The Night Always Comes

by Willy Vlautin

“Thank you, Shirley.”

  “And if you really do have to leave town, don’t worry about the Dutchman. I’ll cover the shifts that I can and you know Wendy’s wanted your slot for a couple years.”

  “I know. I already called her,” said Lynette and poured herself a short drink from the bottle.

  Shirley put her arm around the dog to the right of her. “I’m gonna be straight with you, okay? Take it however you want, but I’m gonna be straight because I like you. You were in trouble with Gloria. I knew it, but I didn’t say anything because I knew why you were doing it. Well, now you’re free of that. That’s a lucky thing. And I love your brother, he’s a sweetheart, and I know you’re scared to be without him, but ain’t it time for you to be your own person? Haven’t you done enough for him? Your mom is right on one thing, he’s her son. She has legal rights over him. Not you. And I will say this, too, I’m relieved that your mom backed out on the house. I’m really happy for you because you would have been handcuffed to her for the rest of her life. And you don’t deserve that. I’ve known your mom a lot of years. As you know, I knew her when she was married to your dad. And in the three years you’ve worked at the Dutchman, she’s never once come in while you’re working, but she’s come in while I’m working because she knows I’ll give her free drinks. After a while I started writing down the number of free drinks. I’ve given her over a hundred free Lemon Drops and she’s never once tipped or asked to pay. And all she’s ever done when she’s there is bitch. Just complains about things, about her job, you, your brother, your dad. That says enough to me about who she is.”

  Lynette nodded. She leaned back in the recliner and closed her eyes.

  “You know I never had kids.”

  Lynette opened her eyes. “Did you want them?”

  “Sure. I went crazy about it for a while. My husband wanted them, too. But I couldn’t have them. But if I had a daughter, I always thought I’d want her to be like you.”

  “Like me?” Lynette said and then whispered, “But I’m no good at all. I’ve done a lot of bad things, Shirley.”

  “Not really you haven’t. Not to me. See, the thing is, you never give up and you’ve got a good heart, a damaged heart, but a good heart, and you want to do good. Most people don’t care about doing good. Most people just push you out of the way and grab what they want.”

  Lynette began crying again. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

  Shirley stood up. “I’m gonna start crying, too, and I hate crying. The older I get, the more I hate it. So let’s go see your new car. But here’s the thing I’ve decided. I ain’t gonna sell it. I’m giving it to you. And I don’t want any arguments about it. I don’t want any discussion and I don’t want you leaving money in my mailbox either. Just let me do it. It’s my way of wishing you luck in life. My dad was a nice guy even though he smoked cigars. He’d want you to have it. He had a thing about brunettes.”

  22

  The car was a silver four-door sedan and it started on the first try. Lynette left Shirley’s with the title in the glove box. She drove down the street and passed the house she’d lived in with Jack. Inside, the lights were on and she could see a woman sitting at a table near the kitchen. She glanced at it for a moment hoping she’d never have to see the house or think about it again in her lifetime. She made it to Lombard Street and headed south past the now-closed Tulip Pastry Shop and left St. Johns.

  It was ten p.m. when she parked in front of her house. Inside, her mother was watching TV and smoking a cigarette. A pint of gin and a bottle of tonic were on the coffee table. Lynette set her purse on the table by the door and sat down in the same chair she always sat in.

  “Where’d you go?” asked her mother.

  “I bought Shirley’s old car.”

  “Her car? What kind?”

  “It’s a 2003 Buick. It’s a boat, but it drives nice.”

  “Got rid of the Nissan?”

  “I took it to the wrecking yard today. You getting drunk?”

  Her mother shrugged. “Just having a drink.”

  “Where’s Kenny?”

  “In my room.”

  “I’m gonna start loading things up.”

  “You don’t have to leave tonight.”

  “I’ll lose my nerve if I don’t leave tonight.”

  “Where you gonna go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her mother turned the sound down on the TV and took a drink from her Trail Blazers cup. “I’ve been thinking a lot today,” she said. “You might say I don’t love you, but I do love you. I love you because you’re my daughter. I’d run in front of a bus to save you. Right this second I would and every second you’ve been breathing. I’ve always felt that way. You wouldn’t understand that, the way a mother feels about her kids. I’d give my life to save yours until the day I keel over. That’s the truth. But really that doesn’t mean I have to like you or that we have to get along or that you even have to like me. ’Cause I’d guess you haven’t liked me in a lot of years.”

  “It’s not that I haven’t liked you. I never think that way. I don’t know why you always say things like that.”

  “Well, we’re like oil and water. That’s what they say, right?”

  “That’s what they say.”

  Her mother poured gin into her Trail Blazers cup and filled it to the top with tonic. She stirred it with her finger. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking, and before you start getting upset and bringing up Kenny, let me tell you one more time the basic fact. You’re not his mother. I know you think I don’t care about him anymore and that now I’m using him for his benefits but the truth is, he’s ruled my life since the moment he was born. Ruled it. Now I’m worn out. So don’t I deserve a little something for that? Some sorta payment? Even just a bit?”

  She took another drink and kept the cup in her hand. Her eyes stayed on the TV. “Maybe you should hate my guts and maybe I deserve to get my head caved in by you. Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen, but really in the end where would that leave us: you, me, and Kenny? Nowhere, that’s where. We have to get by regardless of what we feel. And I’m gonna be honest with you right now. So you have to listen to me. Will you do that?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I have even less hours coming in. I’ve been averaging twenty-seven hours a week for the last three months. I’ve known for a while that I have to get a second job and I’ve put in applications. But, Christ, I’m old and no one wants to hire a worn-out middle-aged fatso. Most of the time now when my alarm goes off I just want to give up. That’s the truth. I’ve almost lost hope. I know that sounds horrible, and maybe I’m being too dramatic, but it’s the way I feel. I’m not trying to whine or complain. I’m just telling you how it is because who knows how much we’ll really talk after tonight. The thing is, Lynette, I’m getting mean. Not angry like you, but just mean and bitter. And on the TV . . . All these rich sons of bitches, they just talk bullshit and take whatever they want. They take and take, and then, when they get themselves in a pickle, we bail them out. So why would they care about anything but themselves? The politicians don’t give a shit times a thousand. All they want to do is stay elected. And when they get reelected, they still don’t get anything done. They don’t seem to want to help anybody and they have no backbone. They just argue and blame and take money and get great health care while they do it. Those cocksuckers get free health care and we don’t. They don’t even care about our health. That says a lot, doesn’t it? So why vote? I’m serious. Why? Because they don’t do anything. They don’t help. And if they don’t help, then what’s the point of any of them?” She looked at Lynette and took another drink.

  “Do you think Fred Meyer gives a shit about me? They give me enough hours so it’s a pain in the ass for me to get another job, but it’s not enough hours that I can get by. So why should I do them any favors? Why should I be loyal to them? They’ll drop me whenever they want and not think about it for half a secon
d. So if I fudge a few hours here and there or something goes missing and ends up in my purse, why should it matter to me? Because I don’t matter to them. So I’ll screw them any chance I can.”

  “Look, I know you’ve had it tough,” said Lynette. “But right now you should just go to bed. We’re both tired and you’re drunk.”

  Her mother shook her head. “I’m not drunk. I know what I’m saying. So will you listen to me? Will you really listen?”

  “I’m listening,” said Lynette.

  “Last month Mona and I drove around downtown. Near where your bakery is. The Pearl District. When I was your age, no one went to that part of town. It was all empty buildings and bums and guys shooting up. Now, as you know, it’s all fancy buildings and skinny people who look like they’re in magazines. I don’t know where they all come from, but they sure are coming. And then . . . Then all you do is cross another street and there’s homeless people camping everywhere. They’re coming, too. You can’t drive around Portland without seeing a hundred tents. People living in tents! Are they all on drugs? Are there that many people who are crazy and on drugs? I used to always ask myself, why would a man in his twenties want to live on the street when he could work? I mean, my God, what’s happening? For a long time I didn’t understand it. Why . . . why would they live that way? It seems so awful. So miserable. But you know, now I think I’m starting to understand. The answer is, why not? Why should they bust their asses all day when they know no matter what they do they’ll never get ahead. And why should they pay three hundred thousand for a falling-down shack when they don’t have to? And when it starts raining and getting cold and they get sick, well, they’ll be the first ones who march up to any hospital and get taken in. Me, I have to pay for my shitty health insurance and all the goddamn copays, and I have to pay out the nose for anything that’s not covered, and there’s a lot of things not covered. And then some homeless creep who lives in a tent just goes to the hospital and gets everything for free. Politicians get health care for free and bums do, too. But of course not us. How does that make sense? How does that make you want to get out of bed in the morning and go to work and stand next to Cheryl? Christ. So there we are, me and Mona, driving around downtown. We go up Broadway and then Eleventh Avenue and then Front Street and every place in between. The whole time we’re just wondering who can afford to live in these fancy new high-rises and where do they get the money to eat in all these new restaurants? I mean, how do you pay three hundred dollars for a pair of shoes or five thousand dollars for a couch? For the life of me, I just don’t understand where so many people get their money. And what am I supposed to do? Go to college? Learn about computers? I’m old. So I guess I’m what you’d call a loser. . . . Jesus, I’m a loser. But knowing it doesn’t change anything.”

  She stopped, lit a cigarette, and took a long drag from it. Her eyes were wild and she was sweating even though the room was barely sixty degrees.

  “Why don’t you go to sleep now,” said Lynette.

  “I don’t want to go to sleep,” her mother said and rested the cigarette in the ashtray. “I’m just trying to tell you the way it is.” She took another drink and went on. “You say you have almost a hundred thousand dollars. Well, I have my ideas on how you got the money, and I’m pretty sure my ideas are the truth. But I’m not judging. Why should I? It’s back to what I’ve been thinking every moment I’m awake lately. What does it matter? What does it matter if you slept with some rich guy so he’d give you enough money to get what you need. What does it matter to anyone else but you? And why should it bother you? The rich son of a bitch probably thinks he’s getting one over on you, but you’re getting over on him, too. That’s what’s been bothering me lately. Why does it matter to feel bad about anything? Isn’t that the American dream? Fuck over whoever is in your way and get what you want. I barely got through high school, but if I remember anything about history, it’s that. The people who are written about are the ones taking. People arrive somewhere and try to get their piece. They don’t care who they hurt doing it, they really don’t, and I’m starting to understand why. Because it’s all bullshit. The land of the free and that whole crock of shit. It’s just men taking what they want and justifying it any way they need to so they can get up in the morning and take more and buy another speedboat and their third vacation home and their fifth rental property and then push people out of their homes so they can make more money and go on safaris and kill giraffes and elephants all while everyone else is just trying to pay off their credit card bill or student loan or trying to get enough hours at one job so they don’t have to get a second. Well, fine then. If they’re gonna do what they want to do, I’ll do what I have to do, too. Screw them. That’s what I believe in now. So this is my advice to you, Lynette, at the end of the day just look out for yourself and screw everyone else.”

  Kenny was in their mother’s bed, watching Toy Story 3 on the portable DVD player. Lynette sat next to him and watched it until it ended and then made sure he used the toilet and brushed his teeth. She helped him on with his pajamas and got him under the covers of their mother’s bed and turned off the bedside lamp, leaving only two Superman night-lights shining from nearby outlets.

  She sat on the bed next to him and held his hand. “I have no idea about Mona’s place,” she said gently. “I’ve never been there, so I don’t know. But I’ve got a bad feeling it’s not going to be very nice there. But I don’t want you to worry, Kenny, because I’m going to come back and get you when I’m settled. I promise, I really do promise. It might take me a bit, but I’ll find a place that I can own, and maybe I really will own a bakery. Maybe in St. Louis or Kansas City or Cleveland like Shirley said, or maybe in some smaller town that’s just cheaper. And when I get there, I won’t mess around, Kenny. I won’t. I swear I won’t. I won’t let myself get depressed. And I won’t get mean or bitter. I won’t be cruel. And I’ll try hard and I’ll make sure the darkness doesn’t get me. I’ll try my hardest to make sure it doesn’t. You’ll see. . . . I’ll remember to be kind and I’ll try not to be so weak. I’ll try to be strong. And I’ll think about you every minute and I’ll love you every second. Thanks for saving me, Kenny. Thanks for being my brother.” She kissed him on the face over and over until he pulled his head away and pushed her off him. Tears streamed down her face. “Remember to say hello to the Trail Blazers for me. Tell them not to trade CJ or Damian. And remember no matter where you end up, I’ll come and get you. I swear on my life I will, and when you see me, I’ll be good, I’ll be doing good.”

  The things she put into her car weren’t much: clothes, a lamp Jack had bought her, a wristwatch of her grandfather’s, and two boxes of dishes her grandmother had left her. All of it fit in the trunk of the Buick. The TV in the living room was on, but her mother was asleep on the couch. Lynette made a pot of coffee and waited for it to brew. When it had, she filled her thermos and went back out to her mother. She sat on the edge of the couch and pushed softly on her shoulder, but her mother wouldn’t wake. The pint of gin and the cup she was drinking from were empty.

  At the kitchen table, Lynette wrote a note to her mother saying goodbye and that she loved her. When she’d locked the front door, she put her key through the mail slot and got into the Buick. She poured a cup of coffee and started the car. It was still raining and past midnight when she got on the interstate and headed east.

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank my gal Lee who put up with me while I built and rebuilt and rebuilt this novel. For a short book it sure took a long time. So thank you, Lee. You’re the best of the best. And Lesley Thorne, my great friend and agent, for sticking with me all these years. Also Amy Baker at HarperCollins for being such a good editor and person. I’d also like to thank Virginia Stanley, Chris Connolly, Tom Hopke, and all the fine people at Harper for helping bring my books to life.

  When I moved to Portland I was twenty-six years old. After years of working in warehouses, I began a ten-year stint as a ho
usepainter and started a band called Richmond Fontaine. Sean Oldham, the drummer, was called HQ because he was the smartest and most successful. He and his wife owned their home. He even had a passport. One day I drove him to a derelict 480-square-foot house that was for sale. It was on a busy street next to a mini-mart but in a good neighborhood. I told him it was my dream to buy it and he said I’d be an idiot not to try. I had no confidence in myself but I was raised to believe that success was owning your own home. Over the course of fifteen years I had saved twenty thousand dollars for a down payment, and I bought the derelict house for seventy-two thousand dollars in 2000. Portland then was a city full of beautiful houses that working-class people could afford to buy. It seems like a dream now.

  My life changed when I bought that house. I quit going out so much, I began taking better care of myself, I mowed my lawn, I bought a semi-new couch and a brand-new color TV, and a Better Homes & Gardens cookbook. I began to like myself. I want to thank the Rose City for giving me a home and a chance when for a lot of my life I didn’t know there was a chance to be had.

  About the Author

  WILLY VLAUTIN is also the author of the novels The Motel Life; Northline; Lean on Pete, which won two Oregon Book Awards; The Free, which won an Oregon Book Award; and Don’t Skip Out on Me, a finalist for the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction and an ALA Notable Book. Vlautin lives outside Portland, Oregon, and is the founding member of the bands Richmond Fontaine and The Delines.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  Also by Willy Vlautin

  Don’t Skip Out on Me

  The Free

  Lean on Pete

  Northline

  The Motel Life

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.