by Leah Stewart
The door to the roof slams. David is gone, and it’s a relief to me. He makes me feel guilty, and I’m tired of it, tired of my uncertainty and fear. I’m tired of myself. I tighten my grip on the metal rail. Somewhere down there is the woman who broke into my house, the man who killed Bernadette Smith, the person who left Allison Avery dead on the ground. The summer’s murderers hide their darkness inside them as they walk outside with their neighbors, looking up at the stars.
Inside the hotel I go to the bathroom and pull Allison Avery’s wig from my bag. I couldn’t bring myself to let Nate slip that needle in my vein, but at least in this small way I can be, if not who she was, at least someone different from myself. In the mirror I adjust the wig on my head, tucking the strands of my own hair away. Then I call Evan on the pay phone. He’ll meet me on Beale Street, he says, in half an hour.
In the daiquiri bar at the end of Beale I order a strawberry daiquiri that comes in a child’s sand bucket with a green plastic shovel. I offer Evan a shovel full. He shakes his head. He can’t stop frowning at my wig. “You’re in a weird mood,” he says.
“I’m in a good mood,” I say. I lean in and kiss him on the cheek.
“Your mouth is so cold,” he says.
I kiss him on the other cheek, warm as the air. Then I kiss him on the forehead.
“What’s with all this kissing?” Evan says. “Somebody might get the wrong idea.”
“Or the right idea,” I say, and wink at him. What I like about Evan is I can touch him all night and we will both know it doesn’t mean a thing.
“You’re on fire tonight,” Evan says. “I’m getting nervous. Where’s David?”
“He went home,” I say. “It’s just you and me.” I take his hand and we step off the curb and enter the crowd moving along the middle of the street. We pass two men wearing dusters, the long coats of cowboys, their faces reflections of each other. I turn to look at them. They walk on by in perfect unison, matching each other stride for stride, the hair on each head parted at exactly the same point. “Did you see that?”
“I know them,” Evan says. “They’re identical twins, but they tell people they’re cousins.”
I stop and look hard at him. “You’re full of shit.”
He holds up his hands. “I swear,” he says, laughing. “It’s the God’s honest truth.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Why do people do anything?” he says. “To fuck with other people.”
“You can’t trust anybody,” I say. I hold up my shovel full of daiquiri and this time Evan leans in and slides some into his mouth. He straightens up, his mouth stained pink, and I reach out to wipe the syrup from his lips.
“Allison?” a voice says behind me.
I turn, feeling like I’m moving in slow motion, like this is a scene in a movie, and there is a man behind me who starts when he sees my face. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I thought you were . . .”
“Allison Avery?”
“You know her?” he says. He’s a tall man in a T-shirt and jeans tight enough to show the long muscles of his thighs.
“I know her,” I say. Evan frowns. He digs through people’s trash, but he doesn’t like to lie. “How do you know her?”
“I took her out a few times,” he says. “Once she showed up in a wig just like that one. Did you buy them together?”
I tell him yes. I tell him Allison called us the pink ladies.
He says Allison turned to him in a bar and asked if he knew the difference between Ring-Dings and Ding Dongs and that when he explained she hugged him and said he had won her a bet and gave him her phone number. He said she dragged him to a ballroom dance place, he and she were the only couple under fifty and she didn’t know the dances but she worked up a sweat trying and let a couple of the old men lead her through the twists and turns of the rumba. Allison told him she’d once waded into the Mississippi, fully dressed, on a hot day. “Bet she just dipped her foot in, and even that’s dangerous. That girl,” he says, shaking his head. “She couldn’t stop moving. At a restaurant once, I bet her twenty bucks she couldn’t sit absolutely still for ten minutes. She tried sitting there with her feet planted, her hands folded on the table. Her eyes were darting around, her lips twitching. She started chewing the side of her mouth.”
Without my noticing, Evan has moved a few steps away. He stands at an angle from me, looking hard into the crowd as though to pick out a face he knows.
The man is looking around, too. I know he’s looking for Allison and I imagine that she walks up behind me, complaining about the line at the bathroom. “Is she with you?” he asks.
“No,” I say. And then I blurt out, “She’s dead.”
His face registers horror, disbelief. “My God,” he says. “How?”
I shake my head, pressing my lips together like I’m trying not to cry. Tears burn beneath my eyelids; who am I fooling, this man or myself? “Somebody abducted her, killed her,” I say. “Didn’t you see it in the paper?”
Aren’t you reading my stories?
“I heard a woman was dead,” he says. “Never heard the name.” He sounds so earnest when he says he’s sorry. He fumbles in his pocket and hands me a handkerchief. I’m surprised. Not many men still carry them, especially not men his age. It’s soft, white cotton.
“I don’t need this,” I say.
“You’re crying,” he says.
“I am not,” I start to say before I decide it’s better just to dab at my eyes. “Thank you.”
“Keep it,” he says. He looks so helpless, sagging like an unstuffed scarecrow, all useless, dangling limbs.
I look at the handkerchief. “You’re right,” I say. “I am crying.”
At Evan’s side I turn back and look at the man, slumping like a broken thing inside the moving crowd. His lips shape the words my God my God, still moving as we slip into the crowd and walk away.
“What was that all about?” Evan says, jamming his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Did you get anything?”
“Just character stuff. Nice enough guy. He gave me his handkerchief.” I wave it in the air as proof.
“Why did you say you knew her?”
“It just popped out,” I say. “At any rate, it got him talking.”
“I don’t know,” he says.
“You don’t know what?”
“I don’t know,” he says, not looking at me. “I don’t know.”
“You never know what might be helpful,” I say. I throw my hands in the air. “Who can understand that, if not you?”
Music bursts from the club next to us when someone opens the door. Inside the people bob and dip, holding each other close. “Let’s go in,” I say, taking Evan’s hand and pulling. “I feel like dancing.”
“No more talking to strangers?” Evan says, hanging back.
“You know me,” I say. “I never talk to strangers.” I bat my eyes. “I’m very shy.”
He grins. “All right, then.”
Inside we sit at the bar and order two bourbons. “On the rocks,” Evan says.
“Straight up,” I say, and Evan shoots me a look, eyebrows raised. When the drinks come Evan says, “To the news,” and we clink our glasses together. I watch the dancers out of the corner of my eye while Evan talks about the story he’s working on. I catch a few words, “terrible . . . dead . . . police . . . scoop.” I lift my glass and realize it’s empty. The bartender brings me another and I smile at him and tip him two dollars. Then I glance across the bar and see a woman staring at me. I look away, trying to listen to Evan talking. “You know?” he says. “You know what I mean?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.” A few minutes later I look sidelong to see if she’s still watching me. She stares right at me. This time I meet her gaze. She just keeps watching. In the darkness I can barely make out her face, but I see her eyes. I feel them on me. Evan is saying, “Are you listening to me?” Everyone keeps asking me that.
“Excuse me,” I say, slipping off
the barstool and taking a step in her direction, my pulse pounding inside my ears. She is standing too, her fists clenched at her sides, ready to accuse me of something. She’s looking right at me. She knows me. I take another step toward her and then I realize.
She is me. It’s a mirror.
The room whirls around me and I put a hand on the stool for support. “Are you okay?” Evan says.
“Oh yeah.” I flash him a smile. “Just going to the bathroom.” I lift my hand from the stool and squeeze his arm. “Be right back.” It’s a long trip through the crowd. Inside I lean against the counter and splash cold water on my face, avoiding the sight of myself in the mirror.
Head down, I come barreling out of the bathroom and smack up against a man’s chest. “Sorry,” I say. I look up, and see Carl’s face, flushed red. “Oh,” I blurt.
He cups my shoulder in his hand. “Are you all right?” he says, his voice gentle.
“Fine,” I say, taking a deep breath and stepping back away from him. He leaves his hand on my shoulder. “I didn’t see you.”
“I know,” Carl says. He lifts his hand from my shoulder and rubs the hairs on the wig between his fingers. “You look beautiful,” he says. His voice is still soft and sweet when he says, “Who are you here with?”
“My friend Evan,” I say. “He’s at the bar.”
“Would he mind if we had a dance?” He smiles at me and holds out his hand.
“Of course not.” I put my hand in his and let him pull me out to the dance floor. As we reach the center the song comes to an end. We stand for a moment, smiling awkwardly at each other, and then a slow song begins. Blushing, Carl shrugs and reaches for me, his large nervous hands on the small of my back. I rest my hands on his shoulders. I don’t know where to look. Carl keeps his eyes fixed on mine, a tiny smile playing over his lips. I smile back, and he takes that as an invitation to pull me closer, so that I’m pressed against his chest and there’s nothing to do but rest my cheek against his shoulder. He’s humming along with the song, one of his hands making slow circles on my back.
“Was Allison a good dancer?” I ask, and the hand stills. “You miss her, don’t you,” I say, leaning back so I can see his face. He nods, his mouth twisting like he’s fighting back tears, and I sound as sympathetic as I can when I say, “I know it makes it worse that you can’t apologize about your fight.”
He nods and lets out a shuddering breath.
“What did you say to her that night?” I say. “I think you’ll feel better if you tell me.”
He shakes his head, pressing his lips together.
“Pretend I’m her,” I say. “You can apologize to me.” I wrap my arms around his neck and press my cheek against his shoulder. For a few moments we sway gently together, and I think it’s not going to work, and then he begins to talk.
“When we were in high school,” he says, “Allison got pregnant. It wasn’t mine, but I asked her to marry me. She laughed. I asked her to marry me and she laughed.” His hands tense against my back. “She had an abortion.”
“But that’s not what you were fighting about now,” I say.
“No,” he says. “It’s just that sometimes it comes back to me, you know? What our lives could have been.” Then he says, so softly I feel it more than hear it, a rumble in his throat, “She never even gave me a chance.”
The song comes to an end, but I let him keep holding me. As a fast song starts and people split apart and begin to move, I take his hand and pull him to the side of the dance floor. “What happened that night?” I ask, keeping my eyes fixed on his face. He’s looking at the floor.
“Think how different our lives would have been if she would have just let me take care of her,” he says. “We’d have a baby, and she’d still be alive.”
I imagine the two of them fighting, and in my imagination he calls her a whore, a baby killer, and then maybe he slaps her. I imagine Allison’s face, flushing red with anger and hurt, the white mark of his hand across her cheek. She grabs Carl by the arm and pushes him to her door, and even once he is on the other side, shouting her name, she still wants to hit him so badly that she picks up a bottle of moisturizer and smashes it, listening to his heavy foot thud against her door, asking herself how he could call this love.
“She would still be alive,” he says again, rubbing his fingers across his eyes. He sniffs, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
“What’s going on?” a voice says. I turn and see Evan standing beside me, an uncertain smile on his lips.
“Who’s this?” Carl says, his voice sharp. “Your boyfriend?”
“This is my friend Evan,” I say. “I told you, Carl.”
“And who are you?” Evan says, irritation in his voice. He frowns at Carl.
Carl doesn’t even look at him. He pulls me closer, lowering his voice. “I thought you said this guy wasn’t a date.”
“I’m not,” Evan says.
“Then what do you want?” Carl says sharply.
“Jesus Christ,” Evan says. “Who is this asshole?”
“Evan . . .,” I say, putting my free hand on his arm.
“Hey, Evan,” Carl says, suddenly turning toward him. He drops my hand and squares his shoulders. “Back off.”
Evan makes an incredulous face, looking at me. “Are you ready to go?” he says.
“No, she’s not,” Carl says. “We were talking.” He looks at me. “Tell him.”
Evan puts his hand on my arm. “Let’s go, Olivia,” he says. “I’m taking you home.” With a quick motion, Carl knocks his hand away. “Are you her boyfriend?”
“No,” Evan says. “Jesus.”
“Don’t touch her then,” Carl says.
Evan shakes his head. He looks at me. “Are you coming?”
I don’t say anything.
“Damnit, Olivia,” Evan says. “What is going on here?”
Carl pushes Evan’s shoulder with his hand. “Don’t talk to her like that,” he says.
“Fuck you,” Evan says, his face turning red. He pushes Carl back.
Carl grabs Evan’s shoulders in his hands and leans in close to his face. “Back off,” he says.
“Olivia,” Evan says, pushing Carl away, “will you tell this asshole to get lost?”
I don’t say anything. Evan gives me a disgusted look and stalks off. Carl smiles and reaches for me. I step away. “I’ll be right back,” I say. I turn to go after Evan, pushing my way through the dancers. When I catch him, he stops and says, “What the fuck was that?”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t want to piss him off. He’s important to the story. I need to talk to him.”
“I’m your friend, Olivia,” he says. “Sometimes that has to come before the story.” He looks up over my shoulder. “Here he comes,” he says. “We’re getting out of here.” He wraps his fingers around my wrist and begins to pull me from the bar.
“Evan.” I’m trying to speak calmly. “Evan. Let go of me. I’ve got to talk to him. I’m not ready to go home.”
“I don’t give a goddamn what you’re ready for,” he hisses. “You’re drunk and we’re leaving.” He’s pulling me through the crowd. I bump against an older woman in a halter top, knocking into one of her enormous breasts. “Sorry,” I mutter.
“That’s okay, sugar,” she says. Her eyes follow me. She feels sorry for me, she wonders what I did to make my boyfriend, my husband, drag me out of the bar this way. She hopes he won’t hit me when he gets me home, or maybe she thinks, from the wig and my short skirt, that I might deserve it.
I try to wrench my wrist from Evan’s grasp, stumbling into a group of dancing college kids, who part around me and don’t look me in the face. Evan tightens his grip and pulls harder. “Let go of me,” I say.
“Keep your voice down,” he says. He presses his lips together. No one wants to look me in the eye. He stares ahead. The crowd looks away.
“Look at me, Evan,” I say. He keeps walking. “Look at me,” I call, trying to p
lant my weight so he can’t pull me through the door. He gives a final yank, and we’re out in the hazy night, forcing the sidewalk traffic to diverge around us. I’m asking Evan to stop, to let go, to please turn around, but he just keeps walking, not saying a word to me, not even acknowledging that it’s me he’s got in tow. I see a headline: REPORTER HUMILIATED ON BEALE STREET. I’m staring at the back of his head, the muscles tight in the back of his neck, and then he yanks me around a group of people, so I stumble and almost fall and suddenly I hate him. “Let go of me,” I shout. “Let go of me, you fucking faggot.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth I feel sick.
Evan drops my wrist.
“Evan,” I say, reaching for him. “My God, I’m so sorry.” He says nothing. He stands for a minute with his back to me, clenching his fists at his side. Then he stalks off through the crowd.
“Fine,” I shout after him. “Fuck you too.” Above my head a blue neon guitar blinks on and off. A woman beside me takes off her tank top and runs laughing down the street in her bra. Her boyfriend picks up her top and goes after her. I pull my shirt away from my skin, sticky with sweat and the alcohol I can feel coming out my pores.
From behind me, Carl says, “Is he gone?”
“Yes, he’s gone,” I say, spinning around. I’d like to sink my fist into his pudgy stomach. “You shouldn’t have talked to him like that.”
“I was jealous,” Carl says plaintively, reaching for me. “I’m sorry.”
“He’s not my boyfriend, Carl,” I say. I step backward, leaving his grasping hands dangling awkwardly in the air. “He’s not even my date.”
“If he’s not a date,” Carl says, “why have you been with him all night? I saw you sharing your daiquiri with him. I saw how angry he looked when you were talking to that other guy.”
