Blackbirds (12 page)

  The chair is far away now, so Miriam sits down on the floor. She smokes quietly, huddled over, breathing heavy and deep.

  "That's why I don't try to save people," Miriam finally says.

  "Oh."

  Miriam stubs her cigarette out on the hard concrete floor.

  "Now," she says. "What you really want to know is, how did I get this way?"

 
 

 

Waffle House, a staple of the American South, is essentially a greasy yellow coffin. It's small. It's boxy. Half the people inside are little more than animated corpses, stuffing their mouths full of hash browns and sausages and the requisite waffles, their bodies bloating and swelling, their hearts dying. Miriam thinks it's awesome. She eats here because it's just one more nail in the ol' pine box; she can
hear
her arteries clogging, crunchy and crispy like the skin on fried chicken.

  The irony, she thinks, is that you can't smoke in here anymore. Now only the Waffle House waitress is the
approved death merchant.

  Miriam stands outside now. It's spitting rain. Cars drive past. She sees a defunct Circuit City through a haze of smoke, and a little Korean place across the highway sitting next to a Jo Ann Fabrics. In the distance are the yellow lights and dark silhouette of the Charlotte skyline, a neatly arranged picket fence of skyscrapers, hardly the tumbling monstrosity that is New York or Philly.

  She feels perched on an edge. Precariously balanced. She doesn't want to think about the future – she so rarely does anymore, usually just letting life carry her along like she's a discarded Styrofoam cup floating on a lazy, crazy river. But it keeps nagging at her. Worrying with little teeth.

  She's heard that, in lab studies, rats and monkeys who are given the illusion of choice end up relatively healthy. Even if they only have two choices, a lever that doles out an electric shock and a lever that doles out a different electric shock, they at least
feel
like they have some say in their outcome, and end up being much happier and more productive. Rats and monkeys who just get the shock arbitrarily, no choice at all, end up anxious, agitated, chewing out fur and biting holes in their little hands and little feet before dying of cancer or heart death.

  Miriam feels like she has no control. She wonders how long it will be before she's chewing her own fingers down to the bone.

  Of course, it might also be Louis.

  He haunts her. He's not even dead, and she sees his ghost. A chance meeting once, and now she sees glimpses of him in places: standing in a crowd, driving a nearby minivan, in the reflection of the smeary Waffle House window –

  "Miriam?"

  She wheels.

  The ghost is talking to her.

  "Hey," the ghost of Louis says. Except – normally, the ghost has those Xs of electrical tape over bloody eye sockets. This one, not so much. Real eyes. Warm eyes. Watching.

  "You're not a ghost," she says aloud.

  He pauses. Pats himself down as if to make sure he's still physically present. "Nope. And neither are you, from the looks of it."

  "That's debatable." She feels shaken.

  In her head, Louis is dead. It's easier that way. This is harder.

  "What are you doing here?" she asks.

  He laughs. "Eating."

  "I guess that makes sense." She feels embarrassed. A blush rises to her cheeks; that never happens. She tries to think of a witty retort. She can't. She feels unmoored, woefully unprotected. Stripped bare.

  "You want to join me?"

  She wants to run.

  Instead, she says, "I just finished."

  "Sure," he says.

  And then they stand, sharing silence and the whisper of rain.

  "Listen," he finally says. "I think I maybe messed things up back in the truck. I think maybe I gave off the wrong impression, like I was some kind of weirdo. And heck, maybe I am. It's just – I don't meet a lot of nice people. I didn't mean to get strange or act out, and I didn't mean to put you on the spot about going out sometime."

  Miriam tries not to laugh, but she laughs. He looks hurt, and she waves him off. "I'm not laughing at you, dude, I'm laughing at me. At the situation. Irony is alive and well. You're the farthest thing from weird. You're a
thousand million miles
from weird. Trust me. I'm the odd duck. Not you. You're just a guy. A very nice guy. I'm the crazy bitch who had a spaz attack."

  "No, I get it – long night, long highway, stressful situations, it's all good." Louis pulls a crumpled receipt from his jeans pocket and fishes out a pen. He presses the receipt up against the Waffle House window and writes something, then gives it to her. "That's my number. My cell; I don't have a landline anymore. I can't pick up another load for a few days – the economy basically fell off the horse and it hurts the little guys like me – but that means I'm still around."

  "You're still around," she says.
Knife in eye. Slurping sound.
Miriam?
"Well. I dunno."

  "Who's this?" Ashley asks, coming out of the Waffle House, rangy arms crossed, a defensive posture. "Friend of yours?"

  "No," she says. "Yes. I dunno. He gave me a ride."

  Louis towers over Ashley. He's a pillar, a monolith. Ashley is just a wind-blown blade of grass in his shadow. Doesn't stop him from sticking his chin out and puffing up his chest. The two men stare bullets at each other.

  "This your old boyfriend?" Louis asks.

  "What? The black-eye boyfriend?" Miriam can't help but laugh. "No. Gods, no."

  "Good meeting you, big guy," Ashley says. "We gotta split. See you later."

  "Okay," Louis says. "I get it. I'm going to go inside, get a waffle."

  Ashley smiles. "Smart way to play it, buddy."

  Louis just grunts, and it's like the air has been sucked out of him. He's a big guy, like Ashley said, but suddenly he looks very small. Louis tosses Miriam a sad look over his shoulder, then heads inside. Ashley makes a jerk-off motion with his hand. "Toodle-oo, fucker," he says, laughing.

 
 

 

Still night. Still pissing rain.

  Ashley presses her up against the brick wall. He parked the car. He said he wanted to show her something. They got out, and now here they are. The city's noises play around them – mild for a city, but still loud: the honking, the yelling, the laughing, the music drifting from somewhere far away.

  Miriam feels the brick against her back. Ashley's up against her.

  "Fuck off of me," she says, pushing him back. But he moves right back into place, like one of those clowns you punch down just so he can stand back up, grinning.

  "You knew him," he whispers, chuckling. "The trucker."

  "He gave me a ride. He's just a guy."

  She smells his breath. Mint. She's surprised to see him lolling a Lifesaver around on his tongue. Miriam hopes her breath smells like an ashtray.

  Ashley's nose touches her own; then his cheek is against her cheek. His skin is smooth. No stubble. Feminine, almost. Hot breath reaches her ear.

  "Just a guy? I don't buy it. You like him."

  "I don't like him."

  "No, you don't like
me
. But you do like him."

  He bites her earlobe. Not hard enough to draw blood. But hard enough.

  She pushes him away. He laughs. His hands hold her hips.

  "I don't give a shit about that guy. I don't give a shit about anybody."

  Ashley searches her face. She feels his eyes on her. The way his gaze roams, it's like a pair of hands. She gets a rush. Her heart flutters like a bird with a broken wing.

  "Something else is going on here," he says. His thumb undoes the top button of her jeans. His fingers play idly around the waistband. His eyes widen. Revelation. "He's your mark."

  "Fuck you. Get your hands out of my pants."

  She says it and doesn't mean it.

  He asks her the big question.

  "
When does he die
?"

  His hand slides down deeper. His fingers tease at her. She's getting wet like a hot summer day, sodden like a swamp, and she hates it.

  "Go to hell."

  His fingers move up inside her. She gasps.

  "Let me help you."

  "I don't need your help." She wants to moan. She stifles it.

  "He's a trucker. Truckers have lots of money. I'll help you get it."

  "I said, I don't need–" He does this thing with thumb and forefinger. She shuts up. She feels weak. Controlled. Like she's a robot and he's got the remote control.

  "You definitely need something."

  His fingers thrust harder.

  He laughs.

 

Motel room. Floral print bedspread. Gold-rimmed mirror with the old showbiz-style lights marking its perimeter. A painting of a magnolia tree on the wall. The room is clean, but smells of mold ill-concealed by disinfectant.

  Miriam sits at the edge of the bed, smoking. She eyes the metal suitcase, wondering what's in it.

  Naked, she massages the carpet with her toes. Another motel. Another fuck. Another cigarette. Circles and circles, the spinning snake, the endless carousel. She wants a drink to drown in.

  Ashley comes out of the bedroom, brushing his teeth with one hand, hiking on a pair of boxers with the other.

  "Rapist," she says.

  "Can't rape the willing," he snaps back with a wink.

  "I know. Besides, I could've broken your jaw. I just want you to feel icky, is all."

  Around the toothbrush, he gleefully mumbles, "I don't."

  "I know that, too."

  Back in the bathroom, he swishes, spits, and swishes again.

  "No means no," she calls after him.

  "Not usually," he calls back, before exiting the bathroom. He wipes toothpaste froth from his chin with the back of his hand. "So let's hear the deets."

  "The deets."

  "Of the trucker's death."

  "Louis. His name is Louis."

  "Uh-huh. Whatever. His first name is
Mark
. His last name is
Victim.
He's got money, I know that much. Truckers always have money. They get big paydays but don't have the time or the place to spend it – unless they're married. He married?"

  "Wife left him, he says."

  She feels queasy. Traitorous. A dirty quisling.

  "Then he's got money. Probably doesn't keep it in a bank, either, because one day you're in Toledo, the next you're in Portland, the third day you're in Assfuck, New Mexico – if you can't find a bank, and you want money, you gotta pay all those fees. Plus, half these trucker assholes are cranked up on amphetamines they buy at rest stops. Dealers and pimps don't take debit cards. Trust me."

  "He's not a dope fiend."

  Ashley shrugs. "Yeah, you know him
so well
. So, back to the original question: How does he bite it? Car wreck? That'll suck, because he probably keeps the cash in his truck. Won't help us if it all burns up."

  "He dies in a lighthouse. In–" She does some quick math. "Two weeks. Fourteen days."

  "How?"

  "I'm not telling."

  "That's awfully fourth grade of you."

  "It's private. It's his death."

  "You get to know it."

  She takes a drag off her smoke. "And I wish I didn't."

  "Fine. Whatever. A lighthouse is at least a scenic way to go, so how nice for him. We're in North Carolina, and up the coast are what I imagine to be a shit-ton of lighthouses." He starts pacing. "Okay, here's the plan. Get close to him. Call him tomorrow. Go out with him. We got two weeks, so we need to know where he's going to be when he sucks the pipe."

  "That's your genius plan?
That's
why I need you?"

  He shrugs. "I didn't hear you come up with it."

  "And tell me, why don't we just take his money while he's still alive?"

  "
Because
people who are alive don't like you taking their stuff. People who are dead make fewer calls to 911."

  She watches him carefully. "And none of this bothers you? You're not jealous?"

  "I don't mind being green with envy if I'm also green with a wad of hundred-dollar bills," he says. "Now let's hit the sack. I'm beat."

 

 

 

Miriam jolts awake. A shadow passes over her eyes.

  She sits up. Her eyes adjust to the darkness. Ashley lies next to her, unmoving.

  Her eyes catch sight of the shadow again – it eases into the corner, then ducks into the bathroom, a whispery, crinkly sound accompanying the drifting shape.

  She reaches down over the edge of the bed, her hand darting into her messenger bag and coming up with the butterfly knife, a knife she bought at a flea market in Delaware for six bucks. Soundlessly, she flips open the blade.

  Her feet touch carpet. Gentle steps stalking the shape.

  Her free hand slides along the wall around the doorframe of the bathroom. Fingers find the light switch.

  
Click.
Harsh, garish light.

  Her heart stops.

  A red Mylar balloon floats in the upper corner of the bathroom. It bobs and shifts. On the balloon is a picture of a cake, and above the cake, written in the cartoony flames of the cake's candles, is a message:
Happy Birthday, Miriam.

  "It's not my birthday," she says, apparently talking to the balloon.

  The balloon shifts – another whispery
crinkle
– and drifts to the center of the room. Miriam looks at herself in the mirror. Both eyes are bruised. A rime of crusted blood rings her nostrils.