Stacking in Rivertown

by Barbara Bell

  I look out at the buildings passing by, thinking about Slim and his friend, worried. The dangers are close.

  Ben slumps down and stares at me funny. I shrug it off. You can’t figure Ben.

  The limo pulls into the warehouse and stops. Ben takes my hand, helping me out of the car. He undoes the choker at my neck and removes the bracelets from my wrists, pocketing them.

  “Leave the gown on,” he says. “Go back upstairs and wait.” When I get up to our room, I see that Violet is gone. It makes me nervous. Maybe Slim didn’t work it out right. Maybe Ben’s going to separate Violet and me tonight.

  An hour goes by.

  Brett, one of Ben’s new boys, comes in. He takes me around the waist and lies me on a couch, fondling me. Reaching under the gown, he preps me, not saying a thing. Then he leads me down to the play.

  I wake up screaming, scaring Josh and Greg near to death. Josh wants me to lie down with him holding me, but I can’t. So I get up, fix a pot of coffee, and fry up some bacon and eggs.

  We hit the park and exercise, then change clothes and go shopping. Today, I find a pair of cowboy boots that will look great with the skirt I’m to wear this evening. We get back late, so I go home and dress, taking a cab to the north end of Berkeley, where I locate another pay phone.

  “It’s me,” I say when Bates answers.

  “Well?”

  “I hate to say this, but none of the pictures trips a light.”

  He’s quiet. “What about the memories?”

  “I’ve started working on that. I’ve gotten some of it, but nothing on the guy yet. I’ll let you know when anything comes up.”

  “Okay.” He sounds depressed.

  I hang up and head for Tutti. All evening I watch the food go out and come in. Artichokes half-eaten, asparagus with the tips gnawed off. I see them scrape the plates into the trash can, watch them drag the bags out. I can see it in my head all mixed together, swimming in the Dumpster.

  It forms her body. It fleshes out her shape. Violet is out on the loading dock, naked, the blanket drawn back, her head nearly severed from her neck, her blood draining out onto the street.

  By closing time, I’m a walking wreck. Josh asks me if I’m sick. I say yes. He checks me for a fever and worries over me. I tell him to go home, then I lock up. While I’m waiting for my cab, I look through the garbage. I sort through it with one of the big stirring spoons. I can’t find her. Even though I keep saying her name, Violet won’t answer me.

  As I ride home, I think of Mama, how if she saw that Dumpster she’d be so happy.

  Except for Violet, I think. When she found Violet, it would ruin everything.

  9

  Miriam

  The next week is rough on me. It’s hard to work seventy hours a week and sleep in a closet. I wake up every hour, making sure I still have the Uzi in my hands, and that the Walther is resting on its side over my head.

  Tom’s acting a little weird, so I ask him about his love life. He brushes me off. And Josh and Greg keep harping on the Clarisse Broder shit. My appetite begins to dry up, and because I’m so hyped all the time, I jog around campus like a demon.

  So by the time I see my therapist again, I’m skating on some pretty thin ice. I keep seeing the faces of those men in the pictures that Bates sent me, or remembering Bates’ other pictures. The ones of Violet.

  As I’m tasting the sauces at Tutti later that evening, Josh peeks in the door to the kitchen, sees me, and sprints over.

  “Celebrity bayside,” he says.

  I roll my eyes, not in the mood for this tonight.

  “Anybody I know?” I’m notorious for not recognizing famous people.

  “Miriam Dubois,” he says.

  I drop some béarnaise on the floor and jump back so that it won’t splatter my skirt.

  “You’re making that up.”

  “No.” Josh knows my weakness for M.D. “But there’s a tableful of ‘dangers’ right next to her. A real twosome,” he adds.

  I take Josh by the arm, walking him back to the door. “Whose table is she at?” I peek out.

  “Cinda’s,” he says.

  Just then Cinda slams in, almost creaming my face.

  “Sorry,” she says and starts checking her orders.

  “Did she order a drink?” I say to Cinda.

  She looks at me like I’m from another planet.

  “Miriam Dubois,” I remind her.

  “Oh, yeah. Clos Pégase. Ninety-three. Tom’s getting it.”

  “Give me your pad. I’m going to wait on her.”

  “You?” Her white face gleams even whiter in the kitchen fluorescents.

  “Have you been to Scranton, Cinda?”

  “Where?”

  “Scranton, P.A.” I think of all those puffy, stale faces.

  “Oh yeah, yeah. No. But I have relatives there.”

  Bingo.

  I take her pad, and I whip away before she can stop me, intercepting Tom with M.D.’s bottle of wine.

  “Clos Pégase?” I take the bottle out of his hands. “I’ll get this one.”

  He tries to get the bottle back, but I hide it behind my back.

  “Let me,” he whines.

  “I’ll have her autograph the tablecloth for you,” I say as I speed off.

  I weave my way bayside, imagining myself as plush, stretching into water. She’s sitting with her back to the restaurant, staring over the bay, dressed in a pair of jeans that have seen better days and a sweater that clings to her thin frame. She’s had her hair cut quite short, though not as short as mine.

  I step beside her table and present the bottle. “Ninety-three,” I say, thinking the ninety-two would have been better. I bite my tongue.

  She nods and looks back to the bay as I open the bottle. I learned wine opening with a flourish when I was with Jeremy. Remembering old Arf, Arf makes me smile.

  Now she’s watching me. I pour her a taste. Wait. She nods for more.

  “Are you ready to order?” I say, putting on my best waitress act.

  “What happened to the other waitress?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “Did you see how white she was?”

  She hesitates. “Yes .”

  “She ate the sushi a little earlier. They’re pumping her stomach out back. So I’d stay clear of the sushi tonight.” I smile.

  Her eyes, reflecting the moon off the bay, look to be a greenish-violet, but with a depth, like I’m looking down through water. They search my face. I return her gaze, allowing mine to come clear.

  “Really?” she asks.

  “About the sushi or about the waitress?”

  She smiles a little then, but looks away. “Give me a few minutes,” she says. “To order, I mean.”

  I trip over a chair as I leave. Josh and Tom have been watching my every move from Josh’s private lectern near the entrance. I refuse to notice them and walk back to the kitchen. They follow, pumping me for information.

  “I stuck my foot in my mouth,” I say.

  “What else is new?” Josh says. “What’s she like?”

  “You’d hate her. Very bossy. Bad attitude.”

  Tom looks up at the ceiling and leaves. Josh eyes me. “You’re in love,” he says.

  I smile and shrug. “Silly of me,” I say. “Tragic.”

  “Be careful.” Josh goes back to his post.

  After a bit, I return to her table.

  “Do you do everything here?” she asks.

  “Pardon?”

  “Waitress. Wine steward.”

  “Good help is so hard,” I say. “Have you made a decision?”

  “What do you recommend?” she says.

  I smile. How perfect. And she’s so lucky to have me, the one who loves to make decisions for everyone. “Not the filet mignon. Larry, our schizo chef, has already thrown it on the floor in disgust twice today.”

  She laughs. “Are you a waitress or the entertainment?”

  “I’m the manager. I used to be a waitre
ss, but I scared too many people away. So they promoted me.”

  She turns to face me, her eyes locked on. “Is there anything that hasn’t been on the floor yet?”

  Me, I’m thinking, which might not be entirely true.

  “The salmon in béarnaise. The asparagus is unbelievable today.”

  “What about the quail?”

  “They came in yesterday,” I say. “Too gamy. A little thin in the leg.”

  She smiles. “I’ll take the quail.”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s your tastebuds.” I turn to leave.

  “By the way,” she says, “I love your boots.”

  “Thanks.” I flash her my best charming look.

  But as I turn away, I hear two voices behind me that seem familiar. I look at the table beside Miriam’s, the one that Josh said held “the dangers.”

  I hear the woman say, “Perfect.”

  The man says, “It looks fine.”

  I see them and freeze, remembering where I heard those voices before. At Ben’s. The “kidnap” couple. The “into gadgets and contraptions” couple. The “why don’t you keep her so we can screw her once a week?” couple.

  The woman looks up at me. It’s too late. She recognizes me. So does her husband.

  Josh is so right. The dangers are way too close.

  I whirl back. Who knows what my face looks like, but I feel my dress being stripped away. I feel the slaps, the punch in the stomach. The berserks swarm me like flies.

  And Miriam’s watching. In that moment, I have a sense that the space between us has disappeared.

  “You okay?” She strains to look behind me, checking out the nice couple.

  One to five. Then back again. “Just my personality disorder thing,” I say, trying to regain my smile. It’s a sad attempt.

  She sips her wine, keeping those violet eyes on me, now having taken on a sheen.

  I spin back to the couple with whom I’ve shared so much intimacy. “I wouldn’t touch that veal,” I say. “We smuggled it out of the UK.” I widen my eyes. “Mad cow.” I stalk off.

  In the kitchen, I catch Tom and suggest that he spill some wine on my favorite couple. He says he’ll see what he can do. Then I hover over Larry. I prepare Miriam’s plate myself, returning to her table with the unsatisfactory quail. I notice with joy in my heart that the dangers have vacated the premises. I’ll have to do something very nice for Tom.

  I set her plate in front of her and pour her some more wine. She looks up at me. “Do you have a minute? Can you sit with me?”

  Her eyes catch mine again. I feel like I’m under some spell. I take a chair next to hers.

  “I’m tired tonight,” she says. “Long day.” Then she cuts a bite of quail. “This is delicious. Try some.”

  I lean forward, our eyes meeting again. I think I might slide off my chair. “Gamy,” I say. “I don’t usually eat the small murdered animals. Only the big murdered ones.”

  “Do you ever stop with the jokes?”

  I smile. “I’m better behaved when I’m not working.”

  She retrieves a wineglass from the table beside her, setting it down in front of me. She pours a little.

  “Is this allowed?” she asks.

  “Well, I’m the boss. I get to make the rules.”

  We’re both quiet, looking over the bay.

  “Is it hard to be so famous?” I say. God, her eyes are going to kill me.

  “Yes. But there are benefits. I wouldn’t have you for a waitress otherwise. Am I right?”

  I think I blush. I’m searching for something more to say when Tom arrives, telling me Larry’s having a fit in back.

  “Sorry,” I say, and leave.

  Then we have a picky guy who doesn’t like the Margaux he ordered and wants us to open several for him to taste. Then one of the waiters really does get sick and we have to shift around, pulling Tom off the wine, with me taking his place. By the time I get free, she’s gone.

  Josh hands me her ticket. On it she’s written: “You were right. Quail was gamy. See you sometime.”

  I see Violet walking through Central Park, the wind catching her dress. She brushes her hair back from her face and watches the wind sway the branches of the lindens.

  This is how it should be. That the two of us are here, free. That I can watch her walking, turning from the wind, pulling back her hair. Simple movements empty of moment, but filling the eye.

  I wonder if in death, this is what we see, all these motions flagged in air, denied, now made into dream.

  Tonight, cool air drains from Rivertown down to the water. The river whispers so that I lean forward, listening. It is winter, but spring is near. I can tell because of the hush and how the trees have gone still.

  Even the dead have fallen quiet for a time, as though holding their breath, waiting for the flush of new growth and the sudden surge of the river.

  I lie back, dreaming of Violet.

  At home later, I sit and stare at nothing. I throw Miriam’s CDs in the trash. Then I write a letter to Burt, saying that I have to leave because of an illness in my family. So long. Bye-bye.

  I tear it up. But I never go to bed. I take my Uzi and sit in front of my one view of the street, staring until the sun comes up, wondering what worse thing can happen to me.

  The next few days, I slide downhill steady and strong. By the time Monday rolls around, my day off, I bring home a bottle of Southern Comfort, my old friend, and make a day of it. I dress as Becker, drunk as a skunk, and stumble around the campus whistling at girls, passing out for awhile in the middle of a shrub.

  It’s a low point.

  Two days later, I find Tom up in my apartment after I get back from jogging. I’d forgotten he had a key to the place, and I pull my Walther on him, scaring us both.

  “What the hell are you doing in here?” I say. But I notice that he’s holding the picture of Mama and me. Tom looks me straight in the eye. He searches my face, then turns and places the picture back on top of the dresser.

  “Who is this?” he asks.

  “A friend.”

  “Is this you?” he says, pointing to the little girl with Mama.

  Now I see that a copy of the second edition of my book is lying on the kitchen table. Beneath it is that damned Globe article with the faked-up picture of me.

  He watches me. “You’re her, aren’t you?” he says. “You’re Clarisse Broder. You’re not dead.”

  “Don’t ask me that, Tom.” I look away.

  He twists his mouth around. “So were you a prostitute? Is that why you’re running? Are the police after you?”

  Standing with someone who knows who I am brings it all back to me. I feel myself going white and starting to shake. “God, no. The police aren’t after me. I’m their star witness. I saw a murder. But I can’t remember anything, so I’m not such a great witness, am I?”

  “But you’re Clarisse. And Beth. And Terri. You lied to me. To all of us.”

  “Tom, I didn’t lie to you and your family because I thought it was a joke. I had to become Becca because my pimp is after me. He doesn’t play nice, which is why you have to forget about this.”

  I step closer to him. I want him to sense me as something living, easily damaged. “You haven’t said anything to anyone, have you?”

  He shakes his head no. “But the lie, Becca. Everybody thinks you died on a bridge. And other girls jumped off. God, you’re not Becca at all. It’s freaking me out.” He turns away.

  “Tom,” I take his arm. He won’t look at me. I pull up my T-shirt and stand in front of him.

  “Look, Tom.” He keeps his eyes away from me.

  “No. Here. Look at these. They’re whip marks, Tom. Listen to me.” I grab his arm. “You know this scar, Tom. I was stabbed.” I wait while he stares at my side.

  “I could tell you stories that would make you sick to death, Tom. I was a runaway. The guy, Ben, got his hands on me. It’s ugly. I had to jump off that bridge. I was hoping to die, but I didn’t.�
��

  I wait for all this to sink in. “You can’t tell anyone, Tom.” I let my hand slide down his arm. “He’ll come and he’ll find me, and he won’t kill me. He’ll take me back for more of the same. He’ll beat me. He’ll whip me. He’ll do things to me you can’t even imagine. Do you want that on your conscience?”