“Hi.”
“You need to get your boyfriend out of my bathroom!” She is furious.
“Where’s your sister?” I ask, not liking the accusation in her voice.
“Get him!”
Almost as if John has heard her, he saunters into the living room stretching, yawning loudly, and smiling. “Good morning!” he bellows. “Anybody want some breakfast?” Briefcase in hand and face washed, he tries to diffuse Sally’s anger. “What can I get ya then. Sweet rolls? Orange juice? How ‘bout you, babe? Come on. Let’s go get something to eat.”
“Sure,” I say flatly, but I’m seething with anger. Still, I’m relieved to see him out of the bathroom. We head out the door as Sally marches back to finally have a private word with her sister.
“Back! Get back, ye Satan!” Sally is screaming at the top of her lungs off the balcony of her stucco apartment complex. Marching, soldierlike, back and forth, mumbling, singing, waving a massive white flag that bears a red cross and crown as her staff of protection. “In the name of Jesus, I cast you out!”
“What the f—?” John and I stare, our jaws dropped.
Grocery bags in hand, I call up to her. “Sally? Sally?”
“I know who you are! I saw that tarot card! Be gone, Satan!” She is in a religious frenzy; she breaks out singing “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” Shrill and thunderous, she drowns us out.
“You gotta be kidding!” John almost laughs, unbelieving, then stops himself. I remember the devil card and her sister, clothes rumpled, in the bathroom. Sally is very serious.
“Okay, Sally, please! Just let me get my dog and my stuff, okay? I’m coming up, okay? Please just let me have my dog.”
Sally stops marching and points the flag out in front of her like a shield. “Meet me at the elevator!”
In the lobby, amid passersby and gawking tenants, John and I wait as the solid elevator doors roll open. Sally rushes forward, thrusts my duffel bag and a shivering Thor into my waiting arms, her face sweaty and aflame from her hollering and singing. She brushes imaginary cobwebs from her arms and legs, spitting and cursing, calling on protective Bible verses to purify her tainted spirit. Incredulous and emotionally wounded, I am speechless. Feeling scared that I have lost a friend, I shake my head while the doors close to hide her accusing face.
“Oh my God! Was that weird or what?” John tries to deflect my attention from his role in the bathroom scene and to gain my forgiveness.
I am hurt. Sally took me in when I was on the street; I never wanted to make her feel afraid.
“Can you believe her, babe? Thank gawd I got you out of there.”
John always has a way of shifting the blame. It confuses me when he fast-talks, and I know it’s useless to argue.
“I thought she was going to keep Thor! That was scary!”
We are tired and hungry. The effects of the coke have worn off enough that we’re in the mood to get some rest. We travel back into Hollywood feeling like vampires whose skin will burst into flame by the sun. John pulls into another run-down motel and checks us in, paying for a full week in advance this time. We eat noisily, unwrapping fish and chips from the Long John Silver’s down the road, smoke a cigarette, and draw the drapes to block out the sun. “Let’s get some rest, baby.” John gets naked and pulls me tight. “Tonight’s the night! The big one!”
I know he means he is going to sell the coke. I know that is where the money for our getaway will come from. So when we wake around dusk that evening on the last day of June, few words are spoken. John throws away the paraphernalia and puts the money in his boot and the coke in his briefcase. His attitude is all business as I hand him his jacket and pack of True Blues. The drug is only a commodity now, not for consumption. The big one! This is to be our new beginning… fresh and clean.
The walls of my motel room move like willowy ghosts from the shadows of the headlights of parking cars. The entire night, John is gone. My sleep is restless and stiff, and when I finally doze off, nightmares jolt me awake. Thor is spooked too, his ears perked as he listens to the noises and movements outside, anxious to hear the familiar engine chug of the Malibu. The streets are damp, heavy with fog and eeriness. The darkness is an ominous and lurking thing. I jump up to look out the window at every noise. Once morning comes, I worry once again.
Light fills the horizon in pink and gray tones even as the sun rises. The marine layer still cloaks the sky. I hear the unmistakable popping of the Chevy’s engine as John pulls into the parking space out front.
“He’s here!” My heart races as I pull the curtain back.
John is still inside the Malibu, his head laid back against the headrest. Stiff and slow, he gets out of the car and takes a sweeping look around. His shoulders slumped, his skin pasty and pale, he circles around to the trunk, opens it, and peers inside. He seems to be searching for something but comes up empty-handed. He drops the trunk lid closed and limps up to the door of our room.
Oh no. I run to the door and unlock it. John’s eyes, bloodshot and blank, don’t acknowledge me. He walks by zombielike, the living dead. He’s wearing different clothes, I register. In slow motion he drops down on the bed, hesitates, then digs in his pockets for some change.
“Can you go get me a Coke?” His words come out weak and emotionless.
“What happened, John?”
“Hmm? Nothing… baby, please?”
I disappear and get his soda. He sounds so hurt and lost. I want to comfort him.
Still frozen in the same slumped position on the edge of the bed, he digs deeper in his pockets and downs a few ten-milligram Valiums he has wrapped in cigarette cellophane. Where’s his briefcase? I wonder, feeling uneasy. Sapped of all his energy, he stands unsteadily. His clothes drop at his feet, and he crawls under the covers. As I cover him with the blanket, words stick in my throat when I see his arms and neck streaked with deep red scratches and marks. Thor rolls around on the bed, kicking and playing, trying to get John’s attention, but John ignores him and turns his back, cold, like a deathly shroud.
“John? Are you okay?” I ask as I snuggle in next to him. He offers nothing. He’s different, I think. Something’s changed… broken inside of him. Devoid of spirit, a shell, empty and hollow, he lies pale and still, as if he were lying in his own coffin, and falls asleep.
John is restless, tossing and turning throughout the night, kicking and pushing me to all corners of the bed. He groans and whimpers muffled screams, squeals, makes unnatural grunting noises like a deaf-mute calling for help. Sweat soaks his skin, drenching the sheets and my own nightshirt. His nightmare is fierce, a battle… for his life.
“Blood! Blood!” He thrashes side to side as if he wants to run away. “There’s so much blood!”
“What, John?” I try whispering into his ear, but he is deep in his terror and moans and tosses on his side. John quiets for a moment, sprawled over the entire bed. Thor and I can’t sleep and get up to pee. Daylight touches the curtains in a soft, glowing halo, and I turn on the television bolted to the wall at the foot of the bed. I light a cigarette and turn the volume low. A five o’clock news flash plays across the screen: