“I’m not broke.”
He takes a sip of his beer, the beer I bought. I know exactly how much money he has because he empties his pockets out on the counter as soon as he gets home, balled-up ones and fives, sometimes a couple of twenties. He never has more than fifty dollars on him.
“People take my picture all the time,” I say. “Every time I go through a toll road my picture gets taken.”
“Not really the same thing. And when are you going through toll roads?”
“Are you sure he doesn’t want you to do anything else?”
“No, just the picture.”
“Your child support’s late,” I say, though we don’t talk about his children, who live in Oregon — a state he is not allowed to enter for a reason that remains unclear — or his child support. I can just assume he hasn’t paid it. He has no bank account. When someone writes him a check, I have to cash it for him because he lost his ID, sunk to the bottom of the lake along with the boat.
“You think I should do it?” he says. “I can’t believe you think I should do it.”
“For two thousand.”
“Are you serious?”
“You’d do it if I wasn’t here.”
“No I wouldn’t.”
“Then why didn’t you tell him no right off?”
“Because he’s my friend — I was going to think about it first. I owe him that much.”
“Well, call him back and tell him you’ll do it. And I get to come.”
“No, babe. I’m not involving you in that kind of stuff.”
“I’m coming,” I say, “and that’s final.” He seems pleased and I wonder if this is what he wanted all along, if I’m stupid. We stay together, I tell myself, because the sex is so good; if the sex weren’t so good, I would have broken this cycle a long time ago.
He calls the guy back and makes affirmative-sounding noises while I watch him pace. So many of my boyfriends have been pacers — it must make them feel important. He says, “Fifteen,” and gestures for a pen. I hand him one and he scrawls an upside-down address on my magazine, a phone number, and the name Susan Lacey. I went to school with some identical twins named Lacey. They were of average intelligence and attractiveness so no one seemed to know what to do with them.
I gather my stuff and climb the two steps into the trailer. I’m still not used to the dimensions — the narrowness of the doors, how small everything is. There are booby traps everywhere, sharp edges that need to be filed down, cabinets that fall open when you walk by. Only in the bed do I feel my normal size.
I open the closet and a light comes on; it’s his favorite feature. I shove my clothes back into my overnight bag, my toothbrush and toothpaste and foaming facial cleanser. We’ll have to go by my apartment to get my camera because he doesn’t have one. I wish he had his own damn camera and find myself getting angry about all the things he doesn’t have and how he assumes I will provide them. I sit on the bed with its ugly pilled comforter that probably came with the trailer and look at my arms, the finger-shaped bruises. I’m going to be involved in a murder, I think. There is no voice that tells me to stop, that says what I am doing is wrong. I can’t remember if there ever was a voice. I don’t remember a voice.
I refuse to let him take my car so we clean out the truck he uses for work, which belongs to his boss. There’s a situation with a headlight that is an illegal blue color; the cops have already pulled him over twice and told him to get it fixed. We pour two beers into giant McDonald’s cups and he rolls a joint for the road. All of this is worrisome but he says he would die before he went back to prison and I believe him — he says it with such conviction — and he’s been out for five or six years and has never been back for even a night.
We pass a group of men near the entrance and Jimmy rolls down his window. They are born-again bikers, men with lots of tattoos and angry faces, but they don’t drink or do drugs or get into fights; they show up at trials to support children who have been abused, stand in the back of the courtroom with their arms crossed. They’re biker angels, he tells me, making fun of them, but I think it’s what they call themselves.
At my apartment, he waits in the truck while I walk the three flights upstairs. I get my camera and a pair of shorts and a bikini; the bottoms can double as panties. I wander the rooms wondering what else I might need, if I should just lock the door, put on my pajamas, and get in bed. It looks so comfortable, the sheets newly changed, sage green — such a pleasant color. I grab a pack of cigarettes and a Clif bar and then we’re on the highway, headed south. I haven’t been to Biloxi since I broke up with Richard. I have so many old boyfriends now, spread out all over, and so many things remind me of them. I’ll pass a Wendy’s and remember the one who would only eat plain hamburgers. There we are, sitting under the yellow light with our trays in front of us, eating one french fry at a time. Nearly every movie, every song and TV show and food item, reminds me of someone and it is a horrible way to live.
I flip down the visor to look at myself. My hair’s in a ratty ponytail and I don’t have any makeup on and I’m too old to be going around barefaced, my mother says. I wish I’d showered before we left his trailer but it’s so small and the water runs everywhere and I can’t turn around without the curtain touching my arms or legs, which is the same curtain that touched the arms and legs of some stranger.
“I brought my swimsuit in case there’s a pool at our hotel,” I say. He puts a hand on my knee. “I need a new one — this one’s from three summers ago and it’s all worn on the butt.”
“I’ll get you a new one,” he says. “I’ll get you a white bikini so I can see your nipples.” The word bikini doesn’t sound right in his mouth. He hardly ever buys me anything, though it is always his pot we smoke and I’ve never once bought condoms. Condoms are expensive, he tells me, especially the way we go through them. He has never suggested we don’t use them, though, which is nice of him.
“Do you want me to drive?” I ask.
“I’m fine.”
“I haven’t had as much to drink.”
“I’m fine,” he says again.
“Did the guy say what he wanted the pictures for?”
“We know why he wants them.”
“I know, but did he say it?”
“No.”
“’Cause that’s not how it works.”
“Right,” he says. He turns the radio up. We both like country music. We also like rap. No one knows where I am. When I’m with Jimmy, I don’t return my friends’ text messages or answer my mother’s phone calls unless she calls twice in a row. I fall down a Jimmy rabbit hole.
It’s not a bad drive down 49. There are plenty of places to stop, which I appreciate, and lots of antique malls made out of connecting storage units. My mother used to make me go to them with her back when I was too young to refuse, but I don’t remember her ever buying anything. I wonder what she was looking for. There’s a catfish house shaped like an igloo and another one in a massive barn, only about five miles apart. I like the men on the side of the highway selling sweet potatoes, nice-looking men in overalls, real country people. We live in Mississippi and almost everyone we know is from Mississippi but we don’t know any real country people.
“I have to pee,” I say, “just stop wherever, whenever it’s convenient.” He tells me I pee too much, and it’s true, I do pee a lot. I close my eyes and think about the woman, Susan Lacey. I imagine her in a shapeless housedress and heavy shoes with rubber soles like a nurse, eating ice cream from a gallon container. And then I imagine a younger Susan Lacey, her hair long and dark, eyes full of life. She’s on the street, carrying a recyclable bag full of organic fruits and vegetables, flowers sticking out the top of it. The picture will capture her midstride, head turning to look for cars as she crosses the street. It’s a picture I’ve seen so many times on the crime shows I watch, the photograph snapping the color out of everything.