“Marx, okay? What’s yours?”
“John Faith.”
I rubbed my arm. “You’re the guy in the Porsche. At the Chevron station yesterday.”
“That’s right.”
“Stranger everybody’s talking about.” I guess I should’ve been afraid then, on account of the things people were saying about him, but I wasn’t. Not even a little.
He didn’t say anything, so I said, “What’re you doing up on the Bluffs?”
“Watching the lights.”
“What lights?”
“Around the lake.”
“By yourself? What for?”
“Safer than spending the evening with an armful of potential trouble.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. You have a fight with your boyfriend?”
“More than a fight. He’s not my boyfriend anymore. I hate his guts.”
“That’s the way you feel now. Tomorrow...”
“Tomorrow I’ll hate him even more.”
“Why? He do something to you?”
“He did something, all right. I wish I could do something to him.” Like cut off his lover’s nuts.
“What’d he do, Trisha?”
“He got me pregnant.”
I don’t know why I told him. A guy I didn’t know, a stranger everybody was saying was some kind of criminal. I don’t think I could’ve told Selena straight out like that, and she’s my best friend. But I wasn’t sorry I told him. It was like spitting out something that was choking you.
“And he doesn’t want to marry you, right? That’s why he’s gone and you’re still here.”
“Yeah.”
“Your parents know yet?”
“No. My mother wouldn’t care if she did — she’s been gone three years and she didn’t even send me a card on my last birthday. Daddy cares, but he’ll have a hemorrhage when he finds out.”
“Maybe he’ll surprise you.”
“Doesn’t matter anyway,” I said. “I don’t care. About the kid or his asshole father or what happens to me. I just don’t give a shit anymore.”
“Sure you do. You care, Trisha.”
“Oh, right, you know more about me than I do. What makes you so smart?”
“Hurt inside, don’t you? Worst pain you’ve ever felt?”
“No. Yeah. So what if I do?”
“Then you care. People who don’t care don’t hurt. Think about it. The more you hurt, the more you care.”
“I don’t want to think about it. All I want is to stop hurting.”
“That’s what everybody wants. Bottom line. Everybody hurts, everybody wants to stop hurting. Trick is to find a way to do it without hurting anyone else. Or yourself.”
“Isn’t any way.”
“Not for some. But you’re young. You’ll be all right if you don’t let yourself stop caring.”
I was shivering again, hard. That wind was really cold. And the high was all gone, and most of the weirdness, and some of the emptiness. I could still see the lake down below, the deep, black ice; then I shook my head and the shiny image went away. I hugged myself.
“How about if I give you a ride home?” John Faith said. “My car’s off the road a ways and the heater works good.”
Don’t ever accept rides from strangers. How many times had that been drummed into my head? But I didn’t hesitate. He didn’t scare me; I wasn’t scared of him at all.
I said, “All right,” and went with him into the dark.
Zenna Wilson
The lord works in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform. For the second time that day He put me in a position to bear witness to the evil in our midst and do something about it.
I had just finished checking the chain and dead-bolt locks on the front door, and was standing by the window, testing its catch, when I heard a car outside. It was noisy, noisy-familiar, and when I parted the drapes I saw the disreputable car of that stranger, John Faith, rattle by and swing to the curb a short distance up the street. The passenger door flew open almost immediately and a young girl jumped out and ran off. It gave me quite a shock. The more so when I recognized Trisha Marx as soon as she passed under the streetlamp over there.
Her house was where she ran to, three north of ours. I expected the bogey to leap out and chase after her, but he didn’t. Took him by surprise, no doubt, and he knew he couldn’t catch her. In any event, he sat inside with the headlights still on and the engine puffing out exhaust fumes until Trisha disappeared around back. Then he U-turned and drove off the way they’d come.
Another outrage, pure and simple. Had he put his huge, dirty hands on that poor child? Well, he must’ve tried; otherwise why would she jump out and run home the way she had? She’s only seventeen. And poorly taught and plain foolish, I say, to let a man like that get her into his car in the first place.
I hurried into the kitchen. Stephanie was upstairs in her room, working on her papier-mâché animals, and Howard was already in bed even though it was only a little past nine; tired out from his trip and in a snippy mood because of it. A good thing he wasn’t down here, or he’d have tried to stop me from calling Trisha’s father, which is what I did that very minute. My Howard is a good man, a good provider, but he’s too easygoing, too trusting, and he expects me to bury my head in the sand the way he does. But I was born with a mind of my own. Someone has to keep vigil and speak out when the need arises, and I don’t see why it shouldn’t be me.
Brian Marx was home for a change, not off throwing good money after bad at the Brush Creek Indian Casino like he does most Friday and Saturday nights. He has a gambling problem — gambling is a sin, no matter what the Indians would have us believe; our pastor has spoken out against it on more than one occasion — and that’s one of the reasons Trisha is as wild as she is. That mother of hers is another, running off the way she did three years ago. And with a Jew, at that! Anyhow, I told Brian just what I’d seen, without mincing words, and of course he flew into a rage. He said he’d talk to Trisha and find out what happened. He said some other things, too, but I turned a deaf ear to them; Brian Marx has a foul mouth when he’s upset or has had too much to drink. I asked him to let me know as soon as he knew the whole story, but he hung up without saying he would or wouldn’t and without so much as a thank-you. Not that I blame him for being rude, under the circumstances.
If the bogey did try to attack Trisha, I wonder if Brian will go after him with a gun? He has two or three rifles and a pistol, and he’s hotheaded. (A wonder he didn’t go after Grace and her Jew when they ran off together.) Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, but in a case like this, with the police not willing or able to do their job, well, Brian would have every right to do what ought to be done. Yes, and he’d be forgiven at the Judgment, unless I miss my guess.
Well, whatever happens, it’s out of my hands now. I’ve done my duty and the Lord’s work not once but twice today. If I don’t hear from Brian by morning, I’ll call him at home again or at Westside Lumber where he works. I’m entitled, if anyone is, to a full account of that poor girl’s ordeal.
Lori Banner
It was about ten-fifteen when John Faith walked into the North-lake. We weren’t busy; eight or nine customers is all. But everybody stopped talking when they saw him, just like last night, only this time the stares were more hostile, and in one booth there was some angry muttering. I was the only one there who didn’t wish he was somewhere else, like in jail or lost in the Sahara Desert — and for no good reason.
He walked back to the counter and sat on the last stool nearest the entrance. That was Darlene’s station, but when I asked her if I could take him she gave me one of her looks and said, “Better you than me. I’d rather stay away from trouble.” She was still miffed; she’d started ragging on me as soon as she saw the new cut and swelling on my lip, and I stood it as long as I could and then told her to shut her face and mind her own business. I didn’t need any more lectures. Not tonight, I didn’t.