The People We Keep

by Allison Larkin

  I feel my hands loosen up. I hadn’t noticed I’d clenched them into fists.

  “He’s not going to take the hold off the card, though,” Justin says. “And if the hotel decides to arrest me, he won’t help. There’s nothing I can do. I have like ten bucks left.” He sobs and buries his head in my shoulder. I want to ask if his dad would pay if I just turned right around and drove him to Rochester, but I don’t feel like I can with how hard he’s crying. The terms are so completely different, but the disappointment is familiar.

  “I’ll pay for it,” I say. “I have cash. I’ll fix it.”

  His relief is instant and beautiful and being able to give that to someone else feels triumphant. I can do more than just survive. I can do more than take. He kisses me hard.

  Brian is still watching. I give him a thumbs up. Cool as a cucumber. But there’s a slight scuffle when I tell Brian I have to go up to the room to get money to pay him. He insists on coming with me while Justin stays in the lobby.

  “So, Buffalo,” Brian says in the elevator, his breath loud in the small space. He stands closer than he needs to and I wonder if his insistence on coming with me is about more than making sure we don’t bolt. “Good wings.”

  “Of course,” I say, smiling.

  He smiles back. “I like wings.”

  I get the feeling there’s another way to solve this. He’s not so awful, just sad and spent. It wouldn’t be the worst way to get out of a bad spot.

  The elevator doors open. We walk down the hall together and I think about Ray and the crunch of his foot bones under my tire. His black-framed glasses. How he rolled the flyer from my show in his hands and seemed so harmless and earnest. I try not to think about that burnt rubber smell, but then it’s like the air won’t fill my lungs anymore and the things that are real hide behind my thoughts.

  I stop smiling at Brian. I swipe my room key. Rummage through my bag. I pretend I don’t notice the way he watches me from the doorway. He holds the door open with his back, and I’m relieved to feel like I could scream and be heard. That he understands the need for that courtesy.

  “Here,” I say, handing Brian a hundred and forty dollars. “Can you tell Justin I’ll meet him in the car?” He looks like he doesn’t want to leave me in the room.

  “I just want to pack up and use the restroom,” I say.

  He shifts his weight and the door swings shut. I gasp. I don’t mean to. He’s shocked. It was an accident. He’s scared that he scared me. Worried what I think. He reaches for the door handle.

  “Sure,” he says. “Give him the change?”

  “Keep it.” I don’t know if I’m supposed to tip. I don’t stay in places this nice. If a tip is expected, it’s a terrible one.

  “Have a nice trip,” he says. “I’m sorry about… all the confusion.”

  He shuts the door and the tears come fast. I run into the bathroom and splash cold water, but it feels like drowning. I cough and sputter and cry like there’s something inside me trying to escape.

  Deep breaths and I sit on the bed and put my head between my knees. In. Out. Dig my thumbnail into the fleshy part of my opposite hand. I get it under control. Choke it down. Banished to the very bottom of my lungs. But still there.

  * * *

  When I get to the car, Justin is sitting on the trunk, with his duffle bag in his lap, swinging his legs. He smiles and waves when he sees me. I expected him to be upset about his dad, but relief has made him perky.

  “I can probably get you back to Binghamton on what I have.” I’m sure Arnie will let me play again or tend bar or something, so I can pull together what I’ve lost.

  “I don’t want to go back,” Justin says. “If I do, my dad wins.” He’s not concerned with my drained reserves. It’s paid for. It’s over. He’s not getting arrested. He wants to win this battle I don’t even understand. But I’m not sure I have it in me to tell him I’m done. To stay in the car with his disappointment all the way to Binghamton. And then to be alone again.

  If we keep going, I don’t know how Justin will get back. But I don’t make an issue of it. He knows how much money I have left. I decide he can make his own decisions, but then he says, “There’s always Motel 6,” and I realize he doesn’t understand.

  “I think I know a place where we can stay,” I tell him. “On Anna Maria Island.”

  “Is there a beach?” Justin asks.

  “Yup.” I’ve been there before. I know my way around. Stay for free. Pick up a gig or at least play on the beach. Bradenton is half the miles it would take to get to Binghamton and I’m still tired. I’d rather push the crisis to the end of the week.

  “That works,” he says, smiling. He hops off the trunk and gets in the passenger seat.

  — Chapter 39 —

  It’s past midnight when we get to the house. No cars in the driveway and the lawn is long. They send someone to cut the grass when they’re expecting guests.

  Justin slams the car door too loud. My heart thuds like a bass line as we walk the path to the front door of the cottage. I’m surprised Justin can’t hear it.

  If they’ve changed the code, I’ll have to make up a story. I know numbers for a house a few blocks over. I used to bounce between the two last year. But the other house looks totally different from this one. I can’t say I got confused. I don’t know what my story would be. We could sleep on the beach. It’s warm, at least.

  I hold my breath. Squeeze my keychain flashlight so I can see. Press the buttons for 2-3-5-6 on the lockbox and then it opens and we have the key.

  “Whose place is this?” he asks as I unlock the door and push it open.

  “My uncle’s,” I say. My father had a brother, but he died in Vietnam. It’s easier if Justin doesn’t know that last summer I spent a few hours after dark with my flashlight, trying out combos until I got the right one. It wasn’t hard. Six of the ten buttons were worn and finger-grubby, so the code had only been changed maybe two or three times over years and years of use. The order doesn’t matter on punch code boxes. Just that you pick the right numbers.

  Justin turns the lights on in the living room and I resist the urge to turn them off. Old wicker furniture with palm tree prints on the cushions. The air is stale and damp. There’s dust on the coffee table. Odds are with us for a night or two at least, but we’ll have to be careful and I don’t know how to tell Justin to be careful without explaining.

  It’s probably okay. I know people who squat as if they’re legit, taking long showers, leaving the lights on. People around here don’t keep track. Most of them are only on vacation anyway, renting the house next door for a week or two. They don’t know who belongs where, or which houses are supposed to be vacant. Maybe I call more attention to myself when I try to go under the radar. Maybe Justin and I are safer being conspicuous.

  We bring our clothes in. I leave my guitar in the car when I stay in houses like this. I never do it otherwise, but Justin doesn’t know me well enough to think it’s strange. It makes for a cleaner getaway if a getaway becomes necessary.

  “Let’s walk over to the beach,” Justin says after we’ve thrown our stuff in the bedroom.

  “It’s late. I’ve been driving all day.”

  “That’s why you need to walk,” he says. “Come on!”

  The only reasons for not going are ones I can’t tell him, so we go.

  He holds my hand as we walk down the road in the dark and cross to the beach. The moon is the slimmest sliver, hidden behind clouds. It’s disorienting. The blackness of the horizon. My hair flying in the wind. I can hear the power of the waves, even though I can’t see them clearly. It’s dark music they make. I could walk right into the water and become part of the movement, but I’m tethered to Justin, fingers hooked. Our feet sink in the sand. The air is thick and smells alive.

  “We made it,” he says, laughing.

  “We did.”

  “Fuck you, Dad!” he yells to the waves. His voice is tired, ragged, young. “Now you.” He squee
zes my hand. “Your turn.”

  “Fuck you, Dad!” I yell. Because the waves are too loud for anyone else to hear us. I can barely hear myself.

  “Yeah!” Justin yells, and then he lifts me up and kisses me. His face is wet. I wipe his cheeks.

  “Fuck ’em both,” I say.

  He stumbles and we fall, landing soft in the sand. I wish the world would always catch me this way. Justin holds on to me still, tucks his head into my neck. “Thank you,” he says. “I need to be myself sometimes, you know?” His breath is warm. I find his lips with mine. The waves are loud and the night is dark, and no one will see us.

  * * *

  We sleep late, even though the mattress is old and sagging. Musty pillows. Sand in the sheets. Justin takes forever to open his eyes. Even after I extract myself from his grasp and get out of bed, he lies there, breathing in slow rhythm. It’s better if we leave. This is not a place to linger.

  “Gypsy rules!” I say, shoving the pile of clothes Justin left on the floor into his duffle.

  “What?” He sits up fast. Looks around, trying to make sense of where we are.

  “We’re on an adventure. We could end up anywhere. We may as well put our stuff back in the trunk. So if we decide to drive to Mexico next, we don’t even have to come back here.”

  “Mexico is kind of far,” Justin says. “If we go to Mexico, I won’t be back at school in time.”

  “Proverbial Mexico,” I say.

  “But we’re just walking over to the beach, right?”

  “Manatee Beach is way better,” I tell him, eager to get him in the car, “and it’s kind of a hike. It makes sense to drive.” It’s not that far, but I’ll wind through a few neighborhoods and make it seem further than it is, so he isn’t tempted to run back to get something. It’s best for us to stay away from the house all day in case someone shows up. People usually check in before dark. There’s still a risk at night, but if someone wasn’t here Sunday night, it’s not likely they’re coming now. Friday it gets dangerous again. But I like this house because it’s kind of run down, so I don’t think they rent it out much. It’s not what I would pick if I were paying. “My uncle always drives over to Manatee instead of walking.”

  * * *

  It’s funny, even when it’s bright and sunny and warm, when I close my eyes, branches and frozen rain are what I expect to see the next time I open them. All I have to do is blink and the shiny palm trees and bright yellow sun are suddenly shocking.

  Justin runs into the water until it’s up to his waist, then dives in, pulling his arms back to hurl himself forward. Strong strokes he probably took lessons to learn, in a clean blue pool with floating ropes to mark out the lanes.

  My mother taught me how to swim in the river in late summer when the water was low and calm. She’d hold me with both arms under my belly. She’d say, “Kick your legs, baby,” and I’d get mad at her for calling me baby when I was a big girl.

  The next summer, when we went, she sat on the rocks on the shore, humming to herself, twisting her hair with her index finger and watching it uncurl. I swam alone, under the water, pretending I was a mermaid, testing my lungs to see how far I could get on one breath. I wonder if she ever panicked when I disappeared into the yellow-brown water. Or maybe she wished I’d never come back up.

  The summer after that, she was gone.

  I don’t follow Justin out to the big, rolling distant waves. Swimming like a mermaid is silly in the face of his perfect, metered strokes. I never learned to really swim, with my head above the surface. I shed my skirt, walk in shoulder-deep, and float on my back until the waves push me to shore.

  * * *

  “Shit,” Justin says, tilting his head to shake water from his ear. “We didn’t grab towels from the house.”

  “Here,” I say, handing him my skirt. He looks at me funny but uses it to wipe his face. He’s not used to making the most of what’s in front of him.

  “We’ll dry fast in the sun,” I say.

  He hands the skirt back to me and I spread it on the sand so we can sit down.

  “Don’t you want to put it back on?” he asks, eyeing my tank top and underwear. He seems embarrassed, but they’re black. It’s not like they’re see-through. Everything’s covered. Bathing suits are expensive.

  “I’m good,” I say, but I hate watching him take in the frayed strap of my tank top and the outline of my nipples in wet cotton. I hate the way he looks around to see if anyone is watching us. I try to ignore the twinge of shame creeping up from my chest, like when all the other kids in my class had big packs of pristine crayons in September and I had the same old sandwich bag of broken ones from a rummage sale.

  Once he’s sure no one is paying any particular attention to us, he sits on my skirt next to me.

  “Not a big swimmer?” he asks.

  “Nah,” I say, “not really.” But I do love the water. It makes me feel better. If Justin weren’t here, I’d have stayed in, swimming under waves until my fingers pruned up and salt burned my nose. We’re all small at the ocean; none of us have control. I like being reminded of that.

  We stare out at the waves. We’re waterlogged and sun-touched. It makes us quiet.

  Once we’re mostly dry, we get hot dogs at a snack bar across the street from the beach. I hate hot dogs, but they’re cheap. Justin orders three and a soda. He has no understanding of money, or the fact that everything always costs so much more than it seems like it will. I try not to be the kind of person who’s always running calculations, but I can’t shut my brain off. We won’t get back to Binghamton on what I have left.

  I grab a free tourist newspaper from a plastic stand by the register. We shoo seagulls off the only empty table. Justin eats his first hot dog in two bites and is on to the second before I even start mine. I thumb through the paper to the “Happenings!” page and check the music listings while I eat. Ollie’s—the bar where I play when I’m here—has shows listed for the rest of the week. A cover band, some girl I’ve never heard of, a reggae band, and this guy who plays Beatles covers on the ukulele. I saw the ukulele guy play the last time I was here. He’s awful. But he’s booked. If they didn’t have anyone, I’m sure I could play. They’re always nice to me. But there’s no point in asking now. I wouldn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable and ruin a chance in the future.

  “Was your hot dog bad?” Justin says when he finishes his third. He crumples his paper plate and tosses it into the garbage can.

  “It was fine,” I say, forcing a smile.

  “You had a look on your face like—” Justin exaggerates a pout.

  “Just thinking,” I say, shaking my head. “We need funds. I’m going to have to play.”

  “Oh, cool,” he says, smile full of hot dog bits. He reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “I like hearing you play.” And it’s nice, the way he likes me. It is nice.

  * * *

  “I thought you meant like at a bar or something,” Justin says when I stop to get my guitar from the car on the way back to the beach.

  “Getting a gig takes time,” I say. “The places I know here are booked. You can’t just walk in someplace and play.”

  “You do at Arnie’s.”

  “But that’s Arnie. I don’t have that here.”

  “Is it legal?” he asks. He looks truly worried. I wonder if he’s imagining a phone call to his dad from jail.

  “I’m not killing anyone.”

  “I mean, do you need a permit or something?”

  “Not unless someone complains.”

  “But what if they do?”

  “They’re not going to arrest us. At worst, someone will ask us to leave.”

  He looks at me like I’m suggesting we knock off a liquor store or throw water balloons at babies.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “We don’t have other options.”

  I claim a patch of sand near the path everyone takes to get from the parking lot to the beach, sit cross-legged with my guitar, and throw a f
ew crumpled ones in my open case so people will know what to do.

  Justin stands awkwardly next to me, shifting his weight from one foot to the other while I tune my guitar.

  “Sit down, at least,” I say. “You’re going to make people nervous.”

  “We’re not even totally out of money,” he says, kneeling next to me.

  And the way he says we makes me angry.

  “How are you going to get home, then?” I say, maybe a little bit snotty. It’s not like future account managers can set up on the beach and manage for loose change. I’m the only one who can get us back to Binghamton.

  Justin rakes his fingers through the sand and doesn’t look at me. Maybe he’s embarrassed for his situation, not just embarrassed by me. I don’t want to feel like he’s a liability. I don’t want to treat him like he is. I’m scared I’m not made for other people and I wonder if this is how my mom felt inside too. If maybe she works best wandering out in the world alone—if the way Justin feels like an anvil tied to my leg is how she felt about me.

  “Go swimming,” I tell him. “I think I’ll do better on my own.”

  There’s relief on his face, but he walks down to the water slowly, looking back a few times. To make sure I’m okay. Or maybe to try and figure out if I’m angry.

  I play Buckets of Rain. I can always count on Dylan.

  Justin dives into the waves. A big family walks by—four little kids in varying sizes and stages of undress, and a mom, dad, and teenager armored by beach chairs, firm grips on their umbrellas, like they’re about to do battle with the sea. The smallest of the children, a little girl with big red curls, wearing only a diaper, walks right over to me, fat little feet sinking in the sand. She touches my guitar while I’m playing.

  “Imogene!” the mom yells.

  “It’s fine,” I say, smiling. I switch to playing If You’re Happy and You Know It. Imogene squeals and claps and stamps her feet. She slips to her knees, sitting in front of me. The other kids sit next to her.