Sociopaths In Love (4 page)

"I'm appreciating the female form. She can't
help how she looks. She's not overly made-up or dressed in a
flamboyant, slutty kind of way. She's wearing a work uniform that
happens to be flattering and I think she's an attractive young
woman. Looking at people who I find attractive pleases me. And it's
not hurting anyone. I can't help what I find attractive and what I
don't."

"So it just makes you happy to look at her?
If she were to tell you she wants to fuck you, you wouldn't do
it?"

He paused. The waitress came back with their
drinks and set them on the table. She glanced at Erica and Erica
remembered the red stripes she'd put on her face. Maybe that was
what she was looking at. The waitress straightened up and asked if
they were ready to order yet.

"A few more minutes," Walt said.

The waitress headed back to the kitchen and
Walt again stared at her ass.

"If I wanted to fuck her," he said. "I
would."

It was like Erica had already forgotten what
happened at the house earlier. "Like you did me?"

He smiled. "Exactly."

"How did that happen?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did you just come into any old house and
hope there was someone fuckable in it?"

He took a drink of his Coke. "The truth is
you didn't exist until I dreamed you up. You were just in the right
place at the right time."

She swallowed hard and almost believed him.
If someone had the ability to dream a person up, it only stood to
reason he would have the ability to give that person memories, too.
Everything a life was supposed to contain.

"I was just kidding," he said. "I'd seen you
around. I knew where you lived." Erica found that equal parts
creepy and flattering.

The waitress came back. Neither one of them
had looked at a menu but they ordered anyway. Walt ordered steak,
eggs, and hashbrowns. Erica ordered a burger and fries.

"And you were just hoping I didn't say
no?"

"I knew you wouldn't say no."

She found herself blushing again. "I'm not
really that much of a whore."

"I didn't say you were. I just
. . . I wanted you and I took you. That's how my life
works. I already told you that. I'm not sure what I'll have to end
up doing to prove it to you, but you'll see, eventually. That
. . . power I have, you're just unable to see it right
now because you're probably convinced we were drawn together by
chemistry or fate or something romantic or, most importantly,
something that your decision-making played a part in."

"But you said I'm like you. You said I
wanted you. I wanted to come with you and that's why I'm here."

"True. It must be fate." He smiled. "I'm not
joking about this power. Do I have to fuck the waitress to prove it
to you?"

"I'm not sure what I would do."

"I guess I won't but, just so you know, if
the situation were reversed, I wouldn't be possessive or jealous. I
want you to explore every possibility. Every opportunity."

Erica didn't know why the
thought of Walt and that waitress, maybe Walt and anybody, made her
insides sting with jealousy. She didn't think of herself as a
jealous person and knew she wasn't naive enough to think she was
falling in love with him. Of course, she'd never been in love
before, not really. But she'd watched people fall in love before,
well, seen it in movies anyway, and knew they spent a considerable
amount of time telling themselves they weren't falling in love. She
knew
Glamor Face
had several lists, seemingly one an issue but, maybe because
it didn't really apply to her, maybe because she could never
envision a time when she wasn't waiting on her sick grandmother,
she just didn't pay much attention because she couldn't think what
a single one of those lists had said.

Fuck it. She was probably in love with the
guy.

"I like the lines on your face," he said.
"You should keep doing that."

"Maybe I will."

The waitress came back with their food.
Walt's eyes were glued to the hypnotic sway of her ass as she
waited on another table. Erica had to force herself not to devour
her meal as quickly as possible.

"I don't want to fuck her anyway." Walt
grabbed one of his fried eggs and held it up. "This is probably
what her pussy looks like." He tossed the egg back onto the plate
with a sour face and stabbed it with his fork.

Finished, both of them leaning back in their
respective sides of the booth, Walt said, "Okay, so you want me to
prove to you that I can do whatever the hell I want?"

"I would have to say that I can see how our
current situation could be seen as something peculiar by someone
who is not a part of it, but so far I'm not completely buying your
theory."

"So . . . yes?"

"I guess that's a yes."

He set the box of cigarettes on the table
and pulled one out. "When was the last time you saw someone smoke
in a restaurant?"

"Never?"

Walt made a face. "Wow,
you
are
young."

"Twenty-three. Not that young."

"Only someone who's twenty-three would say
that."

"You're not that old."

He didn't respond. He
didn't immediately do
anything
.

Erica realized she was waiting for him to
perform some type of magician's setup or fanfare or something and
said, "What? Are you making yourself invisible now?"

"Not invisible. Unnoticeable. Big
difference. And I don't have to do anything. If it suits me not to
be noticed, I won't be."

He put the cigarette in his mouth and lit
it. He exhaled a plume of smoke. Erica immediately expected the
other people in the restaurant to start making those theatrical
fake coughs, management to rush over, anything. The waitress was on
her way and Erica thought, "Here it comes. She'll ask him to put it
out."

The waitress pulled up at the edge of the
table and reached for the plates. "Can I get these out of the way
for you?"

"Please. Thanks," Walt said.

The waitress took the plates and headed
away.

Erica reached for the smokes and said,
"Well, shit . . ."

It felt weird smoking in the restaurant.
Like she'd entered some other dimension. She had felt that way when
Walt had the gun trained on Granny. It had seemed like Granny was
dead and alive at the same time. Erica thought there was a theory
for that but she couldn't remember what it was. The theory.

By the time they left it felt like the
darkness had gained solidity. They hadn't paid the check. Sitting
next to Walt in the car, feeling a near giddy sense of revelation,
Erica couldn't remember if the waitress had even left a check on
the table.

A thought occurred to her.
She almost mentioned it to him. That he'd somehow arranged
everything and the waitress was just playing a role. Like he knew
her. Like maybe he went to Mama Gravy's all the time. Kept a tab
and always tipped well or something. But that wouldn't explain the
smoking. The restaurant was far from full but it wasn't that large
and there was a good handful of people in there. She normally got
coughed at and scornful looks if she smoked too close to a door. No
way they could have both gotten away with that unless what he said
was at least partially true. That is, she thought there had to
be
something
there.

"It's a good feeling, isn't it?" Walt took
the car up the exit ramp and back onto the mostly empty
highway.

She let herself smile. "It is." And she
again thought of some kind of spell. Something that might wear off.
Tried not to think about it. For some reason, thinking about that
made her think about that other thing. That love thing. The
possibilities swam through her head. Mainly this: She had no idea
what she wanted to do. For the last couple of years, she'd been so
resigned she had stopped wanting anything. Until earlier today, she
guessed, if asked what she wanted most in this world, it would have
been for her Granny to get better.

Or die.

That was a terrible thought.

But true.

It was behind her now. It didn't really
matter. Granny was dead. And she was free.

She lit a cigarette, full of nervous
excitement. "So, if I can do whatever the hell I want and you can
do whatever the hell you want, why didn't you just heal Granny? You
know, like make it so she could talk and get up and take care of
herself while we were gone?"

He lit a cigarette of his
own. "It doesn't work that way. You can really only do what you
want to do. Sometimes, that's contingent upon another person's
reaction. More often, it's contingent upon their
lack
of reaction. You
can't heal people. You can make people do things with you but you
can't really make them do things for you. Although that would be
something really special if we could have our own private armies.
In your Granny's case, it doesn't really matter. I wasn't lying
when I said she'd been dead a long time. I think you were just in
denial."

Erica didn't want to think about Granny
anymore. The night smells flooded the car. She thought about these
boys they were going to go see. Walt had said they shared this
quality of doing what they wanted. She looked out the open window
and didn't see a single light anywhere. She wasn't sure exactly
why, but her elation was replaced by fear or something very close
to it.

Meeting Friends

The boys were only about a half hour away. A
few minutes after leaving the restaurant, it started misting. Walt
turned the windshield wipers on and made a comment about how shitty
they were. Erica apologized but didn't really feel that bad about
it.

"Hope this shit stops soon," Walt said.

"I like it."

"Don't like driving in it."

"Want me to drive?"

"Nah. We're almost there."

"These people . . . are they good
friends?"

Walt rubbed his stubbly chin with the back
of his hand and cocked his head, thinking about it. "I don't know
if I'd really call them friends. People like us . . .
well, it's tough to really get close to people, you know?"

"Business partners?" Erica didn't even know
what she meant by this. 'Business partners' seemed like a very
adult term. Like something a dad would say supposing said father
was responsible and actually available to talk to his child about
his work affairs. Supposing said father actually had work affairs
or even a job. Supposing said father was, you know, there.

"More like business partners but
. . . well, we don't really do any business. More like
colleagues. You know how you hear about salesmen going to
conventions and trade shows? How it's just, like, a bunch of people
with the same profession sitting around and telling stories? It's
kind of like that. Shared interests. One night and then we'll be
gone."

"I was just curious. No rush. I'm sure if
you like them, I will too."

Walt took a right turn onto a road Erica
hadn't seen and slowly crept the car along. She wasn't sure if the
road was even paved. Maybe it wasn't a road. Maybe it was a
driveway. That theory was disproved when she saw a rusty mailbox on
the right and Walt turned toward it. She almost thought it was a
joke or a trick of the eyes. The mailbox said simply, in runny
black letters: THE BOYS. Erica thought this made them seem somehow
sinister.

The driveway was gravel. It had stopped
misting and the windshield wipers screeched as they raked across
raw glass. Walt flipped them off and patted her on the thigh. Why
couldn't he keep doing that? Why couldn't they just pull over to
the side of the driveway and spend all night exploring each other?
Something she didn't feel like they'd really had the chance to do.
While the previous encounters had been passionate, she had ended up
feeling slightly rushed. She supposed she shouldn't have expected
anything more from someone she had known less than twenty-four
hours. Or, she thought, they could just turn around and go back to
the highway. She really couldn't explain her hesitation at
continuing up the drive. Maybe she didn't like meeting new people.
Maybe she didn't want to share him this early into things. Or maybe
the thought of these people who were referred to and referred to
themselves as the Boys terrified her. She had told Walt she would
like them if he did, but that was a lie. She didn't really like
anyone. When she had first met Walt it seemed okay because she had
convinced herself that maybe she had just stored up all of her love
for him. And she felt like, if he didn't yet love her then at least
he paid attention to her, did things for her. He had set her free
and she saw that as worthy of a certain amount of devotion.

They drove around a gentle
bend in the driveway and up ahead lay a slouching two-story
farmhouse with a single light on. In front of them, a yellow
security light threw a fuzzy glow over a rusted white van with no
back windows.
Rape van
, Erica couldn't help thinking. Walt pulled up beside the van,
put the car in park, and hopped out. Erica stepped out into the
damp night, now turned sweet and fragrant, and stood beside Walt,
listening to the quiet dripping of water droplets seeking the
center of the earth and the steady chirping purr of a million
insects. Walt cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted something
that sounded like, "
Ah-heee
!"

The sound cut through Erica.

The next sound was that of screeching metal.
It came from across the back yard that was really more just an
expanse of uncut grass and a rectangle of piercing blue white light
shone from a low barn and expanded until the door was all the way
open. Erica squinted as four figures came from the barn toward
them. She imagined the wet grass squishing under their feet, what
mist remained in the air clinging to their skin and hair.