by Lisa Lutz
“It’s my name, nonetheless,” I said.
“You new in town?”
“I’m just passing through,” I said.
“Where are you headed, Debra?”
“Jackson, probably. Not sure yet.” No point in conjuring yet another lie.
“What brings you to our fine state of Wyoming?”
“A job.”
“What kind of job?”
“Teacher,” I said. I have to admit it felt nice offering up a solid profession, even if it wasn’t real yet.
“What grade?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“How else are we going to get to know each other?”
“Is that what we’re doing?”
“Yes. I already know you better than I did when I first walked over.”
I guess I was staring at Domenic’s tattoo because eye contact seemed unwise. He rolled up his sleeve a little more so I could get a better look. It was more elaborate than I thought.
“That must have hurt like hell,” I said. It’s always best to steer the conversation away from yourself.
“You’ve been inked, I take it.”
“You inferred. I’m not sure I implied,” I said. Then it occurred to me that that was the kind of thing Blue might say.
“Well, have you?”
“Yes,” I said. I wondered whether it was wise to point out any identifying marks. I also wondered if a time would ever come when answering questions about myself wouldn’t require laborious internal calculations.
“Where? Someplace decent or indecent?” he asked.
“Decent enough.”
“May I see?”
I nodded my head and finished my drink. Hal approached and asked if I wanted another. Domenic pointed to the top-shelf bourbon and ordered us both another round of drinks that were too costly for my new income bracket.
“Is it on your shoulder?”
“No.”
“Wrist?”
I lifted up my leg and rested it on Domenic’s thigh.
“Ankle,” I said, pulling up my jeans, revealing three tiny Chinese symbols in red. It felt odd drawing attention to something I always tried to forget. Sometimes when I lived with Frank, I put a Band-Aid over it and pretended I had a cut.
“That’s pretty,” said Domenic, but I could tell that he was disappointed. What a cliché. Then again, he had a tribal tattoo, so who was he to judge? “What does it mean?” he asked.
“It means nothing,” I said.
Domenic took in my response and then seemed to chew on it a bit. After a while, it had formed some kind of sense in his head.
“I think I understand you,” Domenic said. “But tell me the story.”
An old high school friend, Walt Burden, went out on the town one night and came upon a small group of Chinese tourists, one of whom struck a chord of desire in him so deep, he never dated a white girl again. When the tourist rebuffed his advances, he told her about how he wanted to get a tattoo of the Chinese symbol meaning “peace.” Because no one had ever done that before. He asked her to translate. The tourist girl wasn’t giving him the time of day, but she did agree to draw the symbol for his tattoo on a napkin after his repeated pleas and an agreement that he would depart as soon as she did.
My friend Arthur Chang caught a glimpse of it in math class, and I could see him laughing to himself. I slipped Arthur a note: “What’s so funny?” He said that Walt had no idea what words he had branded himself with, and then he told me.
Six months later, after a successful swim meet, my best friend, Melinda, insisted that we celebrate by getting tattoos to mark the occasion. We marched into a tattoo parlor with our respective designs. She got a dolphin—which she had decided two days earlier was her spirit animal. She wanted me to get a dolphin, too, but I didn’t much like the idea of matching tattoos or spirit animals. I was distinctly aware that I was marking myself with a regrettable rite of passage, and I let it be just that. I had a photo of Walt’s tattoo and asked the artist to duplicate it in miniature on the inside of my ankle.
I’m not sure why I wanted that tattoo more than a dolphin or a frog or Chinese symbols that meant something that was supposed to remind you to do things that come naturally, like breathing. But now it seems so apt that I chose these particular symbols, which literally mean “this means nothing.” Although when Melinda asked me what those symbols meant, I told her they meant “swim.”
I told Domenic the abbreviated version, minus the lie to Melinda; he smiled and nodded.
“That’s a fine tattoo story. Better than most,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said, flattered.
It felt nice to speak the truth for once. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d told a real story about myself to someone other than Blue. “Now, what’s your excuse? You going to tell me you’re two percent Cherokee or something?”
Domenic roared with laughter. It was a real, solid belly laugh. “Nah, nothing like that.”
“So then, why are you branded like every other man I meet?”
“Because the Forty-Niners lost the Super Bowl.”
“I can’t see how far that ink travels—”
“I’d be happy to show you,” Domenic said.
“—but that’s a lot of time sitting in a chair in minor agony because you lost a bet.”
Domenic finished his drink and said, “I’m a man of my word.”
I believed him. As you might imagine, men hadn’t been on the top of my list for a very long time. I knew they weren’t all bad, but I had come across a few who were so rotten that they tainted the rest of the pool. But as far as men went, Domenic seemed all right to me, as all right as a man you’ve known less than an hour can seem.
Hal stepped behind the bar again.
“Is His Majesty giving you any trouble?” he said. It was just something to say. He didn’t mean it.
“Not just yet,” I said. “But I’ll let you know.”
Domenic looked me straight in the eye. His eyes conveyed desire and curiosity, but there wasn’t that ugliness you sometimes see when a man is trying to decide how much he can take from you. I tried not to avert my gaze, but that’s all I’d been doing for the last three months. It was a tough habit to shake.
“Can I buy you a burger?” Domenic said.
“Huh?” I said. I had expected a question of a different variety.
“I’m starving. There’s a diner down the road. They get a lot of things wrong, but for some reason their burgers are special. I wouldn’t touch their meatloaf, and the chicken fried steak should be a health code violation.” He was just rattling on, waiting for me to answer.
“Yes,” I said.
Domenic’s brand-new Ford F-150 was parked right outside the bar. He opened the passenger door, just like a gentleman. My heart started pumping as if I were on speed. It felt like the air had thinned and the only thing I could do to calm my nerves was walk away.
Domenic slammed the door and followed after me.
“Sure, we can walk,” he said. “It’s only two miles up this road.”
Chapter 9
* * *
DOMENIC was right about the burgers, but I didn’t care much for the ambiance. The bright lights of the diner were hardly flattering, and I didn’t yet know how those blue contact lenses looked under the flickering glow of fluorescents. Every once in a while I caught Domenic giving me a sidelong glance, suspicious like. But I didn’t know the guy, so maybe that was how he looked at people.
We were both hungry and ate in silence. When Domenic finished the last bite, he put his napkin on his plate and shoved it to the middle of the table. The waitress came by and asked if we needed anything else. Domenic complimented the chef and winked. On him it worked. The waitress dropped the check in front of the man. Domenic took it right away. I legitimately reached for my wallet, but he waved me off.
After the bill was dispensed with, Domenic leaned back in the booth, sated and lazy limbed. He smiled, a satisfi
ed customer. “Debra, tell me something about yourself.”
Now, that’s a hell of a question. Not one I was inclined to answer too ambitiously.
“These lights are giving me a headache,” I said.
“Then let’s get out from under them.”
It was easy in the bar and then the diner. There was a point to our companionship. Out on the street, I felt unmoored. There were things I wanted, things I missed, that my brain fought strongly against. I felt heat on the back of my neck. Few men had stirred such a response. The last time I felt it was with my chiropractor, but it hadn’t been nearly as strong as it was at that moment on the desolate sidewalk. It reminded me of high school crushes, the hot flash of desire that could make a task as simple as tying your shoelaces impossible. I remember Ryan passing by the window in English class. He looked at me and smiled. I returned my gaze to The Great Gatsby and read the same line over and over and over again. I still remember the line:
It takes two to make an accident.
It takes two to make an accident.
It takes two to make an accident.
When it came down to it, it took three.
Domenic and I were walking in the same direction, but it wasn’t toward my hotel or the bar or any destination I was aware of. I thought I should take my leave, but he took my hand instead and led me across the street. It had been so long since another person had touched me, I was stunned by how warm he felt.
“Are we going somewhere?”
“That’s up to you,” Domenic said.
I had changed direction enough in my life. Sometimes it was easier to follow the path that was paved for me. We walked in silence for a while, until Domenic stopped in front of a red door that adorned a Craftsman-style house. The moonlight cast enough of a glow on the home for me to see that it was painted blue with white trim, and looked old-fashioned, innocent, and well cared for.
“I live here,” Domenic said.
“Nice place,” I said.
“That’s just the outside,” he said. “I can either walk you back to the bar or wherever you’re staying, or you could come in for a cup of tea.”
“A cup of tea?”
“I have other things to drink too.”
“I see.”
He waited patiently for an answer. I was wary on principle. Men have done me wrong more than one too many times, but they aren’t all bad, and Domenic seemed a step above anyone I had met in a while. Mind you, I hadn’t known him that long and my instincts had once failed me so deeply I’ve still never quite forgiven them. But his hand felt so warm, and I was tired of being alone, always alone.
“I’ll have some tea,” I said.
The inside of the house was like the outside, in that cared-for manner. The wide-plank wood floors looked smooth and shiny. The furniture, a mismatch of new and old, neither in fashion, was still well considered and polished to the bone. A few family photos were hung on the walls next to several thoughtfully framed amateurish paintings of flowers, all signed by an artist named Mary.
Domenic saw me looking at one of the paintings, a bowl of daisies. “I got a good deal on those,” he said.
“They’re nice,” I said politely. They weren’t not nice.
“My mother,” he said.
This made me like him more and less. He seemed harmless, for a complete stranger, maybe a little too harmless. While my mind was tumbling through dangerous scenarios, Domenic kissed me. He put one hand behind my neck and the other wrapped around my waist, and I felt human again. My needs were simple at that moment, not attached to a map with plots and schemes and an assortment of names.
His lips felt familiar. It wasn’t one of those fumbling first kisses where you’re all distracted by the details. Domenic pulled away and led me into the bedroom. I felt tingly and warm and expectant and safe, sensations that I thought might be lost to me forever.
And then I saw the gun and the badge on the dresser and I felt like I had just given blood, most of it. I must have visibly paled, because when Domenic turned to kiss me again, he took a step back.
“Are you all right, Debra?”
“Gun,” was all I could sputter out with my heart jackhammering inside me.
“I’m sorry,” Domenic said, opening the drawer and putting it inside. “It’s okay, I’m a sheriff.”
“You didn’t mention that in the bar,” I said.
“You didn’t ask.”
“Don’t most off-duty cops carry their weapon?”
“Some do, but everyone in town knows who I am, and it always seemed pessimistic to take my gun when I’m just having a drink with friends.”
I tried to breathe enough to catch my breath, but I was chasing oxygen like a marathoner.
“What’s going on, Debra? Do you have something against cops?”
I sure did. But I didn’t mention it. “I’m just not feeling very well. I think I better go.”
“I’ll walk you back.”
“Not necessary,” I said.
“It’s late,” he said.
I went to the front door and turned the knob. It was locked. The panic inside me was like an overflowing river. I fumbled with the lock. Domenic took my hands away and gave the knob a flick. He opened the door and gave me a wide berth. Until I stepped onto his porch in the cold night air, it was like I had been underwater in a swimming pool, having a breath-holding contest. I instantly felt better. Domenic noticed the look of relief on my face. He looked hurt.
He followed me back to the motel, I think just to make sure I returned safe. I stopped at the main lobby. I didn’t want him to know what room I was in.
“Thank you,” I said. “For, uh—the burger and the company.”
“What just happened?”
“Nothing. I suddenly realized I shouldn’t be alone with a stranger.”
“Okay,” Domenic said. “But let’s say you pass through town again, we wouldn’t be strangers then, would we?”
“I guess not,” I said.
He reached into his wallet and handed me his card. “If you ever need anything, my mobile number is on there.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Be careful out there,” he said. “The world is full of all kinds of people.”
“I figured that out a long time ago,” I said.
May 11, 2011
To: Ryan
From: Jo
Did you think I wouldn’t find out? I’m the only secret anyone seems able to keep these days. Everything else is out there. One hour at the library computer, checking on old friends, and I find it. Photos of Logan and Edie on a romantic vacation in Big Sur. They look so happy. How did you let that happen?
I don’t care what you have to do, what you have to tell her. Stop it.
Jo
June 10, 2011
To: Jo
From: Ryan
I tried. I tried before it started. I tried to stop it when I saw him look at her at the Sundowners that first time she came home after she quit college. Since I went to the hospital, people don’t listen to me like they used to. I’m the crazy one. Logan’s the strong, successful, responsible brother.
If it makes you feel any better, I think he’s changed. Not that he’s different inside, but he doesn’t let that other part of him out as much. He might be good to her. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but that’s all I’ve got.
You seem to think that you can use me as a proxy. This isn’t a game of chess where you can call out the moves and I’ll just be the hand.
When someone is gone, and you’re as good as dead here, you can’t alter the course of events. If/when he does something wrong, I’ll try to intervene.
June 15, 2011
To: Ryan
From: Jo
I take it married life is treating you well. I get it, you don’t want to interrupt the status quo. Oh, and congratulations on your baby.
You always had a bit of a cowardly streak. I thought you’d grow out of it, not settle into it like a comfo
rtable chair.
I haven’t asked you for anything. Fix the problem. End them. If anything happens to Edie, it’s on you. And I won’t stay quiet this time.
Jo
Chapter 10
* * *
MY first outing as Debra Maze was a reminder that my life was like a game of Jenga: if one piece was out of place, my entire world could collapse. The next day, I shoved my close call with the police out of my mind and drove the final leg of my journey.
By the time I landed in Jackson, Wyoming, I was just about dead broke. I drove on my last tank of gas to half a dozen motels and tried to strike up a deal—a warm room for services rendered. I had promised myself I would steer clear of the sanitation industry, but it was the middle of May, the school year was almost over, and I needed some time to secure my identity as Debra Maze. I didn’t see myself managing all of that while bedding down in my Cadillac. I made a deal with the owner of the Moose Lodge, just off Flat Creek Drive. I even managed to get a small stipend to supplement my temporary living situation.
There was one thing I knew for sure: if this plan was going to work, I needed to figure out how to look less like Blue and more like me. Every time I passed my reflection in the mirror, I saw deceit. If I couldn’t buy the lie, there was no way I could expect anyone else to.
Blue had once told me that the best way to hide in plain sight was to get fat. So I purchased three six-packs of mini-doughnuts, the kind I devoured for breakfast in junior high until my swim coach suggested I use my calories for something more nutritious.
I left my honey-blond dye job intact and touched up my roots whenever they made an entrance. For a month I maintained a strict doughnut, pizza, French fry, and beer diet, eating until I wanted to puke every night. I gained twenty pounds in three weeks. Looking at my bloated red complexion in the mirror, I felt like I could cry. My sudden fleshiness trumped the blondness that once drew stares. I became more and more invisible with each pound I gained. Once I’d packed on more than twenty-five pounds, I went to the Wyoming DMV and applied for a driver’s license, using Debra Maze’s social security card and birth certificate as identification. Once again, I barely passed the written exam. I returned a few days later for the road test. I fared better on that, although it didn’t bode well that I failed to answer when the examiner called my new name.
