by Ben Adams
“Jimmy.” She folded her arms and took a step closer to John. Her jacket grazed John’s sleeve, and for a second, he was happy.
“Uncle Lee, what’s up?” he said, then saw the man on the floor. “Fuck! Dude, what happened?
“A bar fight, Jimmy,” the sheriff said. He gripped the back of conscious man’s shirt and shook it. “I need you to cuff this fella, take him to the station for processing.”
“Bro, that guy got fucked up,” Jimmy said, pointing to the injured man. The sheriff grabbed handcuffs from Jimmy’s belt and put them on the standing man. “That the guy that did it?”
“That would be your Uncle Charlie’s doing.”
The paramedics put a neck brace on the man, rolled him onto his back. The man on the ground, it wasn’t like it was in video games, where battered bodies vanished, became points earning you weapons upgrades. They never showed everything that resulted from the blunt force trauma, the blood, the surgeries, hospital bills, physical therapy, a lifetime of replaying the moment in your head and editing it slightly each time, trying to figure out how the violent confrontation could have been altered or avoided.
John touched his jaw, wiggled it, then his nose, searching for some sign that he’d been a participant in the fight. But he was unmarked.
“Are you alright?” Rosa whispered.
John didn’t respond, unsure of what to tell her, that he was fine? was unexplainably uninjured after being punched in the face? that he felt guilt, fear, and shame that the other man was being hospitalized? Instead, he shrugged and watched the man being wheeled out.
“Let’s go outside.” Rosa took his arm and gently led him toward the open door. Her hand on his arm was warm and he let her guide him.
“Dude, who the fuck’s this guy?” Jimmy asked, stepping in front of them. “Rosa, this guy bothering you? Bro, you bothering Rosa?”
“Goddamnit, Jimmy,” the sheriff said. “Stop Mickey Mousing around and do your job.”
“Sorry, Uncle Lee.” Jimmy grabbed the handcuffed man.
“When you’re done booking him, I need you to head to the hospital. Make sure you cuff that sorry looking sonuvabitch to the bed. These boys are ornery.”
“Dude, what do you want me to book them for?”
Sheriff Masters grabbed a drink off the bar and threw it in the handcuffed man’s face. The man flinched as booze and melting ice hit him and soaked his collar. “Book them on a ‘drunk and disorderly’.”
Everyone laughed.
“You can’t do this. I’m a federal agent,” the man said.
“Yeah, yeah, keep talking,” the sheriff said.
Jimmy seized the man’s neck, started to lead him outside.
“You’re dead!” the man shouted over his shoulder. “Next time I see you, you’re dead!”
Jimmy took him to a squad car. The paramedics strapped the other man to the gurney and wheeled him out.
“Lee,” Charlie said, “me and the boys’ll follow. Make sure they make it to the station and hospital.”
“Thanks, Charlie.”
A half dozen men left the bar, following Jimmy. A rush of fresh air from the open door caused John’s thoughts to move quickly, like they were unimpaired by the violence, and he connected the sheriff to the bearded man leaving the bar.
“Charlie’s your cousin?” he asked the sheriff.
“Yup.”
“It must be nice to have a big family,” John said, thinking about his mom and how it had always been the two of them, and how, for the first time, he wished that there was someone else.
“You have no idea. You have no idea,” he said, hands on his belt, smile as wide as a dried-out river bed. “You want the paramedics to take a look at you real quick?”
“I’m fine,” John said, feeling his jaw and the other places that should have been sore. He couldn’t explain it. He had taken a beating, had been knocked unconscious, probably hit his head in the fall. There should have been some swelling or loose teeth. But his jaw didn’t ache, his nose wasn’t broken. He really did feel fine.
Sheriff Masters finished his drink in one gulp.
“Well, I’ll leave you kids to it. I gotta check all this into evidence.” He swept the guns into his hat. “Then head home. Shirley’s probably worried sick. John, good working with you. You got my number. Give me a call if you need anything.”
John dropped the guns he removed from the bleeding man into the sheriff’s hat. He held the door for Rosa as they followed the sheriff outside and watched him leave.
Bridge Street traffic cleared for the paramedics as they drove away, sirens chirping, red lights slicing dirty air.
The crowd went inside, but John stayed on the sidewalk, staring at the empty space where the ambulance had been parked. Wanting to comfort him, Rosa put her hand on his shoulder. John flinched, not because she touched him unexpectedly, but because he was surprised that after all the violence, she was still there.
John sat on a park bench in front of the store next to the bar. A green plank along its back was missing, and wrought iron ends bolted it to the concrete. His mind drifted and he studied the pavement, the places where the tree roots stretched underground and cracked the concrete. Rosa put her hand on his thigh. It was supposed to console him, but her touch only reminded John of everything that had happened.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said. He leaned over and stared at a flattened cigarette butt.
“That man was hurting me,” Rosa said, rubbing her arm.
“I’m not a violent person. I just reacted.”
“If you hadn’t, I don’t know what would have happened. Then Charlie and the others…”
“It’s just, ever since I left school, I haven’t been doing anything for myself.”
“The look in that man’s eyes…”
“Working for Roof, coming here, this isn’t me. It doesn’t feel like me. It feels like someone else is walking in my skin.”
“If you hadn’t been here, there’s no telling what they would have done.”
“I feel like there’s something missing from my life.”
“I think we’re all missing something.”
“I’m not a violent person.” John rubbed his jaw, the places where he’d been hit. “I guess I’m not much of anything.”
“The guys in town are…they’re like Jimmy. They’re crude versions of middle-aged men, going to high school wrestling matches, the demolition derby. And the guys that come through town, the ones going skiing in the mountains, they act like a night with them would be the best thing that ever happened to me. Or they look right through me, don’t see me at all, but you, when you look at me…I don’t know, it just…it makes me feel special. No one’s ever…”
“I’ve never been in a fight in my life. That man…Everyone standing over him like that. Now he’s in the hospital.” John’s fingers still had blood on them. But it had dried. He ran his hand over his head, checking for lumps, signs that he’d hit it against the bar or floor when he fell, but all he felt were the natural contours of his cranium. And he wondered if he’d suffered at all during the fight.
“John, it’s okay.” She put her hand on his forearm, rubbed her thumb against his sleeve. With each thumb stroke, John felt himself relaxing. He reclined in the bench and placed his hand on hers, felt her soft skin, the warmth beneath it, a warmth that the two men tried to take from him.
“Rosa, I gotta ask, what did those men want with you?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen them before.”
“Those same men, they were here last night looking for Leadbelly. Now they’re looking for you. What kind of trouble did Leadbelly get you into?”
“Nothing.” She looked away. “There’s nothing to tell. I don’t even know Leadbelly. I just see him around town every now and then.”
“Rosa, I can’t help you if you’re not straight with me.”
“John, there’s nothing to tell,” Rosa said. She leaned closer to him and lightly
caressed John’s fingers, sending a jolt through him. He shook his head like he was waking, and forgot what he was going to ask her.
“What do you think they wanted?” Rosa asked.
John didn’t tell her everything, that the two men were with the Air Force, had broken into his hotel room, were spying on Leadbelly because of the photos hanging in his trailer. Instead, he said, “Those two men, they probably think you know where Leadbelly is. Wait, you seemed awfully concerned for Leadbelly at lunch. You and he weren’t…you know…”
“Oh, God! Gross,” Rosa said, laughing. “Al’s…No. Definitely no.”
“Okay. That’s good to know, ‘cause that guy…” John shook his head. “But, you need to level with me. You could be in real danger here. I can’t help you unless you talk to me.”
“John, you’re sweet.” She put her hand on his. “There’s nothing to tell. It’s probably a case of mistaken identity. Lee will figure it out tomorrow.”
Rosa was hiding a secret world from John, one involving herself and Leadbelly and the Air Force. And John knew it. But right then he didn’t care. He should have been worried, suspicious, but he wasn’t. He was just happy to be with her, sitting next to her, inhaling her intoxicating scent.
And as he breathed in, the smells of the street, the cooling asphalt, the ashtray next to the bench disappeared. Even the sounds coming from the bar faded away and John heard his breath and nothing else, like a bubble had formed around them, isolating them from the evening. And all he could smell was Rosa.
His mind became cloudy, unfocused. Everything blurred. Images became soft shapes. Everything except Rosa. She glowed. A red aura surrounded her perfect frame. For a second, John froze, staring at her, and everything felt right. Then the moment passed. His vision returned. Suddenly he didn’t care about Leadbelly, the Air Force, the bar fight. He just wanted to be as close to Rosa as possible.
“Yeah, you’re probably right. What do you say we get a couple more drinks?”
“I have a better idea.” She leaned closer to John, her lips near his ear, and whispered, “What do you say we get out of here?”
* * * *
Rosa took the key from John and opened the door. Pink and green lights from the motel’s neon sign mingled and blended on the carpet, forming a new shade that would exist until the door closed.
It could have been the alcohol, or the nerves, or something showing them the humor in two people who just met stumbling into in a motel late at night, but they laughed as Rosa led him into the room. She turned her head to her shoulder, giving him a smile that made him want to grab her. John had sobered up a little, but not enough to feel self-conscious, and he kissed her.
Rosa tossed her jacket and scarf on a chair. She slipped off her shoes without untying them, kicking them away. She wore black stockings, but wiggled her toes, gripping the carpet, playing with its tight pile of fibers, moving her toes between them. She reached behind her back and unzipped her dress. It fell to the floor, landing gracefully around her ankles. She slipped her thumbs into the elastic bands of her black, thigh-high stockings and started rolling them down her legs, exposing her smooth skin and defined calves. She tossed her stockings over her shoulder like a basketball trick shot, and stood before John in a black bra and matching underwear.
John grinned and giggled. Seeing Rosa in her underwear, he was tempted to raise his arms, jump up and down, but restrained himself. It was something he’d thought about all day, the shape of her body under her dress, the way her skin felt. He thought about what he’d have to say to get her into his motel room and out of her clothes. He kept thinking about the things they’d do, but more importantly, he thought about how it wouldn’t be like the people he’d photographed, the cheating husbands. He’d try to make it special. He’d try to make it mean something.
She stood in front of the bed, her hands on her hips, waiting for him to undress.
He lifted his leg and grasped his shoe with both hands, trying to pry it from his foot. John lost his balance, hit the table, and collapsed against the window. The lamp on the table rattled and almost fell. He pulled off one Chuck, then the other, bobbling it. His shoe slipped from hand to hand like a fish fighting to return to the water, before it flopped to the floor.
Rosa smiled and shook her head.
She lifted John’s shirt over his head and ran her fingers over his chest. Her hands found their way to his pants and she kissed his chest and neck while she unbuttoned them.
John grabbed his pants waist with both hands and tried to take them off while standing. His left leg got caught in bunched denim and he fell forward onto the bed.
Rosa laughed and shrugged her shoulders as if to say, ‘That’s one way to do it.’ She tugged on John’s pant legs, helping him out of them. She threw them behind her against the chair. John sat on the bed. His feet didn’t dangle, but he shuffled them against the ground.
She reached for his boxer shorts, but started laughing at the images of superheroes printed on them. Comic book characters flew into action, looking for evil to thwart, damsels to save.
John told her they were his lucky boxers.
She agreed and straddled him.
He wrapped his arms around her, kissed her. He moved his hands up her back, feeling for her bra clasp. He fumbled with it, trying to remove the hook from the loop. It moved and folded and slipped from his fingers, snapping against Rosa’s back. He apologized as she brushed his hands away. She unhooked her bra on the first try. The straps slipped from her shoulders and her bra dropped to the floor, getting lost with the rest of her clothes.
Her breasts were everything John expected them to be. Perfect. They were just the right size, not too big, not too small. One didn’t hang lower than the other. The nipples weren’t pointing in divergent directions or at odd angles. Stray hairs weren’t growing around her areolas. John’s eyes grew wide and he smiled like a little kid getting his first bike at Christmas.
His hands moved toward them on their own, free of his control, like hands were just drawn to breasts and must squeeze them in order to fulfill something embedded deep in their genetic code.
Seeing John’s hands trapped in slow motion, Rosa laughed at the power breasts have over men.
John wrapped his arms around her and rolled her onto the bed, onto her back. Rosa stopped laughing.
He kissed her neck and she moaned. John felt her moving underneath him. She battled with his superhero underwear, like she was trying to uncover his secret identity, but struggled to pull them to his knees, and John kicked them free. He took off her underwear, black and lacey, and gently tossed it to the floor.
John slid himself inside Rosa. They moved together, almost naturally, like they’d been together for years and instinctively knew the rhythm of each other’s bodies.
When they were finished, he lifted the covers over them. She faced him, smiling, and John scooted nearer and wrapped his arms around her.
His first year in the dorms, the other guys talked about sex in the fanciful notions of teenage boys, spoken in horny breaths in whitewashed, cinderblock rooms, untenanted by mother and father. The dreams accompanying a year’s supply of condoms, ribbed for her pleasure. Then he had sex, once during his sophomore year, and then with a different girl on graduation night, and it wasn’t what his friends said it would be. There was the shame and guilt that came from a random hookup, the fear that he was bad in the sack, that he wasn’t big enough, that she didn’t enjoy the awkward thrashings of his skinny frame on top of her, but mostly he was afraid that these two emotionless nights were changing him in some way, turning him into someone distant and unrecognizable, the type of person who gave high-fives when he came home Saturday morning wearing the same clothes he wore Friday night, bragging about what he’d done to women, using terms found exclusively on the internet, too raunchy for cable TV.
Lying next to Rosa, he heard those voices. But something was different.
He didn’t feel the shame or guilt or fear. He felt
peace. Holding Rosa, her naked body pressed against his, John felt a level of comfort and joy he’d never experienced before. It felt perfect, the skin of his legs and feet touching hers, bellies brushing, arms wrapped around shoulders, dangling across and gripping torsos, like pressing against each other under low-thread-count, cotton sheets was the secret purpose of two naked bodies.
He held her tighter, feeling her heart beat against his chest, her rib cage expand then contract. He kissed her forehead and she sighed, nestling her head into his shoulder. Her body twitched, the involuntary muscle spasm of sleep. She woke up for a second, lifting her head. John brushed her hair with his fingers, lightly scratching her temple. Rosa, her eyes closed, smiled and dropped onto her pillow.
He didn’t question why this time was different, what it was about Rosa that made him feel this way. He just accepted it. And closed his eyes, matched his breath with hers, and fell asleep, thinking he must be in love.
* * * *
John woke the next morning to the sound of someone pounding on the door, followed by a pounding in his head.
“John! John! It’s Lee. Open up. C’mon, John! Open the goddamn door!”
“Hold your horses!” John shouted, sitting up. He rubbed his eyes with his palms, trying to wake up. Next to him, Rosa lay on her side, the sheet barely covering her back. She grumbled something and rolled over, draped her arm around John’s waist.
“Tell him to go away. Let’s just spend the day in bed,” she mumbled.
“Goddamnit, John! Open the door!”
“Let me see what he wants,” John said.
John grabbed his jeans and slipped them on. The chain had been repaired while he was out and John opened the door as far as the new, thin, aluminum security chain would let him. “Jesus Christ, what’s so fucking important?”
“It’s Leadbelly. He’s been murdered.”
A thin sliver of Sheriff Masters’s cracked, leathery face, highlighted by morning sun, anxiously peered through the opening of the chain latched door.
“What do you mean Leadbelly’s been murdered?” John asked, groggy from sleep and a hangover. “We just saw him yesterday.”
