Deviations (3 page)

She pulled a plastic card from a drawer and slid
it across to him. He was back in the car in twenty seconds.

I said, “No paperwork?”

“Gave her three twenties and asked her to do it
for me.” He started the car and drove us seventy-five feet, parking outside
room 115.

We walked inside. What I like best about the
Driftwood is that the rooms never smell. No Lysol, no cigarettes, no BO. The
carpet and the curtains were old enough to not be putting out any chemicals but
not so old they’d picked up that tangy funk of hard sex that slapped you when
you opened the door at one of the hourly fuck joints out on 21.

The guy walked over to the TV, picked up the
remote, and sat in what passed for a soft chair. “You want to use the
bathroom?” he said. This was a good sign, him not pushing me up against the
wall right away and grabbing at my pants.

“Thanks.” I carried my big shoulder bag into the
bathroom and turned on the tap to make some noise while I peed. I did a quick
cleanup, leaving the toothbrush and mouthwash for him on the glass shelf above
the sink. Most guys don’t think of things like that. I placed a condom there,
too, and came back out.

When he went into the bathroom, I turned off the
TV and put my shoulder bag on the floor next to the right side of the bed,
which I prefer. I’ve found keeping it nearby means I don’t need to buy so many
new wallets.

I picked up one of the two plastic cups from the
desk, tore off the plastic wrapper, and placed it on the night table near my
side of the bed. Pulled the JD from my bag, broke the seal, and filled the cup.
I stripped, hanging my clothes over the back of the chair at the desk, pulled
back the covers, and got into bed. The ceiling was that popcorn texture, which
is supposed to be good at keeping the noise down. Right over my head, the
popcorn was stained. I scanned the rest of the ceiling, noting four other
places.

I took a couple long swallows of the JD, preparation
being key for activities like this.

The guy came out of the bathroom and turned out
the overhead light. I heard him strip and walk over to my side of the bed. I didn’t
smell any toothpaste or mouthwash. Maybe a bad sign, but maybe he just wasn’t
planning on getting anywhere near my face.

He pulled the blanket and sheet off of me and
slapped my hip, a little harder than necessary to get me to slide over. I did
it. He straddled me. He didn’t want to kiss me, which was fine. Didn’t want to
have anything to do with my tits, either. Also fine.

My eyes were adjusting to the dim light coming
into the room from around the edges of the white plastic window shade. His dick
was average, thick enough but a little short. I could see he was hard, which
was good because maybe he wouldn’t make me suck him. He unwrapped the condom
and put it on. He was on task, a man on a mission.

He slapped the inside of my right thigh, and I spread
my legs as he moved his knees between them. The juices don’t flow for me
anymore, so I had lubed up. It didn’t hurt much when he entered me. Nothing he
did felt good, of course, but, to tell the truth, I can’t remember the last
time anything down there felt good. But I was officially getting laid. Which, if
I had to guess, was the goal.

He pumped steady, like a machine. He had his palms
on the mattress and his arms straight, so he wasn’t touching anything he didn’t
have to to get the job done. I could feel his prick going a little soft after two
or three minutes, but I calculated that he’d likely have enough left to come
before he went limp. I hoped so, anyway. It didn’t make any difference from my
perspective, naturally, since he could have been swirling a toilet brush around
in a bowl for all I was feeling. But it’s better if the guy comes. It’s a pride
thing. I’d rather see him strut around afterwards like a fuck god than get all
surly and want to explain himself. You don’t come to the Driftwood to talk to strangers.

Eventually, he did come. He didn’t lie down on the
bed or anything, just pushed hard one last time, and the mattress stopped
rocking. He pulled out and got right off the bed and went into the bathroom.

I turned over on my side, lifted myself onto an
elbow, and drained the cup of JD. I lay back down, my right hand reaching for
the familiar leather of the strap on my bag. I drifted off or down or out.
Didn’t know where I was, except that it wasn’t room 115 at the Driftwood.

Later, I heard the guy coming out of the bathroom,
walking around. Then I felt the mattress shift, like he was getting into bed
next to me. That happens. He’d paid his sixty bucks, he was going to use the
room a little bit more. I let my mind drift back to wherever I was.

I felt the mattress shift again, and I smelled him
as he started to straddle me. I started to turn over to look up at him, figure
out what was happening. Guys like this, who had to work real hard to come once,
they don’t tend to tee it up again ten minutes later.

I was on my back, starting to sit up, when I felt
his left hand on my throat. He had all his weight on me, holding me down.

“The fuck are you doing?” I said, panic in my
voice, before the pressure on my windpipe shut me up. His hand was gripping my
throat hard, cutting off my breathing. He tightened the grip. I fought to break
it with my hands, but he was too strong. With my left arm I hit him inside his
elbow. His arm bent for a second, then locked back in, tighter than ever. I was
starting to see red circles. That’s when his right hand came out of nowhere and
smacked me across the jaw.

I lay back, stunned, tasting the blood warm in my
mouth where my teeth had cut the inside of my cheek.

Then I felt the hot liquid on my stomach and my
chest. He was pissing on me. “Whore,” he said, his voice low and steady. He
repeated the word a few more times as I tried again to break his lock on my
neck. But his grip was secure. I couldn’t breathe. My arms fell to my side and
the room went black.

Sometime later I regained consciousness. I could breathe
again, although my windpipe was still sore, and my jaw hurt like hell from
where he slugged me. I reached down with my left hand to feel for my bag. It
was still there. I unzipped the inside pocket and pulled out my pistol.

I got out of bed, still naked, full of sticky
half-dry piss, and cleared the bathroom. I came back into the main room and
checked for my wallet. For some reason, he hadn’t taken it. I saw the plastic
room key on the desk as I went over to the door and locked it.

I showered and got dressed. Wobbly, I walked back
toward my own car, which I had parked a few blocks from Callahan’s. I brushed
the parking meters with my jacket sleeve, staying as far as I could from the
dark alleys between the old brick and stone buildings on Madison. I didn’t
think the guy’s idea of a full evening’s fun included Jump the Whore, but I hadn’t
expecting to get pissed on and beat up, either. The Colt tucked into my waist,
hidden by my nylon jacket, felt good.

It was about one o’clock. Outside the bar, a couple
of regulars were saying goodnight to each other, full of eighty-proof affection,
giving back-slaps and hugs, like they were heading off to war and might not see
each other again. Most likely, they’d meet up again at ten
am,
right here, when the bar re-opened,
and salute each other with a boozy greeting after having endured eight hours
apart.

That’s the thing about drunks: they get into
patterns that are probably going to kill them, and they don’t even realize it.

I made it home, threw my bag on the coffee table,
and walked into the bathroom. There were red spots around my neck, where he’d
busted some blood vessels, and my left cheek had a girlish pink glow from where
he’d slugged me. I looked in the mirror. I really didn’t like what I saw. I
didn’t like it one damn bit.

Chapter 2

“Hi, my name is Karen.” My
last name is Seagate, but you’re not supposed to use last names here. It’s 3:40
pm
, and I’m in the basement of
the Senior Center, what they call the activity room. The walls, cement block painted
robin’s egg blue, are covered with shiny posters showing old people smiling toothy
smiles and acting all alive. Pushing the grandkid on a swing, helping a little
girl roll out the dough on the counter, doing the wave at the stadium. Looks
fulfilling. To be honest, though, most of the time I see Granny and Gramps,
they’re not living the full life. But I know what posters are for: to point you
in a direction, give you hope. You won’t see any pics of blurry oldsters
cutting their blood-pressure meds so they can afford some mac and cheese before
the next payment arrives.

On the question of honesty, let me be frank. I
lie. A lot. Not just your basic “I’m fine, thanks” lies. After all, when some
guy at work is walking past you in the hall and asks how you’re doing, does he
really need to hear that there’s a huge fucking black hole in the center of your
universe and you can’t wait to get sucked in so your soul will stop hurting? I don’t
think he needs that.

No, I also lie when people ask me real questions,
even when there’s no need to lie. What kind of car do I drive? It’s a Ford. With
Honda written all over it. Am I married? Absolutely. Before the divorce. What
do I do? I’m a police detective in Rawlings, Montana. Actually, was. You want
to just back off, please? If I want you to know something about me, I’ll tell
you. But don’t hold your breath.

Okay, maybe part of it is that my answers are kind
of depressing. I don’t mind depressing other people, of course, but I see no
reason to depress myself more than necessary. After all, I’ve got some shit to
be depressed about. I’m forty-two, out of work, out of luck, out of ideas, out
of hope. Out of just about anything that could do me some good. Wait, let me
try that again: I’m fine, thanks. You?

A dozen people were sitting in cheap plastic
stacking chairs arranged in a circle. They were all between twenty and seventy,
and every one of them was looking at me. There was a lot of denim, scuffed
shoes, t-shirts, maybe a little more ink than you’d get with a random dozen,
but not that much more than you see every day here in town. They were all
reacting to “Hi, my name is Karen.” To be more specific, they were reacting to
what I didn’t say after that.

The younger ones looked the most hostile. One guy,
twenty-eight or thirty, looked like a typical Breaking & Entering. Some
Chinese characters on the insides of both his arms. The tattoo guy probably
told him it says
courage
or
freedom
or some horseshit like that.
More likely, it says
asshole.
Grungy jeans and running shoes, untied, no
socks. Greasy hair down to the faded Marlboro t-t-shirtshirt that he got free
for a carton’s worth of coupons. Five packs is enough to hook you, then five
more, just to be safe. For a four-dollar t-shirt carrying an ad for the product
there’s a pretty good chance is going to kill you. In other words, he was a
real brainiac. His expression was hardass, based on all his life wisdom. Just
because I didn’t say those four damn words.

A woman my age. I’d never busted her, but ten-to-one
she’s got a long string of convictions for possession. Just recreational, not
with intent to sell. Some of the guys who’d crashed in her doublewide, they
might’ve been dealers, but she had no idea, honest. Ratty sweatshirt and gym-gray
K-Mart stretch pants that weren’t doing much to hide that volleyball in front. A
screaming red dye job with a good two inches of gray roots. Blotchy skin,
couple teeth gone. She was giving me the tough-love look, like we were sisters.
Saying you might’ve started out a little better, but here we are, together in
the senior-center basement. We’re just the same, her eyes are saying. Hell no,
we’re not.

The older ones were showing a little less attitude.
A Vietnam-era guy, his scalp a checkerboard of liver spots, a silver fringe tied
back in a puny ponytail, a big gold hoop ring in his left ear. The USMC on his bicep
was pale now, but the purple dragon with blood-dripping teeth on his forearm was
recent. All in all, a pitiful package, but his eyes were kind. They said it’s
good that you’re here. You’ll start where you have to start.

Next to him, a sixty-year-old woman in wool
slacks, cable-knit sweater, professional hair. Looked like she works for United
Way in fundraising, has a place in the California desert for when we start our
seven-month winter. She smiled at me—not a hostile smile like she’s figured me
out and I’m wasting everybody’s time. More like she’s been where I am. It will
come when it’s ready. You’re welcome here anyway.

A guy wearing a three-piece suit, pinstripe, five-hundred
bucks, easy. Silk tie, blue and reds, maybe a little short of a hundred.
Oxblood loafers. With tassels, for God’s sake. Where did he even buy those
things? He looked mid-fifties, dark brown hair, thick, going gray. Long, strong
face leading down to a tough-guy jaw. Thing that stood out was his blue eyes,
not Paul Newman but even lighter. Icy. He looked like the kind of dad you’d
love if he wanted to teach you how to fish but hate if he wanted to teach you a
lesson.

He held a steady gaze at me after I said my name. I
almost recognized his face. I knew I’d seen him before, but I’ve seen a lot of
men in their fifties. His expression said, Can’t you do anything right?

No, sir, I guess I can’t. If I could, I wouldn’t
be here now, would I?

Everyone was looking at me. Asses fidgeted in
chairs; throats cleared; eyebrows lifted. I realized I hadn’t said anything in
a while. I didn’t know how long: a few seconds, a couple of minutes, an hour
and a half. Apparently, “Hi, my name is Karen”—with or without the next four
words—wasn’t good enough for this group. They could cut me some slack; this was
my first puke party.

The words started coming. “I was thinking about
what I was going to say. Earlier today. But I didn’t come up with much. It’s
not that nothing’s happened to me. I mean, if you’re forty-two, something must’ve
happened. But I couldn’t pinpoint anything that would help you understand what
happened. That would, you know, explain how I … how I created this opportunity
to talk with you today.

“My life was pretty nice for a long time. When I
was a kid, I mean. My parents—I’ll call them Mom and Dad—were fine. I mean,
they were my parents, so I didn’t always like them, you know? Mom was a
housewife. These days she’d be called a homemaker. She made our home.

“I didn’t give her much trouble. I was a good
student, didn’t get in trouble too often. My sister, Kathy, she was a different
story. This was when kids like Kathy were called inattentive. I remember once a
teacher wrote that she was unruly. Really, what she was, we later found out,
was some kind of autistic. Lots of fighting, screaming, pissing everybody off.
Bad in school, bad at home, bad at relationships. Bad at everything. She
kinda disappeared during her junior year in high school. Well, not exactly ‘kinda
disappeared.’ She officially disappeared. As in, hasn’t been seen since.

“Then, Dad disappeared. That one was your typical
Dad Disappearance. Mom had fallen apart—she had a right, I can see that now—so
Dad packed up one day and left. He’s in Virginia now, in some kind of facility,
where he’s dying of something.

“So, anyway, with Kathy gone, then my mom losing
it, then my father gone, well, this really noisy house got awful quiet. Even
before that, I’d learned to stay in my room whenever I could. My mother was
drinking all the time, and she didn’t mind if I had some, too. Didn’t mind or
didn’t know, maybe some of both.

“Between blackouts she had it together enough to
see that our house wasn’t exactly providing the kind of nurturing environment,
blah blah. Anyway, she wanted me to get out of there, so off I went to the
state university, which was fine and all. I was drinking every day, so, from
what I remember, I fit in fine there.

“My mom’s not doing too good these days. I don’t
feel guilty about getting out of there. It was important to her, the most
important thing, she said. I don’t feel guilty about it. She lives a long way
from here. We talk on the phone when I get a chance.

“Anyway, got through college, fell in love with
this guy named Bruce, married him. We had this wonderful boy, Tommy, he’s fifteen.
Bruce split. Nothing traumatic—nothing even interesting about it. I just got a
little older, which apparently wasn’t part of the deal. Tommy lives with Bruce
and his current girlfriend. She’s fine, good to Tommy. A little young for my
taste, but just right for Bruce. I could tell her about what might happen if she
gets old, but for some reason she doesn’t come around for advice.

“About why I was fired. I was a detective here in
Rawlings, and I kind of messed up a case. It was a murder, and I—my partner and
me—we had the killer, but I sort of let him go. Not let him go like he’s coming
over to your place tonight in a hockey mask. But I let him kill himself. He was
all busted up. His daughter had just died, which was why he’d flipped out and
killed the guy. Anyway, it wasn’t my call to let him kill himself. I see that.
I saw that then, too. I fucked up the case. It was right to fire me. That’s
what I would have done to me.

“That’s about it. My story. Actually, there’s one
other thing. I got in a car accident a few months ago and hurt a little girl.
She’s out of the hospital now, goes to therapy couple times a week. They think
she’s gonna be okay. You can’t really say for sure about the long-term … the
long-term outcome. That’s the word they use: ‘outcome.’ It was a severe head
trauma. I think I had been drinking.

“So, like I say, I’m going through kind of a rough
patch here. And that might explain … I don’t know, it’s just the normal kind of
shit that happens, and maybe I’m not handling it as well as I could. Anyway,
that’s about all I have to say at the moment.”

My legs went rubber and I sagged into my chair.
The guy running the meeting said, “Thank you, Karen. We appreciate you sharing
like that.” The hardasses were leaning back in their chairs, arms crossed, with
looks that said they’d throw me the hell out of there if they could. Some of
the others sort of smiled at me, some nodding their heads. My glance caught the
guy with the suit and the loafers, but his blue eyes were cold.

I wanted to jump up and run the hell out of there,
but my legs weren’t on-board. I sat there, looking down at the floor. My face
was all hot. It felt like my whole body was throbbing, which I had never experienced
before, even when I was about to pass out or just coming to.

The guy running the meeting started to talk, but
he was under water so I couldn’t understand what he was saying. Then other
people started to talk. I just wanted to get smaller and smaller until I was
the size of a marble rolling around on the seat of my cheap orange plastic
chair. I could tell they weren’t talking to me or about me, so I was real happy
about it.
Happy
being a relative term, you understand. Their words
pushed me back and forth, like I was a cork on a wave. The sound was
indistinct, like the rumble of surf, and therefore somewhat comforting.

A pair of dirty old bedroom slippers entered my
field of vision. My eyes traveled up the gym-gray stretch pants. I recognized
the volleyball belly and the red hair with the gray roots. “What the hell was
that?” she said, hands on her hips, a snarl on her face.

I just looked at her, not saying anything. I was
thinking a few things, such as, What the fuck are you talking about? Who the
fuck are you? Mind getting the fuck out of my face? But I was so wrung out, I
didn’t have the energy for a chat.

“I’m talking to you,” she said, like that meant I
owed her an answer.

I wanted to signal that I wasn’t interested in
small talk at the moment. “Go fuck yourself.”

She came at me, her big belly getting right up in
my face. I started to push her back, but she kept coming at me, like she was
going to lift me to my feet so she could start beating on me.

The guy with the pinstripe suit and the loafers
stepped between us, his arm coming down like a gate. He pushed her away from me.
Not so hard she would fall, but with a kind of authority that said, This isn’t
going to happen here. “Ma’am, I need you to back off, please.” Not asking.
Telling.

She looked at him, a head taller than her. She took
in his suit, and that seemed to do it for her, like if a suit that nice is
telling you to back off, you better do it. She walked away, shaking her head
like the world’s gone to hell when a bitch like me can tell her to go fuck
herself and she doesn’t even get to kick my ass, which I fully deserve.

I focused my eyes on the guy in the suit. He was
standing a few feet away from me. The suit jacket was open. The shirt was so
white it almost hurt. Like snow before it hits the dirt. Clean and cold.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Fine.” I looked at him. He was handsome.
Clear skin stretched tight over a good set of bones. But I couldn’t read it. Like
it had been drawn by a really good artist, just a few quick pencil strokes on a
napkin that added up to an unmistakably human face, but one that didn’t tell
you anything going on behind it, if that makes any sense. The brows were
perfectly symmetrical black arcs. The squint lines that radiated out from his
eyes, paler than the skin on the rest of his face, pointed in toward the black circles
that were his pupils and the icy blue part of his eyes. Between his brows, two
sharp vertical lines led down to the long nose, a couple vertical strokes, then
the age lines flaring out farther until they intersected the lip slashes.

“My name is Robert Murtaugh,” he said.