That kind of talk always meant trouble around Wrex. I pushed away, hiked up the stairs to my apartment. When I got the keys out of my purse, he leaned back on the door, blocked the doorknob with his hips.
He said, “I need you to take a package to the airport tomorrow.”
I tried to shove him away from the door, but he swiveled his hips so I couldn’t key the lock, said not until I kissed him. I gave in and kissed him, grabbed his belt and pulled him away from the doorknob, pushed the door open and ducked inside my apartment.
Wrex stood in the open doorway, watched me as I dropped my purse and kicked off my pumps. He said, “As a gentleman, I can’t enter a lady’s apartment unless invited.”
I laughed, because Wrex looked more like a barbarian raider come to kill the men, rape the women and steal the children than any gentleman I’d ever seen. Black Doc Martens laced halfway up his calves. His blue jeans were torn at the knee, again just below the butt. A silver eagle belt buckle jutted above his 501 button fly. His black leather jacket, worn all seasons regardless of temperature, was parted to a ripped white t-shirt. He hadn’t shaved in three days, in fact he always hadn’t shaved in three days. I wondered how he managed to keep his stubble at the same precise length every time I saw him. He liked fashion scars. Two big silver rings in his left ear, one in his right. A cobra on his right biceps, a jaguar on his left, the lightning-bolt logo of AC/DC on his butt, a name he discovered too late also meant lack of sexual preference. A red handkerchief swirled pirate-like around his head so often I began to suspect he was bald underneath. Later, after I had seen a dozen young men dressed like this in Hollywood, I realized Wrex wasn’t dangerous in the way I thought. He just knew how to accessorize danger. But for my home town, Wrex was very extreme. And so I thought, very sexy.
The way he stood in the doorway, leaning on his elbow against the doorjamb, his hand cocked on his hip, gave me strong ideas how I wanted to spend the next hour. I grabbed his belt buckle and pulled him inside, shut the door behind us. Wrex lowered his eyelids, so his eyes looked like two ripe bruises. I could have gone for him right there on the floor. I waited for him to kiss me. But he didn’t kiss me.
He asked, “So can you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Take a package to the airport tomorrow.”
“Got better things to do with my day off, thanks.”
“But babe, this is important.”
“You don’t think my day off is important?”
He looked all hurt, like I thought only about myself, didn’t care about him. Typical. If he didn’t sulk, he cried but babe this, and but babe that. He said, “Of course it is. If this wasn’t even more important, I wouldn’t ask you.” This was a lie, because Wrex was so lazy he would flick his cigarette ashes on the floor where he sat rather than get up to find an ashtray, and if I complained about it, he’d flick them onto the leg of his jeans.
I said, “You got a bike. You take it.”
“Just can’t. Got things to do, you know. Important things.”
I walked into the kitchen, which in my apartment isn’t much of a walk, more like an obstacle course depending on how much junk I’ve scattered on the floor, and poured myself a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. Wrex had big ears, appeared at the kitchen door, asked, “You pouring two?”
“Maybe.”
Wrex moved toward me with that sexy smile of his, something between a leer and outright amusement. He wrapped his arms around me from behind, nibbled at the back of my neck while I tried to sip at my drink. I forgot about the drink and we kissed. After a while he pulled back, asked, “So you can do it?”
Like me kissing him meant something different than me kissing him, like it meant I’d do what he wanted. I said, “No time. I’m going to the mall, taking photographs.”
Wrex pulled his arms away and stomped out of the kitchen. It looked like I was getting a fight whether I wanted one or not. If I was, I wasn’t going to chase it around the apartment. I leaned against the counter, drank bourbon. Wrex’s boots clomped first one way, then the other across the living room. He didn’t hold out for long. I didn’t expect him to, not with the bourbon still in the kitchen.
“All right, fuck it, I’ll pay your gas money.” This said in a pissed-off voice, like it was a major concession I was asking and he wasn’t going to take one step more.
“I said I was shooting pictures.”
I handed him a drink and sat on the living room floor.
He said, “So shoot ’em out at the airport.”
“Doesn’t work that way.”
“Damn but you’re a stubborn bitch!”
“You wanna sleep on your bike tonight, just keep talking.”
This was a very effective threat with Wrex because his landlord booted him out of his apartment for chronic nonpayment and he didn’t have a place to crash except with me or a friend named Dan, who wasn’t always so happy to see him. Wrex never had any money, though he always claimed he was going to score the next day because there was this guy owed him big time and was going to pay him back. But whenever I went out with him to collect, the guy never showed up. Sometimes I think Wrex invented the whole situation so I wouldn’t think he was a total loser.
He sat cross-legged on the floor in front of me, said, “You know I just talk like that and don’t mean it.”
I couldn’t stay mad at him for long, not when he looked at me with his big brown eyes all sad. He had that combination of rebel good looks, don’t-give-a-shit attitude, and little boy sensitivity that’s always sucked the heart out of me. I got up to pour us another drink. He put an old Led Zeppelin tape on, something we both liked. We drank instead of argued for a while. I relaxed. Wrex didn’t. The second song into the tape he slammed his hand down on the carpet, said, “I really need you to do this for me.”
“I’m busy, and gas money isn’t going to make me un-busy.”
“Okay. How ’bout ten dollars?”
I gave him the scornful look such a low figure deserved.
He sounded hopeful, asked, “Twenty?”
I thought I’d get him to scream, said I’d do it for two hundred.
But Wrex didn’t scream. He looked real worried for a couple seconds, a sudden creasing of his brow indicating serious dialogue was taking place between his ears. He asked, “You mean, like, dollars?”
I nodded, amazed he was even thinking about it.
Wrex said, “Okay. We got a deal.”
That got me to worrying. If Wrex was willing to pay that much, he was delivering something for somebody and was too smart or too scared to take it himself. I knew he sold marijuana every now and then, not enough to be a real drug dealer, but if he found a good buy, he was known to pass it along to friends at a small profit. Not that I think that was necessarily a bad thing. Most of the people I went to school with smoked dope at least some of the time. I didn’t smoke it myself. Not because of moral reasons, like I didn’t do drugs because I thought they were evil. It wasn’t because I was too good either, because even some good girls smoked every now and then. I was just afraid of them. I tried it once and I went a little crazy. But I didn’t hold it against Wrex that he liked to do drugs as long as he wasn’t stoned all the time, and if he sold a little every now and then on an approximate break-even basis, it was okay by me. Maybe I even thought it was exciting, like maybe I went for Wrex because he did things I couldn’t. But I didn’t want to deliver a package of something turned out to be drugs and then get arrested. That would be an irony I wouldn’t appreciate. I said, “You gotta tell me, Wrex. What’s in the package?”
“I can’t tell you what’s in the package.”
“If you don’t tell me, I don’t go.”
“Information, papers, that’s what’s in the package.”
“What kind of information?”
“White-collar stuff. Completely legit.”
Wrex’s eyes got that glazed-over look tells me to watch out. I told him two hundred bucks was more money than he
’d made all year. He was either crazy or lying and probably both.
“I’m gonna tell you something, but you gotta promise not to repeat it to anybody, ever. Not that anything’s illegal about what I’m gonna say, just that it’s secret, and I could get into trouble for telling you.”
I said, “Sure, I promise.”
“I’m being followed.”
“Uh-huh.”
“No, really. I’ve been doing some jobs for this company. It’s spooky stuff. Some companies got spy networks just like the CIA. And if they’re afraid of getting caught, they use somebody like me, somebody from outside the company, somebody untraceable. Because I mean, hey, they all got big cars and houses and the last thing they wanna do is get sued.”
“Go to jail, you mean.”
“No really, it’s not that kind of illegal.”
“Then what kind of illegal is it?”
“No kind at all. This company I’m freelancing with, it’s got a secret deal with somebody coming to the airport tomorrow. But with me being followed, no way I can meet him.”
“So lose them on your bike.”
“Can’t. If I make any sudden moves, they’ll be sure to know something’s up. I gotta stay here, be the decoy. And I’d still have to rent a car, because the package I gotta pick up is too big to fit on my bike. It needs a car.”
“Pick up? What package?” I asked, confused, because at first I thought there was only one package, and now there seemed to be two.
“The other guy is bringing something and I’m supposed to trade what I’ve got for what he’s got.”
“Then what’s in his package?”
“Don’t know. Something from overseas. We meet at the International Terminal.”
I said, “Drugs come from overseas.”
“Look, if the U.S. government lets it pass through customs, that should make it legal enough. You want them maybe to put a stamp on, says legal enough for Mary Baker?”
I went to get the bottle, poured us both three fingers of bourbon. What Wrex was telling me had to be partly true, because he wasn’t capable of inventing a story that sounded so wild. His imagination generally limited his lies to the yes or no category, with an occasional embellishment easy to spot for its lack of sense. The more I drank, the safer the whole idea sounded. Not that I use the alcohol as an excuse for lack of good judgment. I didn’t completely believe Wrex about the whole thing being absolutely legal, but I didn’t see how I could get into any trouble unless things weren’t what he said, so I said yes, I’d deliver the package. Then we drank and argued about how he was going to pay me. I wanted it all up front, because Wrex had this tendency to be broke all the time and not pay the money he owed. He swore he didn’t have a dime on him but he’d pay after delivery, really, but I stuck to my guns, two hundred now or no deal, until finally he pulled out his wallet, threw two portraits of Benjamin Franklin to the floor. Then he picked me up, carried me off to bed like I was his whore and he’d just paid me. And that was pretty much how he acted in bed. He treated me like a convenience store he was in and out so fast. Then he fell asleep.
I was going to say, What the hell, I want a little more attention, or at least affection, maybe you shouldn’t fall on me and just lie there when you’re finished. But I didn’t say anything. I stayed awake half the night, crushed under the weight of his arm thrown across my chest, suffocated by the heavy sound of his breathing, thinking, this had to be love, or else why did I put up with it?
3
I woke the next morning to speed metal playing full blast on the stereo. Wrex shouted a cheery good morning, threw half my wardrobe out the closet, told me I had to get dressed so I’d be ready to leave for the airport by ten-thirty. I glanced at the clock. Seven-thirty. Only gave me three hours to get ready. I called him some names, told him if he didn’t get lost, make me some coffee, I was going back to sleep, he could take his stupid package to the airport himself. That was the last I saw of him for ten minutes or so, when I heard knocking at the bathroom door. I opened it to a steaming cup of coffee in Wrex’s hands.
“I know you know everything already, but I thought you might want to hear that I hafta go get the package now, and the reason I woke you early was because I wanted to make sure you’d be up and ready to go when I got back.”
I sipped at the coffee. It wasn’t half bad. I leaned through the crack in the door to kiss him thanks. He was so stiff I checked my lips for splinters. I asked, “What are you so all nervous about?”
Wrex ran to the bedroom door, said, “I’m not nervous. Everything has to go right is all. I’ll be back by nine-thirty at the latest.” Then he was gone and things were quiet.
I took the coffee into the bedroom, thought about what I should wear. It was an adventure I was dressing for, I wanted to look mysterious. But I didn’t own anything mysterious. Just stuff made me look like a small town girl takes pictures of babies for a living. I settled on a white skirt and black blouse, a scratched pair of checkerboard sunglasses I found on the street once and threw into a drawer, a floppy straw hat I wore a couple times a year when I didn’t want any sun. If I couldn’t look mysterious, at least I’d look disguised.
I looked at the clock, saw I had an hour to kill before Wrex got back, wanted to tell Mom I was sorry about last night. They lived a five-minute drive away, just around the block by California standards. Easy enough to drive there, say hi, get back before Wrex knew I was gone. I wrote a quick note saying I’d be back in five minutes, left it pinned to the door in case he got back early.
Mom’s ten-year-old Buick Skylark was parked in the drive when I pulled up to the house. Pop’s half-ton was gone. He left for work every weekday morning at half-past seven, Mom at nine. I leaned on the doorbell a few times, daydreamed about going to the beach after I dropped Wrex’s package. I’d take my camera and portfolio along, get some crowd shots, maybe the sunset would be good. Nobody answered the door. Mom never went anywhere far without her car. Probably at the neighbors, having a quick chat before work. I had a key to the front door, so I went in, thought I’d wait ten minutes to see if she showed up, leave a note on the kitchen table saying I dropped by if she didn’t.
The kitchen table had been cleared and wiped, but half the dishes were stacked unwashed to the side of the sink. Mom never left the kitchen until it was spotless. It was probably my fault. I got Pop so riled up she retreated to her bedroom for some peace and quiet. I soaped up a sponge and washed dishes, read for the thousandth time Mom’s framed needlepoint of the Serenity Prayer pinned to the cabinet at eye level: God grant me the courage to change the things I can, the patience to accept the things I can’t, and the wisdom to know the difference. Mom always liked to buy knickknacks with inspiring or religious messages. She scattered them all over the house, but mostly in the bathroom and kitchen. The memento to the right of the sink was a big ceramic tile. A woodsy home was painted on it, smoke pouring from the chimney, a picket fence wrapping a green front lawn. Above the roof, the words GOD BLESS THIS HAPPY HOME arched like a rainbow. Mom had cut up an old picture of me and Pop so just our bodies were left, glued us to the corner of the tile, inside the picket fence. The photograph was taken by the lake one winter, when I was about seven years old. I wear a ski cap that’s a couple sizes too big. Pop has his arm around me. We’re both smiling as wide as our mouths will go. We look like a good father and daughter. We look happy.
When I finished the dishes, I sat down to write the note. Before I figured out what to write, I got up and walked around the house. It wasn’t that I heard anything. I walked through the living room to the master bedroom. The door was closed. I knocked softly. Nobody answered. I opened the door anyway. Mom’s hair poked out of the covers. She was lying on her side, facing the wall.
“Mom?” I called, soft in case she was still sleeping.
“Afraid I’ve got a virus, honey. You shouldn’t get too close, ’cause it might be catching.”
“Nonsense. You tell me what you need, I’ll get it
for you.”
I hurried around to her side of the bed. She hid her face under the covers, but not fast enough for me to miss why she was sick.
Mom said, “I don’t need anything, thanks.”
The tip of her elbow stuck out to where I could see it. She was wearing her work blouse. She’d been up, tried to hide when she heard me coming through the front door. When she realized I already knew, she let go her hold on the covers. She lay huddled in a little ball, ashamed. I’d seen him do worse, but this was bad enough. The pouch of skin below her left eye had swollen to a purple bruise. The bruise stretched to her temple and brow, slit her eye like a crescent moon.
Mom said, “He didn’t mean to do it.”
I curled up beside her on the bed, wrapped my arms around her shoulders from behind. Looking at her eye made me feel a little sick. It was my fault she got hit. If I hadn’t come over for dinner, if I hadn’t smarted back, if I hadn’t run out of the house. I knew what could happen. My fault.
Mom said, “I shoulda known better. You can’t talk to that man when he gets mad. I shoulda gone into the spare bedroom and waited for him to simmer down.”
I didn’t have to ask what happened. Pop cooled to a slow burn. Ray left. Mom said something good about me, thought she could get him to forgive. Pop said he never wanted to see me again. That was what he said when somebody in the family talked back. That was what he said to Sharon, my other brothers George and Charley. Mom protested it wasn’t fair. Pop said I’ll show you fair and smacked her. Maybe he was sorry after. But just once was all it took. He hit hard.
I held her for a long while.
Mom kissed my arm, said, “You’ve always been a good girl.”
My fault.
Shooting Elvis Page 2
