Hot Springs

by Geoffrey Becker

  “It’s a little rickety,” he said, stomping around in an alarming way. “Like, it should really be torn off. And I know the inside of the house is a mess, too. But even so, I could sell and come away with some serious money. I don’t owe. Even for a gut job, the place should bring around one-eighty in this market. It’s funny. Most of the things I tried to do in life went no place at all. But the crappy little house I bought seems to have had a successful career all on its own.”

  “Maybe you should hold on a little longer. You might double your money.”

  He shook his head. In the dark, he was just a shape. “You want to kiss?” he asked.

  “I want to what?”

  “Kiss. Me.”

  “I don’t know, Craney Crow. This is sort of sudden. Here we were, talking real estate, and now you want to swap spit?”

  “It was just a suggestion.”

  “Talk more finance to me. That always gets me hot.”

  He turned and went to the railing, looked down onto the street below. “When we had that big flood, the water came right to the end of the street, but nothing happened here at all. Totally dry. Couple of blocks from here, they were canoeing.”

  “I don’t remember any floods,” she said.

  “Last year.”

  “I wasn’t here last year.”

  “I wondered then if maybe it was some kind of message. You know, like those preachers go on about on TV. The end time is coming.”

  “There was a message all right. It was ‘Don’t live so close to the water.’” She thought it was a bad sign that he didn’t seem to realize she’d been gone from the city for years. He clearly saw the world only in terms of himself. “I lived in Florida. You’ve got these old ladies worrying all fall about how the next Andrew is going to come destroy everything. So don’t fucking live there. Go back to New York. People have to take responsibility for themselves.” She took a huge gulp of bourbon. “And, by the way, isn’t New Orleans below sea level already? That’s really your idea of a place to plan a future?”

  “Where is Pearl right now?” he asked, clearly trying to change the subject.

  “Same place she was last night—home. She’s got a sitter. A young man from the neighborhood.” Oh, and there’s a woman in a hotel room about a mile from here who plans to take her away from me forever.

  “You sure he’s trustworthy?”

  “No, not really. But I wanted to come out.”

  “To see me.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “To see you.”

  He stepped forward and leaned down, pressing his lips to hers. His tongue ducked in and out of her mouth with a pleasant enthusiasm. When she’d slept with him in Atlanta, she’d felt bad—not unhappy, but bad, like she was sneaking a cigarette or had stolen a dirty magazine. And then later she’d felt stupid, the way she did the time she was twelve and spent all afternoon making a frame and stretching a canvas to show her father, only to have him inspect it and point out where the corners weren’t right and where she’d left some slack.

  “What do you think?” he said, when they broke for air.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know. What do you think?”

  “You can’t ask a person that. What does that mean? What do I think about what?”

  “You really know how to hold on to a moment, don’t you?” His right hand was on her ass, and he pulled her closer to him. “We could go inside.”

  “I like it out here. What do you think is going on back at your bar?”

  “I don’t give a fuck. I’d rather be here.”

  “You aren’t worried? Those people could be beating each other over the head with guitars. The cops could have come.”

  “It’s OK,” he said. “I don’t care.” He looked at her. “I’ve got a boat.”

  “You do? Well that changes everything. A boat!”

  “It’s not mine, exactly, but I can use it. Guy I know keeps it not far from here. We could go there. Maybe you’d like to see it?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. I don’t like boats so much.”

  “Maybe Pearl would like to go out on it sometime?”

  She pictured the three of them shooting around the bay, standing at attention like some Revolutionary War image, salt spray behind them, the wind in their hair. She wondered what the hell she was doing here. She’d had some idea, thought she had to come, had to see, that this was in fact the responsible choice. But she was wrong. She was wrong about everything, all the time. “She doesn’t like boats, either,” she said. “I have to go.”

  “Go?”

  “Yeah. Vamoose. Hightail it.”

  “All right,” he said. “Forget it. You’re just like she was, aren’t you? Twisted up in your own knots. You want things, you don’t want them, you think you’re better than everyone else, you think you’re worse. You’re going to drown in it someday, same as she did. I can’t believe I’d even think about making the same mistake twice.”

  She pushed him. Later, thinking it over and trying to understand the impulse, she felt as if something mechanical had sprung to action in her, as if she were merely the nerve endings conveying the message from another place, from a brain unconnected to hers and perhaps not even that interested in her dramatic scenes. But of course, it was something she’d done, all be herself.

  He made a little yelp, not unlike that of a small dog that had been kicked, then toppled right over the railing. It was almost a joke fall. You get someone to sneak up behind the person and—oof!—over he goes. Only this was no joke.

  First came the sound of him hitting the tilted roof below. Then he caught for a moment on the large piece of protruding plastic that acted as a skylight over his bedroom, looking almost comfortable there—a man relaxing on a transparent yellow-plastic sofa—then there was a groaning sound as the plastic gave way and tore loose, banging hard against the gutter, popping up, then sailing over the edge and down to the concrete three floors below.

  Bernice held on to the weathered railing, peered over and down. There was a huge hole in the roof where the skylight had been, and she did not see a body on the sidewalk. She turned and went back to the narrow spiral stairs at the other side of the deck, spun her way down to the next level and entered the house.

  He was lying on the bed, almost as if he had entered it the normal way and not by descending through the roof. Debris littered the comforter: leaves, blackened bits of grout and caulking, bird shit, and feathers. The comforter itself was green, printed to look like a hundred-dollar bill. CC’s lips were bright with blood.

  “I am so sorry,” she said. “Is there something I can do?”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. Dust motes hung thickly in the disturbed air. He mumbled something.

  “What?”

  “I ung.”

  “You bit your tongue. Got it. OK. But you can move other things? You didn’t break a leg or anything?”

  In response, he got up out of the bed, somewhat unsteadily. He picked up a wastebasket from the floor next to him and spat bright blood into it. “Yeah,” he said. “Bit it all right.”

  “You want some ice?”

  “I could have fucking died,” he said. He spat more blood, motioned for her to bring him the glass of water from the top of the dresser. She noticed the thickness of the dust, the scattering of pocket change, the scraps of paper with things written on them—phone numbers, shopping lists. She had never really thought about Craney Crow buying groceries. She wondered what he ate, and whether he cooked.

  “Here,” she held out the glass. “Swoosh and spit. I didn’t push you that hard, you know. I think this is your fault as much as mine for leaning back like that.”

  He spat, then surveyed the hole in the ceiling. “Damn,” he said. “It’s going to rain.”

  “I’m sorry I broke your house,” she said, suddenly aware she might cry. “I’ll just go now.”

  “You can’t.” He spat again, then picked up a T-shirt, rolled it, and stuck it in his mouth for a fe
w moments. When he removed it, there was an alarming stain.

  Downstairs, she found an ice tray in his tiny fridge, the cat working his way between her ankles, and she brought a cube up for him to suck on. “Ice is for everything,” she said, remembering the tub they’d filled for Emily in New Mexico. She still wasn’t sure that had been wrong. But Landis had thought it was, and that had been enough to undermine her confidence.

  CC had a small, moon-shaped scar, she noticed, under one eye, but it was not a result of any of this.

  “I think this was a sign,” she said.

  “A sign you’re a crazy bitch. Just like your mother.”

  “Maybe I am. So what?”

  “So, nothing.”

  “You told her about us, right? That’s why she moved out.”

  “I didn’t tell her anything. Why would I do that? She moved out because I asked her to. We didn’t get along. Never did. There was nothing to tell, anyway. You blueballed me. Best thing that could have happened. I don’t know what I was thinking. That should have been the end of it, too.” He spat again.

  “Well, the kid isn’t yours,” said Bernice. “You can relax.”

  “Then why did you come see me? Why did you come back to tell me you were going to quit? How come she looks like me? Who is her father?” He went again to the sink, then returned to the table. “Jesus. How long does a tongue take to stop bleeding?”

  “A guy I met out west. He’s nothing in particular. In the music business, like you. Sort of. Anyway, he’s the father. So don’t worry about this anymore, OK?”

  “The music business? I don’t believe you.”

  “Suit yourself. Belief is very personal. You get to have your own.”

  “What part of the music business?”

  She found herself feeling unaccountably defensive on Landis’s behalf. “He’s a recording and sound engineer.”

  “For who?”

  “Johnny Rainbow and the Thieves. Glutton Stump. The Dead Astaires.”

  CC spat again. “You’re making this up. I’ve never heard of any of them.”

  “Well, maybe you should get out more. Maybe you aren’t on top of things like you ought to be. Maybe you’ve been wasting your time babysitting losers who want to play dress-up Dan Aykroyd a couple nights a week, blow a harmonica, and pretend this is Chicago in 1955, or whatever. Aren’t you even slightly embarrassed? That kid, Max Lucca? He’s got it all ahead of him. I predict great things. You, on the other hand . . .”

  “I just don’t know why you came out tonight,” he said, quietly.

  “Me, either.”

  He came over and stood in front of her, bending at the knees so that his eyes were more or less level with hers. He smelled strongly of the bar, and she feared he was going to kiss her again, bloody mouth and all.

  “Look me in the eye and say it,” he said. His eyes were pretty and dark, and the stubble on his chin was like spilled pepper. She understood, or thought she did, how her mother had felt looking into them, trying to divine her own future there. He swallowed. “Say that kid isn’t mine.”

  “That kid is from Colorado,” she said. “She’s got nothing to do with you.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Landis heard the rattle of Bernice’s key in the back door. He’d been pacing around the kitchen for close to an hour, going out every few minutes to the front porch to scan the street. He’d tried drinking a glass of water, but it did little to calm him down. He was out of ideas, and he was a mixture of worried to death and resentful that it was he who had to be in charge of this emergency.

  “What’s the matter?” said Bernice, reading his face. “Is something wrong? Is she throwing up?”

  “What were you thinking going out?” he said. “You went through all this trouble—hauled her all the way across the country—just so you could leave her and go out on a goddamn date?”

  Bernice squinted at him. She smelled of cigarettes and booze, and Landis felt once again that he didn’t know her at all. “What happened?” she said, quietly. “Just tell me.”

  “I don’t know. She disappeared.”

  “Fuck.” She put a hand to her head. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. What do you mean disappeared?”

  “Her shoes are gone. I think she went someplace. I think she just got up and left on her own, you know?”

  Bernice went bounding up the back stairs, and Landis followed her. “Emily?” she called. “Emily?” When he caught up with her at the bedroom, he hoped that somehow everything would be returned to normal, that the child would be safe in her bed, but it was still empty.

  “She came back and took her,” said Bernice. “It’s simple as that. I knew it was stupid to trust her.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so? Why not? What other explanation have you got? Are there other people out there who want to kidnap my daughter? Do you think a five-year-old girl just felt like taking a walk in the middle of the night in the middle of the city? She came and she took her.”

  “I can’t see it.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Right here. I can’t explain it.”

  “You can’t? You can’t?” Her eyes were huge. “She sneaked in. You didn’t notice. Maybe you nodded off.”

  Landis understood that this thin reed of logic was providing Bernice with just enough air to keep her going. “All right. We can call the hotel. I’ll look up the number.”

  “What good will that do?” Bernice asked. “Even if she answers, which I doubt she will, she’ll say she doesn’t know what we’re talking about. Right? Why would she say anything else? She’s probably on a plane back to the Springs right now.”

  “In the middle of the night? No way. I think we should call.”

  “You’ve looked all over the house? In the basement? The closets? Everywhere?”

  He nodded. “A couple of times.”

  She rapped her forehead with her knuckles. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “I’m calling.”

  “Don’t.”

  But he already had the phone book open. “There are a zillion hotels in here.”

  “You dropped her off. Didn’t you notice what the place was called?”

  “Belvedere? I don’t remember.” The drive downtown had seemed to him like entering a big canyon, a descent past ornate sooty buildings, the remnants of a more prosperous past, a full-scale Greek temple, the abandoned carapace of some departed bank staking out its surreal position near the bottom. Tessa’s hotel, an unremarkable concrete structure from the 1960s, had been around a corner, just past a liquor store.

  “It’s not the Belvedere—that’s different. That’s a different hotel. Look, it doesn’t matter anyway.”

  He scanned the yellow pages, hoping something would jog his memory. “Belmont,” he said. “Here it is. I was close.” He dialed and the phone rang fifteen times before a male voice finally picked up and mumbled a greeting. He was connected to her room, and within moments she was on the other end.

  “Yes,” said Tessa, her voice wide awake. “What?”

  Bernice stared at him angrily. “Do you have Emily?” he asked. It seemed to Landis that at this point, there was no reason to play their cards any way but flat out on the table, face up.

  “No,” she said. “You do.”

  “She says she doesn’t,” said Landis, hand over the mouthpiece.

  “She’s lying.”

  “Then you talk to her.” He held out the phone, but Bernice jumped back as if it were a snake. “What are you . . .” he couldn’t even finish the question. “We’re not exactly sure where she is,” he said to Tessa. “But it’s OK, we’ve got the situation under control.”

  “Not exactly sure?” asked Tessa. “Not exactly?”

  “No.”

  “I’m coming back there. I should never have left.”

  “Right.” He hung up. “She’s coming here.”

  “Great. Perfect.”

  “Maybe she sleepwalks. You
know? It could run in the family.”

  “I don’t sleepwalk.”

  “Yeah, you do. One time, we went to bed drunk and when I woke up in the middle of the night you were gone. I found you standing naked out on the balcony, staring up at the peak. I led you back inside and put you to bed. I just never mentioned it.”

  “I can’t say that makes me feel much better,” said Bernice.

  He left her on the porch and jogged around the block a few more times, scanning the yards and doorways, but with no luck. Then he rejoined Bernice so she wouldn’t have to face Tessa Harding alone. Bernice was seated on the front step, picking at her ankles.

  “You want to talk?” he asked.

  She shook her head violently. When he tried to put an arm around her, she pulled away. So he just sat there, sweating.

  After about ten minutes, a battered cab pulled up and Tessa Harding got out, looking tired but radiant with determination.

  “She ever sleepwalk?” asked Landis.

  “I’ve found her in the family room playing a couple of times in the middle of the night,” Tessa said. “But in this strange way, with her eyes half closed. She’s never gone far, though. Just into the next room. One time—”

  “One time, what?” said Landis.

  “She urinated. Right on the floor.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t call an exorcist,” said Bernice.

  “How long does it last?” asked Landis. “Could she still be asleep?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know what happened, but it sounds like she might have wandered someplace. I mean, it’s possible she’s right around here, very close.”

  “How was I supposed to know any of this?” said Bernice.

  “You weren’t,” said Tessa.

  “Maybe we should go check parked cars?” Landis offered.

  “Maybe,” said Tessa.

  Bernice shook her head. “People lock their cars. There’s almost no chance she’d find an open one to sleep in. She’s not in a car.”