Gone ’Til November

by Wallace Stroby

  “So where’s Lee-Anne tonight?” she said.

  “I don’t know. Home, I guess.”

  She dried her hands on a dish towel, turned to him. “How come you’re not there?”

  He shrugged, rocking on the chair, all his weight on the back legs.

  “Don’t do that,” she sat. “It’s bad for the chair.”

  “Sorry. I forgot.”

  He sat forward, let the front legs touch down. “I’ll clean up,” he said. He put the uneaten slice back in the box, got up and gathered the paper plates and napkins, put them in the trash can beneath the sink.

  She went into the living room, looked through the blinds. His truck was parked down the street in the shadow of a willow tree.

  She heard water go on in the kitchen, then shut off, heard his footsteps. She didn’t turn. She felt him come up behind her, smelled his cologne, let him slip his arms around her waist, pull her tight.

  She closed her eyes. His face was buried in her hair, his chin on her shoulder. She knew his eyes would be closed. She felt his arms around her, strong but gentle, put her hands over his, fingered the thick veins, the knobby knuckles. A worker’s hands. A man’s hands.

  He kissed the back of her neck, and she felt goose bumps rise, tilted her head to give him better access. What are you doing? Why are you letting this happen?

  She pushed back against him, felt his hardness through the jeans. His lips explored the side of her neck, the hollow behind her ear. She reached back, felt his thickness straining against the material, the shape of him. He sighed softly and his hands came up, cupped her breasts through her sweatshirt. She was braless and her nipples responded, hard to his touch.

  He turned her and she let him, eyes still closed. His lips brushed hers and she looked at him then, into those slate gray eyes, the question there. She lifted her lips to his in answer. He kissed her hard and she let his tongue into her mouth, felt his hands slide down her back, cup her buttocks. She closed her eyes as they kissed, let him guide her away from the window.

  The backs of her legs were against the couch when he broke off the kiss, looked at her. She didn’t turn away. His hands began to work at the drawstring of her sweatpants. She helped him, felt the pants sag around her hips. Then she was sitting on the couch and he was kneeling on the carpet, tugging the pants down her legs, exposing the gray Jockey panties she wore beneath. He slipped her right sneaker off, freed the pants leg. She lifted her foot to help him.

  He kissed the inside of her bare calf, flicked his tongue behind her knee. She was wet and ready, knew he could tell. He kissed his way higher, then stopped and looked at her, cocked an eyebrow. She nodded and he reached up, caught the elastic of her panties and pulled in opposite directions. They tore almost soundlessly, and she felt the cool air against her wetness.

  She put her hands on the back of his head, her fingers in his soft hair, and closed her eyes.

  They lay in darkness, the central air whispering around them. He was propped up on two pillows, his left arm curled around her shoulders. She was looking at the ceiling.

  “Hey,” he said. “You all right?”

  She eased out from under his arm. He watched as she got up and took her robe from the back of the door. She pulled it on, pushed her hair free of the collar, tied the belt, felt his eyes on her.

  “Be right back,” she said. She went out into the hall, listening. Danny’s door was as she’d left it. She stepped closer, paused, could hear his breathing.

  She went into the bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the light. She looked at herself in the mirror. Why did you let that happen? Are you so lonely and horny that you forgot everything you know? Everything you learned the hard way?

  She sat and urinated, then washed her hands and face in the sink. She could smell the musk of sex on her body. She flipped the light off, went back to the bedroom, pushing the door shut against the resistance of the carpet.

  He moved aside to give her room. She lay beside him with her robe on, felt his arm curl around her, pull her close.

  “Been a while for you, hadn’t it?” he said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I can just tell, that’s all.” He kissed the top of her head.

  She laid her head on his chest, could feel the beating of his heart through muscle and skin.

  “You want another beer?” he said. “Some water?”

  She shook her head, put a hand on his stomach, felt the muscles there.

  “I was surprised to see you the other night,” he said. “At Tiger’s.”

  “I saw your truck, figured I’d go in for a drink, say hello. I should have known better.”

  “I saw you talking to Elwood.”

  “Yeah, he wanted to shoot pool.”

  “That all?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That all he wanted?”

  She lifted her head from his chest, looked up at him.

  “Yes,” she said. “And that’s what we did.”

  He stroked her hair.

  “Hammond talk to you again?” he said.

  “About what? He talks to me almost every day.”

  “About me.”

  “Nothing I haven’t already told you,” she said and felt guilty for the lie. “Do we have to discuss this now?”

  “Just wondering.” He rubbed her back through the robe. “Sometimes it feels like they’re telling me one thing but thinking another.”

  “Who?”

  “The sheriff. Elwood. You.”

  His hand slid down to the belt knot, played with it, drew on it until it was loose.

  “I just don’t want to get blindsided by anything,” he said. She felt his warm hand on her bare stomach. It crept up, cupped her left breast. His thumb found her nipple, and it grew hard under his touch.

  “If there was something else going on,” he said. “If they were trying to nail me to the wall, and you knew about it, you’d tell me, right?”

  “Is that why you’re here?”

  “No, of course not.” His hand slid to her other breast. “I came here to see you.”

  She caught his hand, took it out of her robe.

  “What’s wrong?” he said.

  She sat up, pulled the robe tight, knotted the belt.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. He touched her hair. “Don’t get up.”

  “You need to get dressed,” she said. Her feet found the floor.

  “Come on. Don’t be like that.”

  She got up, went to the window, looked out. It was raining, drops spotting the glass. Low thunder in the distance.

  “Sara,” he said.

  She didn’t turn.

  “I shot that boy because he drew down on me. You know that. You were there.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “He was a bad guy, Sara. I’m lucky he didn’t nail me first. It could have been me laying in that ditch.”

  “That sounds practiced,” she said without turning.

  “Sara, you know the way I feel about you. And I know the way you feel about me.”

  “Do you?”

  “I used to, at least.” She heard him get out of bed, his footsteps on the carpet. The rain was picking up, blowing against the window.

  She felt him behind her. He pushed her hair aside, kissed her neck.

  “Get dressed, Billy,” she said.

  He drew his lips away. “We were always good together, Sara. We could be that way again.”

  She turned, met his eyes. He was watching her, waiting.

  “Hey,” he said softly. “There’s no reason to cry.” He reached as if to brush her tears away. She stopped his hand an inch from her face.

  “Please. Go.”

  He took his hand away.

  “So that’s the way we are,” he said.

  She didn’t answer.

  He went back to the bed, found his jeans and T-shirt on the floor.

  “Thanks for your support,” he said.

  He pulled th
e jeans on, sat on the edge of the bed, reached for his boots. She looked back out the window.

  He was taking his time, waiting for her to tell him to stop, not leave. Eventually, she heard him open the bedroom door and go out.

  She followed him into the hall. He had the front door open, was looking out through the screen at the rain. She stopped in the hallway, leaned against the wall. He heard her, turned. She didn’t look away, pulled the robe tighter.

  “Okay,” he said. “Then I guess that’s the way it is.”

  He opened the screen, went out into the rain.

  She went to the door, watched him sprint to his truck. When he reached it, he turned and looked back at her, sheets of rain moving down the street. After a moment, he opened the truck door, climbed up. She heard the engine start, saw his headlights go on.

  You’re gone now, Billy. You’re someone else. You’re out of my reach. Maybe you always were.

  She watched him pull away. Then she shut the door and locked it.

  THIRTEEN

  He made Virginia the first day, keeping his speed under seventy, though the Monte Carlo’s big V8 wanted to do more. Other cars passed him in a blur.

  He didn’t stop for food, ate two of the chocolate bars instead.

  When his eyes grew tired, the white line double, he found a motel off 95. The fat white man at the desk wanted identification. Morgan turned away, was leaving the lobby when the man called him back. When Morgan handed him seventy in cash, the man counted it twice.

  In the room, Morgan spread the map on the bed and traced his route. He’d try to make Savannah tomorrow night, would drive as late as it took. Then into Florida the next morning.

  His cell buzzed on the bed. He picked it up, saw it was C-Love’s number.

  “Yeah.”

  “Take this down,” C-Love said.

  “Hold on.”

  He went to the writing desk, got a sheet of motel stationery, a pen. “Go ahead.”

  “Where you at?”

  “Place called Emporia.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Virginia.”

  C-Love read off a ten-digit number. “Woman’s name is Simone. She knows you’re on the way. Hit her on that number when you get down there. She says she got some information for you.”

  “Anything I should tell her?”

  “You don’t need to tell her shit. Just find out what she got, take it from there. They released the body, so she getting ready to fly back. After you hook up with her, call me. Big Man’ll wanna talk to you.”

  “After I hear what she says, I’ll handle it my way, whatever I think is best. He knows that, right?”

  “He knows. He just want to talk, see what your sitch is. See if you need some help.”

  “No help,” Morgan said.

  “Might change your mind when you get down there. Can’t never tell how that shit’s gonna play out.”

  “I’ll call after I talk to her. Tell him that.”

  “I’ll do that. You stay in touch, bro.”

  Morgan pushed END. He was feeling the miles, the ache in his back and hips.

  He checked the lock on the door, set the chain. He felt vulnerable without the Beretta. He turned the TV on, the sound low, just to have another presence in the room. He folded the map, switched the lamp off, lay on the bed fully clothed, the TV light flickering on the walls. In a few minutes, he was asleep.

  Crossing into Georgia, Morgan had the windows open, Bunny Sigler on the tape deck. Warm air blew through the car. Forest on both sides of the highway, green and thick. Then suddenly, on his left, a wide river running parallel to the road, the sun sparkling on its surface. After a few miles, the river turned, winding back through the forest like some primeval scene, a painting from a book.

  He’d bought a pair of sunglasses at a Stuckey’s in South Carolina and put them on now against the glare. He wore a gray pullover, sleeves pushed up, the leather coat folded on the backseat. The sun and breeze felt good. He hadn’t taken a Vicodin that morning, hadn’t needed it. He felt awake, alert, the highway unfolding in front of him, the air sweet. Newark felt like another world, another time.

  He drove past billboards for pecan logs, fireworks. Past Waffle House and gas station signs mounted on high poles visible from the elevated roadway. Every few miles, he passed pieces of torn-up truck tires on the shoulder. He’d push as far into Georgia as he could, until the fatigue was too much, then stop for the night.

  Tomorrow he’d cross into Florida, head west on 301, the route that would take him around Gainesville, then south again. I-75 part of the way, then local roads past Lakeland, deep into the heart of the state. He’d marked Hopedale on the map, had picked a town named Arcadia to stay in. It was in a different county, an hour northwest. Close enough to get in and out easily, far enough away that his presence wouldn’t be known.

  He turned the volume up. Bunny telling his woman he’d be home soon. A phone call from a bus station. Only a few more hours to go.

  The trees dropped away on both sides, gave way to rows of white-tipped plants stretching forever, like a carpet of snow. Cotton fields, he realized. He drove on.

  He crossed the border a little before noon and turned off I-95 onto 301, the map open on the seat beside him. For most of the ride, Florida had seemed like more Georgia, but now the terrain began to change. He passed swamps and canals, thick trees with hanging moss. Barns with tin-patched roofs, chickens in the yards.

  He stopped for lunch outside Ocala, a fast food drive-through, and ate half a hamburger before his stomach rebelled. He sipped Coke to settle it, got back on the road. Soon he began to see signs for Lakeland. He found it on the map, traced the roads that would take him southeast.

  Near Arcadia, he passed a row of unpainted shotgun shacks hard by the roadside. In front of one of them, two black children played in the dirt. They watched as he drove by.

  Twenty minutes later, he found what he wanted. The motel was set back from the highway. It was a sixties-style motor court, U-shaped with semidetached cottages, all gray wood and clanking air conditioners. Only four other cars in the lot. The pool was empty and cracked.

  The old black man behind the bulletproof glass in the office had no problem taking Morgan’s cash. No maid service. Washer and dryer in back, quarters only. Ice machine free. Morgan paid for four nights in advance.

  He pulled the Monte Carlo around back, out of sight of the access road. Trees back here, a narrow creek running through, and everywhere the rotten egg smell of nearby swamp.

  The key was on a diamond-shaped piece of plastic. He let himself into the small room—a single bed, bureau, nightstand, desk, television, no phone. A jalousie door with roll-up shade. He turned the air conditioner on. It thumped and shook but eventually blew a stream of cool air into the room.

  His pullover was soaked through with sweat. He peeled it off and tossed it on the bed. He pulled the heavy curtains shut, found they didn’t meet. A band of sunlight still blazed through.

  He touched his toes, held the position to let the tension in his back ease. It was good to be off the road. It had taken more out of him than he’d expected. He got his cell out, looked at it, then put it on the nightstand. He’d rest a while, then make the call.

  He stretched out on the bed, closed his eyes, felt the miles start to fall away from him. He slept.

  • • •

  He was lying on the bed, fully dressed, when the tap came at the door. He looked at his watch. It was a little past nine.

  He got up, edged the door shade aside. A woman stood in the yellow glare of the outside light. An oversized purse hung from her shoulder.

  He opened the door. A cab that said SAINT CHARLES TAXI on its side waited in the lot, the white driver watching them.

  “You need to pay him,” the woman said.

  “How much?”

  “Fifty.”

  He got his wallet from the bureau, took out two twenties and a ten, gave them to her.

  “You d
o it,” he said. “Tell him to wait around, but not out there. Tell him to go somewhere, drive around, come back in twenty minutes. You won’t be long.”

  “What if he doesn’t want to wait?”

  “Then he drives all the way back down there with an empty cab and no fare. Or he stays, makes another fifty dollars and a twenty tip. Tell him. He’ll wait.”

  She went back out. Morgan switched off all the lights except the one on the nightstand. He heard the cab pull away. When she came back into the room, she shut the door behind her. He caught her purse strap, turned her, and had it off her arm before she realized it.

  “Man, what the—”

  He opened it. Cosmetics, wallet, cell phone, a thick white legal envelope. He took the envelope out, tossed it on the bed, shook the purse, saw there was nothing else in it. He handed it back to her.

  “Your ass is paranoid,” she said.

  He went to the door, locked it. “Anyone follow you here?”

  “No. I kept looking. I never saw anyone.”

  He pointed to the bed. She went over, sat on the edge, set her purse on the floor. He pulled the desk chair out and sat down, knowing he was in shadow. The way he wanted it.

  She was younger than he expected. When he looked at her, he thought about Cassandra, felt something tug inside him. The woman wore her hair straight and back, designer jeans, a soft green man’s shirt. He could sense her uncertainty, the fear she was hiding. Wondering if she should have come out here, what would happen next.

  She looked at the door, then back at him.

  “You talk to Mikey?” she said. “You know who I am?”

  He nodded, pointed at the envelope. “What’s that?”

  “Police reports. Coroner’s report, too. And two newspaper stories I cut out. The names are all in there. I found their addresses, too. The man who shot Derek is named Flynn. He had a woman cover for him, named Cross. They’re the ones that killed him.”

  “You sure about that? About the woman?”

  “She was with him.”

  She held the envelope out. He took it, put it on the desk.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow,” she said. “I’m taking Derek home.”

  “Good.”

  “What are you going to do?”