by Martin Clark
“To her credit, her last call was a doozy. She went out in a blaze. Crazy as a shithouse rat.”
“Really?”
“Yep. She was claiming it was end-times and other nonsense. Yelling and carryin’ on about Mystery Babylon and a woman in purple come to do her harm. She was positively biblical. Threatenin’ to kill people. It was a real A-plus performance, even for her. I’d award it a blue ribbon, and she set a damn high standard.”
—
That night, Lisa met M. J. Gold at the Dutch Inn Lounge, a hotel bar that had been jerry-rigged and ventilated to accommodate smokers after Virginia restricted indoor cigarettes. The bar was located in the top section of a huge fake windmill, and the two of them were sipping mediocre margaritas made from a jug mix and house tequila and enjoying a fresh pack of Marlboro Ultra Lights. It was Thursday, so a couple of plump, oblivious women who fancied themselves talents took turns doing karaoke tunes, both of them comically average, mangling an occasional note, screeching the refrain of “Dream On” and oversinging—eyes shut, chin quivering—the shopworn standards like “Crazy” and “Wind Beneath My Wings.” The younger of the two, whose name was Clarisse, had recorded her own CD she sold from her table and at several local convenience stores. A drunk welder with a longneck beer and his lanky brother sang “Brick House,” were much more entertaining than the women and earned cheers and applause from M.J. and Lisa.
Lisa didn’t care for the lounge, but M.J. liked it because it was the only place in Henry County where she could both smoke and drink, and she still felt at ease with men who burned their names into their belt leather and didn’t change out of their Red Wings and blue shirts before stopping for the cheese-sticks-and-draft special on the way home from Wimbash’s Garage or the Kendall Lumberyard. There were some Main Street regulars there, too, an off-duty bailiff from general district court, an insurance agent eating a burger with his gin and tonic, a dental hygienist with blond extensions and circus breasts and a Caché top who’d been married and divorced more than once, the first go-round to a local boy with a dab of coin. The hygienist flipped her hair and stared at them. Lisa gave it straight back to her.
M.J. was subdued. She was also soon a full drink ahead of Lisa. In the last month, she’d had to fire several employees from her equipment businesses. “This shit is getting dire,” she said. “The economy’s a mess.”
“Are you okay?” Lisa asked. “Moneywise, I mean?”
“Yeah, sure. We’re just hunkering down and riding it out. Me, I’ve got years and years of profit salted away.” She hit her Marlboro and blew smoke toward the ceiling. “And we’re full at the apartments. People losing their houses…”
“Maybe it’ll turn around.”
“It might if we didn’t have a bunch of moronic pimps managing the government. I swear to god, Lisa, I’d rather have the mafia in charge. I would. With them, you at least get what you pay for, some degree of competency, and the shakedowns are predictable and the costs reasonable. I say let’s tar and feather the whole bunch of politicians and send them home and hire a competent CEO and let her run the show for a year or two. Seriously, look at who we have in charge. That guy Harry Reid should be the substitute weekend weatherman for Channel 10, that would be about at the top of his skill level, and the Republican clown, what’s his name? Boner?”
“Boehner,” Lisa corrected her.
“Yeah, that tool’s an obvious sot who looks like the Grinch’s tropical island cousin. And poor Barack is your brother-in-law the dentist, right down to the mommy jeans and know-it-all lectures.”
Lisa laughed. She sipped her drink, set it on a waterlogged napkin and started laughing again. “But you’re not in any trouble?” she finally asked.
“Still rich. Rich enough to be erratic and not suffer because of it.”
“Good.”
As M.J. was reaching for their pack of smokes, a tall man wearing a wool blazer and dark slacks walked to their table, and his stilted, static smile and his slightly tucked chin and the casual way he dangled his beer bottle all signaled his intentions, and he stopped next to them and nodded, said hello. “I’m Paul Rourke,” he announced. “Nice to meet you.”
Lisa shook his hand, her expression noncommittal.
M.J. had worked a cigarette free from the pack, and as she raised it, he bent toward her with a blue plastic Bic and she leaned slightly sideways to meet the flame. The union was quick and precise, the Marlboro’s tip burning orange in a second, the lighter extinguished, a smoke trail languishing, nowhere to go, unable to rise in the dense air. “Thanks,” she said. She also shook his hand.
“I hope I’m not bothering you ladies,” he told them. “Just thought I’d come over and meet you.”
“Where’re you from?” M.J. asked.
“Dayton. I’m here on business.” He was still standing, closer to M.J. than to Lisa.
“What business?” M.J. wanted to know.
“Wholesale lumber. Bassett Furniture’s a customer.”
“Used to be nothing but furniture plants here,” M.J. said. “Pretty slim pickings nowadays.”
Rourke shrugged. “I hear you.” He switched his beer from one hand to the other but didn’t drink. “Mind if I ask your names?”
“I’m Lisa, Lisa Stone.” She was pleasant. Paul Rourke seemed nice enough, and she could tell M.J. wasn’t aggravated by his being there.
“I’m M. J. Gold. From Raleigh.”
Rourke slanted his head, touched his chin. “The business lady? Heavy equipment, right?”
“Yep.” M.J. poked around in her margarita with a thin red stir stick, jabbing ice toward the bottom of her glass.
“I read a piece on you not long ago. In one of the trade magazines. ‘Everything Turns to Gold,’ it was called. Or something like that.”
“I remember it. It was a nice article.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Rourke’s tone had changed, and his words were rushed, clipped. He took an awkward half-step away from the women, probably wasn’t aware he’d done it. He transferred the bottle again, then swallowed some beer. “I was going to offer to buy you a drink, but I might be out of my depth with you ladies.”
“Not at all,” M.J. told him. “I appreciate the courtesy. My friend Lisa’s married, so don’t waste the money on her. Tell you what—why don’t you send me another margarita, and your next beer will be on us.”
Rourke seemed relieved. “Sounds fair.”
Lisa noticed the three companions at his table, watching bug-eyed, grinning, one of them elbowing the other. She recognized Joel Hammond, a vice president at Bassett. She’d represented his first wife in their divorce. He was now on number four.
“I take it you’re single?” M.J. said.
“Divorced about a year. Married for sixteen. It’s a new world for me, I can promise you that much. Still gettin’ the hang of it.”
“Ah. Well, you’re a nice-looking man. Very charming. I doubt you’ll be on the market too long. Makes me wish I weren’t dating someone.” She took an elaborately engraved case from her purse, then stood and handed Rourke a calling card. “My contact information and my telephone number. Like I said, I have a steady boyfriend, but it was nice of you to make the effort to come over and visit us.” She sat again. “And if you ever need any equipment or radio advertising, let me know.”
“Yeah, I sure will.” He dug his wallet from his hip pocket and handed her his card. It was dog-eared at both top corners. “I’ll order your drink. Lisa’s too. Even though she’s married.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Lisa echoed.
“Okay, then. Great. Pleased to meet you.” He returned to his table and huddled and talked with the three men there, and they all did a poor job of attempting to appear casual and less than fascinated.
“Paul Rourke seems like a good egg,” M.J. said.
“True, I suppose, but why’d you give him your phone number?”
“Hell, Lisa, it’s my business pho
ne. It’s not like I sit in the lobby at the reception desk and answer the calls myself. Plus, how hard is it to find my numbers? And why not, huh? Nice guy, not creepy. Not pushy. Why be a bitch because he thought we were attractive enough to hit on? Good for him, I say. And I didn’t want to castrate him in front of his buddies, now did I?”
“He did have a pleasant vibe.” Lisa glanced at Rourke’s table, then at the karaoke machine. A spotlight was trained on the small stage. A row of colored bulbs was also burning, the reds, yellows and blues mingling with the smoke and blending the hues near the machine. A man was playing a video trivia game at the bar. “Still, it must be sad to live on the road like that, traveling and selling and drinking with people—especially shit-heels like Joel Hammond—you’re kind of acquainted with in hopes of moving a few more units or hitting your quota.”
“Well, not necessarily, and I should know, shouldn’t I? You sure are grim and pessimistic recently. I’d rather think he just landed a big sale and is enjoying free drinks on a corporate expense account. Chatting up pretty girls like us.” A waitress brought two margaritas, and they raised them in Rourke’s direction. He replied by lifting his beer. “I tell you what’s sad: Some laid-off banker or fired teacher at a mall kiosk, pushing miracle cleaner or nail buffers or log-home kits or cell-phone accessories or time-share deeds. A kiosk, not even a real store, mind you, just an aisle shanty. That’s down in the heels. I can’t even look at them. I hate it for ’em. Hurts.”
“Funny you should mention cell phones. I need to borrow yours.”
“Now?” M.J. reached for her purse. “Who’re you calling? Joe?” She rested her cigarette in an ashtray notch, the filter tipped up. “Or your boyfriend.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Right.”
“I don’t,” Lisa repeated.
“Whatever.”
“I need to use it for a few days, please. Around the first of March. You can leave it with me, and I’ll FedEx it back to you.”
“I have three. Which do you want? Equipment, radio or personal?”
“If the personal shows your name, I’d prefer that one.”
“I’ll just bet you would.” M.J. pursed her lips. “Where are we supposedly going, you and me?”
“The Bahamas. Paradise Island. The Ocean Club. You might want to mention it on your Facebook page. What a great time we’re having, sent from your laptop while we’re there. Joe’s your Facebook friend, isn’t he?”
“Can I have sex with Joe after he divorces you? What’s the dear-friend waiting period on that?” M.J. was bent over her purse, sorting through her phones.
“No.”
“Can I go too? I mean really go? I’d bring my beau, Brian, and we’d tour the island in style. My treat. I hear the Ocean Club’s swank as hell. And I’d like to get a look at this Brett Brooks character.”
“I think we’ll do better by ourselves.”
“How many times have you seen this guy? Besides your big night in Roanoke? A suitcase date is not too far below the hundred-dollar, diamond-chip, preengagement ring.”
“We had a nice sober lunch in Salem and a quick cocktail at a bar in Greensboro. Bowling and beers one night, which was a blast. Neither of us had ever bowled. Plus phone calls and e-mails. Brett’s a handsome man, really hot, and good company, smart as hell, too, but you and I both realize a big part of this is just the timing, sort of where I was in my life when he asked me to have a drink.”
“I mean, wow, how do you go from twenty years of model marriage and a dog by the fireplace to flitting off to the Caribbean with a guy you’ve known for a few hours? If you ask me, it seems too quick and half-baked. One day you’re here, the next day you’re in the Bahamas. Soon you’ll be flying to California to screw a man you met on the Internet.”
“Brett Brooks has been around forever—he’s not some con-artist loser sending me a bus ticket to shack up in his mom’s basement. I’ve spent time with him. And I want it to be spontaneous. I want it to be off the cuff and sudden. Crazy. Romantic, with all the ribbons and curlicues, not some motor court in Danville. That’s the point. That’s exactly what I’m missing in my plodding life.”
“A happy house and a straight, faithful, employed, handsome, smart, funny man without needle tracks or a liquor demon are damn near priceless. Trust me on that.”
“True, but here’s something I can tell you from a couple decades in the domestic-relations business: Crock-Pots and comfortable couches are the killers. The middle of the road often leads to a lawyer’s office.”
“Well, even though I’m against this in principle, you know I’ll cover for you and lie and scheme and do whatever it is accomplices are supposed to when their friend has a fling.” M.J. laid a cell phone on the table and slid it toward Lisa. “It has to be exciting, for all kinds of reasons. I get that part.” She leaned in and smiled mischievously. “The first of it, the front end, the start of a romance, nothing can compare.” She brought her margarita to the middle of their table and encircled the glass with both hands. “Nothing can top new. As my batty Uncle Luther used to say: ‘It’s better than hard liquor and White Owl cigars.’ ”
“I mean, I love Joe, absolutely, no doubt, but I’ve had so much fun lately it doesn’t seem fair that I can’t…do this and not feel guilty or damage my marriage. There’s no going back, either. If Brett and I have sex, there’s no way to cordon off adultery. Even if you stay with your husband, it’s not the same. Big ugly scar. You’re a cheater. You can’t really patch it so it’s repaired. There’s a major difference between ‘I’ve always been faithful’ and ‘I’ve only screwed around with one other man.’ And if I start seeing Brett, I’m thinking, well, how long would it continue? I’m sure not planning to leave Joe.”
“Listen, marriage was a nightmare for me. Talk about scars.” M.J. was briefly somber. She tapped a phone’s screen for no reason. “I’m hardly the person to give advice on the subject. But years and years with the same guy, no matter how handsome, how perfect he is, well, I don’t know if…”
“The worst of it is that I feel like a total ingrate and harpy. I should be happy with my situation. Who wouldn’t be, right? Of course, you can’t help how you feel. Not much I can do there.”
“Ha. Now we’re talkin’. Next comes the other monster cliché of adulterers and slip-arounds: ‘It’s not him, it’s me.’ I’m waiting for you to trot out that beaut. Or the classic ‘I love him, I’m just not in love with him.’ ” M.J. grinned at her, almost smirked. “And you’re all ornery because he praises the dog and does a stupid little knock on your office door—stuff a lot of us would see as personality.” She paused, and they were both silent for a moment. “But fun is fun, and life is short,” she noted sincerely, “and nobody should be waking up miserable if there’s a reasonable alternative.”
“Listen, you lose your mom and then watch your invincible daddy die on a rubber sheet with IV dope drips pouring straight into his blood, and you learn real damn quick how short life is. Okay? You wind up waiting by a sickbed, watching the suffering and indignities firsthand, and you can make the case that shit is just cruel and random and there’s no honest scorecard at the end, so, hey, we all ought to have some leeway before we hit the line for our own heart caths or radiation treatments. You school yourself not to brood about all this, and after a while you stop talking about it, but my act one is finished and the curtain’s dropped, and every single day I realize there’s only so much left.”
“I’m sorry, Lisa. It had to be awful, especially your daddy.”
“White Owls? Aren’t they called blunts now? The cheap cigars you fill with pot or more serious dope? At least that’s what we see in court.”
“Yeah, well maybe crazy Uncle Luther was ahead of his time.”
“Could be,” Lisa replied, distracted. She was pointlessly tearing strips from a cocktail napkin and scattering white shreds in front of her.
“I remember you had your Tampa Nuggets and Swisher Sweets
too. But the Owls were the aces in his world.”
“It’s also possible,” Lisa said, “that brown booze and a filling-station cigar aren’t really all they’re cracked up to be.”
A partially peeled banana with a bite missing, a black-stubbed cigarette and its ashes near the center of a bread plate, a tourist coffee mug from Niagara Falls, a saltshaker, a scrap of toast and a streak of grape jelly, a butter knife tipped purple with the jelly, a lighter and a wadded paper napkin were Lisa’s accessories at the kitchen table the following morning, a Friday. She was awake at dawn, early for her, before Joe, and was lolling in a wooden chair when he and Brownie appeared, the dog in the lead, four sets of hooked nails clicking against the floor. Joe scooped dry food from a tin container and dumped it into the dog’s bowl, then opened a Pedigree can and spooned half the wet meat over the kibble. He covered the can with foil and set it on the counter, next to the sink, the remainder saved until Brownie’s supper.
“What’s your schedule today?” he asked, bent into the fridge, shuffling cartons and bottles and Tupperware so he could get the orange juice from the top shelf. He wasn’t looking at her when he spoke, was turned completely away, the words vanishing into the cold air and leftovers.
“Hmmm?” she said, though she had understood him.
“What’re you doing today?” He had the juice now and was pouring himself a glass. He joined her at the table. He neglected the juice carton, left it beside the dog food, its white plastic top on the other side of the sink, dropped there as soon as it had been unscrewed.
“District court in the morning. Hair this afternoon. I’ve told you twice about my appointment.” She rearranged herself in the chair, no longer slouching.
“Oh,” he said. “What kind of case?”
“Do you think I should wear my hair shorter?”
“Sure,” he said. “If you want to.” There was no inflection in his voice.
“I thought you liked it this length,” she said.
