by Liza Nelson
Evidently Cass was doing her bare-chested thing one afternoon a few weeks earlier, enjoying the cool autumn sun, when a fancy sports car—she didn’t notice anything else about it except its silvery peach color which she thought maybe she’d picked out slowing down another time—pulled off onto the shoulder. A short fat guy got out and walked up toward where she was sitting.
“I considered beating it back up the hills toward my car. But then I said to myself, what the hell.”
There was a metal fence between her and the highway running along a narrow trough left from a dried-up canal. The man grinned at her and jumped the fence.
“I just laughed. I figured he wasn’t about to hurt me or try anything with so many people driving by who could see.”
“Cass, I can’t believe you.”
“Yeah, I was so stupid,” she admitted. “It was only when he sat down and put his big sweaty hand around my arm that the lightbulb went on: There I was assuming I could do anything in front of the traffic. So why wouldn’t he assume the same thing?”
He asked her name and she said Rebecca.
‘’It was the first name that popped into my head,” Cass told me, laughing and pulling up one of her socks where it had run into the heel of her shoe. Then she leaned against her locker and started talking more quietly, as if she’d never heard the story before herself.
“He smelled nice, not sweet, but manly. Cigarettes and aftershave, and leather. He asked what I thought I was doing acting so silly, attracting attention to myself. His teeth were yellowish and uneven, but his voice was so easy, deep but not stern like my dad’s. And educated. I bet he was a doctor or a lawyer or a business executive. He was wearing gray pants and shiny black shoes. I remembered reading somewhere that FBI men always wear black shoes so for a moment I thought maybe he was going to arrest me, but his shoes had tassels.
“I was scared. It took a lot not to start to cry, but I didn’t. I asked him where he was heading. ‘Nowhere interesting,’ he said. Then he asked me if I wanted something to drink to cool off and he pulled a flask out of somewhere. He told me his name was Bill, that he was a pharmacist, divorced, and that he had a tattoo of the Statue of Liberty on the small of his back, would I like to see?
“I don’t know what was in the flask, but I was more relaxed by then and thinking I would like to see a tattoo. I decided he was kind of cute close up, more teddy-bearish than fat, and not as old as I thought at first. I told him how I’d found this place and how it made me feel happy to sit above the rushing traffic. The same as I told you. Then I told him he was the first person who noticed I was there. ‘Really,’ he said, stretching out the word. You know, giving it all kinds of intimate meanings.”
Cass kicked a wadded ball of paper down the hall.
“He had the sexiest voice. We were lying back on the grass by then. I was balancing the flask on my midriff so I could feel the cold damp tin on my skin. ‘Well, you got my attention, honey,’ he said and rolled over so one of his legs fell carelessly over mine. Then he began to rub my belly with his thumb. So I closed my eyes.”
When Cass said that part, I said, “Gross!” but she didn’t seem to notice, caught up as she was in the karma of her own story.
“ ‘Easy girl, you’re some tiger,’ I thought I heard him say, and then it was as if the cars were speeding inside my head. Next thing I remember, I’m opening my eyes and he’s gone. My shorts and panties were all the way down by the fence in the canal ditch. Scrambling down there stark naked, I wasn’t sure if I felt exposed or not.
“I stopped going out there after that. Not because I was afraid. But the episode was over if you know what I mean.”
I didn’t know what to say. I was shocked. She was so chill about it all. Maybe, though, Cass was more of an influence on me than I thought.
Twelve
OKAY.
Deep breath.
I am not sure what is going on. Or what I feel about Spider anymore. I am in the bathroom with the door locked, blow-drying my jeans dry enough to wear out of here. Spider is out there in the room, waiting for me, I guess. I’ve been in here for half an hour. I told him I was sick to my stomach, which is not far from the truth.
When he came back to the room he was different. He was cleaned up and shaven, wearing an electric green shirt and new boots to match, and the skinniest pair of tight jeans I have ever seen on a guy. He was different acting, too. He kept watching me out of one eye, not meeting my glance. He was less talky, and when he kissed me, he tasted funny. Of liquor or maybe something else, too, stale and sickly sweet.
I’m probably being paranoid. But it’s all too bizarre, me and the whole situation. I’m trying to rethink the last hour or two, the “objective facts” as Miss Tilden in Civics would say. I’m ashamed but in the spirit of honesty I have to admit I just heard myself sounding like you know who. Godiva always uses that expression, “as so and so would say.” Of course, I am not like her in any real way. Besides, Godiva is not around any more than you are. You will be soon enough, but in the meantime I am on my own. I have to figure out for myself whether I’ve got myself into a mess or not. And if I have, how to get out.
The first thing Spider did was take a bottle of wine out of a bag he brought back with him. He poured some into a paper cup, and I thought he was going to hand it to me. Instead he held the cup to my lips. Another of his romantic gestures, but he caught me off guard. I gagged a little and the wine dribbled out of my mouth, leaving a long stain down the front of my T-shirt.
So he gave me the cup. The taste wasn’t too bad. I felt kind of floaty afterward. I have not had much sleep lately, so it went right to my head. I thought I saw a man, you actually, sitting in a straight-backed chair by the door.
I must have fallen asleep then, because when I woke up a while later I felt better. I was lying on the double bed though I don’t know how I got there. Spider was talking on the phone. His briefcase lay open on the floor half in sight beyond the corner of the bed. As soon as he heard me stir he covered the receiver and whispered that he’d been in touch with certain people to get a copy of my father’s FBI file.
“Not the one they edit, but the whole A to Z,” he said. “All they’ve got on him.”
“I don’t get it. How can a regular person from Meridian, Mississippi—”
“Caledonia, Mississippi.”
“Caledonia, Mississippi then. How can someone like you get that kind of information in the middle of a Sunday night?”
“It’s only a matter of pushing the right buttons. Besides, I am not a regular person.”
I was not totally sure I believed him, or even if I wanted to believe him, but after my nap I was feeling cheery and affectionate toward the world at large and him in particular. I wanted to give him the benefit of any doubt, and it only barely occurred to me to be worried by his claims. Mostly, I was impressed and flattered that he was taking me even half seriously. He made me feel protected and grown up at the same time. I was not used to so much attention from a man.
He leaned over to kiss my cheek, then turned away to hang up the phone. At the same time he kicked the briefcase closed with his boot, and I thought I caught a glint of something, a hard silver shape that gave me the briefest chill. But before I gathered the words to ask what I’d seen, Spider turned back to me with that crazy, irresistible grin.
“Well, darling girl, shall we eat?”
I nodded and said nothing.
The steaks must have arrived while I was asleep. He led me over to the little square table with its white tablecloth and the pink rose in a silver vase. Everything looked so expensive, the heavy utensils, like Gram’s silver but duller, and the heavy water glasses tinted pale blue. There were two plates covered by silver domes.
Spider was lifting one to show me the baked potatoes and the string beans and the steaks themselves. White and green and brown, a nice coordination of colors, I thought idly, watching him cut the steak and spoon sour cream inside the potatoes.
He talked all through the meal. I was concentrating on the food. Rolls shaped like pinwheels came in a basket with chilled butter in a white bowl beside them. The green beans were the skinny slit kind you can’t find fresh, or Godiva doesn’t, and they had slivered almonds on top.
As for the meat, God, it was wonderful. Every piece I speared with my fork squirted bloody juice. I don’t think I’d tasted steak since Godiva and I visited Gram last year. Red meat does not appear on Godiva’s table, ever. And at the Brasletons’, the meat runs more to pot roast and fried chicken.
Meanwhile Spider was explaining that he worked for a man named Que. I wasn’t sure if that was the guy’s real name and I was not hearing the pronunciation right or if it was just the alphabet letter as in a code name. Que worked for another man who was secretly working for one of those people who recently had to quit their big government jobs to protect the President. It took a moment for me to realize Spider was talking about Iran-Contra.
“Godiva would die,” I said, looking at my now-empty plate, the hotel’s initials greasy swirls in the center.
“A few people owe me a few tricks, tu comprendes?”
I didn’t.
“They give me access.” He was clearly proud, or awfully good at making himself sound important. As he was telling me this, he was unbuttoning his shirt.
On the bus last night, when it was so dark and everyone was asleep, we had gone pretty far, but this was different. I knew what was coming. I was afraid but not unwilling. I figured, this would be an initiation rite of sorts. If you were actually here with me I would never tell you this out loud, any more than I’d tell Godiva. But you are in my skin so it’s different. It’s as if you know everything anyway.
He came over to my chair, and I guess I stood up. I don’t think he actually had to pull me up. Then we were on the bed, where, I guess if I’m honest, I’d been expecting us to end up. Dreading and hoping, if you know what I mean. He was reaching around me to turn out the light, only the bathroom light was on so we could still see more than I would have liked. He pushed my T-shirt up and pulled my shorts down below my thighs almost roughly. I felt awkward with the clothes half on and askew, constricted, more exposed than if I’d been fully naked. But it felt good when he ran his hands all over me. When he stretched and lowered the length of his own body toe to toe on top of me, I didn’t know if I should be watching or closing my eyes. His eyes were closed, so I closed mine. I wasn’t sure what I expected. What I felt was neither pain nor ecstasy. More like a hard fire pushing up into my stomach until I thought I was going to break into a million burning splinters.
Then it was over.
“You didn’t tell me you were a virgin,” he said, leaning across me again to switch the lamp back on. I opened my eyes to his stringy arm. I could smell our sweat. A red-brown stain oozed across the gray bed cover between us. Another stain we’d made together.
I hated the raw, lumpy body I’d exposed. I was ashamed for his nakedness, too, the straggly hairs on his chest, the raised veins running in lines along every bony angle, even his dick, shriveled and yellow-looking. How had I ever been attracted to him, or him to me?
“I have to pee,” I said, pulling my shirt down and grabbing back my shorts which were gathered around my left ankle. He was lying on the bed with his ankles crossed primly on the sheets. As I stood, he glanced up and said something I didn’t catch. My eyes were riveted on his arm, scarred with old scratches and bluish marks like cigarette burns.
With a wallop like I’d get from a belly flop off the high dive at Clearview Park, I saw clearly for the first time in days. At home I’d have stayed as far away as possible from anyone like Randall Spider Gervais. A man his age who would talk to a girl my age was weird, some kind of cowboy geek. And that talk about weapons. It was a gun I’d seen, wasn’t it? He was scary. And if he was good-looking, that only made him scarier. Ted Bundy, the one who killed those college girls, he was good-looking, too. I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, remembering Sex Ed class. Herpes, AIDS, not to mention pregnancy. I had given up my virginity with a stranger who was probably a creep. And what is more, I had entrusted the secrets of my life, of our life, to him. Why did I show him your poster? What a fool I am, what a stupid fool.
RANDALL SPIDER Gervais is history. What happened is that I left. I came out of the bathroom in my damp clothes, wishing I didn’t feel so clammy but ready to face the big confrontation with Spider I had steeled myself for, and he was sound asleep. I mean out cold. I’d never seen a naked male sleeping before. Curled up with the shell of his back to me, his head buried under an arm that only partly muffled his snores, he looked innocent and trusting. I decided it probably wasn’t a gun I had seen after all. I began to wonder if I should have more faith in him and what we meant to each other, especially since if I left and if he was on the level, I’d be giving up the FBI file he promised. I hesitated, but then I picked up his shirt that had slid off a chair. The material was cheap and slimy. I had a second case of the creeps. Maybe it was superficial of me, but I like to think it was my survival instinct. I threw the rest of my stuff in my bag and was out of there.
Someday maybe I’ll be able to laugh about the whole experience. “My First Time” and all that. I already have some mixed feelings. I’m not at all clear yet where he was coming from. I almost looked in his wallet. Maybe I should have. It was lying by the chair with his shirt and pants. But I didn’t. Maybe I didn’t want to know.
Actually, Spider did pass on some important information. I don’t know when Godiva got it, but Spider pointed out that the poster is dated 1980. According to him, unless you’ve committed more felonies since the one listed back in 1970, the statute of limitations or something has already run out. 1970. I was born in January of 1971. 1970 was a bigger year for you than you even knew. Two events of historical significance. One changed your life, and one gave me mine, so to speak.
Meanwhile, I hope Cass isn’t freaking out. It has been four days, so she should be back. She’ll be looking for a postcard from me in the next couple of days; I’m supposed to send one every three. Unsigned of course. We rented the post-office box the week before Christmas. Actually, I stayed in the car with my sunglasses on. I could see Mr. Peden in there scratching his head when she handed him the month’s rent. She told him she didn’t want the Christmas presents she’d mail-ordered for her parents to come to the house. I can’t believe he bought it, but he is just dense enough that he might have.
We have our whole plan worked out. Supposedly we went to Gram’s, but Cass really spent the weekend with this new red convertible boyfriend. When she got back last night, she was supposed to call Godiva, though not until it was too late for Godiva to call Gram’s. She was supposed to say I decided to stay a few extra days. Even if Godiva gets suspicious by today, she won’t be able to track me down.
I wasn’t sure if I should get Cass involved, but I needed help, and who else was there? After that incident at The Pink Heron, I had a feeling she’d be willing, but I was surprised how eagerly she jumped in. She came up with the idea of using a visit to Gram. Then when I talked to Gram and found out she was going to Hawaii with Uncle Jack, all the rest of the plans sort of fell into place.
Can you feel my approach? Some change in your blood, the electromagnetic field of your body actions or something, like I read about once in a science fiction book? Even though you don’t know I exist, can you sense my presence homing in? Do we know ahead when something big is about to change our lives? That’s something I wonder about a lot, every time I look at the poster. I try not to take my copy out too often, though. It is getting worn. What I really wonder is whether some part of me knew beforehand I was going to find your picture that day. Was everything pointing me toward that envelope on purpose?
Thirteen
I FOUND MY WAY to Eden almost without thinking about it. The gears in my brain finally clicked into place as soon as I slipped out of Spider’s room. While the glass elevator parachuted down past rows an
d rows of sparkling gold lights, tiny as faraway stars, I stopped thinking and started knowing. Knowing I had to focus on one thing. Finding you. Period. Knowing I will find you, whatever it takes. Knowing, too, that I don’t have much to go on except those books by Jane Alpert and your other underground friends, and that one radio interview with Gerry Flint.
On the bus into Delaware, I decided I should have worked out a way for Cass to accept long-distance charges at certain hours when her parents wouldn’t be around so I could call some of the people on my list to ask if they knew where you are. I should have made those calls before I left. If I strike out in Eden, my next stop will have to be New York City, since that’s where a lot of those people are. New York scares me, but the only way to avoid New York is to have success in Eden
On the way here, I kept reading an article I copied at the Grassly. Four paragraphs and a grainy photograph that could have been a farmhouse. “The communist-inspired communal farm outside Eden, Delaware, has in the past attracted former self-proclaimed revolutionaries on the lam from radical hot spots.”
Burrowed down in my seat, I read that sentence over and over, digging under each phrase for buried information or meaning. I didn’t even notice who sat down next to me, a man or a woman or a kid, for that matter. I was concentrating on my hopes for this place. By the time the bus pulled up at the Texaco station, I’d keyed myself up like a cheerleader before the homecoming game. I was even giving myself little pep rally cheers. “I’ll find you in Eden, I’ll find you in Eden, I’ll find you in Eden. Yes, I will.”
As I guess you know, Eden is not much of a town when you first see it. Five buildings total, not including the abandoned ones with missing parts, here a window, there a roof. Believe me, I counted.
I stood shivering on a thin crust of dirty ice by the gas pump, watching the bus barrel away down the road. The gas station with its side garden of rusted car parts seemed vacant. I didn’t know the pump man was sitting inside reading a detective novel, hunched down below the tire display so no one like me would bother him for change or directions. Next door was S&M Auto Parts. Set back from the road was a windowless cube of yellow cinder block, not unlike Godiva’s studio, with the sign JIMBO’S TAVERN in red and black propped on the roof. Across the road and constructed of the same yellow cinder block stood Mount Zion Church, its front door chained shut. It turns out the real front door is around back, but I didn’t know that then. And finally about twenty yards past the Church was Wyatt’s, more cinder block but with an empty parking lot in front, a TruValue sign and a picture window through which I thought I saw two pairs of eyes watching me approach. You could say I was quaking in my sneakers.