“So, now we know what you’re on trial for.”
“Right. I guess you do. Only now I don’t even know if I’m remembering my reasons, whether I did anything at all with my father. I think he died when I was young, but I can’t be certain. I think I was hit by lightning, but I don’t know.” I’m talking to a polite, well-spoken junky covered in festering sores and who talks like the killer computer from that space movie, and his semiopaque, walking stick, mute, jazz-fiend friend. “Why am I telling you all of this?”
“I already told you. The two of us,” he gestures to Beanstalk with his outstretched arm and upturned palm, like he’s a museum guide, “we’re the only friends you’ve got.”
I unfold the note, expecting a veiled threat composed of cut-out magazine letters, but instead find a message written in perfect block capitals:
Recovered near the burn site. Maybe it will help. Coyotes at the rest.
–N. Anslinger
There’s a second sheet behind the note. It’s a photocopy of a dog collar, the page rubber-stamped as evidence and marked with my case number. It’s dark and blurry, its details lost in the bloated shadows of a second-generation copy, but the tag is crisp and unblemished. It’s a medallion the size of a watch face and it reads, OTTO.
“I really have hit bottom, then,” I say.
“Please. That’s uncalled for.”
“I’m sorry.” I’m starting to believe him, about the two of them being my only friends. “I never questioned the accusations. I just tried to remember what I did to bring those charges on, instead of whether or not I actually did them. And I thought maybe, just maybe, I had an idea why. I’m not a bad person. I wasn’t after the money.
“But you still believe you’re guilty?”
“Yes. But everything I remembered is wrong. Everything leading up to my arrival here never happened. You said I was in love. You were right. But that never happened, either.”
“I know,” Jack says. “Desiree. It’s like falling in love every night and having your heart broken every morning. Forever, like Prometheus. Only everyone forgets how seldom our memory is accurate. Having more memory is just a way of distorting a greater amount of the past.” Jack pauses, looks at his feet, and for a moment the only sound is Beanstalk scribbling into his notebook. “I’m preaching. I apologize. This isn’t the time or place.”
“Forget it.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Get me out of here.” I’m joking and serious at the same time.
“You can’t leave on your own?”
“They’re watching me. I’m a flight risk.”
Jack’s face is blank.
“You can believe me or not,” I say.
“Suppose we believe you? Where would you go?”
I hadn’t given it any thought, but the answer leaps to mind in a blink. “Back to the lab,” I tell him. “Oz. What’s left of it.”
“You know where it is? For certain?”
“Positive. They gave the location at the trial.”
“And why go there?”
“Just to see if it’s like I remember it. To see if there’s one thing I can recall correctly.”
“So then, go.”
“I can’t skip out on my trial. I’ll make things worse.”
“They can be worse?”
Jack is not only right, but on my side for certain, this time.
“I’d just like to see the place for myself,” I tell him. “Just to know I’ve got some details right.”
“You’ve explained that. And I’ve already said it: Go.”
“I can’t. They’re watching me. I know it.”
“We’ll help you.”
“Why?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Let me ask you,” Jack folds his hands behind him, the learned professor. “If you believe that everything you know of your life never happened, and you could verify at least one event, one place or detail to prove at least some small part of your memory was right, would you care at all about how you did it, or who wanted to help you or stop you?”
Anything to find you, Desiree.
“No.”
“Simple, isn’t it? Now gather your things and follow us.”
I haven’t touched my supply of painkillers from the doctor and, though I scarcely remember my final buy from the Glass Stripper, I’m still holding a formidable stash of Skin, the very last of it, by here account. I stuff them all into my pockets, along with what cash I’ve kept in my room, which I’d hidden behind one of my bug diagrams. I had the common sense to know that a thief wouldn’t be digging through those in my absence.
Beanstalk removes his headphones, presses his ear to the wall and a look of utter bliss comes over him, soothed by the same humming wires Jack had warned me against. He raises his hand and counts down with his fingers, five, four, three, two, one. The phone rings.
“Go ahead,” says Jack.
I pick up the receiver. “Go.” Old habit. I think.
“Uh, Mr. Ashworth”—it’s the warden—“I’m wondering if it’s possible to move you to another room. We’ve finally got an exterminator to take a look at the place.”
So, now I’m getting five-star courtesy at a cash-only dump. They think I’m stupid. I repeat the question, as though to make sure I heard him correctly. When Jack and the Beanstalk hear me, Beanstalk points to his wrist, then holds up one finger.
“No problem. Can you give me an hour?”
“Certainly,” says the warden. “Let me know if you need anything.”
Hoyle wants to know where I am. They’re going to keep a close, close eye on everything I do. I can’t ask for the rest of my money from the warden’s cage without tripping every alarm in the silent network of watchers cloaking me. A copy of the Hotel Firebird’s house rules is taped inside my door, the paper dull yellow and cracking with age. I peel it away, carefully, as it’s the closest thing to formal letterhead I’ll find here. On the empty, bottom third of the page, I write instructions that the remaining contents of my property envelope, currently secured in the warden’s lobby cage, should go to the bearer of this letter, minus any overdue rent, in the event of my absence.
The letter is not legally binding, the warden has no compelling reason to comply instead of keeping it for himself but, if Jack and the Beanstalk can get me out of the Firebird without Hoyle knowing, then at the very least I owe them my good intention and effort. I hand the paper to Jack, then throw a couple of clean shirts, some socks and my toothbrush into a pillowcase. As I do all of this, Beanstalk is busy closing my window and drawing the curtains. He makes a twisting gesture with his wrist at my doorknob. I hand him my key, which he slides into the lock and, with shocking ease, snaps off the end, leaving its teeth lodged in the tumbler. The three of us leave room 621, Beanstalk closing the door as we step out.
“Follow me,” says Jack.
We take the stairs to the third floor, to a room at the very end of the hallway near the fire exit. ALARM WILL SOUND, it says.
“There’s stairs out there, instead of a fire escape. Much easier and less conspicuous,” says Jack. “We need to wait.”
“For what?”
“They’ll be calling on you in an hour. They won’t have an exterminator in tow, if your suspicions are correct.”
“I know that.”
“They called your room to verify you’re there. They’ll see from the street that your window is closed, and find your door is locked from the inside.” Jack knocks on the door, near the fire exit.
“They’re going to think I’ve locked myself in there. That I’ve slit my wrists, or something.”
“Yes, they will. And as long as they think you’re in there bleeding to death, they won’t be looking for you at the bus station. But we need to wait until they come knocking.”
A woman opens the door, Beanstalk’s height but with Jack’s shoulders.
“There’s my baby,” she says. Beanstalk step
s into her and they embrace like mother and son reuniting. She whispers into his ear and he strokes her back and arms tenderly. “I thought I heard you out here,” she says to Jack.
“Did we wake you?”
“I’ve had my beauty sleep, Jackie.” She takes his hands and bends to give Jack a soft, lingering kiss on the lips. I can see into her room. It’s the size of a large closet with barely enough space for her bed, a chair, a piece of wood propped on a pair of milk crates and a mirror leaning against the wall. The floor, bed and wood plank are littered with makeup, lingerie, shoes and broken hamster pipes stained black.
“You brought a friend,” she says.
Jack introduces her, “This is, Donna.”
“I’m Eric,” I say, hoping to avoid any greeting more intimate than giving her my name.
“My pleasure, Eric.” She takes my hand, her own larger than Jack’s and she smiles with teeth like new porcelain. “You must be 621.”
“Eric needs to stay here for a while. No more than an hour,” says Jack.
“Were you bad, Eric?” She strokes the back of my knuckles with her free hand.
I want Jack to stay with us, but think better of asking.
“A lot of people seem to think so,” I say.
“Of course you can wait here, sugardrop.” Donna steps aside and, much to my relief, Jack steps in first.
“Jackie doesn’t trust me with you,” Donna says.
“If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t have come here,” says Jack, taking a seat on the lone chair inside, which leaves the bed to me and Donna.
Donna rolls her eyes. She speaks to me in a stage whisper, “He is so smart. Did you know he’s got a doctorate?”
“Donna, please,” says Jack.
“And sugardrop here,” she juts her massive jaw toward Beanstalk, “he’s read every book in the library. Every one. He started at ‘A’ when he was just a little boy and read all the way to ‘Z.’”
“Donna, we need to get him inside. You can work your charms once he’s out of sight.”
I convince myself I can stand in one place for an hour. I step forward, but Donna blocks my way, standing more than a whole head higher than me.
“Nobody rides for free, sugardrop.” She hasn’t let go of my hand. She leans into me and I’m too scared to recoil.
“I’m not gay.”
“Neither am I, sugardrop.”
Her lips envelop mine, soft and pillowy, tasting of cherry lip gloss or bubble gum residue. Her tongue flits once, grazing my upper lip. Her breath is like cinnamon, her hands are like my father’s. Her kiss is nothing like yours. I still see your flaming hair that they tell me never existed, and I try to remember what you smell like but it’s choked in sweet cherry, cinnamon and bootleg perfume.
“Somebody’s in love,” Donna says. “It’s all over you.”
“The worst kind,” says Jack.
Donna takes me into her room, closes the door and slides two deadbolts shut, then sits me down on the bed beside her. She wears a purple tube top beneath a pink velour sweat jacket, unzipped to flaunt her chemically enhanced cleavage. Above her sweatpants, a wedge of belly shows muscle that could only have come from doing crunches in her sleep, and her pants themselves are loose enough to camouflage whatever the electrical tape couldn’t.
“The worst kind,” she repeats, removing her socks. She begins filing her toenails and says, “Jackie means the kind you can’t fulfill.” She cocks an eyebrow at me. “Am I right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Something like that.”
“Your baby in jail? Or did she run away?” She puts the nail file down and takes a bag of cotton balls from her makeshift nightstand, stuffing them between her toes. “Or,” she says, “she just somebody you made up?”
“Donna,” says Jack. His metronome voice doesn’t change, but there’s a silent shift in the pitch, some dog vowel that I can’t hear but I know is there, and it’s as stern as I’ve ever heard him. “Are we intruding?”
“Not at all, Jackie.”
“Because if we’re inconveniencing you at all, we can be on our way.”
Donna’s shaking a bottle of nail polish but puts it aside for the moment to look me in the eye, once more taking my hand into her oversized palm.
“I’m sorry, sugardrop. I didn’t mean to pry. I don’t get many visitors. At least not the kind who just want to visit. I forget my manners, sometimes.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “It’s no problem.”
I’ve been so distracted by her that I didn’t notice Beanstalk isn’t with us.
“He’s keeping watch,” Jack says, before Donna even lets go of my hand.
“Outside?”
“No, he’s on the sixth floor. As soon as they come knocking for you, he’ll be down. When you don’t answer and they can’t open the door, That’s when they’ll assume the worst. The cage man will scramble for his key and when it doesn’t work, he’ll call for help and all eyes will be on 621. By the time the ambulance, SWAT team, or whoever else has arrived and your door’s been kicked open, you’ll be gone. I’m assuming you’re going to the bus station.”
“I suppose. But they’ll be looking for me there.”
“Not until they realize you’re gone.”
Donna passes the time painting her toenails and regaling us with stories about shoe shopping and jail. When both of her feet are done she says, “Blow on ’em for me sugardrop, just a little. Don’t worry, I’ll behave.” I cup my palm under her heel, raising her toes slightly, and her foot is the size of a small swim fin. I blow gently, and Donna moans softly. “Shame. All of the good ones are spoken for.” She picks up a hamster pipe from her crate-and-plank vanity setup, taking a long, luxurious hit, and the hissing blue flame from her butane lighter sounds like a faraway tornado tearing up the horizon. I think. I’m not sure if I know what that really sounds like. She offers the pipe to me but I decline, then passes it to Jack.
“So tell me what’s wrong, sugardrop. Who’s after you? What did you do that’s so bad?”
I don’t want to go into it, not here, not with what could very well be my own product being vaporized in front of me, but something tells me I should at least try for some recognition, throw out a line and see if my delusions run deeper than I already know.
“You ever tried Desiree?” I ask. Saying your name out loud makes my heart beat faster and the metal taste of electricity burn my tongue.
“I told you I don’t swing that way,” says Donna.
“That’s not what he means,” says Jack.
I extract one of the blue pills from my jacket pocket, careful not to tip my hand by showing how much I’m holding.
“I mean these,” I say. “Desiree, Cradle, Skin.” I drop the glossy tablet into Donna’s massive palm.
“Oh yes. Yes I have, but I heard they’re real scarce, all of a sudden. You holding any more?”
I look to Jack, who shakes his head, no thank you, but I’m not sure what to say to Donna.
“In exchange for my hospitality,” she says.
I hand her four more, and she wraps them into a tissue, tucking it down her cleavage.
“Why do you ask?”
“What if I told you I invented it?” There’s a pause before Donna starts laughing, a deep, raspy laughter that doesn’t match her sugary, bubble-gum girl voice. She gives me a dismissive wave with her painted and glittery fingernails, and fires up the glass pipe once more.
“Somebody had to,” Jack says. “And that somebody is local, that much we all know.”
“So, you believe me?” I ask.
“Do you?” he asks back. Fair question.
Someone knocks.
“Right on schedule,” says Jack.
Donna wants one last grope, but Jack is feeling expedient and steps between us, pushing me out her door as Beanstalk steps inside. Beanstalk remains behind, presumably spooning and sharing the glass pipe with Donna.
“There you are.” Jack is standing with me at the
end of the hallway, in front of the fire exit. If there’s any commotion three floors above, it’s not loud enough to hear. “The bus station is close. Halfway to the theater, make a right. You’d be wise to move quickly.”
“What about the fire alarm? It’ll sound when you open the door.”
“Please,” says Jack, “a little faith.” He pushes open the door to nothing but the sound of the afternoon traffic. “I’m terrible with good-byes,” he says.
“Listen, Jack. Thank you.” I’m not sure what to say. “You’ve done more than—”
Jack closes the door with neither ceremony nor parting sentiment before I’m halfway finished. I stare at the gray metal door, my pillowcase of clothes in hand for a few moments, with no company but the sounds of car horns below and flapping pigeons above. I don’t hear any sirens, helicopters, pounding doors or my name being shouted three floors above but somewhere, this very moment, a dispatcher is relaying the warden’s frantic call to the authorities, and the authorities are on Hoyle’s payroll. I hurry down the stairs and head for the bus station.
The man at the ticket counter is at least eighty years old. He wears a bolo tie with a blue cowboy shirt, and a strip of feathery, ash-colored hair rings his liver spotted head. He can’t stop trembling.
“Good evening, sir. Where are you headed?”
They don’t know I’m gone. My trial is adjourned and I can still go back tomorrow.
“Littlerock,” I say. “Highway 138, toward Nevada. Anything going that direction?”
“Yes sir,” he says. “Most folks go through there, not to there. But you’re in luck. We’ve got one bus leaving shortly.”
After I have my ticket, I take my pillowcase to the gift shop inside the bus terminal where I find a cheap, canvas beach bag with “Hollywood” silk screened on the side, and use it to carry my belongings instead. At a liquor store across from the terminal, I pick up bottled water and fruit juice, knowing a long walk in the desert heat is waiting for me. I eat a deli sandwich, chase it with a carton of milk and four painkillers. The fire is returning to my back, so I pick up a quart of whiskey for good measure.
The bus terminal is empty except for me and the ticket vendor. My bus number is nowhere to be seen, and there’s no announcement for my platform number or any other.