He wondered if Sam Jackson died in that movie.
It’s not a movie though, is it, old boy? This is real fucking life. And if real life has taught you anything, it’s that you’re not Sam Jackson. Not even close. If anything you’re the dopey fat guy who witlessly stumbles into something over his head and gets shot before he even knows what’s going on. A best you’re comic relief. At worst, just gunshot fodder. That’s more likely. You’re never going to be the guy that’s too old for this shit.
Another mile of road down. He hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. She had told him he’d see her. He slowed the truck down some more.
Scatman Crothers in The Shining. That’s something else to consider. A likely hero who knows what’s happening. He valiantly rushes in to save Shelly Duvall and her son and gets axed just as he arrives. Is it a cliche? No. Manipulative maybe. But it was shocking. If anything it subverts expectations. That could just as easily be me. What does it matter if you’re a cliche or not? You’re dead either way.
Did he die in the book, though? I don’t think so. He lives in the mini-series, too.
He was convinced he had missed her, or like she had said, ‘get here before someone else finds me.’ At first he thought she was talking about the cops, but now he wondered.
He was about to turn around and cruise back up the road slower when he saw the smoke.
‘You’ll see me. I promise.’
Fuck.
He punched the gas and raced toward the billowing plume.
He saw the truck first. He rounded a curve and it was maybe a half mile ahead, turned on it’s side off the road and engulfed in flames.
He had a brief window where he wondered if it would explode before a much more pressing thought entered his mind.
What the fuck have I gotten myself into? As cliches went it still didn’t beat I’m getting too old for this shit.
He pulled onto the shoulder and got out, stepping into the open field.
He walked toward the truck, sweating, feeling the heat from yards away.
He saw a girl sitting with her legs crossed Indian-style, watching the truck burn. He knew it was Els, but the girl he saw was so different from what his mind had created, that he almost didn’t recognize her.
The girl he had met that night in Galveston was a delicate but deadly raven-haired femme fatale.
But the girl he found himself walking toward was dirty and beat up, defeated-looking and had brown, mousy hair. She also looked a lot thinner, like she had been used up. She was frail and hurt, like a vole with a broken leg.
He was standing behind her and she still hadn’t noticed him. There was a brown package next to her and she stared off at the burning wreck.
“Hey,” said Elton. Not action-movie-hero dialogue, but it was all he could think of.
She turned to him and he could see the dirt streaked across her face, how it was caked across her bloody sweatshirt and in her hair. She looked like the heroine at the end of the movie, or at least just before the comforting epilogue where the character is cleaned up and returned to her normal life. Maybe walking with a slight limp, but otherwise completely content that everything had been returned to status quo and the world was still safe, thanks to her.
But he didn't think this thing, whatever it was, was over for her. And she certainly didn't seem victorious.
She turned away from him to look back at the flames.
“Els,” you look like shit was the phrase that came to mind, the perfect cliche for the moment, but he thankfully didn’t vocalize it. “We should go before someone sees us.”
“Yeah,” Els said, still watching the truck burn. “I thought it would explode.”
“Yeah, me too. I guess that only happens in the movies.”
Els stuck her hand out. “Help me up? I’m kind of battered.”
Elton took her hand and she groaned as he pulled her up to her feet. “Are you alright? Should I take you to an emergency room?”
“No,” Els said, like the thought had never crossed her mind. There was an odd disconnect between her mind and her body, as if they existed independent of each other. “I just need to rest.” She put an arm around his shoulder and with the other holding the package, she limped through the field and to the Ranger.
“If I just wrecked a truck like that, I think I’d need a little more than rest.”
“I didn’t wreck it. I mean, I did, but I wasn’t driving. I don’t drive.”
“Wait,” Elton stopped walking and Els had to stop too. “Where is the driver, then?”
Els looked at him and then back to the blazing truck. “He’s in there. He died.”
“Fuck me. Are you saying there’s a dead body burning inside that truck?”
“Yes.”
“Was he a friend of yours?”
Els shook her head.
“I think you need to tell me what’s going on.” I can’t, Elton imagined her saying, it would be too dangerous if you knew, you’ll just have to trust me. The situation was prime for cliches.
“I’ll tell you everything, I think you deserve that. Let’s just get in your truck first.”
“Yeah,” Elton agreed. They made their way across the field and to the road. Elton opened her door and she slid the package into the middle of the seat before he helped her inside.
Elton got in and started the truck up.
“What’s in the box?” Elton asked. Brad Pitt. Se7en. Gwyneth Paltrow’s head.
“Nothing,” said Els. “Everything. Something.”
“But you don’t want to know? You don’t want to open it?”
“I don’t want to open it because I do know.”
They were maybe half-a-mile away when the blast thundered behind them.
“Wow, I guess it did explode,” said Elton. That would have been cool to see.”
He looked over at Els, but she was fast asleep in the seat beside him, unstirred by the heavy explosion.
He drove on in silence, back to Port Lavaca, the long clap of eruption still ringing in his ears. Maybe I was wrong, maybe this is more of an action movie than I thought.
FORTY EIGHT
Els’ eyes opened and for a moment the world was a confusing blur before her vision came into focus. She was in a bed in a strange room, afternoon sun shining through the window.
The room was small and the floor was littered with piles of dirty clothes.
There was a poster on the wall held up with brass tacks, Arnold Schwarzenegger before some fuzzy background of bright reds, yellows, and greens, almost neon against a black border. There was a sort of cross hairs with the center over his heart. Arnold was holding an AR15 modified with a grenade launcher, looking off into the distance with stoic determination. The bottom of the poster had the word PREDATOR written across it in big red letters and underneath, in smaller letters, it said Soon the hunt will begin.
Els tried to get up, but the second she tried to move she was overcome with pain. She felt like every bone in her body had been shattered.
She lay back down on the mattress, staring up at the ceiling as the pain subsided.
Over the course of several minutes she managed to pull herself up in a sitting position with her shirt legs dangling over the side of the bed, feet almost touching the floor. Short of breath and beginning to sweat, she pushed herself off the bed and stood. She shut her eyes as the room began to spin around her. It took every ounce of strength she had to remain standing.
She limped across the room to the open bathroom door and rested, clinging to the doorway.
She looked back at the bed, it was calling to her, a siren-song of soft comfort. She couldn’t go back. She thought if she went back to the bed now she may never get back out again.
She went the rest of the way into the bathroom and stood looking into the mirror.
She barely recognized what stared back at her. What was reflected looked small and weak. Dirty.
With great effort she managed to pull her blood-crusted sweat
shirt over her head and drop it on the floor.
She was wearing a black spots bra that almost seemed glued to her.
She managed to pull that off, too, and beneath it was a sheath of bandages wrapped around her. The bandages were soaked through with dried blood, crimson except for yellow stains of pus that had leaked out of her incisions.
She tore the bandages off to reveal the horror of her breasts beneath.
They were blackened and purple with bruises. Grotesque slits at the bottoms, held together by Frankenstein stitches, inflamed and turned an enraged red with infection. The incisions were crusted over and leaking foul yellow pus. She would have to disinfect and re-close the wounds herself.
But first she needed to get clean.
She unbuttoned the fly of her jeans and let them fall from her hips. She stepped out of them and pulled her underwear down, gingerly bending over and stepped into the tub.
As Els was adjusting the hot water in the shower, Elton pulled up in the driveway.
He had been out running errands and he climbed out of the truck carrying various plastic bags.
He had bought some fresh clothes for Els at a Wal-Mart, a couple of T-shirts and some sweatpants with the word Juicy written across the seat. He also got her some medical supplies, bandages, antibiotic ointment, a flesh colored brace to wrap her sprained ankle, along with a whole roast chicken, coleslaw, potato salad, a bottle of gin and some Collins mix. He wasn’t sure what else she would need, tampons or hair conditioner, but he would get it for her gladly. He almost wished she would ask him to get her some Tampax or Kotex pads or something, so he could hand them over and show her how comfortable he was with it. It’s just like, a bodily function, you know? No big deal. Whatever. He felt a rush of excitement mixed with his need to care for her. The was something extraordinary about this girl, this woman whom he had witnessed beat a man to death in a motel room before vanishing into another country without a second thought, only to return with cryptic phone calls and blazing trucks that exploded behind her as she road away without bothering to look back.
He went inside and set the food and glass bottles down on his kitchen table. He went to his room where he had left her sleeping and discovered that the bed was empty. His heart skipped a beat and he briefly wondered if she had fled before he heard the shower running in the bathroom.
He was amazed that she had gotten out of bed at all. Her condition, he would have guessed she would be unable to even sit up for days.
Goddamn she was tough. Almost inhumanly so.
He laid the clothes on her bed along with the medical supplies. That would be a nice surprise, he thought, having some new clean clothes to put on. He hoped they fit.
He was wondering whether there were any clean towels in the bathroom when he noticed the package that Els had been carrying. He had cleared off a spot on his night stand beside the bed for it. He hadn’t thought about it really, but now. . .
He walked around the bed, to the table and picked it up. It had a weight to it, whatever was inside was solid. He wanted to shake it like a kid with a Christmas present before the twenty-fifth, but he thought better of it and put it back down. He turned to walk away but something compelled him to lift the package again. He brought it up to his nose and inhaled.
Something, a very vague scent. Something unpleasant he couldn’t immediately identify.
And then all thoughts of what could be in the box vanished from his mind as he looked into the bathroom.
She had left the door open a crack and from where he was standing he could see her reflection in the mirror as she stood under the water, arms out, bracing herself against the shower wall.
He knew it was wrong to look, but he couldn’t resist. Something overwhelmingly male in him overrode any sense of decency he had.
So he looked, and immediately wished he hadn’t. And it wasn’t because he recognized the invasion of privacy, it was because he saw her body, what had been done to it. Her breasts. It was awful, although he wasn’t quiet sure what he was seeing.
He was suddenly filled with a great fear that overshadowed his concern.
Who had done this to her? He wondered. And what would they do to him if they found out where she was?
He thought about their conversation from the day before, how she promised to tell him what had happened to her. He suddenly did not want to know. He didn’t want to know at all.
The mirror fogged over with steam and he left the room.
Later, after Els was cleaned and dressed, her wounds tended to and her ankle wrapped up in the brace, they sat down to eat. Elton had to help her across the apartment to the table. He recommended she return to bed, but Els refused.
She attacked the chicken ravenously, eating most of it herself. Elton watched her eat and felt a great pity swell inside of him. She had obviously been through more than he would ever understand, or even want to, and he felt guilty eating a single drumstick and some coleslaw.
But there was plenty of Tom Collins and they drank big glasses with ice. Elton wished he had picked up some cherries to garnish the drink with.
And when they were done eating, the ravaged chicken carcass on the table between them, Elton refilled their drinks and asked her a question he had asked on the night they first met.
“So, what happens now?”
Els was silent and she shrugged painfully and took a long drink from her glass.
She knows, thought Elton. She just doesn’t want to say. Doesn’t want me to know.
But he had seen a brief spark light up her eyes like a cheap Bic lighter struck with low fuel, and that spark said it all. There was burning in that look, murder, revenge in that look. And he knew she would more than likely have it.
“It’s not that I don’t want you here,” Elton explained. “On the contrary, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. It’s just that I don’t think you’ll be here for so long. Like maybe you have something unfinished.”
“Yes,” said Els. “I have something that desperately needs finishing, but right now I have to rest. You’re very nice to put me up like this. If I could do something to pay you back, I would, but I don’t think I’ll get the chance.”
“What does that mean?” Elton blurted out before he could stop himself.
“It means I’m out. Of everything. I have nothing left. It’s been taken away from me and I’ll never get it back. Not even time. But it’s okay. I understand it now. There’s so little left inside of me right now that all I have to do is one thing, and I’m going to do it. You asked me what’s next. I don’t think you want to know, but I’m going back to Mexico when I can. I’m going to finish something that was started. I’m going to end it.”
Elton stared into her eyes. How could a person say things like that so calmly and still be sane? he wondered. This was not the first time he had questioned her sanity. He looked away from her, down at the table as he suddenly realized he was more than a little afraid of her.
“In any case,” he said, “I’m glad you’re here. I hope that while you stay here you realize that you’re wrong. You haven’t lost everything. You have me. And if there’s anything you need. Anything at all, I’ll try and get it for you.”
A single tear rolled down Els’ cheek and she wiped it away with a finger. “Why can’t they all be as good as you, Elton?”
She stared down at the ripped open chicken, bones and tufts of meat clinging to it. She thought of Eliana dead and gutted on the floor of a cheap apartment.
FORTY NINE
Five weeks passed. Thirty-five days. In them Elton felt a certain anxiety lifted away. He no longer feared retroaction for his role in the death and disappearance of the cowboy. And that was an odd thing because he had a constant reminder of his ill deeds living in his home and sleeping in his bed.
But Els being there made him feel safer somehow. He was ambivalent and the fear he felt was equaled and often surpassed by the comfort she provided. He knew she was dangerous, and that it was not only dangero
us but almost willfully reckless to harbor her, but he needed to be close to her, needed to care for her the way a person may feel inclined to care for a rattlesnake with a broken back. She was deadly, but she was fragile. He could care for her until the time came when she slithered away, back to poison, and eat, and maim the world that she twined herself around.
The dichotomy would be enough to tear most in half, but he ignored it. He cherished her company.
Elton had no friends, only relationships that would qualify as acquaintances, and, though not a virgin, he had never had a romantic connection with a woman for any significant length of time. Not that he had romantic feelings toward Els, but even if he did, they would be so twisted in his role as caregiver and his knowledge of her lethal essence that he would hardly recognize them.
He made breakfast, lunch, and dinner for her every day. He cooked spaghetti.
She said little and they often passed the days in silence, sitting outside in the sun, in plastic deck chairs.
He showed her movies in the evenings from his collection. Elton bought cheap bottles of merlot and shiraz that they drank from fast food promotional cups, Lord of the Rings and ‘90s Batman movies.
She liked animated movies and he showed her Shrek and Toy Story 3.
He played classics for her like Lawrence of Arabia, Ace in the Hole, Night of the Hunter, and Treasure of the Seirra Madre. She never complained or asked him to take out the movies, but he could tell she didn’t like the older ones, the latter of the list caused her to grind her teeth audibly, especialy the group of Mexican banditos. We don’t need no stinking badges.
He put in action movies, The long Kiss Goodnight, The Professional, Kill Bill, an ‘80s exploitation flick called Ms .45 that she seemed to particulaerly enjoy.
One night he put in Perdita Durango.
They sat on his futon, sipping room-temperature wine from thin plastic cups, the bluish glow from his boxy television the only source of light. They watched until a point early on in the film when Javier Bardem, in a bizarre Santeria ritual, dances wildly amid a circle of equally-mad onlookers and rips open a huge packet of cocaine and buries his face in it before carving up a corpse with a machete.
Mules:: A Novel Page 24
