Hank & Chloe

by Jo-Ann Mapson

  “[ want to know where the fuck my dog is!”

  “No need to get excited. Take my arm.”

  Chloe slapped her away. “Look, he broke my door down and hit my dog! She’s licensed, I was sleeping, this is my house. What the hell is going on here? Am I under arrest or what?”

  “Your house!” the boy scoffed. “Squatter’s cabin tapped into the county water line, no sanitation services, you name it.”

  “Calm down, Elliot.”

  “It’s true!”

  “We’re not here for that.”

  “This time.”

  The woman officer sat back on her heels. “There’s been a drug bust. I’m afraid Hughville is being shut down. We’re taking everyone in for questioning. You included. You might want to keep your mouth shut for the time being.”

  “But I didn’t do anything!”

  She read Chloe her rights from the Miranda card. The officers went through her things, upending the gallon jars of dog food and grain onto the floor. Down went the chicken bones into the goulash they created.

  “Could you please pick the bones up? An animal could choke on those things. Please?”

  They ignored her. It was no longer her house, her things, at all.

  They opened her clothes box, and the dark-haired one lifted a pair of her purple underpants up by a finger for the others to see. “Well, well,” he said, as if it were a misdemeanor to own colored undergarments. Chloe shook with rage. When he kicked in the latch of her trunk, she screamed.

  “Let that alone! God damn you sons of bitches, get out of my house!”

  “Something in here to hide?”

  The men gathered around the trunk and riffled through the contents. “Just a bunch of ribbons,” the one who’d pushed her said. “Trophies and ribbons and a bunch of old pictures of some old geezer riding horses. Letters and pictures. Nothing important.”

  They fluttered from his hands into the growing pile of refuse. Nothing important. Fats Valentine’s legacy was in that trunk. Every last memento of their time together now lay in a heap underfoot.

  “You want to get her into the wagon with the others?” the dark-haired one said, “or are we going to take all night?”

  “Aren’t you going to let her get dressed?” the woman asked. “Get a robe, at least?”

  He lit a cigarette and flung the match out the hole where the door had been into the darkness. “For Christ’s sake, Jeanette, she probably doesn’t own a robe. Just get her into the truck. Quit with giving me the lip, comprende?”

  Chloe clutched at the sleeping bag as they pulled her to her feet. “My ankle,” she said softly. “I think it’s broken.”

  The boy who’d hit Hannah circled it with his palm and squeezed. Chloe saw a palette of white lights and felt bile rise in her throat.

  “Looks all right to me.”

  She felt his hands slide down her backside, brush needlessly against her breasts.

  CHAPTER

  13

  Kathryn Price’s fuchsia-and-black aerobics top and tights clung to her body like a wet suit. One of her legs draped over the chair in front of her. Her thigh was tensed like a joint of particularly high-grade meat. A shameless New Age seal, Hank thought, catching himself looking. With a practiced impassivity, he managed not to respond to his students’ designed-to-provoke attire. They wore miniskirts and cropped shirts the approximate size of postage stamps; bralessness was de rigueur, all that power-of-my-sex posturing at the junior college level. When he heard of on-campus assaults, read the sad details in the school newspaper, made the obligatory announcements to classes about not walking alone to parking lots, he wanted nothing more than to herd the girls together and cover them so completely no one would go after that hopeful flesh and damage them. But it was a touchy subject; one wrong word and you were subject to feminist diatribe, turned into a blubbering chauvinist defending your own well-meaning words. He shook his head, passed the paper on Medusa back to Kathryn. He’d given her a B+. It would have been an A paper except for her indulgent lapse into free verse at the very end. This is a conclusion? he had pencilled in the margin. “I liked what you said about the snakes,” he told her. “Very original thinking.”

  She grinned at him. “Mr. Oliver?”

  “Yes?”

  She pointed to his midsection. “Did you know your shirt’s unbuttoned right there in the middle, three whole buttons?”

  He blushed like a fool and felt the heat spread down his neck. “So it is. Thank you for pointing that out.”

  She laughed. Gentle Cora had overdone her paper, as usual. Painfully typed on an old manual, and footnotes! Good lord, they were accurate, and done according to the MLA style sheet, but it was work beyond junior college expectations, and he waffled between telling her to move on to university and worrying about his own dwindling enrollment. William Strauss hadn’t turned in a paper, and neither he nor Carlos was present today. Wherever Will was, Hank hoped he wasn’t out biting the heads off bunnies or piercing yet another hole in his beleaguered ear. Odds were the paper would surface in his mailbox with an inventive excuse, pleading for mercy. Whatever his classroom persona, William cared about his grades—pulled solid A’s. Hank worried more about Carlos. The boy had hinted about money difficulties, so maybe he’d gotten a job. Larry Kolanoski’s paper—where’re the nitroglycerin tablets—had come in on time and had obviously been typed by someone else, for it was without typos, but wading through Larry’s whoa, dude, semantics was as pleasing as it had been pulling his Honda from the Hughville muck that first visit. His students—he looked at them in their Formica chairs, chatting carelessly among themselves, eating potato chips, and swigging down soda as if it might empower their blood for the battles of adulthood. At their age he had been alienated from such ease.

  He studied his books and took long walks by himself in the foothills in back of his parents’ house, his pale skin frying in the California summer, only lizards and occasional quail for company. Summer evenings, he’d climb the trees up behind the Greek Theater and listen to the live music wavering through the night air, never dreaming he could simply have invited a girl, purchased tickets, belonged to the crowd. He was a loner. In his parents’ house—where they ate dinner on TV trays in front of the Magnavox watching Huntley and Brinkley—there had been a certain amount of comfort and trustworthiness that the newsmen would be there night after night. Now? Now he wanted to take Chloe everywhere he went, see the sameness of his world made new through her eyes—as corny as that sounded—grow used to her laughter, watch her at work, delivering plates or training horses, whatever she would allow him. He dreaded weekends, when she wouldn’t see him at all, and became anxious for the workweek to begin, when she would see him. Hold on, there, Hank. It will keep. Wasn’t it just his luck?

  The coward’s way out—he showed them a videotape of Joseph Campbell being interviewed by Moyers on public television instead of lecturing. He tried not to do that too often, didn’t want to earn the reputation of being a slacker whose classes were easy to sleep through, though Larry Kolanoski could undoubtedly sleep through jackhammering. It didn’t appear to be drugs. The boy just looked tired and underfed. Probably spent his lunch money on surfboard wax. He had the same dark circles under his eyes that Chloe did, the morning he’d seen her outside his office when Phil’s mare died, as if all-nighters were a regular part of his itinerary. Hank had the Intro class after this one, where he just needed to pass back a few more papers, and then he thought he might stop off and see the colt, try to detect if Phil was making any headway with his motherless child. It wasn’t as if he had anything else to do this Friday; Chloe’d been firm again, and he knew it would do no good to argue with her. Well, Joe Campbell, Mr. Follow Your Bliss, what do you do when your bliss says sorry?

  He folded his arms across the desktop and wished he were back in the ramshackle cabin in her foldout bed and more specifically, deep inside her. Their lovemaking made life seem worthwhile. Had he been a polite fool all these year
s, fretting over women’s pleasure before his own? With Chloe, things unfolded rather simply, astonishingly. Up there on the screen Joseph smiled broadly and related the Irish tale of the prince of the Lonesome Isle, going after bottles of holy water to heal his ailing queen of Erin. Campbell’s grin grew lusty as he moved past the shaggy pony driving the Prince unharmed through the forest of poison trees. He nearly cackled describing the twelve beautiful maidens. But it was a holy business that drew the man to his chair’s edge as he described the queen of Tubber Tintye, reclining on her golden couch, surrounded by the well of fire and the prince’s determined leap. Upon my word, I’ll rest here awhile. “The prototype of grace,” Campbell said. “Mother, sister, mistress or bride, the answer to every hero’s quest…” and he held his hand palm up, as if the mystery was thoroughly beyond his understanding as a mortal man. Campbell had died less than two months later, heart failure. At the moment of departure, did how really matter?

  Asa Carver opened the classroom door, and the entire class looked up into the sudden burst of sunlight. He waved Hank over.

  Hank met him at the door. “Keep on with the video,” he told the class. “I’ll be right back.”

  They stood outside in the covered breezeway. Wind tossed eucalyptus branches overhead, and seed pods smacked the cement with regularity. The air was cool. “What is it, Asa?”

  “I saw your girlfriend.”

  “What girlfriend?”

  “Don’t be coy. The Valkyrie.”

  “Here on campus? Is she with Phil?”

  “No, on the news, Henry. Channel seven.”

  “You yanked me out of class, Asa.”

  “I’m serious. I went to Fedco on my lunch hour and looked at wide screens, but I didn’t buy one, dammit. Lost my cojones when I thought of Bethany’s reaction. Anyway, she’s been arrested. The whole town up there got raided. In the words of the authoritative Christine Lund, ‘alleged drug bust.’”

  Adrenaline shot through his limbs. “Chloe doesn’t use drugs.”

  Asa shrugged. “What can I tell you, buddy? I was there when she changed clothes, too. I’m a washout when it comes to anniversaries, but I never forget a breast.”

  “She was naked?”

  “It was a scene right out of Bosch, the police unloading them in the county transfer in the dead of night. They threw some kind of sheet over her, but not before America’s viewers got a peek. Guess they went in when everyone was asleep. Hey, where were you, anyway? Thought you two were an item now.”

  Hank started to walk toward the parking lot, but Asa stopped him.

  “You’re teaching a class, remember? You’d better finish it or cancel. Otherwise they’ll have your ass.”

  “You’re right.” He went back to the classroom door, placed his hand on the knob, and felt the cool steel beneath it.

  He let them out forty minutes early. Shoved a big fat discussion topic like the hero’s quest down their throats and then cut them loose until Monday, when they would have forgotten everything except which parties they’d attended over the weekend. Didn’t bother to assign reading or to remind them of the next paper due. He gathered his briefcase and went to the department office to request a cancel notice for the rest of the day.

  Judi, a senior secretary covering three departments, was a pal of Karleen’s and eyed him warily. “Oliver. I know you. I’ve worked here twelve years, but I don’t remember ever writing one of these for you. What is it? A family emergency?”

  A pipeline straight to Karleen, whatever he said. “Emergency root canal,” he told her, tapping his cheek.

  She gave him a sympathetic smile. “God, those things hurt like original sin, don’t they?”

  In his office, he took the battered Yellow Pages down from the shelf and found listings for the sheriff’s department and the county facility. Hughville was on unincorporated land, where jurisdiction got a little fuzzy. He started dialing.

  Yes, she was in the jail. Yes, he could post bail. Four hundred dollars. Four hundred dollars? The charge was assault. Assault? Assault with what? I don’t really know, sir. Come on, a weapon or what? I think she struck an officer. Hit a cop? Well, different terminology for the same sort of offense. Yes, they’d take a personal check for the amount if he had proper ID. What was this about her being on TV with no clothes—We have no information in that regard, sir, but it couldn’t hurt to bring her a few things. Couldn’t hurt. Was she hurt? Had she been injured? Not that I’m aware of, sir. Not that you’re aware of? Christ! Does that mean she might be? I really have no information in that regard, sir. No, he couldn’t go out to Hughville to get her things; the compound was taped off, and all the cabins’ contents were being impounded for evidence. What the hell kind of evidence is dog food and some mended bridles, I’d like to know? Sir, if you’re going to use that tone of voice perhaps we’d better terminate this conversation. No, wait, please. We’re very busy here. Sorry, I’m truly sorry. It’s just that I’ve never done this kind of thing before. Well, sooner or later we all get some experience, don’t we? I suppose so. There are others waiting. And release takes awhile. You want to come on down? But why arrest Chloe? Sir, I just don’t have an answer for you. Can you at least give me directions?…

  There was a J.C. Penney’s that had seen better days just off the main boulevard near the college. Hank rushed in, found the women’s department and stood there surrounded by so many types of clothing in sizes both complex and discouraging that he felt panic rising like floodwaters. He fingered a few blouses to hide his uneasiness and went back to men’s, found a lemon-yellow assortment of sweatshirts and pants, and chose one of each, size small, $12.99 each piece, a bargain. Underwear? How was he supposed to know what size she wore? Momentarily he was overcome by the memory of the span of her hips in his hands, the arc of her legs, the muscled flesh beneath his lips. Maybe they would give her underwear. Yes, jail had to be civilized enough to stock underwear. Jail. My God. Chloe.

  The reception area of the county jail reminded him of the Price Club discount store, where he sometimes went to buy film and laundry soap and usually managed to dump another hundred dollars on unnecessary incidentals—once, a five-pound bag of Jelly Bellys he ended up giving to Karleen—Oh God, Hank, how did you know I just love these you big sweetie come here…. When you wanted a large item, tires, new speakers, a circular saw, you were issued a ticket and had to wait at a counter for someone willing to fetch it. Here people anxious to be waited on were milling around, nobody looking too closely at anyone else: I don’t have to shop here, I’m slumming. Hank studied the glass doors reinforced with wire mesh that presumably led deeper into the bowels of the building, to the cells where prisoners were kept. There were two sets of doors, similar to storm doors up in the snow country—he’d always meant to learn to ski—the walls were painted a harsh yellow-orange; he wished he’d chosen a softer color of sweats. But it was too late, they had been duly examined, turned inside and out by the matron who took them from him. She removed all the labels, returned the price tags and pins and small bits of nylon string to Hank. He’d looked at them stupidly for several minutes before he shoved them into his pocket rather than litter the floor of the lobby. You’d think they’d at least have a trash can, but no, crumpled People magazines and cigarette butts, ratty vinyl furniture.

  A young girl was crying by the window, and Hank wanted to go to her, to ask her what was the matter, but thought better of getting involved. She left with a tough-looking redhead he supposed was her mother, who grabbed the kid’s elbow and wrenched her along toward the exit, stopping only to light a cigarette and flip off the entire building in one succinct gesture of human frustration. He sat finally on a butt-sprung tan couch and studied the detritus the girl had left behind. A half-eaten bag of caramel corn, its wrapping folded down, a National Enquirer with La Liz on the cover, overweight again and bedecked in likewise obese jewelry. Was the violet stone amethyst or was it garnet? There was a child’s toy on the floor, an animal-decal-covered wheel wi
th a pull string that seemed to be stuck halfway out, grimy from constant jerking. The room gave off the rancid stench of fear and bad news. He put his head into his hands and scrubbed at his face, trying to erase the oily gleam his skin took on when he was nervous. He waited, watching the clock tick off minutes, then an hour, people coming and going, sometimes a joyful reunion when they received their loved one in exchange for bail, sometimes leaving empty handed with a guard on one arm and a set frown. Bliss, Joe. Bliss.

  Nearly three hours after he’d arrived, the matron brought her out. This wasn’t his Chloe. This disheveled barefoot limping creature in traffic-light-yellow sweats was somebody else. She wouldn’t look at him. She kept her eyes on the spattered brown linoleum as if looking for something she’d dropped.

  The desk clerk handed Hank a receipt for his check. “Good luck,” she said.

  Out of habit, he whispered, “Thanks.”

  Chloe was standing right where the matron had left her.

  He put his arm around her. She leaned against him to keep her balance. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer. He looked down at the floor she seemed to find so fascinating and saw her right foot splayed out oddly. “Jesus, are you hurt?”

  She nodded.

  “You are.” Those bastards had broken her ankle. Fury fueled him. He scooped her up and carried her to the doors and would have liked nothing better than to kick out one foot like John Wayne, but the doors opened automatically. He waited until they opened and carried her, not very dramatically, to his car.

  In the emergency room, their intern was a young East Indian woman, very patient, overworked, and tired. She called Hank over to show him the X rays. “See the fractures?” she said in English that lilted as if it were studded with pearls. “One, two, three. These two are greenstick, but this one is bigger. When the bone twists as it breaks, a spiral fracture results. They heal slowly, and sometimes surgery is indicated. Six weeks in the cast, then six more in a walking cast. Minimum. Your wife?”