AHMM, October 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Will you at least let me have the gun?"

  "No chance. Mr. Colt here's the best friend I've got. And he guarantees I'll be sleeping alone."

  "I thought you said you weren't angry."

  "No, I said I didn't hate you, Cray. If I did, you might be dead already."

  She shuffled off to bed, shapeless in her bathrobe, taking the gun and bourbon with her. No question, she would definitely be sleeping alone.

  Grabbing a beer out of the fridge, I checked the caller ID on the kitchen phone as I passed—my God! Tiffany had called. To tell Thel about that damned video? Probably.

  And I wondered if Thelma had been trying to drink up enough courage to kill herself? Or me?

  * * * *

  Couldn't sleep. The couch was lumpy, and I yearned for my own bed and Thelma's warmth. But I remembered her lifeless eyes. And Mr. Colt. And decided a restless night was preferable to a permanent nap.

  So I lay there, fingers laced behind my neck. Brooding. This job was over. No saving it.

  What were you thinking? DeLyle had asked.

  I had no answer. The past few years had been desperate, me working to establish myself as a brilliant young instructor worthy of tenure while Thelma struggled to fit in. And failed.

  She was right about that. As a campus cop back at Notre Dame, she'd been a trophy girlfriend. Thelma Fox, Sergeant Foxy. But as a young prof's wife at Hancock U? Most of my colleagues dismissed her as soon as they heard her accent, as though Southern syllables indicate brain damage. And her flawed diction usually confirmed their impression. Working class. Born and bred. If she hadn't gotten pregnant...

  But Thel miscarried a few months after we arrived at Hancock, a loss that also ended her hopes for motherhood. A long, dark recovery afterward. And I wasn't much help. Absorbed in jumpstarting my career, I couldn't spare the time to empathize with the former Sergeant Foxy. Or maybe I already sensed I'd never scale the academic heights with an albatross on my neck.

  She shoved the adoption at me as a fait accompli. She'd already done the legwork, made the contacts. Basically, we could ransom a kid from a Rumanian orphanage for twenty grand, practically every dime we'd saved.

  I had major doubts, but Thel steamrollered them. And she was absolutely right. Ion was a pure delight. Until the blood disorder the Rumanians had concealed kicked in. He wasted and died in a few months. And took our marriage with him.

  Thel fell into a total funk, and I blundered into an affair with the first hot-to-trot coed who came along. And apparently chose one with a fetish for photography.

  As an undergrad I was considered exceptionally bright. Well, I'd certainly made a brilliant botch of my life. And Thelma's too, I suppose.

  Question was, now what?

  For openers, I would need a new job. No large university would hire me now. I might be able to land a position at some backwater junior college ... God. The truth was, I'd been restless here. What would it be like two rungs down the academic ladder? My father died broke because he kept drifting from job to job. Had I inherited his curse?

  I woke to the aroma of toast. And fresh coffee.

  Thelma was up, bustling around the kitchen. First time in months. Haggard, wearing her faded Notre Dame Campus Police sweatshirt and jeans, her sandy hair pulled back in a taut ponytail.

  "Want some eggs, Cray?"

  "Eggs? You know the cholesterol—"

  "Right now, a coronary sounds pretty good. Anyway, I'm starving. You want eggs or not?"

  "Um, sure. Are you all right?"

  "Just ducky.” Actually, she did look a bit better, moving with grim purpose, at least. And I'd forgotten how sinfully scrumptious a country breakfast could be. I took a quick shower and dressed. There was enough food on the table to feed the Confederate army.

  "Did you give any thought to our situation, Cray?"

  "Some. Ladies first."

  "Okay. I'm gone. Out of here. I'll pack today and clean the house. But come Monday, I'm on the first bus south."

  "Jesus, Thel—"

  "Don't even ask, Cray. One more week and I'm liable to shoot one of us in the head. I have to go."

  "But what about money? We only have a few grand left."

  She stared at me, her eyes suddenly liquid. Unreadable. I thought I'd scored a palpable hit. I was wrong.

  "This came in the mail yesterday,” she said, placing an envelope beside my plate. A letter from the International Red Cross Adoption Agency. With a carefully worded message of condolence. And a certified check for twenty-six thousand dollars. I stared at it, then at Thelma.

  "Full reimbursement, Cray. Every cent we spent to adopt Ion, plus funeral expenses. We actually came out a few hundred ahead. The University Credit Union closes at one on Saturdays. I'll take my half in cash, please."

  I needed a bank officer's okay for the check, which was convenient since I also needed to liquidate our duplex. They're reserved for university employees, and I wouldn't qualify much longer.

  "Divesting will be no problem, Professor Creighton, we have a waiting list for those units.” The officer was an ash blond middle-ager whose brightly flowered spring dress made her look anemic. A few quick calculations on her PalmPilot. “Minus our three percent management fee, your return will be seventy-three thousand, four hundred and twelve dollars. If you're going to reinvest in a home locally, we'll be happy to—"

  I said I'd get back to her on that. Walked out of the Credit Union totally bemused.

  Yesterday I'd had roughly five grand, today I was worth a hundred thousand plus. And all I'd done was bury my adopted child and get fired.

  I headed home, my head humming like a hive. At a traffic light, I was blinded momentarily by a flickering glare. Like someone signaling me with a mirror.

  No message. Only sunlight glittering off a bright chrome bumper. A yellow VW Beetle rotating slowly on a display turntable in a car lot. I glanced idly down the line of cars. And stopped. Fourth from the left in the front row. A Mercury Cougar, XR-7. Deep metallic green. Classic Detroit iron from the seventies. Not one of the popular muscle cars but very special to me.

  As if drawn by a magnet, I pulled my battered Volvo into the lot. Sat there eyeing the Cougar. In no hurry to get home and help Thelma pack.

  "A beauty, ain't she? Step out, take a good look at her.” A salesman sauntered over, JCPenney's suit, plastic smile.

  I scanned the row of aging, high mileage beaters, priced for quick turnover in a college town. Halfway down, a kid was washing a blue Pinto. Me, sweating for minimum wage when I was fifteen. When owning any car at all was only a dream. Working with Red Bauer.

  A real character, Red. An old time salesman who'd steal your shorts in a deal and leave you smiling. Maybe that's why I stopped. To flash back to the last summer of my childhood. When I was virginally green, blissfully ignorant. And happy.

  Or maybe it was the car. An XR-7 had been my dream car that summer. Red took one in on trade, and I polished it every single day. And ached for it at night.

  Red steered buyers away from the Merc for awhile. But in August he drifted, moving on the way salesmen do. Soon after, the XR-7 was gone too. Sold to a hot-rodder who gutted it for the engine.

  I finished out that summer, but the spell had been broken. The car lot was just a job. And I wasn't a kid anymore.

  But this salesman was no Red Bauer. His name tag said Bob. He assumed I'd stopped for the V-dub and kept pitching it as I drifted down the line to the Mercury. Amid the econo-boxes and Japanese beetles, this American road hog was totally out of place, a gauche, gas-guzzling crime against the environment. I asked Bob which engine it had. Didn't know. So I popped the hood.

  Whoa! A monster. A 351 Cobra Jet V-8. Two hundred sixty-four horsepower, high performance suspension, dual exhausts. Looked tight, no oil drips, original seals. Interior was clean too, no wear on the pedals. Even the floor mats were original.

  "It's easier on gas than you'd might think, and it's a real comfy ride.” Which told me Bob was too
lazy to do his homework, didn't know squat about this car. Or any other, probably.

  "Who was the previous owner?"

  Didn't know that either. It didn't matter.

  "With my Volvo in trade, what am I looking at?"

  He started some lame patter about the trade but I cut him off.

  "Just give me the bottom line, please. Cash. Right now."

  He said four, I said two, he said three and a half was absolute rock bottom. I said I might go twenty-two fifty and he laughed, shaking his head. Not a chance, he said. But I knew that was his price.

  We settled on twenty-six, then went into the small modular office at the end of the lot. Plastic paneling, grimy vinyl chairs, stench of stale cigarettes and desperation. Very familiar. I half expected Red Bauer to walk through the door.

  Instead, Bob jotted a few notes, said he had to clear the deal with his boss, and vanished into an inner office.

  Came out looking like somebody'd stomped his puppy. “I'm real sorry, Mr. Creighton, but I misread the invoice on that Mercury. We can't sell it for that price. We need another five hundred just to break even. This is totally my fault, and the boss is really steamed at me. Can you do another five? No, wait, since it was my mistake, I'll even toss in my commission. We'll give it to you for twenty-eight fifty. Deal?"

  "Let's talk to your boss first.” I brushed past him into the inner office without knocking. Expected it to be empty, but a fat guy with a brush cut, horn rims, bilious green shirt was stuffed behind a battered metal desk. Stanley Zawicki, manager, the name tag said.

  "Hi, Mr. Zawicki. Bob here told me he misread the invoice, but actually he made two mistakes."

  "I don't understand,” Zawicki said.

  "First, I'm not Mister Creighton, I'm Professor Creighton. I teach at Hancock U. Second, you just tried a very tired scam on somebody who grew up in this business. So here's the deal. I know your target price for that Merc is twenty-two fifty—"

  "Wait a sec,” Bob stammered, “how—?"

  "Shut up, Bob,” Zawicki said.

  "So I can give you the twenty-two fifty right now. In cash. Or I can file a formal complaint with the university, get your lot blacklisted for deceptive sales practices, and you'll be flat bust by the Fourth of July. What's it going to be, guys?"

  * * * *

  Thelma stepped out on the porch as the Cougar's big exhausts rumbled into the driveway. Her frown deepened when I got out of the car.

  "What on earth is that?"

  "A ‘75 Mercury Cougar. It's big, it's comfortable, and the Volvo wouldn't make Taos."

  "Taos? What are you talking about?"

  "Look, I know I haven't been Mr. Sensitivity lately, or anytime, for that matter, but I can't just put you on a bus out of town."

  "Why not?"

  "Because last night I found you sitting in the dark, half plastered, with a gun in your hand. I don't think you should be alone right now. Maybe I shouldn't be either. So what I'd like to do is drive you down to your mom's place in Taos. We can take our time, see some country, maybe talk a little. How does that sound?"

  "Like you've got a death wish. What about your job? The semester won't be over for three weeks."

  "I've already cleared it with DeLyle. They can manage without me."

  "I ... see. Well. That's very considerate, Cray. It really isn't necessary, but thank you."

  "You're welcome. How do you like the car?"

  "You don't want to know,” she said.

  * * * *

  If you need a coup de grace for a rocky marriage, closing up a house you've lived in for three years is a guaranteed deal-breaker. By the time we finished packing and stacking Thel's things in the living room, we were barely speaking. Not that we'd been exactly chattering away before.

  But on Monday morning, our bags were in the Merc's trunk. I'd arranged for a moving company to pick up our things, ship Thel's to Taos, put mine in storage.

  Time to go.

  "Ground rules,” she said as she climbed into the Cougar. “I'm in no mood for conversation, okay? Second, I know you've been lying to me for months about—hell, almost everything. Don't lie to me anymore, Cray. Not even a fib. If you do ... Well, just don't."

  "No chitchat, no fibs,” I said. “Sounds like a fun trip."

  "Not to me."

  She wasn't kidding. Two hundred miles. Rolling southbound, down through the hills and farms of northern Michigan. Handsome country. No comment. She was staring out the windows, but I doubt she saw any of it. I was glad the Cougar didn't have tinted glass, the mood in the car was dark enough already.

  At mile two hundred and seventy, just above the Indiana border, we stopped for gas. I asked Thel if she wanted to drive, she passed. A negative. Usually, she likes driving.

  Somewhere around mile three-ten, heading west on 80, she asked, “Why this particular car, Cray?"

  "I told you, the Volvo—"

  "Right, but the Volvo was you. Practical, trendy, good gas mileage. A professor's car. This thing's a moose. It's some kind of a muscle car, right?"

  "It'll definitely run out, but it's not impractical. The weight to horsepower ratio is so skewed the engine never strains. It's big, it's roomy, it's loafing at seventy, and since I cut a great deal, it's probably gaining value as we drive."

  "My God, you can even make a hot rod sound logical. I didn't know you cared anything about cars."

  "I don't anymore. I went through a car-crazy phase in high school. Worked at a car lot, read up on them, memorized all the specs."

  "Easy enough for you, I suppose. So back then you liked cars, but now you don't?"

  "I'm not fifteen anymore."

  "You never were,” she said, turning back to the scenery.

  "It wasn't just the cars,” I said defensively, trying to keep her talking. “There was a salesman I admired. I was trying to impress him."

  "Already a politician? At fifteen?"

  "It wasn't like that. I was a kid and sometimes Red would talk to me. Man to man, you know? It meant a lot at that age."

  "What did you two talk about?"

  "Cars. Life. Everything. He was a low rent philosopher. Claimed people always laugh at the truth."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Most of what we hear isn't true. TV ads, politicians’ speeches, even your neighbor's golf score. So when you actually hear the truth, about anything, you're so surprised you laugh. It's a reflex. For instance, when I was haggling over this car, I said a number and the salesman laughed. So I knew that was his bottom line."

  "Just because he laughed?"

  "Hearing the right price startled him, so he chuckled. Couldn't help it."

  "Okay, professor, tell me something that's true. See if I chuckle."

  "Like what?"

  "Any truth. The bigger the better. If you remember how."

  Touché. “Okay, of all the billions of creatures on this planet, whales, apes, insects, we're the only ones who actually know we're going to die. And there's nothing we can do about it."

  "That's a great truth?” she snorted.

  "It must be, you're smiling a little.” And she was.

  "Here's another truth. I've been a lousy husband, but I still care about you."

  No smile this time. Turned away instead, staring out the window while the miles rolled by and the daylight bled slowly away.

  Another fuel stop on the outskirts of Chicago. The countryside was changing now, from verdant hill country to the stolid plains of the farm belt Midwest.

  As dusk settled in, I asked Thel what she'd like do about dinner. She didn't care, neither did I. We settled for gas station sandwiches at a truck stop on the Illinois line. Munched them in silence on the road.

  I was in a zone by then, a part of the machine, cruising seven miles over the limit, the big Cougar rumbling through the darkness in a tireless lope. Knowing our destination was still far ahead, satisfied just to be rolling up the miles.

  Around nine, I felt myself fading, started looking for
a motel. Naturally, there weren't any. We were somewhere between Davenport and Des Moines, middle of nowhere, Iowa. Finally jumped off the freeway at Iowa City. The Holiday Inn was full up, some kind of carnival in town. No rooms at Best Western either.

  Settled for a Motel 6, a concrete warehouse for nomads. The East Indian deskman, Mr. Patel, apologized for the overcrowding, apologized for the carnival noise, and for the packed parking lot, which looked a lot like a carnival, beater pickup trucks and campers crammed from end to end. A party going on, drunks sitting around a trash barrel campfire. Our sorrowful host only had two rooms left, one smoking, one non, likely the last two rooms in town, he explained.

  We took them both. Thelma's idea. I was too tired to argue. My room was tiny, dank, and reeked of stale cigarette breath. Better than dying behind the wheel but not much. Frayed bedcover, rocky mattress, and I was asleep approximately three seconds after my head hit the pillow.

  Snapped awake a couple of hours later, so groggy I wasn't sure what had dragged me up from the depths. Noise. The party outside was turning ugly. People yelling, bottles smashing, drunken curses.

  Groggy, still half asleep, I padded to the window. A push-and-shove had broken out by the ice machine. Three carnies, scuffling over the last bag of ice. Our hapless host was trying to separate them, a major mistake, since it gave the three roughnecks a common enemy: a brown-skinned immigrant.

  They were jostling him around, hard, bouncing him from one to the other like a beach ball while their drunken buddies egged them on. Patel kept trying to apologize, then suddenly reached his limit. Swinging wildly, the little guy landed a pretty good punch on the biggest carnie, bloodying his nose, sitting him down hard on the seat of his grimy jeans. The crowd went instantly silent.

  The game had just changed, and they knew their man. The big guy stood up slowly, wiping his nose on his wrist, unimpressed by the sight of his own blood. He'd seen it before. Hard as a railroad tie with jailhouse tats on his bare arms, the carnie was a foot taller than Patel, and a hundred pounds heavier. But that wasn't enough of an edge.

  Swiping his hand over the top of his work boot, he came up with an Arkansas pig sticker, ten inches of gleaming steel, razorback sharp.