by Lisa Tucker
“We got issues here.” Zeb is standing in the doorway, scratching his chest. “Come on, man. This little shit ain’t the problem.”
Rick says okay, he’s coming, but he tells Jonathan not to move or he’ll have to break his neck. Jonathan doesn’t say anything until Rick is gone. Then he looks at me and whispers, “Are you all right?”
I nod. “Mama really called you?”
“No, I called you.” He waits a moment. “This morning. After I realized that hurting you over a song I wrote for you was more irony than I could tolerate.” He smiles a half smile. “But I’m flexible. If Fred prefers the word ‘stupid,’ I’ll go with that instead.”
I can’t smile back. “You have to get out of here.”
He glances in my eyes. “So do you.”
The conversation in the kitchen is getting loud. Rick still insists he doesn’t want to leave Kansas City, even though Zeb keeps telling him a parole officer is almost as bad as a cop. Rick’s voice is very tense though. Maybe he’s starting to realize how serious this is.
Willie is crying with frustration. No one is listening to him. The TV is all scratchy. I won’t let him off my lap. He’s bored, he’s hungry. He wants to go home.
I look at Jonathan. “Will you do me a big favor?”
“Of course.” He takes a step forward, shoves his hands in his pockets. His voice grows so soft. “But don’t ask me to leave you with him. I can’t do that.” He smiles weakly. “Porgy wouldn’t do it, and neither will I.”
I have to swallow hard to keep my voice from breaking up. “Bess didn’t have any kids, did she?”
He doesn’t answer, but I know the answer has to be no. If Bess had had a little boy, she wouldn’t have asked Porgy to keep her safe, but to save her little boy. And she would love Porgy so much for that, even if she never got away.
I wish I knew the story better. I don’t know if Bess gets away from Crown; I don’t even know if she lives.
I take a deep breath and call Rick from the kitchen.
“I think Zeb is right. We should leave.”
He stares at me. “What?”
“Boyd’s office is probably already looking for him. He may have left a log with your address.” I inhale. “And Jonathan’s agreed to take Willie to Irene’s, so we can get going.”
“No way,” Rick barks.
I release my hold on Willie, stand up, and go to Zeb. “Tell Rick he can’t take a little kid with him. He’s not thinking right.”
I’ve never been this bold with Zeb, but I tell myself he’s just another guy in a club. Make eye contact, like Fred says. Smile. Make them think every word that comes out of your mouth is just for them.
“It’s true, man,” Zeb says to Rick. “What do you care anyway? Shit, you’ve been telling me for weeks how great it was to get her alone in Omaha.”
I want to scream, but I can’t even flinch; Zeb is looking at me. And grinning. He sticks his thick tongue out, slowly licks his top lip. When he finally turns back to Rick, I glance at Jonathan. His face is expressionless, but I’ve spent a year on stage with him, I can see how upset he is. But he can read my face too, pleading with him to go along. Rick has a gun; Zeb does too. There’s no other choice.
Even Willie seems to understand. He’s run over to Jonathan; he’s patting the hole in the knee of Jonathan’s jeans.
“Fuck it,” Rick says, and grabs my arm. “Let’s go.”
I look at Jonathan, nod a little. He bends down to pick up Willie. He does it awkwardly, tentatively, but once he has him in his arms, he holds him close, pats his back the way he’s seen me do a hundred times.
Willie seems confused but not upset. He’s waving bye. As Rick pulls me out the door, Jonathan glances in my eyes and mouths the word “cops.” I don’t want to scare him but I can’t resist mouthing back “hurry.”
sixteen
I don’t have Willie. My mother is a drunk. I’m sitting in a car with Rick and his friend, going God knows where. All of the talk is ugly and meaningless. Whenever I catch a glimpse of people in other cars, I feel an ache of envy for what I imagine they’re saying and doing and most of all, where they’re going: the mall, a movie, over to friends.
This is the way my life used to be. That I’ve ended up here again is frightening, but what really stuns me is how sure I used to be that there was no alternative. Other people could have normal lives, but not me. All I could have was Rick.
We’re in Rick’s Nissan, but Rick asked Zeb to drive. There are only two doors; I’m sandwiched in the back between Rick and Willie’s car seat—there’s no way I can escape. But of course I will escape, and soon. Now that I don’t have Willie, it will be much easier. My arms are killing me from lugging him through those woods. My mind is exhausted from worrying about him.
Before we left, Zeb had the bright idea of shooting out both tires on the right side of Jonathan’s van. I’m sure Jonathan will still get Willie out of there: the dirt road is all downhill, and he’s very resourceful when it comes to moving the van. But hurrying is out of the question now. By the time he gets to the cops, we’ll be miles and miles away.
Rick is holding my hand so tightly my fingers ache. He’s already whispered this is all my fault. If only I’d done what he told me to do, we’d be sitting with our kid right now.
Even Omaha is my fault, he says, when Zeb gets out to make a phone call. Yes, he knows he hurt me—and he’s been punished enough, he still has headaches from his car accident—but he couldn’t help it.
“I was in prison, Patty. It had been three years.” He looks at me. “I tried banging other girls, but it didn’t change it. It had to be you. You’re my wife.”
His voice is quiet; his big brown eyes have gone soft like he’s just told me the most romantic thing in the world. I can’t take any more of this. I say I’m tired and close my eyes.
I hear Zeb get back in the car, but I don’t open my eyes. I’m telling myself over and over that I don’t belong here. Even if I can’t get away physically, my mind can take me somewhere else. I can imagine the future. I can dream up a different life.
At first, it’s hard. All I can see is Boyd’s hand on Rick’s shoulder as he walked to his death; all I can hear are recriminations of what a fool I was to think that Rick could have really straightened up. But then I force myself to concentrate on the last song I heard. It was on the way home from Jonathan’s last night. I had the jazz station playing. It was one of my favorites, Betty Carter singing “Lover Man.”
I focus on the song until the daydream begins. After a while, it’s so clear I forget where I am, I don’t even feel the pressure of Rick’s fingers. It’s winter, my favorite season because everything seems so much cleaner and brighter in the cold. I love to walk outside, follow the steam of my breath. But I’m not outside now. I’m in an apartment. I know it’s at the Balconies, but it’s not Jonathan’s place or Harry’s, it’s mine. Mine and Willie’s. His toys are strewn all over the floor. It’s dark now though, and very late; the gig is already over. Irene has left; Willie is asleep in the bedroom. The Betty Carter song is playing softly in the living room. I see Jonathan’s stereo on the floor. He keeps it at my apartment, so we can do just what we’re doing now: sitting on my couch, listening to this great music.
When we start touching each other, we’re so in sync with the music that everything we do is part of it: our rhythm is the same, we play off the melody with our kisses. It’s like a solo except it’s two people instead of one. Two people playing a riff that fits perfectly with the song and is still absolutely their own, and so full of feeling it leaves them both breathless and in awe.
The magic comes from listening, like Jonathan always says. The two of us listen to the music and each other, and when it’s over, we listen to the silence. We sit in the silence for a long time, knowing there’s nothing to be afraid of anymore.
After he kisses me goodbye, I go into the bedroom and snuggle up to Willie. Sometimes he cries out in his sleep, but tonight he doesn
’t. In the light from the winter sky, his face looks as sweet and peaceful as the baby he still is.
I worry about him a lot, but tonight I tell myself he’s going to be fine. At least he’s growing up surrounded by music, surrounded by people who believe that making something beautiful is what gives meaning to life. And I know he’ll never have to feel that he was an accident. Even though he doesn’t understand it yet, I’ve already started telling him the truth: that he was pure gift.
Of course if I’m lucky, he’ll never realize how true that really is. He won’t remember his father and especially, he won’t remember this day. He’ll never have to know what a miracle it is that anything good could come of the mess that was me and Rick.
It’s almost dark, and we haven’t even made it out of North Kansas City. We’ve spent the afternoon in an abandoned warehouse down by the river. There’s one window with metal blinds; I’ve sat slumped in a corner, watching as a streak of sun moved across the dirty floor and up the gray wall and onto the ceiling before it finally disappeared.
The room seems so quiet now. All afternoon, it was packed with the sweaty bodies of Rick’s friends, dealing with this crisis. Everybody is gone now except Rick and Zeb. They’re dividing up a wad of cash. Rick hasn’t told me where we’re going, but he did say he has enough money to go anywhere he wants.
I’ve already tried telling him I’m starving, but he ignored me. Of course he knows I could easily escape at a restaurant. It doesn’t matter though. Wherever we go he’ll have to deal with traffic lights, other cars, pedestrians. All he has to do is stop once and I can make a run for it.
But first, I have to get him away from Zeb. It should be simple enough. One of the other guys left Zeb’s car in the parking lot, and everybody’s expecting him soon—I heard a couple of them joke that he’d better show up at the bar quick, they want their damn money. He seems to be in no hurry to leave though. We’re sitting at a small wooden table in the corner; he has his enormous feet propped up on the table, next to a rifle, and he’s taking swigs from a bottle of gin. And talking. Every time Rick says we’d better get going, Zeb makes another comment about some business he’s planning or some woman he wants or how terrible it was that he had to spend three years in prison.
Rick has had a few drinks from the bottle too, but it hasn’t relaxed him. He’s holding my hand tightly, and all his comments are curt, detached.
When Rick finally says we have to take off, Zeb drops his feet to the floor, sits up straight in his chair, and tells Rick there’s one more thing they need to discuss.
He pauses for a moment, and then lowers his voice. “I know why you did your PO, man.”
“Oh yeah?” Rick laughs harshly. “And why’s that?”
Zeb doesn’t answer; he just folds his thick hands on the table. His knuckles look gnarled and ugly, like they’ve been broken and healed wrong.
“She’s fucking you up,” he finally says, cracking those ugly knuckles. “I think you better get rid of her.”
I can barely breathe, but Rick sounds more surprised than angry. “That’s not your concern.”
“Come on, man, you wanna end up back in Boonville? I guarantee this bitch is gonna put you there if you don’t—”
Rick snaps, “I’m not in the mood to listen to this shit.”
“You gotta listen—” Zeb begins, but Rick is already standing up. He pulls me up too, and we’re halfway to the door when Zeb repeats, “You gotta listen, man.”
His voice sounds menacing, but it’s the other noise that makes Rick turn around. It’s a metallic click, the cocking of a gun.
“Why don’t you sit back down?” Zeb says, and smiles. He’s holding the rifle, pointed right at my chest. He waits until we’re back at the table before he nods at Rick’s jacket pocket. “Give me yours.”
Rick sits very still for a minute before he slides the gun across the table. Zeb picks it up, sets it on the floor. The rifle barrel is resting on his knees but his hand is still on the trigger.
“If you kill her,” Rick says slowly, “I swear to God, I’ll cut out your heart.”
“I’m not gonna kill her.” Zeb takes a long swig from the bottle. “But she’s caused enough trouble. We’re gonna let her go and then get the hell out of here.”
My palm is wet but I’m not sure if I’m sweating or Rick is. But he laughs. “This has to be a joke.”
“You can’t keep this little bitch with you anymore. It’s too dangerous.”
“Don’t push me, asshole,” Rick says. “I’m warning you—”
Zeb slams his fist on the table so hard the gin bottle turns over. I watch the stream form, spill on the floor, as Zeb says softly, “Shut up, man. This is for your own good.”
I bite my bottom lip, watch as Zeb sticks the barrel in Rick’s face and tells him to give me the car keys and let go of my hand. Now. Rick doesn’t move for what feels like forever. He turns around to face me as he holds out the keys, watches me put them in my pocket. His mouth is flat, but his eyes look stunned.
“Go ahead,” Zeb says, looking at me, smiling a mean smile. “I don’t give a shit who you tell. We’ll be long gone.”
I stand up, but I don’t move. “Do it,” he says. “Get the hell out of here.”
It sounds like he means it, but there’s another note in his voice that doesn’t fit. I turn around very slowly. He can’t really be letting me go, but why hasn’t he shot me already? What does he want?
I keep listening. I hear Zeb breathing loudly through his mouth. Breathing and waiting. Waiting to see if… what?
All of a sudden, I get it. I run to Rick, fall on my knees, and throw my arms around his legs. The crying is genuine though; I’m so afraid. “I can’t leave,” I sob. “I don’t want to live without you.”
Rick’s hand on my hair is soft, tentative. “Patty,” he whispers. “Jesus.”
Zeb sits quietly for a moment before he smiles and lowers the rifle. Rick blinks with surprise.
“It was a test,” Zeb says, setting the rifle on the floor. He shrugs. “She passed.”
“What the hell?”
“I had to do it, man. She could rat us out and we’d all be back in jail.”
“You motherfucker.”
“Don’t be pissed. Like I said, it was for your own good. It turns out the bitch does love you. You’re safe and so are we.”
Rick has pulled me up on his lap, but I’m not crying anymore; I feel like I’m in shock. If I’d taken one more step, Zeb might have killed me.
At first I think Rick is in shock too, but then I realize he’s just more furious than I’ve ever seen him. Even ten minutes later, when Zeb is smoking a cigar, talking about some friend of theirs, Rick hasn’t said one word. Zeb doesn’t seem to notice. I know he can’t see Rick’s eye tic drumming a frantic beat when Rick smiles and very casually asks if he can have his gun back before we go.
As he pushes me off his lap, I know what’s going to happen, but Zeb still has no idea. He’s wearing the same overconfident grin when he hands Rick’s gun to him.
It flashes through my mind that it was true what Gerald Boyd said: Rick has changed. He always had a terrible temper, but Zeb is one of his oldest friends.
I hate Zeb, but I still don’t want Rick to do this. It’s too crazy, too dangerous. What if Zeb starts shooting too?
I put my hand on his arm and tell him I really want to leave now. My voice is begging him, but he pushes me off. He pushes me so hard I fall, and he doesn’t even glance over to see if I’m okay. This has nothing to do with me.
The sound is so much worse than I imagined. Each shot slams into my ears like a fist. In between, I hear screaming and cursing, but I can’t tell what’s happening; the lightbulb went out with Rick’s first bullet. I’m crawling along the floor, trying to find the way out. I know Zeb is shooting too. One of the rifle blasts was so close it knocked me over.
When Rick finally yells that we have to get out of here, I’m stumbling along the opposite wall, tryin
g to feel my way to the door. He doesn’t have to tell me he succeeded. The burning smell is mixed with the nauseating odor of blood. The air itself feels heavy with smoke and death.
He pulls me by the arm as we go down the hall and through the door. The parking lot is deserted, but it’s not dark; the lights have come on. We’ve made it to the Nissan. Rick seems to be in no hurry to get in. He’s breathing hard, stretching his fingers like they hurt. I can see the sweat glistening on his face.
He has all the money. It’s shoved into his jacket pocket, but he takes it out, checks that he didn’t drop any on the way. I’m not surprised that he took it off Zeb’s dead body; I’m not even surprised that he thought to do it. Nothing he does surprises me now.
After a minute, he puts his arms around my shoulders, leans down and kisses my forehead. I want to pull away, but I can’t. I’m afraid I’ll fall if he lets go.
“I’m cold,” I mumble.
He cups my cheeks in his warm hands, says we should get into the car. I still have the keys. I’m swaying as I lean against the bumper, reach into my pocket. My jeans feel damp, but I still don’t understand. It’s Rick who sees it. There’s blood streaked across the gold lion-head key ring.
He gasps a curse and opens the door, helps me into the passenger seat. He kneels down, finds the hole in my jeans. It’s to the left, below my waist, and small, but when he unzips my jeans and pulls them open, my whole side is covered with blood.
It doesn’t even hurt. It seems as unreal as the rest of this.
“What a difference a day made,” I whisper. It’s the refrain of a jazz song that just came into my mind, and it seems so weirdly appropriate, I almost laugh.
Rick runs around to the driver’s seat, starts the engine. He hands me a pile of napkins and tells me to hold them on the wound. I try, but I’m shaking so hard I can’t keep my hand still.
“I’m really cold.”
He turns the heater to max, adjusts all the vents so they’re facing me. After a moment, he leans down and says he wants to examine it. Maybe he can tell how bad it is now that I’ve sopped up some of the blood.
