I walked in one store. Del followed. I just browsed the shelves. The sign outside had advertised “Local artisans and craftspeople,” and the store had quirky little things the way those kinds of places do: big sculptures of comical-looking cowboys made out of recycled bike parts, closeup photographs of rusted gas pumps and bramble bush, hand-dipped soy candles, gauzy-looking scarves that reminded me about the woman at the gallery the night before. I browsed through it all, taking my time, knowing that Del was right up on me, almost feeling his breath on my back.
One shelf had a bowl full of sock-monkey keychains. A little cardboard sign in front of the bowl said, “Handcrafted. $30."
"Excuse me,” I called over to the man behind the counter. He'd been polishing something and held a red rag in his hand. “Is this the price of the bowl or of the monkeys?"
"Oh,” he said, surprised, as if he'd never imagined someone might misunderstand that. “The monkeys,” he said, then corrected himself: "Each monkey,” he said. “The bowl's not for sale at all."
I turned to Del.
"Why don't you get me one of these?” I asked him, holding up a little monkey.
I tried to say it casual-like, but it was a challenge. I felt like both of us could hear it in my voice. Even the man behind the register heard it, I imagine, even though he'd made a show of going back to his polishing.
"What would you want with a thing like that?” Del said.
"Sometimes a girl likes a present. It makes her feel special.” I dangled the sock monkey on my finger in front of him, and Del watched it sway, like he was mesmerized or suspicious. “Or is the romance gone here?"
"It's kind of pricey for a keychain."
I leaned in close for just a second. “Why don't you just slip it in your pocket, then?” I whispered.
Del cut his eyes toward the man behind the counter, and then turned back to me. His look said hush. “I told you last night was the last time,” he said, a low growl.
I just swayed that monkey a little more.
A woman in a green dress jingled through the door then and went up to the counter. “You were holding something for me,” she said, and the man put down his polish rag, and they started talking.
You could tell that Delwood was relieved not to have a witness anymore. “C'mon, Louise,” he said. “Be serious."
But me? For better or worse, I just upped the ante.
"Suppose I said to you that this monkey"—I jerked my finger so that his little monkey body bounced a little—"this monkey represents love to me."
"Love?” he said.
"The potential for love,” I clarified. “The possibility of it."
"How's that?"
"Well, suppose I told you that my daddy, the last time I saw him, me only six years old, he comes into my bedroom to tuck me in and he gives me a little sock-puppet monkey, bigger than this one, but looking pretty much the same” (because the truth is they all do) “and he says to me, ‘Hon, Daddy's going away for a while, but while I'm gone, this little monkey is gonna take care of you, and any time you find yourself thinking of me or wondering about me, I want you to hug this monkey close to you, and I'll be there with you. Wherever I am, I'll be here with you.’ And he touched his heart."
I wasn't talking loud, but the man behind the counter and the customer had grown quiet, listening to me now even as they pretended not to. Del wasn't sweating, not really, but with all the attention—two witnesses to our argument now—he looked like he was or was just about to break out into one.
"And my mom was behind him, leaned against the door watching us,” I said. “Anyone probably could have seen from her face that he wasn't coming back and that it was her fault and she felt guilty, but I was too young to know that then. And I dragged that monkey around with me every day and slept with it every night and hugged it close. And finally my mom threw it away, which told me the truth. ‘Men let you down,’ she told me when I cried about it, because she'd just broken up with her latest boyfriend and had her own heart broken, I guess. ‘Men let you down,’ she told me. ‘Don't you ever fool yourself into forgetting that.’ And I stopped crying. But still, whatever my mama told me and whether my daddy came back or not, I believed—I knew—that there had been love there, there in that moment, in that memory, you know?"
Del looked over at the wall, away from the shopkeeper and his customer, and stared at this sculpture of a cowboy on a bucking bronco—an iron silhouette. The tilt of his head and the nervous look in his eyes reminded me of the first night we'd met, at the 7-Eleven, when he'd called me “ma'am” and I'd told him my age. Seemed like here was another conversation where he was playing catch-up, but this time he seemed fearful for different reasons.
"And maybe,” I said, helping him along, “just maybe if you bought this for me, I'd know you really loved me, for always and truly. Now,” I said, “would that get it through your thick skull?"
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an embarrassed look on the storekeeper's face—embarrassed for Del and maybe a little embarrassed for me, too. His customer, the woman in green, cleared her throat, and the shopkeeper said, “Yes, ma'am, I'll get that for you."
Del shifted his lower jaw to the side—another indication, I'd learned, that his mind was working on something, weighing things. He really was sweating now, and still staring at that bucking-bronco sculpture like he felt some kinship with the cowboy on top, like staring at it might give him an answer somehow.
"What was your monkey's name?” he asked me.
I gave out a long sigh, with an extra dose of irritation in it. He was missing the whole point, just like always. “I don't know,” I told him. I sighed again. “Murphy,” I said.
His look changed then, just a little crease of the forehead, a little raise of the eyebrow. “Murphy the monkey?” he said. He wasn't looking at the sculpture now, wasn't looking afraid anymore but something else entirely. “Well, Louise,” he began. “I don't really think that this monkey represents the love we share, and the truth is that thirty dollars seems like quite a bit for—"
But I didn't hear the rest of it. I just turned and walked off, out the door, slamming it behind me the way I'd slammed the Nova's door that morning and stomping off fast back toward the car.
I can't say whether I wanted him to call for me to come back or rush out after me, something dramatic like that, but if I did, I was indeed fooling myself, just like Mama had warned. That wasn't Delwood. When I got in the car, I saw him through the window, slowly coming back—those sad little footsteps behind me, scuff scuff scuff. No hurry at all, like he knew I'd be waiting.
* * * *
We rode on in silence after that—a heavy silence, you know what I mean. More ghost towns where people used to have hopes and dreams and now there was nothing but a little bit of rubble and a long stretch of empty land. I wasn't even angry now, just deflated, disappointed.
"Men will do that to you,” my mama told me another time. “After a while you feel like it's not even worth trying.” I'd known what she meant, theoretically. Now I knew in a different way.
Soon the two-lane widened, and the strip malls started up and fast-food restaurants—civilization. I saw a Wendy's and asked if it was okay to stop.
"I'll pick from the dollar menu,” I said, sarcastic-like.
Del didn't say anything, just pulled through the drive-thru and ordered what I wanted. He didn't get anything for himself. I think it was just out of spite.
* * * *
Toward evening, we stopped at a motel in Kingman, Arizona, one of those cheap ones that have been there since Route 66 was an interesting road and not just a tourist novelty—the ones that now looked like they'd be rented for the hour by people who didn't much care what the accommodations were like.
Del checked us in, pulled the Nova around to the stairwell closest to our room.
"Get your kicks,” I said.
"Kicks?” he said, baffled.
"Route 66,” I said, pointing to a sign. “Guess we couldn't
afford the Holiday Inn either, huh?"
He stared straight ahead, drummed his fingers light against the steering wheel. He curled up his bottom lip a little and chewed on his beard.
"You know those court shows you watch on TV?” Del said finally. “And how you tell me some of those people are so stupid? You listen to their stories and you laugh and you tell me, ‘That's where they went wrong,’ or ‘They should've known better than that.’ “
"Do you mean,” I said, “something like a man who robs a convenience store and then calls up the clerk he's held at gunpoint and asks her out for a date?” I felt bad about it as soon as I said it. Part of why I fell in love with him and now I was complaining about it.
"There were extenuating circumstances in that instance,” he said, and this warning sound had crept into his tone, one that I hadn't heard before. “I'm just saying that we need to be fairly circumspect now about whatever we do. Any misstep might put us in front of a real judge, and it won't be a laughing matter, I can assure you.” He turned to face me. “Louise,” he said, again that way he does. “I love you, Louise, but sometimes . . . Well, little girl, sometimes you just don't seem to be thinking ahead."
It was the little girl that got me, or maybe the extenuating or the circumspect, or maybe just him implying that I was being stupid, or maybe all of it, the whole day.
"Del,” I said through clenched teeth, putting a little emphasis on his name, too. “I've always said that I love you. But sometimes, Del, sometimes, I could just kill you."
He nodded. “Well,” he said, slow and even as always, but still with that edge of warning to it, “I guess you'd go to jail for that too.” He handed the room key across to where I sat. “You go on in. I got a couple of things to rearrange in the trunk."
"Fine,” I said, toughening the word up so he could hear how I felt. He stared at me for a second, then went back to get our bags. In the rearview, I watched the lid of the trunk lift up, but still I just sat there.
I don't know how to describe what I was feeling. Anger? Sadness? I don't know what was running through my head, either. What to do next, I guess. Whether to go up to the room and carry on like we'd planned, like he seemed to expect I'd do, or to step out of all this, literally just step out of the car and start walking in another direction.
But then I knew if I really did leave, he'd come after me. Not dramatic, not begging, but I knew he wouldn't let me go. Can't live without you, that's what he'd said, and like Mama said, sometimes that kind of love could turn ugly fast. I'd seen it before.
"You just gonna sit there?” Del called out, just a voice behind the trunk lid. Still rearranging, I guess.
"No. I'm going up,” I called back, calling to the reflection of the trunk lid, I realized. Then, just before I stepped out of the car, I opened up the glove compartment and slipped the gun into my purse.
* * * *
In the motel room, I locked the door to the bathroom, set down my purse, and then turned the water on real hot before climbing in. I stood there in the steam and rubbed that little-bitty bar of soap over me, washing like I had layers of dust from those two-lane roads and that truck we'd followed for so long.
I thought about what would happen after I got out. “Sometimes people are just too far apart in their wants,” I could say. “I do love you, Del, but sometimes people just need to move on.” It was just a matter of saying it. It would be easy to do, I knew. With or without the gun. But the gun showed I was serious. The gun was protection. “I'm not taking all the money, Del,” I might say. “That's not what's going on here. That's not the point.” As if he had ever got the point.
I took both towels when I got out of the shower. The steam swirled around me while I stood there toweling myself off—one towel wrapped around me and one towel for my hair, leaving him none.
Would he try to talk me out of it? Would he try to take the gun away? Would I have to tie him up and leave him there the way he'd left that gallery owner back in Taos? Just thinking about it left me sad.
He was sitting there when I came out of the bathroom, sitting on the one chair in the room, staring at the blank television. I hadn't taken the gun out, just held my purse in my hand, feeling the weight of it in there. Thinking that I might have to use it, I suddenly wished I'd gotten dressed first. I mean, picture it: me wrapped in two towels and holding a gun? Hardly a smooth getaway.
Del's face was . . . well, pensive was the word that came to mind. He taught me that word, I thought, even then. I wouldn't have known it without him. And that kept me from saying immediately what I needed to say. So I just stood there, feeling little bits of water still dripping out of my hair and onto my shoulders and then down my back.
"You never talked much about your daddy,” he said, breaking the silence. “He really leave you when you were six?"
"Yes,” I said, and I realized then that I felt like I was owed something for that.
Del nodded, stared at the blank television. I looked there too, at the gray curve of the screen. I could see his face there, reflected toward me, kind of distorted, distant.
"He really give you a sock monkey when he left?"
I thought about that, too, but I was thinking now about what I owed Del.
"No,” I told him, and I could hear the steel in my own voice. “But what my mama said, she did say that."
I stared hard at the dusty TV screen, at his reflection there. I saw then that his fists were clenched, and that he clenched them a little tighter at my answer, and I could feel myself tighten too. I knew then that he knew the pistol was gone. I didn't take my eyes off that reflection as I pulled up the strap of my pocketbook, just in case he stood up quick and rushed me. But he dropped his head down a little, and then I saw his profile in the reflection, which meant he'd turned to see me straight on.
"So you lied to me, then?” He was clenching his hand hard, so much that if I'd been closer, I might have backed away. But there was a bed between us. And the pocketbook was open in my hand.
"If that's what you want to take from it."
His eyes watched me hard. Those green eyes. First thing I'd really noticed about him up close.
"Do you believe your mama was right?"
"I don't know. Do you?"
Those eyes narrowed. Thinking again. And it struck me that I could just about list every little thing he did when he was pondering over something: how he sometimes stared hard at something or other times stared off into space with this faraway gaze, running his fingers through his hair or through the tip of his beard, shifting his jaw one way or the other. Usually left, I corrected myself. Always to the left. And sure enough, just as I thought it, he shifted his jaw just that way, setting it in place.
I almost laughed despite myself. Men always let you down, Mama had said, but Del had come through with his little jaw jut exactly like expected. At least you could count on him for that. And all of a sudden, I felt embarrassed for having taken that gun from the glove compartment, just wanted to run out in my towel and put it back.
"Do you want a surprise?” he asked, and I almost laughed again.
"It's a long drive back to Our Place."
"A new surprise."
"Sure,” I said.
"The story we told back at the trailer park, about me having a sister out in Victorville,” he said then. “I really do. Haven't talked to her in a while. We were estranged.” He stretched out the word. “But I told her I wanted to go straight—was going straight. She's in real estate. Got us a deal she worked out on a foreclosure. A little house. Said she'd let me do some work for her, at her company, now that I have a degree. It's all worked out. I just needed to get the downpayment on it, so I figured, well, one more job. One big one and that'd be it.” He tapped his hand on the side of the chair, like you would tap your fingers, but his whole hand because it was still clenched. I think it was the most words he'd ever said in one breath. “That's my surprise."
Part of me wanted to go over to him, but I didn't. Don't you ever fo
ol yourself into forgetting, I heard Mama saying. I stood right in the doorway, dripping all over the floor, all over myself.
"I stole that painting you wanted, too,” he said, as if he was embarrassed to admit it. “We can't hang it in the house, at least not the living room, not where anyone might see, but you can take it out and look at it sometimes, maybe, if you want. It's out in the trunk now if you want me to get it.” He gave a big sigh, the kind he might give late at night when he was done talking, as if he might just pretend to be asleep. But something else in his face this time, some kind of struggle, like he wanted to go quiet, but wanted to say something too. “But I was serious about that being the last one,” he said finally. “This is a new day and I want to do it right. So I paid for this."
He opened his fist then. The little sock monkey was in it. Crushed a little in his grip, but there it was.
"I knew that story wasn't true, about your daddy,” he said. “I knew it while you were telling it. But it being true or not, that wasn't the point, was it?"
I smiled and shook my head. No no no, that wasn't the point. And yes yes yes, too, of course.
* * * *
Needless to say, I didn't kill him. And I didn't take my half and hit the highway.
When we got in the car the next day, I almost didn't see the rust along the wheel well, and I closed the door so soft that I almost didn't hear that loose metal rolling around inside. While Delwood packed the trunk, I slipped that pistol into the glove compartment, just like it had been in the first place. I didn't touch it again.
As Delwood drove us along 66 and out of town, I rolled down the window and kicked up my heels a little, leaned over against him.
You might imagine that I was stuck on that $5000 painting in the trunk and that house ahead, and partly I was, but again you'd be missing the point. It was the sock monkey that meant the most to me. Light as a trinket but with a different kind of weight to it. When I hung it from the rearview mirror, the rattle there died down almost to a whisper, and it all seemed like a smoother ride ahead for a while.
EQMM, March-April 2010 Page 24
