Stacking in Rivertown (17 page)

I rub my eyes and cover them. “He’s in love with me, Bates. Lucky me. That’s why I jumped off the damn bridge. He’d given me eight hours to get my things and come back to his great prison. I would have never gotten out again.”

“Took a lot of guts.”

“No. All it took was a memory of that basement and a whipping and a beating. That’s what it took. I’m not going back to him. I’m not giving anybody any clue as to where I am. I’ll do whatever it takes to stay away from Ben, even if I really have to kill myself.”

He’s quiet now. “We have hypnotists here that can help you remember things. There’s probably some around where you are. It could help us to get the killer.”

I chew a fingernail. “I’m scared to remember.”

“I know. I can see why. But we’re trying to catch this guy before he kills someone else. I don’t care if they are prostitutes.”

I find myself beginning to like him.

“How can I get in touch with you?” he asks.

“I read the
Times
every day. You can put a message in the classifieds.”

“Okay. I’ll put it in the personals. What name do you want it under?”

“Tut,” I say.

“Tut,” he repeats. “I’ll sign it Beefy.”

I laugh. “Beefy?”

“Yeah. You can probably guess why.”

“How about ‘crumpled’ or ‘in need of an iron’?”

“It’s not my fault my wife left me.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“You take care of yourself, Beth.”

I think of my Uzi, my pistol, my shotgun. “I’m giving it my best shot, Bates.”

I dream of Violet in the Dumpster. Her eyes are open like in the picture. I have kissed those eyes. They were warm. They were wet. Kissing them now and touching her again, I see how much she’s changed, how far she’s gone beyond my sight.

When I look at the pavement beneath her Dumpster, I see streams of red. Violet is bleeding again, I think. When will she ever be done?

Violet sleeping in the Dumpster. We would be wrong to wake her, to make her remember that night, wouldn’t we? Shouldn’t we let her sleep in peace?

Policemen lean forward and take pictures. They draw back the blanket to reveal nothing but all my love heaped over her skin. They see her ruined body, her imperfection, and imagine her to be different from them.

I’m overcome by the drape of her fingers, her hair dark and rich like night, and how deep she is sleeping. In this moment, her needs become clear to me. I gather the policemen together.

Let us all leave quietly.

Berkeley

I arrive at the farm late, having stopped to guzzle a few shots of Southern Comfort on the way back. Everyone’s out on the porch, laughing. I stumble out of the van and trip up the steps, falling down flat.

I’m introduced to Susan, then I pass out on the porch, where they leave me all night. When I wake in the morning, I can hardly move. As I roll over and stretch, Sue comes out of the house with a cup of coffee for me. I stare at her lips, wondering what they would taste like. Tom walks out after her, and the three of us sit watching the sun come up.

That afternoon, Tom and I load extra produce into the van, and we putter into Joliet, hitting a couple vegetable stands. After we’re done, we stop at the silver diner. We aren’t there very long when I notice that a guy looks to be watching us.

“Let’s blow this place,” I say to Tom, throwing some change on the table and making for the door.

He shoots me a funny look, but follows me out. Once we’re on the road, I keep my eye out behind. Tom’s staring at me.

“There was a guy in there watching us,” I say.

Tom’s waiting, still staring at me.

“My husband might have hired somebody to kill me.”

Tom hits the gas. We sputter down the road in our great escape vehicle.

I sit and brood about Bates, thinking it’s time to move on again, but I have no idea where I’m going or what the hell I’m doing.

“You know, Becca,” Tom says. “My girlfriend and I decided to live together this year, so I need to find someone who’ll sublet my apartment from me.” He shoots me a winning smile and adds, “But don’t tell Mom and Dad.”

I lean back against the seat. San Francisco. It has a nice ring.

“You’d love it out there,” he says, “And I’ve got this great job at a classy restaurant on the bay. I might be able to get you a job there. Have you ever been a waitress?”

I consider the possibilities. Can’t be any harder than being strapped down and whipped for a living. “Oh, sure,” I say, remembering Jeremy and his morning coffee. “Women are born with waitress order pads in their hands.”

He looks me up and down like he did at the airport terminal. “You’ve got all the qualifications you need.”

I smile, looking out the window, wondering what great shops await me in San Francisco. “We can drive through in the Taurus,” I say.

“Great,” he says, staring at my breasts.

That night, after Tom and I are done, I stay up late listening to Miriam, but Violet intrudes.

I see now that it had to have been Ben that threw her in that Dumpster. Just another cleanup after a play. And as I go over and over it, the trout beginning to rise, I swear that I smell blood. It’s all over me. I smell Ben, and behind that, I catch a hint of Kat’s perfume.

My skin goes haywire like I’ve got bugs all over me. I scramble up and run out into the night, not stopping until my throat is raw. And after I’ve calmed, I climb up in the haymow and watch the night pass, my finger on the trigger of the Uzi. In a half-dream, I see Miriam’s eyes. Way back inside her dark pupils, I watch the moving of the river. It’s flowing rough and the undercurrent is wicked. But Miriam is smiling. I think she knows something that I don’t. I wish she’d tell me, because of Violet and how she haunts and how she won’t let me be.

Violet is whispering, wanting me to know everything.

I want silence and a simple appendectomy.

During breakfast that morning, I break the news of my departure to John and Joan. They start obsessing about the farmwork.

“I’m worried about my husband. He’s very violent,” I say, getting in some good practice on that particular lie. “Don’t tell anyone about me, even if they say they’re a cop. My husband’s a cop.” I should get an Emmy. “If anybody comes around asking questions, call Tom so he can tell me.”

Tom and I pack the Taurus that evening, and we buzz out of town before sunup the next morning. It’s somewhere in the middle of Utah two days later that Tom’s groping around for something on the floor of the car. He comes up with the Uzi.

“My God, Becca,” he says. “ Just a little paranoid?”

Just a little.

“I also have a shotgun and three pistols,” I say. “And boxes of ammo. Let’s start a religious commune.”

He thinks it’s funny. So we stop, set up Coke bottles, and practice shooting different weapons at them. What a gas. The shotgun knocks me back so hard on the recoil that I get a bruise on my shoulder. We’re terrible shots, which makes me determined to correct the situation once I get to Berkeley.

The next day, we tool into town late. I bed down with Tom since his girlfriend isn’t back yet.

Free love.

In the morning, Tom and I make a pilgrimage into the city (as they call San Francisco out here, as though it’s New York for God’s sakes). I graze the shops of San Francisco with a wad of cash in the pocket of my rangy-looking jeans. It makes my head spin after so many weeks of grunging my way across the coun try. By the time I’m done, I’ve wasted a couple thousand dollars.

After we cross back to Berkeley, Tom shows me my new apartment. It’s an efficiency on the fourth floor not far from the university, sporting three windows, one of which looks down on the street. The other two have great views of brick walls. The furnishings are reminiscent of the decor in the two-room so long ago. I feel right at home.

Then Tom calls up the restaurant, Tutti, a pricey purveyor of California cuisine. After he has Burt, the owner, on the line, he gives me a good plug as a hard worker. I know he’s really thinking about either my tits or my ass.

It turns out that Burt is short a waitress and a kitchen manager at the moment, so he tells Tommy-boy to bring me over in the morning.

I’m up early the next day, worrying. I shower and prep, agonizing over my clipped, bleached hair.

“Lots of people wear it that way out here,” Tom says when he arrives. “If you want to finish off the look, you should get your face pierced in about three or four places.”

I’m beginning to like the West Coast already.

Dressed to the teeth again, like Ben always expected, I’m armed and dangerous, concealing my holster and gun beneath a silk cardigan. Tom drives me over to Tutti while I fret. I’ve never interviewed for a job in my life.

Burt is a solid man, looking me straight in the eye when I shake his hand. He takes his time checking me over. Burt’s dressed in a well-tailored suit, but something about him tells me he’d be more comfortable in jeans and driving around in a banged-up truck. It’s his eyes that catch me. He’s seen things he wishes he could forget.

Once we’re seated in his office, he asks me a few questions, not really listening to my answers as I lean a little forward to give him a view of the tops of my breasts cupped in just a touch of lace revealed. I cross my legs, hiking up my skirt.

He hires me on the spot, before I get a chance to make an asshole of myself, which is all for the better. He wants me to start that evening.

The first thing I notice as I begin my new occupation is how much the people get on my nerves. They’re so indecisive about what to eat. And they make such bad choices. Wine coolers when you can order a vintage wine? And who would eat ranch dressing in a place like Tutti? I find out that Burt keeps a huge jar of it in his office, hidden from Larry, the chef, who would have smashed it on the floor.

I begin to wander through the kitchen, checking out the produce, the cuts of meat, the fish brought straight from the boat. Larry and I become fast friends. We toss the items of which we don’t approve at Burt’s office door.

The first night, I’m introduced to Josh, the maitre d’, a tall, well-built man of gorgeous black skin. He bows and kisses my hand. Then he laughs, telling me that I’m lovely in his Haitian French.

As the days go by, I begin to refer to certain parties who are dining as “the dangers.” Josh likes that. We compare notes on them. Tom, who’s now working mainly as a wine steward, Josh, and I form huddles around Josh’s desk, gossiping and deciding which women are the best dressed. All Tom cares about are tits and ass.

Josh and I peruse the accessories, with me occasionally making a comment like, “She could wear a gun beneath that,” or, “A twelve-gauge would slip in there easy as pie.” My best, “That’s a purse big enough for an Uzi.” Josh eyes me. Tom looks the other way and whistles.

After a couple of weeks pass and I settle into the job, I find myself beginning to argue with people about their choice of food. “You wouldn’t like that,” I say about the salmon. “It’s only farm-raised today.” Or, “No, no. Beef is never cooked to medium, you should eat the chicken.”

Burt keeps nagging me. “Just nod when they order. Don’t even open those lovely lips of yours, as they appear to be untrainable.”

I try. I guess all those gags at Ben’s never allowed me the opportunity to learn verbal control.

So Burt takes me aside after I’ve been there about a month. “I keep getting complaints about you, Becca. You’ve got to stop bossing the clientele.”

I sigh. “Nice tie today, Burt.” I stand close and adjust it for him. Burt’s cheeks flush and he escapes, sitting behind his desk. It makes me like him a lot.

“If it were anyone else causing these problems, I’d have to let the person go, but I’ve come up with a better idea. My buyer is leaving next week, and I still haven’t found a good kitchen manager. Since you seem to be so picky about the food, and since you’re so good at being bossy, why don’t you take on both positions? I’ll take care of the wine.”

I sit in his lap and kiss him, which makes his ears go hot pink. Thank God I’m going to get a little distance between the dangers and myself. Josh and Tom and I celebrate after hours that night with a bottle of
grand cru
.

That next week, Tom and I start shooting. I found a big gun store with a shooting range a few weeks back and began cultivating the owner, a nasty old lecher it turns out, named Orville of all things. Tom and I go and shoot while Orville slobbers like a pit bull. He feels me up in the booth as he pretends to teach me the finer points of marksmanship.

Both Tom and I get to be decent shots and more picky about our weapons. It turns out that Orville is happy to move guns around under the table. So I trade the Ladysmith and the semi-automatic for a Walther P99 double-action semiautomatic. Tom springs for an H&K USP compact, using the money he saved to fly home for Thanksgiving and Christmas. We talk about our guns as if they’re our dates.

“She’s aching for a good round,” Tom says, his eyes dreamy.

“Walther’s feeling punk today.” I sigh. “He got loaded again last night.”

Because of my double salary, I make enough money to garage the Taurus, which helps to ease my paranoia about Ben finding me. But at Tutti, whenever a limo glides up to the entrance, I get woozy, certain that Ben will step out with that smile on his face. And the undercurrent begins to pull. The ache vibrates. I find myself listening to Miriam Dubois during almost all my free time. At times, I refer to her as Violet in my head.

Miriam haunts me. Her music runs through my skin like one of the ghosts pricking me. I yearn to find her. I want her to watch me with those eyes. I want to trap her into loving me.

But it’s Violet that keeps returning, wanting to tell me everything I don’t want to know. I run from her. I take to drinking some nights. In desperation and loneliness, I turn my attention to Josh.

I’m informed by Cinda, a really blond, really white waitress who could have been from Scranton, that Josh is gay. Cinda, by the way, has all the personal depth of a sheet of paper.

So what? I think. Why make a big deal about it?

I begin flirting with Josh, and after I’m introduced to his boyfriend, Greg, who’s another hunk, I start flirting with him, too.

The three of us begin to go shopping for clothes together. They especially like to help me choose lingerie. I think they’re secretly jealous.

Even though I’m flirting to beat the band, I’m not getting a rise (so to speak) out of either of them. I begin to make blatant passes, confused, having never been refused by a man before. As the days go by and I fail again and again, I find myself slipping backward, remembering Ben, how he was so good to me at times. I catch myself taking out his card and fingering it. He’s just a phone call away. Some nights I turn Miriam off in a fit of anger, near to tears, the ache choking me, the ghosts coming into my head.

One night as we’re closing, I reach between Josh’s legs from behind, taking hold of him. He doesn’t move. Ashamed, I remove my hand and walk away, thinking about the S&W I have near my bed. The one with the long barrel. I think of Violet. I think that maybe tonight I’ll finally be able to pull the trigger.

Josh catches me around the waist from behind. I try to pull away, but he holds me there.

“Becca,” he says, whispering. “Come over to my place now. Greg is there.” He turns me around and holds me to him. “I won’t give you sex, but I can give you this.”

I find that tears are filling my eyes. I fight them and try to pull away, but he keeps me there. Then he holds me at arm’s length and stares at me. I turn my face.

“Will you come?” he says.

I won’t look at him.

Josh takes my hand and brings me to his place. By then, I’m seeing lights and hearing Miriam’s voice in my head. Josh wants to talk to me, but I can’t. I don’t know what’s happening to me. All my pieces, so badly held together, like that little blue cup, are coming undone.