This one, I promised myself, would be different. I was going to prove that a single person can spend a Saturday night alone, enjoy a good dinner, catch a movie, and not be lonely. Around seven, I showered, put on my best dress shirt with a paisley tie and a pair of jeans-nice combination, I thought-and headed out to my old neighborhood with its movie theatres, chic restaurants, and late-night music places.
I grabbed the morning paper on the way out, and over grilled Alaskan salmon and a dynamite California chardonnay at the Sundowner Grille off Hillsboro Road, saw that Janis Ian would play that night at the Blue Bird Cafe. The Blue Bird was always crowded Saturday nights, and especially so on nights when somebody famous was playing. I finished dinner about nine, drove over and, on impulse, picked up two tickets.
That’s right, two tickets. I’d been fooling myself that I was having a good time on a Saturday night by myself. What I wanted to do was see Rachel, and the more I thought of it, not to mention the cumulative effect of a hot day in the sun, two beers, and the better part of a bottle of wine with dinner, the more I became convinced that it was silly for us to let life trickle away when we could be enjoying ourselves and making up for lost time. We had nearly an hour to go before the show started. I’d call her, run by her house, and pick her up, and-
No, don’t call. If I call, she’ll have the option of saying no. She’ll still have that option, but at least she’ll have to say no to my face, and I’ll get the chance to see her. There was time to feel like a fool tomorrow. For now, I needed to hustle.
I fired up the Ford and pulled back out into the traffic on Hillsboro Road. I even hit the lights right, not missing a one all the way down to Rachel’s street. I cut in front of somebody in a classic, horn-blowing, Nashville maneuver, and hammered down on it the two blocks to her house.
I turned into Rachel’s driveway and noticed the lights were still on upstairs in her bedroom, although the rest of the house was dark. I slowed the car and doused the lights, not wanting her to see me pulling in. Let it be a surprise.
I coasted up the driveway and stopped. I set the parking brake, held my breath, and prayed the car door would open quietly for once. I cut around the edge of the house into the back. I was almost giggling to myself with excitement, imagining the expression on her face when I held the tickets up in front of her.
I turned the corner and walked right into the back bumper of a car I hadn’t seen.
I didn’t hit it hard enough to hurt myself, but I was stunned for a second. It was pitch-black. The outside lights were turned off. Nothing but shapes were visible all around me, heightened by the soft glow from the bedroom window on the second story.
I fumbled around, straining to see in the darkness. Over past the car I’d stumbled into, I could see the outline of Rachel’s car. Past that, barely visible in the garage, was the silhouette of Conrad’s Jaguar.
Three cars in a driveway that normally held only two: Rachel had company. I turned back to the strange car, running my hand along the edge, trying to feel it. I got down low and followed it all the way around to the back. I was down behind the car now, trying to focus. Then, in the shimmer of a distant streetlight that reflected dimly off the bumper’s chrome, I recognized the car. It was a Beemer, a silver BMW sedan. A shudder ran up the back of my neck.
The BMW was Walt Quinlan’s car.
26
I sure as hell didn’t feel like listening to any damn heartbreak tunes. The Janis Ian tickets went out the window as soon as I coasted down the driveway and into the street.
No wonder Walt didn’t want to tell me who he’d been seeing.
Once safely out of the driveway, I started the Ford and turned on the headlights, then got out of there as quickly as the clattering valves could carry me. Two blocks away, I rolled through the stop sign onto Hillsboro Road, then through two lights to the freeway entrance ramp. I ran the car up to seventy-five, the steering wheel shaking like it had the ague.
I felt like such a fool. It’s not so much that Rachel slept with me; hell, people sleep with each other every day without even the benefit of a proper introduction. Happens all the time.
No, it was more that I bought into the whole charade. All my life, I’d been a sucker for this sort of thing. I get interested, misread signs, take too much for granted, get my hopes up for nothing. Jeez, at my age, you’d think I’d have learned by now.
One thing was for sure; I could hold off on packing my bags and giving Mrs. Hawkins my notice. I hadn’t realized until I pulled into that driveway and saw Walt’s car how much I’d been subconsciously fantasizing about a future with Rachel. I still had feelings for her. It just seemed natural that we’d slide back into life together, and that eventually we’d find what we once had with each other, before Conrad came along and ruined it all.
I passed over the Cumberland River on the 1-265 bridge, the water below a ribbon of darkness cutting through the city’s nightlights. A single tugboat, a pinpoint of light as sharp as a needle, plodded slowly upriver against the current. The amber freeway lights cast harsh shadows over the darkened concrete. The night air was filled with the smell of the rendering plant.
I took the exit ramp off the freeway and drove up to the entrance ramp of the Ellington Parkway, a lightly traveled bypass that ran from downtown Nashville north toward Madison. The E.P. started next to one of the city’s most grim housing projects, the chain link fence separating the highway from the grounds of the project peeled away in some places, torn completely down in others.
I slapped the steering wheel, disgusted with myself and life in general. I got off the parkway at Douglas Avenue, steered my way through the roller-coaster hills to my own neighborhood, and back to the safety of my apartment. I went upstairs, locked the door behind me, and threw my clothes in a pile in the corner. I opened the refrigerator and realized I was out of beer. Damn, I thought, I ought to throw on a good drunk.
Only thing was, I’d outgrown throwing on good drunks years ago, and I never had much luck with it then. I never liked that out-of-control, reeling feeling that hits you right before you head for the porcelain.
But I wanted to be drunk, wanted to drown in the stuff until my head spun like a Ferris wheel gone wild. I wanted to forget it all-Conrad’s murder, Mr. Kennedy’s murder, the smell of sweat on the racquetball court, the sheen of perspiration on Rachel’s face as she twisted beneath me in the sheets.
I turned out the lights and went to bed, the neighborhood strangely and eerily silent. Saturday night in East Nashville usually brought with it the sound of parties gone wild, tires screeching as teenage boys fought to impress girlfriends and one another, the occasional sounds of ominous gunfire. But tonight there was nothing, only silence.
I lay there half the night, struggling vainly to find sleep, that wonderful, empty, dark hole that I could step into and fall forever void of thought and feeling. I needed more than anything else to quit thinking, and that seemed the one thing I could not do. Over and over again, the screens inside my head played the same movies.
Conrad lying beneath me, his lights fading to black.
Rachel lying beneath me, her breath coming in short bursts.
Bubba Hayes on top of me, his thighs like tree stumps, pinning me to the floor.
Walt standing over me, dripping sweat on me, helping me up off the racquetball floor.
Rachel’s face outlined against the ceiling as she sat astride me, the two of us pumping away at each other madly.