He takes the jug handle a quarter mile ahead, doubles back and pulls into the lot. He parks at the far end, dims his lights. He turns off the engine and waits.
* * *
Doreen’s working the back bar, as Joette hoped she would be. She draws a pint of Blue Moon, sets it on a bar coaster as Joette sits down.
“Hey, doll,” Doreen says. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
She’s somewhere north of fifty, but Joette doesn’t know how much. She’s deeply tanned all year, with a swimmer’s body and toned arms. Her sleeveless blue work shirt is unbuttoned far enough to show the tattoo on her collarbone—STAY STRONG in dark floral script.
Joette puts a twenty on the bar. “What’s your secret?”
“For what?”
“Never aging.”
“I wish.”
Joette got a gym membership not long after Troy died, hoping regular exercise would help her start to feel better. But she rarely made it there, despite what she was paying, and eventually let the membership lapse. Not going had just become something else to feel bad about.
She takes a pull from the beer, scans the ten or so faces at the U-shaped bar. Only regulars and serious drinkers here. No twentysomethings or slumming hipsters. A place she can come alone and be left alone. She feels guilty for turning Noah down but needed time to think. And she wasn’t sure if, after a few drinks, she could trust herself not to tell him more.
“You want singles for the jukebox?” Doreen says.
“Please.”
She feeds dollar bills into the machine, pushes buttons, choosing the same R&B songs she always does. B. B. King’s “The Thrill Is Gone” kicks in as she goes back to her seat. “How’s Vic?”
“Stress test last week,” Doreen says. “No more blockages, thankfully. They gave him some new meds to keep his blood pressure and cholesterol under control, but I have to stay on him to take them. You’d think a heart attack at fifty-five would throw a scare into someone, make him change his ways. Not my guy.”
“He still smoking?”
“Says he’s not, but I smell it on him sometimes. I think he sneaks them when I’m not around. It drives me crazy. I was a wreck when he was in the hospital that last time. That night in the ER, the chest pains he was having, I thought I was going to lose him.”
She opens Bud Lites for a pair of Central American workers on the other side of the bar, takes their empties. They’re silently watching a soccer match on the overhead TV.
Joette sips beer, trying to lose the sense of unease she’s felt since seeing the man in the Chevy truck. She remembers the spiderweb tattoo, the thick wrists. She wonders if he’ll come back.
“Slow tonight,” she says to Doreen. It’s late, but she doesn’t want to go home.
“Way it’s been lately.”
“Do a shot with me.”
“Cuervo?”
“All day.”
Doreen sets out shot glasses, takes a bottle from the speed rack. Etta James on the jukebox now, “At Last.”
They tap glasses. Joette sips the tequila. It’s smooth and warm going down. It seems to steady her. She tries to relax.
Doreen refills their glasses.
“Hard-core,” Joette says.
“Life’s short.”
“We don’t get smarter, though, do we? Just older.”
“Truth.”
They drink. Joette chases the shot with a swallow of beer.
Careful. Last thing you need is a DWI on the way home.
“You look like you’ve got something on your mind,” Doreen says. “Things getting to you?”
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
“How so many times in my life, I thought I had it all figured out. Knew who I was, where I was going. And it always turned out I didn’t know anything at all.”
“You have to cut yourself some slack. We’ve all made bad decisions.”
“Believe me, I have made some very bad decisions.”
“So have I,” Doreen says. “But you know the Serenity Prayer, right? ‘Lord, grant me the serenity’ and all that?”
“Sure.”
“Well, there’s a shorter version.”
“Is there?”
“There is. And all it says is ‘Fuck it.’”
* * *
He watches her come out of the bar, waits for the Subaru to pull back onto the highway, then follows her again. Only a short distance this time, a half mile at most. She signals and makes a right at a sign that reads BRIGHT PINES VILLAGE.
He drives past. Ahead on the right is a vacant restaurant, brown paper on the inside windows, a RETAIL SPACE AVAILABLE sign. He pulls in, reverses into the shadows alongside the building, shuts down the engine.
He waits there in darkness, watching cars go by, giving her time. After a half hour, he gets out, cuts through parking lots and stands of pines, estimating distances, following the highway but staying back from the shoulder.
Past the last screen of trees is the chain-link fence that borders the trailer park’s main street. It’s laid out in a simple grid. The main road is one-way. It runs through the park to the far end, then curves around and heads back to the highway exit. Shorter secondary streets run north and south.
He grips the metal diamonds of the fence, gets the toes of his boots in, pulls himself up. Swinging his hips over the top bar, he drops down easily on the other side.
Most of the trailers are dark. Staying close to the fence, he moves deeper into the park. Fighting cats screech somewhere nearby.
Her trailer is easy to find, the Subaru parked in the carport alongside it. He watches from across the road. Lights are on inside the trailer, the blinds and curtains drawn. A silhouette moves past a window. No voices inside. She’s alone.
* * *
Joette gets a Blue Moon from the refrigerator, brings it into the bedroom. She opens the bottom drawer of the dresser, takes out the framed photo. It’s an eight-by-ten blowup from a cell phone shot. She and Troy in a two-person kayak on the Delaware, six months before his diagnosis. Her face is in the foreground as she holds the phone at arm’s length. Both of them smiling and sunburned, wearing orange life vests and blue baseball caps. Neither of them with any idea what lay ahead.
Was I ever that young? Was I ever that happy?
The photo used to hang on the bedroom wall, but there came a time when it was too painful to look at. It only reminded her of the distance between what her life had been and what it was now.
Those last three months, when he was in and out of the hospital, were the worst of it. A roller coaster of hope and fear that left her exhausted and numb. Months behind on mortgage payments and medical bills, she finally gave up the house, let them foreclose. It felt as if she were watching it all from a distance, everything unraveling, unable to stop it. After a while, she quit trying. Nothing seemed to matter anymore.
The payout on his life insurance bought the trailer. She fended off the endless bills as best she could. For a while, she considered leaving New Jersey, starting fresh somewhere else. Then came her mother’s stroke, and again everything changed, her future decided for her. There was no going anywhere then.
She brings the photo into the living room, sets it on the end table beside the couch. It feels right to have it out again now, to have him there with her.
* * *
Travis watches the trailer for a long time, picturing her in there alone. When the last light goes out, he turns and walks back to his truck.
TWELVE
She dreams about Troy, wakes feeling anxious and unsettled. She pushes off the comforter, tries to remember the details of the dream, but they’re gone.
It’s overhot in the trailer, the air dry. Nine a.m. She needs to get moving but doesn’t want to get out of bed.
What you get for going to sleep half drunk.
Sunlight pours through the bedroom window. She flashes back to a summer morning at their house in Point Pleasant, a month or so after they were ma
rried. Troy asleep beside her, snoring softly. She was propped up on an elbow, watching him, the fall of light across his face and hair, remembers thinking, How did I get so lucky?
Grief is a sea, a counselor told her, at one of the group meetings she went to just after his death. Sometimes it’s flat and calm. Other days, a sudden wave can drag you under without warning.
So many times she thought she was on her way to feeling better, only to have something bring her crashing down again. The triggers were always there, waiting. A song, a photo, a phrase he used. She had to learn to resist the impulse to cling to things that reminded her of him. She knows why she did it. Feeling bad was better than not feeling anything at all.
She showers, dresses. No time for breakfast. She’ll have to wait to eat, order takeout again.
When she pulls into the motel lot, the black Chevy pickup is parked outside the office. The man from yesterday is sitting on a wrought-iron chair outside room four, working on Cara’s pink bicycle with a wrench, while Cara and Brianna watch. Brianna holds the bike steady for him, talking away, making eye contact whenever he looks up. He lifts his chin at Joette when she gets out of the car.
In the office, Baxter is watching Family Feud. “You’re late. Again.”
“How long has he been here?” she says.
“Who?”
“That man outside, with Cara and Bree.”
“Not long. He was looking for you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I told him you were supposed to be here at ten. It’s ten-twenty.” He takes his jacket from the wall peg.
“He asked for me by name?” she says. “What else did he say?”
“Only that he wanted to talk to you.”
“Stranger comes in off the street, asks about me, you tell him, ‘Stick around, she’ll be here soon’?”
“How was I supposed to know he was a stranger? He acted like he knew you.”
“Never mind.” She raises the hinged panel, moves behind the counter. “Anything happen overnight?”
“If it did, I didn’t hear about it.”
He goes out and starts his station wagon. It coughs gray smoke as he drives away. She finds the remote, shuts off the TV.
The man’s at the door. He wipes his hands on a rag before opening it. He’s clean-shaven today.
“Morning,” he says. “Hoped I’d catch you.”
“Why’s that?”
“I was a little rude yesterday. Wanted to apologize.”
“Nothing to apologize for.”
“I met your other tenants. Brianna—that her name?—and Cara. We got to talking. They told me about the bike, said she hadn’t been able to ride it for a while. I said bring it out, I’ll take a look.”
“That was kind of you.”
“Chain was slipping. No big deal. Had some tools in the truck. That Brianna likes to talk.”
“She does.”
“Cara’s a smart kid. Quiet, though. You were the same way at her age, I bet.”
She closes the panel, feeling the first edge of fear. “What can I do for you?”
“Still trying to decide on a place to stay. Narrowing it down. Had another question, though. An important one.”
“What’s that?”
“If I stay here, let’s say two or three weeks, is there a problem paying cash? In advance, of course.”
“You could have asked Baxter that.”
“The night man? Nice-enough guy, but he didn’t seem too sharp, to be honest. Wasn’t sure I could trust his answer.”
“We take cash but still need a credit card for a deposit.”
“That’s an issue, why I ask. Dumped all my cards, don’t use them anymore. Helps me keep my finances manageable.”
“Three weeks’ rent is a lot of cash to be carrying around.”
“I think you’re onto me.”
She watches his eyes. “How’s that?”
“I’m off the books when I work for the brothers. I should have told you that. Maybe you called over there, asked about me.”
“I didn’t.”
“Easier for them to pay me cash, under the table, than deal with Uncle Sam. Better for me, too. No taxes. Guess I shouldn’t be telling you all this.”
“None of my business. Leave your name and cell number. I’ll talk to the owner, see if he’ll give you a better rate for cash. Maybe he’ll let you slide on the deposit.”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“No trouble.”
“I’ve still got a couple other places to visit. Thanks for your time, though. One other thing.”
“What?”
“I don’t really know anybody down this way, and there isn’t much to do around here this time of year. Would you like to get a drink some night, when you’re off? I’d welcome the company.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. We’re not supposed to fraternize with guests.”
Fraternize? Where did that come from?
“I’m not a guest yet, though, am I? Sorry if I’m out of line. Didn’t see a ring, so I assumed you were single. Can’t blame me for asking, can you?”
She doesn’t respond. Waits him out.
“Anyway,” he says. “It was good talking to you again.”
“You never told me your name.”
At the door, he turns, grins. “Travis.”
“Travis what?”
“Just Travis. See you around, Joette.”
* * *
He makes his way back to the laundromat. Cosmo buzzes him into the office.
“I have a connect,” Cosmo says. “But we’re still shy.”
Travis takes the seat across from his desk. “Who is it?”
“Some bikers out of Philly. Wouldn’t normally deal with them—too unpredictable. But you’re right, we lose our regulars, our market share’ll be fucked for good. We do a deal with these guys, turn it over quick, it keeps us going. Hopefully it’s a one-off, we won’t need to do it again.”
A headache is blooming in Travis’s left temple. He thinks about Joette Harper at the motel that morning, alone in her trailer the night before. He hasn’t told Cosmo about finding her.
“What are they asking?”
“Seventy a key.”
“Hell with that.”
“It cuts into our profit margin,” Cosmo says. “But it’ll keep the tap flowing while I find someone farther up the food chain with a better price.”
“How shy are we on the seventy?”
“Twenty K left in the pool money, so we’re fifty short. And we could have a time issue here.”
“Why?”
“They don’t know us. If we come up with the seventy quick, we’re for real. If we can’t, then we’re not.”
“What do we have left in product?”
“A few grams, already cut, that’s it. Our doc from Manahawkin called today, wants ten as soon as we can get it, has the cash ready. I tried to convince him to front us, but he wouldn’t do it.”
“He doesn’t trust us after all this time? Fuck him.”
“Fent’s like everything else that came before it,” Cosmo says. “Everybody wants in before the bubble bursts. And it will, just like crack did. In the meantime, he’s trying to put as much money in his pockets as he can. Just like everybody.”
“Seventy K.”
“Told them I’d have an answer by the end of the week. If it’s yes, we gotta show money right away. Seller’s market right now. That worked for us in the past. Now it’s working against us.”
Travis rubs the back of his neck, the tight muscles there.
“What are you thinking?” Cosmo says.
“I’m thinking sometimes it feels like this shit is hardly worth it.”
“Look at it as a temporary setback,” Cosmo says. “In the meantime, if we want to play, we gotta pay.”
“Tell them we’ll do the deal. Set it up for next week. We’ll have the cash.”
“What about the fifty?”
THIRTEEN
Midnight. He sits in the Silverado, parked under a willow tree, lights off, watching the trap house up the block. Blinds are drawn in the front windows, showing slivers of light. The second floor is dark. There’s an abandoned house on one side of the property, a cleared lot on the other. Woods across the street.
A light goes on over the side door. Truman comes out, limps down the street toward the truck. The door closes behind him, and the light goes out.
Travis powers down his window. “Did you cop?”
Truman nods. He’s skinny and ragged, with a wispy beard, wearing a thin denim jacket. A meth-head when Travis first met him.
“How much?” Travis says.
“Three rocks.”
“Let me see.”
Truman holds up a plastic vial with a yellow cap. The clusters inside are more brown than white.
“That what Jimmy Mac’s selling these days? How much he take you for?”
“Sixty. Twenty each. It’s been dry around here.”
“Fucking thief. How many people inside?”
“Three. Boy named T.C.’s got the door. Jimmy Mac and his old lady Sharon are on a couch in the living room.”
“Anybody upstairs?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What’s the deal with the front door?”
“Nailed shut, with one of those metal bars across it. Anyone wants to cop has to come around the side. I’ve been in there before. Nobody lives there, but the power’s still on. They only use the house when the package comes in.”
“Where’s the rock?”
“It’s all vialed up in another room. Kitchen, I think. T.C. takes the money.”
“Back door?”
“Off the kitchen. Nailed up tight, same way.”
“Who’s carrying?”
“Jimmy’s got that flash forty-five right there on the table, so everybody can see it. T.C.’s got something too, in his belt.”
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