Snake Face

by Amber Foxx

  Gasser rose and padded to the back of the van, where his litter box sat on the edge of the first blanket that covered the instruments and the bike. Might as well wait and clean up after him. Jamie opened the door and stepped outside, realized how unbearably hungry he was, and wondered if he could eat before cleaning the litter box. Disgusting thought. Of course not.

  His snack supply was about gone, anyway. He’d thought that the sight of Gasser blobbed down at the feeding station on the passenger side floor would have kept his hand from reaching for food so often, like a sign that said Stop, fat ahead. Instead they were kindred spirits, munching all day, except that Jamie ate from anxiety and Gasser was calm as a fat Buddha.

  When Gasser reappeared on the passenger seat, Jamie got back in through the driver’s side, crawling over the gear shift to the litter box, getting the scoop and a small trash bag, and cleaned up after the cat. “Jesus, mate. Bloody dinosaur turds.”

  Gasser farted, blinked, seemed to smile.

  Jamie crawled back through the front. “Back in a bit.” He rubbed Gasser’s head with his free hand. With everything he’d done wrong, it was nice to know the cat would be there, waiting for him. “Sleep if you like.”

  He locked the van, took the bag to a trash can, went in and used the facilities and washed up. A craving for air and exercise overcame him. Sleeping and sitting all day, he’d let his head get cloudy and crazy.

  Although both long walks and long sits were hard on his bad hip, a walk under the stars felt necessary now. A little trail to nowhere drifted through the trees, and he took it, then lay on one of the tiny tables, feet dangling off the edge. A metal circle in the center of the mock tipi poles blocked out part of the hazy sky. The cool humid air felt heavy and strange. He was crossing from Southwest into pure South. Toward Mae’s old home.

  Don’t think about her. He sat up, and dropped his feet to the ground. It was time to drive again, not to get sunk in longing. Time to turn around, get gas and coffee and some half-decent food, if there was anything vegan on the interstate, and find I-20 to I-40. No more detours, no more missed signs.

  To his surprise, the back of his van was open. For years he’d latched the gate from the interior with the same strand of wire. Fuck— it must have finally let go.

  He jogged toward it with rising anxiety. The memory of going back into the hotel in Austin ran with him. He’d never gone through the inside of the van to do the wire, since his instruments were already in it. He’d loaded them with help from the brew pub staff late the night before, and they didn’t know how to do the latch. One of them had driven the van to the hotel for him—which meant Jamie had driven all the way from Austin with it unlocked.

  He looked in the back. All his things were still there, under the blankets. Relief. That bike was worth a lot, and the five-foot didgeridoo—his great-uncle’s—was irreplaceable. The shakuhachi he’d gotten in Japan as a kid was another treasure. Christ—he could have lost all that.

  Gasser, though. What if ... no, that fat old bludger wouldn’t do that, would he? But how else had the gate gotten open here, even if the wire had finally failed? Jamie had seen it closed when he cleaned the box. No one else had been around. A twenty-pound cat could have given a good shove. Fuck. No.

  Chapter Five

  Calling, begging. Looking for hours. He couldn’t give up.

  A family of overweight white people in shorts went into the rest room building, staring at Jamie and talking among themselves as they passed him. When they came back out, he was still calling Gasser, pacing from the van to the edge of the woods and back, over and over. He couldn’t stop. Some gear inside him had broken, stuck in this desperate repetition.

  “Are you all right?” the woman asked cautiously, with a half-southern, half-western kind of accent.

  “I lost my cat.”

  “You sure?” The man of the family walked up to the van, peered in the back window. “Why don’t you look under the blankets, maybe he’s hiding.”

  The gear unstuck. “Sorry. I panicked. Jesus—of course.”

  In a rush of embarrassed relief, Jamie yanked the back of the van open and pulled the blankets aside.

  No Gasser. No anything.

  His bike was just a frame, stripped of its wheels. A length of plastic PVC pipe stood in for the didg, and some dirty white plastic buckets for the drums. Instead of the flute cases, he found beer bottles. A long narrow cardboard box imitated the slender tower of the Fishman SA220 solo sound system. Someone had shaped the blankets as if his belongings were there, using things from the dumpster from the look of it.

  Shaken, Jamie sat in the back of the van, looking out the open tailgate. He’d lost everything of value that he owned. Worse, he’d lost Gasser.

  The world grew narrow and tight around him, squeezing his heart and his breath. Darkness edged his vision, half blinding him. He wanted to run, hide from the feeling, but his legs wouldn’t move, and he couldn’t see his way. The constricted cave closed in on him.

  When he could see and breathe again, the whole family stood clustered at the back of the van, gazing with worried eyes. Jamie sat curled up, arms wrapped around his shins, trembling and wet with sweat. He wanted to say the words panic attack to explain himself, but nothing came out.

  “You need some kind of help,” the mother said. “Can you call someone?”

  He felt in his pocket—yes, he had his cell phone. And his wallet. Call someone. The police? What could they do? No witnesses. Find fingerprints? Start a national search for his stuff? How trivial this would be in their world of rapes and murders and drugs. What number did you call when it wasn’t an emergency? This wasn’t a 911 thing. It was only his whole bloody fucking life.

  “Yeah,” he managed to get his voice out, trying to reassure the helpful strangers. “I’ll ...” It was hard to breathe, to swallow. “I’ll call someone. Thanks.”

  The family left with quick reminders to be safe. They didn’t seem to want to stay around him. He couldn’t blame them.

  Jamie stared at his phone. What would he tell Wendy? He’d blown it. Not just Memphis now, but everything. No instruments. No tour.

  He got out of the van and paced. His mind seemed to be frozen while his heart raced and his trembling hand almost dropped the phone.

  Do something. Anything. He sat at one of the little triangular tables and opened his contacts list. Scrolling for Wendy, he passed Mae’s name. If only he dared call her about this, she would be so kind to him, but he couldn’t. Too ashamed. Not even within a hope’s breath of showing her he was sane, strong, successful, as good as her ex-husband or that perfect Greek. He was going to have to turn around and crawl home and live with his parents again. Nothing accomplished.

  He had to tell Wendy, though. She had to know.

  “Hi, Jamie.” She sounded perky and delighted, which made him feel all the worse. After a soft aside to her partner, Andrea, a little endearment and apology for the interruption of something, Wendy came back on. “Are you there yet?”

  She would expect him to be in a motel halfway up I-40 to Asheville. “No.”

  “I got you a place with a big pool, you should put in some time in that. Get your head on straight.”

  “I ...” His voice failed him.

  “Jamie?”

  He tried again. “I can’t ... Ah, fuck! ... I lost—” He stood up and struck a pole so hard it hurt his hand. “I lost ...”

  “I can’t follow you. Are you okay?”

  “No!” He paced, rattled yet driven. “Give me a minute.”

  “Okay.” She sounded bewildered. While she waited, he walked back and forth between the poles. Still couldn’t say it. That he’d blown it beyond repair. “That was a minute.” Her tone was curious and prodding. “Can you kind of get to the point now?”

  “No—fuck—I’m having a bloody crisis!” He returned to the van, crawled into the back, and lay beside the PVC pipe and the bike frame. A fly that had been annoying him since Austin buzzed over his fac
e. As he brushed it off his hand met tears. Everything gone but the fucking fly. His throat felt tight and raw. He’d yelled at Wendy, yelled at the top of his lungs, something he never did and should never do. A singer’s voice was sacred, precious, not to be abused. It was all he had left. He had to get a grip. His breath eased from ragged and wild to slightly tattered. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “Can you talk now?” Wendy asked. “I need to know what kind of crisis. You’d better not be drinking—”

  “No. Jesus. No.” With frequent pauses to pull himself together, Jamie managed to tell the whole story. He longed to hold Gasser, and the cat’s absence made the telling almost unbearable. He’d come to rely on him, to need him as well as love him. “I let you down. I blew it. I fucked up left and right, and”—he felt himself starting to spin out of control again—“and my cat. I lost my cat.”

  “Stop punishing yourself. That won’t bring him back.” She sighed. “We all make mistakes. Call the police about your instruments, and I’ll figure something out and call you back.”

  “What’s there to figure out? I can’t finish this tour.”

  Wendy grew fierce through her calm. “Don’t write it off. Just report the theft and let me figure out the rest. Will you be all right?”

  “Yeah.” He had to be. No choice. “I’ll try.”

  “That cat couldn’t have walked five feet. You’ll get him back. You are not going to give up.”

  “Right, boss. Not giving up.”

  If the police gave him any hope of recovering his instruments, he would feel a little better. But if he didn’t find Gasser, he would never forgive himself.

  His phone signaled a text message. How long had that been waiting? Sleeping so long, and then driving with the phone off, he had forgotten to check messages all day. Maybe it was from the hotel he hadn’t checked into. Maybe from Wendy earlier in the day wondering why he hadn’t called. Maybe Mae. No, not bloody likely.

  It was from an unfamiliar number. Same area code as Locally Loco. 512. Jamie opened the message.

  Instruments and PA are safe. Bike wheels too. Thief selling at flea market. Bought all back for you. Sylvie.

  Hope washed over the raw wound of his guilt without healing it. He was half-rescued.

  But who in bloody hell was Sylvie?

  He got out of the van, closed its gate on the devastation, and leaned on it. This was so good of her. A kind of miracle. Who in the world would do this for him? Even at flea market prices, his sound system, his didg, his drums, his flutes, and his bike wheels added up to a lot. She must have spent a thousand dollars at the very least, and he didn’t even know who she was. Someone from his audience who recognized his things? Someone from the brew pub staff? That made more sense, since Dabney had Jamie’s number.

  Numb and dazed, he typed back thanks and questions, correcting his errors painstakingly so she could understand his meaning. Where could he get his things, what did he owe her, had she called the police, and who was she? No answer.

  Whoever she was, he’d have to repay her. He couldn’t afford to, but it was better than starting over from scratch. New, it would cost him several thousand to replace everything. Of course if he’d spent the money to insure his things, he’d be covered, but no—they weren’t lost. He couldn’t have claimed them.

  In the strangest possible way, for a robbery, it had worked out for the best.

  It didn’t make him happy. His heart stretched thin over his lost cat.

  Jamie walked to the edge of the woods and called for Gasser again. No sound, no movement. At the edge of the highway, he scanned the pavement in the lights of an oncoming truck, praying not to see what he feared. No little fur body on the road. He sighed in sad relief.

  Why did Gasser do it? Did he feel lonely, with Jamie gone so long? Some deep call of the wild in his feline soul? Poor fat bloke, waddling around in the woods somewhere, declawed, gentle, probably never been outdoors in his life. Wendy was right, Gasser couldn’t get far. He was built only for love, not for running from owls and coyotes in the night.

  It was a stupid, desperate gesture and he knew it, but Jamie did it anyway. He took the cat’s food dish and water bowl out of the van and filled them, set them on the sidewalk, and waited. Please. Come back. Come back

  Chapter Six

  Even the way Stamos took his keys out of his pocket had a kind of animal power and sensual flourish. He dangled them playfully, looked up at the sky, around at the parking lot, and then at Mae. “I have a client at five. I could leave for work now, or we could walk a while. What do you think?”

  The presentation they had just completed for the final day of class had gone well, in spite of the lack of work from Hal and Jeff. Mae wanted to spend some time with Stamos, but the free time they both had right now should be spent preparing for work and studying. She had to stay on campus to teach two fitness classes in the early evening, and exams started tomorrow. “I’d like to, but I usually do some reading and get set up for boot camp now.”

  Stamos nodded, clasped the keys firmly. “I understand. I shall go to work and be as responsible as you are.” His eyes twinkled. “But if you would like to be a little bit irresponsible later, we could have dinner at my place—and of course, study together.”

  “Just us? There’re five or six people who want me to be in a study group with them for Human Bio.”

  “Five or six people who haven’t read the book and who expect you to explain it to them.”

  He was probably right, yet she hesitated. “They’re counting on me.”

  “Oh, Mae. I know you miss being a mother, but you can’t take care of everyone, especially people who should be taking care of themselves. We’ll get more done without them. And, you can see my charming little house.”

  When Mae pulled in at Stamos’s house, he was at his front door, unlocking it, bags hanging from his arm. He turned, waited for her, and opened the door, watching her go in carrying her Human Biology text and notes. She sensed his eyes on her hips as if his hands had touched her, and wondered if the sexual tension between them was going to make it more fun to study or almost impossible.

  “I trust you don’t mind my not cooking,” he said

  “No. As long as it’s food, I’m happy.”

  After giving her a light kiss on the cheek, he led her into the living room and set the bags on the coffee table. His house was spotless, neat, and modern, a masculine place with leather and chrome and glass and abstract art. “I have Chinese takeout. The healthiest kind, of course. And don’t offer to pay.”

  “You didn’t have to do that, but thank you.”

  “My pleasure. Let me get plates. What would you like to drink? Wine, beer?”

  “Before studying? Water. I’m so tired I think I’d fall asleep if I had wine.”

  “You’re welcome to sleep here.” With a mischievous wink, he disappeared into the kitchen.

  The sleep here suggestion didn’t bother her. There was no pressure behind it. She knew him at least that well now. The spaciousness of Stamos’s affection was what made him possible in her life. She joined him in the kitchen. “Can I help with anything?”

  “Carry the plates.” He handed her two simple black plates that went with the stark black and white of his kitchen. “I’ll carry the rest.”

  As he set drinks and utensils on the coffee table she noticed that he brought water for himself as well. He didn’t feel the need to drink alcohol, and she liked that. After her alcoholic first husband, Mack, a man’s drinking habits mattered a lot.

  Stamos asked, “Would you find it unpleasant to look at the DVD from the Bio text while we eat? I think it’s a good review, and we won’t spill food on our books.”

  Mae knew it featured some vivid images of muscles, bones, and organs, as well as animation of how some systems worked. “I’m not squeamish.” She was a country girl who’d hunted and butchered deer, and caught and gutted fish. “That’s a great idea.”

  “Good. We can pause it to quiz ea
ch other.” While he unpacked and served the takeout meal of rice, chicken, and vegetables, Mae got the DVD from the sleeve in the back of her textbook and slid it into the player. Seeing it on this big flat-screen TV would be better than the view on her laptop. When they had settled on the couch, close together in a way that made the dinner and study session feel a little like a date, her phone rang.

  “Sorry.” She jumped up to get it from her purse by the door and looked at the number. Jamie.

  Not now. He was such a talker. No, that was an unfair thought. He was on his first tour, all by himself. This was the first time he’d called since he’d hung up on her in his struggle over being friends, and she’d thought he’d given up on trying. If they could be friends, she should give him a couple of minutes. “Hey. What’s up?”

  Stamos stopped the DVD, switched to TV, and gave her a wave, implying he’d wait. Grateful, she sat in a chair across the room from him and turned away a little.

  Jamie said nothing. Not a good sign.

  “Hey.” Instinctively she almost whispered, like talking to a frightened child. “Is something wrong?”

  Silence. “Fuck.” More silence. “Sorry.”

  Mae glanced at Stamos. He picked up a book, lowered the TV volume, and began to read. The TV sound served as a kind of filter, giving her a half-private feeling for her conversation.

  “Talk to me, sugar.” Funny habit she’d gotten into with Jamie, a pet name she never otherwise used. “You’re a mess right now, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I lost Gasser.” Long silence, then an avalanche. “I fucking lost him, he got out of the van. I’ve been waiting, I looked, I called him, I’m at this bloody rest stop in bloody fucking Oklahoma, and I’m not even supposed to be in fucking Oklahoma I’m supposed to be in Memphis, or Asheville, I don’t even know anymore, and I can’t leave, I can’t make myself leave ...” a pause, and a soft, tired voice, “in case he comes back.”

  Mae ached to comfort Jamie. When she’d worked as a psychic, a lot of clients came to her for help finding lost pets. They were always so sad and worried. Jamie’s emotions ran five times the size of other people’s. “I need something of his to search for him. You got something you can send me?”