Shaking out the Dead (34 page)

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Tatum spun into the lot of Vincent's motel. She took only one breath to collect herself then threw open the car door. She knew Vincent's room number, and she knew her mission. Overload the senses. Drown feelings. She would show him her scar and watch his face. He would struggle between backing off and pretending it didn't matter. He was not a superficial guy. That's not how he'd want to see himself.

A stage-three air alert had turned the night a dingy purple. Tatum stood in the eerie light outside Vincent's room. Her pulse raced. But before she could knock, the door opened. They both jumped, startled. Vincent looked surprised but not unhappy to see her.

“Vincent,” Tatum said, “this has nothing to do with any expectations. I'm happy to edit your book no matter what. But I do want you. I want you.”

A question mark on his face was followed by a soft smile.

“Wow,” he said.

“Weren't expecting room service, were you?” Tatum said nervously. She looked at the ground.

Vincent lifted her chin. He moved his hand to her hip and kissed her. Tatum was surprised to feel her body brace.

The kiss was not long.

“I was just leaving,” Vincent said. “I've got to meet someone.” He motioned with his chin toward the restaurant across the street. “Half an hour, an hour at the most.” He reached to her hair and took a strand of it between his finger and thumb. “Can you wait?”

“Okay.”

“The manuscript is on the desk,” he said, “if you need to amuse yourself. The TV has bad reception.”

“All right,” Tatum said.

Vincent stepped aside, and Tatum slipped into the room.

“I'll be back as soon as I can,” he said. He hesitated before pulling the door closed behind him. “I'm glad you came.”

“Well, you're welcome,” Tatum said, and she winced as he closed the door.

You're welcome?
She was such an idiot.

The motel room was rundown but not seedy. Tatum lowered herself onto the end of the bed almost as though she wasn't certain it would hold her. The air conditioner was off. It was the noise, Tatum knew, from her history with Vincent. Instead, the windows were open and traffic noises drifted in through the screens, as did the smoke. The room smelled dirty. The whole valley smelled dirty.

She surveyed the room. Tatum had to hand it to Vincent, letting her stay there alone, he must not have anything to hide. She stood and paced, examining what private details of Vincent's world might lay on the surface. A half-filled water glass. A comb on the dresser. Half a package of Rolaids. Her eyes drifted from the surfaces to the walls. Above the television set hung a mass-produced print of a landscape. Pine trees, a waterfall, and a little bridge crossing a creek. It was hideous. Tatum smiled. She'd been in a dozen motel rooms just like this. She had an affection for them and their crummy art.

But unlike those other rooms, she was not in this one for suicide. She was here for annihilation, the next best thing.

She walked to the desk and fingered the manuscript. She wasn't in the mood to read but knew Vincent would want her to say something when he got back. A few comments about his manuscript would stoke the fires. She picked it up and turned. Above the bed, she noticed a print similar to the one above the television set. She looked back and forth between the two. They were not similar. They were exactly the same.

“That's hilarious,” she said aloud, but her spirits sank. It made her think of Paris. He'd toast the fact of it.

No, she thought. Not Paris. Vincent. She looked at the clock. Only ten minutes had passed. Self-annihilation better lends itself to spontaneity. Vincent was giving her too much time. Time to notice that the mattress was off the floor. Time to wonder how many women had made Vincent no-strings-attached offers of their bodies. Some people you have to love on their own terms. Their frailties and cruelties must remain unacknowledged. Then, there were people like her, crawling for love. A million sorrys, and it was never enough. What made some people worth more than others, she wondered? Why is a bone thrown from one person worth more than another giving everything she's got?

A grinding sound interrupted her thoughts. Wind hitting the building? She looked to the windows. Something wasn't right. Her mind tried to make sense of what it saw. Then, it clicked. She thought she heard a strong wind. But the curtains weren't moving.

The window was.

Earthquake.

Her mind formed the word, and it was over.

“Whoa,” she said.

She looked back at the crummy artwork. One of the pictures had shifted, but they were still exactly the same.

The heat of the room snuck up on her. She looked at the worn bedspread, and it bored her to the point of claustrophobia. What made Vincent worth more than her, she thought? But the question dislodged a shard of hate, a shard not reserved for Vincent alone. When the people you love don't love you back, how can you help but hate them, at least a little?

Tatum dropped the manuscript onto the bed. She didn't leave a note. Her own thoughts were scaring her, and she had to get out. She left the room, nearly stumbling to her car. She barely remembered the ride, but there she was, parked outside the Deluxe. It was their last night open. Her last chance. She had no idea where Paris was living. She might never know again where to find him. Her fingers curled over the steering wheel. She bit her bottom lip. She wanted Paris to save her from her own thoughts. She didn't want to hate him. She wanted to love him.

But would he let her be the woman he had once loved? The one he had drawn in the picture?

She banged her head against the steering wheel. The problem wasn't who Paris would allow her to be. The problem was her and who she could be. She hadn't lived up to the image he had held of her. Was she any different now?

Tatum lifted her head and screamed at the windshield. No words, just a frustrated howl. She put the car in gear and peeled out. Back at the duplex, she stormed into her living room and stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do.

She didn't want to exist.

Her eyes darted through the room. There she was in the pillows. There she was in the ottoman. She lunged toward the sofa, yanking off the pillows and pitching them toward the door. She kicked over the ottoman. In the kitchen, she grabbed a box of plastic garbage bags and then marched to the linen closet. There, she pulled out the sheets and towels. She stuffed the bags. In her bedroom, she filled another bag with clothes and shoes. She tore apart her closet. She dared anything to matter enough to stop her.

Giant bag after giant bag landed at her front door. It wasn't suicide. It wasn't sleeping with Vincent. She could self-annihilate without self-destructing, she told herself. If she had nothing, she thought, she was one step closer to being nothing. Ground zero without the bomb. She loaded her Celica to capacity. It wasn't all she had, but it was all she could fit. In the foyer, she paused. It was nearly two in the morning, but she didn't care.

“Geneva,” she yelled at Geneva's door. “Geneva.”

But there was no answer. How could she not hear? Tatum imagined Geneva jamming her head under the pillow to drown out the sound of her voice. Tatum left the duplex, got into her packed car, and pulled away from the curb, heading for the Salvation Army.

Tatum drove the near empty streets past the marquees and strip malls. She parked behind the square, dark building. It wasn't the best of neighborhoods, but there was a floodlight above the Dumpster-sized drop box where people left their cast-offs. Let the poor rest their feet on her ottoman, she thought, tipping it over the bin's edge. Let the homeless wear her clothes, she thought, heave-ho-ing the garbage bags over the rim. Would Paris recognize her blue corduroy blouse on one of his midnight customers, she wondered? No. Tonight was the last night. He would never see the women again.

Tatum emptied her car and stood beside the drop box under the starless sky. Her apartment was torn apart. Her car was empty. The air was so packed with particulate that her lungs were fatigued by breathing itself. She looked for the moon and waited for the relief. The fix. She wasn't gone, but was she gone enough? Or should she have stayed in Vincent's room? Did she need a fistful of pills to get the job done?

The moon was nowhere. The moon was the one that was gone. Not her. It didn't seem quite fair. She turned a circle beside her car, her head thrown back and eyes turned upward.

The feeling she expected didn't come, the melancholy and heartbreak for a lost moon. One longs for what is gone, and Tatum knew that the moon could not be gone. It made her angry, not sad, that the moon wasn't there. She searched the overcast sky for the vague halo.

It was discomfort no matter how you sliced it, she thought. The discomfort of having. The discomfort of losing. The discomfort of fear. The discomfort of courage. Maybe choosing one over the other wasn't so great a leap.

“I love you, Paris,” she said, looking up into a moonless sky. “Okay?”

She got back into her car. She was going to the diner. She would drag Paris outside. She and Paris. They were going to find the damn moon.

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The night was slow, as Paris had expected. It became clear he needn't worry that there would be meatloaf enough for the women. He collected the old menus and tossed them into the garbage can in the kitchen.

When 2 a.m. rolled around, the retarded women took their usual booth. Paris delivered piping hot plates straight from the microwave to their table. The women looked confused for a moment but then picked up their forks. Paris thought they might want soup too, for nostalgia's sake, so he brought them each a bowl. Only one other woman showed up that night, the alcoholic with the shake. Paris brought her food too, and they ate quietly while he cleared out the cabinets beneath the counter. He threw away unneeded cleaning supplies and carried stacks of dishes back into the kitchen. He found himself feeling almost good as he laid them out with the pots, pans, and cooking utensils ready for tomorrow's sale. He didn't know what the next day would bring or where he would go. West, he thought, maybe. It didn't matter. He was starting over. Soon he would be back to his old, invisible self. He would let people be and not expect anything to be other than it was. He would be one less pair of sticky hands.

A thud from the back of the kitchen interrupted his thoughts. He lifted his head and heard it again. Someone was banging on the back door. He walked toward the rear of the kitchen, craning his neck. He pushed the metal bar, and there she stood beneath the fire escapes in the purple night.

Linda.

“The 'tards said you wanted to see me,” she said. She hugged her arms, though it wasn't cold. She looked down the alley then back at Paris.

So much for unsticky hands.

“You're closing tonight, huh?” she said, clearly nervous and unsure what he might want of her.

Paris stepped out and placed a brick kept nearby into the door to keep it ajar. He had thought it was all over, but here Linda was, so he reached into his pocket and pulled out the money.

“Here,” he said. “I want you to have this.”

Linda drew her brows together and looked at the bills.

“What's this?”

“To get out of town,” Paris said. “I mean, if you need to, or want to.” It occurred to him that that was his own plan as well. “I'm leaving too” he said. “If you need a ride, I can give you one,” he blurted. “It's not about sex or anything,” he added quickly, but the words felt awkward hanging in the air. “Just take the money,” he said. “But you can have a ride too. If you want.”

Linda looked from the money to his face. He knew that it would be difficult for her to believe he had no ulterior motive. He shouldn't have offered the ride.

“No blowjob is this good,” she said.

“It's not about that,” Paris said.

Linda took the money. She looked down the alley and then stepped toward Paris. She dropped to a knee and started in at his belt.

“No,” Paris said, pulling her to her feet. “I just want to. . .”

But what he wanted was not to want.

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Linda knew that Paris wasn't looking for sex. He was trying to make amends. She wasn't sure what he had done, whom he owed something to, and whether the debt was real or imagined. But she accepted what men might thrust upon her, surrogate for anger, love, or regret. Paris needed her to take the money and that much she would do. But she knew, too, that he wanted more. She knew something about wanting to be good, believing you are against all evidence, but knowing that you are not despite your best efforts. She felt sorry for Paris, but with this, she could not help him. She could accept the money but not the goodness. To accept the goodness would force her to open that space that receives and the price of that was just too great. To be open and grow empty again, it was a journey she had taken too many times. One trip was not worth the other. She stepped toward Paris and reached for his belt.

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Linda pressed her mouth into his, and Paris found himself unable to pull away. It was the touch. The body heat. The place to disappear. Linda drowned out his goodness with a quick and firm caress of his balls. Paris drowned out Linda's name by closing his eyes. Linda backed against the Dumpster for support, dragging Paris forward with her. She pulled his dick out from his pants. She stroked it until it stiffened, undid her pants and pushed them down, and then shoved Paris inside of her.

Paris put his hands on the rim of the Dumpster behind her head. Linda's breath was in his ear. He drew back his head and fucked her. He fucked her for Tatum — that's how it felt — like it was, at last, what Tatum wanted, something sad and broken, and not his own desires. His eyes opened to a moonless sky, and he surrendered to oblivion. To thrust and sensation. He and Linda were both alone. Alone together. He looked to Linda's face, her profile against the black metal rim. She opened her eyes too. They landed on his for just a moment but then refocused over his shoulder.

“No,” she cried.

Paris didn't know what hit him. All he knew was that he was on the ground, his pants at his thighs. His head screamed with pain. Linda screamed too and hiked up her pants. A swift kick landed in his stomach, and he rolled to his side, reaching for the sides of his jeans.

“Get out of here,” Linda was yelling, and Paris wasn't sure to whom. He made it to his hands and knees and then up to his feet. But he was too late. Linda's husband had her by the back of the neck, and he dragged her into the kitchen, kicking out the brick, the door locking behind him. Paris heard Linda scream again.

Paris threw his body at the door. He pounded it. Then he turned and ran down the alley, slightly bent at the gut. He tried to holler “help,” but it came out as only breath. He stumbled as he ran, one hand steadying himself on the brick backs of buildings. A drumbeat pounded inside of his head. Run. Then he heard a crash, a sound like an air conditioner hitting concrete from a three-story drop. A gunshot. He reached the corner and rounded the block. Street lamps cast soft pools of light on the empty sidewalks and lit up the floating particulate. Paris straightened his body as he ran. When he reached the Deluxe's door, he was pushed aside by two men racing out. Headlights from a car pulled up to the curb.

Paris burst through the door and moved swiftly through the casino, afraid of what he might find. But the casino was empty. As he approached the diner, he could see her, Linda, held by the hair by her husband. In his other hand, he held the gun. Blair lay on the threshold between the two rooms, holding his shoulder, the blood seeping out between his fingers. The retards were under the table holding each other, cheek to cheek, eyes slammed closed and crying like children.

White light exploded in Paris's head.

“Motherfucker,” Paris said, breaking past the threshold.

Paris's blood ran cold. His boots could kick without mercy. His fists could pound one after the other. Don't stop. Don't stop until it's dead.

“Shoot me,” Paris said, jabbing with his thumb at his own chest. “Shoot
me
, you motherfucker.”

Paris didn't know he had blood running down his head and off his lip. He didn't know he had four inches on Linda's husband and that the veins of his biceps stood out blue and were pumped fat with adrenaline. He didn't know the force of his body walking the length between the booths and the counter was menace and threat and fearlessness, a single-focused rage and a self-disregard that made it so that no man could stop him. A gun might. Maybe a gun. Only a gun. Linda's husband's eyes were full of fear and feral threat, but they lost their focus on Paris for just a second, and in that second, Linda pushed at his ribs and spun, freeing herself just as Paris reached them and lunged for her husband's hand.

But the gun fired first.