by Tom Larsen
“She’s supposed to be there. Could you look around?”
“I’m looking, but I ain’t seein’. Bitch musta stood you up.”
Okay, so it was Sunday
***
“Harry?”
“Lena?”
“Did you get a mailing address?”
“I couldn’t. I’ve, it’s been . . .”
“Okay Harry, listen, I’m coming up there. I want you to sit tight and wait for me. Can you do that?”
“Here?”
“It’s okay, I told everybody I want to get away to think things over.”
“I’m not, uh, settled in yet. The weather–”
“Tell me where you are, Harry.”
“Lena? Let’s go to Paris. Did you hear me?”
“We’ll talk about it. First, let me come up there.”
“It’s what you always wanted, baby. I’ve been thinking a lot about it.”
Lena feels suddenly woozy. “You don’t have a passport Harry. We’ll have to figure out a way to–”
“I have Gerry’s.”
“Gerry had a passport?”
“He wanted to go to Amsterdam. Bow out in a blur, you know? By the time the damn thing came he was too sick to go.”
“Alright, we’ll go to Paris. But I have to see you.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“Nothing’s happened,” Lena fights to control her voice. “I’m worried about you, that’s all. Tell me where you are and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Really Lena, I’m okay.”
Oh yeah, never better, in a rumpled heap at a Midas Mufflers pay phone with an unbroken view of the Albany incinerators.
“Please Harry. Hello?”
Click.
***
Leading news story, you couldn’t miss it. In a pink dress with a bow in her hair, cameras flashing and a phone number scrolling at the bottom of the screen. The first time he’d been too distracted by the photo insert of Stevie to catch the gist, little Lilly jerking tears from coast to coast. So sweet and sad the phone lines sizzled, money pouring in and a Mexican manhunt underway. And the close-up clincher:
“I miss you, daddy. Please come home.”
Then back to the news team for the details. Police keeping a lid on it but Stevie rumors flying around, a business deal gone bad, drugs and sex, then Lilly’s prognosis, donor matches and success rates, all of it added to the things he mustn’t think about, the ever-growing list of horrors. Harry watches without moving a muscle. There’s nothing to be done for Stevie or Lilly, nothing to be done for Frank either, or his daughter, if he has one.
Harry’s so unnerved he hasn’t watched television since, leaving him hours to drink and think, but not shave, shower or change out of his pajamas. Painfully thin now that he’s stopped eating, gaunt and hollow-eyed. No way can Lena see him like this, evil looking, now that he is evil, a mug shot mug if ever there was one.
He has to pull it together, but that won’t happen, not today with a new bottle to while away. And the irony isn’t lost on him. A week ago he would have given anything to see Lena. Now she wants to come and he’s scared stiff of what she’ll see in his eyes. The worst thing he could do, lock himself in and drink the night away.
Thinking crazy, get out of the country, Paris and no extradition, that killer Einhorn fled to France, lived like a prince for thirty years. Then it fades and it’s all he can do to inhale and exhale, sick to death of the drinking. Never been a lush but what else is there? Hates the stumbling around and the drapes drawn, trash all over, Jesus.
And it’s not over yet. They’ll be finding Frank soon, if they haven’t already. Definitely no television for a while, though he knows he’ll be glued to it, as if you can sit alone in a room and not watch television, or drink. He keeps the gun in the car so he won’t play with it.
***
“Hello, Carlos?”
“Lena! So wonderful to hear your voice! How are you?”
“Okay, I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
“Not at all. I’ve been hoping you’d call.”
“How are you, Carlos?”
“Up to my ears in lawyers, at the moment. You’ve heard about the American who disappeared?”
“Yes, it’s terrible, his poor little girl.”
“Yes, a tragedy, and bad for business if I may be so crass.”
“The poor man. Is Lieutenant Morales investigating the case?”
“Morales? Oh no, I’ve got my top people on this. Also the FBI sent a medical examiner, just in case.”
“Have they found out anything?”
“Of course, I’m not supposed to say,” Santos lowers his voice. “But yes, it seems there’s a gay angle involved. Possibly a tryst gone bad, if you follow me.”
“How tawdry!”
“Yes, and quite a PR problem when you factor in the daughter. A witch-hunt while she wastes away.”
“I never thought of that.”
“But enough of that. Tell me what you’ve been doing, Lena. I’ve been anxious for news of you. Are you holding up okay?”
“Right now I’m just trying to keep warm. I keep thinking about those balmy nights in Puerto Vallarta. It’s funny, I thought I’d never want to go back there.”
“Come see me, I insist! I’ve got a big house and everything you could ever need. Say the word and I’ll make the arrangements.”
“Right now?”
“Right this minute. Think of it Lena, something wild and spontaneous. Please believe me, my intentions are above reproach.”
“You are an angel, Carlos, but I couldn’t. Not yet.”
“In the spring, then. Promise me you’ll consider it. The village is lovely and you couldn’t find a better guide.”
“Oh Carlos I’d love to, in the spring, when things have died down. For both of us.”
“Fantastic! I’ll book a flight today! Why, I feel like a boy on the last day of school.”
“Someday I’ll repay you for all you’ve done for me.”
“I won’t lie to you. I live for that day.”
“What happens if you don’t find him, Carlos?”
“The American? Don’t worry. If he’s down here he’ll turn up.”
“I’ll let you go now. Say hello to Father Esteban for me.”
“Ah, the rascal! He talks of you endlessly. He’ll be delighted to hear my news.”
“Goodbye, Carlos.”
“Farewell, dear lady.”
***
“Lena?”
“Oh Harry, thank heavens!”
“What’s that clacking noise?”
“I’m shivering, Harry. It’s twenty degrees.”
“Have they found him? Stevie?”
“What? Harry, how could they find him?”
“Right, I keep forgetting.”
“Oh Jesus, please tell me where you are. Do you have someplace to sleep? You’re really scaring me.”
“Forget about me. You’ll be better off.”
“What are you saying? I want to help you. It’s okay, you’ll see. Just tell me.”
“It’s no good. I can’t think.”
“Then come home. We’ll work something out.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Where the fuck are you? Harry, please!”
“. . . lo?”
“Who’s this? Where’s Harry?”
“Dude you was talking to took off. Left the phone dangling.”
“Please, that man, what did he look like?”
“Dat man? He be all shaky and shit. You know, tore up.”
“Oh Jesus, oh, please tell me where you are.”
“Who, me?”
“I need to find that man.”
“I seen him cross the street to the Motel Six.”
“What city? What’s the address? It’s an emergency.”
“Life or death, yo?”
“Please, the Motel Six, where?”
“Route 62 and the interstate. Exit 8. Albany, New York.”
“Thank you, God bless you, oh thank God.”
“You’re welcome.”
***
Slick roads and Lena fishtails to the inside lane. An hour in and she has knots in her neck and arms. Almost wishes she hadn’t gotten an address so she wouldn’t have to do this. Now she has to, can’t just sit there while Harry goes down the drain. All night it takes her, so buzzed on caffeine she can’t think straight, thinks of nothing but Harry and all the miles between them. Every one adding to the pressure, her bladder bloated but she never could pee in a public bathroom, especially on the interstate, forget it. Thinking this is what real trouble feels like, the roof caving in, shit hitting the fan.
How could she not see it coming? Harry can’t be by himself, even in ideal conditions. He just doesn’t know how! And the warning signs, coming home to find him huddled in the bathtub. The falling down and that night he plowed through the cornfields, blowing the horn and howling like a loony. Signals everywhere she looks, especially after Gerry died. Keeping his accounts open, not for down the road, not in the beginning. As long as Gerry got mail the book wasn’t closed for Harry. Even those insurance policies, some months he had to scramble to meet the premiums. Most months, unless he worked overtime, which was hardly ever once he and Baldini started knocking heads. And wasn’t that a tipoff? Every guy Harry worked for, like he’s never wrong and they’re never right.
Husband on the rocks, wake up Lena! A thousand pysch shifts and she’s fucking clueless!
God!
Up the Thruway she sees signs for Albany. Why would Harry go there? Why would anybody go there? The mountains probably spooked him, what did Harry know from mountains? Just as likely he kept moving until he came to a city. Thank God it wasn’t Buffalo or whatever stupid cities they have up here.
She doesn’t want to think what she’ll find at the Motel Six. If she thinks about it she’ll scare herself and then she’ll have to pee. But just touching on the subject has her squirming. She turns off at a rest stop, pads the seat with toilet paper, straddles the bowl and dribbles a thimbleful.
She stops for cigarettes.
“Let me get a pack of Newport Lights.”
“Yes ma’am. That’s eight dollars even.”
“Forget it. Never mind.”
“Got these for $6.50.”
“Gimme.”
Just south of Exit 8 she sees a car pulled over, state cop, storm trooper hat, jodhpurs. Jesus, Harry wouldn’t stand a chance. The motel is right off the exit. A dozen cars ring the lot. She checks at the desk, Gerry Watts, room six.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me. Lena. Let me in, Harry. Please.”
“Who’s with you?”
“Nobody. Harry, it’s okay. Just look through the window. It’s cold out here, honey.”
She sees the drapes pull away and she fakes a smile. The drapes fall back, then hears a rattle of locks.
“Oh, Harry!”
Haggard and somehow smaller, and drunk, the room reeks of it. Trash everywhere, fast food, pizza boxes, empty cans and bottles.
“I’ve been sick.”
“Oh baby,” she takes him in her arms, skin and bones, three day facial hair growth, all bourbon and body odor. And Harry’s crying like a baby, then they’re both crying.
“Lena.”
“It’s alright now baby. I’m here, okay.”
Okay, maybe, but she’s never seen him like this, not even when Gerry died and that was bad. Harry didn’t leave the house for weeks. And she had help then, everybody coming to rally around. This is nothing like that, alone in Albany and sinking fast.
“Here Harry, sit down,” she pushes him toward the bed. “Just let me clear this,” shoves all the crap to the floor. “Sit.”
“How did . . . Wait, am I dreaming this?” he looks like he really doesn’t know.
“Let me get my bag. It’s in the car. Just sit until I get back.”
“Don’t leave me Lena.”
He’s still there when she returns. Ten years older, at least in a sweater she’s never seen before, something spilled down the front of it. She sets her things down, kneels by the bed and holds him, tapping his back like you can’t help doing.
“Harry, what happened in the mountains? What made you come here?”
“No questions. Not now.”
“You’re burning up. You should be in bed,” she grabs a blanket and tries to wrap it around him. “Oh, my poor baby.”
“Jesus, I’m tired,” he burrows into the pillow. “Turn the heat up, will you?”
“It’s turned up all the way. Harry, it’s sweltering in here.”
“Flu, or something.”
“Lie here and I’ll fix you some tea.”
“Tea? Yuck.”
Lena tucks him in and fills the coffee pot. By the time she figures out how to work it Harry’s snoring softly. Even his snoring is different, ragged and heavy with significance. She makes tea for herself and slides a cigarette from the pack. Six years since she gave it up, now a thousand in the last month. Funny how she always knew some Harry crisis would reel her back in.
“Look at you. What am I gonna do?”
Fix the room, for starters. Lena thinks more clearly in the neat and clean. For the next hour she sorts through Harry’s mess, a whole drawer set aside for dirty laundry, his socks rank and stiff, his shirts, some inside others for layers. What’s this? A scarf with more stains on it, shoes ruined, a belt? Since when does Harry wear a belt?
When it’s all straightened up she pulls a chair around and watches Harry sleep. More cigarettes while someone storms around in the room above. Thinking back to better days, when they lived on Morris Street, Harry still in the game. How he looked in those days! Cocky, her mother said, but it wasn’t that. You just knew Harry could get over and he knew you knew it. Not this Harry. This Harry looks all done in.
He’s still not awake when the sun comes up, and she let’s herself think all this sleep will help. Sober him up, give him strength, get him in the shower then make him eat something. She’s never seen him this skinny and Harry’s always been skinny.
Maybe she should wake him? What is she going to do?
Morning turns to afternoon. She fiddles with the remote, finds a movie, Holiday Inn with Cary Grant, oh no. Lena knows what she can stand and she could never stand that. Not Cary Grant and that great snowed-in cottage in the country with what’s her name? Oh Harry would know. They watched it not so long ago, during a snowstorm, the real deal right outside the window. The day she called in sick and they lay around watching old movies. Didn’t even dig the cars out, when the plows socked them in. Harry between jobs, their lives ahead of them.
She switches over to a television preacher.
***
“Harry? Can you hear me?”
He grinds his face into the mattress, one eye half-open, makes the connection then closes it again.
“What time is it?” he croaks.
“A little after 10 a.m.”
He’s rolling onto his side now, both eyes open, blinking like a man coming out of a coma.
“What day is it?”
“Monday. They’re saying there’ll be more snow.”
“I’m so thirsty,” he struggles with the blankets.
“Let me,” she heads for the bathroom. “I think your fever broke overnight.”
“Not water.”
“Well, then you’ll have to get dressed and go get something,” tough love, it’s all she’s got really. “And I wouldn’t go looking like that.”
“A beer. It can’t all be gone.”
“Yes, it can.”
“Christ,” Harry groans in disbelief. “Where–” he picks up her pack of Newport’s. “You’re smoking again?”
“Ain’t it grand?” Lena hands him a glass of w
ater.
Then more television preacher as he retches in the bathroom.
Leave him alone when he’s puking, best thing for him at this point. Purge the system then get him some breakfast. Harry’s always hungry after he’s been puking. Should switch motels too, no sense making people wonder. Maybe get him some clothes, this jacket, what a mess, and the pockets, Jesus, what’s with the wallet. What–
“Give me that,” Harry grabs it from her.
“Where did you get–”
“Some guy left it on the bar. I waited around but he never came back.”
“Get rid of it.”
“I was going to.”
“Who leaves their wallet on the bar?”
“Some salesman, he was drunk,” something flickers in Harry’s face.
“Harry?”
“I’ll get rid of it okay?” he grabs his pants.
“Aren’t you going to clean up a little?”
“I’ll just be a minute,” he throws on the jacket, slips on his shoes.
“Harry, wait!” but he’s out the door, then back for the keys and out again. Lena doesn’t try to stop him. Listens to tires crunching ice. Then he stops and fumbles with something in his lap, the car running and voices on the radio. Then he’s gone for a few minutes, then he’s back.
“You could have waited.”
“You were freaking me out, Lena.”
“Alright. Let’s just get out of here.”
“Right,” he moves around opening drawers.
“Don’t you want to shower first?”
“Right.” He drops everything and pulls at his clothes, the pants, oh man look at him. Like he lost the rock fight, like he just crawled through the desert. Skin and bones, scrapes and bruises. Then the shower is running, more thumping upstairs, Lena zaps the screen over to an old ER, mid-Clooney, guy gets his hand caught in a garbage disposal. Christ!
“Get me some underwear, would you hon?”
Good, he’s shaving, that will go a long way. Poor Harry. The weight she can see but how do you get smaller? And shaky, like the phone guy said. Maybe shaving is not such a good idea but he’s already at it. And it goes okay. He comes out looking semi-human, with the puny arms, pubic hair all scraggly and gray.
