More Than A Maybe

by Monte, Clarissa

  The doors open, and as they do I see two men from the cleaning service in their gray uniforms. They’ve got their plastic carriers of scrub brushes and their fabric cleaners with them.

  They recognize me. “Good morning!” one of them says, smiling. “Anything special we can do for you today?”

  I look at him unsteadily . . . then I open my mouth.

  “Actually . . . you know what?” I say, my voice a mockery of cheerfulness. “We’re not going to need anything this week.”

  The man seems confused. “We . . . should not clean today?”

  “Ah . . . no. We’re good for this week. I mean, you can still bill us for the week, or whatever, but . . . no, we’d rather you just leave it for this week. I’m sure.”

  I give him a tight smile and struggle my suitcase into the elevator beside me. The cleaning men hesitate for a bit, then shrug, and we all go down to the first floor together.

  We get out, and I follow them as far as the front of the building. The men get in their truck and start it up. One of them gives me a little wave out the passenger-side window. And then, a moment later, they’re gone.

  I sigh with an impossible sadness, and I take a few steps forward, rolling my suitcase behind me.

  Then I stop, because I have absolutely no idea where I’m going.

  * * *

  Where can I go?

  Where?

  I can walk into the ocean.

  I can ask Rosco if his husband would mind a heartbroken girl spending the next fifty years sobbing on their couch.

  I could go to see my cousins — the ones in Maine who I haven’t spoken to in six years.

  I have nowhere I can go. But as much as that thought chills me, I find that I’m already thinking of other targets for my hurt and rage. And Baby is now quickly climbing chart positions on my newly-minted shit list.

  She had to have known about Xavier. Somehow, she’d had to have had some idea the kind of . . . the kind of bizarre psycho he was, with his photo collection of identical women next to that ridiculous coffee, all of them exactly the same. Everything Baby had told me about freeing Xavier from his temporary world of maybes, everything she’d told me about keeping him . . . all that bullshit about the oiran . . .

  Baby isn’t some all-knowing relationship sage at all.

  She’s just a California trophy wife with a souvenir charm bracelet.

  This realization makes me feel empty. Empty — and terribly sad.

  And then, because bad luck always has the worst possible timing, the phone rings.

  Baby. Of course.

  “Hey honey!” she says, in an overpeppy voice I suddenly find grating. “Guess what time it is? Champagne and honeydew time, girl — it is the brunching hour. Are you in?”

  My voice is quivering with rage. “I am . . . completely furious with you right now,” I say, trying to get the words out while the anger still gives me enough power to do so. “You’ve known Xavier for . . . for how long, exactly? Years? And it never occurred to you to tell me about his past? About all those other girls?”

  She sounds hurt at my words, confused. “God, listen to you! What’s your problem?”

  So I spell it out for her, telling Baby exactly what my problem is — how I’d ended up looking at Xavier’s phone, how whatever is left of it is sitting in the drain at the bottom of the sink. The accusation in my voice is unmistakable.

  When I finish, Baby doesn’t say anything for a few long seconds.

  “Okay — that is messed up. But Veronica,” she says finally, her voice taking on a clear note of honesty, “you need to listen to me, okay? Believe me — I did not know ANY of this. I mean . . . I knew he’d had a couple of other girlfriends, but . . . ”

  “Well, there certainly didn’t seem to be any shortage of them on his phone,” I say.

  “See — that’s just the thing,” Baby says. “As long as I’ve known him, the man has been pretty much a loner. When he hangs out with me and Randy, the guy almost always comes by himself. I’ve met maybe two of his other girlfriends in the time I’ve known him.”

  “Both wearing black?” I ask, still seething.

  Baby’s voice gets quiet.

  “Okay, yeah,” she says. “Shit. They were both dark dresses. I don’t know . . . maybe they were the same. I guess. I just figured that he was into spooky chicks or something.”

  “Did you just say spooky chicks?”

  Baby sounds uncomfortable. “Yeah. Like . . . kind of goth girls. Black nails and Hot Topic. Or whatever.”

  I decide to let it go. “Okay, fine — but who were they? Where did they meet?”

  “I really don’t know too much about them,” Baby says. “I only know they were both students. Xavier met one of them after giving a talk at Berkeley. The other was . . . I don’t know, at some fashion university out of state. Not FIT, but . . . something kind of like FIT. Not really sure how they met. I saw them both once, that was it. Never saw them again. If you want to know more, you’ll have to ask Xav —”

  “Will you please not say his name right now,” I say sharply. “I’m not going to be talking to him again. And I really can’t be here any more. I’m leaving. Today.”

  “Leaving for where? I mean, you could come here,” she says. “My house. Or Beauty World . . . ”

  I sigh. “Those would be the first places he’d look.”

  “Okay, but . . . is it really that bad?” she asks. “Are you, like, hiding from him?”

  “I . . . just need to be somewhere else. Where he can’t find me for a while,” I say. I bite my lip. I still don’t know how much I can trust Baby, but . . . well, there simply isn’t anyone else in California I can rely on right now.

  “I normally wouldn’t ask,” I say, “But can I borrow some money for a while? I mean, all I have is Xavier’s card. If I use that, he’ll know where I am. Besides, I don’t want to take anything from him. Not ever again.”

  “Oh honey,” Baby says. “Of course you can.”

  * * *

  Baby meets me at a sandwich shop and gives me a big wad of bills — nearly four thousand dollars. I tell her it’s too much, but she insists. “I just cleaned out a couple of cookie jars,” she says, giving me a sad smile. “I can get more, but Randall might ask questions.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “It’s more than fine, really. Thank you so much.”

  Baby calls me a taxi, and we wait together, not really saying anything. There isn’t much to say. When the car arrives I stand up and give Baby a big hug. “Say goodbye to Rosco, okay?” I ask.

  She nods. “Totally. But this is so weird. I mean, can’t you at least tell me where you’ll be?”

  I shake my head. “I better not. It’s better if you don’t know, in case anyone asks. I’m sorry.”

  I can tell that Baby understands. She gives my hand one last squeeze.

  A few moments later I am in the back seat of a taxicab that smells like a wet dog. The air conditioner is terribly cold. My tears are already trickling their way down my cheeks and off the bottom of my chin.

  The taxi driver looks into the rearview in surprise.

  “No no!” he says. “A pretty lady should not cry! And on such a beautiful day!”

  He opens the glove compartment and rummages around for a moment, then leans backward over the seat to hand me a pack of tissues. I take them, giving him a whispered thank you in return.

  The taxi driver makes a little sympathetic smile, then reaches up a hand to the rearview mirror. He adjusts it a little, turning it with a precise, practiced motion, so that he can more easily check out my tear-spattered breasts.

  * * *

  The Ocean-View Motel has a few things going for it. It is quiet, it is clean, and it is reasonably-priced . . . but I cannot help but be struck by the things it does not have.

  It does not have a gym, or a steam room, or a Jacuzzi. It does not have room service — just a continental breakfast between the hours of nine and ten in the morning. It does have a swi
mming pool, but it looks untended almost to the point of abandon. The water is brackish, and it is full of dead leaves.

  But of this I am certain: that of all the places I could be in the world, right now this place seems best.

  Xavier is an egotistical psycho.

  Xavier is a self-absorbed, egotistical psycho . . . and I am good to be rid of him.

  I tell myself this again and again as I make a forced effort to enjoy the motel room. I take off my shoes and I scrunch up my toes to feel the texture of the room’s worn burgundy berber. I put my suitcase into the closet and shut the door and I sit on the corner of the the bed. I turn on the television and watch five minutes of CNN and five minutes of an idiotic sci-fi movie about a robot killer.

  I turn off the television and take my suitcase out again and I try to unpack my things, but there aren’t enough hangers in the closet. So I look them over carefully, try to prioritize them according to what I think I’m likely to wear. There are Hanger Clothes and there are Suitcase Clothes, and I separate them into two little piles on the bed. Then I hang up the Hanger Clothes on the hangers and I put the Suitcase Clothes back in the suitcase.

  I hear strange inhuman clunking sounds outside my door. I put a nervous eye up to the peep-hole, but there’s nobody there. This makes me relieved and then nervous again, so I slowly open the door, and as I peer around the door jamb I see what’s making the sound.

  It’s the ice machine. My room is next to a little self-service nook that houses the floor’s ice and Coke machines, along with a vending machine with rows of candy and snacks behind little turning screw-job dealies. I go and get my purse and I buy a bottle of Aquafina water and a pack of M&Ms, and then I go back in my room and I lean back onto the bed and look up at the speckled dots of the room’s ceiling tiles.

  I can see a brownish water stain in one of the corners, where the tile meets the top of the white stucco wall, and I stare at it until I feel myself start to cry again. I grab a couple of pillows and build a little pillow fort around my boobs and I hug myself tight, letting the tears come hard and fast.

  And then, when my crying slows, I pinch my eyes closed hard.

  Somehow I sleep. When the clunking of the ice machine wakes me up again, it is 2:12 in the morning.

  I go and take off my makeup and have a proper shower, and to make myself feel just a little bit better I make sure to use up all of the towels and washcloths.

  When I get back to the room my iPhone lets me know that I have calls and messages and I want to strangle the electronic life out of it. I want to sting it with bees and cover its screen with black electrical tape and put it into a little burlap sack filled with rocks and tie it up and throw into a koi pond.

  Instead I turn it off. I hold down its little silver button, and I wait until the slide to power off slider appears, and I slide it and then the phone is dark.

  Then I go back to bed.

  * * *

  I sleep surprisingly well that night. I wake up several times, but then I realize that I don’t have anything to do and my ambivalence about this make me sleepy and I fall right back asleep.

  When I finally can’t possibly snooze any more I sit up. My eyes fall on the dark iPhone next to the bed, and the black mixture of hatred and loneliness and guilt that I feel makes me switch it on again.

  There’s a message from Baby, wanting to know if I’m all right, and if there’s anything she can do I should call her right away. She says Rosco sends his love.

  Xavier has called many, many times. He’s left voicemails, but I can’t bring myself to listen to them. His text messages start off normal:

  > Here in Houston. It’s hot.

  Then they get testy:

  > Did you send that FedEx package yet? Send me the tracking number, please.

  And then worried:

  > Is everything okay? Call me. Or I’ll be back tomorrow and we’ll talk.

  The last message he sends me is only four words, but it makes me so incredibly hurt and sad that I think I’ll break:

  > Call me, Veronica. Please.

  I throw the phone onto one of the pillows and just stare at it for a while.

  I feel dead inside.

  Then the iPhone buzzes again, and with a frustration so pure and undiluted that I’m almost sure I’ll scream, I lunge at it to turn it off . . .

  But before I can, I read the new message that’s just arrived:

  > hey there it’s Mark

  I pause. Mark?

  Oh . . . Oh yeah.

  Mark on the beach with his Blackberry.

  Library Mark, with his eyes all over Baby’s boobs.

  That Mark.

  I sigh, but I find myself tapping a message back with my thumbs:

  > hey what’s up

  I know instinctively that he is going to text back not much.

  > not much u?

  I sigh again and text back:

  > not much :)

  Marks begins texting more quickly now:

  > i was just studying but man it is driving me nuts! lol

  > so

  > how about i take a break and we get some tacos

  > i know this place that has amazing tacos

  > do you like fish tacos

  I realize that even though I’m not hungry I haven’t really eaten a real meal since last night.

  I can hardly believe my thumbs as I give my answer:

  > sure I like fish tacos : )

  Chapter 16

  Mark picks me up at the motel in a blue Honda Civic. He is wearing a silk bowling shirt that says Carl over the breast pocket. He is wearing a thick pair of black glasses. I’m casual in a halter top and shorts, but Mark’s appearance makes me feel like I’m just this side of overdressed.

  I open the passenger door for myself and step inside, and after I buckle Mark looks up at the hotel sign.

  “Oh, wow,” he says. “So are you . . . is this like vacation for you?”

  “Oh! Ha! Yeah,” I lie. “I’m visiting friends. From college.”

  “Cool. On the beach, that was . . . ”

  “My friend. Uh, from college.”

  “Cool,” says Mark, feeling around for a thread of conversation that isn’t really there. “Great, okay! So. Actually, you know what? Wait just a second . . . music . . .”

  Mark reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out a chunky old iPod, along with something plastic wrapped in a mess of black wire. “Here . . . let me just . . . ”

  He fumbles with the tangle for a few seconds, then shoves part of it into a slot on the dashboard stereo. I finally figure out what it is: it’s a cassette tape adaptor for the iPod.

  A few seconds later a steady pulse of dance music begins to thump its way out of the stereo. Mark grins like it’s the best thing he’s ever heard, so I put a smile on my face and nod my head in time to the music as I tap my hand on my leg.

  “Great,” I say. “What is this?”

  Mark smiles. “Do you like this? I made this! I mean, I made this mix. The track is actually Underworld. Old Underworld.”

  “Oh, okay. Do you DJ?” I ask.

  “Oh! Yeah!” he says enthusiastically. “There are some CDJs in the student union and I spin there sometimes. Well . . . not so much lately. I’ve gotta study right now, some of my grades have been . . . but yeah, that’s where I DJ. Most of the time.”

  I nod. “Great. Very cool.”

  The car hasn’t moved, I notice — we’re still in the parking lot, engine idling, the heavy thump of Old Underworld knocking through the Civic’s thin-sounding speakers. I just nod my head and try and look appreciative until Mark eventually figures out that we’re not moving.

  “Okay!” he says. “Who’s ready for tacos?”

  “Me!” I say.

  “Great!” he says, putting the car in gear. “Here we go!”

  We pull out of the parking lot onto the road, and Mark gives me a smile. I catch him glancing over at my boobs just a bit before he turns his attention again to t
he road in front of him.

  A few minutes later we arrive at the taco shop. Mark parks the car alongside the road. It’s really more of a taco truck, actually, but there are a couple of plastic folding tables and chairs set up next to it. Mark orders three fish tacos and a big glass bottle of Coke. I order two fish tacos and a bottle of water.

  “Ahh! Can’t beat this,” says Mark once we’re seated, taking a long drink from his bottle of Coke and smacking his lips noisily. “This is Mexican Coke.”

  I frown at him. “Is that special?”

  “What? Oh, yeah. Totally different,” he says, his face looking serious. “Mexican Coke is made with real cane sugar, but American Coke is made with corn syrup. Big, big difference. Here, just taste it.”

  He slides the bottle over to me and I take a sip. It tastes like any other Coke.

  “See?” he asks, trying to impress upon me how important this is. “Can you taste that?”

  This obviously means a lot to him . . . so I nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I can,” I lie.

  I slide the bottle back.

  He smiles, picks it up, and takes another big gulp. “Amazing! Well, anyway, eat up. Tacos are getting cold.”

  * * *

  The tacos are actually really good, and after we drop our paper plates in the plastic trash bag at the side of the taco truck Mark asks me if I’d like to go for a walk on the beach, and I say Sure.

  We go down near the ice-cold water line of the incoming tide and we stroll along for a while, and after a while he puts his hand out and takes mine in his and I find that I don’t let go.

  Mark stands a little straighter then, and his stride becomes a bit longer and more confident. He takes a deep breath.

  “So . . . Veronica. We’re both students, right?”