by Lisa Lutz
MY DEPARTURE from Castle Ruth didn’t cause much of a stir in the house. Marcus shook my hand and erupted in that noise he makes. It sounded almost like good-bye. I tried to look calm and collected as I gathered my things under Ruth’s watch, but I could feel this all-over shiver, a constant vibration of nerves that I had a hard time believing no one else could see.
“You in some kind of trouble?” Ruth asked.
“No trouble,” I said. “I just found a place to stay, long-term.”
“Don’t fool yourself,” she said. “It’s all temporary.”
I STUCK my one suitcase in my Toyota and drove back to the old lady’s house, parking a few doors down and dragging my suitcase up the twisty driveway. I dropped my bags in the guesthouse, then took Blue in the Cadillac back to the side street near the bar, where she picked up her black VW Jetta. We convened back at the house at noon.
“I need to check in with the old lady. Make sure she’s got enough food and the cats are fed. Make yourself at home,” Blue said as we entered her home.
“Who is she to you?” I asked.
“Family, in a way. She and my aunt Greta were something to each other once, although they never told you what.”
Blue strode over to the big house. I walked through Blue’s modest quarters, looking for signs of habitation. I opened a closet to find old housecoats and dresses from decades past. Probably the old woman’s or Greta’s. I found one drawer loaded with china figurines of ballet dancers, orchestra players, and zoo animals. Another drawer contained two antique dolls, one blond and one brunette. Under the bed was a suitcase filled with clothes. Modern ones. Blue was prepped to run at a moment’s notice. I could learn a few things from her.
I checked the window and saw Blue’s silhouette in the main house. I looked inside the bathroom. At least she had a few luxuries she couldn’t live without. Perched on the ledge of the shower were a fragrant body wash and shampoo and conditioner that looked pricey; at least, the bottles had this foreign design that you never see in a drugstore.
I roamed into the bedroom while I still had time and opened the nightstand, the place where most people hide their secrets. Inside I found a battered old teddy bear and a gun. When Blue came back, I was lying on the couch, pretending that her entrance had woken me. Blue clocked the entire apartment and looked me in the eye.
“You saw the gun, didn’t you?” she said.
“Yes,” I said. No point in denying it.
“I have a husband. Although I regard him as more of an ex-husband,” she said as if that were the common explanation for owning a firearm.
“Is he a violent man?” I asked.
Then I realized the answer was obvious. I’d never noticed it before, but Blue had a slice above her brow, and her left eye drooped slightly, almost like a reflection in a carnival mirror. Nerve damage. I’d seen it once before, at Frank’s bar. I never got her name; she was passing through town with a man. She had that haunted look you see in some women. In Blue it was different, though; whatever happened to her didn’t exactly seem to have stolen anything from her, except maybe a conscience. She was like a person turned upside down.
“He’s no more violent than I am,” Blue said. “Then again, it wasn’t always that way.”
“Who are you?” I asked. It was a reasonable question. I’d already told her everything about myself, but all I knew was that people called her Blue, and she poured drinks at May’s Well, and she was putting as much ground as possible between herself and her ex.
“My first name was Debra Maze,” Blue said. “Then I got married and became Debra Reed. I was a third-grade teacher for a few years until I stopped being presentable in front of the children. Then I had to run, and my cousin who looks maybe like my sister let me have her old driver’s license. I’m Carla Wright for now, and as long as I don’t apply for credit or anything official, I can probably hang on to this name for a little while. But my past will catch up to me eventually, just like yours did.”
“How long did you stay with him?”
“Seven years.”
“How long have you been gone?”
“Six months,” Blue said. “When I saw your fake passport, which is as fine a forgery as I’ve ever seen, I figured you might be connected. It never occurred to me that your predicament could be further south than my own.”
“Sorry to get you tangled in my mess.”
“No apology necessary. Who knows, one day you might get tangled in mine. Then we’d be even.” She opened a cupboard overstuffed with towels and bedding and withdrew a blanket and pillows. “You need to sleep,” she said, “as do I. Everything looks so much simpler after a bit of shut-eye.” Then she walked into her bedroom and shut the door.
I found her bourbon and took a slug, slipped off my shoes, and put the blanket over my head, blocking the midday sun, which seemed to shine directly on the couch. I could feel that exhaustion where every part of your body seems to be sinking into itself, but I couldn’t quiet my mind. On a loop I replayed the car accident in jump cuts. Each clip began with that queasy feeling in my gut, sitting there, powerless. Someone else’s hands gripping the wheel, foot to the floor, knuckles white, tendons bucking under the skin.
In the dream, I know what I have to do because I didn’t do it before. I’ve replayed this again and again in my head. Only he’s driving, and I can see that look on his face. I remember the moment when he decided what he was going to do. That hard line set in his jaw. Knowing that the time was long past for stopping it, knowing that I should have seen it coming, knowing that I knew what he was going to do before he did. Ten years ago and it felt like tomorrow, like it could happen again and again.
I do what I should have done the first time. I swing my legs over the wheel and I kick him in the face. He loses control of the car and we jump the guardrail, landing in the frigid lake. We’re slowly submerging. I know what to do. I unbuckle my seat belt and roll down the window before we go under. I look at him; he’s out cold. I have enough breath to pull him out of the car, but he looks so peaceful behind the wheel. I leave him behind. I look in the backseat and see the other passenger. For a second I wonder whether I should leave him too. Then I feel the blast of cold water as it spills into the car. I jolt awake.
Blue is sitting in a chair, watching me.
“Nightmare?”
“No. A dream.”
A dream I have again and again, a simple fantasy of what I should have done. And then I would be free.
June 10, 2008
To: Ryan
From: Jo
I’m married. Got a new name. It’s better than the last one. I won’t tell you what it is. Plausible deniability. You won’t be lying if you don’t know. Should I still be looking over my shoulder or have people forgotten about me?
My husband, I’ll call him Lou, if I ever need to call him anything. Lou’s all right. When I was a girl I dreamed of better than all right. For a while you were my better-than-all-right. Look how that turned out. Anyway, I couldn’t tell anyone else from home. You’re all I’ve got. You and Lou.
So what’s happened since I last heard from you?
Jo
June 21, 2008
To: Jo
From: Ryan
Congratulations, I guess. I just had eight bourbons at the Sundowners to celebrate. Celebrate might be the wrong word for it. Who is he? What is he? Do you love him?
Here’s to a long and prosperous marriage to a man who has no idea who you really are. I’d give you advice, but according to my parents, the secret to staying together is never being in the same room.
Shit, you got married. I think I’m going to need to do more celebrating.
R
August 30, 2008
To: Ryan
From: Jo
If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were jealous.
No, Ryan, I don’t love him. But getting married seemed wise, or more precisely, getting a new name seemed wise. Besides, I didn’t get just a husband
, I got a husband and a job. Lou owns a bar. I serve drinks. Not exactly the career path I had in mind for myself, but it’s better than cleaning houses, which is what I was doing for the first year I was out on my own. We were married by Otis, the local mechanic. He’s a minister with the Church of Auto Parts. I didn’t even know such a thing existed. He cleaned under his fingernails for the ceremony. I was touched. When Otis said, “ ’Til death do you part,” the first thing I thought was that I hoped longevity didn’t run in Lou’s family. If we last five years, I’d be surprised. But at least I got a new name out of it.
This is my life now. But it’s not my only life. When I close my eyes, sometimes I enter into a different world, my alternate universe. That night never happened. Or if it did, we weren’t involved. We did all of the things we said we were going to do. I even have a clear picture of the cheap one-bedroom apartment we’re sharing. It’s a third-floor walk-up. We sit on the fire escape on hot summer nights and drink beer and look at the stars. Come to think of it, we could be there right now.
But that isn’t real. So tell me what is. What have I missed?
Jo
October 5, 2008
To: Jo
From: Ryan
I don’t know if we should do this anymore. It wasn’t part of the original plan. The point of all of this was for you to have a chance at a real life. Stop thinking about what might have been. Maybe you haven’t given Lou a chance. Let’s quit this for a while. You haven’t missed a thing. Go live your life, Jo. Please.
R
November 5, 2008
To: Ryan
From: Jo
You can’t keep telling me to disappear. I’ve done what I’ve been told. I’ve disappeared enough. In the meantime, I’d like to continue this arrangement. Don’t disappoint me and I won’t disappoint you.
Jo
Chapter 5
* * *
IT took a few days for the facts to sink in. Being Amelia Keen wasn’t going to work for me anymore. I thought about phoning an old friend who owed me a debt that can’t be quantified, but it seemed risky making any contact after I’d exterminated Mr. Oliver’s colleagues. I wasn’t sure what side my old friend was on. I had to accept the fact that I was on my own and needed a new name to inhabit. I was going to miss Amelia Keen; I’d had high hopes for her. I still wasn’t sure what to do about the car registration. It was a danger having a vehicle in Tanya’s name, but Amelia was also a liability.
For two weeks, from the end of March until the beginning of April, I laid low in Blue’s home, earning my keep by cleaning house and buying groceries with my dwindling savings. I read the news to keep abreast of the investigation into the mysterious car crash. The detectives on the case believed two unknown assailants were in the vehicle with the victims. The identities of the two men had yet to be discerned, and no one had come forward to claim the bodies. I was convinced the police were holding out on the press. I figured it was just a matter of time before the SWAT team raided Blue’s and my home. Each rustle of leaves outside or an engine purring down the road fed my paranoia. I would start to drink early just to calm my nerves, to stop the constant vibration of the world around me.
At night I watched the main house. There were always exactly two lights on, one upstairs and one downstairs, and always the jittery glow of a television hidden behind opaque curtains. The television seemed to be on all night long, but the upstairs light flicked off like clockwork at ten fifteen p.m. Blue would always check on the old woman after her shift at the bar, killing the downstairs light on her way out. The old lady—I eventually learned that her name was Myrna—was housebound: arthritis, glaucoma, dementia. Only a few times did I see Myrna’s shadow shuffling through the house. She only traveled from one room to the other. Blue said that even when she was young, she kept to herself. Left the house with the rarity of an eclipse—only when Blue’s Aunt Greta threatened to leave her if she didn’t get out and about. I wasn’t to bother Myrna. She didn’t take well to new people, I was told. I could relate. I didn’t take well to people in general.
I had only been at the house two weeks, but it seemed like months had passed. I felt as if I were tumbling at high speed toward the bottom of a ravine. I started to read the obituaries every morning because they brought me some comfort, reminding me that I wasn’t the only one whose time was running out. More people die young than you’d think.
That was when it occurred to me that I might be able to find the next person to inhabit at the local mortuary. Every day I scoured the obits for a likely candidate. At first my criteria were pretty simple: I needed a woman who had died prematurely and lived alone. I told Blue about my plan, and she wanted in on the action. We decided to join forces on the hunt, and whoever looked the most like the deceased could call dibs.
We donned black dresses and conservative makeup and drove to the mortuary listed in the paper. We took Blue’s car, but she always let me drive. Our first funeral was for Joan Clayton. She was only two years older than me when she died of ovarian cancer. There was a large photo of her next to the open coffin at Marker & Family Funeral Home. In the photo she was still in full bloom. It had probably been taken several years ago. Her cheeks were peach plump; the emaciated body in the coffin looked like a cheap impostor.
“How tall do you think she was?” Blue whispered in my ear. All business.
“I don’t know. But she doesn’t look anything like you or me. Before or after,” I said. “This won’t work.”
A mourner approached. He looked like he might be Joan’s father.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” the maybe father said.
“So sorry for your loss,” Blue said.
“Did you know my Joan?”
“Indeed, I did,” said Blue.
“From school?”
“Yes. From school.”
“I thought I met all of Joan’s school friends.”
“We were more acquaintances,” said Blue. “But I wanted to pay my respects.”
“Grover Cleveland or Van Buren?” the father asked.
“Cleveland,” Blue guessed, losing her conviction.
“When did you leave Houston?” he asked.
“A few years ago,” Blue said, realizing she had to quickly shut down the conversation.
“Did you know Jacob?”
“No. I’m afraid we never met. I’ll leave you to your family,” said Blue, slowly backing away. “And I am so sorry for your loss.”
Blue turned around and began walking down the aisle and out the door. I was right behind her.
“That was close,” I said on the way home.
“As long as we don’t go back to the same funeral home twice, there shouldn’t be a problem.”
THE NEXT funeral was Laura Cartwright’s. She was twenty-eight when she committed suicide. She was just two years younger than me. According to the obituary she left behind a mother, a father, and a husband. No children. She only had about twenty or so mourners at Hammel & Sons funeral home. There was a picture of Laura next to the coffin. She was blond and blue-eyed, like Blue, but so plump—obese, really—that her features were hard to distinguish.
Blue and I regarded the plus-sized woman in the coffin.
“No bullet wound, and her neck looks fine. Probably pills,” said Blue.
“I guess.”
“I could be her in no time,” said Blue, “if I started off my day with half a dozen doughnuts.”
“You’d need to devour an entire doughnut factory,” I said.
A man approached and stood next to us.
“Were you friends?” he asked.
“Yes,” Blue said. “Although I hadn’t seen her in years. Were you close?”
“You could say that,” the man said. “We were married.”
“My condolences,” I said.
“Thank you. I should have seen it coming. But she acted like everything was fine.”
When the man spoke, I felt a sick shiver up my spine. Something wasn’t rig
ht.
“She wasn’t depressed?” I asked.
“I didn’t think so,” Mr. Cartwright said. “But she must have been. We were trying to have a baby. It wasn’t working out.”
“She looks so unblemished. Pills?” I said.
Blue squeezed my elbow in warning, but Mr. Cartwright seemed warmed by my interest.
“She put antifreeze in her lemonade.”
“Oh my. That is terrible. She was so young. How did you meet?” I said.
“At a bar. She was the prettiest woman in there. Put on a few pounds since then,” he said dryly.
“How long were you married?” I asked.
Blue pinched my arm again. Harder.
“Five years. What’s your name again?”
“Jane Green,” I said. No point in getting Amelia Keen mixed up in this.
“And how did you know Laura?”
“Elementary school.”
“And you haven’t seen her since?”
“No. I just saw the obituary and thought I’d pay my respects.”
“I’m sure she would have appreciated that.”
“It was a pleasure meeting you,” I said. “I never got a name.”
“Lester. Lester Cartwright. Did you know Laura’s friend Kelly Block? I think she went to elementary school with Laura, too.”
“Name doesn’t ring a bell. But it was a long time ago. Excuse me, I need to use the ladies’ room.”
Blue followed me into the bathroom and we waited until the mourners were seated and Lester was delivering the eulogy before we made our exit. He wasn’t exactly silver-tongued.
“Laura went too soon,” Lester said. “But she’s in a better place now.”
“I truly loathe that saying,” Blue muttered under her breath as we shoved our combined weight against the fat wooden doors.
Once we were in the parking lot, Blue questioned my interview technique.
“We should probably keep a lower profile than that, especially if I decide to become Laura Cartwright. I think she’s an excellent option. Now I just need to figure out how to go about it. I could probably call the parents up and just get them to give me her social security number. But it would be quite a bit easier if I had access to her driver’s license and other identification.”