Wayne looked in his wallet. He had the number of Cape Barge Line. But they didn’t have his. He didn’t have a phone when he had filled out the job application. What he did have was the office number of the U.S. Marshals Service. They’d have his—if that moron Ferris wrote it down. It was almost five. Wayne could see the moron and his secretary leaving for the day, the door swings closed and the phone starts ringing. He had about five minutes. But first he’d have to get change at the bar. He couldn’t imagine Ferris accepting a collect call.
Carmen packed all the clothes her big canvas suitcase would hold and put it inside the pickup on the seat. She would have to come back sometime for the rest of her things, but wasn’t going to worry about that now. Her plan was to leave at five. If Wayne didn’t call by then she’d write a note and tape it to the refrigerator. Ferris could walk in and read it if he wanted, it wouldn’t matter, she’d be gone. She felt less edgy with the keys in her hand and her bag in the truck. She had enough money for gas. What else? She got her navy wool coat out of the closet, and a sweater she hadn’t packed and took them out to the pickup. Coming back into the house she heard the phone ringing and thought of Ferris.
“How’re you doing, honey?”
“Wayne?”
“I’m gone one day and you don’t know who I am. We were late getting in on account of fog. You run a bridge you have to see where you’re going.”
Carmen stood in the middle of the kitchen with the phone, looking into the living room.
“Where are you?”
“Cairo, but I’m coming home soon as I can catch a tow. Probably get back tomorrow morning, early.”
It surprised her and she was curious—even as she continued to stare at the front window.
“You said you’d be gone three days.”
“Well . . . I’ll tell you about it when I get back, but you know what the thing was that turned me off. Don’t laugh, but you have to wear a life preserver. I never wore a safety line on the job—you know I’m not gonna work someplace you have to wear a life preserver. These guys talk about falling overboard, shit, they don’t know what a fall is. It was okay, I had a pretty good time. Now I’m gonna go look for a ride.”
“Wayne, I won’t be here when you get back.” She said it fast. “Mom’s sick, I have to go take care of her.”
“Your mom? Your mom’s always sick. Jesus, what’s the matter now?”
“Her back, she can’t move.”
“That woman snaps her finger, you jump. Jesus Christ, don’t you know she’s using you?”
“Wayne, I’m going.”
There was a silence.
“All right, listen, I’ll leave right this minute. You can wait till tomorrow morning, can’t you?”
“I want to get out of here,” Carmen said, staring at that front window. “I waited all afternoon for you to call. I’m packed now, ready to go.”
“I forgot to write down the number. I had to call Ferris.”
“Oh, shit, you didn’t. I’m leaving, right now.”
“Wait a minute, will you? Did he come in the house again?”
“He’s been driving by all day, sneaking around. If he knows I’m alone—he could be on his way right now.”
“His girl said he was out on the job.”
“Wayne, I have trouble telling you things you don’t want to hear or you don’t believe. This guy, this creep, is after me. He walks in the house and thinks he can do anything he wants. Do you understand that? He has told me he’s coming by when you’re not home. Now do you want me to stay and wait for him?”
“I’ll call him up.”
“Wayne, I’m walking out of the house. I’m leaving right this minute.”
There was a silence.
“All right, then I’ll see you at home. I mean our real home. Yeah, that’s fine with me, I’m ready. I’ll see you tomorrow. It’ll be later, but I’ll see you. . . . You found the keys, huh?”
“Yeah, I found them.”
“I knew you would.”
“Wayne, I’ll most likely be at Mother’s.”
There was a silence again.
“Well, if you are, I’ll see you at your mom’s,” Wayne said. “That’s how much I miss you.”
This was a low-life place but comfortable, a workingman’s bar; the only thing different about it was the pizza smell. The guys, though, could be in any trade. Wayne looked around, but didn’t see the mate anywhere. The bartender brought him a shell of beer and Wayne said, “You know of anybody in here’s on a boat going north?”
The bartender said, “I look like a travel agent? Ask around.”
He started to move away, the size of him making a slow turn, and Wayne said, “Wait a minute. Where’s the bag was sitting here?”
The bartender looked over his shoulder at him. “Your buddy took it.”
“That was my bag,” Wayne said. “That wasn’t his.”
The bartender came around to face him. “He’s into you for the drinks too. Four dollars and eighty cents.”
“I went to make a phone call, I said give him one.”
The bartender said, “Are you gonna be trouble?”
* * *
Carmen made a sandwich, fast, to take with her. She put the meat loaf back in the refrigerator and stood there with the door open looking in at the milk that would sour, the food that would spoil, grow a furry white mold and smell awful, remembering the odor when she opened the refrigerator that first night in the dark, in candlelight, Ferris saying the woman wasn’t much of a housekeeper . . .
She slammed the door closed, amazed at herself, worrying about food spoiling, leaving a mess, when she had to get out of here right now. She’d let Wayne take care of it, but would have to remind him, leave a note. Going to the breakfast table she began composing it in her mind. Unplug the fridge, throw everything out, leave the door open . . . Be careful with my nice car, I’ll try not to wreck the truck. See you late tomorrow. Love . . . No, I love you . . .
The phone rang.
Carmen jumped and stood rigid, because she knew it was Ferris. It could be Wayne, but it wasn’t, it was Ferris. She said, Yeah, it has to be. And began to relax then, wanting it to be Ferris, Ferris somewhere else, not here or on the way. She did, thinking about it as the phone rang, she wanted it to be Ferris and felt so sure it was, and so confident about herself at the same time, that she picked up the receiver and said, “Ferris?”
“Hey, how’d you know?”
“Where are you?”
“You sound different, real calm for a change. I mean not all, you know, up in the air.”
“Are you at your office?” All she wanted to know was where he was, how near.
“Yeah, I came in, I see a note here says your old man’s out of town. I wish I’d known. Listen, don’t look for me tonight, I have to run down to New Mad-rid, pick up some confiscated items, like guns. But I can make it tomorrow, no problem. How’s that sound?”
“I won’t be here,” Carmen said, still calm, about to tell him she was taking off and what he could do with his house, wanting to rip into him; but stopped, aware that maybe she was overconfident.
“You going out?” Ferris said. “I could come by early, catch you in your jammies.”
Or he could come right now if he thought for a moment she was leaving. She had to be careful. Say too much, even if it would make her feel better, and that cream-colored Plymouth would be cutting her off at the bridge.
Carmen said, “Do what you want,” and hung up, proud of her restraint. That was cool. Do what you want. Just right.
The phone was ringing again as she left the house, slammed the door. It wasn’t until she was driving away that she realized, if Ferris did come tomorrow, he could walk in the house and find Wayne there.
19
* * *
DONNA SAID TO ARMAND, the two of them sitting in the living room this evening among the stuffed animals, the TV off so they could talk, “I’m gonna tell you something I never mentioned befo
re.”
“Yeah? What is it?”
“There’s people that believe it and there’s your skeptics who don’t. There’s people won’t believe nothing even if they’re looking at it. Take my word.”
“That’s right.” Armand nodded, thinking he wouldn’t mind pushing this woman over on the sofa.
“People make up their minds something is true or isn’t and there’s no way you can get them not to be convinced of it. Well, I’m not one of those persons. You know why?”
Armand shook his head. “Why?”
“Because I think you have to believe what you see, sure, but also things beyond what you see, when something tells you it’s true, if you know what I mean.”
Jesus Christ, Armand thought.
This woman could put you to sleep. If she wasn’t sitting in her pink robe showing him that dark place in there the way she had one leg raised, her foot on the sofa, he might have trouble keeping his eyes open. He was thinking of saying to her, “Why don’t you tell me whatever it is in the bedroom, we get comfortable.” Take hold of that dark place down there and she’d forget in a second, this one going off like a gun when you touched her hair trigger. He’d do it right now, except Richie would be home pretty soon and make remarks through the door. “What you two doing in there? You want me to get in with you?” That kind of shit. He had gone out to call the woman who had a trap on her phone. Richie, if he was here now, would tell Donna to shut up. “Jesus Christ, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” And she would, she would shut up. Armand wanted to ask her what she thought of Richie, but felt he had to listen to her first. She was still talking, saying something else, and then she said:
“That’s why I know Elvis is still alive.”
Armand said, “You believe that?”
“I don’t believe it, I know it.”
“You showed me a picture of his grave.”
“I didn’t mention it at the time,” Donna said, “but did you notice the name on it? Elvis Aaron Presley. Aaron with a double a?”
“Yeah.”
Donna leaned toward him against her raised knee. “It so happens that Elvis spelled his middle name with one a.”
“The person in the grave then,” Armand said, “is a guy that spelled it with two?”
“I don’t think there’s necessarily a body in there. What they’re saying is, hey, Elvis isn’t in here. Don’t you think we’d have spelled his name right? Come on.” Donna squirmed her butt on the sofa cushion. “Listen, I saw a man, it was on Kelly and Company, who has actually seen Elvis since his death. They also had on a girl who recorded a song with him and I heard the record.”
“Maybe it was somebody imitating him.”
“You mean impersonating? There some that try to. But, see, I know Elvis’s voice and it was Elvis. There’s not a doubt in my mind.”
Armand wished she would sit back, she was too close for him to see anything.
“Why would he want to pretend he’s dead?”
“That’s something we’ll have to wait and see. I believe it will be revealed before too long, there too many people love him and miss him. And I believe it will happen at Graceland. Which is the main reason I want to go down there.”
“Why don’t you get Richie to take you?”
“Richie doesn’t even like Elvis. He’s jealous of him. I don’t suppose you do either.”
“What, like Elvis? Sure. I like that ‘Hound Dog’ song.”
“ ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ is the one tears me up.”
“That’s a nice one too.”
Donna hummed some of it, moving her shoulders in the robe, her eyes half closed. She stopped, her eyes in the glasses open now, and said, “Bird, can I tell you something? I don’t know if I should but I want to.”
“Yeah, but don’t call me Bird.”
“I’m sorry, I hear Richie . . .”
“You want, you can call me Armand.”
She said, “Armand,” in a soft voice. “That’s a real nice name.” Then livened up her tone saying, “Hey, I’m not being very polite. Can I get you something, a snack?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“I got a can of cocktail weenies I could fix.”
“Maybe later.”
“I enjoy watching a man likes to eat.” She said, “That Richie eats like a bird,” and said, “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”
There was something wrong with this woman’s brain. Maybe the weight of all that hair on it.
Armand said, “What is it you want to tell me?”
Now she had those magnified eyes staring at him, wanting to trust him, or wanting to hold him so he’d keep looking at her and believe her.
“I’m scared to death of Richie,” Donna said.
“Is that right? You let him stay here . . .”
“What choice do I have?”
Now she twisted her shoulders back and forth a couple of times like she was trapped in that robe and didn’t know what to do. She picked up one of the stuffed animals, Mr. Froggy, and held it against her raised knee so that it was looking at Armand.
He said, “It’s a nice place. I’m getting to like it.” He said, “It wouldn’t be too hard to get Richie out of here. Have you thought of that? What you’re doing? They could arrest you too, for harboring, ‘ey? Unless you turn him in first.”
“I’d never do that.”
“It’s something to think about.”
“I got news for you, he’d find out I did.”
“Yeah, but if they put him away, so what?”
“They’d have to catch him first, and he’s slick. Even if they did, he’d get out. I don’t mean escape. He’d do a few years and then come looking for me.” Donna shook her head. “I would never snitch on him. I’m not that kind of person.”
“They got some pretty heavy stuff on him,” Armand said, “what sounds to me would get him life or worse. I don’t think you’d ever see him again.”
Donna was shaking her head. “I wouldn’t do it. He said to me one time, if I ever even thought of calling the police on him he’d know it.”
Armand said, “You believe that?” And thought, Well, if she believes Elvis Presley is alive . . .
Of course she did. Cocking her head to the side as if thinking about it, then nodding with that dreamy look on her face, the one that was supposed to mean she knew things he didn’t. Believing in something—how did she say it?—beyond what you can know. He could see the inside curve of one of her breasts hanging there in the robe. It was elderly but not bad. The way she was sitting, he couldn’t see the dark place. Maybe if he moved back a little and tried it, getting a stuffed animal out from behind him. He glanced down. Ah, there it was.
She said, “You seem to have doubts.”
Armand shrugged. “I don’t see how he could know what you’re thinking.”
“He just would.”
“You mean ’cause of how you’re acting then, nervous?”
“I guess partly.”
“Listen, you don’t have to be afraid of him.”
Donna was still holding on to him with her eyes in the shining glasses. She said, “You’re not afraid of him, are you?”
He pushed against the back of the sofa to sit up, reached over and very gently lifted off her glasses to see her eyes naked. Donna didn’t move. She blinked. Now she was looking at him again, or seemed to be. She looked like a sister of the Donna before. Now she turned her head slightly and touched her pile of hair. Armand believed it was a gesture that meant she wouldn’t mind getting laid.
“No, I’m not afraid of him,” Armand said. “You know why?”
She was trying to give him a soft look with those cockeyed eyes. He didn’t know why seeing Donna without her glasses made him more aware of her being naked beneath the robe, but it did.
She said, “You’re bigger than he is,” lowered her head just enough and smiled, becoming a little imp now, this fifty-year-old woman and her Mr. Froggy, both looking at him. r />
He said, “You know who I am?”
“Who you are? Sure.”
“You know what I mean. Richie told you, didn’t he?”
“He said you’re from Toronto.”
“What else?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why can’t you say it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“The kind of thing I do for a living.”
“It isn’t none of my business.”
“Yeah, but Richie told you. Don’t he tell you everything he’s doing?”
“He brags a lot. You know Richie.”
“But he did tell you about me.”
“It really doesn’t matter,” Donna said. “I’ve enjoyed your company, I think you’re a nice person and, well, I wish you all the best.” She looked off at the room. “I don’t know—I hope you didn’t mind my cooking too much. It isn’t the easiest thing in the world, trying to please two different men.”
Armand said, “You think I’m leaving?”
“Well, I guess you will sometime.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Nothing, really. I just, you know, have a feeling.”
“He told you what we’re doing?”
“No, uh-unh, he’s never said a word.” Donna shook her big hairdo back and forth, brushed Mr. Froggy from her knee and stared at him, those poor eyes of hers saying, Please believe me. She said, “I don’t know anything about your business and I don’t want to. I made those phone calls. . . . Richie says things, you never know if he’s giving you a bunch of bull or what, so I just let it go in one ear and out the other. I would never, ever, repeat anything that was said to me, whether I was told not to or I wasn’t. It’s just none of my business.”
“Are you nervous?”
“Not the least.”
“You seem nervous.”
“Well, I’m not. I have no reason to be.”
“So, you think Elvis is still alive.”
“I’m pretty sure of it.”
“Maybe he is. Who knows, ‘ey?”