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.
“Say, what you got in the truck?”
He stepped forward, blocking her approach. “Just some trash.”
“Trash? I saw how you strained to scoot that load off the dolly. What are you throwing away, barbells?”
“Books. Nothing in the world heavier than books, you know.”
“And you don’t want them? Seems like I see you reading all the time.”
“My interests have… evolved.”
“Oh, yeah? What do you-”
“Camille… I must beg your pardon.” He edged away. “I need to take care of this. Immediately.” He slid into the cab of the truck and started the engine.
“You know, Ernie,” she said through the open window, “you could come over sometime. Ty isn’t around that much these days. We could have some fun, I think.” She reached out and touched him on his cheek.
“Must dash, Camille. Please give my best to your beau.” He rolled up the window and sped away. He drove quickly, but not too quickly, making sure she wasn’t following him.
It should take no more than twenty minutes to get to the hotel, which was providential, because he had a limited window of opportunity during which he could get this bundle into his room without being spotted. From there, delivery to the ultimate destination would be a simple matter.
He tried to whistle again, but he seemed to have lost the tune. The encounter with Camille had unnerved him. It had been a parlous moment, he realized, when she’d reached toward the bundle in the back of the truck. Not that he had done anything to betray himself, nothing she was ever likely to comprehend, this woman who couldn’t master subject-verb agreement and didn’t have the sense to dispense with the psycho stud who was servicing her. But he didn’t like the unexpected. He had planned everything with meticulous care. Any deviation from the designated path could only delay the Golden Age.
I am the perfect passenger. Lisa has told me so on numerous occasions. The absolute antithesis of the bossy backseat driver. I figure if you’re behind the wheel, then you’re calling the shots. I don’t mess with your radio, I don’t tell you when to change lanes, and I don’t plot the course. So I sat quietly as Lisa took me all the way down the Strip, even though this was tourist season (every season is tourist season in Vegas) and the traffic was atrocious.
I love this town. Lived here all my life; never had the desire to go anywhere else. There’s so much more to Vegas than what the tourists see. But the truth is, I love what the tourists see, too. From the austere Nevada mountaintops to the concrete palaces to the sex clubs and the gluttonous buffets, I love it all. Even the Liberace museum. Honest.
My house was in a gorgeous neighborhood called Summerlin, near one of the area’s many man-made lakes. Okay, ponds, depending on what you’re used to. It was just down the road from the largest of Vegas’s many pet cemeteries, where all three of my German shepherds are interred. I sat quietly while Lisa cruised through the south side. But when we were a good twenty minutes or so away from where we should be, I felt I had to speak.
“Are you taking me home?”
“Um, no.”
I sensed immediately that this was a subject she had been deliberately avoiding. “I’ve been gone a long time, Lisa. I’ve got a million things to do.”
“Yes, but… not there.”
I laid my hand on her shoulder. “What gives? Tell me the truth.”
“The truth is…” I could tell this was agonizing for her, which didn’t make me any less insistent. “You don’t have a house anymore.”
“The goddamn bank.”
“Yeah. ’Fraid so.”
“I’m in the hospital for one lousy week and they take the house?”
“They told me you hadn’t made a payment for four months.”
“I’ve had a lot on my mind, as you well know.”
“They said they’ve called and written and left messages but never heard anything from you.”
“I don’t recall any messages.”
“And then when they found out you were in detox and no one knew when you might get out, that was it. They foreclosed.”
“Can they do that? So fast?”
“Evidently.”
“Greedy bastards. What do I have to do to get it back?”
The beautiful blond speed demon became a timid little girl. “I… I don’t think you do, Susan. It’s gone.”
“Goddamn it.” I slapped my hand down on the dash. “God
damn
it.”
“I boxed up all your stuff and put it-”
“I don’t care about that,” I snapped. “Where’s Rachel?”
Lisa’s respiration accelerated. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened. All bad signs. “Oh, Susan, I’m so sorry.”
“Where is she?”
Her forehead creased. “They’ve put her in a foster home, sweetie.”
“Who did?”
“The state. NDHS. Human Services.”
“I’m sick for one week and they confiscate my niece?”
“Susan, think. You never formally adopted her. She was just living with you, and that was okay for a while. But after… you know… what happened…”
“They had no right. None.”
“They say you can visit. I mean, you can’t take her away or anything, but-”
“I’m her family! I’m the only family she has!”
“I know. I told them. I offered to let her stay with me till you were released. I tried everything I could think of-”
“Apparently you didn’t try hard enough.”
“Hey, don’t kill the messenger, okay?” For the first time, Lisa’s voice rose. “You’re not the only one who’s had a shitty week, you know? I’ve been under continuous fire, trying to straighten out your-”
She stopped just short, for which I will always love her.
“They had no right to take my niece away.”
Still driving, Lisa reached across and squeezed my hand. “Honey, you’re an alcoholic-”
“I am not.”
“-and there’s no way the state is going to let a fifteen-year-old girl stay with a noncustodial nonparent alcoholic with proven violent tendencies.”
“I’ve never hurt Rachel. I would never hurt her.”
“I know, Susan. But you practically killed that chump at the bar, and endangered everyone there, and that’s all they’re seeing.”
“Goddamn it!” I pounded the dash over and over again, which I’m sure Lisa did not appreciate, but she didn’t say anything. “Goddamn them all to hell.”
Showing her usual perspicacity, she let me stew for a while and didn’t speak again until it was necessary. “We’re almost to my place, Susan. Come in with me. I’ll start a fire. You can put on some woolly pajamas and I’ll brew some tea and you can just chill for a while, okay?”
“No. Take me to the office.”
“Susan-”
“It’s no good, Lisa. You know I can’t tolerate just sitting around, and I would hate being coddled even worse. The best thing for me to do is get back to my job and forget-”
She started to cry. This really bothered me because, for starters, Lisa is my friend, and furthermore, it seemed like if anyone should be crying it should be me-and I wasn’t, so what right did she have?