Sometimes Rachel
chapter 7- crucible
The bottle is warm, body temperature. Empty. I pick at the red label. Mutter the words to some song I can't remember. It's a beautiful song though and I fumble with the volume knob on the radio. Nothing. I look out the window. Paris Theater. Something cold touches the back of my arm and I jerk my head against the car door. Dog in the back seat. Cold dog nose. I say hello and the dog whines, thumping his tail. The grinch. I lean over and push open the other door. Tell the grinch to go on, take him a piss. Stay out of the street, boy. I watch him through the window. Smoke. I want to smoke a cigarette.
Something banging on roof. Hollow metal. Someone knocking. Wide lips with mustache leaning in window. Shiny silver tie dangles from throat. Hey fuckface this ain't no park. Get yer sucking dog and move this car out my lot. Laughing, I’m laughing. Tell the mustache I feel great. Five minutes yer sorry fuck. Okay okay okay fuck. No problem, I whistle for the grinch. The car won't start. Look down and key is broken off in ignition. I hit the dashboard once, twice. I beat the dashboard until my fist is purple still laughing. I guess we’re walking, Grinch boy. Lock the car as I get out. Stare at the broken key, stupid. Tell the grinch what we need is a cold beer.
Long walk and hot as a mother. Too early. Nobody home this place. Neon beer signs in window dark. Face flat on black glass. The grinch flops down on sidewalk. Tongue hanging out pink. Thirsty boy. I know. Next place is open, though. Sweet's Place. Dark velvet cool inside jukebox glow. In pocket are two twenties and a ten and cigarettes. Put money on bar flat. Focus and speak without slur. Draft and a shot of vodka and some water. Tell old man Sweet the grinch is my seeing eye dog and I need him. Legally blind but I can see little bit.
Muscle control no good bathroom stall and door hangs one hinge. Cigarette on toilet edge burns out yellow track. Slow piss burn. Blue ink words swim on brick. Only thing white man fears is black dick. Under that says die nigger die and come suck it. Little ugly man leaning into white chrome. Want to get high good shit the best. Smiling he says twenty bucks or blow me and he unzips pants. I am shaking head no thanks. I swing my fist swinging ugly dwarf man bobs sideways and I’m almost falling. Throw another and hit him in throat. Ugly man falls over cock in hand. Then I’m kicking his face stomping him with heel of shoe and blood flash dark. Zipper caught on pants and wet shoes is time to go.
Girl says come with me. Her face lost in shadow. I am crammed in car, back seat. Hand up her dress. Then come to a party. Dark house floors wet and slick vibrate. Bodies slam into walls. Scream and smoke. Drag through kitchen then outside. Drums and feedback whine black guitar. In silence brightly sleep calls. Glass breaking colors sharp relief and fire in pit. Flames move fingers shadows running. Bodies leaping pit. Girl stumbles leg on fire laughing says it feels like ice. Then on sidewalk watching someone vomit and strange tongue hot in mouth. Hand pulling my dick. Do you have any money give me the money. Back inside house girl with terrible face whispering tight pants. Bedroom with guy his face dark only teeth and hat pulled low. Lock fucking door it's hot and windows painted shut. Girl circling like wolf. She blows in my ear my torn leaf and laughs. Take your shirt off. Blue flame. Heat it slow don't suck on it like a cigarette boy take it deep inside like a dick let it get in your blood. Black light. Hold your breath hold it hold your breath. I can’t see the girl but I can feel her I can almost touch her.
Dark, wet grass. Thin trees shake half moon white. Voices carry from a house. Mosquitoes rape the skin but my hand won't lift to slap. Cigarette between fingers but I don't remember lighting it. On the ground next to me is a heavy piece of wood. Polished surface and slightly curved. One end sawed off the length of my arm. This is an axe handle. The house is familiar. I put the cigarette to my mouth. Tongue like ash and I spit. The skull hurts. I decide to enter the house, to find someone, anyone. My legs heavy in wet jeans. I leave the axe handle where it lies. I’ve been drinking. And by the taste of my hole, smoking rock. I wonder where Grinch is.
Stink of incense bitter and music throbbing. Bodies on the floor whisper curses as I stumble over distended arms and legs, strange and boneless. Muscle and sigh under sliding flesh. Bright doorway is the kitchen. White and black tile floor buckled with water damage. A young boy stands at the sink, his chest naked. He sways from the hip. His left nipple is pierced, glitter of gold. Another boy sits on the floor, his baby face trembling. He sneezes repeatedly. The sides of his head are shaved, tattoo of pterodactyl under black stubble. The first boy offers a carved wooden pipe.
The shit, he says.
Excuse me, I say.
Push past the kid to get to the sink. Hold myself upright with one hand, grope for the faucet. Open mouth under water turning cold. Rinse the ash and spit. Then I lean on the sink.
Have you seen a dog? I say. A big white dog.
The boys look at each other and giggle.
Where is the bathroom, then?
Boy on the floor sucks air through teeth.
Where?
Upstairs, he says.
The carpet is muddy gray and wet. Narrow hallway with doors on each side. Legs unfold along the walls. Colorless facial features. Eyes and lips moving slow without recognition. A bare light bulb wobbles above and shadows jump as arms rise and fall, smoking. No one speaks to me. I open a random door to the sound of fucking. Two girls and a boy. Lit by candles their bodies seem unstable. Faces hidden in black crotches. Eating each other. I mumble, sorry. I just want to find a bathroom. Lock the door for five minutes. Sit on the edge of porcelain, study the mirror to make sure the face looks like mine. Next door is a bedroom. Bare futon mattress on wood floor. Clothes heaped. Only light is from a reading lamp aimed down in corner. Shadows huge and liquid crawling walls. On the futon is a white male facedown. Sleeping or unconscious. His back and shoulders are bloody. The wall above mattress splashed red. I linger for a moment then pull the door softly shut.
I find a bathroom and the face is still mine. I’m wearing a t-shirt, dark blue. The ruined ear, scabbed and tender. I hold both wrists under cold water. My arms feel steady. I take off my shirt. The chest and stomach look normal. Dark stains on the shirt and I press it to my face. Liquor sweat cigarettes perfume salt. I can’t separate them but the dominant scent is Rachel's. The date on my watch says 9 July. Thursday. I was born on a Thursday but was it Thursday when I put this blue shirt on. When I left Zoe. I wasn't planning to see Rachel. I was looking for Owen. I wanted to tell him something, I wanted to do something to him. I throw water on my face and chest and use my shirt for a towel. Open the medicine cabinet, find aspirin and diet pills and vitamins. I take two of each. Then suffer the shift. Dull flash remember, then rapidly to black. We took our shirts off because of the heat. Windows shut to keep the air still. Eyes white unblinking. Blue flame hissing like a jet. The rock twisting bubbles slow cooking. Every detail agony. Skin shining with sweat. I recognize the face. Pulse thick and breath stopping.
I run back down the hall, blue stained shirt still in hand. The body on the futon hasn't moved. The room stinks and I slam the door. My fingers find the throat and there’s no pulse. I lift the reading lamp from corner. The bulb smells like burning flesh. The mattress around the head is brown. Roll him over and there’s a tearing sound. His forehead is stuck with dried blood. He's been hit in the head with something heavy, his nose and mouth bashed in. He looks different without the fishing hat, but it’s Owen. His head is small, the bald spot pink. Shadow of a beard and thick lips pale. The scabbed cold sore in the corner of his mouth. Owen’s eyes are open, black with clotted blood. His body is laced with cuts, some of them to the bone. Tendons and gray ropy tissue have been pulled from his arms. One of his thumbs has been sawed off.
My hand slips from the bloody shoulder.
I sit down beside the futon, notice a small black backpack open on the floor. Dig through it and find cottonballs, rubbing alcohol, hemostat, baking soda, torch, and pipe. A crumpled pack of cigarettes, a wallet. I extract the last cigarette from the pack. I try not to touch anything else. The stains on my shirt. The axe handle in the yard, slick and wet in the grass, the length of my arm. I have a knife in my pocket but I don’t want to look at it.
The axe handle is gone. Someone came along and took it. Or else I can't remember where I was napping. Time to disappear. I didn't see anyone in the house I knew but they might well know me. I tend bar in a pretty popular dive. Everybody fucking knows me, it seems. I start walking. Not exactly sure what part of town this is, I’m so disoriented. Check my pockets and find seven dollars, some coins. The knife. Ring of keys, one of them broken. My wallet is gone. I want to find a payphone, but who to call. Zoe is not speaking to me. Rachel might know something but she will surely lie to me.
The sickness is setting in. Stomach fear and raw ache in the head. The memory guilt of sleepwalking. Twelve hours I’ve been in the black.
Find a working payphone, shut myself inside and still feel exposed. I have four quarters and I know I will have to call Rachel. Even if she lies she might give me half the truth. The truth, mangled and stillborn. I try Zoe first. She may not want me but she loves me. Dial the number and let it ring. Two in the morning and I get the machine. I say her name and wait. The machine disconnects. Dial tone. Without thinking I plug in more coins and dial my own apartment. Rachel answers on the second ring.
It's me.
Who is this?
Travis.
It's late. I'm trying to sleep.
What are you doing there?
Travis. What do you want?
What are you doing at my place?
This is my place. I live here.
Doesn't matter. Is Grinch there?
The dog? I haven't seen him.
I lost him. I lost Grinch.
Is that why you called?
Listen. Rachel. Were you with me tonight?
I don't think so. I've been home all night.
Really. I can smell you on my clothes.
What are you wearing?
A blue shirt.
I'm wearing a white dress. I borrowed it from Zoe today.
Rachel please.
A white cotton dress, like a nightgown. I feel like Ophelia.
For god’s sake, Rachel.
Was it a nice party?
No. It wasn't nice.
What do you want?
I want to come home.
I’m sorry.
I pay the fucking rent.
The power is off.
Rachel. I think I'm in trouble.
What do you mean?
I think I did something.
Are you sure you don't remember?
No. I don't.
Travis. What did you do.
I don't know. I don't know.
It’s good to forget.
Rachel. I need a ride. I left my car somewhere.
I have your car.
I shove a fist into my left eye and try to think. The car key is broken, the nub still on my ring. Rachel asks where I am, and now I look around. Near the hospital. The parking lot brightly lit. Insects hissing. There’s a waffle house down the street. I can smell fried bread and salt. She tells me to wait for her there.
I stand outside a minute, paranoid. There’s only one customer inside, a shaky looking old guy. He holds a coffee cup in two hands, trembling as if confronting his mother's breast. The waitress is a heavy woman leaning over the counter with a yellow sponge. I should be safe. The waitress will call me honey. I open the door, nervous under sudden white light. Look down. The stains on my shirt. I go directly to the bathroom, noting that there’s an old world cigarette machine in the corner. In the bathroom I turn the shirt inside out and put it on again, and it’s marginally improved. I come out and takes a booth facing the door. A radio behind the counter is tuned low to a country station.
The waitress smiles. What will you have, dear?
Coffee, please.
After a minute a saucer and cup rattle before me.
Are you alright? she says.
Her face is pale and kind. She's chewing gum.
I think so, I say.
Cream with that?
No, thanks.
Shuddering silence. I ask her to give me change so I can buy cigarettes. She nods and dips into her pouch as I pull out one dollar after another and a long stretching moment later I stand before the machine with a handful of quarters. My hand is unsteady and I tell myself to be careful. Finally, the machine rings true and I collect the pack below.
Can I get a square from you little brother?
The old man. The skin wrapped around his skull is of two colors. Patches of yellow and brown. His clothes are rotten. I shake out a cigarette and as he reaches for it I see his fingers have been broken countless times. The old man licks the butt and shoves it deep into his mouth, gray lips collapsing around it. He blows a massive cloud of smoke.
Thank you.
No problem.
The old man wrinkles his mouth and sniffs. You hurt yourself?
No.
He grunts. You smell like blood.
I back away from him, touching my ear.
The waitress fills my cup three times and asks if I want a menu. She sounds worried about me and finally I agree to a piece of pecan pie. She empties my ashtray. I begin to think Rachel isn't coming. She went back to sleep. I mention this to the waitress as she delivers my slice of pie and she just nods. Whatever you say, honey.
I wonder where the hell Grinch is, where I lost him. I try to remember meeting up with Owen. I remember looking for him. He was looking for me and I reckon we found each other. Owen had a rock and wanted to smoke it. I was drunk as a lord. Throwing money around. I can still taste the coke in my lungs, my teeth. Like the smell of oranges left over from a dream. I close my eyes and try to reconstruct. If Rachel was in that room I can't see her. Owen's face, crushed. Something started in the perfect shadows. Eyes flashing like hammers. The twist of a mouth. Owen pressed me about Sally, the baby. I told him I didn’t know anything. Owen pushed me and said the wrong thing. What kind of guy fucks around with his own sister. There was a piece of wood leaning against the wall and I picked it up. I could do that. I could do anything.
Reflection of a police car rolls through dark windows. Two cops get out and walk toward the door. Short sleeve summer uniforms, gun belts bulky with gear. Black boots bright. They come in and take seats at the counter, Billy clubs dangling. An empty stool left between them. Faces at an angle to mine. Cop faces. They are young and leave their hats on. The waitress brings them coffee. Hello boys, she says. You look tired.
They nod and mutter.
The old man concentrates on a plate of biscuits and gravy. I stop breathing. Try to be very still in my booth. Not looking for me, they’re not looking for me. These boys are off duty and they don't give a shit. I’m invisible. I could scream and set my hair on fire and they would ask for more coffee. After a minute I feel myself begin to twitch. My head is tilted to one side. Lips barely parted, breathing. My cigarette burns untouched in the plastic ashtray. I lift my cup and it's empty.
I am now openly staring at the cops.
Headlights sweep the window and go black. I turn and see my own car parked beside the police cruiser. I can’t tell if anyone is at the wheel. Turn around and one of the cops is looking at me. He’s looking at me. His eyes curious and hard. My hand goes numb and I drop the coffee cup. It clatters on the table, spinning. I catch it before it hits the floor. The cop stands, stares through me, tugs at his belt. He walks toward the bathroom. The other one is murmuring to the waitress.
I turn to the window again. I see a girl in a white dress, running barefoot in shadows. She’s running away. I put my money on the table. I walk slowly to the door and outside. The girl is gone. My car is idling, the windows rolled down. I open the driver’s door and the dome light flicks on bright. I climb in as the car coughs and dies and the interior goes dark. There’s just enough light coming from the waffle house to see. In the backseat Grinch is curled very still, as if asleep. He doesn’t look right and I’m afraid to touch him. I fumble around to restart the car but there’s no key. The ignition casing is gone, hammered off. There’s a screwdriver on the dashboard, next to my wallet. On the passenger seat is a fishing hat, smeared with blood and mucus. The vinyl seat is sticky and wet. On the floor is a black piece of wood the length of my arm, the axe handle. I reach for it and my hand comes away with bits of what my head screams is brain matter warm and wet stuck between the fingers. I wipe them violently on my jeans.
The stink of copper.
Grinch has not yet moved.
Thirty seconds tick by distinct as raindrops on scorched earth. I reach around and put my hand on the dog’s head and my heart stops briefly as Grinch thumps his tail and presses his cold nose to my skin.
Hey, boy. Let’s get out of here.
I tell myself I have to be cool. I have to act like this is the most ordinary of ordinary days and I have all the time in the world. I pick up the screwdriver and stab it into the ignition. The car makes a terrible grinding noise and refuses to turn over. I screw my eyes shut and try again and again the noise is sickening.
Now footsteps.
Do you have a problem, boy?
I open my eyes and the cop is leaning in my window, one hand on his belt.
In the rear view mirror I see once more the flutter of a white dress disappearing like a moth in the dark.
end.