Snake Face

by Amber Foxx

“Got your diary.” He waited, but she didn’t say anything in response. “I’m sorry. I was really thoughtless with you back then. It was like what my advisor in college did to me, told me I was too bloody sensitive to make it as an opera singer, y’know? Told me to go be a teacher. It hurt. I get it. And ... I heard a song you wrote. Joe Wayne Brazos singing it. It was ...”

  Mae mouthed the words Careful what you say. She knew he was about to say Not bad for country. He nodded, smiled, patted her arm and then his heart. Grateful for the correction. With forced enthusiasm, he finished, “It was good. Really good.”

  Mae gave him a big smile and a thumbs-up. Jamie took her hand, kissed the raised thumb and licked it. She yanked her hand away with a startled squeak of a laugh.

  Sylvie must have overheard. “You with that red-headed bitch?”

  “Don’t call her that. She’s my friend.”

  “How good a friend?”

  “Mm. Dunno. Work in progress.”

  “Looks like pretty good progress if she’s the lady that took you home last night. Was that the blonde, or the redhead?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “I thought maybe she was married to that nice-looking Greek, and that you,” Sylvie giggled, “had lived up to your hat.”

  “What—that I’d be like Joe Wayne Brazos and steal some bloke’s wife? Wait—if you couldn’t see the woman that well, how’d you know the Greek was good-looking—or Greek?”

  “Ah.” Sylvie sounded like she’d struck gold. “I’m a good little spy. I’m glad you noticed. Too bad you don’t go for married women.”

  “Fuck, even if you were single, I’m not interested. I didn’t call about that. Bloody hell, how did you get onto this? I said I’m sorry I didn’t listen to your songs, all right? They’re good. Now I just need my didg and my P.A. and my drums, and my cat.”

  He was getting angry, and his repetition of his apology sounded more like a tirade. Mae wanted to do something to calm Jamie down, but she didn’t know what. Letting Sylvie hear her voice had started all this. Sylvie made a tut-tutting sound with her tongue. “We’ve got a whole week to have fun before that.”

  Panic squeezed Jamie’s voice. “Please. No. This hasn’t been fun.”

  “It sure has.” Sylvie’s voice rose on the last word, teasing and extra twangy. “Don’t you want to keep playing?”

  “Fuck, no. You practically admit you’re stalking me, and you expect me think it’s fun? ”

  “It is.” She paused. “You’re playing, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How else did you know I’ve got your cat? I didn’t tell you that.” Her voice went from playful to hard and crisp. “You got someone watching me.”

  “I do not. My friend’s psychic.”

  “Bullshit.” She spat a little puff of air. “You’ve got detectives on me. Got that rich girlfriend with the nice big house paying for a private investigator. That’s so weak, cowboy—calling in the cavalry. I dare you to show your PI my poor sad little diary.”

  “I don’t have a bloody private investigator.”

  “Sure you do. You should be ashamed of yourself. I haven’t hurt you one bit.” She slipped back into her teasing, flirting tone. “So play fair, cowboy. Or the basenjis might play rough with that fat old cat. See you in Greenville.”

  Sylvie ended the call. Jamie curled up as much as the seatbelt would let him, his whole body shaking.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Mae pulled over into the breakdown lane. All sympathy for the wounded Sylvia Ramirez vanished, replaced by outrage. Her heart was with Jamie.

  “It really is time to stop her,” she said, rubbing his back. It felt like an engine was running inside him, idling too high. “She’s admitted to stalking. You’ve got her name. You can do something. I’m a witness. We can talk to the police. I’m sure there’s got to be way to get a restraining order—”

  Jamie uncurled, took a big gasp of air, and leaned back in his seat, clasping Mae’s hand. “But she said she’ll put Gasser out with the dogs.”

  Unbuckling her seatbelt, Mae scooted toward him. “She just said that because she knows you’re scared of dogs. Gasser’s big, and those dogs are small. My mama’s Siamese used to beat up our neighbor’s collie dog. Scared the living daylights out of it.”

  “But Gasser can’t run. And his first owner declawed him. All he could do would be make a noise. They could bite him.”

  What an appallingly perfect way to torment Jamie—the threat of a dog bite to his beloved pet. “You really think she’s got him like a hostage?”

  Jamie opened his eyes and nodded. “I forgot I only knew she had him because you’d seen him. Now she thinks we’re in some fucking stalker tag.”

  Mae let go of his sweaty hand, dried her palm on her jeans, and took hold again. “So she might think this detective knows about the instruments and the theft. That’s a whole lot more serious than having your cat.”

  He jerked forward so hard the seatbelt tightened and stopped him as if he’d been in an accident. “Fuck, no, if I had to choose—Jesus—”

  “Sorry—I know you love Gasser. I meant legally serious, for her. Your stuff she stole was valuable. If she thinks she’s been caught at that—”

  “I can’t call the police or she’ll kill Gasser.” Jamie slumped and exhaled slowly. “I have to put up with her. I have to let her follow me around until I can get my stuff.”

  “No—don’t let her do that to you. She won’t kill him. The pet sitter doesn’t seem mean, just not affectionate. She won’t do anything bad with Gasser.”

  “Sylvie could fly home any time and do it herself. She’s got money coming out her arse.”

  “She can’t do that and stalk you at the same time.”

  “See? I have to let her do it.”

  With this dismal surrender, Jamie seemed to have gotten past his near-panic. At a loss what to say next, Mae put her seatbelt back on and started the car, easing it out onto the highway. Several cars passed in the left lane, but none seemed to creep on from the shoulder.

  She tried to puzzle out this new move in Sylvie’s game. Sylvie had never revealed she had Gasser. Why not? Why keep him if she didn’t use him? She didn’t seem like someone who would go to a lot of trouble to rescue a cat. She might even have opened the van and taken him. It could have been a move to upset Jamie for the sheer meanness of it. To reveal she’d done it would be a confession of stalking since Jamie was lost in Oklahoma. Maybe Gasser was supposed to be her secret ace in the hole if all else failed to get Jamie to do whatever she wanted. Which was?

  Meet her in Austin, after being harassed and stressed nonstop throughout his tour. She didn’t just want him there. She wanted him there in bad shape. Maybe the apology wasn’t enough, and Sylvie wanted to punish Jamie. “If you really think you have to put up with her, make sure you don’t let her get you alone, and don’t ever get into a car with her. Bring someone with you to pick up Gasser and your things. And keep your phone on, charged, and in your pocket.”

  Jamie glanced back at the highway. He must be looking for Sylvie, too. “You make it sound like she wants to kill me.”

  Mae reached over to squeeze his hand. “No, she’s not gonna kill you or Gasser. I just want you to be cautious, that’s all.”

  He opened and closed the window a few inches, up and down, up and down. Over and over. Mae wanted to tell him to stop, but she glimpsed the confined zoo animal again, withdrawn into a self-soothing, meaningless, repetitive behavior. He’d been so happy during and after the show. So radiant and alive on the beach. All it took was contact with Sylvie to derail him.

  Did she know how fragile Jamie was? She knew he used to be overweight and had seen him panic over the little dog. His personality was an open book, his anxiety and vulnerability easy to read. It seemed unlikely that he’d have told a student about his mental health history, though.

  “Do you think she knows ...?” Mae faded off, not sure how to phrase t
he question. Sometimes Jamie made jokes about depression and suicide, while at other times he was explosively sensitive on the topic.

  “Maybe.” He nodded, tapping the window handle but finally not cranking it. “She stole my toothbrush.”

  Mae closed her bedroom door and sat on the floor with the diary, the hat, and her crystals. It was late, and she wasn’t sure psychic work was really needed. Sylvie could have stolen Jamie’s toothbrush along with his room key to make him leave his room so she could go in and steal his clothes. It didn’t mean she’d known it would make him so anxious he couldn’t sleep. A lot of people brushed their teeth before they went to bed. Was there anything she knew that she clearly shouldn’t? Favorite foods? That wasn’t so private. Jamie chattered a lot about random things, and he’d been in the process of major weight loss during his first year as a teacher, so he could easily have gone on little rants and riffs about green chile pistachios or vegan brownies and how he craved them or fit them into the diet.

  As Mae leaned against the wall that separated her room from Jamie’s, she felt his energy sending roots into her, like a plant into the crack in a sidewalk. What was going on? What kind of relationship was this? On his side, no question. He knew what he wanted and said he would wait. For what? They didn’t have plans. She didn’t know what kind to make with him. He said he’d always be there. She could have a lifetime of devotion, mood swings, fart jokes, and too much attention. He had no idea what he was offering, not really. Even in his best attempts to be normal, he couldn’t keep all his strangeness under wraps, and if he did, he would be someone else. Less trouble, but less Jamie.

  How could she help him the most? If only she was the kind of psychic who could see the future, like Stamos’s spooky Aunt Christina. Mae imagined a dramatic Greek woman intoning, You will get Gasser back and go home to Santa Fe and live happily ever after. That would give him peace of mind, but that might not be the future. If getting an apology for ignoring her music and not recognizing her had been all Sylvie wanted, she should be through harassing him. She wasn’t. Why?

  Maybe there were clues in the diary, but Mae couldn’t read the whole thing tonight. Sylvia Ramirez had been a dedicated and detailed storyteller of her own life. Scanning the diary for words about mental health, in case Sylvie revealed some private knowledge about Jamie, Mae found nothing other than an occasional “depressed” that referred to having to do homework for a history class, or “crazy” as a compliment. Often applied to Mr. E.

  The most interesting thing she found was that there were pages missing. Sylvie hadn’t handed over her whole past, only the parts she didn’t want to hide. Mae didn’t want to see anything private that wouldn’t help Jamie, but did those cut-out pages have anything to do with why Sylvie was still tormenting him? Any clues as to her plans?

  Mae closed her eyes, breathed slowly, and shut out her thoughts, focusing on her breath and the sensations she picked up from the crystals. She let one hand rest on the diary, and propped Joe Wayne’s hat on her knee, to keep the energy tracking on the part of Sylvia Ramirez that was the future Sylvie Wainwright.

  The journey tunnel darkened, and her vision emerged in a fluorescent-lit institutional hallway. A short girl, long black hair hanging past what would have been her waist if she had one, stood outside an office. The girl’s figure took the least attractive form an obese shape could take—flat down the back, as if she were a drop cookie and her posterior had been the side on the baking sheet, while her front mounded out with a big stomach under small breasts. Her face was surrounded by so much fat her three chins rolled out to her ears. Mae knew it was Sylvia Ramirez only by the eyes—dark brown, close-set, alert and watchful. She clutched a backpack that dangled from one shoulder and waited a while. Then she took tiny, silent steps and peered through the gap of the almost-closed door.

  Jamie was talking on a cell phone, half dancing, laughing, singing a line of a song and talking more. “Yeah, great. I’ll rock up around five-ish then? ... Yeah, I’ll cook, love, no worries. Leave it to me.” With his free hand, he unbuttoned his white Oxford shirt. The tie already hung loose, its knot undone. Listening on the phone, he darted to his desk, pulled a gym bag from under it, and took out a long-sleeved, tie-dyed T-shirt. “Hang on, disappearing for a sec—” He set the phone down, shed one shirt and dived into the other. Sylvia’s eyes narrowed at the sight of his exposed torso, well-muscled, close to his ideal weight, though still a little soft in the belly where three short, thick scars were revealed.

  He picked up the phone again, reached into the gym bag, took out a brush and began to rake it though his wildly fluffy hair. “Getting out of teacher drag. Feel human again, y’know? Into my new clothes. Fuck. I’m stupid, but I get excited. Smaller clothes, y’know?” He smoothed the shirt down, tucked it in, untucked it, retucked it, and stood taller. “Admire me when you see me. I’m on my way. Catcha.”

  He put the phone on the desk, tossed the brush in the bag, opened another drawer and got out a toothbrush and toothpaste. Sylvia ducked back. As Jamie came out the door of his office, she approached as if she had just arrived.

  “Mr. Ellerbee?”

  “Yeah—Rodriguez— right?” He beamed as if he’d accomplished something extraordinary. Sylvia sighed, and Jamie clearly understood. “Sorry. It’s me, it’s not you.” He made a show of concentration, closing his eyes and pretending to write her name on his forehead. “Soprano. Sylvia, Sylvia.” He opened his eyes. “I’ll get it, really. Sylvia Ramirez, what can I do for you?”

  “I lost my rehearsal schedule. Can I get a new one?”

  “Dunno. F— I ...” He juggled his toothbrush and toothpaste. “Back in a minute.”

  Sylvia rolled her eyes, watched him hasten off to the men’s room, and went into his office. She walked straight to his desk and looked at a calendar that covered most of its surface. It was a blotter-style calendar that showed a month in such size that its owner could detail entire days in each square. Mae recognized Jamie’s flowing, leaning handwriting. The lines crossing t’s shot across entire words.

  Sylvia opened his center desk drawer, borrowed a pen, and wrote several dates down in her own little pocket calendar, neatly printing “rehearsal” and the times. And then kept looking. She ran her finger over each square, hunting through his life. He had a busy one. Every day was full. Quartet, La Fonda showed up on Wednesday evenings. Apparently he was playing at the top hotel in town. The most frequent entry was Lisa with a smiley face, an exclamation point or a flower. Sylvia made a disgusted face when she touched them. Several weekends had details of locations, times, phone numbers, and the word climb, with zigzags around it like cartoon lightning. He’d even doodled a flute and notes near one of the La Fonda dates. Twice a week was the notation Dr. Gorman, unadorned. “Gorman, Gorman, Gorman,” Sylvia whispered to herself.

  After returning the pen to the center drawer, she opened the one from which Jamie had taken the toothbrush and laughed. Inside lay a spare toothbrush still in the package, two spare tubes of toothpaste and two packs of floss. Also, there was food. A bar of red chile dark chocolate, only a small portion missing, wore a sticky note with the message “Slow. Enjoy. Stop.” A bag of green chile pistachios was double-wrapped with two rubber bands with a quarter cup measuring scoop stuck through them, and the chocolate bar also had rubber bands around it, as if he was teaching himself restraint by slowing his impulses and measuring portions, determined to have his indulgences and his weight loss, too.

  Sylvia closed the drawer, picked up Jamie’s shirt and tie off the floor and draped them over his chair, taking her time in handling them.

  Just then Jamie hurried back in the room.

  “Jesus, did I leave my clothes on the floor? Sorry. Not very professional.”

  “You must have a date with Ms. Savage.”

  “Yeah.” He grinned, radiant. “But I’m not running out on you, really.” He took off the smile and made a visible effort to change modes. “I’ll see if I can find the schedule—�
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  She stepped out from behind his desk. “I got it off your calendar.”

  “Yeah. Right. F— I—right.” He put his toothbrush and toothpaste away, rubbed at his new little tuft of beard. It looked like a strange shaving oversight on the end of his chin. “So we’re good, then?”

  “I think so.” Sylvia meandered toward the door, stuffing her planner into her pack. “Does it help you lose weight to brush your teeth? Someone told me it made you want to eat less if you do it before you eat.”

  “Nah. Scared I’ll have bad breath on my date. Dunno, though, maybe it helps with the weight. Calms me down sort of, y’know, like eating, I guess. Yeah.”

  “You didn’t have some kind of surgery or anything, did you?”

  Jamie was rolling his tie up into a neat little package. He paused and frowned. “You’re not thinking of doing that, are you? That’s pretty desperate.”

  “No. Just wondered how you’d done it. You’ve really ... You look good, Mr. Ellerbee, really good.”

  “Thanks.” He dropped into his chair, ducked to put the rolled tie into the bag under his desk, and smacked the back of his head as he came up. Hand to head, he winced, muttering an almost inaudible Fuck. Sylvia pressed her lips together hard but failed to stifle a bubble of laughter at his head-strike. No sign of worry or concern for his pain.

  “You want to talk about losing weight, Sylvia? Seriously. I’ve got time.”

  “Maybe. I mean, I’m sure you’ll tell me you eat right and exercise.”

  “If it was that easy there’d be no fat people. Yeah, I do, but it’s ... complicated. I mean, it’s all related, the moods you get if exercise, and if you don’t ... and if you eat crap you feel like crap, and if you eat real food you feel real ...” He wriggled his shoulders as if getting out of a tight space, eyes fixed on her with a nervous intensity. “Stress, y’know? Yeah. Stress. It’s the key.” His right palm tapped his left thumb, both hands stretched taut. “To how I lost weight.”

  “You mean you go to a shrink.”