A Stranger Like You (31 page)

“The Pledge of Allegiance?”

“I still remember the whole thing. I don’t know why. It’s kind of stupid.”

“Let me hear it.”

She says the pledge, standing there with her hand on her heart like a third grader.

“When was the last time you were in school?”

“I made it through tenth grade.”

“What was your favorite subject?”

“Art, I guess. What about you?”

“History. I liked all the stories. I enlisted the day I graduated.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why, really. I thought it would be a good experience.”

She laughs.

“I swear. I really did.”

“You’re crazy, Denny. You know that?”

“Come over here.”

“I’m scared to.”

“Why?”

“I’m too in love.”

“Come over here. Let me hold you.”

She comes to sit with him and he pulls her back against his front, making a chair for her, keeping her warm. She smells like peanut butter.

“I said I’d take care of you.”

“I know.”

“Where’s that harmonica?”

She takes it out of her pocket and plays a slow, sad song that he doesn’t recognize. It comes to him that there are things about her, things she’s experienced, that she will never tell him. And on his side things he won’t tell her. Maybe that’s all right, he decides. Maybe you don’t have to know everything about the person you love.

Finally, when she has exhausted herself, she curls up next to him on the floor and falls asleep. He stays up for a long while, keeping watch, hearing the wind outside rattling the Tyvek, the loose boards of the house, and the distant trucks on the highway barreling through the night.

The man and the girl come back, rattling a grocery bag. You are sitting up, something dripping into your thigh. You rest your head on the seat. It still hurts a little where they stuck the needle in. It is the thorn of a rose, you realize. The truck starts to move. The world smears past. The light is very stark. The light is cruel, it wants to bite you. The white sand, the white sky. You are lace; you are paper, you are a clear voice singing. You feel close to God and it terrifies you. Deep inside your head, in the muddy orbit of your brain, someone is whispering.

The truck slows down. The moon is rising, the stars twist and blur.

“Where are we?” the girl says. “What’s this place?”

Their voices fade and wander. They leave you alone. You feel as if you’re falling. You have fallen into a black pool, a black abyss.

In a little while you hear them again. Vaguely, you realize he is carrying you. You can smell his sweat. It is the smell that comes after lovemaking, the scent you wear all day to remind you. Who is it that you love—you can’t remember now. Gently, you descend to the floor. He looks into your eyes, but you cannot return his gaze. You see things there, things he doesn’t even know. In your state, you are a privileged spectator. The floor is cold. But it is good to be lying down. He fixes the needle on your thigh and you remember that you are wearing your favorite Marc Jacobs skirt. You had been dressed for work. You’d had a lunch date scheduled. Parker’s, you remember, suddenly cognizant, suddenly remembering that you are a woman of some influence. The last time you went to Parker’s you’d complained so viciously about the service that you’d reduced the waitress to tears. The manager had fired her on the spot. And you’d been satisfied. What you jokingly refer to as a satisfied customer.

You were running late that morning. He had come out of your garage.

Shivering, your body runs with sweat. It is the thick, painted on sweat of a fever. If it had a color it would be green. It is the green tongue of death, you think.

The idea sickens you and you lean over and retch. Whatever’s inside you must come out. You need to be empty. Pure.

He wipes your head, your mouth, with a wet cloth.

You drift and sleep. When you wake it is dark and there are candles. You wonder distantly if you have died, if this is your funeral. Where is everybody, you wonder? And then you remember that you have no friends. What a shame, you think, what a sad thing. You hear the sound of a harmonica. It is a gentle sleepy sound. You imagine that you are a cowgirl around a camp-fire, but there is no fire here and you have begun to shake. You are shivering with cold and yet you can feel the sweat running out of you like a very slow leak. Eventually, it will all run out. There will be nothing left.

You drift, you need water and yet you are still unable to drink. There is a place you want to go to inside your head. A weary light taunting you like someone walking through a dark field with a lantern. There are people there, waiting on the ridge. You don’t know any of them, but still they wait for you. What is that smell: roses. No: they are the flowers on your coffin.

Someone is coming with a black cloth. It is a shroud, you think. A shroud for the dead. But no, it is not a shroud. You are mistaken. The sun is bright. There are two of them, two women in the distance, coming toward you through sand. They hold the cloth between them like a banner. They hold it up over their heads. They are proud and strong; victorious. It catches the wind, it billows up on the blue sky. They too are in black. Long black robes.
Abayas
, you remember the word. They are Arabs, their dark eyes glittering. They have secrets for you. You shake your head. You don’t want their secrets. They show you the cloth. For you, they say.
You are so beautiful
. You try to explain. You don’t wear these. You are an American woman. You have different ideas, different customs.
But you must, for your own protection. To keep the worms off you
. They giggle, as if you are trying to amuse them, and they catch you in their arms and wrap you up. The cloth is tight, it constricts you. You try to move, but you are trapped. You have no arms, no legs. You have no face. No name.
Don’t worry,
the women tell you,
where you are going you don’t need a name.

His name is Denny, short for Dennis, you suppose. He is the one who saved you. He is the one who pulled you from the trunk and carried you in his arms and made you better. His skin is damp, red from the sun, and he smells of sweat and dirt. His hands are large, square, graceful as birds. He has been to war. You can see the war in his eyes. It sits there, crouching in his pupils like a lost child. He walks with a slight limp, but he’s muscular, strong, his arms beautifully formed. The rest of him too. Strong, powerful. His hair is dark, his eyes shaped like fish, the way a child might draw them, with extra long lashes, pretty and feminine, but dark eyes that penetrate. Eyes that don’t lie. He can’t. He doesn’t know how. He is young, open. Sad. Terrified.

The girl is very young. In the truck, her blond hair tickles your arm. She should be home with her parents, but she is here, with him. Maybe it’s all right. She is like sunlight, always moving. Never still. Or maybe she is a shadow. She is never without his gaze. She wears his love like a veil.

“Who are you?” he asks, when you open your eyes.

I am nobody; I don’t exist
. “I don’t know.”

“You mean you can’t remember.”

You shake your head, but it isn’t true. You know exactly who you are. When you picture yourself, in your old life, your eyes burn and you have to stop. There are sharp rocks inside your head. Your thirst is unquenchable. It is time to drink. It is time to recover from this ordeal.

The girl is lighting candles. “Make a wish.”

The small flames dance in the wind.

His breath smells of chocolate. “You didn’t tell me you were famous.”

“What?”

“We saw you on TV.”

“He’s famous too,” the girl says.

“Famous for what,” you ask.

“He’s a war hero,” the girl says.

But even in your state you can tell it’s not the whole story.

“What happened to you?” he asks.

“Someone came to my house,” you say, trying not to remember. A man appeared one morning, wearing an awful smile.

It was dark in the trunk, it was terrifying. You didn’t think you would survive. You were hot; you were baking. Your mouth so dry you couldn’t swallow. There was a chase; you rolled around like a watermelon. “What happened to the cop? Did you shoot him?”

“No, ma’am. We had an accident.”

“He was going to accuse you of something.”

“Yes.”

“They’re looking for you now, the cops?”

“I stole your car. I didn’t know you were in it.”

“You stole my car—why?”

“For kicks,” he says.

“No. There was a reason.”

He shakes his head. “You always ask all these questions?”

“I make movies,” she admits. “It’s what we do. Things have to make sense.”

“Life doesn’t always make sense.”

“You can tell me.”

He just looks at you and you understand at once that he doesn’t want to talk about it in front of the girl. The girl crouches at your side like your own child—the child you will never have. She watches you, curious, as if you are some fallen angel. With tenderness, she smoothes your hair from your face, runs a damp cloth over your skin. The gesture, so honest and kind, makes your eyes tear. “This is Denny,” she says. “And I’m Daisy. What’s your name?”

I don’t remember.
“Hedda?”

“That’s a funny name.”

“My mother named me after a character in a play.
Hedda Gabler.
”

“Never heard of it,” the girl says.

“You were in Iraq?” You see his tags, the dark hairs on his chest.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What was it like?”

“Hot.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It was hard.”

“That’s all you can say?”

He nods quietly; he doesn’t want to talk about it.

Abruptly, you start to cry. Tears stream down your cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

He puts his hand on your head. “It’s just a fever,” he says. “We need to get you to a hospital.”

“It’s too much of a risk,” she says. “If they find you . . .”

He looks at you and you can see in his eyes that he is prepared to die.

“I’m thirsty,” you say.

“Good. Let me help you up.”

He comes behind you and pulls you up and leans you against the wall. He pours some water into a cup and brings it to your lips. The water tastes like the sky. He hands you a cracker. “Try one of these.”

Your mouth waters for it. You put it into your mouth and consume it ravenously. The salt unzips your hunger. Out of all of the food you have eaten in your life, the fancy meals, this is by far the best. This single perfect cracker.

“Good for you,” he says, handing you the box. You are sitting, you are a person. Now you can see this place, this broken house.

“You saved my life.”

He smiles, nods. You can see his pride.

“You’re a hero. You’re the real thing.”

“No.”

“But you are. I’ve never met one before.”

“No, ma’am. I’m no hero.”

“To me you are.”

“I’m nothing,” he admits. “I’m no one.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I have no soul.”

“What happened to it?”

“A buzzard came and stole it.”

“I lost mine too.”

“How?”

“That man took it.”

“You’ll get it back.”

“We both will.”

Hugh stops at a gas station in Death Valley and uses the toilet. There’s a mirror over the urinal, and he can’t help watching his face as he relieves himself. It’s a strange place to hang a mirror, he thinks, and he doesn’t really feel like looking at himself right now. A bruise floats over his eye like a jellyfish. It occurs to him that he’s probably wanted for murder. Before he’d come out to Los Angeles, he never would have predicted that his life would change, that he would become a criminal wanted by the law. But that’s what he is now. Just like in
Breathless,
when Belmondo kills the cop on a half-assed jocular impulse. He’s misunderstood; a man who makes a single, fatal mistake. Just like him, he thinks. Only he doesn’t really
feel
guilty. If they catch him and send him to prison, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to survive. But lots of people go to jail and make it through somehow. The idea of it terrifies him more than anything else, even death. By now they’ve probably gone through his apartment. They’ve seen the file he’d made on Hedda Chase. And chances are they’d found her pocketbook in the back of his closet. Somehow, he hadn’t wanted to part with it. He’d even used that famous black soap of hers; it had made his skin peel. And her undergarments had been expensive. He’s never been with a woman who had underwear like that. From time to time, when he was drunk or depressed, he’d take all of the things out of her bag and examine them carefully, like the souvenirs of a trip.

He buys some coffee and a buttered roll. The cashier is a redhead with buck teeth.

“I’m looking for a friend of mine,” he says, and shows her a picture of Hedda Chase. “She’s my girlfriend.”

The girl shakes her head, shrugs. “Sorry. Haven’t seen anyone like that.”

“She’s the one from Hollywood who went missing.” He gives her a pleading look. “They found her car down here some place.”

“Oh, that.” Now her eyes light up. “Just down the road. Old man Wheeler’s place.”

“Thank you,” he says. “I appreciate your help.”

About a mile down the road he comes to a small ranch. A wood sign that says Wheeler on it. There’s a trailer at the end of a long drive. An old cowboy comes to the door. “What now?”

“I got your name from someone down the road,” Hugh says.

“I thought I got rid of all you reporters last night.”

Hugh said, “Do I need to resort to money?”

“Wouldn’t hurt.”

“How’s twenty bucks?”