Bull Head (17 page)

I pushed the mop hard against the floor, struggling to scrape it clean, to peel layer after layer of concrete off until I hit the clay
beneath where I could tunnel furiously, dig deeper into the earth until the mud and dirt caved in over me, pulverized me into a speck.

It's a busy night at the Northerner, and Travis sits in my regular chair, not that my name is on it or anything like that, but since I've met Linda I've been coming nightly and sitting there, which pretty much makes it mine. He holds court like a wannabe alpha dog, chuckling with Linda. She slaps his forearm, leans toward him. His eyes drift toward her shirt, and he whispers something in her ear. She pulls away, smacks him on the thigh.

“Hey buddy-boy. Haven't see you for a few days,” he says.

“Been busy.” I grin at Linda.

“Your friend is a very naughty boy,” she says, smiling back.

“Naughty is what naughty gets,” Travis says.

He says the dumbest things. She laughs and floats toward the kitchen.

“Drink with me.” Travis pushes the pitcher toward me. “She's something else, man. These Aussies are like minks.”

“Yeah. They are.” I regret it the moment I say it.

He looks at me. “Seriously?”

I glance around the room. Linda serves another table near the front of the bar. “Honest Injun.” I hold up my palm.

He hands me a beer. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“You got something to show me?”

“Nope.”

“No proof, no cash.” He grabs me by the neck and yanks me
close. “I know you're bullshitting me, buddy-boy. Nothing personal, but there's no way you two hooked up.”

He licks my face and laughs. Linda smiles at us, walks toward the service area. I turn to Travis. “Sure, whatever you say.”

Afterward, I sit in my cab in front of the bar. People leave, leaning on each other. Someone kicks over a newspaper box. Another takes a leak off the curb, shouts at drivers who honk. A young couple grinds into one other against the door, laughs when the door opens, spilling them onto the sidewalk. A few nights ago, I watched a woman blow a guy in the backseat through my rear-view, her blonde hair bobbing, the cab silent except for a low growl in the man's throat as he looked down, his jaw tight in concentration, admiring her work. I was grateful there wasn't much of a mess to clean up, not like the ones who vomit or shit themselves. These fucking people. No respect for place. I feel a headache coming on from the beer and lean my head back against the seat.

A little ahead of my car, the Bride glides down the sidewalk. She wears a black leather jacket over her dress. The tassels on her arms flap like strands of spaghetti. She makes a sharp, graceful turn and walks toward me, knocks on the window.

I lower it. Her mascara is pale blue filled with sparkles. Her lipstick atomic black. She points to my book. “Good?”

“Same shit, different characters.”

“Story of my life.” She leans into the window. “This must be the most boring job in the world. Drive people around and sit on your ass all night. I'd go crazy.”

“It's temporary.”

“Always is, honey.” She opens the door. “Can I get a lift?”

Harley dropped me off again at the Last Stop 'n' Shop to chop down tall brush in the empty lot next door. Hops swore with each wild swing of the scythe. He glanced at his watch and stopped. “Ever seen a naked chick before?” He snorted. “Not counting your momma.”

“Sure.”

“Yeah?”

I nodded again.

“Yeah, right.” He dropped the scythe. “Come with me.”

“Harley will be back any minute,” I said.

“Boy, you're none too smart, are you?”

I followed him across the open field to the edge of the bush where a ratty couch sat in a grove of aspens, their limbs bone white, flush with pale green leaves. The rich smell of topsoil and cattle drifted in from a nearby farmer's field. An old door rested on soft-drink crates for a makeshift table; a bald tire surrounded burnt coals and tarnished beer cans. A girl stood hugging herself. She had long black hair that seemed to glow in the sunlight.

“You didn't tell me you were bringing a friend,” she said to Hops.

I turned away. The quad droned in the distance. I glanced at her again, certain that she was the girl I saw in church a few weeks back.

She scrunched up her nose, looked at me. “Do I know you?”

The Bride's cabin is an old garage converted into a living space, confirming what Travis had told me. I lean against the doorframe.

“Close the door. I've lost one cat to coyotes already.” She turns the dial and finds a reggae station. “My wallet's somewhere around here.”

Dozens of paint jars line the kitchen counter, mostly half-empty with various shades of blue and orange and black and yellow. Brushes poke out of another jar. Portraits on the walls. Human faces blurred by cross-sections of fruit, vegetables, fish. A man papaya. A child yam. A woman octopus. Two easels stand to the side. A plank of plywood spread across two saw-horses acts as a table, cluttered with books, fragmented shards of porcelain, pimento olive jars jammed with bright beads, packages of clay.

She turns on the bedside lamp. A black cat lounges on her futon, the bedcover a dyed piece of cloth. She lights votive candles sunken in painted glass containers with religious figures on each, covers the lampshade with a piece of red sheer fabric. The cabin darkens beneath a crimson glow and candlelight-flick-ering shadows on the walls.

“Place is a mess. I don't get many visitors. Sorry.”

Something honest in her apology makes me feel warm toward her. I compliment her paintings.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. They're really cool. You are what you eat.”

“Here it is.” She hands me ten bucks for the fare. “I'd say keep the change, but I need it.”

I give her two dollars.

“They're my coarse attempts at mimicking an Italian master.” She holds up a box of red table wine. “Drink? Only the very best for my guest.” She laughs and pours two juice glasses to the top.

“To art.” I drain my glass while still standing against the doorframe.

“Come in.” She holds the box over my glass, presses on the nozzle, and fills it again.

When I push myself away from the door, the cat leaps off the bed and stretches itself against the concrete blocks of the night table. Its claws snag the drape of fabric, drags it over the candle, and the fabric bursts into flames. The Bride tosses the sheer on the floor, stomps it out. The cabin is hot, smoky, and she opens the window, waves a palette back and forth to clear the air. She laughs; I laugh with her and take off my jacket.

“That was a close call.” She slips the wedding dress over her shoulders, lets it fall to the ground. The elastic edges of her black bra are frayed, and she's naked from the waist down, fanning herself, laughing. She has a thick, wiry patch of dark pubic hair that covers her crotch and creeps out from it toward her skinny thighs. Her stomach is small, but the skin is loose; she looks like a shrivelled prune, her best years well behind her. It's the saddest thing that's happened to me in a long time. The cat rubs itself against her legs.

I play along and drain my glass, holding it out for another drink.

She walks toward me carrying the box in front of her as if it's a sacred urn, swaying her hips slowly to the music.

“He's not my friend,” Hops said.

He tossed the Aqua Velva cap into the fire pit, took a long swig, handed it to the girl. She made a face, held up her palms. He
shrugged, handed it to me. I leaned my scythe against the table, pretended to take a gulp, and handed it back to him. He took another long guzzle and set it down on the door. Hops tried to kiss her, but she squirmed. He tried to kiss her again. She pushed him away.

“Do you live in town?” she said.

Hops sneers.

I nod. Her face is pale and her eyes are lost in dark shadowed hollows. Her throat moves when she swallows.

I slip out of bed and get dressed. My mouth is stale with spit and cheap wine; the bedside lamp glows. I walk around the cabin careful not to bump into anything and check out the paintings, but they are too big, too obvious. Search her desk, snatch a cluster of paintbrushes, set them down.

The Bride sleeps on her side, the sheets twisted around her body. Her thin breasts sag toward the mattress. Her stomach hangs loose in a wrinkled paunch. On the table I locate her purse, grope around in it, find a wad of crisp fifties, slip them into my pocket. She turns onto her stomach. I notice her stretch marks, realize she's some kid's mother, and feel disgusting. The cat is nowhere to be found.