Glass - 02 (27 page)

On Thursday. I’m fumbling

around in the kitchen, trying

to figure out what to make

for dinner. My head is in

the freezer when the phone

bellows. It takes four rings

to find it, and I’m totally

surprised at who’s on the other

end.
Hi, Kristina? It’s Robyn.

Okay, she’s after something,

and I can guess what.
I don’t

know if you heard, but I left

UOP. I’m working out here

in Moundhouse, and was

hoping you could hook me up.

Moundhouse = whorehouse.

There are several in the little

community, not far from

Nevada’s capital, Carson

City. One was even featured

on a prime-time cable show.

Now, it doesn’t necessarily

surprise me that Robyn is

whoring for the monster, but

I never would have guessed

she’d sink so low as to whore

for truck drivers and tourists.

“Well, maybe I can help you

out.” Don’t want to give it all

up the first time we talk.

“I’ll have to check on it.

But if it’s doable, it will

be on the pricey side.”

Very cool. Some other girls

are interested, too. Can you

and I work out a quantity?

Just like that, I move from low

to midlevel dealer. Good thing

Brad’s connect is bottomless.

Can you come out to the ranch?

I’ll tell them you’re my sister.

Oh, you have to ask for Aphrodite.

Been to a fancy whorehouse

(and believe me, I never have

before!), you might be surprised.

I’m nervous, thinking the Pink

Pussycat will be scary—dark, sweaty,

with lots of peepholes, maybe. But a

better word to describe the place

is gaudy, with plush pink carpeting

and silver and gold brocade covering

the walls. If there are peepholes, they’re

hidden behind paintings of busty

naked women, like in an Old West

saloon. Only pinker. Pink. How

appropriate. It’s early for truckers.

Only a few haunt the “parlor,” perusing

a menu of services and a couple of girls.

Neither men nor girls are what you’d call

attractive. This is no place for romance.

Hey, sis. Long time no see.
Robyn escorts

me to her room, much like she did several

times in the past, only this time she’s dressed

in a purple silk teddy. Her legs are too thin,

her own chest flatter than I remember, and

a thick layer of makeup barely disguises

sores. Monster sores. I chide myself

to slow down before I end up with sores.

Or here.

Robyn’s room is neat.

Guess perverts dislike

having paid-for sex

amidst piles of clutter.

Like everything else here, it’s pink and gold

and sparsely furnished.

It smells of old sweat

and cheap perfume.

Robyn locks the door

and we sit on her bed,

just like in the good ol’

days.
I’m pulling grave

yard so we don’t have

to hurry. Anyway, the

manager is a friend.

That’s how I wound

up here, in fact.

She tells me how she

met the guy, how he

talked her into “easy”

money, working in the

“entertainment industry.”

As she talks, I notice

the way her eyes beg.

“You sure it’s okay to

do the deal in here?”

Her head bobs.
No

problem. I told them

you have some private

news about our mother

and not to interrupt us.

They probably think she

has cancer or something.

Sweet. A little sympathy

goes a long way here.

I can only imagine. I

produce a quarter ounce

of excellent glass and

immediately Robyn’s

hands begin to shake.

She doesn’t only want

the meth. She needs it.

“You can try some if you

want. Where can we go?”

In answer, she opens the

window, turns on a fan

that sits on a small table

by the door.
Right here

is the safest place. I’ll

get the pipe.
I watch her

inhale, eyes popping

pleasure.
Thank God

it’s not street crank.

She talks about the last

crank she snorted, a tip

from a customer. Oh

yeah, truckers love their

crank. And when they’re

all cranked up, they love

other stuff too. The ice

opens her mouth and

she tells me all about it.

Some of ’em are really

gross. I always make

them shower first. No

way will I let something

dirty up inside of me.

Condoms? Yeah, they’re

supposed to wear them.

But they pay a lot extra

if you don’t make them.

They also pay extra for

oral sex and unusual sex,

including threesomes

with other girls. Robyn

claims she’s judicious.

But I know how your

caution can slip, when

you have a threesome

with our pal, the monster.

Feeling slightly better about

myself and a whole lot better

about my own client list, which

has just grown exponentially.

Robyn knows girls at some

of the other ranches too.

Meth is one way they handle

what they do. I guess you could

say it isn’t much different from

trading sex for companionship.

Okay, it’s a helluva lot damn

different. I mean, screwing nasty,

smelly men [without a condom,

yet] to feed your meth habit [no

worries about feeding your face].

The word “condom” reminds

me again that I need to get

in and get on the pill. I’ll

call tomorrow and make

the appointment. And that

reminds me that Trey should

head my way next week. No

calls to confirm, as yet. Anxiety

swims up like a giant squid, snakes

tentacles around my throat. Squeezes.

Brad took the girls to

an Easter egg hunt.

I thought about taking

Hunter, but it’s cold

and he’s just a baby,

anyway. Like he’d

know the Easter bunny

from some giant rodent.

Anyway, it’s a long

drive and I think I’ll

use my time alone to

crash and experience

the snooze of the dead.

Brad traded speed for

some downers. Guess

I’ll have to borrow a

couple. I want to be

good and rested by

the time Trey arrives.

Not that I know exactly

when that might be.

Not that I have a freaking

clue what he might be

up to in the meantime.

I pop an Ambien and

wait, thinking about Trey

and what he might be

doing at this moment. My

head starts to spin, like

riding a Tilt-A-Whirl.

I close my eyes, hang

on tight against loop

the loop in my head.

I’m over the edge….

I rise

up out

of the

depths

into flat

pale light.

Where

am I?

Is it

morning

or night?

Why

are my

legs

sticky?

Sticky red.

Did

I hurt

myself

in sleep?

On purpose?

What

is wrong

with me?

My brain

is mud.

There

goes the Tilt

-A-

Whirl

again.

I’m

spinning

out of

control

again.

Stepping

over

the edge

again.

Pounding. Little fists

falling against the wood

of my bedroom door.

Wake up, sleepyhead!

Daddy has to go to work.

Devon’s voice is bright

as the sunshine, painting

streaks on the walls.

I throw back the sheets.

Blood. Lots of it. Great.

My monthly visitor. At

least I don’t have to feel

so bad about not calling

the doctor. No need for

the pill today, anyway.

I clean up, strip the sheets

from the bed and take

them down to the washer.

The girls are in the kitchen,

munching cereal. No school

this week, they’re all mine.

I put in a call to Trey. No

answer. No surprise. I’m

getting ready to leave a

voice mail when the door

bell rings. He’s here!

LaTreya beats me to the door

and flings it open.
Mommy!

she screams, throwing her arms

around the slender redhead.

Angela steps through the door,

levels me with a shot of green

eyes.
Who the hell are you?

Wearing zip but a long T-shirt

and underwear, I

introduce myself,

“I’m Kristina, the girls’ nanny.”

Angela is unimpressed. [Angela

is totally irritated.]

Well, I happen to

be the girls’ mother. Where’s Brad?

She’s pissing me off. “I figured

that’s who you

were when LaTreya

called you ‘Mommy.’ Brad’s at work.”

Another evil blink of snake green eyes.

I thought I’d take

the kids shopping.

Girls, go put on your shoes, please.

The kids hustle upstairs, which is good.

Trying to take them could

come down to blows.

“Not without Brad’s permission.”

The cobra strikes quickly.
I don’t

know who you

think you are, but

I’ll do as I please with my daughters.

“No, I don’t think you will. You lost that

privilege when you

walked out the door.

Now let’s give Brad a call, okay?”

You are awfully possessive of someone

else’s children.
She

looks me up and

down.
And you don’t dress like hired help.

My face heats, but I stand my

ground. “One call

will settle this.

Let’s go into the kitchen and make it.”

Brad is on his way home.

Angela sits at the kitchen

table, waiting. The girls

bound into the room, all

giggles. I think I’m jealous.

I know I’m jealous when

Brad walks through the

door. The look on his face

is unmistakable. He loves

Angela, through the pain.

Daddy!
cries Devon.
Mommy’s

home.
She jumps into Angela’s

lap and LaTreya moves to her

side, protective. They love her

unconditionally, pain all gone.

I excuse myself so they can talk,

knowing my life has veered,

suddenly, surely. But exactly

which direction it has veered

in remains to be discovered.