She put her convertible into first and screeched out of the parking lot. She couldn’t begin to afford this car; it cost more per month than her apartment. But she loved it. Lisa was an inveterate speed freak, always had been. In kindergarten, it was the swings. Now it was a Porsche. I think she’s in one of those Oprah categories: Women Who Love Their Cars Too Much. And why not? We both pretended there was nothing orgasmic about the smile on her face when she shifted into high gear.
“Jesus Christ, I can’t believe I spent six days in there.” It felt good, letting the wind rush through my hair-like being in a cool shower, that tingly sense of something cascading over your entire body. She was taking me down the Strip-what outside Vegas is called U.S. 9. Hotels and casinos. Volcanoes and pirate ships. Fabulous multicolored neon view. Bright lights, Sin City.
“They told me they wanted you to stay longer,” Lisa said.
“There’s no money in miracle cures.”
“That’s a bit cynical, even by your standards.”
“Did you ever wonder why it’s always a twelve-step program, Lisa? Three steps would be insufficiently profitable.”
She looked gorgeous in this car, with the wind whipping her hair back like a model in a shampoo commercial, which was probably another reason it was worth the money to her. She had long hair, perfectly blond, not a trace of dishwater. Or black roots. She worked out and never ate anything and looked great. She had those wonderful slender arms with firm muscles, the telltale identifier of a gym girl. I worked out, too, but on me it looked bulky and formidable, not sleek and sexy. If Lisa weren’t my best friend, I’d hate her.
“Anything interesting happen in there?” she asked.
“Not much. It was evil.”
“Evil?”
I nodded. “Doctors with lots of questions. Nurses taking your vital signs for no apparent reason. Some old gal who gave me a daily physical and enjoyed it way too much, if you know what I mean.” Lisa giggled, which made me smile for the first time today. She was a tough audience. If I could make her laugh, I was doing something right. “Twice a day some guy would come in and lead a group session on the evils of substance abuse, and the whole time he’s drinking coffee by the gallon.” I gave her a grim look. “And they made us play games.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Scout’s honor. Monopoly. Clue. Even Scrabble. It was compulsory.”
“Now that’s evil.”
I hesitated a moment. “I saw David.”
Her reaction was just a beat delayed, though she tried to act as if I had said nothing unusual at all. “You did?”
“Yeah. In my room.”
“Were you having, um, dreams?”
A nice way of putting it. “I don’t know. I guess. Didn’t seem like it.”
“But Susan, you know…”
“Yeah. I’m not that far gone yet.”
“Well.” Lisa focused her attention on her driving.
“He said he missed me. He said he was watching me.”
“That’s nice.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Believe what?”
“That dead people watch us after they’re gone. That they’re up in the clouds, keeping tabs on the people they knew.”
“Sure.”
“I don’t.” I extended my arm out the passenger-side window, letting the wind ripple through my fingers. “I’m not even sure I believe in an afterlife. But if there is one, I can’t imagine why anyone there would waste it watching the folks back on earth. I mean, if that was what you wanted to do, why leave in the first place?”
She didn’t have an answer, so she concentrated on her driving, which was just as well.
He managed to get Helen into the back of his pickup, but just barely. Even though she was wrapped securely and he was using the flatbed dolly, it was hard work. But no matter, he consoled himself. At the end of days, one does not dwell on the mundane.
Afterward, he washed his hands, then dried them with a daisy-pattern dish towel, one of the few possessions of Nana’s he had saved. She had taken such pride in those towels, he recalled, back when they were new. A small token of simple beauty in a life of utter squalor, he supposed. Where had she gotten them, anyway? Had the bank been giving them away? The gas station? A free gift in a box of detergent? He couldn’t remember.
He walked back out the front door, whistling. Whistle while you work-that was what those dwarves said. He chuckled. And people called him short.
Ginny had loved that movie. Nana had the tape and they’d watched it together, over and over. He preferred livelier fare, truth be told, but his sweet Virginia loved it, and that was good enough for him.
It was a radiant night, almost a cerulean blue, and teeming with shadows. Perfect for his appointed task. Of course, he had planned it that way. Every detail in place, every jot and tittle. Just as it should be. As it was destined to be.
He had almost returned to his truck when he spotted the redheaded woman from the house next door. Divorcée, mid-thirties. Camille, she was called, like the victim in “Rue Morgue.” Happily, she did not have her boyfriend with her today.
“Ernie?”
He stopped and waited as her crunched-gravel footsteps caught up to him.
“Hey, I’m sorry about last night.”
He pulled himself upright. “My dear, there’s nothing to be sorry about.”
She grinned. “I love that accent. I wish Ty could do it. Gives me shivers.”
He felt his face flushing, his stomach roiling.
“I tried to stop him, but he had to stir things up. You know how men are. Well, maybe you don’t.” She leaned in close. “They’re all assholes. Except for you, Ernie.”
He had been playing Mozart very loud last night. It was necessary to ensure that no one heard the screaming. In any case, it hardly merited her boyfriend’s overreaction.
“He isn’t a bad guy,” Camille said, “not compared to some of the others I’ve had. But sometimes he can get… out of control.”
Yes, he thought, especially when Ty was bored and hungry for a fight. He wanted an easy knock-down-drag-out he knew he could win, and since he was a big, gym-muscled black man, he felt no compunction against taking on a somewhat smaller neighbor. People always picked on short men, always had and always would. It had taken all his comity and bonhomie to get rid of the thug without an incident, but he’d managed.
Camille stood awkwardly for a moment, her fingers fidgeting, her breasts all but spilling out of the flimsy halter top. He felt her discomfort, her longing to say something effervescent or witty, some pointed observation that would elicit his approbation. The woman liked him, strange as that seemed. Apparently Mandingo wasn’t keeping her satisfied. She yearned for something different, someone smart, someone who could elevate her life from the drudgery and banality that presently characterized it. She was vulnerable. He had once considered her for an offering, but she was too old, too large. She could never fit the specifications.