by Wiess, Laura
Harlow is laid out in his lounge chair, eyes closed, sparse, gray hair in scraggly strands across his bald spot, damp tear tracks down the side of his face, an empty bottle of tequila wedged in tight beside him, a can of beer in his hand, and bits of fluffy white stuffing from the holes in the chair clinging to his faded brown work pants. Empties fill the wastebasket in front of the end table, and three sweating, unopened cans sit within reach. So does his shotgun, and a new mail-order skinning knife.
The tequila wasn’t here when I left this morning.
“‘ . . . his love lives on, he knows she’s gone . . . and she will never come back . . .’”
He never buys tequila. That’s Candy’s poison, and if she was here again . . .
“‘ . . . she will never come back . . .’”
The record is warped and hilly, horrible on the stereo, which is an old garage sale turntable with a static volume knob, bad speaker wires, and a dull needle.
“‘ . . . she will never come back . . .’”
Harlow crying is not a good sign.
“‘ . . . she will never come back . . .’”
The album is skipping.
Irritation crosses his face and he sweeps a sloppy hand toward the end table where the stereo is, sending the needle screeching across the vinyl and knocking the last three beers to the floor. “Goddamn piece of shit,” he mumbles and drains the rest of the can. Drops it over the side of the lounge, barely missing Dozer.
The turntable needle rides the center of the album, cha-chunk, cha-chunk, cha-chunk.
Harlow sees me.
“I brought food,” I say, heading for the kitchen table and trying to gauge his mood as I open the bag. The bittersweet love song is a nightly event, his own personal sound track to a heartbreak that, according to him, is the greatest sorrow of his life and one that can never be eased. He’s told me his version of the story every single night I’ve been here, not knowing or caring, I guess, that I already know the parts he’s leaving out, and so I’ve lain awake on that couch, bone weary but too tensed up to sleep and he’s lain in that lounge chair, drunker than anything but still unable to let it be . . .
“She was young, a pretty little girl from a good, churchgoing family and I . . . well, I had a bad reputation, you know, being hotheaded and cocky and a Maltese to boot, so her mama was always keeping a close eye on me. She was a real Christian, though, and she gave me plenty of chances to do right by her daughter. I see that now. I didn’t before,” he said, looking at me with the same childlike earnestness every single time he told the tale. “That girl loved me more than anybody ever did, and she begged me to straighten up, but I was arrogant, and besides, I didn’t think she’d ever really do it. Leave me, I mean. But she did.” He closed his eyes and the exhale deflated him. “I couldn’t see the truth of it, you know? I was too pissed off to see my own part in driving her away and so I went a little crazy . . . And I never saw her again.”
I sat there in shock that first night, unable to believe what I was hearing, mad, scared, astonished at all the pieces of the story he was leaving out, sick at even being in the same room with him and trying hard not to let him see any of it on my face. Of all the things he could have said, all the stories he could’ve told, I’d never expected this one, and if it hadn’t been snowing and I’d had anywhere else to go, I would have stood right up and walked out. But I didn’t and so I was stuck listening to the insanity of Harlow Maltese, the man my mother had known the truth about, yet still befriended. The man she and Candy had partied with, wheedled money from, gossiped about, and laughed at behind his back, mocking his size, his smell, his occasional fruitless attempts at sex, saying how his mind might be willing but his flesh just wasn’t interested, no matter their efforts, and how all that beer had ended up pickling more than just his brain.
As if that was the worst thing about him.
“I used to think I would see her again,” he said, opening his eyes and swiping a tear off his grizzled cheek. “I thought maybe she’d forgive me and we could start a new life together but now . . .”
I folded my arms across my chest, my face carefully devoid of all expression.
He looked at me for a long moment, then down at himself. Plucked at the stained and holey 9th annual coyote hunt T-shirt stretched tight across his enormous belly, touched his tongue to the rotten front tooth that was giving him so much trouble, studied the can of beer welded to his hand. Looked back at me with eyes so full of resignation, so naked with defeat, that I had to look away.
“Well, that point is past,” he said quietly.
I don’t listen anymore when he tells that story. Now I just lay in the dark and watch him drink himself senseless, watch the end of his cigarette smolder as he talks, and pray he doesn’t fall asleep, drop it into the lounge chair, and burn us both to death.
“I’m not real hungry.” He smears a trembling hand across his face and tries to sit up. The lounge’s footrest mechanism is shot, and four times he slams it down before it catches and holds. He starts to rise, sways, and thumps back down. “Christ. Bring it over, will you?”
“Sure.” I unwrap the remainder of the food that wasn’t sold by closing time: the outside slice of a ham, some ziti, cold French fries, a charred slab of pot roast, some mashed potatoes and gravy, and a chicken breast returned for being too spicy. “Here.” I give him the chicken, ziti, and mashed potatoes, along with a pack of plastic utensils I swiped from the restaurant because Harlow only has three forks and they’ve laid dirty in the sink since I got here. The ham and French fries go to Dozer, who wolfs them down and then struggles painfully to his feet and goes in search of the toilet for a drink.
“What’re you doing with that?” Harlow says through a mouthful of food, craning his neck as I open the last piece of tinfoil and start tearing the pot roast into bite-size chunks.
“Nothing,” I say, shifting to block his view.
“You’re feeding that goddamn cat,” he says, taking a slug of beer.
I shrug, keeping an ear to his tone of voice because when he’s drinking, you never know what’s going to set him off and if it happens, I want a running start. Everything I own is in the canvas tote bag hanging by the door, where it’s a quick grab on the way out.
“You’re not doing it any favors, you know,” he says, forking up a piece of chicken and stuffing it in his mouth. “Jesus, that’s spicy. You got to turn your efforts in the right direction. How’s it ever gonna learn to survive on its own if you keep feeding it?”
“She’s an orphaned kitten,” I say. “There’s nothing wrong with feeding a kitten.”
“It has to fend for itself,” he says, like he doesn’t even hear me. “That’s the way of nature, Sayre. Only the strong survive.”
Oh, like you? I think, watching him devour the food I brought. “So you’re saying I should just let her die,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.
He swallows hard and belches. “I’m saying it’s a cat, and there’s a million other ones out there just like it. You planning on feeding them all?”
“I don’t know.” Dear God, he has to shut up because I can’t do this right now. My nerves are frayed, my eyes are burning, and all I want to do is feed the cat, wash up, and crash. I need to ask him about the tequila, too, but I’m afraid to hear the answer.
“You can’t save the world,” he continues, scraping up the last of the ziti from the paper plate. “You can only save yourself. That’s just the way it is. Trust me, I know. Your mother knows, too.”
My mother. “Yeah, you’re right,” I say, crushing the tinfoil closed over the small pile of pot roast and heading for the door. “My mother’s always been really good at that.” I flick on the porch light and slip outside, catching my breath at the furious wind and the whipping snow, and hurry down the steps to the kicked-out hole in the trailer skirt. I glance back to make sure he hasn’t followed
me, then get down on my knees and grope around in the hole until I find the old Savarin coffee can. I couldn’t keep it here in summer because this hole would be crawling with rattlesnakes but now, in winter, it’s perfect. I quick pull it out, fumble today’s tip money from my pocket, stuff it in the can and slide it back into the hole, off to the side where it can’t be seen.
Harlow has asked me every single day when they’re going to pay me, and I’ve lied and told him they pay every two weeks, and that only the waitstaff get tips, not the bus people. I know he believes me because if he didn’t, he’d be patting me down the minute I walked through that door, and God forbid he discovers I’ve been holding out on him.
I crouch and call a soft kitty kitty as I open the tinfoil.
A dirty pink nose comes into view, poised at the jagged edge of the trailer skirt, then a wide, scared green eye and a scruffy white ear. She’s a scrawny thing, maybe four months old, all fluff and fear, a lone white kitten born feral and abandoned. She’s skittish from being cussed at by humans, growled at by Dozer, and hunted by everything with teeth, claws, or a beak, but maybe, I hope, still young and hungry enough to be gentled.
“Come on, kitty,” I murmur, and moving slowly, reach into the tinfoil and toss a piece of beef to the frozen ground in front of her. “Come on.”
She snatches it up and swallows it whole, watching me, tense and wide eyed.
“Good girl,” I say, moving only to throw her another piece of beef, and another. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you.” My legs are cramped, my feet are freezing but I stay crouched, waiting, watching and murmuring a steady litany of reassurance because any sudden move will make her run. “We should find you a name. Let’s see, what’s white? Snow, eggs, paper . . . coke. No, that was Candy’s pit bull’s name and it’s just . . . ugh. So, maybe Snow. Ice. No. Cloud. Fog. Mist. Misty.” I pause, considering. “Misty. I like that. What do you think?”
I talk until the pot roast is gone then stay a moment longer, hand outstretched, waiting to see if she can be coaxed closer. She hasn’t fallen for it so far but it’s only been a week, so maybe . . .
She gazes up at me, wary.
I blink my eyes slowly like I’ve seen mother cats do when they’re content. Keep my fingers, slick with the lingering scent of beef, steady in the air. Keep my voice soft and low, saying, Come on, Misty, come on.
And she does, just a little, stretching her neck out so that her cold little nose touches my fingertips. Retreats as if shocked by her own bravado, then does it again, this time venturing a quick, scratchy lick. And then another. And then—
There’s a huge crash in the trailer and Harlow bellows, swearing a blue streak.
“Oh, hell.” I rise automatically and when I look back, Misty is gone.
Chapter 3
I FIND HARLOW LYING ON THE kitchen floor next to an overturned chair. He’s on his back, one meaty arm thrown across his eyes and Dozer creaking around next to him, whining and snuffling his cheek. The room reeks of fresh ammonia and the front of his pants is stained dark.
God, not again. “What happened?”
“I tripped over the goddamn dog, what does it look like?” he snaps without moving his arm, as if by not being able to see me, I won’t be able to see him, either. But I can see him and it’s not good. His cheeks are flushed, his hands are white-knuckled fists, and he’s breathing hard. Too hard. “Frigging tequila.”
“Oh yeah, that.” I ease back a step, in case he comes up swinging. “Where’d you get it?”
“Where do you think?” he says.
“Candy?”
“Give the kid a prize.” He snorts and shakes his head, scrubbing his hair against an old spaghetti stain dried to the ratty linoleum. “And next time you see her, you tell her I don’t want her coming here without your mother anymore. Every time she does, something goes missing. She stole my goddamn penny jar today, the one I kept right there by the door, and who knows what else. Bitch.” He ruminates a moment in silent outrage. “And then she wouldn’t even go down to the mailbox and get my check, and I told her walking was hard on me. Your mother would have got it for me if she was here.” He cracks a bloodshot eye. “She would have. She always did before.”
“I believe you,” I say, my tone noncommittal. “So, what’d Candy have to say?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Hey. Harlow.” I nudge him with my foot. “What’d she come by for?”
“She brought news of your mom,” he says without looking at me.
“And?” I say, trying not to sound too impatient. “Let’s hear it.”
“Jesus, let me think a minute so I can remember it right,” he says, smearing a grimy hand across his florid face. “You know, calling her yourself would be better.”
“Yeah, well,” I say because he has no phone, I have no cell, and the closest pay phone is nine miles from here, down the mountain and through the woods at the factory. Had I known earlier that Candy wanted to talk to me, I could have called her from work but it’s too late now. “Come on, Harlow.” My stomach is in knots and if he doesn’t quit being stupid drunk and answer me soon, I don’t know what I’m going to do. “What did she say?”
He sighs. “Ah, shit. You ain’t gonna like it.”
No surprise there. I’ve never liked anything Candy had to say.
“Uh, she said to tell you—Jesus,” he groans as Dozer settles his front paws and massive head on his stomach. “Get off me, you fat load.” He gives the dog a mighty shove, and with a yelp Dozer tumbles sideways into the wall and smacks his nose.
Immediately, it starts to bleed.
“Oh, for . . .” Frustrated, I knuckle my forehead. Take a deep breath. Turn to the dog and pat my leg. “C’mere, Dozer. Come on. Let me see your nose.”
The dog glances warily at his master, and whimpering, lies down beside his leg. Snakes out a tongue and licks at the trickling blood.
“Hey!” Harlow whacks the dog’s quivering flank. “Quit whining and grow a pair already, will ya?”
Now, I learned a long time ago how to be quiet on the outside while I’m freaking on the inside. How to turn away like I don’t see all the things that need to be seen, just to keep the peace. How to lie low and act like I want nothing, expect nothing, and hope for nothing so I don’t become more trouble than I’m worth. I’m five months short of eighteen and I know how to be cursed and ignored and left behind, how to swallow a thousand tears and ignore a thousand deliberate cruelties, but it’s two o’clock in the morning on New Year’s Eve and I’m mad and scared and bone tired and really, really sick of acting like I’m grateful to be staying on a hairy, sagging, dog-stained couch in a junky, mildewed trailer with a fat, dangerous, volatile drunk who sweats stale beer and wallows in his own wastewater, and who doesn’t think there’s one thing wrong with taking his crap life out on his dog, who comes bellying back for forgiveness every single time, no matter how rotten the treatment—
“Oh yeah, now I got it.” Harlow squints up at me. “Candy says you need to quit jerking around and get your ass down to the hospital because your mother’s not gonna be around too much longer and she wants to see you, so you need to get past all your prima donna bullshit and act like a daughter again because this time it’s for real.”
Chapter 4
“DID YOU HEAR ME?” HE ASKS when I don’t respond.
“No,” I say, which is wrong because of course I heard him, heard Candy’s message delivered just as hard and sharp and hateful as if she was standing right in front of me, slapping my face.
I heard it, and my first reaction is a fierce, panicked no.
No, I am not jerking around. I left because my mother wanted to be free of me my whole life, and now she’s getting her wish.
I’m not going back.
I’m not.
I can’t.
I mean, I couldn’t even if
I wanted to, not after what happened between us the week before Christmas Eve, the raw, unforgivable night that drove me out the door in a move I never thought I could or would make.
So no, there’s no going back and no, I am not getting my ass in gear just because Candy says to. She’s my mother’s best friend, not mine, and that’s been obvious since the night she said, “Oh, c’mon, Dianne, this party’s gonna kick ass and we’re not missing it just cause of her. Jerry’s kid is old enough to babysit. Just leave her, she’ll be all right.”
And I was, if you don’t count Jerry’s kid tying me so tight to a kitchen chair that my hands turned blue, force-feeding me vinegar and Cheerios, and then leaving me sobbing in my own puke until the next morning when Jerry, whoever the hell he was, finally stumbled home from the party. He spanked me for making such a stinking mess, called over and woke Candy up, and told her to tell my mother to come get me before he set me outside and shut the door on my howling.
Three and a half hours later when no one had claimed me, he loaded me, swollen eyed, snuffling, and exhausted into his truck and took me to the site of the party, where we found my mother, Candy and five guys outside drinking beer, eating hot dogs and playing poker.
I got spanked again that day, for ruining Candy’s car seat on the way home with my soggy drawers.
I was what, five?
And no, Candy’s wrong when she says my mother isn’t going to be around much longer because that’s the same exact thing my mother says every long, cold, lonely winter, after she either takes less than her normal forty-three Vicodins a day to kick off a really ugly withdrawal, or takes more so she’s barely breathing and one step from comatose. Either way, the payoff for the last six winters has been a strategically scheduled trip to the emergency room where, for at least a couple of days, she gets a clean bed and hot food, free drugs, sponge baths, and people taking care of her round the clock.
This is the first winter since we left Beale’s house that I haven’t walked in and found her either sweating, panicked and throwing up, or cold, blue, and collapsed, and had to run to find her phone to call the ambulance.
