The Lost Night

by Megan Maguire

  “Who are Jake and Heather?” she asks, putting her cell away.

  “Aaaaand thank you, thanks for bringing me back to reality.”

  “What? Bad question?”

  “What’s the list for?” I change the subject.

  “It’s good to have profiles of the men I meet, just in case.” She crosses her legs and swings her foot.

  “In case what, you wanna frame me? If that’s what you mean, then go ahead and give the info to Officer Ed Dorazio. He’s up in District D.”

  “The cop from the alley? He was outside his district tonight.”

  “No, he wasn’t. What do you know about the district boundaries? Who are you? And how do you know about that house in Lakeside? You don’t dress like you’re from there. Bet you’re a cop. I should’ve asked you that earlier, a dirty cop like Ed.”

  She laughs and pats my leg.

  “Are you? Are you a cop?”

  “Nope.” She shakes her head.

  “Better not be.” I ease into the brakes, creeping to a stop at a red light.

  She lifts her foot onto the edge of the seat, untying and retying her tall winter boot. “I’m not a cop,” she says. She looks at the light, rubbing the “A” ring on her pinkie finger. I’m more confused about her now than when we left the bar. Fascinated, too.

  “You want a ride home?” I ask.

  “No. It’s over. Drive me back to the bar. I can get home from there.”

  “What’s over?”

  She looks out her window, her long hair flowing down her back, turning green with the changing light. I pull forward and make the final turn toward the bar, parking a block away to give us more time to talk.

  She applies a fresh coat of lipstick as I finish my smoke and get dressed.

  “You can’t keep my gun. I gave it to you only so you could grow your balls back.” She puts the lipstick away and holds out her hand. “Give it back, please.”

  I pass it to her, and she hides it inside her coat pocket.

  She puts on her leather gloves and grips her collar to prepare for the cold. We step out and walk side by side down the sidewalk. I button up my coat, having so many questions, but incapable of asking even one. She’s by far the most interesting and the most puzzling girl I’ve met this year. Since Heather, I haven’t been this drawn to anyone. I can’t just let her slip away.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “I don’t give my name out to strangers.”

  I laugh. “But you have my name, you saw me ditch a body, and you had me strip down to practically nothing so you could molest me with your gun. I wouldn’t necessarily call us strangers.”

  “You haven’t earned it.”

  I catch her arm and bring her close to my chest. She entices me with a quick flutter of her long eyelashes, but her words deny that she wants anything more. “That grip is an awful lot like the grip of a man who died tonight. And if what you think you saw is true, he died by my hands, not yours. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” she asks.

  I lick my lips and she copies the action. “My grip will make you ache in very different ways than his.” I move her bangs to the side of her pale face, trailing a finger down her cheek to her narrow jawline. We gaze at one another under the flashing Marzley’s Bar sign, our lips tight, bodies swaying, her knees falling into me. All clear signs that we both want this.

  Her hands settle on my chest. I hook my hand behind her slender neck and lean in to meet her lips. The first light touch parts her mouth, the second trace is gentle and breathy, and when I advance to give her a solid kiss, she’s gone.

  Just like that.

  I open my eyes and watch her shuffle away on the icy sidewalk. “I didn’t say you could kiss me,” she says.

  “You didn’t have to. I felt it.”

  “Thanks for almost giving me your germs,” she calls out.

  “I’ll give you a lot more than my germs. Come back anytime. I’m always here.”

  I place my hands in my pockets and rock on the balls of my feet, catching Sean and Riley gawking shamelessly out the front window of the bar.

  The girl looks over her shoulder and stops. “You’re not following me?” she asks.

  “Nope.”

  “Okay.” She walks slower, looking back one last time before I head inside.

  “What the hell happened?” Sean catches me at the door. “Are you all right?”

  “It was surreal, Sean. I swear someone slipped drugs in my beer earlier. I can’t even begin to explain it.” I unzip my coat but remember the bloody shirt. I zip it back up and take a seat at the table where our night first began, now glad that it’s Riley by Sean’s side and not some random girl I can’t talk in front of.

  “Did she kill you?” Riley asks, immediately laughing at her stupidity.

  “Are you drunk? Does it look like I’m dead?”

  “Tipsy, not drunk,” she says. “Hey, look, that girl’s following you.”

  I turn my head toward the door. “No shit.”

  Riley brushes her hands together. “Call her over here. I want someone new to talk to.”

  I spot her staring at me from the doorway. She takes another photo, using a flash this time.

  “What the hell?” Sean blinks repeatedly.

  “It’s masturbation material,” I tell him.

  He grins and pours me a drink from their pitcher, clinks my glass, and chugs. “To masturbation.” He wipes his mouth, checking her out. “Why isn’t she coming in?”

  Riley pats my hand. “Dylan, go invite her to our table.”

  “She’ll come over when she’s ready.”

  The mystery girl and I hold our stares. She smoothes a hand over her hair. I slide my finger up and down my mug.

  She’s not carrying a purse or even a small bag. Everything on her, including the gun, is in her coat. She takes a pen and mini notepad from her pocket and starts to write while examining me from head to toe, stopping every so often to think. She taps her lips with the pen, moving out of the doorway when a customer enters.

  “Is she drawing a picture?” Riley asks.

  “At this point, that wouldn’t surprise me.” I recline and rest my foot on my thigh, cradling my beer. “She’s odd. But cool.”

  She tears the paper out of the notepad and makes a beeline for our table. I try to entice her, rubbing my finger across my lips. She doesn’t notice. I try again, kicking out the chair next to me in a gesture to join us.

  “I’ve never met an intelligent man,” she says with a dry smile, placing a folded slip of paper in front of me. “Most of you have pea-sized brains.”

  “Earlier you said my brain was enormous.”

  Sean and Riley laugh.

  “See, that’s what I mean. Hopefully, you’re smarter than the rest.” She disregards Sean and smiles at Riley. “Your hair is fabulous. I wish I had spiral curls like yours.”

  “Thanks!” Riley beams.

  She turns away and hurries through the door to the city streets, leaving without saying goodbye.

  Riley swings her hair, flaunting her dark locks. “I like her.”

  “Why am I not surprised? You like anyone who pays attention to you.” I tuck the paper in my pocket. “I’ll be back.”

  “Wait. What does that say?” Sean asks.

  “I’ll tell you later.” I take a swig of beer and head into the men’s room, opening the note straightaway. My eyes snap shut before I can read the first line, hearing that one ominous song that follows me everywhere, playing in the background of the bar.

  “It’s not December,” I whisper. “Why are you hounding me?” I pull the door open and stick my head out. “Tim!” My bartender turns around. “Turn that off.”

  “What?”

  “That ‘Long December’ song!”

  He looks up at the television and grabs the remote, clicking the channel button. He tries again, but the video keeps playing. “Batteries mu
st be dead.”

  “Why is it on?” I walk out. “Why? Why is that song playing?”

  “90s Nation is on MTV Classic,” he says.

  I walk behind the bar and yank the plug out of the wall.

  “Dude, what’s up?” he asks. “I got some weed if you need to unwind.”

  I wave him off on the way back to the men’s room, slam the door and throw the lock for privacy. That one lyric that was coming up is unbearable to listen to, the one about not remembering the last thing that someone said before leaving. It takes me back to when Heather got out of my truck that night. I can’t remember what she said. I can’t remember if I told her that I loved her. I can’t remember.

  I take a deep breath and stare at the note in my shaky hand, a film over my eyes, the world smothered in a gray haze.

  the dark starless melancholy of a man

  the secret in the house

  an end to the wretched

  back to the last dream

  branches stark, winter snow, lone

  this lost night’s approaching embrace

  that end, the evaded kiss

  * * *

  This is my number, babe.

  Call me if your pea-sized brain can figure it out.

  7

  After an hour in the bar trying to decipher her note, I came up with nothing. It’s just a poem about ditching my kiss. There’s no number in it anywhere. Women are impossible to figure out, always complicating life with cryptic messages. I’m baffled by it because I’m drunk, or more likely because I’m not a poet. What stark branches? Is that a reference to me? I don’t get it. It’s a trigger as much as the December song by Counting Crows. Trees, trees, trees.

  She doesn’t know an old maple once stood in Heather’s front yard where we’d kiss on sticky summer nights. The image of Heather under its outstretched limbs is still clear as day—blonde hair flat from the humidity, sun-tanned cheeks full of life. I’d run a finger down her low-cut tank and wipe droplets of sweat from her cleavage. Remembering those moments has turned me soft, into less of a man. But should I be ashamed of my weak heart? Or embarrassed that I loved her?

  Well, I’m not.

  This crazy night has made me ache to see her suicide note. I should laugh at the whole scenario. Heather left me a note I can’t read, and this mystery girl gives me one I can’t figure out how to read. I’m antsy and losing my mind over the dueling aspects of the two letters. They’ve led me here, leaning against my truck, across the street from Heather’s parents’ house at two in the morning—a cig in one hand, the girl’s note in the other, with Sean and Riley making out in my passenger seat.

  I didn’t pick up a distraction for the night to keep me from coming here, someone to silence the thoughts running through my head about Heather. Like how beautiful she was, how intelligent and kind, and whether this new girl even stands a chance after what I’ve been through.

  I should toss the note, go home and get some sleep. I thought one cigarette, just one, and I’d leave. Now number three is between my lips. The longer I’m here, the closer I am to making my second mistake of the night—breaking into the Andersons’. And it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve crept inside their house in the middle of the night to search for the note, or long ago, to sleep with Heather.

  Her college friends used to tease her for living at home with mommy and daddy, wanting her to get an apartment with them. Heather said it was a total waste of money, considering campus is only a few blocks away. No more than a five-minute walk.

  Her practical side was another reason why I loved her.

  “Right here? Now?” Riley giggles.

  “You know how long this takes him. We’ll be here for a while.” Sean’s breathless and desperate. “Slip off your panties and move over so I can get out of my jeans.”

  They’re drunk, like me. But I’m in better shape than them, which makes me the designated driver. It’s not a good combination—the alcohol, the truck, the icy roads—I know it’s dumb, but my excuse is that it’s a short drive, only two miles from the bar to my place on the West Side. Three miles if you count the fact that I got sidetracked and ended up here in Roosevelt Park.

  I knock on the window and hold up my keys, certain Sean’s hands are under Riley’s sweater by now.

  The door swings open. “You really doing this again?” He snatches the rattling keys.

  “Text me if you see any lights come on. And drive my truck home if I get arrested,” I tell him.

  “If you get caught, you’ll be dead not arrested. Heather’s mom will shoot you if she finds you inside her house.”

  “Can you help me out or not?”

  “Yeah, fine.” He sounds disappointed. “Where you headed?”

  I drop my cigarette and smother it under my boot, exhaling a smoky breath toward him. “Her dad’s office.”

  “No.” He sits up and whisks Riley’s curls off his face. “No way. Let’s go somewhere else and get you sobered up. The pool hall’s open till four.”

  I raise my hand for him to give it a rest. “It’s too late to change my mind. I already have it in my head that I’m going in.”

  “Stop being so stubborn.”

  “Persistent,” I bite back.

  Riley unzips Sean’s jeans. “Hold up,” he says, gripping her wrist. “Dylan, don’t go in her dad’s—” She kisses him before he has a chance to finish, causing him to fall back into her spell and close the door in my face.

  Sean’s in more danger than me, considering a black guy screwing a Hispanic woman in a truck they don’t own, in this neighborhood, will be a red flag for any cop who stops. They’ll be taken to the station faster than a drunken white guy breaking into a house. I guarantee it. Even so, his “sex before friendship” isn’t sitting well with me, and if he’s choosing a girl over his best friend, well, it’s on him to take care of himself tonight. And he’ll be the one to blame if I get caught.

  “Watch for lights.” I knock on the glass. His fingers splay flat against the fogged window, Riley rocking on top of him, neither of them paying any attention to what I just said.

  Fixated on the Tudor-style home, I walk across the street and up the heated cobblestone drive, lined with paver lights and Holly bushes. The site where the maple grew is barren, the remaining two maples and young oak are dwarfs by comparison. Jake raked leaves that fell from that tree, but the memories of him, Heather, and the mighty maple were removed from the property when her parents cut it down. They replaced it with a four-foot stone angel holding a dove. Oddly, the tree was a reminder to them but not the statue? I’m offended that they disturbed the place where she took her life, where my brother did yard work, where expansive branches and the broad trunk once shielded me … shielded us.

  I turn away from the statue and survey the house. Being on the driveway in plain sight is risky, but her parents will set the security system if they see boot prints in the yard. It was turned off at night because Heather used to stumble home drunk and forget to deactivate it. Fifteen seconds after entering, an earsplitting siren would blare and wake the neighbors. After several complaints, her parents decided to set it only when they left for work. It became the norm.

  I take out my wallet and find the key Heather gave me as a birthday gift. She loved it when I sneaked into her room late at night. I’d slowly undress while she hid under her rose-patterned comforter, her blue eyes peeping out, luring me into bed. We’d fuck in total silence to keep from waking her parents. I’d cover her mouth, and she’d cover mine, our rigid bodies barely moving so the bed wouldn’t creak. The urge to moan was so intense on those secretive nights that I never lasted more than a few minutes.

  I rub the key between my thumb and forefinger, believing that a gift that once unlocked so much pleasure will someday unlock an answer. I insert it into the deadbolt and turn it to the right until I hear a click.

  I’m in.

  The interior is made up of drab earth tones: beige wal
ls, planked ceilings, and dark wooden floors. I’ve memorized every squeaky floorboard, a master at sidestepping each one, except in her dad’s office. That room was always off limits to Heather, and I’ve respected that up until this point. But other than the master bedroom, it’s the only place left to look.

  I slip off my boots. My wet wool socks leave a trail into the kitchen and up to the fridge. I slide a finger across photographs displayed on the refrigerator door, thick with anxiety when I touch Heather’s face. Her spring semester course schedule is next to her photo, bordered by other random notes and reminder cards that haven’t moved since the night she died. Like her mom’s appointment card for the Women’s Medical Clinic, her annual, I’d wager. Typical Lona Anderson, the most insensitive woman I’ve ever met, putting that card next to her daughter’s photo on the fridge. And even worse, the items are secured with woodland animal magnets as if it’s all just cute and cuddly to her. I don’t get why all this remains, but the tree was taken away. It just doesn’t make any sense.

  I snap a photo of the fridge before opening the door, helping myself to a swig of juice. The first time I asked to see Heather’s note, her mom slammed the door in my face. The second time, she said she’d get a restraining order if I didn’t get off their property.

  I fling the refrigerator door closed, tightening my shoulders and scrunching my nose at the sound of clinking glass. Holding steady, I listen for movement in the house. I’m guessing they’re in a deep sleep in their grand Tuscan poster bed, under their gold and black damask bedding.

  I had sex with your daughter in that bed when you were away on vacation. I think to myself while staring at the ceiling. She came … twice.

  I smile for a moment, then walk into the two-story living room, past antique tables, gold-framed artwork, and an inherited gun cabinet filled with Heather’s grandfather’s shotguns. I run a finger across the cabinet as I pass by it, the exterior lights casting shadows through the sheer window coverings and onto the walls, guiding me under the curved staircase and down a hallway to the office. I drag my hand down the carved oak panel doors, my mouth dry, pulse racing.