Suspicious River (16 page)

My father was already in the waiting room when I came through the door like something gasped up by a wave, the counselor’s hand still clinging to my own. Where had the other hand gone? His had been clammy as a dead man’s. I couldn’t adjust my eyes to the light, but it was warm and dry in the clinic, and it glowed like pink light filtered through powdered milk, or ashes.

My father looked at the floor, shook his head. The counselor put an arm around me and squeezed. Then she and the woman who’d helped my father through the crowd went back outside. More headlights. Someone wailed over a megaphone, “Abortion is murder,” and then a grown man’s voice imitating a child’s, “Mommy, Mommy. Don’t murder me. Don’t let them butcher your baby.”

“Jesus,” the receptionist said, rolling her eyes.

“I should go,” I said to Gary.

His head was on my chest.

I’d had my fingers in his hair, and the hair felt soft between them, like a dark web. I felt blunt and numb between my legs, as if I were in love, but my heart was still beating hard in my chest, and it nudged me to get up. It nudged me toward home, though I could barely remember where that was.

Gary looked up at me and said, “I want you to sleep here with me tonight. In my arms.”

“I can’t,” I said, though I wanted to sleep in his arms.

I felt lazy, stupid, my body strung to his with thick wet threads.

There was something about his voice that was as familiar as my own when I heard it. Something about the smell of his beard, the soft stitches of black hair across his chest. His body was no larger than mine. He was thin as a child, and when I clung to him while we made love, I could feel his ribs where they wrapped around his back. His sweat didn’t smell like a stranger’s.

“I don’t want to go either,” I said, “but—”

He put a finger over my mouth and said, “I know. You have to go. What time will you be back tomorrow?”

He took his finger from my mouth then and pushed it between my legs. I couldn’t answer, gasping. I couldn’t even open my eyes. He said, “No, Leila. I’ll tell you. You’ll be back here by two in the afternoon.” I opened my eyes and looked at him. His face had moved closer to mine. He said, “You belong to me tomorrow.”

“It’s my day off,” I said.

“Not anymore,” he said.

Rick was asleep when I got home. I took my clothes off and threw them on the floor in a corner of the bathroom, and I put on a T-shirt of his that had been hanging on a hook behind the bathroom door. I pulled the afghan on the couch over my legs, up to my waist, and I woke in what seemed like one flash to the acid smell of coffee.

It was morning, and Rick was drinking a cup of it in the kitchen when I came in. Sun poured over the white appliances, and they pulsed with light.

“Leila.” He didn’t look up. “Where were you so late last night? I called the motel and Samantha said you left right at eleven.”

“I did,” I said, pouring the black water into a cup. Weak steam rose in a rippling stripe from the coffee pot. “But I got invited to a party, and I went.”

“At the motel?” He looked up then, astonished or confused, and his eyes looked sticky, still, with sleep. His shoulders were bony as a scarecrow’s under the cloth of his thin T-shirt.

“Yeah,” I said, closing my eyes as I swallowed the hot coffee.

“Well, Jesus, Leila, you could’ve called.” He sounded exhausted as he said it, and I knew he wouldn’t argue.

“I know,” I said, “I’m sorry.”

“You know, it’s not a big deal, Leila, but I don’t like to go to sleep not knowing if you’re coming home or not.” He turned his hands up on the table. “I mean, I really think we should look for another job for you. Something with regular hours so we can have a regular life, Leila. This is ridiculous.”

“I have to work this afternoon, too,” I said, opening my eyes wider when I looked into his.

“What?” He made a V with his eyebrows, but he didn’t seem angry. Until that moment I hadn’t noticed how much larger his eyes had become as he’d become thinner. He looked like an animal, starving, but not frantic. Calm, or blank. Like a hungry animal crawling out of a hole into the light.

“Yeah,” I said, “Millie’s sick.”

“For god’s sake, Leila, doesn’t Mrs. Briggs think you have a life?”

“I don’t think Mrs. Briggs cares.” I shrugged.

“What time are you supposed to go in?”

“I have to be there by two.”

“Great,” he said, picking his coffee spoon off the kitchen table, putting it back down. “Great.” He shook his head.

I looked into my cup. A funnel cloud rose out of it, but I was thinking about Gary Jensen’s hands on me. How he’d spread my legs on the bed in his room and said, “Show me, sweetheart. I’m going to kiss it away.” When he’d said that, my body had felt used up and brand-new at the same time.

I looked back up at Rick, and his body looked that way, too—something entirely new, remade from the waste of the familiar same.

I
HEAR THEM
through the bedroom wall. My mother’s crying.

“Shut the fuck up.” His voice cracks as he says it. “You stupid piece of ass.” Each word is a breath: “Shut—the—fuck—up.”

“I’m sorry,” she gasps it, “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“How the hell could you do this to me? How the hell could you do this to me? Jesus, Bonnie. I thought you loved me.” Now he sounds like a child, “But you’re a whore is all. You’re just a stupid whore.” Helpless. He sobs.

“Andy.” Her voice is high. “Don’t say that. Please.”

“God.” He’s sobbing harder now. “Look at me. Look at me, Bonnie. I’ve been running around for years with my brother’s wife. Sneaking and lying like a goddamn snake, thinking it’s bad enough you’re still sleeping with him, and I find out you’ve been fucking some lawyer on the side the whole damn time.” He breathes in short, fast stabs, then he continues to sob, “Why? Bonnie? Why?”

Silence.

Silence, then his sobbing.

Maybe she is enjoying his wet gasps. Now she knows he loves her, no matter what she does, that she is the one killing him.

There’s a fresh edge to the silence, and my mother slashes it, emotionless, saying, “Andy, I haven’t been fucking him the whole time.” She even sounds impatient. “A couple times. We need the money, Andy, you know that.”

He cries harder, higher, more like a child, “I’d have given you the money. You didn’t need the money, Bonnie. Just admit it’s all I’m asking you to do. You just wanted to fuck him. That’s all. Just admit it.” But it sounds as if he’s begging. Pure gold fear. A dog about to be kicked.

Her voice is lower when she speaks again, lower, like something rising from a small lake in the middle of the night. Dark ghost voice. Liquid, and someone else’s entirely. Afterward, she even starts to laugh:

“O.K.,” she says, “Andy, you’re right. If that’s what you want to hear. I wanted to fuck him, and I fucked him a hundred times and loved it.”

She doesn’t scream when he slaps her laughter in the face.

I hear him slap her and slap her again; I hear just him, a low groan in his throat each time he slaps her.

I listen to it in the green dark of my bedroom as if it were something on a television in another room, canned.

Or the sound of the radiator kicking off and on.

The washing machine, rocking hard, learning to walk.

Not caring whether or not it will ever stop.

On the way out of the apartment building, I passed the woman from upstairs as she came into the building. She was carrying a plastic bag of green apples. The apples looked small and sour in her hands, and her hair looked gray in the bright light. I hadn’t noticed the gray before. I’d thought her hair was the same color as mine. The woman was pregnant now, too, and she walked with her head thrown back, as if her spine ached, leaning into the emptiness behind her like a swan.

It was Indian summer again. After the day of rain, another dusty afternoon of sun in Suspicious River. A prism of it moved back and forth across my arms as I drove, and it clamped my wrist for a moment with light, then slipped up my elbow like a bangle.

I slowed down at the corner as a long funeral procession of Oldsmobiles and Lincoln Town Cars passed, led by a hearse which crept and bulged like a black snake that had just swallowed a small child, whole. I could see a casket in the back behind a ruffled curtain. Mahogany, and bright. Little orange flags with black crosses flapped from the antennas of the marked cars, and those flags filled the air with the sound of snapping wings. I waited at the side of the road, counting, until they were out of sight.

When I pulled into the parking lot of the Swan Motel, it was 2:30, and I parked as far from the office as I could, hoping Samantha or Millie wouldn’t see the car, or that Mrs. Briggs wouldn’t notice it if she happened to come in that afternoon to reprimand Millie.

An older woman from Fennville took our day-off shifts, and she had my hours that evening. But if the woman from Fennville saw my car, she’d think nothing of it, I knew. She didn’t notice much. When she wasn’t working part-time at the Swan Motel, she ran a beauty shop out of her basement, styled hair—though her own hair was long and unkempt, hanging down tangled over her shoulders the way I imagined my mother’s Spanish moss had hung sticky and clotted in the Louisiana trees.

The woman from Fennville complained a lot about the Swan Motel and its guests, with a sneer like someone terribly depressed, someone who’d barely managed to get out of bed that day, who didn’t wash her coffee cup, who wouldn’t pull up the shades in the living room because she hated the weather, no matter what it was—someone who couldn’t help but blame her bitterness on all the smiling people on vacation in their coordinated outfits in Suspicious River at the Swan Motel.

When I thought about that woman, I didn’t want to live to be forty.

Gary Jensen was sitting on the hood of his Thunderbird with the heel of one boot up on the fender, smoking a cigarette. He looked up when he saw me pull in, and then he walked around his car, got in the driver’s side; his face disappeared behind the glass as he slammed the car door shut, vanishing, then, into the belly of all that silver, steel, and smooth chrome flooded with sun.

I ran across the parking lot toward his Thunderbird, so much light bouncing off the car that I had to squint, even with my hand like a visor at my forehead, clutching the red vinyl purse against my stomach with the other hand while I ran. I pulled open the door like a big steel wing, and I slipped into the passenger’s side beneath it, next to him.

He’d already started the car. “You’re late,” he said.

He looked perfect, a little slouched at the wheel like a man with supple bones and no worries. Blue work shirt and jeans. The brass buckle of his belt was dull, but glinting. He smiled with half his mouth, and it was sexy and lean.

Until that moment I’d never felt the need to stare at a man the way men seemed to need to stare at women—women on the glossy covers of magazines, their hips thrust forward and their slick mouths open, or on billboards—women peering suggestively out of television sets while husbands in their armchairs tried not to stare in front of their wives, but did. At the drug store, those men would be lined up around the magazine rack all day, thumbing through slippery pages of women they’d never meet, never touch, whose voices and names they’d never hear: flattened, one-dimensional women who fingered their own nipples and stared back at the nothing. The oblivion ahead of them. Splayed, those women were just angles and lines and light against shadow, and, looking at them myself, I’d remember reading in a social studies book in high school about some lost and primitive tribe who wouldn’t let the white man photograph them, who believed their souls were snatched by cameras.

These women were proof of that, I thought: The world was nothing but a fake backdrop, as if nothing before or behind them had ever existed, or ever would.

But when I looked at the side of Gary Jensen’s face that afternoon, I suddenly knew why they stared. Gary gazed into the windshield as if I weren’t beside him, and I understood in a flash how it was to want someone whether he wants you or not—just imagining, under clothes, skin, and how it would feel to press your own skin into it, and under that skin, blood—a human heart bobbing warm and soft, a carnal apple. I knew, then, that I’d want him no matter what. Even if I had to pay.

Finally, he said, “Hi,” looking over his shoulder, backing up.

There was an inhalation of breeze through the car windows as we pulled out into the road, and then he touched the bare skin above my knee with the tips of his fingers and looked at my face. He smiled. “Well don’t you just look like a fine little slut this afternoon,” he said.

I breathed.

I looked out the window.

I could feel blood climb my neck, and something hot and liquid seemed to laminate my lungs, like phlegm, or shame. I’d worn a short black skirt and high heels, checked myself twice in the mirror before I left. Tight white blouse with black buttons. I’d felt sexy. Looking at myself in that mirror, I’d thought fleetingly, but with pleasure, of a dry, abandoned field set on fire by a homely little girl.