Slipstream

by Leslie Larson

  He didn’t meet anyone in the hall on the way back to his room; things had quieted down. He pulled the curtains closed so he could sleep late, laid his clothes over the chair at the desk, drank from the sink in the corner. He might not have the finest linen in the world, but it sure felt good to get in bed. He found the hollow like a nest in the middle of the mattress and lay on his back, his arms at his sides, his legs crossed at the ankle, listening to the rain. Another day. The muscles in his back and shoulders loosened luxuriously. Thank you, he said to the rain-freshened air that blew in through his window.

  Damon’s weights clanged next door. Endless repetitions, like someone striking an anvil. Poor son of a bitch with his aching teeth. The worst hurt in the world, at least physically. Logan began to drift. The cracks in his ceiling became rivers branching through a delta. His eyes closed, flickered open, closed again. When the flash came, it burned through his eyelids like sun through a window shade. He remembered an experiment: the retina of a rabbit carried the image of what it had seen at the moment of its death. What picture was that? A raised ax? The open yaw of a coyote?

  Confused, caught between consciousness and sleep, Logan followed the turns and forks of the afterimage traced on his eyelids, not sure whether he was navigating the complicated geography of his ceiling through deep gorges and ancient estuaries, or whether he was gazing at the spidery network of his own veins, the waterways along which his platelets bounced and bubbled, carrying him deep into the night.

  Inez checked Vanessa’s room first. The door was closed. She pressed her ear against it and listened, remembering her delight and wonder when, in the first years of Vanessa’s life, she had woken at night in the facility for mothers who were still in high school, crossed the tiny room she shared with Vanessa, and leaned over the crib to breathe in her daughter’s sleep. The atmosphere had been like nectar, outside of everything else in Inez’s life. It hadn’t mattered that there had been outrage in her church, that her adoptive family had arranged for her to leave their house for the sake of their own two daughters, that the man who had fathered Vanessa pretended she didn’t exist. For once she had somebody she belonged to, and who belonged to her. Flesh and blood. Even now, with Inez’s bare feet cold against the worn carpet in the hall, the silence on the other side of the door felt alive with Vanessa’s breathing, with her dreams and growing body, with the person she would one day become. The cedar chest was safe, Inez was sure. Nothing wrong in there.

  The living room was a different story. The furniture looked sinister, hunched along the walls in the half-light from the streetlamp. Rain sheeted the windows. The screen door continued its desolate banging. Inez stepped to the window and saw that Rudy’s car was still parked at the curb in front of the house. The palms of her hands itched with apprehension. The sad street, the rickety houses. Where was he? The bathroom was empty; she’d checked. She hurried to the kitchen and looked out the window over the sink. Lights in the garage. There was a line of yellow around the door, a glow in the window. Her stomach tensed and gurgled. She burped, bringing up the bloody taste of steak.

  As she watched, the door at the corner of the garage opened and Rudy stepped out. There was no mistaking his wide behind and his striped flannel pajamas. Inez had a strange feeling of fascination and guilt as she watched him turn and close the door, check that it was locked, and start across the lawn toward the house. Her heart beat faster. Was it the bike? Had he gone out to see if she’d been riding it? Her mind raced foolishly, trying to remember if she’d left any sign of where she’d been. Would he know from the tires, from the rack over the wheel? Thank God the money was in Vanessa’s room. He was carrying something. Inez leaned over the sink, squinted through the rain-clouded window. How strange that this man with skim-milk skin, a shambling walk, and the small paws of a rodent was her husband. His feet were bare, she saw as he got closer to the house. He was talking to himself.

  It happened quickly. The door opened. Rudy saw her before he could step inside. She opened her mouth to speak, but just then the lightning flashed and, startled, Rudy dropped what he was carrying. It flew across the cracked linoleum in all directions. In the rumble and crack of thunder that followed, his eyes opened wide in terror and his hands grasped at the air in front of him as if he were trying to grab a lifeline.

  Inez switched on the light.

  Rudy pressed his lips tightly together. His hands were balled now in front of his chest, opening and closing like beating hearts. Inez could see the pulse racing in a vein on his forehead.

  “What are you doing up?” he hissed, looking like he was about to lunge at her.

  “I woke up. You were gone.”

  She tried to put it all together. The storm. Rudy’s panting, seething face. The things scattered on the floor.

  “The rain,” he said. “I heard it raining and I remembered there was a leak in the garage. I went out there to fix it.”

  Inez nodded slowly. She looked down at what Rudy had dropped. The swirls in the linoleum eddied and spun, curled against the metal cupboards, the greasy oven, the chipped leg of the kitchen table. Red, green, black, and yellow, the design seemed to twist and curl like constellations spinning in deep space.

  “The roof,” Rudy said. “Water coming right into the garage.” He bent and picked them up.

  A roll of tape.

  A pair of scissors.

  A box of sandwich bags.

  A folded newspaper.

  A can of baking powder.

  Tuesday, December 3

  17

  Rudy didn’t eat his usual fried eggs and toast before he left in the morning. “Executive breakfast,” he told Inez, because that way he could kill at least an hour in a coffee shop somewhere. It had been two weeks since that big sap Waller had laid him off, and Rudy had learned that being out on the street all day was no picnic. Sure, he’d visited lots of places he’d never seen before: Hollywood Boulevard, Griffith Park, Grauman’s Chinese Theater, the Santa Monica Pier. They were places you’d go on vacation, but instead of being fun, they gave him a lonely feeling. If only Inez could be there so he could point things out to her, stop and have a Coke, watch the world go by. But he couldn’t let on. He took his keys and wallet, kissed her on the cheek, and headed for the door. Once his plan was in place, everything would be okay. He’d have his job back, this whole mess would be straightened out. “See you tonight,” he called out before stepping onto the porch to face eight hours alone in the world.

  His appetite had changed since he lost his job. Now the thought of runny egg yolks and butter-soaked toast turned his stomach, while he craved sweets with a hunger that made him gnaw the corners of his fingernails. As he started the Buick, he ran through the list of possibilities for breakfast: a creamy cheese Danish from the Red Ribbon Bake Shop, a chocolate éclair from Sweet Sue’s, or one of the fabulous maple bars from Dick’s Donuts. The Sugar Bowl had really wonderful Napoleons: more layers than you could count of flaky pastry filled with vanilla. Or the King of Tarts, where the bear claws were heavy and rich with almond paste, covered with toasted slivers of crunchy nuts. Since it was important not to establish any predictable pattern of his whereabouts, he never went to the same place two days in a row. Pulling away from the curb, he decided on the Jolt N Bolt down near Union Station. They made a cinnamon bun that was a meal in itself, a big, fluffy affair with a hot pool of thick frosting ladled over the top. He was going to the airport today to get his job back, so he needed his strength. A big breakfast for a big day.

  When he was a few blocks from home, he took off his tie and laid it on the seat beside him. If Inez asked, he could describe the executive lounge of the airport where he’d tell her he met with suited men like himself about airport security and labor problems, about protecting the public while guarding profits for the airlines. He would describe the meetings and decisions that took up his days, he’d talk about city commissioners, the FAA, and a whole range of government agencies that the average person didn’t even know e
xisted. As he crept through rush-hour traffic, he pictured the other men listening while he talked, nodding respectfully as they sipped their coffee. He could see it all so clearly, it almost seemed real.

  “Look who’s here!” Hilda, the woman behind the counter, shouted when he walked into the Jolt N Bolt. She was a big woman with long gray braids. Her orange lipstick was always smeared on her teeth. Rudy grinned, proud that she remembered him. His mouth watered in anticipation of the cinnamon roll. He imagined Hilda arriving in the wee hours of the morning to do the baking herself, though behind her in the kitchen he could see two Mexican men rolling out dough and sliding baking sheets into the oven.

  “The usual?” Hilda boomed, reaching for the tongs.

  “Make it two scoops,” Rudy said as she ladled the frosting from a machine near the cash register. He held up a crumpled bill. “I’ll pay extra.”

  She waggled her finger to show the extra was free. Flirting with him, if you asked Rudy. “Now, are you going to have the hot chocolate, or the coffee?”

  Rudy pursed his lips and pretended to debate. It didn’t hurt to flirt a little in return. The thick, sweet hot chocolate was so good with the cinnamon roll, but with coffee you got free refills and a reason to stay as long as you wanted. Still, he’d been craving chocolate. If he wanted more, there was no reason he couldn’t buy another cup.

  He was the only one in the place. He settled into his favorite table near the window, his stomach growling and his mouth gushing. The cinnamon roll came apart like flesh in his hands, sending up a luscious, steamy cloud of spice, sugar, and yeast. The taste was more than a flavor, it was happiness itself, like a perfect circle. He chewed rapturously, the warm syrup and slushy dough sliding down his throat like nectar. He let himself enjoy it. Just now, everything was fine. The sun coming through the window was warm, the smell of coffee and pastry filled the shop, Hilda clinked dishes behind the counter. Across the street, the train station rose from its parking lot like a cathedral. The tall, skinny palms that surrounded it tossed in the wind. Light bounced off the pools of rainwater that stood in the parking lot. Rudy blinked. He liked the train station with its intricate, inlaid floor. The high wood ceilings where pigeons flew from beam to beam, just like they were outside, and the patios splashed with bougainvillea. Only problem was, the class of people there wasn’t so good. Lowlifes tended to hang around, looking for trouble.

  He licked each finger when he was finished, then drained the hot chocolate to the final dregs. It was gone way too fast. He would like to have another cup, maybe even another roll, while he read the newspaper that someone had left in a basket near the door. But his work was cut out for him. This was the day he’d planned: December 3. December was the twelfth month, and if you added the two numbers that made twelve together, one and two, you got three and today was the third, exactly two weeks since he’d been laid off. Which proved it was the right day for him to make his move. He wiped his fingers on his napkin, set his mug on his plate, and brushed the crumbs out of his lap. He’d been dreading this moment, but it had to come. If you didn’t stand up for yourself, no one would.

  When the glass doors slid open and Rudy stepped into the terminal at LAX, it seemed like ages since he’d last been there. Ages and ages, not just two weeks. Another lifetime, like he was going back now to his old elementary school, or to a family reunion with relatives he’d known only in childhood. Was it possible that he’d come here every day for years, that he’d walked through these doors wearing his name tag and carrying his lunch? Innocently going to work, unsuspecting. Just like all the people here now: standing in lines like cattle, dragging their children and belongings behind them, happily going about their business like nothing in the world was ever going to happen to them.

  Weak sunlight filtered through the high glass windows, making everyone look like they were moving through the cloudy water of a dirty fishbowl. Colors were bleached like old Polaroids; people looked insubstantial, casting long shadows. Rudy sat down on a bench near the arrival and departure screens and looked at the long ticketing counters, the agents in their uniforms, the luggage moving on conveyor belts. He rehearsed the lines he’d concocted over the past weeks. But the movement and light distracted him. The baby screaming at the top of her lungs while her mother tried to zip up her jacket. The Chinese family wrestling with a cart of enormous boxes. Two young women in skirts that barely covered their behinds yakking not far from where he was sitting. What was he going to say? The speech, all the points he wanted to make to his boss, slipped from his mind. He should have written them down, stupid idiot. Wait, he had written them down. What was he thinking? He reached into the pockets of his jacket and felt the papers—the napkins and pieces of torn cardboard, the bits of newspaper, old stationery, and recycled circulars—on which he’d built his case. The plastic bag was there, along with a few of the turnovers he’d bought at the Sunbeam day-old bakery. And of course his ID tag.

  Best to walk around a little. Get the lay of the land and gather his thoughts. He wished he’d brought a duffel bag or a small piece of luggage so he would blend in with the other passengers, but chances were no one would guess he was undercover, that while he pretended to look at key chains in the gift shop he was really watching the crowd headed for the security check, or that while he glanced at the headlines in the newspaper racks he had the baggage handlers under surveillance, alert to any irregularities.

  The old Filipino man who’d spied on him at the steak place was nowhere in sight. Neither was the sandy-haired guy who usually sold newspapers next to the flower stand. He wondered about the stringy woman bartender with the shoe-polish hair, and—since he didn’t feel quite ready to talk to the bosses yet—he decided to rest a little and scope things out at the bar. Not that he’d drink. Not at that hour, or any hour for that matter. He had to stay in control, keep his wits about him.

  Rudy walked past the candy cart, the espresso wagon, and the machines that sold travel insurance. Near the security check, the terminal opened up into a big bulb where people in rows of black vinyl seats waited for the passengers they were meeting to come from the gate area. There was a shop that sold pet gifts: refrigerator magnets of every breed you could imagine, coffee mugs, food bowls, rain slickers for poodles and pugs. There was a music store, and a Mexican restaurant that had painted chairs with straw seats, and piñatas that hung from the ceiling. The bar was right in the middle. Beyond was the metal detector. People entered the chutes that snaked back and forth, making their way to the machines where they took off their shoes, emptied their pockets, removed their belts. Right now it wasn’t too busy. The security officer who checked the boarding passes, a black woman with bright orange hair, was chatting to the janitor who was sweeping up the waiting area.

  But the bar was loaded. Not even noon yet, and every stool was taken by someone sloshing down booze. Rudy approached cautiously, his hands resting on the supplies in the pockets of his jacket. The skinny woman bartender wasn’t there; instead it was the guy with bad skin who looked like he’d probably been tipping back a few himself. He had an attitude; Rudy had never liked the look of him. Still, with his view of the terminal, he probably had a pretty good idea of what was going on. A businessman talking on his cell phone slid off his stool and walked away. Rudy took his place.

  Scarface was right there to wipe the counter. He gave Rudy a noncommittal nod, as if he might recognize him or he might not. Who was he trying to fool? Or had someone been around, talking to the airport employees?

  “You have root beer?” Rudy asked.

  The guy’s deepset eyes gave him a shifty look. “Sorry. Coke, Diet Coke, 7-Up, Dr Pepper.”

  All that and no root beer. “Gimme a Coke, then,” Rudy said with disgust. “Skip the ice.”

  Worse yet, it was from a machine, served in a paper cup. Foaming on top, not even filled to the brim. “Okay if I eat this here?” Rudy said. He didn’t wait for an answer, but pulled one of the turnovers from his pocket. Let the guy try to stop
him. Lowlife smartass. Go ahead, make my day, he thought as he peeled off the paper and took a big bite.

  Scarface watched him, wincing like something hurt. Rudy wondered what had made his skin like that: smallpox, or a fire, or just a bad case of acne. The turnover was berry, Rudy’s favorite. They were four for a dollar at the day-old place, and you couldn’t tell the difference from the ones in the store. Perfect for eating in the car during the day, or out in the garage at night. He kept a cache in both places, and he found that two or three were a meal in themselves. Even if you had four at once, it was only a dollar. The berry was definitely the best, but the chocolate pudding wasn’t bad, either. Rudy ate greedily, leaning over the bar so he wouldn’t drop any of the filling on his pants. The fizzy Coke cut the greasy feeling in his mouth. When he finished, the bartender pushed a napkin toward him.

  “Where’s your partner?” Rudy asked as he wiped his face and hands. The only problem with the berry was that it had tiny round seeds. He felt several of them lodged in his teeth.

  “Who’s that?”

  Rudy pulled the second turnover from his pocket and opened it. Vanilla custard. “You know who I’m talking about,” he said, once he’d taken a bite. Who did the guy take him for? “Your partner. Slender lady. Dark hair. Might be Mexican.” He chomped on the creamy custard. Just let Scarface try to say something about it.