The People We Keep

by Allison Larkin

  I dress and braid my hair and when I look back at the television, there he is with that woman again. He didn’t kiss her. Not yet. The one little candle that’s been lighting the room so brightly will burn out soon. They can’t find another. She’s afraid of the dark. “That’s because you’ve never been in the dark with me,” he says, and gives her that crooked Matty smile. The one that used to be mine. And it looks so real. Maybe it is and their chemistry goes beyond the camera and the lights and the makeup. Maybe she’s why he offered me his couch. Or maybe that smile was never mine to begin with, and I was just as charmed by him as everyone else. He’s not my Matty anymore. Maybe he never really was.

  * * *

  I leave my sweater in the motel. My navy blue cotton roll neck. Even though it’s sweater weather and I could use more layers, it feels good to let it go, leave it draped on the dingy flowered armchair in the corner of the room. I throw it at the chair a few times, until it falls just so and looks like maybe I forgot it. The right cuff is unraveling from getting caught in my guitar strings. I’ll never have to fix it, sneaking yarn from the inside seam to bind the sleeve. Robbing Peter to pay Paul.

  I give the sweater a half wave and a sympathetic smile before I close the door.

  — Chapter 34 —

  No matter how many miles I put in, I can’t get myself back to normal. The bruises on my wrist are yellowing, but I can’t bury the fear. Can’t forget the bump and Ray’s scream, the feeling of bones cracking under the car. It’s there every time I give it space in my head.

  I don’t listen to the radio. The people who talk between songs sound too real. It makes me lonely. The tape deck is busted. I drive, listening to the sound of the tires on the pavement. They’re too soft. I can hear the way they stick to the road. It reminds me of being a kid, pressing my cheek to an inner tube, the kind that are really from old truck tires. I remember the smell of rubber baking in the sun, and the way it sounded when I tapped my finger on it. Ping, ping. A metallic, inflated echo. I loved that sound even more than I loved the way the river felt creeping up the fibers of my bathing suit, making the colors darker, until all of it was wet.

  * * *

  I drive up to Binghamton. There’s a dive bar on Main Street that lets me play whenever I roll into town. Arnie has an old PA that’s usually collecting dust in the corner, so if I want to set it all up, he’s happy to charge a cover and give me a cut. The PA pops and hisses, and it’s full of distortion, but the crowd is mostly college kids and they’re usually too drunk and horny to care if I don’t sound perfect. The drunk kids are pretty good about buying my CDs. And they like to sing along with me if I play a song they know. It’s nice, really, to have fans, to see familiar faces in a crowd sometimes. I need that right now, I think.

  It’s ten a.m. when I get into town. Arnie is behind the bar wiping down bottles and checking inventory. I knock on the window. He yells, “Closed!” but then he sees that it’s me and lets me in.

  “It’s April in March!” he says. “What gives? We never see you in the cold weather.”

  “I missed you,” I tell him. I grab a rag and help him wipe bottles. He pours me a coffee in a pint glass, loading it with milk and sugar until it’s light and cloudy like his.

  “You’re the craziest girl I know,” he says. “Who has the freedom to travel anywhere and ends up in the Southern Tier in March?”

  “Only the cool kids,” I say, snapping my rag at his arm.

  “Well, it’s good to see you.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “you too.”

  I like Arnie. He’s got salt and pepper hair and a salt and pepper beard. He spends his life dealing with drunk college kids, but he has more laugh lines than frown marks. Wears worn out jeans and threadbare concert t-shirts like a uniform. Today’s is a yellow Wings Over America shirt with a bunch of little holes across the back like it got chewed by a zipper in the washing machine.

  “Good timing,” Arnie says as I climb on the back bar to reach the top shelf bottles. “Spring break’s next week. We all have cabin fever.”

  “I always have good timing,” I say.

  “It’s always a good time when you’re here,” Arnie says.

  I needed this. To show up and clean bottles and chat with Arnie like I just saw him last week, like I belong. It’s the thing I love about bar people. We have to put on a show all the time for everyone else, and when the crowd isn’t around, we don’t ask too many questions or expect big answers. It’s just good chatter. People like Arnie are the best kind of break.

  * * *

  We clean bottles for an hour or so. I stand on the back bar and call off levels to him. “Tuaca, three-quarters,” I say. “Tia Maria, almost empty.”

  “Tuaca!” He laughs. “That bottle came with the bar. I don’t think anyone’s ordered it.”

  “Triple dog dare you,” I say, jumping down with the bottle to pour us shots. “Cheers.” I slide his shot across the bar.

  We clink glasses.

  “One, two, three,” he calls, and we down them.

  “Not as weird as I thought it would be,” I say, breathing hard through my nose to try to figure out the aftertaste.

  “You’re a bad influence. Got me drinking before noon.”

  “It’s like one thirty,” I tell him, laughing, even though I don’t really know what time it is.

  “Lunch,” Arnie says. He gets up and goes into the kitchen. His limp is worse than it was last time I was here. He has bad knees from being on his feet so much. Needs surgery but can’t take the downtime. I get the polish from the cabinet under the sink and shine the bar for him.

  He comes back with two fat burgers and a big plate of well-done fries. We sit next to each other at the bar, studying the wall of clean bottles while we eat.

  “Thanks for the burger,” I say.

  “You look anemic.”

  “Sure know how to charm a girl,” I say, taking a huge bite of my burger.

  “You okay?” he asks. He’s looking at my wrist. The bruises.

  My sleeve rode up when I held my burger to my mouth. I should be more careful.

  “Other guy looks worse,” I say, staring at the now-shiny bottle of Tuaca on the top shelf.

  Arnie pats me on the back. Just one pat, his hand resting lightly between my shoulders for a split second.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  We finish our burgers and share the plate of fries in silence. It’s a nice quiet. It’s a good burger. Arnie remembered that I like my fries crispy.

  * * *

  “Need a shower,” he says, throwing me his keys when we’re done eating. It’s a statement, not a question.

  “Do I smell?” I ask, sniffing my pits.

  “Like roses,” he says, gathering up our lunch plates. “But you have twigs in your hair.”

  “You could have told me that like an hour ago.” I comb my fingers through my hair and pull out one leaf. It was probably in my car. But I’ll take the hot water and the quiet.

  “Wouldn’t have been as much fun.”

  “Butthead.” I grin. “I’m totally going to mess with the settings on your beard trimmer while I’m up there.”

  “Do it,” he says, tugging at one of my curls. “I could use a new look.”

  * * *

  Arnie’s place above the bar is old, cramped, and cleaner than you’d expect from a guy who’s always single and works until three in the morning. I’ve been here before. He lets me shower and use his phone to call ahead and book new gigs. I’ve crashed on his couch a few times when I rolled into town over summer break or Columbus Day or something. He’s never made a pass or even hinted he might want to. He’s old enough to be my dad, but that’s not always a limiting factor with guys. Some of them seem to like that more. Arnie is just quiet and easy and likes having company that doesn’t expect too much from him. There’s nothing there, but there’s nothing missing.

  I shower, making the water as hot as I can stand, scrubbing every inch of my skin with a washclot
h lathered with Arnie’s bar of Irish Spring. Sun streams through the frosted window in the shower, and I watch how it makes the water sparkle on my skin. I let myself cry. It’s safe to cry here. The water will run cold eventually. Arnie will come back upstairs to grab a CD or change his shirt. The sun will set. It will be time to play. It’s okay to let go when there’s an end in sight. When I’m alone, on the road, it could go on forever.

  — Chapter 35 —

  The last Friday night before spring break—I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. The place is packed. Arnie can charge a cover for me and I get sixty percent. It’s not a bad deal. Plus, it’s good for my ego. No one here will ask me to play Margaritaville or Free Bird or one of those awful standard covers old drunk people are prone to suggesting. They want me to play my originals. They know them. These kids are here because they saw the sign Arnie put outside. They came to see me.

  Justin cut his hair. I wasn’t even looking for him and then there he is. He’s leaning against the wall, watching me play, holding a beer bottle by its neck. He smiles when I make eye contact. The last time I saw him, sometime in June, his hair flopped over his eyes and hung down to his shoulders. I remember it was thick and coarse between my fingers. Now it’s short and spiky and I almost didn’t recognize him in the crowd. He’s with a guy who has a mop of ringlets blooming from his head. They come up to the stage after my first set.

  “Just-man!” I say as he kisses me on the cheek. “Good to see you.”

  “You’re never here in March!”

  “Good surprise?” I ask, wondering if he has someone now.

  “Great surprise.” He smiles wide.

  “I missed you,” I say, and while I haven’t thought of him much at all since the last time I was in Binghamton, seeing his face makes it feel true.

  “I told Sam about you. We were gonna hit the bars on Water Street, but we saw the sign and I told him we had to hang here.” He gestures to his curly friend.

  “Thanks for coming out, Sam.” I use his name while it’s easy, so later when I call him friend he won’t think it’s because I don’t remember. It’s my trick for dealing with too many names and too many faces.

  “You were great.” Sam offers his hand to shake mine. His palms are warm and sticky, like a gum eraser that’s been kneaded a long time.

  “Aw, thank you.” I’ve practiced my humble, genuine face in many a motel mirror. It’s an awkward thing to take compliments. It’s harder than you think.

  “Can I get you a beer?” Sam pats his back pocket.

  “Thanks, friend. Magic Hat. Tell them it’s for me.” I wave over to Arnie and point to Sam. Arnie nods. “House covers mine.”

  Justin pulls on one of my braids. “Got a place to crash?”

  I put my hand over his. “Do I?”

  “I have a house this year with a few other guys, but everyone else left for break already.”

  “Imagine that.” I smile. I can feel the current. He’s stuck in it, paddling like a puppy dog, his tail wagging madly. I know what this is. He does too. It’s our arrangement. He’s my place to stay. I’m his excitement. We have a history.

  Someday, when he’s married and middle-aged, he will listen to my CD in his car on the way home to crockpot dinners and tricycles in the driveway. He will pull the jewel case out from the crack between the seat and the console at a traffic light, run his fat fingers over my picture, and remember what it felt like to cup my breasts in his palms while my hair streamed down his arms. There won’t ever be an us, but he’ll never forget me.

  Sam comes back with my beer. I smile and wipe the rim off with my sleeve. “Thanks, friend.”

  “Anytime.” He winks and shoots a finger gun in my direction.

  I clink my bottle with Justin’s and go up to start my second set. A song from my first CD. Angsty and fierce. Snakebites and heart attacks. I’ll never make you mine, go back. People sing along. I finally feel like I don’t have to think about anything but lyrics and chords and the faces in the crowd. Like things can be simple for a moment.

  * * *

  After my second set, Sam has disappeared. Justin waits for me. He hangs around while Arnie counts out the register to give me my cut.

  Arnie slides beers down the bar to us while we wait.

  Justin rests his hand on my thigh and drinks his in big gulps. I don’t know anything about his real life, what he does when I’m not here. He’s grown into his looks, less awkward. He should have a girlfriend, but he always seems to be available when I roll into town. We never talk about it. And the things I do know, I forget. I can’t remember what his major is, or where he grew up. I can’t remember his last name.

  Arnie slides a wad of bills across the bar to me. “You are a little bit of magic, I think,” he says. “Good haul tonight.” I hop up to sit on the bar so I can give him a hug.

  “Thanks, Arnie,” I say, kissing his cheek. He blushes a little.

  “Don’t be a stranger,” he says softly, looking me in the eyes, sizing me up. “Okay?” It’s his way of taking care of me. “Okay?” He’s making sure I’m not falling apart. That my bruises will heal. It’s his way of saying something without saying anything specific, and I love him for it.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”

  * * *

  Justin’s new place is two streets over from Main. We’re both too drunk to drive, so we leave my car at Arnie’s and walk over. Justin carries my guitar for me. There aren’t many people left walking around. It’s still cold and crisp and the puddles ice over at night. Binghamton won’t see the last of the snow for months.

  I shower when I get to Justin’s. I’m in wash when you can mode. It doesn’t matter that I just showered at Arnie’s. I smell like bar and smoke and I’m sweaty from playing.

  Justin’s shower isn’t too gross. The house is big and empty. It’s just me and him and it’s sweet, because of all the people I know, of all my pockets, Justin is my favorite. He’s my marker. I count time against him. I’ve watched him grow up. He’s older than me, two years, I think. So, he must be twenty-one now, but it feels like he’s a kid and I’m something else.

  I tie my hair in a knot and pin it with some bobby pins I keep in my bag. I wrap myself in his towel and walk down the hall to his room.

  Justin lit candles while I showered, the globe kind with psychedelic patterns that glow as the wick burns down. The candlelight reflects in the sheen of his Sports Illustrated posters. Patchouli clouds the room, but it doesn’t mask the fact that he’s stoned.

  “Wow,” he says when he sees me. He already has condoms out. I can see the shiny wrappers next to a skull candle on the shelf over the bed. Three of them, lined up like a goal he’s set.

  “What happened to your hair?” I ask, rubbing my hand over his head. The wax he slicked it with makes my palm sticky.

  “I cut it.”

  “I liked it long.” I wipe my palm on his comforter when he isn’t looking.

  “Internship interviews. I’m a junior now.” He raises his eyebrows, tilts his chin down and looks up at the ceiling. He’s posing for me. Look how much I’ve grown.

  “Ah.” I nod.

  I reach over him and pull the joint out of the ashtray.

  “Saved you some,” he says.

  “Good call.” I light up and suck in hard. Hold my breath until I feel my eyeballs bulge, and then I exhale the smoke slowly through the tiny O I form with my lips. Before it’s all out, Justin is working his tongue into the O.

  He pulls the pins from my hair. Wet strands slap my shoulders as they fall. Drops of water run down my back. Justin licks them up. He cups my chin and holds my head at my shoulder, working his tongue up my neck on the other side. He has learned things since I saw him last year.

  We slide until we’re lying down. I feel him hard on my thigh. His arms are smooth, muscles firm and round. He loses his cool when he tries to undress and get the condom on. Underwear stuck on ankles.

  “Oh, crap,” he says. “Close
your eyes.”

  I do. The light goes on for a second.

  “Okay,” he says. The light goes off. I hear him fumble with the condom. I hope he pinches the tip to leave room. I had to show him how last time.

  It’s good, but not great. He tries too hard. He’s still wearing his socks. He picks me up and carries me over to the wall, but it’s cold stucco. The bumps scratch my back.

  “Remember last time?” I whisper in his ear. “On your desk?”

  “Yeah,” he whispers, and carries me to his desk. He keeps holding me while he throws notebooks on the floor. I wrap my arms around his neck even tighter and think about what it would be like to stay with him.

  When he sets me down gently on the desk it doesn’t take him long to finish.

  We make goal by morning.

  * * *

  “Stay another day,” he says when we wake up.

  I nod and kiss his face. There’s barely any stubble.

  “No, I mean it. Don’t say you will and leave while I’m in the shower. Stay for real this time.”

  I kiss him hard, running my finger along the bottom of his lip and the dent above his chin, memorizing the way his lips feel. I wait for the panic I always get when I think about staying in one place for too long, the electric itch in my veins. It doesn’t come.

  “Short shower. So short. Don’t go,” he says, rolling over me to get out of bed. He pulls on his boxer shorts and leaves the room.

  I look around, taking quick inventory of where my stuff is so I can exit efficiently. I can’t stay. Keep moving or get stuck. Those are the only options. If I go for breakfast with Justin, before you know it, I’ll be living here, working for Arnie, falling completely and totally short of every fantasy Justin has ever had about me. The whole reason people like me is that I always leave a little too soon.

  I hear the whine of the shower starting. I have ten minutes at most. My limbs are leaden, lazy, brain full of fuzz. I can’t get up. It’s cold and lonely out there. I pinch the inside of my wrist with my other hand, hoping I can snap myself out of it, but my eyelids feel heavy. I don’t have any fight left.