Calling Out (23 page)

“Hey,” I say, trying to sound casual.

She turns and a trace of panic sparks her shadowed
eyes.

“Jane,” she says. “I'm so glad to see you.”

My look betrays my skepticism.

“No, I am. I mean, yeah, I was avoiding you a tiny bit.
I didn't want you to be disappointed or mad or whatever.”
There's dirt under her chewed fingernails. Her face
twitches and highlights a vacancy I haven't seen before.
She slides from the stool and encircles my neck with her
spindly arms.

“I was worried,” I say into her smoky hair.

“That's not allowed,” she says. “And not necessary.
Lord knows, I'm a big girl.”

There is a new distance between us.

“I bet Mohammed's pretty pissed,” she says, getting
me to laugh.

“I talked to Ford,” I say.

“It was best, you know. For me to end it with him.”

But what about me, I want to ask.

“Where are you staying?” I ask her instead.

She shrugs. “Here and there. The past couple nights
with my friend Steve downtown, just west of the tracks.”

It's the first I've heard of Steve.

“You'd like him. He's funny. And he's not afraid of just
going. Taking off on an adventure.”

“You can stay with me, you know, whenever you
want,” I say. I know I sound desperate, like one of the
johns wanting to appear blasé when really he would do
anything to have her stay with him longer, not because
she's getting paid but because she wants to.

“I know,” Ember says.

She has already cut me loose.

“I have this really great thing to tell you about,” she
says with a sudden mood shift, rubbing her nose. “Steve
has this gig coming up—he's a drummer—in Spain and I
think I'm going to go with him. Cool, right? Barcelona in
the spring, dancing, tapas, bullfights. I've always wanted
to go to Spain.”

She so genuinely craves the renewal her fantasy offers
that I want to swaddle her in a blanket and carry her home.

“Hey,” she says sharply. “Don't look at me like that.
You of anyone know why I need to go. Don't give me that
shit.” I can't tell if it's bitterness or being strung out that
gives her words their bite. “It's not what you think. Sometimes it's just better to change the scenery. Fresh start and
all that.”

I squeeze her in another hug. I want to get to her but
I can't.

“Okay,” I say.

“Yeah. Okay,” she says.

“You know where to find me,” I say. “When you want.”

“And you'll know where to find me,” she says, having
regained her footing.

“I will?”

“Running with the bulls.” Ember downs the rest of
her beer and slams it on the bar.

“Sweet Home Alabama” starts playing on the jukebox.
“Come on,” she says, grabbing my hand. “Let's dance.”

I know that Ember is doing what she does but it
makes me feel worse, like I could be anybody.

“I have to go,” I say.

She holds my eyes but I look away first.

“Okay,” she says.

She kisses my cheek and lets go of my hand.

Ember drives over to my apartment later that night to
clear out the rest of her things. Not much is there, really,
just some clothes, a sketch pad and some makeup. She
looks so hungry standing there in my kitchen I make her
scrambled eggs.

We take our coffee out to the front stoop.

“I'll send you a postcard from the Costa Brava,” she
says.

“I'd like that,” I say.

“I sure won't miss winter,” Ember says. She can't sit
still, first shaking her foot then scratching at a rough
patch on her elbow. “I'm going to go get my stuff and put
it in the car. Be right back.”

Of course she's inside for longer than she needs to be,
but I let it go. After she returns, she throws her bag into
the front seat and leans against the car for a moment
looking at me.

“Hey, Jane,” she says, “watch this.”

With legs straight and toes pointed, Ember cartwheels
across the snowy lawn with true grace. I soak up that
joyful image, to fend off the sadness that is sure to come.
When she reaches me, she rocks dizzily on her feet, but
then smiles.

“Bravo,” I say.

“And with that, Queen Jane, I leave you,” she
announces, curtsying like a ballerina.

It's hard to even fake a smile. I stand and pull her to
me, kissing each cheek and then her forehead with loud
smacks. Then, as only Ember can do, she kisses me softly
on the lips, I melt, and she's gone.

I sleep fitfully and wake to a morning curiously warm
and humid for the desert winter. By the time I reach the
car, I'm sweating in my ill-chosen down jacket. The lake
smell is heavy and sulfurous even way out here in the
Avenues, and in my pre-coffee haze, it makes me woozy.
When I get to the Coffee Garden, it dawns on me that it's
Saturday and I have the day off. But I go to work anyway
if only to keep my ruminations at bay and to not be alone.
As I arrive at the office, balancing cup and steering wheel
in one hand, I spill coffee on my lap. I dump the rest out
onto the sidewalk, melting a brown hole into a mound of
already dirty slush.

Diamond, Nikyla, and Jezebel are sprawled morosely
on the couches watching Bugs Bunny.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” the three say in unison.

Nikyla pulls a few strands of her hair through her fingers looking at the split ends in the light and Jezebel bites
her thumbnail. Diamond scrunches down lower in the
couch.

“Who died?” I ask.

“Diamond slept at my house because her husband is
a dick,” Nikyla says pointing next to her. “And Jezebel's car
broke down this morning and it's going to cost eight hundred dollars to fix. And she has her period.”

“Being a girl totally sucks,” Jezebel says.

“And I feel like I'm going to puke,” Nikyla says.

“I'll work for one of you if you want,” I say.

Jezebel raises her eyebrow at me. “That's weird. If I
didn't so need the money,” she says.

Diamond stands and stretches with a loud yawn. “I'm
not that generous. I'm outta here. We'll see if the asshole's
in a better mood. Later girls.”

I squeeze myself in the warm space Diamond left
between Jezebel and Nikyla.

“Do you mean it, Rox?” Nikyla asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Go home. Feel better.”

“That's so cool. I owe you,” she says.

“No you don't,” I say. “You'd do the same for me.”

“Jezebel,” Marisa says from the desk, “Jason Butler
wants to see you at the Dream Inn.”

“Cheap bastard,” she says.

There was a time around the age of ten that I became
obsessed with the vulnerability of my parents. My aunt
had just died of cancer, and a neighbor had just been
killed in a car accident. I didn't worry about what could
happen to me, but I would lie awake fearing all the bad
things that could happen to my mom and dad and how
dependent on them I was. I obsessed about the practical
day-to-day things—Who would pick me up from school?
Who would take my temperature? How would I cook
dinner? I knew my teenaged sister would just move in
with her friends and leave me to fend for myself.

I asked God to please just let my parents live until I
was twenty, because then I'd be an adult and I'd be able to
manage. And when I made this deal, I was relieved. But
then one afternoon, I mentioned to my mom that I would
be an adult in exactly ten years.

“If only it were that easy,” she said. “I wish there were
some magic number. Unfortunately some people, no
matter how old they get, never become adults.”

Her disillusioning words wedged into my memory
like a splinter, gestating unease. The thought has stuck
with me that maybe I never quite made it, never crossed
the threshold. I missed what everyone else around me
seemed to get. I was a bluffer. Destined to be on the outside, going through the motions, pretending.

I am awakened by Marisa—I fell asleep during a show
about sharks—to go see “Ricky Martin” at the Motel 6 on
North Temple out toward the airport. After a quick gargle
with the community mouthwash, I'm off.

When the guy opens the door, all he has on is a bedsheet wrapped low around his waist. He's tall and lean, with
ropy, muscled arms, olive skin, and a menacing-looking
pointed goatee. He stands there with an idiotic grin.

“Ricky?” I ask, and he laughs and pulls me into the
room.

“Aren't you something,” he says. “Let's see your little
tits.” He grabs my chest through my sweater.

“Whoa there,” I say, pulling away. “Why don't we get
the money out of the way first.”

While he fishes in his wallet, I catch a glimpse of his
license.The name, Sam Gomez, I recognize from our 86ed
list. But I'm not alarmed. I'm pretty sure he's on it for bad
checks.

“Cash only,” I say.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, counting out twenties. “There's
extra in there for you.”

“Thanks,” I say, shoving two hundred dollars into my
pocket.

As I call in to Marisa, I watch as he reclines on the bed
and greedily sucks down a cigarette.

“Are you safe?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Have you collected?”

“Yep,” I say, patting my pocket.

“Get your cute ass over here,” he says as he snuffs out
his cigarette.

I put my game face on, take off my coat, and pull my
sweater over my head. My breasts in my hands, I move my
hips in small circles.

“Yeah. I could tell you liked to party. Get those off
now,” he says, pointing to my jeans.

I strip down to my bra and underwear and straddle
him on the bed. He is naked. I touch my cold feet to his
thighs to warm them. We start to kiss and he smells like
beer and aftershave. His tongue is rough, groping as far
into my mouth as he can. With one hand on my neck he
forces me down on my back with the whole of his body.
There is sweat on his forehead and his penis is hard
against my hip.

His forcefulness is sudden and startling. I try to diffuse
it.

“Baby,” I say. “I want to watch you.”

He ignores me and crushes my breasts together,
grinding himself against my stomach.

“Come on now,” I say.

He reaches for his pants and I hear the telltale sound
of a condom wrapper. I try to move away but he has me
pinned. Some of the guys like to ejaculate in a condom to
keep the whole thing cleaner but I'm starting to sense he
has something else in mind.

“You don't want to break the rules,” I coo to him. I try
to swallow my rising panic.

“Fuck the rules. What do you think I paid you for?” he
says with a nasty smile. “That's a lot of money to jack off.
I could have stayed home and done it for free.”

His body covers mine and he's squeezing my wrists,
cutting off the blood to my hands. I can barely breathe. I
consider giving in—it's not like I haven't done this
before—to get it over with as quickly as possible.

I stop writhing and lay still as he rips down my underwear and wedges his knees between my legs.

“That's right,” he says. “You be a good sport now.”

All at once the weight of his words strikes me as viscerally as if I were punched. I gasp for insufficient breath,
infused with the dry burn of rage. The realization of the
wrongness of the moment, the surfacing understanding
that this is not what I want, breaks into focus with the
clarity of pure will. I am remembering something I didn't
think I knew. This is not me. I am not this. My still, small
voice says, “Save yourself, goddamn it.”

I start to fight and scream.

“Get off me!” I yell over and over.

I owe him nothing. I flail at him with any part of me
I can get free. I butt him with my head. He lets go of one
of my wrists and cracks the back of his hand across my
cheek, but it only incites me further. I dig my heels into
the mattress for leverage and with my free hand, grasp for
anything. I can feel the venom of his fury, and I think if I
stop moving, rape would be just the beginning.

Somehow I get the clock radio in my hand, and with
newfound strength, bash a corner of it into his temple.
And again and again with everything I have.

“Fuck,” he yells, shielding his head.

He is momentarily dazed enough for me to wriggle
out from under him.

“Fucking whore,” he says, “my head. Jesus.”

He swings wildly at me but misses, collapsing back
onto the bed as blood seeps into his eye. I scoop my heap
of clothes in my arms and run out into the frozen afternoon, so high on survival I don't even feel my nakedness
or the icy asphalt on the soles of my feet.

Detective Logan, who interviewed me to get licensed, is
writing in one of those old-fashioned reporter's notebooks, leaning against the wall in the office. I sit in the
middle of the love seat.

Mohammed lurks nearby with his arms crossed
looking sullen and befuddled. Marisa is red-eyed from
crying; she will be issued a misdemeanor for admitting
she didn't go through the correct screening procedures.
I'm flushed and tired in the hot office, relieved, yet at the
same time, secretly exhilarated. I have emerged with
something new. I feel I could lift a car or run a marathon
or faint at any minute. My hands shake.

“This shouldn't be a surprise to any of you,” Logan
says, as if addressing an audience. “It's the nature of this
business. You're playing roulette. And I'll tell you, even
though we arrested this guy, I'm pretty sure nothing will
ever come of it. No matter what kind of evidence we have
against him, the bottom line is you're an escort,” he says,
pointing at me.