The Passenger

by Lisa Lutz

  “Purple?”

  “I tried them once. It was disturbing.”

  The first time I tried to stick those cruel craters into my eyes, my body revolted in convulsions, then tears. Blue served me a shot of whiskey and told me to take a couple deep breaths. I steeled myself for the task, yet again, and managed to shove those blue lies over my bloodshot golden browns. I looked in the mirror and saw someone else. It wasn’t Blue, but it also wasn’t me anymore. It felt deeply wrong, almost as wrong as I felt digging Jack’s grave. Changing your hair color is like putting on makeup. It’s a cheat, but a fair one. Altering your DNA, turning brown eyes to blue, is a deceit, and one you’d be reminded of every time you looked in the mirror.

  Blue made up my face like her driver’s license photo, which had been taken when she still lacquered on war paint as if she were on a high-stakes hunt for a husband. Sharp black eyeliner, gray eye shadow, crimson lips, and rose blush.

  Blue stepped back and regarded her painting. She sighed with deep satisfaction.

  “Almost done,” Blue said, rifling through her bag. “We just have a few practical matters to sort out. Here’s Debra Maze’s birth certificate and social. You’ll need that for a driver’s license. Now go get the pink slip for your Toyota. Tanya Dubois needs to sell Amelia Keen her car. It was risky for you to change the title before, but I think we’re safe now.”

  “And what am I supposed to drive, your VW Crime Scene?”

  “That’s a good point. I’ll get rid of that car. You take the old lady’s Cadillac.”

  “It’s not the best car for blending in, Blue.”

  “But it’s a beauty, isn’t it? I wish I could keep it for myself, but practically speaking you need to take the car because it’s mine. Myrna signed it over to me a few months ago during a lucid moment. The title is in your new name, so it’s your car.”

  “What does it get, like fifteen miles to the gallon?”

  “Twenty on highways,” Blue said. “Why are you harping on minor details and such? Trade it in when you get settled. It’s in mint condition. It’ll get you where you need to go. And I’ll throw in a little cash just to cover the fuel.”

  We retrieved the pink slips for both vehicles, swapped names, swapped cars, and Blue gave me five hundred in cash. The paperwork was complete. It was time to say good-bye.

  We walked outside to the car and Blue retrieved the gun she’d used on Jack. She put it in the glove compartment of the Cadillac.

  “What’s that for?” I said.

  “It’s a parting gift,” Blue said.

  “I don’t need a gun.”

  “Take it,” she said. “It’s a dangerous world out there, Debra Maze.”

  As I drove away, the realization came into full relief. I had just taken over the identity of a felon, with the murder weapon sitting right in my glove compartment.

  March 22, 2010

  To: Jo

  From: Ryan

  Jo,

  I’ve probably written this twenty times, scrapped it, and started over again. It shouldn’t be this hard. At least it shouldn’t be harder than anything else that has transpired between us.

  I’m engaged. There, I did it.

  You don’t know her. She’s not connected to anyone from our past. I’m trying to anticipate the questions you might have. It’s a game I’m playing. How well do I know you? Let’s see how I do.

  I met her on a vacation last year in Hawaii. I didn’t tell you about that, I know. It didn’t seem right, me on a tropical island and you wherever you are—I’m betting on Wisconsin. I was miserable the entire time. Drunk by the swimming pool, starting each day with coffee and bourbon. I fell asleep under the blazing sun. She walked over to me, drizzled sunscreen on my chest in the shape of a happy face. When I woke up, she said, “You’re turning into a lobster. But now you’re a happy lobster,” and walked away.

  She’s a schoolteacher in Idaho, but she’s moving out here. I know it would be better for me to go to her, but I feel like I have to stay, to stand guard and make sure that people do what they’re supposed to do.

  She’s blond and, yes, she’s pretty. Not beautiful, just easy on the eyes. She has rosy cheeks and gray eyes and perpetually chapped lips that she’s always gnawing on. I know you want to know other things, but those are the questions you wouldn’t ask. You would think it was undignified, so even though I can imagine your voice posing inquiries, I don’t think I’ll answer them.

  Aside from being a schoolteacher, she’s a churchgoer, knitter, baker, and charitably minded. I can see your face right now, as you’re reading this. She’s not you. Don’t be offended by that. I couldn’t be with anyone who reminded me of you because I’m already reminded of you more than I can manage.

  Here’s all that matters: She’s sweet and kind and I feel like I can trust her. And she seems to be able to live with the fact that I’m a bit of a shell. When she sees my mind wandering, she doesn’t ask me what I’m thinking. I’ve found that’s the single most important trait I could ask for in a woman.

  There, I told you.

  I’m starting to wonder about continuing this thing we have. Isn’t it time we played the cards we were dealt?

  Yours,

  R

  April 29, 2010

  To: Ryan

  From: Jo

  Fuck. Well, congratulations. I’ve just celebrated with five shots of bourbon. Whenever I need to drink myself into oblivion, I’m always kinda grateful that I married a barkeep.

  Your wife sounds perfect. So, Carnac the Magnificent, here are some very basic questions of mine that you failed to answer. What is the name of your betrothed? And, do you love her? But I have so many more questions than that. What gives you the right to get married, to try to be happy, after what you’ve done? Shouldn’t there be a penance of some kind? Three people died that day, not two. My only consolation, the thing that eases my envy—that word seems so small for what this is. The only thing that gives me comfort is knowing that you’re not you. That She, whatever her name is, will never know you like I did, the old you, the you that was kind and sweet and had a bigger heart than anyone I ever knew. I used to think you were better than everyone. Now I could pick a dozen souls out on the street that surely surpass you in integrity.

  Yes, I’m being cruel. But every day you don’t tell the truth, you are being even crueler.

  Jo

  June 20, 2010

  To: Jo

  From: Ryan

  I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. I did what I had to, but I’m still sorry. I will be sorry every day for the rest of my days. I gave up living for six years because of you. It’s a long life. Don’t we all deserve just a bit of comfort? To answer your question, yes, I love her. It’s a different kind of love. If she broke my heart, I’d stay the same. Do you know what I mean? Not like the last time.

  R

  July 2, 2010

  To: Ryan

  From: Jo

  I didn’t break your heart. You broke mine. Now twice.

  Good luck with your life. I wish you the best. I really do. I think maybe I’ll leave you alone for a while. You’re right, it is a long life and this is not how I want to live it.

  Good-bye.

  Jo

  Debra Maze

  Chapter 8

  * * *

  IT was only as I sailed out of Austin in that gas-guzzling American classic that more doubts and questions compounded in my brain. Looking at my reflection in the rearview mirror, I still wondered whether a new life was possible. Could I really pull off being Ms. Debra Maze? Or was this just some long con that Blue had figured from the moment she laid eyes on my foolish soul at May’s Well?

  The Cadillac handled like a boat on the calm seas. After a few hours of sailing away from that sorry mess of Tanya Dubois and Amelia Keen, my memory of other failed attempts to start anew faded just enough for my sense of hope to come back to life. I gazed at myself once again and tried to believe it was possible. I was going to be wh
oever the hell I wanted to be.

  Before I departed, when my brain was still a jumbled mess of suspicion and fear, Blue gave me the lowdown on acquiring a teaching position with her credentials.

  “By the way,” she said all casually, “if you get a job, they’re going to want your fingerprints.”

  “I can’t be fingerprinted, Blue. You know that,” I said.

  “But my prints are still clean,” she said, sliding an official-looking card out of an envelope.

  Black fingerprints, swirls in various forms, dotted the cards.

  “I’ve done some preliminary research. I think it would be unwise to teach in Ohio, where I taught. But in Wyoming, they just mail the fingerprint cards to you. If you get a job, then they’ll instruct you where to go to get printed officially. You’re bound to find someplace where they’re lax with the rules. Maybe you can deliver these prints straight to the principal, or maybe when you’re being printed at the police station you can swap out the card at some point. I gave you five cards. You have five chances to beat the system.”

  “And if that doesn’t work?”

  “I’d try one of those private Christian schools. They don’t have the same appreciation for government protocol as public schools. Any other questions?”

  “Yeah. These cards are for Wyoming. Will they transfer to any state?”

  “No, sweetheart,” Blue said. I can’t remember when she stopped calling me Amelia or Tanya, but it felt sudden and deliberate.

  “So, the only way this plan works out is if I go to Wyoming. I don’t have a choice of destinations?”

  That was the one thing about being on the run that appealed to me, leaving town and just randomly choosing a new home off of a map.

  “I think that’s the best place to beat the system. Besides, Jackson is nice this time of year,” said Blue.

  “How do you know?”

  “I went there on my honeymoon,” she said.

  It sounded like Blue had thought this through, but she had the gift of conviction, a salesman’s heart.

  THERE WASN’T one direct artery from Austin, Texas, to Jackson, Wyoming. Every few hours I had to consult my map to make sure I was headed in the right direction. I got a late start my first day on the road. I drove until my eyes betrayed me and I began to see flashing red lights in my rearview mirror. I found a rest stop and slept until dawn. I drove another full day, under a bright sun passing through the untamed mountains of Colorado. I stopped for gas every few hours, worked the kinks out of my back and legs, and kept going until I reached Casper, Wyoming. I checked the temperature gauge the entire ride, certain that my antique vehicle would overheat in the mountains. The old lady must have treated her Cadillac with great kindness over the years. It was as reliable a ride as anything else I’ve driven, but not easy to handle on mountain roads. By the time I got to Casper, I decided I could use a proper bed for the night. I found a cheap motel called the Friendly Ghost Inn. I picked up a bag of pretzels and a soda for supper from the corner shop and retired to my room. I took a shower and stared at my new self in the mirror. The image staring back at me was so startling it was like waking up again. I couldn’t sleep just then, so I decided to test the waters of my new identity.

  I left my stale motel room and walked down the main road until I found a bar that looked like the kind of place you could get lost in. It was one of those sports bars with a cheap menu and expensive TVs. It was called Sidelines. I figured the patrons would be too interested in the games to bother with me. But I also figured since it was a notch above a dive, there was at least a chance I’d get ID’d, and I could take mine out for a spin.

  An older gentleman was behind the bar. He had the kind of nose that let you know he’d sampled a fair share of his product in his day. A knot of high-volume men gathered in the back, playing pool and clocking the baseball game that was broadcast from the corner of the room.

  I sat down at the bar next to a woman who looked like she’d forgotten her own name a few hours ago. I always had a policy when I worked at Frank’s bar to tuck a woman in a cab long before she reached the point of no return.

  “Welcome, darling, can I see some ID?”

  I slipped Blue’s Ohio driver’s license out of my wallet and slid it across the bar. I felt my heart beat strong inside my chest, but then the old man slid it right back and said, “You’re far from home.”

  I took a breath to settle my nerves and said, “Road trip.”

  “What can I get you?”

  There was that decision again. Did I change my habits to adapt to my new person or were these details ultimately trivial? Fuck it. There was time enough to figure out who Debra Maze was. Right now, I needed a whiskey.

  “Whiskey, neat.”

  “Well okay?”

  “Sure,” I said. I was pinching pennies these days.

  “Name’s Hal,” the bartender said as he served my drink. “Holler if you need anything.” Then he winked. It looked sinister, but I believe his intent was friendly. A wink is a difficult gesture to master and yet practiced by volumes of men who lack the panache to pull it off.

  The lady a few bar stools away rested her head on the splintered wood and began to snore. I heard a man in the corner give some kind of doglike yelp after he failed to make his shot.

  Then some other male voice shouted, “Blondie, come here and bring me some luck.”

  Another man said, “Leave the woman be.”

  Yet another voice in the low register said, “A woman like that should not be sitting alone.”

  I took inventory of the bar to see whom the men might be speaking of. Other than a short phase in junior high school, after my mother gave me a brutal perm, I’d never been unsightly. I’ve heard myself described as pretty, handsome, easy on the eyes. But the only two men who ever thought I was truly beautiful were my daddy and Ryan; I don’t believe I heard it after they were gone, even from Frank when he was courting me in that mild manner in which he courted. Only one other woman was in the bar besides me and the sleeping one. I couldn’t comment on her looks; she was wearing a cumbersome neck brace, which is hardly an accessory that invites flirtation.

  I’d never gotten the chance to turn Amelia Keen into a real person. She was still just a little bit more than a shell when I shed that disguise. And here I was again, trying on a new disguise that felt about as natural as that powdered orange juice I used to drink as a child.

  One man unhitched himself from the knot of pool players and approached the bar. He was tall and lean and a bit weather-beaten, like an actor in an old western. His long-sleeved shirt retreated to his elbows, revealing the trail of a tribal tattoo that probably snaked up his entire torso, like overgrown ivy.

  Hal was serving another customer, so the man reached over the bar, took a bottle of whiskey—better than the stuff I was drinking—and poured himself a shot. He let the bottle hover over my cordial glass.

  “Can I buy you another?” Tribal Tattoo said.

  “Looks like you’re stealing another,” I said.

  “Hal knows I’m good for it.”

  “But I don’t know what you’re good for,” I said.

  “That’s because you’ve known me for less than a minute. I need at least two for a deep, personal connection.” The man refilled my drink and dropped a twenty on the bar. “This seat taken?”

  “No,” I said. Because the seat wasn’t taken, not because I wanted to encourage the man. I’ve never quite figured out a way to answer that question honestly and gain the desired result (man not sitting down). This time, it didn’t make any difference; Tribal Tattoo sat down before I had time to respond.

  He shoved his shirtsleeve above his elbow and lifted his glass to toast. “Bottoms up,” he said.

  I clinked his glass because the last time I didn’t clink a strange man’s glass, he called me a bitch and things got out of hand. Sometimes it’s easier to be agreeable, as long as the demands are reasonable. I’m generally willing to clink glasses with anyone, but
I draw the line in other places.

  “I hope you don’t think I’m being forward, but you have the most . . . striking blue eyes I’ve ever seen.”

  “Thank you,” I said, keeping my gaze on the bar.

  Men are so easily drawn to fake things.

  “I’m sure you hear that all the time.”

  “Nope,” I said. “That would be the first.”

  Tribal Tattoo thought I was being droll and laughed. “You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?”

  I took a sip of my whiskey and said, “Thanks for the drink.”

  One of the guys playing pool shouted, “Hey, Your Majesty, you’re up.”

  “Next game,” His Majesty said.

  I offered a quizzical gaze and waited for an explanation.

  “Name’s King,” he said, with a note of tedium. “King Domenic Lowell. Just call me Domenic.”

  He extended his hand; I shook it. He had a warm firm grip, but nothing showy.

  “That’s quite a name to live up to.”

  “Tell me about it,” he said. “Now, what’s your name?”

  This used to be the easiest question under the sun. Now it was like a riddle trapped in a lockbox. I’d given the bartender my Debra ID, but I still wasn’t certain this one would stick and I had to wonder whether it was wise tossing around a name that might be fraught with complications. That said, if you take too long to answer the question, it’s going to sound like a lie even if it’s the truth.

  “Debra.”

  It was the first time I’d said it as my own. It felt like a jacket that was a few sizes too small.

  “A fine name,” Domenic said. “But it doesn’t do you justice.”

  Some fraction of my being enjoyed the flattery. The rest felt a danger as palpable as playing a drunken game of William Tell. What was it about blondness that jumbled men’s brains? Half the blondes out there are chemically induced, and yet the result is exactly the same. How could I hide in plain sight if eyes were always trained on me? I would have to figure out a way to remedy this situation. But for now, in this bar, I accepted Domenic’s flattery, because it had been so long since I’d been truly flattered and there was something about him beyond his square jaw and deep brown eyes. He seemed like the kind of man who had nothing to prove. I hadn’t met one of those in ages. Sometimes I wondered if I ever had.