by Julie Smith
She cruised a couple of places and couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Finally, at a particularly busy coffeehouse, she saw a line for the phone and stood in it. When it was her turn, she made a show of looking up a number, fumbling, taking more than her share of time before “discovering” she had no change.
The girl behind her was only too glad to speed up the process.
Lovelace deposited the girl’s quarter and asked for information in New Orleans, intending in the end to reverse the charges and pay back her benefactor. But it never came to that: Isaac wasn’t listed.
She found a table and sat, thinking to move on if anyone asked her to.
Well, no problem: she knew his address. She had answered the Christmas card by continuing his gag with a play on the street name—something about the streetcar named Desire rolling down the street called Royal. The number was the year, with a “20” in front—Lovelace didn’t forget things like that.
All she had to do was get there.
A guy paused at her table. “Excuse me. Would you mind having my baby?”
Seize the day, she thought. She said, “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s go to New Orleans.”
“When you wanna go, sweetheart?”
But it wasn’t going to be that easy. Half an hour later, she realized he was just flirting, but at least she had a plan.
She was tall (very tall—five-feet-ten) and had a pretty good figure (though she wouldn’t mind losing ten pounds) and reddish sandy hair. She’d just ask people if they’d take her— nonthreatening-looking male people. Surely someone would bite.
The first one had bought her some coffee, so the coffeehouse people let her keep her seat awhile longer.
But finally, she went out to the street and simply stood, grabbing any lone male or two males she saw. Her approach was simple and straightforward: “Hey, I’m looking for a ride to New Orleans. You wouldn’t want to go, would you?”
They all wanted to go. But, alas, they all had previous engagements.
She had about given up and was blinking back tears, trying to think up a new plan, when a blond man spoke to her, one she’d barely noticed, he looked so conventional. “Well, hey, pretty thing, why’re you so sad?”
Make it good, she thought to herself.
Instead she blurted, “I want to go home,” which wasn’t even true, and started to sob. The man opened his arms, gathered her against his polo shirt. She felt the sturdiness of him, the thickness of his chest, and it was comforting.
“It’s okay. That’s right. Cry now, baby. Go ahead and cry.” He was like some great male mom.
What a weird thing, she thought. I must be really fucked up—there are no male moms. You call them fathers, right?
She realized she was starting to calm down.
“Now tell Sam about it. You tell ol’ Sammy all about it. Let’s just sit on that bench over there and we’ll have a little talk.”
“I can’t. I mean—do you mind if we walk?” The bench faced the street, and the last thing she wanted was to be conspicuous to cars driving by. What she really wanted was to go inside someplace, but she didn’t want to ask for anything—not yet.
“We’ll just do any little thing you want.” He put an arm around her waist and started to walk.
She knew it wasn’t right. It was way too familiar—taking advantage, at this point, rather than offering sympathy. But two things about it—it felt good, and Sam was all she had right now. He might be dicey, he might even be dangerous, but she sensed he had a heart.
He had a baby face, one of those more or less Irish visages with a smallish pink nose, chubby cheeks, blue eyes, usually a dimple (Sam’s was in his chin), and a curl of blond hair dripping down a broad brow.
He was a little shorter than Lovelace, but he had heft. Lots of comforting heft. Maybe he worked out, maybe his ancestors had been built like barrels, or maybe it was a combination, but the result was plenty of beef inside his now-damp Ralph Lauren pullover. The shirt was faded purple and he’d tucked it into faded jeans, which in turn topped a pair of running shoes. He might have been twenty-five or he could have been a little older—at any rate, she got the feeling he was a little old for the neighborhood.
She had the vague feeling he didn’t smell quite right, but it was sufficiently vague that she dismissed it.
“First of all, we should probably meet don’t you think? I’m Sam Marshall.”
“I’m Michelle Jackson,” she said, thinking she probably wasn’t fooling him, but at least she hadn’t said “Smith.”
“Ms. Jackson from Jackson,” he said, and she wondered if he was mocking her.
She couldn’t be bothered worrying about it. “No, I’m not from here. That is—I was going to move here, but things didn’t work out. Oh, God, I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid!”
“Easy now. Just take your time.”
“I came to visit my boyfriend and we had a fight.”
“Umm-hmm.”
“And he said he was sorry he’d ever spent a penny on me and I wasn’t worth a penny and he was taking his own back. And he took all my money out of my purse and stuffed it in his pocket and threw my purse out the window. And then …” she thought fast, trying to make it believable that there was no going back “… he leaned over and smacked me across the mouth.”
“You’ve got to be kiddin’.”
“And he stopped the car and said, ‘Get out, whore.’ And I just sat there stunned, and he gave me a shove, and I landed on my butt in the street, and he peeled off with my suitcase.”
“Well, no wonder you’re so shook up.”
She turned her face and looked into his, about six inches away. Oh, God, I hope he doesn’t try to kiss me.
Instead, he said, “Where you from, Ms. Jackson?”
“New Orleans.”
“Well, I’ll take you home.”
“You will?” Finally.
“Hell, yeah. Been wantin’ to go there myself. Just got to take care of a little business. You wait for me?”
She nodded, feeling numb. What else was she going to do?
“Back in ten.”
She went back in the coffeehouse and found the bathroom. One glance in the mirror convinced her that wasn’t something she should try again.
She had no idea if Sam would show, but for the moment at least, she didn’t have to think of a new plan.
He came up behind her. “Hey, Miss Michelle. I want you to meet my friends—Chip and Mimi. They’re going with us.”
They looked okay—a little rednecky, but not bikers or anything. Both wore jeans and T-shirts, which now made four of them. Mimi had a lot of long curly hair, cut in layers. Chip was tall, had a gut, and he was gray at the temples. She wondered if Sam was even older than she’d first thought.
“Hey, Michelle. Sorry about your hard luck.”
Sam said, “Y’all ready?”
Later, Lovelace couldn’t remember getting to the car, which was a four-by-four, a Blazer or something, or getting in or taking off. She did remember that once they were in the thing, somebody fired up a joint and all three of the others cracked open beers and offered her one, but she was so tired by then she could barely shake her head no.
She must have fallen asleep right away.
The drug her father had given her had probably never really worn off, but she had operated on adrenaline for a couple of hours, as long as she needed to, and the minute she could, she crashed.
She fell asleep sitting up, strapped into her seat belt, Sam driving, the other two in the back.
She awoke to find someone’s hand between her legs, stroking her. She was aware that that was what had awakened her; she had dreamed about sex with someone—a stranger, perhaps, or an old boyfriend; just a fragment of a dream. She opened her eyes a crack, saw the car, remembered where she was, and closed them again while she tried to think what to do.
No thoughts came.
Finally she simply sat up straight, opened her eyes, a
nd looked around, preparatory to any sudden moves.
To her horror, she saw that the owner of the hand was not Sam but Chip, who was now in the driver’s seat. She stared at him, wild, riveted. He smiled, puckered his lips, and kissed the air in her direction, jamming his hand tight against her crotch.
She shook her head and pushed at his hand.
He smiled, not budging.
What the hell was this? A cat playing with a mouse, smiling because he’d won? Or his idea of seduction?
And there were other issues—why Chip, not Sam? Had they flipped for her, or what?
The air was heavy with beer breath, and she realized that was why Sam hadn’t smelled right—he was probably half-loaded when they met (as were Chip and Mimi), and now they were no doubt fully tanked.
She felt fear trying to close her throat and forced it back down. No time for that now.
She said, “Where are we?”
“Almost there.”
“Almost to New Orleans?”
“That’s where you want to go, idn’t it?”
Which wasn’t the same as a yes. And she thought she heard a slight edge to his voice.
Still, she nodded. “I’m tired.”
He said, “Want to go to bed?”
Men are so damn predictable, she thought, and she nodded again. “I’m pretty tired. Could I have a beer?”
“Sure.” He smiled, as if happy to see her entering into the spirit of things, and when he removed his hand to give her the beer, she seized her advantage and changed positions.
The sun was coming up when they entered that long, lonely stretch of Highway 55 that seems more like a bridge over a swamp than a highway. Lovelace was still holding her barely touched beer and thinking. She couldn’t come up with a plan that didn’t involve the police, but she wasn’t too worried—yet.
Sam woke up. “Yecch. I feel horrible. What’d we do last night?”
“You did a little speed, buddy. Little booze, too.”
“Well, lemme have some more speed.”
Speed. Did that dull or enhance the sex drive?
She couldn’t remember.
“We better find a place to crash. There’s gonna be nothin’ within miles of the French Quarter.”
Lovelace said, “Why not?” before she caught herself.
“Never on the weekends.” Sam sounded offhand, but a moment later he put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey. Thought you lived there.”
She turned to the backseat. “That’s why I don’t stay in hotels.”
“Wait a minute,” said Chip. “Why don’t we just stay at your place?”
“Are you kidding? I live with my parents.”
Sam said, “Well, why are we giving you this ride, anyhow?”
Lovelace thought, Oh, boy. But she was starting to feel like herself again, the shock and numbness of her experience receding, the drug wearing off. She said, “Because you are fine Christian men helping out a damsel in distress.”
Chip laughed in a way Lovelace really couldn’t construe as anything but evil. “Oh, yeah, right.”
It occurred to her that she should have wondered herself why they were giving her the ride. But the answer seemed obvious and not even sinister—they were drunk and it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Sam winked at Lovelace, who had noticed by this time that Mimi was stretched out with her head in his lap. “You two gettin’ along?”
She smiled with her lips together, hoping they hadn’t thinned into a telltale line. “Just fine.”
“Hey, ol’ buddy, gimme another hit of speed, okay?”
Chip pulled some pills out of his pocket, passed them back to Sam, and offered one to Lovelace. She took it, thinking she could use the rush.
The two men looked at each other. Chip said, “Aw right!”
Apparently, they thought they’d found a kindred spirit.
Sam said, “Gimme a beer.”
“Want to go to the French Quarter? I mean, y’all don’t really need to sleep now, do you?”
“Who said anything about sleepin’?”
“Listen, I kind of need to get home.”
Chip grabbed her leg again. “Aw, come on. Just have breakfast with us. Then we’ll take you home.”
Lovelace noticed Chip hadn’t availed himself of the speed, and her only hope was that he wouldn’t. She needed him to crash. Breakfast might make him sleepy.
“Whatever.” She shrugged and smiled at him, just a bimbo along for the ride.
They got off the Interstate and found a McDonald’s, where she promptly excused herself to use the ladies’ room, thinking home-free thoughts. But two things went wrong—Mimi came with her, and there was no window.
The guys had ordered her an Egg McMuffin. If I eat it, she thought, does that mean they’ll think I owe them? And if I don’t, are they going to get ugly?
In the end she nibbled, and when they urged her to eat up, she said she wasn’t hungry. Sam said, “I know what you mean, man. I got other nourishment in my bloodstream.”
Chip was starting to behave like a kid who hadn’t had his nap. “Come on. I’m draggin’.”
Sam said, “How about I drive for a while?”
“Are you kiddin’? You nearly wrecked us last night. Hey, I saw a Quinta Inn—let’s go check in for a couple of hours.”
“I want to get to New Orleans, man.”
“Hey, man, we’re there. This is Veterans Highway. We’ll just stop for a nap, okay? Everything in the French Quarter’s gon’ be booked.”
Mimi was nuzzling Sam. “Come on, Sammy. Let’s stop for a little while.”
If Lovelace had had any questions about the sleeping arrangements, they were answered.
So here’s the problem, she thought: The lady or the tiger? The devil you know or the devil you don’t? 1 could just start hitchhiking, but maybe the new Ted Bundy’ll give me a ride.
She opted for her new best friends.
As soon as the door closed, Chip was upon her, beery, eggy breath in her face, tongue between her teeth.
She kissed him, but with her hands on his chest, pushing gently even as she opened her mouth, teasing a little. She broke away and whispered, “Let me take a shower first.”
Once again there was no window. Still, she knew she wouldn’t have used it. She was getting bolder by the moment, and more and more reckless. Later, she knew that she’d known in the back of her mind what she was going to do, but she never put it into words, never admitted it to herself—she just did it.
First, she did take a shower—a long, leisurely, delicious one. Then she put all her clothes on, stepped back into the room, and observed a dream come true.
Chip had stripped in anticipation, turned on the TV, and crawled between the covers, leaving his wallet and car keys on the dresser. He was snoring.
The keys were tempting. Really, really tempting. But the goal was staying away from her dad, and if she got busted for car theft, she’d be stuck with him for the next million years.
Besides, Chip had five or six twenties in his wallet—he probably didn’t know how many himself. He’d never be sure if she took one or not. In fact, he wouldn’t know if she took two.
She asked the desk clerk to call her a cab and was waiting in the lobby, big as life, when Chip came in loaded for bear. He was so mad he clenched his fists as he walked; his face was close to purple. She’d probably have wet her pants if there hadn’t been two or three other people around.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
She smiled as if he was her long-lost lover. “Hi, Chip. I realized I’ve really got to get going—my mom’s going to be frantic if I don’t get home soon.”
At the mention of her mom, his anger turned to confusion. She knew what she looked like—a well-scrubbed college girl. If he tried anything here, these people would call the cops—fast.
“Well, why didn’t you say so? Listen, I’ll take you home. No problem.”
“Oh, that’s okay. Here’s
my cab.”
He followed her out and spoke through clenched teeth: “Give me my money, you little whore.”
She said as if she didn’t hear: “Listen, I really appreciate the ride. Tell Sam and Mimi good-bye.”
She gave the driver her uncle’s address.
Five
THE WHITE MONK pulled up his hood and began sweeping the patio, counting each stroke as he did so. He sometimes did this three times a day, sometimes six or eight. Because he worked practically for peanuts, his boss, Dahveed, thought he’d died and gone to heaven.
The Monk could count and think at the same time. It was a form of meditation for him. On a beautiful March day like this—crisp and windy, but bright as copper—he could contemplate theology all afternoon. But there were other things to do—some dusting, some heavy cleaning, some framing. Even his own work.
He looked forward to it all equally, would as soon be doing Dahveed’s work as his own.
He was as close to peace as he’d ever been; except for the doubts. He still couldn’t be sure he hadn’t killed someone. Or wouldn’t, sometime in the future.
“So then,” said Revelas, who was painting in the courtyard, “I says to the guard, ‘You blink your eye, I’ll cut your eyelids off.’ Meanwhile, Skinny and Poss are lyin’ there bleedin’, see…”
The Monk was conspicuously not in the mood, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. “See, I got a philosophy—long as I’m not dead, I’m ahead. So I know if I can get through this, I’m ahead. If I don’t, well, then, I’m only dead and who’s gonna care about that? Not me, I can handle it.”
I love him, The Monk thought. I swear to God I do. The guy’s a thinker. “Long as I’m not dead, I’m ahead.” It’s a version of “Whatever doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.” And I love his courage! Talk about nonattachment. “If I don’t, I’m only dead and who’s gonna care …” What would it be like not to be afraid?
Yet The Monk was in a good place right now. There had been times—lots of them—when he absolutely couldn’t have listened to this. Every single negative thought would have had to be counteracted. Every time Revelas said “dead” or “die” or “kill,” The Monk would have had to wait until he said “live” or “life” before he could leave his presence, and then every time he thought one of the words himself, he would have had to counteract it in his own mind. But that wasn’t plaguing him right now. At the moment there were only two really forbidden words, and they were a name, a name that Revelas probably didn’t know, thank the gods.
