Collection

by Rector, John

  Carl came over and grabbed Rochelle’s arm and pulled her off the couch. I went to stand, but he pointed the gun at me and said, “Think it through, cowboy.”

  I sat back down, keeping a close watch.

  Carl turned back to Rochelle. “You told him you were pregnant?”

  Rochelle pulled her arm away. “This ain’t your business.”

  Carl laughed, and for a minute it looked like he wasn’t able to speak, then he pointed at me. “Are you fucking stupid, boy?”

  The anger flashed again. I was having a hard time keeping it back.

  He kept laughing. “You must be the dumbest motherfucker I’ve ever met.” He motioned toward Rochelle. “Roach is a dangler.”

  “Jesus, Carl,” Rochelle said. “Why do you have to do this?”

  Carl ignored her. He came close to me and said, “You got no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” He put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Roach, come over here and show this boy what I’m talking about.”

  “No, Carl.”

  He turned on her, fast. “God damn it, now!”

  Rochelle hesitated a moment, then crossed the room and stood in front of me. She mumbled something I didn’t quite hear, then lifted her shirt and unbuttoned her jeans.

  I closed my eyes.

  Carl hit the back of my head. “Open your eyes, dipshit. You’ll like this.”

  Rochelle did a small snake move and slid her jeans to her knees. There was a wispy thin tuft of blonde hair between her legs, and buried beneath was a tiny gray penis.

  Carl laughed. “It ain’t much, but it’s enough.” He reached down and flicked her penis with his finger. Rochelle jumped back. “You’d be surprised how much money this one brings in on a good night. Some of these boys come from miles just to—”

  I got up fast and swung hard, catching him right above his eye. He stumbled backward into the dresser and dropped the gun. He tried to get his balance, and I hit him again. This time he went down. I kicked the gun under the bed and reached for Rochelle.

  “Jesus, Jack,” she said, pulling her pants back up. She stared at Carl. “What’d you do that for?”

  “Let’s go. Now.” I pulled her toward the door, but she squirmed away and ran to where Carl was sitting on the floor. He had his head back, his palm pressed over his eye.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  She knelt in front of him and held his head between her hands.

  “Rochelle, let’s go.”

  She turned to me and screamed through clenched teeth. “Fuck you, Jack. Get out of here.”

  “Rochelle?”

  She ignored me.

  I stayed for as long as I could stand it, then I walked back to my truck, her voice still sounding in my head.

  ~

  I always try to do what’s right. It’s the way I was raised. The Bible says not to hate people who do you wrong, and to love your neighbor. I understand that. The Bible also says an act of revenge is justified and not considered murder. I understand that, too, but sometimes one thing the Bible says seems to go against another, and then I get confused. When that happens, I try to find a middle ground and do what I think is right.

  I went back to the motel that night and waited in the lot next door. I watched the girls move between the trucks, but I didn’t see Rochelle out there. The light in Carl’s room was on, so I figured she was inside. After a while I got out and took the tire iron from the back of my pick-up and headed over.

  The door to his room was locked, so I stepped back and kicked it, hard. It exploded in, slamming against the wall. Carl was on the green couch, his head leaned back, a bag of ice over his eye. His pants were off and Rochelle was kneeling between his legs. When he saw me he tried to stand, but I moved fast, catching him across the face with the tire iron.

  Carl fell over the side of the couch, slumping against the wall.

  He didn’t move.

  I pulled the couch back and took the heavy rubber band from my pocket.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Rochelle reached for my arm. “Leave him alone—”

  I pulled away and slammed my elbow into her chest. She made a low grunting sound and dropped, struggling for breath.

  Carl was on his side. I kicked him onto his back, and he made a slow moaning sound. I reached between his legs, wrapped the band around his balls, tight, then pulled the hunting knife from my boot.

  Rochelle tried to scream, but the sound was weak and painful.

  I ignored her.

  Carl’s balls were turning a deep purple, like a small eggplant.

  I opened the knife.

  He jumped when I cut.

  Rochelle screamed and staggered into the bathroom. I heard the water run, and when she came back she had an armful of towels.

  I got out of her way.

  “You think you’re a real man?” She looked up at me, showed her teeth. “You’re not a real man. You don’t know what it means to be a real man.”

  I waited in the doorway, watching her press the towels between his legs. The faded green motel carpet grew dark under him.

  “You’ll be just fine, sugar,” Rochelle was saying. “You just rest now.” She started humming a song to him that seemed familiar. I thought it might’ve been Mockingbird, but it didn’t sound quite right.

  I listened for a moment, then said, “What’s that you’re singing?”

  She ignored me. The towels between Carl’s legs were soaking through, dark and red, and her humming became closer to a low moan. “Oh, sweet Christ,” she said, over and over. “Oh, sweet fucking Christ.”

  There was a lot of blood, and I figured the band had come off. With cattle, that usually meant trouble, but there wasn’t much you could do. I watched them for a while, but it didn’t take too long until I’d had enough. I walked out, leaving them alone.

  Once I was out the door, Rochelle yelled to me. “You run away, Jack. You just run. You ain’t a real man. You ain’t ever gonna be a real man, not ever! You hear me?”

  I heard her, but then, halfway to my truck, the wind picked up and I didn’t hear her anymore.

  Folded Blue

  Harry opened the door.

  Jules stood on the porch holding a brown paper bag. “Thought we could throw back a few.” He looked past Harry into the dark apartment. “You alone?”

  Harry nodded and stepped away from the door.

  Jules came inside and went straight for the kitchen. “Mind if I put these in the fridge?”

  “Go ahead.” Harry closed the door and walked back to the couch in the corner of the room. The ashtray on the coffee table was full and overflowing. “You bring any smokes?”

  “I don’t smoke, man, you know that.”

  Harry did know that, it was one of the reasons he didn’t like Jules. For a drunk, Jules was far too concerned about his health to be that good of a friend.

  Harry thumbed through the ash tray, picked out a half-smoked cigarette, blew off the filter and put it to his lips. “You got a light?”

  Jules came out of the kitchen with two beers and handed one to Harry. “I think I might.”

  “Doesn’t smoke, but carries a lighter.”

  “No lighter,” he said. “But these will work.”

  He held out a black and gold pack of matches. Harry knew them well. They were from the Moonlight Tavern off 76th street. Rita used to work there.

  “When were you at the Moonlight?”

  “I stop in now and then.”

  “You see Rita?”

  “Not for a couple days,” he said. “She’s off somewhere, you know how she gets.”

  Harry nodded and took a drink of his beer. It was warm, but it tasted good.

  Neither of them spoke.

  Harry leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. Outside, the noise from the street drifted into the room like the sound of an angry sea.

  Jules coughed.

  Harry opened his eyes. “You sick?”

  “Nothing seri
ous.”

  “What’s nothing serious?”

  “I don’t know,” Jules said. “Nothing serious.”

  “Don’t come over here when you’re sick.”

  “Christ, Harry, it’s just allergies. They always kick in come August.”

  “If you say so.”

  Jules shook his head. “You’re a fucking hypochondriac, you know that?”

  Harry ignored him.

  They finished their beers and opened two more.

  “You got plans tonight?” Jules asked.

  “Just this.”

  “What about later? You feel like going out?”

  “No.”

  Jules paused, looked down at the bottle in his hand. “Yeah, me neither.”

  Outside, someone screamed, followed by laughter.

  Harry finished his beer then got up and walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge. There were two left. He opened one, said, “Last two, you ready?”

  “Keep it,” Jules said. “I’m going to take off.”

  Harry took the last beer back to the couch. “Thanks for stopping by, Jules.”

  “You sure I can’t get you to come along?”

  “Come along where?”

  “Anywhere,” he said. “Just thought you might want to get out of here for a while.”

  “No, I’m good.”

  Jules stared at him for a moment then set his empty bottle on the floor beside the chair and stood up. “If you change your mind—”

  “Sure.”

  Jules walked to the door and stopped. “You know, Rita feels real bad about the other night. She didn’t mean to embarrass you like that.”

  Harry nodded.

  “She thinks you’re a great guy, Harry, a sweetheart.” Jules hesitated. “Just not her type. You understand?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “She asks about you.”

  Harry took a drink. “Tell her I said hello.”

  Jules nodded slowly. “Sure, Harry. I’ll tell her.”

  Harry waited until he was alone, then got up and walked to the bathroom. One of the fluorescent lights was out, and the remaining bulb buzzed behind the glass like a chorus of flies.

  He sat on the edge of the toilet, pulled back the shower curtain, and looked down at Rita, naked and folded blue in a pool of red.

  He stared at her, his pants growing painfully tight, then he stood and leaned over the tub, bracing himself against the shower wall, and unzipped.

  After he finished, he cleaned himself up and walked back to the living room.

  For the first time that night, everything was quiet.

  Harry listened to the silence. Then he twisted the cap off the last beer and drank.

  The Firebird

  July. Phoenix. Hot.

  Jacob pulls into the parking lot of the Circle K and gets out. There’s a girl at the payphone next to the ice machine. She’s crying. As he walks by she slams the phone on the cradle and shouts, “Fuck.”

  Jacob looks away, pretending not to notice. He opens the front door; the cold air from inside feels good against his skin. He pauses and looks back at the girl. There’s something familiar about her—he’s seen her before. “You okay?” Jacob asks.

  The girl takes a deep breath. “No, I’m not fucking okay,” she says. “I’m in really deep shit.”

  Inside the store the clerk shouts at him to close the door. Jacob ignores him. “You want something to drink? Some water?”

  The girl looks up. Mascara snakes down her cheeks and tiny black tears drip on her t-shirt. “Can you give me a ride to Indian School and Fifteenth?”

  Jacob frowns. Buying her a bottle of water when it’s a hundred and eighteen degrees is one thing, but giving her a ride, especially when he’s stoned, is something completely different. Indian School and Fifteenth might only be a mile or two away, but it’ll seem like a million in his mind. He had a hard enough time driving the eight blocks from his apartment. “Sorry,” he says. “But if you want some water? A Coke?”

  The girl shoulders her purse and turns away. Jacob stares at her legs as she moves. After a moment he goes inside.

  “The A/C’s not free around here, you know,” the clerk says.

  Jacob waves over his shoulder and heads to the frozen section. Other people must’ve had the same idea because the shelves are almost empty. All that’s left is Blue Bunny Vanilla or Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. He settles on a quart of Cherry Garcia and walks back to the counter, grabbing a bag of Funyons along the way.

  “That girl still out there?” the clerk asks, thumbing toward the door. “Little brunette? Red shorts?”

  “Yeah,” Jacob says. He takes a bag of peanut M&M’s from the rack by the register and sets them on the counter. “What’s up with her?”

  “No idea,” the clerk says. “Somebody dropped her off, just about threw her out of the car. She came in looking for a ride, but I can’t leave.” He scans the M&M’s and sets them in a bag. “She ask you?”

  Jacob nods. “You see the car?”

  “Blue Firebird,” the clerk says. “No license plate, but the car was nice. One of those suped up jobs. Real cherry.”

  Jacob feels a small tickle at the back of his neck. He watches the clerk bag the ice cream, and for a minute he’s quiet. Then he asks, “Tinted windows?”

  The clerk nods. “Yeah.”

  “Bulls-eye painted on the back?”

  “You know the car?”

  The tickle grows, feeling more like an ice pick. Jacob reaches for his wallet. “What do I owe you?”

  The clerk hits the total key. “Nine ninety eight.”

  He drops a ten-dollar bill on the counter, grabs the bag, and heads for the door. Behind him, he hears the clerk say: “You better get that ice cream inside. It’ll melt damn quick out there today.”

  ~

  The heat off the black top is heavy and the air burns his lungs. The girl is gone. He scans the parking lot, cursing himself under his breath. Of all the people to let slip away. He sets the bag in the front seat of his car and walks to the payphones. He picks up the receiver, drops in a couple coins, and dials.

  The phone rings. Once… Twice…

  Jacob shifts his weight between his feet. “Come on,” he says, chewing his lower lip. He looks back toward the street, hoping to see her, but there is only the desperate line of wilted palm trees along the road, weary under the constant sun.

  Three… Four…

  Finally, Marcus picks up. His voice is tired. “Yeah?”

  Jacob talks fast. “You’re not going to believe who I just saw.”

  “Jacob,” Marcus says. “You know what time it is?”

  Jacob looks at his watch. It’s almost two o’clock.

  “You know Decker has me on nights at the club, right?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “So don’t fucking call me during the day, Jacob. You know this.”

  Jacob hears Marcus shuffle the phone back to the cradle, and he shouts into the receiver. “Claire Reese. I saw Claire Reese.” He waits for the dial tone. It doesn’t come. He hears more shuffling and the unmistakable scrape of a lighter.

  “Where?”

  “The Circle K on Camelback. Right down from my place.” He relays the clerk’s story about the Blue Firebird, leaving out that he didn’t recognize her and let her wander off. He gets enough shit from Marcus as it is.

  “He say where she wanted to go?” Marcus asks.

  Jacob closes his eyes and tries to remember. “Somewhere close,” he says. “I can’t—”

  “Are you stoned?”

  “I’m cool,” Jacob says, but he knows he’s not. All he’d wanted that afternoon was to get as high as possible and watch Blade Runner on his VCR. Eventually the plan grew to include ice cream, but by then he’d already smoked a Rastafarian amount of weed. Still, once the idea was there, his mind wouldn’t let it go. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “Are you sure it was her?” Marcus asks. “Seriously, Jacob, if I ca
ll Decker and you end up being wrong—.”