True North

by Liora Blake

  I order a ham sandwich, lean against the wall, and wait. It isn’t a quick joint, the way fast-food places are, always taking at least twenty minutes—twice as long if the line gets stacked up. Barb and her husband, Dean, run the place with military precision, but it is just the two of them, so they only have so many hands between them. When Barb looks up and sees me, she waves the sandwich in the air, and I walk to the register, grabbing a bag of chips on the way. Barb rings up the total and looks at me in a funny way as I sift through my wallet, digging out small bills to pay.

  When I hand her the money, she hesitates. “I’m real sorry about what that magazine said about you. I can’t believe what they’ll print these days.”

  I look up at her quizzically. “Sorry?”

  “Reveal magazine? The story on you and that famous guy? All that stuff they said about you and James?”

  “I guess I haven’t seen it.” My heart drops down into my lungs and perches there like a weighted carcass.

  “Don’t bother, it’s just a bunch of lies anyway. I just wanted you to know that no one believes a word. We know what you’re really like.”

  “I’m sure. The good and the bad, right?” I stammer out the half joke and smile, trying to keep my face from going pasty white in panic.

  When I get out of the store, into the street, I suddenly feel like everyone is looking at me. When I stop by the post office, two people smile at me and nod before scurrying away. When I run by the grocery store to pick up some laundry detergent, the cashier actually says, “How are you?” in the tone I haven’t heard in years. The loaded question, the syrupy voices, all the pitiful sympathy. These were the reasons I rarely left the house after James died, because people always wanted to know how I was “doing.” It was insufferable. Something is making them do the same thing now.

  I try to ignore it, tell myself I’m being paranoid and that it can’t be all that bad. I stop myself from running to the nearest drugstore and picking up a copy of the magazine, insisting it doesn’t matter even as the feeling of dread in my stomach grows larger. But when Cale Johnson from the feed store corners me at Deaton’s Café to give me a hug, I know it must be a doozy. Cale does not hug. Cale was born to make gruff noises that sound like a brown bear rubbing against a pine tree and to shake hands so hard you think your finger bones will disintegrate. He does not hug, smile, or joke.

  I dial up my sister. She has to know, and why she hasn’t told me in the first place is suspect, now that I think about it.

  “It’s a gorgeous day at The Beauty Barn, this is Lacey.”

  “Lacey, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing, it’s really dead around here.”

  “Do you have the new issue of Reveal magazine?”

  “Why?”

  “I want to borrow it.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Not you, obviously. Thanks for having my back, by the way.”

  “Kate. I was trying to protect you.”

  “Whatever. I’m driving to Langston today to drop some of James’s clothes and stuff at Goodwill. Leave the magazine on my porch and I’ll look at it when I get back.”

  “It’s crap, Kate. You shouldn’t. It’s really, really bad.”

  The tone in her voice is nervous, and I know then that she has been trying to protect me. If it’s so bad it inspired sisterly shielding, then I probably need to see it.

  After I drop a truckload of things at Goodwill, things we won’t need if my Crowell place is our vacation house, I drive home leisurely. The air is starting to get chilly, but I drive with the window down, needing as many lungfuls of fresh air as I can get before the smog of LA invades my body and takes over. Whether it’s letting go of things at Goodwill or the inspiration of a new life with Trevor, I feel lighter than I have in years despite what I know will be waiting on my doorstep for me when I get home.

  When I pull into the driveway, I can see the magazine flapping from under the doormat, where Lacey left it. It waves to me with its little papery greeting, seemingly innocuous. As I grab it up from the ground, one corner slides along the flesh between my thumb and index finger, giving me a deep, stinging paper cut. I growl and crush the magazine in my other hand while sucking on the pricking cut.

  Anxious to see what the fuss is about, I flop down on the couch. The front cover screams out about an A-list couple on the rocks, somebody who is gay, and somebody else headed for rehab. Well, we didn’t make the cover, so it can’t be that interesting. Flipping the pages, an article Lacey dog-eared distracts me, about a young actress who lost twenty pounds by eating mangoes. I like mangoes. After a few minutes of reading up the specifics, I chastise myself for even considering it.

  The pages make distinct flapping noises as I push them forward with my middle finger. About halfway through, there it is, a two-page spread. Harmless, right? There can’t be too much damage in two measly pages. Topping the page is a blaring headline.

  TRAX’S NEW FLAME!! A RELATIONSHIP MADE IN HEAVEN? OR HELL?!

  Jesus, could they be any less subtle? I know that’s how this genre is, but come on. My eyes fall to the pictures first. There’s one of Trevor, from the old days, when he only posed shirtless. Another one of me, a press picture from my book jacket. In retrospect, I should have rethought wearing a pink cashmere twinset for that. Where was Kellan then?

  In the middle, there’s one of us leaving the sushi restaurant. Thankfully, I look better there, like I actually belong on his arm. Frankly, I look damn good; no wonder he wanted dessert before we even left the house. Below that is a fuzzy picture. I gulp and pull it closer. Fuzzy is never good.

  When I get it close enough, my body reminds me exactly what I’m looking at. It’s us, wrapped around each other against the wall of his house, the same night. Through all the graininess, it’s obvious what’s going on. You can see my leg, hitched up and wrapped around his waist, my hands grasping his neck. His body craned into mine, his head buried in my hair. You would have to be an idiot, or a nun, or a child, not to know what is happening at that moment.

  How in the hell did someone get a picture of us having sex against the house? I can hear his words in my head, “No one can see.” Great, now everyone in Crowell knows about this. I actually considered that everyone thought I was some kind of born-again virgin after James died. Now they know I’m just a typical groupie who lets Trax fuck her standing up, outside, and in front of cameras. Thank God I didn’t send any dirty pics to him via text yesterday. If those got out, combined with these, I might be getting offers to do porn instead of as a freelance writer.

  Dragging my eyes away, I start to scan the article. At first, the opening lines seem innocent enough, playing off the opposites attract angle. Over the next few paragraphs the tone starts to change, moving to focus on me, my past, and, finally, James. There are a few other photos on the next page, including one of James and me. A picture I have no idea how they could have gotten ahold of. Another is a still shot from The Evelyn Summers Show and tucked under that isn’t a photo of a person, just an image of a report. When I look closer and study the caption, I figure it out. It’s the police report from the night of the accident. Mercifully, they blurred out my address, but there it is. My old name—Katherine Stark—the date, all the gory details.

  My married name. The old me. Then I see him in my mind: Geraldo. That asshole knew when he saw me outside the sushi restaurant. He was smiling like that because he knew what was coming. He had the taste of my blood in his mouth, and he fucking loved it.

  Looking a little closer, I can see that they have highlighted a small section of the report in yellow, with a red circle: BAC .04.

  It’s true. I had a beer that night. James loved a certain brewpub in Langston, and that’s where we had dinner. When we left, James wanted to know if he should drive, but I was fine. He was tired and had had two beers with dinner, so it only made sense for me to drive.

  Suddenly the entire night comes rushing back, and I close my eyes against its stinging forc
e but am powerless against it. The scene floods into my brain: The snow had made the roads slick, the moisture and temperature drop creating black ice in a matter of hours. I turned my eyes from the road for only seconds, adjusting the heat and changing the radio station to country.

  When the tires hit the ice, a tiny jerk of the steering wheel made what should have been a scare into a disaster. Yelling, I woke James for only a few seconds before we hit the pole and my head hit the steering wheel. His head hit the door glass, then the telephone pole, where the car had come to a stop. The Chandlers found us on their way home from dinner at the Elks Lodge.

  The next thing I remember was Sharon walking gingerly into the hospital room where they had left me alone, pain medication dripping into my veins. No one would tell me the truth, reassuring me that everything was fine. Every few hours, I would wake up and my soul screamed at me through the morphine haze that I had to get up and find James, see him, because it was over. I knew, but my broken ribs, battered fingers, and throbbing head kept me fixed to the bed.

  Two days later, when Lacey woke me, I knew she had a simple reason. To tell me the truth. Lacey pursed her lips together, holding back a flood of tears as she looked at me.

  “He’s gone.”

  “I know.” I remember turning my head toward the window, noting for the first time how hard it had snowed over the last few days. Inches of snow were piled onto the windowsills and icicles hung from the eaves. I heard Lacey sniffling from behind me, a noise that made me desperate for my bed at home, the smell of James in the sheets, and his clothes against my skin. Suddenly, the hospital gown felt itchy and coarse, the bedsheets were frigid, and my body went limp against the strangely sagging mattress.

  Now, in the stark, mean print of this article, every moment of that night is pressing down on me. I scan the rest of the article, full of quotes from people questioning if I’ll somehow put Trevor at risk. Statements from anonymous sources who think I’m no good for him, some that even think I might be an out-of-control alcoholic and that he’ll end up the way James did. At the close of the article, it actually has a quote from a “source close to Trax.”

  “This is a woman who killed her first husband, who said on The Evelyn Summers Show that she doesn’t even feel guilty. How are we not supposed to worry that her reckless behavior won’t make Trax her next casualty?”

  Before I can stop it and locate any rational part of my brain that knows this is all crazy, bile starts to creep into my throat. Rushing to the bathroom, I lose it, gagging and tossing every bit of my stomach’s contents. When it stops, I’m crying through the heaving and wailing like a bleating animal.

  Every moment I tried to ignore my past, every time I wanted to be a woman who could move on, every time Trevor touched me, all of it dissolves into a burning sensation in my throat. No matter how hard I wanted to be something else, this is the truth. A woman who killed her husband. A woman who probably shouldn’t be trusted. A woman who doesn’t deserve another chance with a man like Trevor. I let my body fall to the cool tile floor and roll my cheek to rest against it, trying to push the heat away from my face.

  My phone chimes, the noise echoing against every hard surface of the empty, cold room.

  Two things: McKenna’s birthday is the 5th. I know that only gives you a few days to get settled here but my mom’s having a party and I want you to come. Should be a total rager. Also, I wish you were here right now, naked and begging me to touch you. I’m starting to go crazy without you.

  I drop the phone with a clattering thud to the floor and cover my face with my arm. The tears come again, harder this time, filled with the pain of losing everything. Twice. Feeling the loss of James like it just happened and feeling with a nauseating clarity that I have to leave Trevor behind.

  26

  Everything is cold. Not only because Montana is starting its slow lumber into fall, but because I haven’t left the house in a week and am down to eating peanut butter straight from the jar. My body is probably cold from some kind of malnutrition. I start a fire to keep the chills at bay and use the time to pretend that the last six months were an illusion.

  After a few days, I turn the ringer down on my phone and pray that if I ignore it long enough, it will self-destruct. Since I’ve been silent on the texts he’s sending me, Trevor starts to call, leaving long messages.

  “Baby, this is starting to get weird, are you pissed at me? It would be helpful if you told me how I fucked up, because I’m drawing a blank. I’m starting to get a little freaked, though, just at least let me know you’re OK, I guess.”

  Delete.

  After a few more days, he takes a different approach. The drag-other-people-into-it approach.

  “Kate, it’s Lacey, I just wanted to let you know Trevor called me. He’s worried and so he found my number to check on you. I know it might piss you off, but I told him what’s going on. Don’t be mad, I told him this is what you do when things get weird. He’s pretty upset. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but . . . call him.”

  Delete.

  “Katie, you need to call me. I talked to your sister; she told me what happened. I’m sorry, I didn’t know about it, but I’ll fix it. My lawyers are on it, but you need to call me. Don’t just blow me off.”

  Delete.

  “Katie, I know you’re there, so don’t freeze me out. This isn’t my fault. Don’t fuck with me. We owe each other more than that. I love you.”

  Delete.

  I lug my body to the bedroom, fighting the urge to call him and cry like a baby. Even to call him and explain why he should move on, save himself. It isn’t worth trying to explain because he will never understand.

  Digging into my dresser and searching under my winter socks, I find my stash. I’ve kept one specific shirt tucked away since James died, the one I believe smells like him. I pull off my pajama top and throw it on the floor, raising my arms over my head and feeling the worn cotton slide over my body, breathing in heavily as it comes down over my face and shivering from the cold material. Under the sheets, I stare at the ceiling and wonder how my heart can hurt so much without exploding.

  A week later, Trevor is still calling. I have to hand it to him, he isn’t giving up very easily. Despite knowing that I can’t go back to my old life and that my new life is kaput, I decide that I should still leave the paper. Today, I have to pack up my office, and as much as I want to scream, “Take backs,” everything is different.

  Walking slowly on the street toward the office, I watch the first snowflakes of the season fall and land on the ground. I know every nook and cranny of the sidewalk from a lifetime in this town, which makes it safe for me to focus on the snow instead of where I put my feet. With a cup of hot coffee from Deaton’s in my hand, I feel a little like my old self again. Instead of a foolish girl, swept away in illusion, I’m Kate again. The plain girl from Montana, a one-hit-wonder writer, widow, and small-town character. Kate Mosely the minimally famous novelist. Katie, Trax’s girlfriend, is gone, just a temporary hallucination that made me believe in second chances and new beginnings for a little while.

  My office reeks of wood polish as I try to clean behind every cabinet I move. Boxes lay strewn around, piled haphazardly on top of each other in origami-like skyscrapers. As I drag another file drawer open, I can hear voices in the hall, Rita murmuring, and the grumble of someone else. I stop to listen, and before he even opens the door, I swear I can feel him.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, almost nonchalantly, with an edge of irritation, trying to ignore the way his scent in the room makes my heart beat faster.

  “In the neighborhood, I guess. If your definition of ‘neighborhood’ is pretty broad.”

  Trevor shuts the door behind him and steps gingerly toward my desk. I’m grateful for all the boxes because they create a barricade between us. I turn and grab another stack of files, dropping them into an empty box with a hollow thud.

  “Don’t you have anything to say to me, Kate?” His voice i
s small and broken.

  “Like what, Trevor?”

  “Shit, I don’t know, maybe an apology for ignoring all of my calls?”

  “I’m sorry I ignored all of your calls.”

  When I look up at him, I see dark circles ensconcing his eyes and a long, fresh scratch on his right cheek. He’s dressed in a black hoodie, the same one he gave to me at the skatepark, some loose jeans, and an old grubby trucker hat. He looks terrible, not that I’m any vision of delight right now. I barely managed to throw on an old thermal and a pair of reasonably clean cargo pants that actually have holes in the knees, before pulling my hair up into a sloppy bun and driving almost catatonically into town this morning. Too many days and nights strung together with insomnia and crying does that to a girl.

  “Holy shit. Is this it?” He raises his hands up and scrubs over his face. Gauze wraps one of his hands, covering the palm and his thumb. “Are you really bailing on me over this?”

  I ignore his question and ask my own. “What happened to your hand? Why is your face scratched?”

  He shakes his head, annoyed and exasperated. “I had a small incident a couple of nights ago.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Simon thought it would be a brilliant idea to take me out to some pseudo–dive bar in Silver Lake and let me blow off some steam. Then the asshole hipster bartender, with his skinny little suspenders and square glasses, cut me off. I planned to throw my empty glass at his bald, pretentious head, but Simon grabbed my arm and shoved it into the wall. The glass broke and cut my hand. After Damien came to pick my drunken ass up, I whacked my head trying to open the front door to my fucking house.”

  Instead of taking his head in my hands like I want to and kissing the little scratch tenderly, I find my inner bitch. I’m sure I can make him hate me if I just say all the right, yet so wrong, things.

  “How very rock-star cliché of you.”