Hitchers (26 page)

The waitress interrupted. She rattled off the items on the menu that weren't available. I asked her about the limited options, and she said that besides the difficulty finding drivers, suppliers were leery about local businesses' ability to pay their bills going forward. She took our orders and set us up with drinks.

I sipped my drink, leaned back in my seat. “I hadn't realized how much I craved a night like this. It feels good to have a few hours to relax.”

Lorena grinned. “Glad I could provide an excuse.” She twisted her arm to examine the long tattoo running wrist-to-elbow. “It certainly gets your attention. I'll never understand why people would inject ink under their skin.” She switched arms and examined the other, which was a mirror image. “They're very nice arms, besides the tattoos.” She ran a quavering finger down Summer's forearm.

“She can see and hear all this, remember,” I said.

Lorena put her arm down. “I know. I said she had pretty arms, didn't I?” She laughed as I shook my head. “Didn't I?”

“Yes, you did.” Maybe it was inevitable that two people sharing
the same body would become antagonistic toward each other.

We fell silent, stared at each other across the table. Lorena let out a big sigh. “What a mess.”

“Happy birthday,” I said.

Lorena dropped her fork. It clattered on the plate. “Oh, shit.” She whined in frustration as the tremor in her hands grew still.

Summer pressed her palms to her temples. “Sorry.”

I shrugged. “Not your fault.”

Summer surveyed the half-eaten steak on the plate in front of her, then pushed it toward the center of the table. “I meant I was sorry your night was ruined. I wasn't apologizing.”

“No. Right,” I stammered.

She took the napkin from her lap and set it next to the plate.

“Do you want to finish? Are you still hungry?” I gestured toward her plate. I didn't want to go home. I craved a few hours of normalcy in what had become my extremely abnormal life.

“I'm a vegetarian,” Summer said. She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, shrugged.

“Oh, shit. Right.” I stared at the remains of the steak. “And she was eating meat. It never even occurred to me.”

“Don't worry about it.” She waved off my concern. “Go ahead and finish your meal.”

I didn't know why, but I felt terribly uncomfortable, as if I'd done something wrong. “Have a drink, at least.” I reached toward Lorena's half-empty glass of wine, realized that even though only Summer's lips had touched it, to her it would seem like someone else had been drinking from it. I looked around for our waitress, trying to remember what she looked like.

“She didn't even get to dance,” Summer said, taking a sip from Lorena's untouched water glass. She turned and looked at the dancers on the floor, swaying to a Latin salsa. “Probably a good thing. It's all hips. She'd have trouble dancing like that with my skinny hips.”

The music stopped abruptly. We turned to see what was happening.
It looked as if the bass player had been taken over by his hitcher, and the hitcher didn't play. After a moment he climbed down from the small stage and the rest of the band soldiered on without him.

“Will you help me do something?” Summer asked, turning back to look at me.

“Sure,” I said.

She gave me a look that said I wasn't necessarily going to like what she said. “I want to see my brother.”

“The one who died?” Even before she nodded I knew it was. “I thought you said you didn't want to speak to loved ones you lost.”

She struggled for words, then said, simply, “I changed my mind.”

I waited for her to elaborate. It didn't seem wise for her to mess around in Deadland unless she had good reason. I certainly had no desire to go back. It also seemed a bad idea to use our valuable time running after someone who couldn't help us solve our problem.

“We didn't part on the best of terms,” Summer said. “He was bugging the hell out of me and I told him not to call any more.” She poked the dinner roll Lorena hadn't eaten, leaving a divot. “The idiot didn't tell me he was dying of cirrhosis.”

“How was he bugging you?”

Summer shook her bangs out of her face, looked up at me. “He'd call in the evening, my only time with Rebecca, and repeat the same things he'd said that morning, because he'd already forgotten he called that morning. I had to take him to his doctors' appointments because there was no one else, then he'd get into arguments with the nurses, accuse them of stealing his pills or something.” She lifted her glass, drained the last of the water. “I just want things to be right between us, before I—” She trailed off.

“Before you what?”

She stared into her water. “Before I'm gone.”

Her tone made me uneasy—Summer seemed like the last of our little trio who would give up. “We don't know you're going anywhere,” I said.

“I know. But we don't know I'm not, and I'd like to see my brother while I have the chance. Will you help me?”

“Do you even know if you can get to Deadland?”

Summer tilted her head and flashed her best crooked, wan smile. “Oh yeah.” She pointed at a table by the windows. “Someone choked to death right over there.”

I couldn't help laughing. “Welcome back to the land of the living! Wow, you just returned from Deadland for the first time, and you're not sobbing or anything. You're Wonder Woman.”

“Nah, I knew what to expect.” She gestured at me with her glass. “You wandered in blind. I would have wet myself if I'd stumbled into Deadland the way you did.”

“Figuratively wet yourself,” I said. “You wouldn't have had control of your bladder at the time.”

“Sure, figuratively,” Summer agreed, nodding, then blew out a laugh between closed lips. She seemed to have a thousand different laughs, from a musical giggle to an inhaled honk.

“And now you want to go right back in.” I put my drink down. “Hold on. Your brother died in a hospital, didn't he? In the intensive care unit, I'm guessing?”

Summer nodded. “That's right.”

How many people had died in that same room? It had to be hundreds. “That's going to be some scene. Do you think you'd even be able to find him?”

Summer shrugged. “If I can't, I can't. I'd like to try.”

I studied her brown eyes for a minute. “If that's what you want, then sure, I'll help.”

“Thanks. It means a lot to me. More than I can say.”

An up-tempo song came on, causing some of the dancers to hoot. Summer turned to watch them.

“Do you like to dance?” I asked, making conversation.

She shrugged, causing the sprinkle of stars tattooed across her neck and shoulders to crinkle. “I used to. Not many opportunities lately.”

She watched the dancers longingly, it seemed to me. I wasn't much of a dancer. Lorena had been the dancer.

“We could dance now,” I suggested.

Summer turned. “You really want to?”

“Why not? Let's have a little fun. And if you're dancing, Lorena at least gets to go along for the ride. I would certainly appreciate it if Grandpa would do something marginally interesting once in a while, maybe take in a Braves game. I'm sick of sitting in depressing bars with aging alcoholics.”

Without another word she pushed out of her chair. I followed her onto the dance floor.

Summer watched the woman next to her for a moment, trying to get the rhythm, then closed her eyes and let herself go. She didn't dance like the woman next to her, or like Lorena, but she was striking in her own way. She reminded me of a Native American priestess, her hands upturned in supplication, head back, shoulders moving more than her hips. Maybe what was most striking was that she was smiling, really smiling. I was glad.

The song changed, this one even faster, more frenetic. Summer let out a whoop, glanced my way to make sure I was game to stay, and smiled when she saw I was.

After a third song, a slow one came on. Sweating, we went to the bar and got drinks.

“It's been so long since I had fun,” Summer said. “You forget. When things are so bad you forget that you still need to kick back once in a while, or you'll lose it.”

“You're a terrific dancer,” I said.

“I feel like Olive Oyl when I dance.” Summer fanned herself with her hand. “That was my nickname in seventh grade. Well, not my nickname; it was what kids called me when they wanted to be mean.

“I can't believe your classmates even knew who Olive Oyl
was.”

Maybe it was the booze kicking in, but suddenly I was acutely aware of how weird this situation was. We were at a bar filled with
dead people. I was dancing with the woman my dead wife was possessing while my dead grandfather looked on.

The slow song ended, replaced by another burner. “Ooh!” Summer grabbed my forearm and pulled. I followed. The hell with it; Summer was right, if I didn't relax and have some fun I was going to have a nervous breakdown.

Some of the dancers were doing this twirling thing, a full 360-degree spin. Summer tried it, laughing, so I gave it a shot. I should have fun like there was no tomorrow. For us, there might not be.

There was an old man dancing on the fringe of the dance floor, his tremulous hands dangling from gyrating hips. Stiff as the movements were, it would have been obvious that a young woman was executing them even if the old man hadn't been wearing a black dress and lipstick.

Another drink, more dancing. In an odd way I felt like I was getting to know the other dancers, linked by the music and the close quarters. Occasionally I would catch someone's eye and smile, like our dancing was a shared secret, a bit of good news amidst all the bad.

A song ended, replaced by another slow ballad. I looked at Summer and she shrugged. We closed the space between us.

It occurred to me that if Grandpa took control at this precise moment it would almost be funny. Not quite, but almost. I'd been in control for nearly six hours. There was no predicting when he'd reappear, but the odds increased with every hour.

“Thanks for this,” Summer said. “It's nice to forget for a little while.”

“It is,” I said into her ear. It felt good to hold her. I wondered if the line between Summer and Lorena was blurring in my mind. I was thrilled when I got to talk to Lorena, but I enjoyed Summer's company almost as much.

Just as much, if I was completely honest. I had done my best to put out of my mind the electric attraction I'd felt for Summer when I'd seen her in the Blue Boy Diner, the day I first met Mick.
Out of curiosity I tried to imagine that the dead had never come back, that Summer was just a woman I was dating. How would I feel about her?

We were dancing with our faces a few inches apart; I could see the little star tattoos on the back of her neck and shoulders.

If Lorena hadn't come back, I would be crazy about Summer. I felt so comfortable with Summer, such a sense of ease. Despite the situation we were in, Summer's fun-loving nature came through. It surprised me that I would be attracted to Summer, because she and Lorena were very different. Had I changed so much over the past two years that I was attracted to a totally different sort of woman? I guess it was possible. So much had happened. It was hard to believe only two years had passed.

I could never let Lorena know what I was feeling. Or Summer, for that matter. But it was stupid to try to hide my feeling from myself.

The song ended, replaced by more Latino bop. I held on to Summer. She stayed in my arms. I expected to feel her gently push away, but she didn't. Without slow music to call it dancing, we spent a long moment in an embrace.

A loud crash startled me. We jerked apart, looked toward the front of the restaurant for the source of the sound. The smoked front window was shattered; there was a big hole in the center with jagged shards and cracks radiating. Someone had thrown a rock or brick through the window.

We moved closer, heard shouts and arguing outside. Through the breach in the window I saw a National Guard troop pushing at people, trying to move them back.

“Satan's army. It's Satan's army! Whose side are you on?” someone shouted. There was a roar of agreement from the crowd.

“Come on,” Summer said, tugging my sleeve, drawing me toward the back of the restaurant. “Let's get out of here.”

She pushed open the kitchen door, turned to the first person we saw, a terrified kid carrying a tray of dirty dishes. “Is there a back door?”

The sweaty bus boy motioned with his head. “Straight back and to the left.”

We spilled out in an alley filled with dumpsters; the angry commotion, now muffled, reached us over the building.

“Whew, I'm a little toasted,” Summer said, pressing a hand against the brick to steady herself. I was feeling a little toasted myself. The thud of music from a nearby club seemed to be bypassing my ears and hitting me straight in the chest.

We passed out of the alley, to be greeted by another angry mob. Some of them pointed at us.

“We know what you are,” a tall bald guy shouted.

As we rushed past, heads down, a pimply teenager stepped in front of me. When I looked up at him he spit in my face. I glared at the little bastard in impotent fury as I wiped off the spit. Summer tugged my jacket, pulling me into the street and around the crowd.

“No one believes this is a disease,” Summer said, glancing over her shoulder.

“Are any of them following us?” I asked.

“No.”

The knot of muscle between my shoulders relaxed a little.