Further Joy

by John Brandon

  She went out to the balcony less and less. Being out there only made her miss Mal worse, and she didn’t like being next to that damned door. There was nothing behind it but fresh sadness and uncertainty; she wasn’t going to find a clue. She didn’t want back in that apartment.

  Instead she would look out at the balcony from her kitchen and see birds perched on the railing. They didn’t want anything to do with the feeder. They would just perch on the rail and look around. Pauline saw more of the big white water birds, strutting aimlessly down below, jabbing around dumbly in the swamps of Central Florida, which they would be allowed to do until they wandered into some redneck’s yard and got shot to pieces for fun.

  During the day she felt trapped in her own mind, a feeling she wasn’t unfamiliar with, but at night she could hear everything, near and far—dogs answering one another across county lines, insistent whippoorwills, the screeching of tires, breezes in leaves and squirrels in branches and frogs in the muck out behind her building. She heard a girl scream, surprised and giddy. She heard fireworks.

  ***

  Pauline tried to turn back to her work, something necessary, a duty, but day after day she couldn’t concentrate. She would work a half-hour and then lose focus. She’d never had trouble working before. It was something she’d depended on. She’d been an A student and then a model employee. Now she found herself way behind on two separate projects, too far behind to hope to meet her deadlines. She wanted to email the company and tell them what had happened, that a friend of hers had gone missing, but she couldn’t bring herself to use Mal as an excuse.

  On the morning the first project was due, Pauline took a walk. She left her corner of town and wandered down a two-lane county road she’d never driven. She walked past empty fields dotted with dying trees, a few muddy stockponds. And then she came into a development of some kind, with plain little ranch houses and dogs behind fences. There was a market and a one-room post office. Pauline said good morning to some polite high school kids who were all wearing ball caps and drinking coffee. She went into the store of a gas station and bought a bottle of water, then stepped back out onto the pavement. The sun was shining persistently though the cloud cover; people were cleaning their windshields. A mother yelled at her son because he didn’t have shoes on. Music was playing over the gas station speakers, a country song about having fun because you’d worked hard all week. People were making inconsequential decisions, choosing regular or high-octane gasoline, choosing coffee or soda, the Gainesville Sun or the St. Augustine Record. None of these people knew a thing about Mal, and there were hundreds of missing girls whom Pauline knew nothing about.

  Before she went to bed that night, dusk still clinging to the sky, she stood inside her front door and unlocked the deadbolt. She leaned against the wood, her cheek pressed flat. On the other side of this two-inch-thick plank were countless unknown threats, all gaining agency. She slid the bolt in and out of its little nook, listening to the sure sound it made when it dropped into its spot. She turned the lever all the way over, leaving the door unlocked, and backed away. This was the door she should’ve unlocked all along, she thought. She went to her bedroom and put on a cotton nightgown, then curled up in her bed and lay there wide awake, sweating under the ceiling fan, listening to the noises outside her window.

  The next night she left the door unlocked again. She took a shower with it unlocked, then lay down on her bed in a towel. Mal would have laughed at this, laughed at Pauline thinking she was daring for leaving her door unlocked. Mal would never need to scare herself in such a small, stupid way. When she opened herself up to danger, it was in the name of chasing joy. Her version of it, anyway.

  Pauline removed her towel, shimmying it out from underneath her back, and tossed it aside. She felt the air from the fan tickling her skin. She had always acted like Mal’s mother, but in truth she’d been envious of the girl. And there was a part of Pauline that was envious even now of the fact that Mal could inspire someone to steal her away, whether against her will or not. Mal had aroused such passion that she was either in a shallow grave or nearly two weeks in on some wild romantic romp. Either way, she’d put a man out of his mind. Either way, a man had irresistibly needed her. Her skinny, pale limbs were flopped haphazardly about her in the ditch she’d been dumped in, or else her limbs were stretched leisurely on the deck of a boat, her body warmer and more alive than ever. She was in the middle of the ocean, cut off from civilization, being adored. Tug would be growing a beard by now. He’d be bringing Mal fruit and running ice cubes down her spine. He would lose his job to stay with her longer. He would lose his family, if he had one. He’d spend his last penny on her, dizzy with desire, wanting her over and over.

  Pauline put on some too-short denim shorts she hadn’t worn in ages and a snug white tank top, and walked outside into the evening. The air was sticky, the mosquitoes lackadaisical. There were no stars in the sky and the night smelled of moss and car exhaust. Beyond the parking lot there was a sidewalk for a time, running alongside the white-lined thoroughfare she lived on, but instead of continuing that way she crossed the street and cut behind a high-fenced middle school, a couple cars in the lot seeming forgotten or broken down, an athletic field patchy with weeds. At the far end of the school she walked past a knoll blanketed with cigarette butts, thousands of them. This end of the grounds was unfenced. The land in front of Pauline was haggard and she could see in the failing light that it lowered by degrees down to a retention pond. Beyond the pond was the territory where normal people didn’t venture, where the rednecks and recluses still lived by their own rules. She stopped there on the humble vista, hugging herself in the heat, a sheen of sweat glistening on her arms and legs. She looked back in the direction of her apartment building and couldn’t make it out. There was a blank spot in the tree line that must’ve been the strip mall. She wasn’t going to be satisfied by walking over to a middle school and walking back home. She didn’t want to view the edge of the grid; she wanted to get off it. She started down the mild decline, not feeling bold but not acknowledging fear either, advancing at a mechanical stroll. She skirted the pond on the side with less overgrowth, cautious with her steps. A mosquito buzzed close in her ear and she flapped at it. She could hear a deep croaking that was either a bullfrog or an alligator. One step at a time and she was clear of the pond. She kept going straight and entered a swath of woods that ran alongside a string of slovenly family compounds. She felt hidden. If someone saw her it would seem like she’d been spying. She would seem guilty of something. Her eyes felt darty in the dark. The woods here were strangely dry, palmettos and pine trees, the earth underneath her practically beach sand. She steered herself between the skinny trunks of the pines. The tense voices she heard came from behind screens, from porches and bedrooms. The houses and outbuildings were all bare cinderblock, and there were lesser sheds locked up with heavy chains, disassembled dirt bikes everywhere, no music at all. Pauline tried to find the sand with her footsteps, testing for fallen branches or dry leaves. She could see quick glints of light above her, so she stopped a moment and concentrated, letting her eyes work. She was under a big hardwood tree, an oak probably, and the boughs were hung with metal objects, revolving lazily with the breeze or with gravity. Hubcaps and saw blades. Squares of cut sheet metal. The unexpected beauty ran a shiver through Pauline. She looked all around her, making sure no one was near. In her mind, Pauline saw the back pages of a newspaper. It would be dated about a month from now, a concise write-up about Pauline and Mal, two more girls gone—neighbors. That detail would make them suspicious. But no: there wouldn’t even be a cursory article. There would be an ad in the classifieds for their apartments. That’s what would mark their vanishing. She kept herself moving, clearing the last shed, and emerged on an unpaved lane, trying to keep track of where she was so she could find her way home. The weeds on the roadside were thick and high, so she had to walk right down the packed, pale limestone. The houses were hidden back off the road, no m
ailboxes or street number markers or signs of welcome. The road was empty of traffic for a few minutes, but then a pack of big pickups came along and rumbled past her one by one, harassing her with their growling engines, slowing almost to a stop as they passed, the men in the cabs astonished at her and the pasty, unkempt women looking alarmed and annoyed. Her legs felt so naked now. She tugged on the bottom of her shorts without much effect. She felt even taller than normal, conscious of the way she was forming her steps. Tiny cars with worn shocks trundled by, whole filthy families inside, the children staring wide-eyed at Pauline like she was an apparition. The moon found a spot low in the sky and Pauline could see the yellowish path in front of her feet, winding ahead, winding ahead. She could hear her inner voice telling her it was time to turn back, that she’d done whatever it was she’d wanted to do, but her body had its own momentum. She could hear what sounded like chickens. The air smelled fishy. She went around a sharp bend and came upon three guys working on a dune buggy by lantern, the buggy upside-down, propped on big black bricks. She quickened her pace, a sane reflex that felt all wrong. It felt wrong to show fear, but that’s what she was full of. The tall one saw her first and tapped the other two on the chest. They were wearing unlaced boots. One had long thin hair and the other two had bristly crew cuts. One held a wrench, another a pack of cigarettes. They weren’t the least bit amused. They were slack-jawed, but with steely eyes. They were wondering, probably, what they were supposed to do about Pauline—something had to be done—wondering what the opportune move was for them in this unforeseen scenario. She kept walking, even faster, trying to keep her arms causal while her legs hurried, passing them by and not looking back, hoping they wouldn’t call out to her, hoping she’d be out of sight before their shock wore off.

  A telemarketer named Justin called. He was calling from Macon, Georgia. He spoke for several minutes about the pitfalls of the stock market, avoiding any mention of what he was selling. His heart wasn’t in it, Pauline could tell. He threw in friendly asides, for example that he liked the name Pauline. He told her that even for young people it was paramount to begin making sound financial plans.

  “How old do you think I am?” Pauline asked.

  “By your voice, I’d say you’re around my age. You’re thirty years old, give or take.” Then he added, “We’re in our primes, you and me.”

  “I’m not in my prime yet. And I don’t have a lot of money, so I wouldn’t be a very good customer for you.”

  Justin laughed. He said he wasn’t laughing at her, that he was watching a movie on his phone. His personal phone. He could do a lot of things at once. The movie was a parody where a guy keeps killing people with poisoned apple turnovers and the cops hire a master baker to catch him.

  “You’re allowed to watch movies while you work?”

  “No,” he said. “The rules are getting kind of lax around here. The company’s about to go under. I’m just riding it out for a little extra cash.” Justin told Pauline he had his own ventures he was working on, his own start-ups. They mostly centered on golf.

  “Can’t you get in trouble for saying that to me?”

  “They’re not listening. I can tell when they tap in, there’s a little click. It’s just you and me on this call.”

  There was a pause then. Pauline didn’t want to get off the phone. She’d never spoken to a telemarketer for this long. She went and sat down on the couch, blowing into her steaming cup of tea. There was a belt and a headband on the other cushion, and a sock, and she collected them up and tossed them into a decorative basket she kept against the wall. Someone had to say something, and Pauline knew what she wanted to say.

  “What do you look like?” she asked Justin.

  “Look like?”

  “Yeah, look like. Describe yourself.”

  “Oh, wow,” said Justin. “Okay.” His voice was quieter. Pauline could picture him sitting up straight in his office chair, checking over his shoulder. “Is this happening? My friend who got me this job said this might happen.”

  “It’s happening,” Pauline assured him.

  “Well, okay, so I have long sideburns, but not too long. No mustache or goatee or anything. And my hair’s kind of wavy but I keep it short. And I have broad shoulders. Like a swimmer’s shoulders.”

  “Uh-huh.” Pauline raised the dripping teabag out of her cup and sucked on it.

  “I have piercing eyes. People have told me that. Man, this isn’t easy. Let’s see. My hands are big, and they’re tan from playing golf. Is that a thing girls like? Tan hands? I wear a sport coat a lot, but I’m not wearing one now. Um…”

  Pauline couldn’t think of anything better, so she asked if he was wearing boxers or briefs. She rested her tea on the floor and stretched out on the couch.

  “Boxer briefs, actually. They’re tight like briefs, but they go down your legs a little.”

  “What color are they?”

  “Just gray. Like sweatshirt gray.” Justin cleared his throat. When he started talking again, it was in a whisper. He told Pauline he did a hundred pushups every morning, that he was kind of obsessive about it, so his chest was pretty good, and his triceps. He said he was six feet tall, or just a shade under. Pauline could feel it all happening inside her. She wasn’t trying to picture Justin; she was just listening to his hushed voice, relishing this wayward mischief. He said when he was a kid he used to hide in the hedge and spy on the neighbor lady getting dressed. He said one time he’d gotten a handjob in the back pew during church.

  Justin asked Pauline to talk for a while, asserting that it was her turn, and she told him she had thick chestnut hair and nerdy glasses. She ran her hands down her legs, bragging on them, telling Justin they were shapely and smooth and supple. She said her toenails were painted red, which wasn’t true.

  Justin said he was going to put his hand under his desk now, but he couldn’t unzip his pants because there were too many people around.

  “When I saw Palatka next to the number, I thought this would be a dud. I drove through there one time. Most calls are duds, but when I saw Palatka I thought either I’ll get hung up on right away or else some old lady will try to talk to me for an hour about her nephew.”

  Pauline said her tummy was flat and her lips were plump. “What all’s on your screen there?” she asked. “Do you have my address?”

  “No, we don’t have that. But you could give it to me. Actually, you don’t need to. I know sort of what you look like and I know you’re about thirty. I could just come down and look around for you.”

  Pauline was thinking of asking him what he would do if he drove down to Florida and found her, but then she heard him curse, sounding defeated.

  “My manager’s telling me he wants to talk to me. He doesn’t look super pleased. He’s doing that thing with his finger like get over here. Maybe they were listening in after all. Maybe I didn’t hear the click.”

  Pauline waited.

  “I really have to go. Shit, he’s coming over here.”

  Justin hung up, and Pauline looked at her phone a moment and then set it down on the floor next to her tea. She gazed up at the ceiling of her apartment, marked up here and there where previous tenants had hung plants or killed insects. She moved her hand to her hip, dug her fingers in and kneaded her flesh, but the excitement was already dissipating. Her heart was slowing back down. Her breath was evening out again.

  She’d been given an extension on her work projects, but could still find no motivation. She got everything out and tried to concentrate, but after twenty minutes she closed her computer and pushed the files aside and drove over to the Mexican restaurant.

  At the restaurant she ate a couple bites of an enchilada and then went to the bar and started on a beer, feeling the first sips trickle down inside her. It was afternoon, still early afternoon, but the place was busy. A guy with buzzed hair and glasses sat on the stool next to Pauline and told the bartender to pick a beer out for him, something seasonal and with some bite. It wasn’t the
lady bartender Pauline had talked to a few times, just a nondescript Mexican kid. The TV that had been hanging in the bar was gone, along with its hanging stand. There was a vacant spot where it had been. When he was ready, the guy with the buzzed hair looked squarely at Pauline and introduced himself as Herbie. He was already sitting where he was sitting and had already ordered something, but he went ahead and asked if the seat was taken. Pauline told him she couldn’t care less where he sat, and he looked at her with amusement. He told her he was writing a feature for a magazine based in Mississippi, and made a surprised face when she hadn’t heard of it. He had a pronounced Southern accent but he didn’t speak slowly. Pauline watched him take down half his beer in one greedy pull.

  “You mind if I talk to you for a spell?” Herbie said. “So I can see if you’d be a good character for me to use.”

  “I wouldn’t be,” Pauline said. “I’m the boring friend.”

  He grinned, then he knocked on the bar like it was a door. “Nobody who calls herself boring is boring. And in my experience boring folks don’t go out drinking alone. That ain’t foolproof, but it’s a general rule.” Herbie held his beer at an angle in front of him, like he was examining the color. “I won’t grill you with questions. We’ll just shoot the breeze and see where it goes.”

  Pauline wondered how she looked. Her hair was pulled straight back and she didn’t have any makeup on except some eye shadow. She was wearing cute shoes, at least. She had no idea why she’d worn cute shoes, but she had. No one had hit on her in the year she’d been in Palatka. She asked Herbie what his story was about, exactly.

  “It’s a series of stories, interrelated I’m hoping. I start them out sounding like corny Southern tales, and then I stick in profiles of real people. Then what I do is imagine meetings between the real people, if that makes sense. Fiction and nonfiction have a lot of gray area now. As does the South.”