When she finished her shift she’d get Jim a present. A candy bar or an ice cream. Maybe even get Perry something, too. A magazine. A box of condoms. She laughed to herself. It was good to be able to laugh about shit that wasn’t under your control. And she’d treat herself, too: a six-pack. She could already hear the way the bottles clinked against each other, could see the way the sun would catch the amber bottles just so. And why not? She’d drank the other night, had, with the help of her new friend, finished off all the beer in the fridge. And she felt like a new woman. So la-di-da, she thought to herself.
La-di-da. They were like magic words or something, because no sooner had Myra thought them than the man she’d been thinking of as well walked through the door, in a different sleeveless shirt this time, a blank electric blue. The electronic bells chimed and he stopped, half in and half out, looking up like he’d be able to see them up there.
“Well, hey, Pete,” Myra called over to him. She was behind the counter, working at facing all the bills in the drawer the same way, organizing the coins into little even piles in their trays.
“Hey,” he said, walking over. Myra could see that his shirt was the mesh kind, the kind football players wore, or bodybuilders. Or rednecks. He didn’t seem surprised to see her, but then again she’d probably told him where she worked. Or he’d seen her before. This was the only truck stop on this side of the highway for miles. Why was she trying so hard to convince herself he hadn’t been meaning to see her?
He was right at the counter now. Myra could smell lotion on him, Jergens, the same kind she used after a bath. He was the type to wear mesh sleeveless shirts and lotion himself up, an odd mix of vanities. It sent a little flare, a fiery wing, right up through her, knowing this about him.
“What can I do you for?” This was a saying she’d often heard Marshall use, a saying she hated. Marshall was the other cashier on busy mornings, a small man in huge glasses, his waxy fingers and effeminate voice also not doing him any favors. What can I do you for? It was like his shield, stopped customers in their tracks, usually made them smile. And now Myra was using it. What had gotten into her? She was not attracted to this man, this pudgy boy, as far as she knew. But she also knew that she wanted him to be attracted to her.
“I’m just here for some gas,” he said.
“And to see me?” she said, before she could stop herself. Still, it felt dangerous, the fun kind of dangerous, blurting things at this stranger. Seeing how he’d react.
“Well, of course,” he said. He put his elbows on the counter, leaned over. A gold cross on a thin chain, a woman’s necklace, really, spilled out of his shirt. In the clear light of day Myra could see how that cleft scar had made his upper lip look unnaturally full. She imagined kissing it, imagined it moving around her body like a bloated earthworm. She smiled to herself.
“You happy to see me?” he asked. Myra considered it. No, she didn’t feel happy. His presence made her nervous, the way she used to feel before Jim, when every man that came through the truck stop seemed like a real possibility. She liked having that back in her life, Lord help her.
“Not as happy as you are to see me, I see,” Myra answered, mirroring the close-lipped smile he wore, trying to look as confident as he did.
“I’m always happy to see pretty ladies,” he said, tucking the cross back inside his shirt.
Myra laughed. “You’re up to your elbows in bullshit, boy,” she said, but she knew it was clear he’d flattered her. Breaking her down inch by inch. Baby steps. Who used to say that? Jim. About her not drinking. Be patient, Myra. Baby steps. Thinking of him now was like seeing a fly drowned in your beer glass. It tainted the whole thing. The light coming in through the windows even seemed dulled by it, less sharp, less pleasing.
Pete spoke, and Myra snapped out of it, though she hadn’t heard him.
“I was asking if your daughter got to school this morning,” he said.
“So she said,” Myra answered. This man-boy was attracted to her daughter, that was clear. The thought didn’t alarm Myra. If he wanted to try something with Perry he’d have another think coming. Instead, she was starting to feel put off, like she was the momma he had to be polite to in order to get anywhere with her daughter. Like she was just something he had to get past.
“You sure do like asking about my daughter,” Myra said. Fun dangerous.
He backed up, straightened. “I’m just making small talk,” he said. “Plus you said how you worry about her, how she lies all the time.”
Myra didn’t remember saying anything like that. She also didn’t quite remember how she ended up in the bathtub, so it was possible. It was something she often thought about Perry, and so might very well confess it if she was relaxed enough. She walked from behind the counter, pretended to wipe down the doughnut case again. She wanted Pete to ask her about her, was what it really came down to. And because of that, she wanted him to leave. No longer the fun kind of dangerous, having these thoughts.
“These doughnuts sure do look good,” he said. “They look like just the thing.”
She didn’t remember telling him she worked here. And yet here he was, stopping in for a visit. What else didn’t she remember saying? Doing?
He moved toward her, putting his hand over her hand, which was on the door handle. He didn’t even use the wax paper, just reached in with his bare hand and took a glazed and a strawberry frosted, put his finger through their holes and held them up, stacked one on top of the other. Myra didn’t know if she was supposed to see something sexual in what he’d done, his finger in the holes, but she felt hot all over, she felt the flood of fever that always started a hangover. So here it was.
The phone was ringing, it was already past the second ring now. The sun had pulled up its ties. The truck stop looked dingy, tired. The smell of gasoline everywhere. The rag in Myra’s hand felt oily. The mercy had been fleeting.
“Ain’t you going to get that?” Pete asked.
She realized it was the perfect way to get rid of him, to answer the phone and tend to whoever it was with such thoroughness that he had no choice but to leave her to it. She walked around the counter, lifted up the receiver. “Byron’s Truck Stop, Myra speaking,” she said, forcing a shard of cheeriness into her voice.
“Myra, it’s me,” Jim said.
Now the fever spread into her hair, claiming her scalp. Jim never called her at work, not ever, he’d drive over sooner than he’d pick up the phone. She put her hand up to her mouth, she felt something coming and wanted to be able to hold it in. Pete took a bite from the stack on his finger.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, that shard of cheeriness in her gut now, slicing her up. “Where is she?”
“Dayna got caught stealing,” he said. “Perry threw something at a cashier. They’re both in the holding tank.”
His voice was flat, bored even, but Myra knew he was doing that for her benefit. Pete was at the counter now, obviously listening to her conversation. A blue sprinkle clung to his lip. Myra wanted to push it into the dent of his scar. Why wouldn’t he leave?
“I’m on my way over there,” Jim was saying. “You stay put. I’ll take care of it.”
“Let her stay there,” Myra heard herself saying. “Let her stay there a night.” The more she spoke, the more sure she felt about it. Pete mouthed, Where? The sprinkle fell to the counter. Arrested, Myra mouthed back. She wanted to shock him, wanted him to leave her be. His mouth opened wide, like he was shocked and impressed.
“You don’t mean that, Myra,” Jim said, in the same bored voice. “It ain’t a place for no teenage girl.”
Pete had walked over to the doughnut case, was working the doughnuts off his finger and into a bag. Myra watched him fog the glass door with his breath, write I O U with his fingertip.
Fuck you, she wanted to say. Two birds with one stone. Instead she said, “I don’t know what I mean.”
Pete waved, walked out, the doughnut bag swinging from his fingers.
“I’ll call you when I know more,” Jim said, and hung up.
In those first few years with Jim, they never hung up without saying Love you. It was as natural, as automatic, as saying Bye-bye. They hadn’t said it in years. Even so, every time they hung up Myra felt like something was missing, had been forgotten. And maybe that’s why Jim never called her. He felt it, too.
A woman came in asking for baby wipes. At the counter she apologized, she only had quarters to pay with. Myra took them, dropped them into the tray, didn’t even try to stack them. She felt something give, right then. It was just easier, not having to pretend like everything was finally wonderful. She threw the rag away, and that felt good, too.
JAMEY THREW THE BAG of doughnuts out the window of his momma’s car. He could still feel the wax coating his mouth from the bite he’d taken earlier. Perry’s momma was a freak. That farty smell coming off her: the beer seeping out her pores. The way she asked him questions that fed him the answers she wanted from him. And to see me? But it had paid off, he knew where Perry was, knew why Dayna hadn’t ever texted him. They were busted, sitting in a holding cell, waiting on Daddy Jim to come save them. Probably watching some nasty hooker on the toilet. He pictured Dayna crying, her face in her shirt, and Perry refusing to meet anyone’s eye, refusing to eat what food they pushed at her.
He felt closer to Perry than ever. It wasn’t just coincidence that he was there when the call came in. He was meant to be there, meant to be staring into her momma’s tired eyes as the news was delivered. They shared something now, he and Perry. He wondered did she feel the same helpless rage at being caged in, the same dedication to showing the guards she wasn’t no idiot, saw right through them, was the smart one in the bunch. He was willing to bet that she did.
But she’d only be in there a few hours. And what with Jim being her daddy she’d probably never face charges, either. Jamey pulled into the parking lot out front of the courthouse. The holding cells were in the basement. He parked his car under a tree, the shade across his windshield, hiding him, so he could watch them come through the door.
And here was Jim now, walking out the doors, his hand on the back of his neck. No Perry, no Dayna. He watched Jim all the way till he was in his truck, all the way till he drove out of the parking lot, signaled, and was gone.
So maybe he did leave them there, after all, like Perry’s momma had said. Left them there to think about what they done, stew in it overnight. Only then did Jamey recognize the relief he felt: He wouldn’t have to decide whether to get out, pull his hat low, walk right past Jim. Dare him. The front of his pants got tight. Pretty soon he’d have to see about that.
BABY GIRL HAD SHAVED the rest of her head. Had taken cloth scissors and a men’s razor in an orange plastic shell off the shelves, had walked into the back, into the employee bathroom, and set to work. What a stupid fucking thing to do. Real dramatic. And she’d even looked right at the lady at the pharmacy counter, saw the lady begin to smile, saw her notice the scissors and the razor, saw her face melt into the tired recognition that something wasn’t right. Knew she’d been seen, kept walking anyway. Stupid.
But in the moment it had felt right, had felt like something that could scare people. Herself, even.
And now she had gotten what she asked for. She was scared. She and Perry were in a cell with three other women. Grown women. One of them was flat on her back, one arm across her eyes, her skirt bunched up so you could see that she wasn’t wearing no underwear. What she had down there was bald also. Swollen and red. Mean.
It hadn’t taken long, that was another shock. Just three chunky snips with the scissors, then a handful of neatly mown rows with the razor. Baby Girl had watched her own face as she worked, but nothing was all that different. Except she could see more of her face, there wasn’t no hiding it. Her lips outlined in brown, like someone had taped a drawing of lips to her face. Like she was mouth first, everything else second. Her phone had gone off, a text coming in. She knew it was probably Perry, impatient as always, ready to go on to the next thing. But there wasn’t no plan, Baby Girl didn’t have no ideas. She’d cashed in her one big idea moments ago, her hair just a pile now, something she could leave behind. And then someone had banged on the door.
“Look,” Perry said. She and Baby Girl were on their asses in the corner, so nothing and no one could get behind them. Perry nudged her, cocked her chin at the lady on her back.
“I fucking saw,” Baby Girl whispered, shaking Perry’s hand off her arm. When she’d gotten into the car next to Perry she’d seen that Perry was heaving, trying to cry, a sight she hadn’t ever seen before. It felt like a gift or something, knowing Perry could feel bad enough to cry. Or at least to want to cry. I texted Jim, she’d said, her voice a screechy whisper.
But now there wasn’t no sign of tears, fake or not. Perry had even managed to clean up all the mascara she’d rubbed into rings around her eyes, and it came to Baby Girl that the crying was just Perry feeling sorry for herself, not nothing deeper than that.
It had been a black cop at the door. “Make yourself decent and open this fucking door,” he’d said. When Baby Girl opened the door she saw that he looked nicer than he sounded, and that he had pinkish bubbles in a cluster on one cheek. Zits. “I was going to clean this shit up,” she told him, but it didn’t matter, he took her by the elbow. Yanked her through the store.
“It fucking smells,” Perry said. A homeless woman was in a lump in the corner, brown all over. The cell smelled like Charles when he forgot to wipe. Earlier a cockroach had come running out from behind her. Perry had smashed it with the heel of her foot, kicked it under the cot.
“You two whores?” This came from the third woman in the cell. She’d been braiding and unbraiding her hair, over and over, leaning against the bars. Bruises all over her legs and arms. “You two seem young, but then again I seen it all. You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.” The strap to her top kept falling down. If it could even be called a top. It was more like a dingy suggestion, an attempt.
“Yeah, we are,” Perry said.
The woman on her back took her arm away from her eyes, propped herself up on her elbows. “No you ain’t,” she said.
“How you know?” Perry asked.
“Yeah, how you know?” Baby Girl said. She felt naked, revealed, sitting in this cell with her bald head. She’d expected it to grant her power, like a crystal ball or some shit. She couldn’t let these women take over.
“You ever put your toe in a guy’s asshole?” the woman on her back asked.
“You ever let a guy twist your arm behind your back while you’re doing it?” the lady at the bars asked. “You ever let a guy use a flashlight on you?”
The woman on her back pushed up into a sitting position. “You ever been stabbed in the thigh and pretend to the next guy that you just on your period?”
“Jesus Christ,” Baby Girl said. She couldn’t help it. The women laughed, even the brown lump.
“How much?” the lady at the bars asked.
“How much what?” Perry asked.
“How much you charge? How much you do?”
“We do everything,” Perry said. “Rates start at twenty-five to touch it.”
The women laughed again. “Y’all must be poor as shit then,” the woman at the bars said. “Ain’t no one going to pay that much just for you to touch it.” Her voice got whiny, imitating Perry.
“They do if you pretend like you twelve,” the lady on the floor said. “That what y’all do? Show up sucking on a lollipop and twirling your hair and calling them Daddy?”
“This one don’t even have no hair,” the lump said.
“She makes more than I do,” Perry said. “Because she’s like a boy-girl. They love that shit.”
“I’ll bet,” the lump answered, and all the women laughed.
Touch it. It. In Baby Girl’s mind it was a weapon, an animal that could play dead till you weren’t looking and then bam, you were in trouble. In her mind it wa
s a tiny baseball bat, a bunless hot dog. It filled with blood when aroused, she had learned that in sex ed. A blood-filled hot-dog-shaped balloon animal. It was absurd, you could almost laugh if you weren’t such a no-touching-it virgin. The extent of Baby Girl’s experience was the time she had let one of Charles’s friends take her for a ride on her own bicycle. She sat on the handlebars while he teetered them through the neighborhood, winding farther and farther away from the house, until they were back where the new houses had started being built. Behind a yellow dune of sand the boy had reached under her shirt, pinched and twisted her nipples. You ain’t wearing no bra, he’d said. Baby Girl hadn’t known how to respond, what to say, had let him gently push her until she was diagonal, her back sinking into the dune, had let him unzip her jeans and reach down into her underwear and pinch and twist there, too. Had let him rest on top of her, had let him grind the hard front of his jeans into her until he shuddered and stopped and rolled off. Baby Girl wondered was he her boyfriend now, this boy she’d seen picking his nose, this boy who’d even farted in front of her, one morning after he’d stayed the night in Charles’s bedroom. This boy who didn’t seem like he’d be getting no taller, which was a shame. “Hey, look,” the boy said. He was holding up a yellow rubber snake he’d found by the dune. He whipped it at her, hitting her on the arm. He laughed. The sky was pinkening behind him, the sting in her arm getting sharper before it began to wane. Baby Girl wondered when the kissing would start, but he just hopped on her bike, barely waited for her to get on, too. Back at the house the boy had gone into Charles’s room, and soon after, they’d left. Baby Girl watching television, working hard to focus on the program instead of the rawness she felt in her underwear. She and the boy never spoke about it and it never happened again. The next time she saw the boy he had his arm around a young black girl, twice his size. Then Charles had his accident and after that who the fuck cares about no boyfriend?
Ugly Girls Page 9
