Pretty Broken Things

by Melissa Marr

  I’ve never failed at anything, not until the release of The Ruins of a Carriage House. To say failure was unexpected is such a mild explanation. To say I’m desperate to restore my reputation is even less accurate. The pressure to deliver the next promised manuscript has become a nonstop murmur in the back of my mind as I wander cities. It’s become the proverbial devil on my shoulder.

  I could buy out my contract, pay out the signing advance and end the whole thing. Sometimes I think about it. I don’t need the money, but quitting is a level of failure I’m unwilling to accept. It means the end of a writing career the New York Times once heralded. I won’t quit.

  I just need to find the right story, the right character, and then everything will be golden again.

  A Solitary Grave was the start of what critics agreed would be a remarkable career. The prose was nuanced. The story was both heart-breaking and terrifying. The protagonist was the sort of broken man who overcame his own foibles and the world’s weight. It was, in sum, well-received and exceptionally lucrative—even more so after the film.

  My sophomore effort, on the other hand, was soundly dismissed. “Maudlin and disjointed,” pronounced one the industry reviews. The critical reception from every outlet was either scathing or, at best, vaguely kind. The consensus, however, was that perhaps my first book was the anomaly.

  The next book will be the deciding factor. It will tip the scales in one direction or the other.

  I’m on a “post-modern experiment in storytelling.” I need a compelling character. I’ve considered a few: a red-nosed man who talked about working in a steel town, an angry vagrant in the Pacific Northwest, a bankrupt tobacco farmer in the American South. They were all interesting in that way of strangers in transit, but theirs weren’t stories that I wanted to continue to spin out. That was my goal—find the germ of a story as I had with Jorge, and then run with it until it became more. With Jorge, I took far more of his tale than anyone knew, but Jorge died not long before A Solitary Grave came out, and his daughter was content to sign a non-disclosure agreement with a generous check attached.

  New Orleans is the first city where I think I might have found the start of a story. I’m not sure I’ll even need to offer a check for this one. In a city of broken souls, artists, and madmen, it takes a truly spectacular person to stand out.

  Tess stands out.

  “Back again?” Molly, the bartender, asks when I walk into May Bailey’s. The bar, on Dauphine Street in a little boutique hotel, is tucked away. It feels like so many things in this city: hidden in plain sight.

  “Nowhere else is quite as irresistible.”

  It’s not a lie. There’s a lot of loud bars in the city. Bourbon Street is a mass of tourists, cheap drinks, and nearly naked women. There are other bars, catering to a different sort of tourist. New Orleans is a city founded on sin and illusions. The very land was stolen from the swamp—there is nothing substantial supporting it.

  I like that, the idea that this is a city resting on something far from solid. It feels right that this city is where I'll find what I need. It stretches along a tempestuous river, giving life and taking it in equal measure over the years. It is, in sum, everything a writer could want. If I were capable of love, I'd fall in love with New Orleans.

  And even within such a place, there are pockets that are odder than what passes for normal here. May Bailey’s Place is unlike every other place I’ve tried. From the faded elegance of the bar to the jaded history of the location, it is remarkable.

  Molly, however, smiles in the way hundreds of other bartenders across the country as she pours me a drink. The seating area is mostly deserted, and I wonder—not for the first time—how it stays in business.

  It has a very intentional charm, calling back to its history as a brothel. Photographs and assorted memorabilia hang on the wall, and every so often a tour group or a lone tourist clutching a book will wander in and stare at the vestiges of the past on display here. A few take pictures; others buy a drink or two. The bar seems to lack regulars, which is part of its appeal. A changing clientele means an endless buffet of stories. Maybe it’s only because of the tours or the hotel that the doors remain open.

  Molly’s mention of a former bartender, of Tess, was ultimately what caught me. I spent days asking questions before finally approaching Tess. I asked the fortune teller about her. I saw her in Jackson Square.

  I wasn’t stalking her; I was researching.

  It’s different.

  Molly had described Tess as a fragile creature, prone to flights and fights in equal measure. I knew I’d found my new Jorge when Molly had added that Tess was running from something so awful that she rarely spoke of it even when she was so far gone on pills and liquor that she would wander into cemeteries, parks, and alcoves to sleep.

  “I met Tess.”

  Molly scans the room. “Everyone does if they stay around long enough.”

  “She seemed pretty together. I expected her to be a little more disorganized.” I swirl the cubes in my glass, not looking at Molly in case she can see the hope in my eyes. Sometimes I think bartenders, the good ones at least, have a preternatural gift at reading people. I don’t want to be read.

  “Tess has good spells and bad spells.” Molly shrugs. “When she’s having a good one, I always hope it’ll stick, but sooner or later, it ends. Poor thing never gets too far away from what’s been chasing her all this time.”

  “Did she ever hint at what it was?”

  Molly stares at me. “Don‘t go thinking I’m unaware of who you are, Mr. Anderson.”

  I put my hands up in surrender. “I’m curious. That’s all.”

  “Uh huh.” Molly’s stare feels unending, and I know that I’m being weighed and measured. Whatever she sees is enough for her to add, “And don’t you go asking her questions about the past. Sometimes sleeping dogs bite when you disturb them.”

  “I didn’t ask anything.”

  It’s true, too. I was very careful not to ask about Tess’ past, her secrets, her tattoos, or anything that would make her run. Even when I saw the scars hidden under her clothes, I didn’t ask questions.

  I want her to tell me her story of her own volition. I’m letting her direct our contact. I held out my hand to Tess like I would with a feral thing. Now, I’ll wait.

  “I’m not cruel,” I tell Molly.

  I’m not sure the same can be said of Tess. There’s something about her that’s not as sweet as Molly led me to believe. I don’t know if I should hide it or accent that trait in the book.

  “Leave the girl alone,” Molly says before she walks away.

  I settle into the odd little bar and muse over the possibilities. Maybe it’s where I am; maybe it’s Tess’ comments about prostitution. Is that why tonight was so peculiar? Is that why Tess has such scars? I imagine stories: Tess as an entrapped prostitute, sold by an alcoholic mother or abusive father; Tess as a run-away, mentally compromised by the horrors of a human trafficking ring. In my book, The Story of A Sparrow, Tess will be younger, of course, but I think she’ll still have some of the tattoos that spiral across her skin. Perhaps, I’ll make her a single mother who had a schizophrenic break when her whole family died. The possibilities roll out as they haven’t since the days when I met with Jorge. Unlike him, Tess is reticent to share her past, but I can be patient. I know in my bones that she’s worth it.

  “I like her, you know,” I tell Molly when she comes to bring me a new drink. “She’s a sweet girl. Maybe she just needs a friend, someone to accept her as she is, a girl with no past.”

  Molly shakes her head and takes my empty glass.

  A Girl With No Past might be a better title. I send myself an email with the two title possibilities and a note that my heroine needs a supportive friend who helps her open up about her tragic past. I think I’ll keep her first name though. Naming her Tess will be a nice allusion to Thomas Hardy’s novel. It’ll evoke sympathy for her, remind readers that she’s a victim. I like that. My
protagonist, the victim of a violent teen life, taken in by a seemingly kindly woman who forces her into a life of prostitution so deviant that Tess changes her name to that of Hardy’s character when she flees to safety. I think I’ll make her an English major, too. That feels right for a girl who reads Hardy for pleasure.

  She needs a nemesis, though. The person who gave her the scars. I think I’ll call him Edward. It brings to mind all sorts of allusions—Rochester.

  Once I hit send on the emailed notes, I tuck my phone in my jacket pocket and enjoy my drink. I’ve got a good feeling about A Girl With No Past.

  5

  A Girl with No Past

  When I met Edward, I was twenty-four, waiting tables at a restaurant and picking up shifts at a bookstore, going to college part-time and feeling a million years older than the sorority girls in my classes. I worked every shift I could, but still lived in a lousy area I could barely afford. Durham wasn’t exactly affluent—which was part of why I was there instead of up in New York or Boston.

  He wasn't always a monster, or maybe he was. Maybe I needed a monster. He took me from a place where I had no direction and gave my life purpose, meaning. When someone can do that for you, it's everything. He rescued me. He loved me like I was air. It was addictive. Sometimes people talk about what they'd do differently, but my secret—the thing I don't whisper even now—is that I'm not sure if I would.

  Being loved by Edward made me.

  It started so blandly. A favor for a roommate. Money troubles. It wasn't a big deal, except it changed everything in my life.

  “Tessa?” My sometimes roommate, sometimes friend Elle had a wheedling note in her voice. “You know I wouldn’t usually ask for a favor.”

  “But?”

  “But I have this great opportunity.” Elle had the game down to a science, and I had to respect her despite the way her choices impacted me.

  “Of course, you do.”

  She cozied up beside me on our thrift store sofa, ignoring the personal space norms. “You should let me do your hair.”

  Whatever her favor was, she was pulling out the extra tricks to get me to agree. I made a keep-talking gesture with my hand and turned so she could more easily reach my hair. I knew she was trying to con me, but that wasn’t going to stop me from enjoying it. I’d been single longer than I wanted to admit. I didn’t have the time or energy to juggle two jobs, school, and a man.

  “It’s not like you’ll even need to go every night…”

  “Go where, Elle?”

  Her fingers worked through the messy braid I had, loosening the strands so they fell around my shoulders. I was overdue for a cut, but spending any money on something so frivolous seemed foolish. I wasn’t going to prove I could make it on my own if I dipped into the accounts my mother’s attorney managed for me. So far, I’d managed one way or the other.

  “The Red Light.”

  “No.” I started to stand.

  Elle’s fingers tightened in my hair, holding me in place. “Tessa . . .”

  “Let go, Elle.”

  “Just hear me out.” She released the tendrils she had coiled around her fingers.

  “I can’t—”

  “Just waitress. You don’t need to go on stage.” Elle did that thing where she widened her eyes and pouted. It earned her plenty of bills in her G-string. Something about looking like an innocent girl worked for her.

  It also made me want to laugh. “Stop that. You look ridiculous.”

  “I do not.” She pouted more, exaggerating it until it looked truly absurd.

  “Why do I let you talk me into things?”

  Elle launched herself at me, dropping a smacking kiss on my mouth.

  “Because you get bored being so smart all the time?” Elle teased as she flopped back with the most honest expression she had.

  She spent so much time playacting that it was easy to forget that she was genuinely beautiful underneath the games. I trusted her the way you trust anyone who juggled addictions and bad habits like it was an art—which is to say that I didn’t trust her to do anything other than what was best for her.

  “Waitress,” I repeated. “Fully dressed.”

  She giggled. “You’ve been to the bar. The uniform isn’t bad. The shoes . . .”

  “But your boss knows I’m not going on stage,” I stressed. The first time I’d picked Elle up, the manager tried to convince me to do a twirl around the pole. The topic had become one that was perpetually revisited. I wanted to be clear from go: I was a waitress, not a dancer.

  “Kari knows that I’m getting a waitress to sub, and one of the regular waitresses is taking a turn on stage. Charity, the one with the pretty tattoo of the Bible verse on her thigh.”

  Charity was one of the many anomalies at The Red Light. Anyone who thought that the girls in adult entertainment jobs were one-note or predictable clearly hadn’t met them. The Red Light wasn’t the most upscale of the clubs in town, but it was only a tier lower. The girls—from bartender to dancer—were a strange mix of lost lambs and driven businesswomen.

  “So . . . what do I need to know?”

  Elle hopped to her feet. “There are two waitress moves you need to learn. The first is the bend. You make sure your feet are exactly the right distance apart to make your ass look its absolute best. Then you extend to reach across the table. This is for getting tips from other tables mostly. If you have the boobs for it, you can use it for tips at the table you’re serving too. Make sure, though, that you bend deep enough to have gravity cleavage.”

  I laughed at the Elle-isms she used, but stored the knowledge away all the same. I could use a little help from gravity and underwire.

  “The other is the semi-squat. You bend at the knees. This is a little less comfortable, but you’ll get used to it. It lets you get closer, and it lowers you so you’re putting the assets at the customer’s eye level.” Elle demonstrated.

  If I didn’t know how much the wait-staff made, I’d have refused, but my one remaining job wasn’t going to pay the rent, and tuition for next term would be due soon. I could either look for another job now or I could sub for Elle and save up a fair bit while I looked. There really was no contest.

  “The only other thing is Edward,” Elle said in a quiet voice. “If he picks you as his private his waitress, you agree to it. If he doesn’t, you don’t bother him.”

  “Got it.”

  “He seems to like you,” she added. “I’ve seen him talk to you.”

  I shrugged. When we talked, we ended up discussing books or my classes. He was kind, and he never seemed to so much as notice the nearly-naked girls on stage or the waitresses hovering nearby. When Edward gave me his attention, it felt like there was no one else in the room. I liked it more than I cared to admit.

  The fact that he was handsome didn’t hurt either. Unlike a lot of the men who came into The Red Light, Edward carried himself with the sort of careless confidence that made me think he could’ve walked into one of my mother’s parties and blend in with the bankers and lawyers that hung on her every word. He had one tattoo that I’d glimpsed, but his entire look was one that spoke of money.

  If he was there, he sat like he ruled the bar, his back always to the wall in the far corner. The light there was lowered, and the table was reserved for him permanently.

  “No one tells him no.” Her voice softened as she repeated that particular rule yet again. “Whatever Edward says goes at the Red Light. If you can’t anger him, you get fired.”

  I laughed. Elle didn’t.

  “I got it,” I assured Elle. “Wait tables. Wear criminally high heels. Don’t piss off Edward.”

  Elle nodded. “Exactly.”

  It sounded so easy.

  6

  Tess

  Michael found me hoping for my story, but he discovered more when I took him to bed—not that I’m an acrobat. It’s the potential for danger that he sees when he tries to read the scars and tattoos that I’ve collected. It’s not the actual
sex act. That is functional, no different than eating or shitting.

  It was different with Reid.

  My hands shake at the thought. Sometimes I admit that I’m running from myself as much as I’m running from him. He made me see a mirror that told me truths best not admitted. He remade me, and I’m not sure that being Dr. Frankenstein’s monster would be any worse than the thing he created in my place.

  I open one of the pill bottles Tomas brings me. Klonapin. I already took a few earlier, but some days are shakier than others. Michael trying to burrow his fingers in old wounds makes me feel like my tethers are coming loose. Worse still, more and more I want him to untie me.

  I want to be finally done. Whether I’m found or not, exposed or protected, I want to have a life again. Maybe Reid has forgotten me. Maybe I’m running from a fear that I don’t need to hold on to. It’s been years.

  Maybe a life lived in hiding isn’t enough.

  Maybe I’ll be freer if I share my story. I’ll be absolved for the things I didn’t do right. Maybe it’s no different than the tattoos I compulsively get.

  Or maybe this is that self-destructive streak my old therapists said I have.

  When Michael comes back after my shift, I’m outside the shop smoking. I’m closer to the door than the city ban allows, but if that’s the worst crime I commit in the next few months, we’ll all be lucky.

  The acrid taste of my hand-rolled cigarette is strong enough to be unpleasant without a few fingers of whisky to chase it, but liquor isn’t usually the right choice with all of my medicine, and I like the act of smoking too much to surrender it. I like rolling my cigarettes, too, but it’s the smoking that’s the most calming.

  It’s a focus.

  Pull in the smoke, let it linger until just this side of pain, visualize the sins of my past escaping between my lips.

  Maybe that’s what I need—not to tell Michael but to stop trying to remember. Too much remembering means admitting just how many sins I need to be forgiven for.