Snake Face

by Amber Foxx

  Stamos straightened up, turned a page in his notes, and sipped his coffee. After a moment, he looked up at her. “You really want to go, don’t you?”

  “I do. If you think it’s too much hassle, though—”

  “No. Not at all. We’ll take an exam in the morning, a nap in the afternoon, go to the concert that night, and we will drive as you suggest.” A smile finally warmed his face. “It’s a fine way to celebrate the end of our first semester here.”

  Mae scooted close and gave him a quick kiss. He wasn’t stubborn like Hubert, and that was even more important than what he’d agreed to do. Stamos didn’t have to have his way all the time. He’d even set aside some personal issue with Joe Wayne Brazos to make Mae happy. This was huge. “Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

  The next morning before driving to the college, Mae sat on her back steps with the crystals and the shirt Gasser had slept on. She’d told Jamie she would do it after the exams, but it was best to get it done early, to give Jamie as much peace of mind as she could.

  When her vision traveled along the cat’s energy line, it emerged in an expansive living room with skylights, bright blue trim, sand colored walls, and art featuring Western landscapes and a portrait of an archetypal cowgirl. Gasser lay on a small area rug on the polished hardwood floor, his broad sides moving with his breath. On either side of him stood two chairs with brown and white cowhide upholstery, and on the glass coffee table was an ashtray shaped like an upside-down cowboy hat. Mae looked for any evidence of a location other than the Western theme. This could be anywhere from Texas to Nevada, or all the way up to Montana, or it could belong to someone with cowboy tastes somewhere else, anywhere it was sunny today.

  The view through the windows showed a few trees, no mountains, and a lot of open space, with dry grass and reddish dirt. She hadn’t narrowed it down much, but it seemed more western than eastern, and more southern than northern, with no snow on the ground the first week of December. He might still be in Oklahoma.

  Gasser shifted his head and laboriously pushed himself up to a sitting position. Mae didn’t sense excitement in him, but a kind of weary attentiveness to the middle-aged Latina woman who entered the room talking in Spanish on a sparkly pink cell phone. She was short, strong and solid, and wore old jeans and a plain white T-shirt, somehow not the style Mae expected of the occupant of this house. Maybe she dressed up Western for rodeos or something. Looking at Gasser, the woman seemed to argue or complain, and Mae sensed the conversation might concern the cat, because the woman then knelt and gave Gasser a gentle shove off the rug. Her facial expression suggesting a bad odor had offended her, she picked the rug up and carried it out of the room,

  Mae watched a little longer. Gasser walked over to a cowhide chair and looked up, contracted as if he remembered being slim enough jump, then gave up and descended onto the slick hardwood, rolling onto his side with his back against the chair. When he kept sliding and had to work painfully hard to right himself, Mae wanted to design a workout plan for the poor creature. She lost the vision on that distracting thought.

  It wasn’t much information, but Jamie would want to know.

  She took the crystals into the kitchen and put them in a bowl of saltwater, picked up her cell phone and called.

  “G’day, love.” Jamie sounded cheerful. Noises around him suggested a street or parking lot. Traffic, but distant. “How are you? Sorry I was such a—agh, fuck, I’m always like that, bloody hell, never mind.” A short laugh, thumping noises. “Ow. Jesus.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Hit my head. Trying to hang my swim trunks to dry in the back of the van, had a lovely splash in the little toilet pool. Checking out now, heading for Raleigh.” Another thud and a muttered sound of pain. “I keep tripping on this crap the thief put in here instead of my instruments. All these pipes and buckets and crap under the blankets. I should get rid of it but I don’t know where to dump it off—can you recycle this stuff?”

  “Don’t get rid of it. There might be fingerprints.”

  “Nah, not doing that police business, remember? Sylvie’s right. I’d rather not ruin someone’s life for one big mistake.”

  “I don’t know. You should still hang onto those pipes and buckets ’til you get everything back. You may change your mind.”

  “Nah, it’s all set. She’ll meet me in either Raleigh or Durham with my stuff. I’ll get my fresh start.” He paused, apparently moving through the van—Mae could hear scrambling sounds—and then said, “Did you find my cat?”

  “Yes and no. I saw him, and he’s in a nice house, but I can’t tell where it is. Somewhere in the Southwest without any mountains in the view, where the weather is sunny today. I thought he might still be in Oklahoma.”

  “But someone shipped him. That doesn’t make sense.”

  “No, it doesn’t. You’re right. Texas? Any flat places in New Mexico? The lady he’s with speaks Spanish, and she looks maybe Mexican. I did so bad in high school Spanish, I can’t make out what real Spanish speakers say. They go too fast for me.”

  “Can you remember any words at all that she said? Like, mi nombre es and my address is?”

  “No. But I’ll keep trying.”

  “Thanks.” A pause. “I miss him.” The van’s door closing. “I have those fucking dreams, y’know? Bad ones. I went to bed in this stupor last night but I must have slept—what—five hours?” A sigh, the click of the seatbelt. “I need him. Does she love him, d’you think? Is she nice to him?”

  “I don’t think she likes him much, no. She isn’t mean to him, but she doesn’t pet him or talk to him or anything. Didn’t seem to like how he sheds on the rug.”

  “She has to brush him and wash him. Jesus. Who’d ship him to someone who doesn’t even like him?” The engine starting. “Oh—fuck. Bloody fucking hell. Jeeeezus. I— Shoot me. Jeeeezus. Shoot me.”

  “I wish you’d stop saying that. What happened?”

  “I fucked up again. I had the day off, and I—I had this list and I forgot to—I forgot to put the van on it. I can’t fucking believe I’m that bloody stupid. I could have had it in the shop and now I have to drive it and it goes maybe forty miles an hour tops and it stalls and—”

  “I thought you were gonna get it checked in August when your parents sent you some money.”

  “I did. This is new. Started in the mountains here.” He sounded short of breath. “I fucked up. How could I forget that?”

  “You had the theft, and Gasser—there’s a lot on your mind.”

  A sound of urgency and despair, a kind of gasp. The engine cut off, the door opened and closed. Traffic sounds again. Was he having a panic attack? He tended to bolt outdoors when he did. Was he in a safe place? She hoped he was still in his hotel’s parking lot.

  “Jamie? Talk to me, or let me know you’re still listening.”

  Silence. He never made a sound when he walked. He could be headed for the street. Mae was somewhat relieved by a noise like rattling gravel, followed by a rustling and snapping that sounded like branches. Ragged breathing, a soft moan. More shallow, harsh breath. Definitely a panic attack. At least he’d somehow hung onto the phone.

  “Sugar? I’m still here. I’m gonna stay with you until I’m sure you’re all right. You know how to breathe.” She’d sat with him through this a few times in Santa Fe. Amazing that he’d made it this far across the country on his own. But then, he’d had Gasser to calm him down. “When you can talk again, let me know. Even one word. No hurry.”

  After around ten minutes during which she occasionally reassured him and reminded him to breathe, he spoke again, barely audible. “Jesus. I’m in the bushes.” An unsteady but genuine laugh. “These ugly little shrubs in front of the hotel. Sitting on rocks. Like a fucking garden gnome.”

  “Must have looked like a safe place.”

  “Yeah, but I’m in the American South. Blackfella hiding in the shrubbery might not be safe for long.” She pictured him, s
trange looking man that he was, hidden in the shrubs, sweating and shaking. He was joking, but someone might well take him for a drug user and report him. She heard the branches rustle again; he must be standing up. “Sorry about the wobbly. Thanks for checking on my cat. He helps with that, y’know? Guess I need to find a mechanic here and hope I get to Raleigh. Or find a mechanic there. Dunno. Sorry. Not quite back yet ... What should I do?”

  In her mind Mae heard Stamos reminding her that she took care of Jamie too much, but right this moment, he really needed her to. “It’s about four hours’ drive.” She looked at the time. Just after eleven. He’d probably have to be in Raleigh by seven. If the van was going forty and stalling, it wouldn’t take just four hours. He’d arrive after any repair shop closed. “If you get it fixed in Asheville in time to leave that’d work better. Then you could drive however fast that old bucket goes when it’s healthy.”

  The whoosh of lobby doors. “Hope it doesn’t cost a fortune.”

  “If you can’t swing it and you think your van can crawl around that long, I could ask Hubert to take a look at it when you’re closer to Tylerton.”

  Silence. An exhalation as if he’d held his breath. “Right. Um ... thanks. I’ll ... I’ll get it done here. Catcha.” He hung up.

  Mae wondered if the mention of Hubert had upset Jamie the way talking about Stamos did. It shouldn’t. Hubert was fading into friendship. That was where Jamie belonged, too. If he would go there. He had no business being jealous of anyone.

  And she had had no business offering Hubert’s help. Would he offer her services free to someone? My ex-wife’s a personal trainer, she can teach you some exercises. Of course not. They didn’t have that kind of privilege with each other anymore. What had gotten into her? She should probably call Hubert and let him know what she’d done.

  Her phone rang and she was relieved to see that Jamie had called her back already. He must have taken care of things himself.

  “Hey—you getting it fixed?”

  “The blokes in Asheville want it overnight. I could have done that yesterday.” His voice dropped, sounding discouraged. “The Ford place in Raleigh said I can leave it with them tonight if I get there by six, or first thing tomorrow morning. They both had all these guesses on what it could be. Jesus, it was like you listening to that lady speak Spanish, it was like some other language.” The sound of the lobby doors again, and distant traffic, footsteps, voices passing. “I’m an automotive illiterate. For all I know they could be making it all up—” He put on a nasal Southern voice. “We need to replace wind valves on your semi-variable carburanus. Or they could charge me a thousand dollars for a five-dollar part and I wouldn’t know the difference. If I call you tomorrow and tell you what they say is wrong, could you ask your husband—is he your ex-husband yet?—if I’m being screwed?”

  She liked that better than asking Hubert to take time to examine the van. “I could call him. And he’s technically still my husband until April. It takes a year in North Carolina to be officially divorced.”

  “Thanks. Never thought I’d be glad you had a husband.” A pause. “That was supposed to be funny.”

  “It kinda was.”

  “Good. I’m such a bloody pain, I like to think I can still make you smile, y’know? Not just drag you down.” The sound of the van’s door closing again, and a sigh. “You’re a true friend, love, you know that.” The seatbelt clicked once more, and the engine struggled to life. “Means the world to me.”

  Mae searched for a reply that did justice to him. Nothing came but the feeling that her heart was too big for her chest.

  “Gotta drive. So—um—hooroo ... It’ll be good to see you in Norfolk, if we can. I know you said you couldn’t but—y’know—fuck—never mind. Thanks. Jeeeezus! Make me stop talking.”

  “Stop talking, sugar. Drive safe. I’ll keep looking for Gasser’s address.”

  Garden gnome. Carburanus. Make me stop talking. The perpetual paradox of caring about Jamie. He made her laugh. He made her worry. His love broke her heart. She’d do anything in the world for him except return his feelings.

  Chapter Nine

  The van crept up the highway like a sickly snail, perversely getting Jamie to the Ford service center in Raleigh at ten after six. The door was locked and no one answered when he banged on it. The Aerostar could have spent the night and he could have driven a loaner tonight, it could have worked. But it didn’t. Now he’d have to get up at the crack of dawn the day after a show to get the van in tomorrow. He drove the crawling, stalling van to his hotel to check in and then to the club where he would play.

  The assistant manager of the club, a businesslike young woman in a suit and high heels, welcomed him in and handed him a yellow gift bag.

  This time he found a white bakery bag inside and a note identifying the contents as vegan chocolate chip cookies. He opened the bakery bag and looked. Half a dozen monster cookies, exuding a fresh baked smell. No one had shipped anything. This gift-giver had to be right in town. On the outside of the bag, the same handwriting addressed the gift to Jangarrai. No signature. “I got something like this in Asheville. Did you see who left it?”

  She shook her head. “Where’s your setup?”

  He put the bag in his backpack. There wasn’t time to think about someone giving him gifts in two cities, weird though it was. He had to cope with the immediate. Sylvie wasn’t there yet with his instruments and his Fishman. The venue had a P.A. but he preferred his own. It was the lack of instruments that stressed him more. Although Sylvie had said maybe Raleigh, to reassure Wendy Jamie had told her it would be tonight and had started to believe it himself. After talking with Mae and throwing a wobbly, he’d had enough of making people worry about him. It was too late to call Wendy now. If he’d been more realistic, she could have done something, found some other happy old white women with drums.

  The woman in the suit looked worried. Jamie gave her his best smile. At this point he had to risk anything to get through the night. Either he’d soar or he’d fall. “Think I’m winging it, y’know?”

  “That doesn’t sound good. What do you mean?”

  “Being adventurous. Experimental. Just my voice, and the audience.”

  “People expect something like the video clips on your web site.”

  “It will be. Sort of. No worries.” He flashed her the smile again. “I know what I’m doing.”

  The assistant manager mumbled a doubtful “All right,” and walked over to talk with her bartender, her spike heels clicking.

  While Jamie warmed up, he kept listening for his phone, some signal from Sylvie. None came. Backed into daring the experiment, he hoped that the tables and chairs were sturdy, the audience uninhibited, and his own mind clear and free. He’d done things like this before, but had never tried it as the whole show.

  At eight o’clock Jamie jumped onstage and bowed, sweeping off his hat, a soft mouse-brown fedora. “This is the debut of the concerto for voice and noise.” He planted the hat back on, gave them the full-scale smile and a hip-swinging dance move. “Are ya loose?”

  A few people cheered.

  “Here’s how it goes. I teach you a line, you sing it. I teach you a beat, you play it. I give you a dance, you dance it.” He belted out a line of his “Feel Good” song. That grabbed their attention. Then he demonstrated a pattern of claps and stomps, thigh slaps and bum-smacks, and a simple dance step with a stomp and jump. “We’ll start easy, then get wild.”

  When he showed them the dance again, some people laughed, but several women ran out onto the floor without partners, learned the pattern, and got applause.

  “All right, keep your part, and here we go.” While he sang, the audience drummed the tables and danced, and the song took off. Jamie flowed though variations on the melody, added new steps for the dancers, new patterns for the table-drummers, and even a vocal drone line for the men. It more than worked, it flew.

  Elated, Jamie brought the crowd into a sequence of his upbeat so
ngs, choreographing simple dances with stomp and slap-clap patterns, and taught the melody of a song with nonsense syllables, so he could improvise all around it. Energized, he dared dance moves he hadn’t tried since he left Santa Fe, jumping spins and crouches and off-center turns, propelled by a kind of electricity in his spine, hips, and feet, driven by a dance that danced him.

  When both he and the audience were drenched in sweat and exhausted, he slowed down with a heartbreaker ballad, and then picked things back up with a gentle comic song they could sing along with.

  “Good onya.” He applauded his audience, and they applauded him. “Let’s take a break.”

  The once-doubtful assistant manager, liberated from her suit jacket and her high heels, her blouse damp and her hair disarrayed, approached as he reached the bar. Jamie took off his hat to let his head cool, ordered a beer and asked her, “All right if I have a coldie? I won’t get pissed.”

  “On the house,” she said, and smiled. “Sorry you lost your instruments, but this is great.”

  It was. He had no doubt. He’d fucked up everything else in his life but this. This—he could master. Here, and only here, he was in control, fearlessly and fully alive. The beer tasted like the cleanest, most perfect thing in the world. He spun the bar stool, looked out into the happy, chatting crowd, and took a long drink as a woman sat next to him. She perched on the bar stool like a child at a kitchen counter and ordered a bourbon on the rocks. Was she old enough? He noticed her tiny hands on her wallet, little hands with dark red nail polish on the short fingers. Sylvie. Those little paws.

  He looked again. Yes. That sharp little face.

  “Jesus. Why didn’t you tell me you were here?”

  “Well, about time you noticed.” Her brown eyes narrowed, looked him over, up and down. “You hear me singing?”

  Puzzled, he couldn’t say he’d picked out her voice. “Might have. Dunno. Um—glad you made it. Thanks for taking the trip.”