Redhead

by Jason McIntyre

  Calmly, Sean eased my elbows and upper body off his lap. The engine stayed running and the dust from our skid billowed out into the path of the headlight beams and the dog. For a second or two, everything else was still and calm. Even the stray rain drops had quit. “It’s fine,” Sean said. “Stay here.”

  “What?” I squawked. “You’re not going out there—”

  He pulled his door latch and stepped out. He put one hand out before him and bowed his own head. Then he started taking steps out toward the big tan animal. It was dirty and I could see its eyes flashing yellow in the light from the truck.

  This was nuts. Sean was acting nuts. His talk of kings and tree frogs, notwithstanding, this was the craziest thing I’d seen him do. My mouth gaped, surely it did. I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing. I reached out and pulled his door shut. I didn’t want that mangy-looking thing leaping over him and getting in here with me. Worse yet, I flickered on an image of Johnny’s malamute, Duke, trying to take a piece out of Sean back at the pub. I imagined that tan dog out there ripping into Sean and tearing one of his limbs from his body while I sat dumb and mute in here watching the blood spray the headlights and the dirty windshield.

  There, coming out from beside the hood of the truck, Sean kept walking at an even pace, now with both hands out in front. He looked like a snake charmer, approaching a mighty cobra. I dared not call out his name and distract him.

  Three feet from the animal. Two feet. One. Sean’s outstretched hand came to the nose and snout of the angry, growling, frothy animal. And when Sean touched its face, the animal stopped. It’s eyes glazed over. Under his breath, Sean was saying something. With the windows all rolled up, it had gotten unbearably hot in the cab, but it also blocked the sound. I reached for Sean’s driver’s side window crank and undid it. I could hear him talking to the animal. But I couldn’t make out the words.

  I let out another screech when the haze started to move. More animals trod out of the dust and darkness, disrupting the bush on the side of the road. They came out and stood on the road, growling low like they were circling prey. This was a mighty big pack of wild dogs, all different sizes, and mixes. Their colouring didn’t match one another but they moved like one unit, coming to rest and staring at Sean and the original dog.

  Sean kept talking and I kept concentrating to hear what he was saying. I couldn’t make any of it out. In a moment, Sean turned his back on the main animals, and the rest of them. They moved to take a step toward him but hesitated. He trod back to the driver’s side and I heard the crunch of his work boots in the gravel.

  He popped the door and climbed back in with a noisy hinge as he slammed the door behind him. “What the hell—?” I started to question but Sean just gave me a look and I stopped dead in the middle of my shocked protest.

  He dropped the truck into reverse and hit the gas without looking behind him. I saw him glance at the rearview, but only as an afterthought. I grabbed the dash and his leg for stability. Out there on the road ahead, the dogs—there must have been a dozen in a sloppy semi-circle—all moved together into a tighter group as we fled. We shook with the sudden fury of our acceleration. “Sean!” I shouted. He slammed the brakes yet again and cranked the wheel.

  “Sean!” I hollered again. We spun sideways and then broke to a full stop. Sean slammed us into drive and finished a two-point turn to get us aimed back the way we had come.

  I had no idea how far from the power station we were. I had no idea what had transpired between those animals and my special client. But I was struck dumb.

  The scattered drops from before returned and grew to a hard and fast torrent. The noise of the rain intensified as we accelerated but it drowned out the dull noise of the engine and the treble of the radio. Sean only drove. In a moment or two, he flicked on the wipers and they squealed against the glass. “Looks like we’re not going to look for tree frogs tonight,” he finally said in a monotone he sometimes used after one of his dreams. “King doesn’t want me to bring you.”

  8.

  We got back to my place. Sean and I were soaked in only a half minute after we got out of his truck cab. We went in the back way and up the back stairs, avoiding Johnny, avoiding anyone who might want a roll with ol’ Fanny Mae Banks, the town’s priciest (and best, some said) company gal.

  I slammed the door behind me and threw my purse down on the counter. Drops of rain water flew off me and my long hair. Sean stood dripping before me.

  “What in hell was that, Sean?” I shouted. “I’ve heard you spin a lot of crazy, messed up shit. But this takes the cake. Glowing tree frogs and now you’re standing in the middle of the goddamn road and you’re...you’re what? You’re a goddamn dog savant? And this shit about the king? This shit about some jeezus-h-christ-king who what? Who doesn’t ‘want you to bring me’?”

  I threw my hands in the air, shrugging my shoulders and letting loose another wave of cold droplets. “I’m about ready to throw you out of here, Sean. I’m about ready to call the damn looney bus, you hear me?”

  I was losing it. My cool. My patience. Whatever terms you want to toss at it, I was saying bye-bye to them all. Sean just stood there. His long, fire-red curls were sopping and ran down his forehead. His shirt clung to his arms and chest and his jeans looked dark and heavy and uncomfortable. And still he stood there.

  Finally, he said. “I told you. It’s hard to believe.” Then something that, at the time, I thought was completely unrelated. “You know, Fan, I never wanted this.”

  “What? What ‘this’, Sean, what on earth are you talking about now? This, you mean ‘us’, you mean me and you?”

  “Right,” he said. “I’ve never cheated on my wife. Never wanted to. I mean, not until you.”

  “And?” I said. I was exasperated with this man. So fed up, I was ready to leave my own place just to get some space from him. “And this relates how?” I was shouting again. I took off my jacket and flung it at the floor.

  “I love my wife, Fan. Love her more than words. I never wanted this. I-I don’t know how to say this without you calling the cops. Or that looney wagon you promised you’d leave out of it—” he looked at the floor. “The king, he has this...uh...this power over me. He made me do it. He made me find you.”

  I stomped over to the bed and wiped at my soaked face. “Made you,” I said. Not like a question but just a statement of disbelief.

  “Crazy, I know, but the king is—well, he’s all-knowing—”

  “What, is he God?” I said.

  “No, shit no,” Sean said and then he actually let out a laugh. “You ever been in a car and you’re not the driver—but the driver is dangerous and going too fast and not looking before he turns…and all you want to do is stomp on the brakes and get out…but you can’t?”

  I let out an exasperated laugh now too. “Yeah,” I said. “Shit yeah. Just tonight.”

  Sean let a smile escape but quickly erased it. “That’s what the king does. When I was a kid out there at the station, we had this, situation. And he...well, he tagged me. I don’t know how else to explain it. He tagged me...I guess so he could always keep track...and years later, he got a hold of me again. He’s gotten a hold of a lot of people, I think. And now, he can sort of...climb into me like I’m a truck. And I can see through the windows and watch what I’m doing but I can’t—for the life of me—can’t grab the steering wheel. He guided me to find someone. Someone like you. And now, goddammit, I care for you, Dollars. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt my wife. But here I am. Stuck in the passenger seat. Watching a mad king do the driving. He only does it when he needs something—”

  “Oh! Well then! Since none of this makes any sense and since you’re not to blame I—” I stopped myself. Getting angry was doing nothing for either of us. “Is he doing it right now?” I asked. “I mean ‘driving’ you to say these awful, hurtful things to me?” I didn’t believe him, didn’t believe one word but I was lashing out now. I was trying to test him or, I don�
�t know, trip him up. Because I was angry. I was pissed off. And I was confused. I really was close to heading down to the bar and borrowing Johnny’s phone. To call who, I have no idea. Maybe just the operator to get a rational human being’s voice in my ear.

  “Sort of. Not exactly,” Sean said. “He has better, what would you call it—reception? He has better control the closer I am. And when I cross the creek, he can control me completely. The whole north part of the island is his. And when he’s doing the steering, I’m powerless to stop it. To stop him.”

  Patronizing him a bit, but wanting to see where this crazy talk was leading us, I flicked on the bedside lamp and said, “And what in hell does he want?”

  “He’s building an army, Fan. And he’s made me his recruiter.”

  9.

  This was Saturday morning already, the wee hours of it. Music from Johnny’s downstairs bled up through the floor boards. My time with Sean away from his wife and boys was waning. It was half over and we’d spent some of it talking crazy talk. I didn’t know what to do with him. I sat at my single dining chair staring out at the street lamp and smoked cigarettes while he sat in my bed. He laid down for a while, complaining of a splitting headache.

  I stubbed out the last of my cigarette in the saucer I kept on the little kitchen table and turned to Sean. His eyes were closed but I spoke anyway. “Those dreams?” I said. “The ones where you’re bawling your eyes out by the end. You’re not really dreaming about your dad, are you?”

  Sean opened his eyes. He turned to me and said, “Sometimes. But, no. You’re right. The ones that get me so upset, those are worse. It’s usually about all the stuff I’ve done the last couple years. The stuff the king made me—”

  I interrupted him. I was angry. “I swear to God, Sean. You say the word ‘king’ one more time and I’m going to lose it on you.” Downstairs at the bar, someone was whooping and hollering. The music was loud and obtrusive. It didn’t help my mood.

  “Okay, okay,” Sean said.

  “You know,” I said. “I tied my fates up with a client once before. You weren’t around then. You were probably getting ice cream and pickles for your wife around that time. Waiting for her to pop—”

  He nodded solemnly, touching his chin to his clavicle as if I knew exactly how it was when his wife had been expecting.

  “—And it was the worst decision of my life. Denny was a bully and a woman-beater. And if you decide to take the crazy train and insist on this shit, then you and I are done. I can make my bread with plenty of other men. Which is a shame, Sean, because I—I care about you too...you stupid son of a bitch...”

  I started crying then. I remember that. It’s like the dam burst and I just couldn’t help it.

  Sean got up and came over to me. I buried my head against his damp shirt.

  After a moment, he spoke. “Denny?” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “Denny Munn? Dennis Munn?” he clarified.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Ol’ Dirty Denny Munn. You remember him?”

  “Met him when I was a kid. Hadn’t talked to him in years and I doubt he’d remember me,” Sean said. “But I know about what happened to him.”

  “Wait. What do you mean you know what happened to him?”

  “I’m not going to use that word again,” Sean said. He looked down at me and gave me a crooked smile. He was stroking my wet hair and I gave him a gentle smile in return. I backed up from him and wiped my teary cheeks. “But I was made to take care of that fella.”

  I blinked up at Sean. “What do you mean, take care of?”

  “Well, there’s something much bigger going on here, Dollars. Much bigger. Than you or me. And I’m swallowed by it. I’m part of it whether I like it or not. And Denny Munn, he was sucked into it too.”

  Sean went over and leaned on the small counter by my sink and hot plate. He started fiddling with my pack of Exports but he didn’t take one out. He looked past me through the open window at the street lamp. Or maybe beyond it. “Fan,” he said, dire seriousness in his voice.

  “Uh-huh,” I said, finally regaining the calm and composure I’d learned to exude with every other client I’d ever had— except for Denny and Sean.

  “If I could tell you exactly what happened to Denny Munn, would you believe me about this thing going on up north? And would you keep it between us? At least until I can figure out how to get out from under the king’s—sorry—under the thumb of this?”

  “I guess so. But I—”

  “First off, did you have anything to do with him—going missing, I mean?”

  I lied. “No. But I remember it. Everyone around here does. He came in to the bar all the time and he was my best-paying client.”

  “Well, when I get sent on these...errands...I can get little glimpses. I can get the whole picture, Fan, so I know that you were talking to Denny. On his last night, I mean.”

  I felt my already sunburned face flush even deeper. I knew Sean saw it.

  “After leaving here,” Sean said, his voice getting so low that I almost couldn’t hear it over the music from downstairs. “A man from Portland took him in his car. That bronze Caddy we all used to see sauntering all over town. You remember it—?”

  I nodded. I thought of that young man who was two-fisting his mandatory pints that January of ’68 or ’69. I’m looking for a feller who’s got lots of money and drives a Caddy, he’d said.

  “Well, they ended up by the cemetery, across the bridge. That man shot Denny in the face and Denny died in the fresh snow. I was sent out there to get Denny. He was deader than a doornail, I can tell you that much.”

  I was quivering. My hands were filled with tremors and I reached for the pack from Sean. “What then? I mean, if he was dead, what happened to him?”

  In the dim light of only that streetlamp shining in on us, I saw Sean run his hand through his thick curly hair. It looked like a deep rust in this light. It was still wet but not dripping. He had this vacant look on him. I once had an uncle who served in the war. When stupid little kids who know nothing of real violence except plastic figurines in the sandbox asked him to tell his war stories, that’s the look he had on his face.

  Sean handed me my cigarettes and said, “I guess you could say he was...repurposed.”

  10.

  I can’t tell you how the rest of that conversation went. It died off, I think, like the fire we’d built at the beach. Both had been a giant heap then burned down to nothing but glowing embers and then only smoking spots of orange and black. We’d kicked sand on the pit at the beach before heading for Frog city, or whatever the dogs didn’t want us to see.

  Even now, thinking of those words of Sean’s, remembering the tame—almost human—animals on that gravel road, I can’t help but shake my head and think it was all a dream. Crazy Sean, he might have been. But I believed him. Somehow, I did. Those dark eyes of his told me he wasn’t pulling my leg. There was no earthly reason he’d have for that.

  And then there was his explanation of what had happened to Denny. That was the kicker. The real tipping point.

  So our conversation dribbled away to nothing but ash, all sparks gone. And I was again seduced by his smell and his body and his gentle nature. We ended up doing what we did best.

  By the time light peered through my open window, we’d made love at least a half-dozen times. I’d climaxed more than any other single stretch in my life—and I’d had some experienced lovers before Sean Ketwood, let me tell you.

  This last one, by the time sunrise was imminent, I was exhausted, but exhilarated. He stuffed a pillow under my ass right at the end and hoisted my legs in the air, nearly spilling me backward and clocking my noggin on the iron rail of my headboard. He was almost in a trance, grinding away like a jackhammer. I squealed at the sudden upheaval. When he finished, he stayed buried in me and held my legs in the air for a few minutes while he panted and dripped his sweat on me, staring down at me like an animal. I didn’t care. I felt amazing. Surely, he couldn
’t want more in another hour.

  After a few minutes, his panting fell away and he did another strange thing. He bent down and took a long draw of my scent, right from the place where he pulled away from me. He gave the room a look as though he was satisfied. His grimace of effort and fatigue drained away and dissolved into one of immense pleasure. He cocked his head and his dark eyes shone in the flickering candlelight. He smiled. And then he turned and collapsed on a heap on the messy mound of sheets beside me.

  This was Sunday morning. We didn’t do breakfast. He left early and headed for the ferry terminal to pick up his wife and his boys. By Thursday of the next week, I was craving Sean again, despite the loopy things he’d told me. Since we’d started, a few weeks ago he’d not missed a week with me until now. It had been eleven in a row. Either Tuesdays, Wednesdays or Thursdays, whenever he could get away, he’d told me. The weekend marathon had been the longest, the weirdest and the best.

  Usually, he came to the bar and asked Johnny for me. Johnny always got me, after telling my prospective clients that he wasn’t my secretary. He was, though. And the arrangement worked for him. He always sold them liquor while they waited or after they were done. A few years back, when I charged less (before my reputation), I would do a few per night. Now it was two, tops. And when Sean came calling, I cleared the decks, because I knew he’d want the whole evening. Multiples, I used to call it. But with Sean, I didn’t use any of those old terms. I didn’t even think of the word, client, in my head when I considered him.

  By the following Saturday, my cravings for Sean had deepened. It was a need. A deep-seated, pressing need.

  I went to Johnny down at the bar and asked him if he’d seen Sean. Duke lifted his head from his cushion but did what he usually did, sniffed the air and went back to his life of leisure. No barking or snapping.