrowed blouse and opened the door. She snatched the red-and-white HELP WANTED sign off the inside of the door and took a seat on one of the chrome diner stools at the bar, then took a deep breath in through her nose and out through her mouth. She placed the sign flat in her lap and resisted the urge to light up another smoke.

  A nice little Indian fellow named Ishmael Punjab ran the Grand Central diner. He was always there. Today was no exception. “Good morning,” he said. “Would you like to see a menu?” Without waiting for an answer, he laid a laminated picture menu in front of her and, almost like sleight of hand, produced a set of silverware rolled in a paper napkin from under the counter. Punjab was short and bald, with a few strands of wiry black hair slicked down to his tan scalp.

  “Just coffee,” she said, “and maybe a job.” Marion placed the HELP WANTED sign on top of the menu and slid it toward the little Indian man. He looked at it, then at her. He clearly had trouble keeping eye contact without focusing on the damage done to her face, but did his best.

  “Do you have any server experience?” he asked, and put the silverware roll back where it came from.

  “I waited tables at the Red Minnow in Gulf Shores every summer during high school and almost two years after. Mrs. Gentry said she’d give me a great recommendation if you want to call.”

  “That’s good. That’s good. My place is a little faster-paced than the Red Minnow. Do you know anything about short-order diners?” He took the menu up but didn’t move to get the coffee she’d asked for.

  “No, sir, I don’t. But I’m a fast learner. I work hard and I’m extremely reliable. I can work any hours you need and any days. Even weekends.”

  Punjab held a finger to the corner of his mouth and stared at her intensely. “Can I ask you why you didn’t just get your old job back from Mrs. Gentry?”

  The truth was she had tried, but the Red Minnow was more upscale, and the Gentrys hired only pretty girls to parade around out front. Marion wasn’t pretty anymore. She’d never be pretty again. “Their staff is full-up right now, and the truth is, I don’t think I’d be a good fit there anymore.”

  Punjab struggled with the next part of the conversation, so Marion picked up the volley. “I know I look rough, but I promise you it will get better. I’ll never be as pretty as I used to be, but I won’t always be this hideous. The problem is, the bills don’t want to wait for me to get better. They want to be paid right now, and I’m a heartbeat away from being out of options.”

  “Young lady,” Punjab said, his face softened, “I don’t find you hideous.” He held her eyes that time. She could have cried right there.

  “Thank you, sir. You’re sweet to say that, but I don’t think most people will share your opinion. I know I’m not a prime candidate for a job here, but if you were to take a chance, I promise you, I’ll do my very best.”

  Punjab smiled. It was a genuine and warm smile. He didn’t look away once. From the same space below the counter he’d retrieved the silverware a few minutes ago, he pulled out a pad of generic employment applications, tore off the top one, and slid it over to Marion. She really could have just started sobbing all over this man’s counter. A break, she thought. Finally a goddamn break.

  “Fill this out, and I’ll take a look. Okay?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Punjab.”

  “I’m not making any promises, dear. I will check your references and decide if you are the best qualified for the position.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “But maybe I’ll just keep this in my office until I have a chance to look over your application.” Punjab picked up the HELP WANTED sign, folded it in half, and tucked it in his apron.

  “Thank you,” Marion said again.

  “You are welcome. Do you need a pen?”

  Marion pulled a pen from the pocket of the slightly-too-small skirt she’d borrowed from Barbara. “No, sir. I got it.”

  “Very well, then.”

  She hadn’t finished writing her full name down on the application before Punjab returned with a mug and a small stainless-steel carafe of steaming chicory root coffee, a Mobile trademark. He filled the mug and left the carafe on the counter. The coffee was thick and hot and smelled like heaven.

  “If you need anything else, feel free to ask. I will be just through that door.” He pointed at the double swinging doors leading to the kitchen. He looked at his watch. “Sarah, my head waitress, will be here any minute, which works out perfectly. She’s really the one that needs the help.”

  “Sounds good, sir.”

  Punjab tapped the counter with both hands and disappeared through the swinging doors.

  Marion was on her third cup of coffee and the back page of her application when she heard Sarah Watson come through the front door.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Sarah said, and her voice soured the air in the room. Marion felt that the day and her luck had just taken a turn. The short, squat redhead flipped up the hinged counter, tucked her purse below the bar, and strolled up to Marion’s stool. Marion knew this girl from high school, from another life. She was a big girl then and an even bigger girl now, with a face covered in freckles, but not the good, sun-peppered kind. Sarah’s freckles made her look like the victim of a big truck speeding through a nasty mud puddle.

  “Hello, Sarah, you look well,” Marion lied.

  “A mile better than you. That’s for sure. How long’s it been? Three years? I suppose the rock star thing didn’t work out too good.” Sarah stared at Marion’s face as if she were watching a car wreck. “Jesus,” she said, her own pudgy face all twisted up. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s okay. I’m just here for a job.”

  “Is that a fact?” Sarah picked up the carafe and poured the remaining coffee down the sink without asking if Marion was finished with it. “Isn’t it funny?” she said.

  “What, Sarah? What’s funny?”

  “How life is, you know? How all through high school you and all your perfect little friends never even saw me in the halls, never even gave me a second thought, and now here you are, needing something from me. I just think that’s funny, is all.”

  “Yeah, it’s hilarious.”

  Sarah snatched up the application from the counter. After a minute of cycling through a gamut of disgusted expressions, she tossed it back on the bar. “You’re kidding, right? I mean, you know there’s no way Punjab is going to hire you with your history.”

  “What history?” Marion said softly, involuntarily scanning the empty diner.

  Sarah mocked her and looked around the diner as well, then leaned in with her own low tone. “Everybody knows about you, Marion. The whole Gulf Coast knows what happened with you and your father.”

  “He’s not my father.”

  “Whatever you say, honey,” Sarah said. She crossed her arms and peered straight down her mud-splattered piggy nose.

  “It’s not just what I say. It’s the truth. Nothing happened.” Anger was seeping in around the edges of Marion’s voice.

>   “Not the way I heard it.”

  “I don’t care what you heard.”

  “Not the way everyone else heard it, either. Your old man do that to your face? You guys have a lover’s spat?”

  “Fuck you,” Marion blurted out on instinct. Her words dropped on the counter like a cinder block. Sarah’s sneer twisted into a smile—a freckled pig smile.

  “Listen, Marion, I’m going to do you a favor here, since clearly you are lost and in need of some direction. You know the Time-Out over off I-65?”

  Marion could taste acid building in her mouth. She fought the urge to spit it in Sarah’s face.

  “I can see that you do. That’s good. I hear they’re always looking for girls like you. I bet they even got a late-night slot where that mangled-up face won’t be such a big issue. I mean, let’s be honest. Nobody goes there to look in a girl’s eyes, right? So why don’t you take your scary face, your family business, and your burned-up twat down to where you belong and do what it is you do. This here is a diner. We serve food. We ain’t hiring whores.”

  Marion saw what might happen next in her mind’s eye. She grabs two big handfuls of Sarah’s tight red ringlets, pulls down and bashes her smug grin into the bar. Her nose busts like a ripe tomato, but Marion doesn’t stop. She keeps bashing Sarah’s head down over and over into the black-and-white-tiled counter. Screaming at her, wailing like a banshee about how she was molested and almost raped by her piece-of-shit stepfather, about how she was the fucking victim. She keeps bashing and bashing until the fat girl’s face is nothing but pulp and her lifeless body goes limp. Marion lets it slide to the floor.

  But that’s not what happened.

  She just stood up, wiped the corners of her eyes on a napkin, and left the diner.

  Punjab heard the bell on the door chime as Marion walked out, and came out of the kitchen.

  “Where did she go?” he asked.

  “You weren’t thinking of hiring her, were you?”

  “Yes. I was thinking about it. She seemed nice. A little sad, but nice.”

  “Well, then, Mr. Punjab, I think I deserve a raise, because I just did you a huge favor.” Sarah handed the application to her boss and crossed her arms. “Read it,” she insisted. Punjab put on his glasses and read the form.