Billy Summers (27 page)

He looks out and sees nothing but the deserted street. The rain is still coming down but the wind has let up a little. He pulls the curtain closed and checks his watch, which he never took off. It's quarter past four in the morning. He puts on the shorts, lies down on the couch, and tries to think what he should do with her when she wakes up, but what's jamming up the forefront of his mind, ridiculous but true, is that her unwelcome appearance in his life
has probably put an end to his writing, and just when it was going well. He has to smile. It's like worrying if there's enough toilet paper when you hear the town's tornado siren go off.

The body wants what it wants, and so does the mind, he thinks, and closes his eyes. He means only to doze but falls fully asleep again instead. When he wakes up the girl is standing over him, wearing the T-shirt he got her into when he put her to bed. And holding a knife.

“Where am I? Who are you? Did you rape me? You did, didn't you?”

Her eyes are red and her hair is every whichway. Her picture could be next to
hangover
in the dictionary. She also looks scared to death, and Billy can't blame her for that.

“You were raped, but I didn't rape you.”

The knife is just the little one he used to pry up the splinters in his feet. He left it on the coffee table. He reaches out and takes it from her. He does it gently and she makes no protest.

“Who are you?” Alice asks. “What's your name?”

“Dalton Smith.”

“Where are my clothes?”

“Hanging from the shower rod in the bathroom. I undressed you and—”

“
Undressed
me!” She looks down at the shirt.

“And dried you off. You were soaking wet. Shivering. How's your head?”

“Aches. I feel like I drank all night, but I only had one beer… and I think maybe a g-and-t… where are we?”

Billy swings his feet to the floor. She backs away, hands coming up in a warding-off gesture. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

She considers it, but not for long. She lowers her hands. “Yes. And do you have aspirin?”

He makes coffee. She swallows two aspirin while she waits for it, then slowly goes into the bathroom. He hears the door lock, but that doesn't concern him. A five-year-old could bust that lock, and a ten-year-old would probably bust the door off the hinges in the bargain.

She comes back to the kitchen. “You didn't flush. Ugh.”

“I didn't want to wake you.”

“Where's my phone? It was in my jacket.”

“I don't know. Do you want some toast?”

She makes a face. “No. I've got my wallet but not my phone. Did you take it?”

“No.”

“Are you lying?”

“No.”

“Like I should believe you,” she says with shaky contempt. She sits down, tugging at the hem of the T-shirt, although it's long and everything that needs to be covered is covered.

“Where's my underwear?” The tone is accusing, prosecutorial.

“Your bra is under the coffee table. One of the straps was broken. Maybe I can knot it together for you. As for underpants, you weren't wearing any.”

“You're lying. What do you think I am, a whore?”

“No.”

What he thinks is that she's a young girl away from home for the first time who went to a wrong place where there were wrong people. Bad people who loaded her up with something and took advantage of her.

“Well I'm not,” she says, and begins to cry. “I'm a virgin. At least I was. This is a mess. The worst mess I've ever been in.”

“I can relate to that,” Billy says, and with absolute sincerity.

“Why didn't you call the police? Or take me to the hospital?”

“You were messed up but not circling the drain. By that I mean—”

“I know what it means.”

“I thought I'd wait until you woke up, let you decide what you want to do. Maybe a cup of coffee will help you figure it out. It can't hurt. And by the way, what's your name?” Best to get that out, so he doesn't screw up and say it himself.

He pours the coffee, ready to dodge if she tries throwing it in his face and then running for the door. He doesn't think she will, she's settling down a little, but this is still a situation that could go bad. Well hey, it's bad already, but it could get worse.

She doesn't throw the coffee at him. She sips some and makes a face. Her lips press tight together and he can see the muscles in her throat moving even after it's gone down.

“If you're going to throw up again, do it in the sink.”

“I'm not going to… what do you mean again? How did I get here? Are you sure you didn't rape me?”

That isn't funny but Billy can't help smiling. “If I did, I think I'd know.”

“How did I get here? What happened?”

He sips his own coffee. “That would be the middle of the story. Let's start at the beginning. Tell me what happened to
you
.”

“I don't remember. Last night is your basic black hole. All I know is I woke up here, hungover and feeling like somebody stuck a fencepost up my… you know.” She sips her coffee and this time she gets it down without having to repress a gag reflex.

“What about before that?”

She looks at him, blue eyes wide, mouth moving. Then her head droops. “Was it Tripp? Did he put something in my beer? My g-and-t?
Both?
Is that what you're telling me?”

Billy restrains an impulse to reach across the table and put his hand over hers. He's gained a little ground but if he touches her he'll almost certainly lose it. She's not ready to be touched by a man, especially one with nothing on but worn workout shorts.

“I don't know. I wasn't there. You were. So tell me what happened, Alice. Right up to when your memory drops out.”

So she does. And as she does, he can see the question in her eyes: if you didn't rape me, why did I wake up in your bed instead of a hospital bed?

It's not a long story, even with some background added in. Billy thinks he could tell it himself once she gets started, because it's an old story. Halfway through it she stops, her eyes widening. She begins to hyperventilate, her hand clutching her throat while the air goes whooping in and out.

“Is it asthma?”

He didn't find an inhaler, but it might have been in her purse. If she was carrying one, it's gone now.

She shakes her head. “Panic…”
Whoop
. “… attack.”
Whoop
.

Billy goes into the bathroom and wets a washcloth as soon as the tap runs warm. He wrings it out loosely and brings it back. “Tip your head up and put this over your face.”

He would have thought it impossible for her eyes to get any wider but somehow they do. “I'll…”
Whoop
. “… choke!”

“No. It'll open you up.”

He tips her head back himself—gently—and drapes the
washcloth over her eyes, nose, and mouth. Then he waits. After fifteen seconds or so, her breathing starts to ease. She takes the washcloth off her face. “It worked!”

“Breathing the moisture makes it work,” Billy says.

There might be some truth in that, but probably not much. It's breathing the
idea
that makes it work. He saw Clay Briggs—Pillroller, their corpsman—use it several times on newbies (and a few vets, like Bigfoot Lopez) before they went back for another bite of the rotten apple named Phantom Fury. Sometimes there was another trick he used if the wet washcloth didn't work. Billy listened carefully when Pill explained both of these tricks to soothe the mental monkey. He's always been a good listener, storing up information like a squirrel storing up nuts.

“Can you finish now?”

“Can I have some toast?” She asks almost shyly. “And is there any juice?”

“No juice, but I've got some ginger ale. Want that?”

“Yes, please.”

He makes toast. He pours ginger ale into a glass and adds an ice cube. He sits down across from her. Alice Maxwell tells her timeworn story. It's one Billy has heard before and read before, most recently in the works of Émile Zola.

She spent a year after high school waitressing in her hometown, saving up money for business school. She could have gone in Kingston, there were two there that were supposed to be good, but she wanted to see a little more of the world. And get away from Mom, Billy thinks. He might be starting to understand why she's not demanding he call the police immediately. But the question of why “seeing a little more of the world” meant coming to this nondescript city… about that he has no idea.

She works part time as a barista at a coffee shop on Emery Plaza, not three blocks from Billy's writing nest in Gerard Tower, and that was where she met Tripp Donovan. He struck up casual
conversations with her over a week or two. He made her laugh. He was charming. So of course when he invited her out for a bite after work one day, she said yes. A movie date followed, and then—fast worker, that Tripp—he asked if she'd like to go dancing at a side-of-the-road place he knew out on Route 13. She told him she wasn't much of a dancer. He of course said neither was he, they didn't have to dance, they could just buy a pitcher of beer and stretch it out while they listened to the music. He told her it was a Foghat cover band, did she like Foghat? Alice said she did. She had never heard of Foghat, but she downloaded some of their music that very night. It was good. A little bluesy, but mostly straight-ahead rock and roll.

The Tripp Donovans of the world have a nose for a certain kind of girl, Billy thinks. They are shy girls who make friends slowly because they aren't very good at making the first move. They are mildly pretty girls who have been bludgeoned by beauty on TV, in the movies, on the Internet, and in the celebrity magazines so that they see themselves not as mildly pretty but as plain, or even sort of ugly. They see their bad features—the too-wide mouth, the too-close-set eyes—and ignore the good ones. These are girls who have been told by the fashion mags in the beauty shops, and often by their own mothers, that they need to lose twenty pounds. They despair over the size of their boobs, butts, and feet. To be asked out is a wonder, but then there is the agony of what to wear. This certain kind of girl can call girlfriends to discuss that, but only if she has them. Alice, new in the city, does not. But on their movie date, Tripp doesn't seem to mind her clothes or her too-wide mouth. Tripp is funny. Tripp is charming. Tripp is complimentary. And he's a perfect gentleman. He kisses her after the movie date, but it's a wanted kiss, a
desired
kiss, and he doesn't spoil it by sticking his tongue in her mouth or grabbing at her breasts.

Tripp is a student at one of the local colleges. Billy asks how old he is, thinking she probably won't know, but thanks to the wonders of Facebook, she does. Tripp Donovan is twenty-four.

“Little old to still be going to college.”

“I think he's a grad student. He's doing advanced studies.”

Advanced studies, Billy thinks. Right.

Of course Tripp suggested Alice come by his crib for a drink before heading out to the Bucket, and of course she agreed. The aforementioned crib was in one of those Sherwood Heights condos near the Interstate. Alice took the bus because she doesn't have a car. Tripp was waiting for her outside, the perfect gentleman. He kissed her on the cheek and took her up to the third floor in the elevator. It was a big apartment. He could only afford it, Tripp said, because he and his roommates split the rent. The roommates were Hank and Jack. Alice doesn't know their last names. She tells Billy that they seemed perfectly nice, came out to the living room to meet her, then went back into one of the bedrooms where some sports show was playing on TV. Or maybe it was a video game, she's not sure which.

“So that's where your memory starts to get foggy?”

“No, they just shut the door when they went back in.” Alice is using the washcloth to dab at her cheeks and forehead.

Tripp asked if she wanted a beer. Alice tells Billy she doesn't care for beer but took one to be polite. Then, when Tripp saw she was going slow on the Heinie, he asked if she wanted a gin and tonic. The door to Jack's room opened and the sound from the TV went off and Jack said, “Did I hear someone mention gin and tonic?”

So they all have g-and-t's, and that's when Alice says things started to get fogged-in. She thought it was because she's not used to alcohol. Tripp suggested she have another. Because, he said, the second drink will fight the first. He said it's a known fact. One of the roommates put on some music and she thinks she remembers dancing in the living room with Tripp, and that's where her memory pretty much runs out.

She picks up the washcloth and breathes through it again for a little while. Her bra is still underneath the coffee table, looking like a small animal that died.

“Now it's your turn,” she says.

Billy tells her what he saw and did, beginning with the screech of brakes and tires and ending with putting her to bed. She thinks it over, then says, “Tripp doesn't own a van. He has a Mustang. He picked me up in it when we went to the movies.”

Billy thinks of Ken Hoff, who also had a Mustang. And died in it. “Nice car,” he says. “Was your roommate jealous?”

“I'm on my own. It's just a small place.” As soon as the words are out, Billy can see she thinks she's made a mistake telling him she's on her own. He could point out that Tripp Donovan probably also knew this but doesn't. She puts the washcloth over her face again and breathes, but this time her breath keeps whooping.

“Give me that,” Billy says. This time he wets it under the kitchen tap, keeping an eye on her while he does it, but he doesn't think she'll break for the door wearing nothing but a thin T-shirt. He comes back. “Try again. Slow deep breaths.”

When her respiration eases, he says “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

He takes her out of the apartment, up the stairs, into the foyer. He points to the vomit drying on the wall. “That's from when I brought you in.”

“Whose underwear is that? Is it yours?”

“Yes. I was getting ready to go to bed. It was falling down while I was trying to keep you from choking. It was actually kind of comical.”

She doesn't smile, only repeats that Tripp doesn't drive a van.

“I imagine it belongs to one of his roommates.”

Tears begin to spill down her cheeks. “Oh my God. Oh my God. My mother can never find this out. She never wanted me to come.”

Billy thinks he already knew that. “Let's go back downstairs. I'll make you some real breakfast. Eggs and bacon.”

“No bacon,” she says, grimacing, but she doesn't say no to the eggs.