“I got . . . the paper it—” He holds it out toward her in his cupped hands like a dead baby bird that fell from the nest.
“Find me a real rag from the kitchen then, dammit. Something. Anything. The sponge . . .”
Between a wet dishtowel and half a roll of toilet paper now stuffed into the plastic bags from under the coffee table, they are left with the beshatted clothes, smeared carpet stains and the barking dog.
“Hand me a new diaper. I’ll wash his pants later.” She steadies her emotions.
Lane looks for the diaper, scanning the room. Sweating.
“C’mon, man. The unopened pack. Right there in front of you.” She screws up her face at Lane, studying his mannerisms, evaluating his sobriety.
He passes her the plastic pack of diapers, which he must admit were right in front of his face. She tears open the bag while still holding down the miserable kid and wrestles the diaper on him. But she can’t close the tabs at the hips. Not even close. “Fuck.” She chokes back her terror, confusion, embarrassment and overall sense of loss of control.
“I told you them diapers was for little babies,” Wanda shouts from her room and goes back to sleep.
Inez turns away from Lane, but he can see her back heaving as she cries in silence.
TWENTY-TWO
IN THE GRAMERCY APARTMENT, THERE was a garbage chute right out the back of the kitchen. It was past the sink. Over by the maid’s quarters, which they used as Lane’s home office.
He was lazy about brewing coffee in the apartment, as their espresso maker was an elegant yet multistep salvage piece from a Florentine restaurant. It had too many knobs, buttons and tubes that gave off steam. Mia had an account at the café on the corner where they could get coffee delivered to the apartment (and meals, as neither of them had time for cooking). This was essential during long reading and study binges. And, then, when Lane had finished his double, sometime triple Americano, he could wheel his desk chair to the door, lean out and chuck the to-go cup, sleeve and lid right down the chute. No need to even stand up.
Now he finds it very uncivilized to have to walk all the way across the trailer park to get rid of a diaper. Not many Americans are without garbage collection in the twenty-first century, but he has managed to find one.
After the diaper meltdown, Jordan cried himself out and fell asleep bare-assed on the couch. Inez and Lane sat on the floor watching football with the volume off—while Daisy licked at the stain. Inez put her head on his shoulder, and they lay back. She loosened her ponytail, and he buried his face in her hair. She put her lips against his neck. He reached out and held her hand for a moment while Inez pretended she wasn’t crying. But the more she tried to tamp it down, the harder it came, her tears collecting in the collar of his T-shirt.
She covered her face, rolled away and told him to please take the bag with the diaper out to the dumpster. He wasn’t too keen on it. But she kissed him on the mouth. With need and potential behind every nerve ending in the soft tissue of her lips. He knew they were crossing lines but felt for a moment that he wasn’t a horrible, putrid troll. A feckless loser. An embarrassing detail.
HE USES A TWO-FINGER PINCH to carry the plastic bag with the diaper in it all the way to the dumpster. At least he manages to keep his other eight fingers clean. He isn’t into carrying the thing; he doesn’t want to think about it too much. If he did, the burning liquid in his stomach would push up his throat like mercury in a hot thermometer and tickle right at the base of his gag reflex.
The dumpster is overflowing with all sorts of garbage. Is that a dead dog rolled in a bathroom rug? Chicken bones crawling with maggots? A plastic grocery bag full of raw sewage? Lane’s not sure. But, either way, it’s tough to take.
He finds himself wanting to get back through her door and to the comfort of the floor by her side. He wants to feel taken care of. Close to her. He knows the situation is complicated, but he can’t be bothered to care too much right now.
When he reaches the trailer, there’s a bike parked in the front. A scooter with a BMX bungeed to the back. Lane tiptoes up onto the stoop and puts his ear to the door. Daisy is barking. Jordan is awake and crying again.
A male voice shouts, “Rent. And bus fare. And to get my scooter fixed. And how am I supposed to get a present for Jordan, anyway?”
Inez tells him to lower his voice.
“It went to my classes. The ones I’m gonna take,” he continues. “They’re an investment in our future. In Jordie’s future. And, you know, I have debts. If you don’t hook me up, all of that falls apart.”
“Are those new Nikes?” she asks.
“Stop looking for a way to criticize me. You think you’re all smart and shit. But all you’re doing is standing in the way of me improving my life. For us.”
Lane realizes that he might have to confront this guy. Not fight him, per se. But insert himself into the dispute. Be the bigger man. Tell the guy to leave.
As he evaluates the situation, he considers how this is not unlike the study of economics. You can plan to talk him down. You can plan to turn the other cheek. All of that is great in theory but assumes you are dealing with a rational actor. Inez’s meth-head jailbird won’t-take-no-for-an-answer baby daddy doesn’t fit Lane’s profile for a rational actor. All planning goes out the window. It is more than possible that Lane will end up getting his ass beat and left in the dumpster next to the dead dog and chicken bones.
And Lane was never much of a brawler. He had bigger and tougher friends who had his back when necessary. Sure, he’d been in some scraps and he could, more or less, handle himself. He knew that most street fights last a single punch. His grandfather told him, “Even if you think you might get in a fight, hit him in the nose or kick him in the balls.” He figures that it’s better to win on a sucker punch than be bitching through a broken jaw about how it wasn’t a fair fight.
However, Lane knows that he could never beat someone who has nothing to lose. He is too precious. He cares about his life. His future. His face. At least, he used to. Lane thinks of the one evening when he made the mistake of taking Mia out with J.C. and Robbie. At a commercial hip-hop club full of North Seattle heroes dripping in TJ Maxx’s finest factory irregular Abercrombie gear and a few half-naked chicks who’d carpooled down from Lynnwood. J.C. and Robbie—both with their gel-spiked hair bleached to a near white, both claiming they’d had the idea first—competed to impress Mia with stories of the sand-filled beach-themed night club they were going to open or how they were about to write and sell a combined sequel to Top Gun and Cocktail called either Top Cock or Cock Gun.
Between beers one and eight, J.C. and Robbie were on a good run. They riffed off each other, imitating the voice of the trashy parents back in Lynnwood coming to terms with how their poor parenting had affected their daughters’ lack of attire for the evening. Both Mia and Lane were crying from laughing.
And then, as it always did, things went downhill.
The night culminated at the Denny’s at 3 a.m. with Robbie doing a line of crank off the plasticized menu, jumping atop a table and threatening to stab some swing dancer kid with a butter knife. To be fair, the swing dancer started it and Robbie was bluffing: he lived for moments like shouting, “Step back or I’ll cut ya,” in front of a captive audience. After the dude splashed a double-fudge milkshake across Mia’s suede jacket and they were all tossed out by the night manager, Robbie continued to yell in the parking lot that the swing dancer had “a tiny cock” while the guy shouted back, “I’ll fuck you in your fucking ass, faggot.”
As things calmed down, Robbie made his way through the gathering crowd at a speed that seemed too slow, too casual to be threatening and dropped the guy. Knocked him out cold with a single right overhand to the eye.
But Lane’s not that guy. He’s nervous, or as nervous as someone can be with his present combination of hangover and alcohol intoxication. He keeps listening through while watching what looks like a crow try to pick the head of a dead rat
out of a mud puddle, the gray daylight passing through the back of the rat’s open jaw.
The boyfriend yells something about how he could go back to jail. “Why don’t you trust me? I trusted you when you needed it. No wait, I get it: You hate me. You know what? I hate ‘me’ too. I’m a piece of shit. Nobody’ll help me. Not even you. I think I’m gonna kill myself. It doesn’t matter because it’s gonna happen sooner or later.”
Lane takes a step toward the door and positions his trembling hand above the aluminum handle. He counts downward from five.
“And you owe me too. If I hadn’t—Why do you keep looking at the door?”
As Lane arrives at number one, he hears, “Who’s out there?”
Lane doesn’t stop running until he’s dodged all five lanes of traffic across Lake City Way and hides behind the dumpster at the Shell station where he takes a knee on the wet pavement until his lungs stop burning.
TWENTY-THREE
THE GUY IN THE EVINRUDE hat is up on his feet to greet Lane as soon as he comes through his mom’s front door. Lane doesn’t want to speak to anyone, especially not some redneck in mom jeans with a ’90s goatee masquerading as a chin. But dude springs out of the old rocking chair like he means it, shifting his tallboy to his left hand so he can offer Lane an eager shake with a broad, calloused palm and four and a half fingers with blood-blistered nails. Lane doesn’t introduce himself and doesn’t listen to the guy’s name. All he can think is how J.C. and Robbie used to debate whether that kind of dense goatee is best deemed “prison pussy” or a “dick target.”
He continues past Toby and his mom on the couch, leaning against the TV-watching pillow, and on toward the TV room.
“Lane. Lane,” Toby calls out. “This is Chaz that I told you about.”
Lane swings open the door and is a couple of steps into the TV room before he realizes that there are two pimple-faced teenage boys and a younger kid, around ten, sitting on the floor and couch. One teenager stashes a magazine between the cushions before Lane can see what it is. They have some sort of video game console plugged into the TV and are hard at work on a shoot-’em-up game.
Lane’s entrance startles the game player, and his character gets killed. “What the?” the eldest-looking of the kids pouts. “You ever hearda knocking, dick?”
Lane takes in the smells of body odor, flatulence and semen in the room and beats a hasty retreat.
“Who was that?” he overhears one of the kids ask the other.
“Some weird old guy,” the teenager responds.
“This place sucks,” says the other.
LANE DOESN’T ENTER THE LIVING room so much as stand in the doorway and flag his mom over to him. Toby keeps talking with Chaz about sockeye salmon smoking techniques when Dottie gets up.
“Anybody call for me?” Lane asks his mom.
She shakes her head.
Lane motions toward Chaz with his jaw. “You said after New Year’s.”
“That’s when we’re leaving.”
“And?”
“Hotels are outrageous over the holidays.”
“That’s their problem.”
“Toby invited them. We can use the money.”
“Toby. Come here, please.” Lane waves him into the hallway too.
Toby was already keeping tabs on their conversation and is out of his chair before Lane finishes waving.
“I don’t think this is a good idea. You guys going out of town and all,” Lane starts before Toby even gets there. “Don’t think I don’t I see what you’re up to.”
“What I’m up to?”
“Renting her house out from under her to bankroll your travel plans.”
“Listen, son.”
“I’m not your son. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“OK, Lane. Look, your mom and I, we’ve been planning this for a long time. And if you could talk to us and tell us what you need, we coulda better . . .”
“Mom, I think these people need to leave. I want those strokers outta my room. This whole thing—it’s not in your best interest.”
His mom stands in silence.
Toby begins, “Dottie—”
“I asked her, not you.” Lane places his hand on his mom’s shoulder. “This plan is crazy. Say it, Mom: you tell us what you want and I’ll do it. I’m sure that Toby will honor your wishes too, right, Toby?”
LANE GETS COMFORTABLE IN TOBY’S trailer, parked in the driveway of dirt, gravel and weeds running alongside the house. He brings the foam cooler with him and locks the door from the inside. “I’m on to you, motherfucker,” he repeats to himself.
He can’t believe his mom. How could she stand by while Toby told him some obvious lie about how they came up with the idea to go to Nevada last spring while they were digging razor clams on the peninsula? That they worked together to find him a job down there? She never leaves the house and goes places. That’s not Dottie Bueche. She doesn’t spend money or take risks. Her idea of a good time is watching Days of Our Lives and clipping coupons that she’ll never use because she doesn’t like the crowds at the store. She hasn’t even been up to play bingo at the Tulalip in almost a decade. She gets carsick at anything over twenty miles per hour.
Both Toby and his mom assured Lane that Chaz and the kids are supposed to stay in the living room until they head down to Nevada. But Lane decided to make a point. He wanted his mom to see the impact of her decisions, the effect on her only child versus whatever chump change Toby is wringing out of this.
When Lonnie shows up, Lane’s mom sends him out to the trailer. Asks him to talk some sense into Lane. Before Lane can tell Lonnie that the divorce settlement plan exploded before liftoff. Before he can tell him about going over to Inez’s house. About the psychotic boyfriend. About the losers colonizing his house. Lonnie busts into the trailer, hyperventilating with “dudes” and “mans” and “I got crazy news.”
Lane knew it. Lonnie figured something out for him. That pro bono lawyer? Here it comes:
“I met a girl. Last night. After you left. At the Rimrock. A girl.”
“Oh. Cool.” Lane slumps.
“I thought I recognized her for the longest time, then she . . . came up to me. Says, ‘Ain’t you in my GED class?’ We started macking, and that was that . . .”
“GED . . . nice,” Lane nods. “Beer?”
LANE RUBS HIS HANDS TOGETHER for warmth. He and Lonnie drink Rainiers at the folding table strewn with cans and listen to the radio. He finds both Zeppelin and Heart. Simultaneously on different stations.
When Chaz comes out and knocks on the door, Lane quiets Lonnie. “Watch this . . . Dude wants another free beer,” Lane whispers. They hold their breath until he leaves.
Lane cracks another Rainier and gives one to Lonnie to make up for last night’s tab, but he is counting how many are in the cooler and calculating how long that will last him.
“Listen, you think I could stay with you for a few days?” Lane asks.
“That’s the thing,” Lonnie says. “This girl. She’s still at my place. I came to ask what I should do. We had this crazy night—didn’t get much rest, you know—and she’s like still asleep.”
“What time is it?”
“I dunno. Late . . . dark again.”
“Tell her to go. Wake her up and tell her. You gotta be direct with people. Don’t be too ‘Seattle’ about it.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Tell her you already told your friend he could stay there.”
“She doesn’t have nobody else. It’s Christmas. And, I think—I know—I like her. She was a massage therapist, but now she wants to go to Pilchuck, study glass-blowing, you know. She’s very spiritual too. She knows about like Buddhism and shit.”
“She’s probably crazy.” Lane tries to stretch out on the couch, but his legs butt up against a cabinet. “And, speaking of crazy, Nina was right about Inez. I mean, she’s not crazy crazy—she’s charming in her own way. But the chick is crazy fucked up. Not
the right situation for a kid to grow up in, for sure.”
“Did Nina get ahold of you? I know she was calling a lot.”
“Don’t say anything to her. OK? You promise?” He waits for Lonnie to nod. “And can you find out about Inez’s boyfriend for me. What’s his story?”
As Lonnie shrugs, Chaz knocks again. “Seriously?” Lane makes an effort to sound exasperated and unlocks to door to find the Alaskan packing a dip and wiping his hands on his jeans.
“Some chick called you,” Chaz says as he swabs tobacco grains from his front teeth with his stub of an index finger. “Two of ’em. Yo, you got a spitter in there?”
“Really? Who?” Lane’s cardiopulmonary system goes on pause in anticipation of the answer.
“She was pissed off. Izzy—”
“Inez. Yeah. OK. Who’s the other?” He passes his empty beer can to Chaz.
“Name ends in an ‘a’ or ‘ia’ or something.”
“Mia?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
Lane’s vision tightens. He’s going to pass out, but then he is saved by doubt: his most consistent companion over the last months. “Wait, Nina?”
“Maybe. What was the other one again?”
“Mia. What’d she say? Why didn’t you get me?”
“I came out and knocked.”
“Well, you shoulda told me what it was about.” Lane tries to pace in the space around the bench and folding table, his head cocked to the side to avoid the ceiling. “What was it about?”
“Guess she wanted to say hi.” Chaz twists and ratchets the opening tab to gouge out a hole in the top of the beer can. “It’s Christmas, right?”
“Great insight. Did you get her number?”
He shakes his head as he spits a brown bead of saliva into the aluminum.
“Well, fuck. Is she gonna call back?” He leans out the door within a foot of Chaz, close enough to smell the wintergreen in his dip.
Lake City Page 14
