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“That’s great,” I say, my voice thin and insincere. “I mean, good for you.”
“I’m sending them to a publisher next week,” he says. “Guy I did a root canal for.”
“That’s great,” I repeat, unsure of what else to say.
He looks up at me and licks his lips. “You think they work?”
“A hundred and twenty-four of those, huh? Wow.”
He gets up from the bed and takes a step toward me. “I’m getting better,” he says, clutching the poem in his hand. “I’m just starting out, but I’ve been reading this book about the artist within and—”
“You hayseed bastard!” A woman is screaming in a murderous voice. “Get out of my house, you goddamn redneck!”
I rush to the window, my curiosity momentarily eclipsing my urge to flee the dentist. There, flying down the pink porch steps, is Guitar Man’s girlfriend. She flings a stack of CDs onto the sidewalk, and when she stomps on a couple with her boots the sound of plastic cracking is audible from here.
“That girl again,” Gottlieb says bitterly, peering over my shoulder.
I watch as she marches back into Smoke Palace, taking the steps two at a time. “You know her?”
“Name’s Lucy—short for Lucifer.” He snorts. “She’s a real live wire.”
“I wonder why she’s…” I begin, but I trail off, hypnotized by the sight of Lucy charging down the stairs again. She marches into the street. A truck turns the corner going too fast and swerves just in time to miss her. She appears not to notice. She’s got her boyfriend’s beautiful old guitar in her hands—the rosewood gleams in the afternoon sunlight, and she’s holding it high above her head. I’ve studied this guitar through my binoculars for days. I’m pretty sure it’s an antique Gibson. I could tell from the way Guitar Man touched it that this thing is as much a part of him as his own lungs. He is both familiar and reverent with it. Something in me panics at the sight of that beautiful Gibson hovering on the edge of destruction. I bolt down the stairs, through the lobby, out the front door, and stop dead on Dr. Gottlieb’s porch.
Guitar Man is out there now, trying to coax the guitar from her as she holds it to her body and screams like an enraged child: “Get away! Get AWAY!” She keeps twisting to evade his grasp, but he is at least a foot taller, and her arms are so occupied with the guitar that she can’t keep his from surrounding her. This only seems to incite more rage. She raises her voice to a volume beyond screaming, beyond any comprehensible words, yanks herself out of his hold and thrusts a knee into his crotch. He doubles over in pain.
Gottlieb appears behind me and hollers, “Leave him alone—Jesus!”
“Shut the fuck up!” Lucy cries. “And don’t look at me like—”
Guitar Man sweeps one arm around her waist from behind and, holding her immobile, tries to wrench the guitar from her grip. She grunts like a little ape and hugs the Gibson furiously, struggling to keep it from him. I watch in frozen fascination as a Ford Explorer turns the corner and Guitar Man’s girlfriend flings the Gibson in its path. I see it as if in slow motion: two children pressing their faces against the glass in the back seat; a harried mother craning her neck as she drives, trying to see what the fuss is about; and all the while, the Gibson is crushing, splintering, making its last sounds under the weight of that mammoth front tire.
The woman in the Explorer leaves the motor running, gets out with a confused diatribe already spewing—part concern, part irritation about being late for yoga. Occasionally she turns to the children, who remain captive and staring from the back seat, and calls, “Mommy’s coming. Stay put!” Gottlieb is lecturing Lucy in loud, dogmatic tones, but she herself is now remarkably quiet. She lights a cigarette and looks bored, as if none of this has anything to do with her.
Guitar Man goes to the remains of his Gibson and stares, then kneels and rubs his hands over the splintered mess of strings and wood. “I didn’t even see it until—” the woman begins, but one quick look from him silences her. Lucy holds her cigarette in the air, frozen in place. I do not dare to breathe, as Guitar Man examines the irreparable damage gingerly. He runs a hand through his hair, stands and stalks into the house.
“That’s all you give a shit about!” Lucy explodes as the front door slams. “You wish that was me under those tires!”
“I sure do,” Gottlieb says, just loud enough to be heard.
Lucy, who is making her way toward the house, spins on her heel and screams at the dentist. “What did you say?”
“Chump needs to show you the door!” He laughs, glancing at me.
She narrows her eyes at him. “You stupid fucking rapist!” He takes a couple of steps toward her, and she stands there, ready, chin jutting out defiantly.
“Is everything all right?” the woman calls from beside her Explorer. She is patting her upper lip with a handkerchief. Nobody answers for a long moment; I can hear someone starting up a lawn mower in the distance. “Is everyone okay?” the woman says again, a little impatiently.
The front door of Smoke Palace whines open, and Guitar Man emerges in a wide-brimmed suede hat, a large duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a sleeping bag tucked under one arm. He does not look at any of us, just moves quickly down the steps, tugging the brim of his hat a bit lower as he turns the corner and heads for his station wagon.
“That’s it!” Lucy yells. “Just slink away, you lowlife bastard!” The engine revs aggressively, and she raises her voice above it in a challenge. “Just drive off, you fucking hypocrite!” The station wagon yanks into reverse and arches backwards, wheels spitting up gravel, then disappears.
“Do I need to call the police?” the woman from the Explorer asks, digging in her handbag for a cell phone.
“You need to mind your own fucking business,” Lucy says, her voice cold and flat.
The woman stands there, bewildered, with one hand on her vehicle. She’s sweating profusely, though it’s not that warm out. The armpits of her blouse are two large, dark patches, and her big pale face is glistening. She looks questioningly at me, and I nod reassurance at her. She finally gets in her car and drives off, leaving a cloud of exhaust.
Gottlieb retreats in the direction of his office, a little unsteadily.
“Who are you supposed to be, anyway?” the girlfriend says, squinting at me.
“I’m Anna.” I put my hand out for her to shake, but she just stares at it.
She makes a sound, something between a scoff and a sigh. “I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.” She is already turning toward downtown, taking a couple of steps in that direction. “You coming?” Her eyes are dark brown, with thick lashes. She pauses and jerks her head slightly in the direction she’s headed, as if convincing a dog to get moving. Her lips are curved into a small, wry smile, barely discernable. I watch as her sheer summer dress flutters in the breeze, pressing and then releasing from the curve of her breasts and the slim shape of her hips. “Come on,” she says, quietly, knocking the toe of her combat boot against the pavement. “I could use some company.”
“Sure,” I say, fumbling in my pockets. “I’ll have to get some money, though—”
“My treat,” she says. A gust of wind blows a sheaf of newspapers strewn about the Goat Kids’ yard, scattering them in the street. One page drifts lightly toward her, and she kicks it away.
“Oh, I couldn’t let you—”
“Sure you could,” she says, showing her small white teeth, miniature and flawless like a doll’s. “It’s no big deal.”
I smile in answer, and we start off down Walnut Street, leaving the butchered guitar and the Land of Skin behind us.
“I think I’ve seen you around,” she says, squinting at me again as she lights a cigarette. Her eyebrows are mesmerizing. They’re shaped like Jackie O’s—two perfect, slim lines that curve elegantly high at the outer corners—and give the impression that she is constantly amused. She is a study in smallness—a tiny, childish nose, delicate, miniature ears. She squeezes her wedge of lime and we watch as the pulpy juice drips into her gin and tonic, clouding the clear bubbles a little. “You have a habit of watching people, don’t you.”
I look up at her, startled. My face gets hot.
“Well, don’t look like that,” she says, laughing before taking the thin red straw into her mouth. She sips from her drink with her eyes on me. “I caught you staring at us once, downtown. We were making fools of ourselves, and you were rubbernecking. I wanted to kill you.” She smiles. “Some people have a habit of becoming public spectacles. Other people watch. It’s how the world gets divided.” She nods at the package of Camels on the table. “You smoke?” I shake my head. “I didn’t think so.”
“Are you from here?” I ask, gripping my Heineken.
“Yeah,” she says. She looks around at the sad little dive she’s steered us into; it is empty except for the overweight bartender and a couple of crusty, flannel-clad locals watching a game show and eating pretzels. “I grew up right here, in this bar. Listen, I’m not into small talk, okay? It wastes my time. We’re all going to die, you know—that’s important to keep in mind. Why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re here in Bellingham?” She takes a drag from her cigarette and blows the smoke sideways. Her lips are a dark, unpainted pink. I blink and gather my thoughts. “Don’t plan everything,” she says. “Jesus, why is everyone so edited, so—”
“To kill my father,” I blurt out.
Her cigarette hand freezes midway to her mouth. “Really?” she says, her eyebrows arching even more. “How?”
“I don’t know yet,” I say. “He’s dead, but he needs to die a little more.”
Her mouth makes that tight, wry shape again. She taps her cigarette against the edge of the plastic ashtray and says, “My name’s Lucinda, by the way. You can call me Lucy sometimes, but never Lu or—God forbid—Lu-Lu. Nice to meet you.”
We drink all afternoon into evening, and not a moment is wasted. She smokes and pries, drinks and searches, confesses without a trace of apology or sentiment. She talks about death like it’s a bus we have to catch, or a party we’re going to—a pressing engagement that requires we say everything now, without hesitation. She drinks four gin and tonics, one on top of the other; the bartender brings the new rounds without even asking, like he’s a part of her meticulous war against wasted time. After my initial Heineken he starts bringing both of us gin and tonics, with matching red straws and identical wedges of lime. I keep up with her, drink for drink, and I can feel myself getting looser and sloppier, my words coming easily but without precision. The room takes on softer hues; the men at the bar become shadows, while the bottles behind them turn to a blur of blues, greens and golds, catching the light and sparkling like Christmas ornaments.
When the two windows of the bar are turning colors—from the dregs of a terra-cotta sunset to a deep, melancholy blue—Lucinda finally gets around to the pedestrian details. “Where are you staying, anyway?”
I look at my hands. “Above Dr. Gottlieb’s.”
“No way! That fucking sicko? You’ve got to be kidding me—”
“It’s only temporary,” I say.
Her eyes light up, a new idea hatching behind them. “Listen, it’s perfect timing. Why don’t you move in? You can’t go back to that bastard’s.”
“He does give me the creeps.”
“Of course he does! He’s the creepiest! He seriously tried to rape me once,” she says, tapping a fresh pack of Camels against the Formica.
If it weren’t for all the drinks and the overall surreal hue of the day, I would react with shock and sympathy, but between my tipsiness and Lucy’s nonchalance, attempted rape barely registers.
“I’m surprised he didn’t try you, already. You’re staying with me. Absolutely.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, trying to be reasonable.
“Sure, I’m sure,” she says, ripping the Camels free of their cellophane wrapping. “You’ve got no choice.”
“But you just met me today.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” she says, annoyed. She tugs a cigarette free from the others and touches the flame of her Zippo to it with practiced precision. “You want me to check references or something?”
“We’ve had a few, is all,” I say. “I don’t want you to feel weird about it later.”
“Hey, what you see’s what you get. I’m no different, sober or drunk. I’ll still like you tomorrow. Besides,” she says, pausing for a drag, then exhaling slowly, “I’m never alone.”
When we get back to the Land of Skin, the CDs and the Gibson are gone. I suspect they’ve been scavenged by the Goat Kids. In the entryway of Smoke Palace, the carpet is peeling back from the floor, and the air reeks of damp dog and mold. We go up two flights of stairs and Lucinda throws the door open with drunken flourish. It is dark inside. I can make out only vague shapes in the moonlight.
Lucinda crosses the room, stumbling once, and gropes at the wall. There is a flicker of yellow and a buzzing sound as the ceiling light struggles to come alive. It fills the room with ghostly fluorescence, and I see Lucinda in a momentary cameo, digging in her pack for a new cigarette before the light goes out. “Fuck,” she whispers. She crosses the room again. I hear a thud as she bangs against something.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Fuck.”
I can hear her fumbling with another light switch, and then the room goes bright again. I squint against the brightness instinctively, though it is kinder this time—not fluorescent but a soft, filtered red. I see Lucinda, standing next to an old lamp with a red chiffon scarf draped over it. She is struggling with her Zippo, a cigarette hanging loosely from her lips, and then a tall flame shoots up, throwing a gold pallor across her tiny features. Her expression loosens some as she lights her cigarette and inhales, but as she exhales her face goes rigid.
There, seated on a long black leather couch, is Guitar Man. The suede hat dangles beside him on the armrest, and his hair shows the place where the brim was. A couple of strands are standing up, animated by static electricity.
“Hey, Luce,” he says, watching her. It occurs to me that he is like a darker version of her, with their matching brown hair and their black, birdlike eyes. “Who’d you bring home this time?”
“What is this shit?” She tries to put her cigarette in her mouth, but her hand is shaking, so she just dangles it at her side. “What are you doing here?”
“I don’t know if I’m up for guests,” he says, ignoring her question.
“Anna’s my new roommate,” she tells him, sinking into a chair by the window. She keeps her eyes on him as she adds, “Aren’t you, Anna?”
I swallow hard.
“She can’t stay,” he says, his voice low and even.
“Fuck that. She’s staying.” They stare at each other for a long, elastic silence. I keep expecting him to rise from the couch and strangle her, that’s how angry he looks. The dim light, diffused through the red chiffon, makes their faces and the lumpy, secondhand furniture look hot and molten.
I rush blindly for the bathroom, somehow sensing where it is. I hit the door frame with my shoulder, turn the corner, aim at the toilet and vomit. The sound of it splashing against the toilet water fills me with a fresh wave of nausea, and I wretch again, spilling what’s left of me. Then I stand there, bent at the waist, panting, a long string of drool stretching from my lips.
A small, cool hand touches the back of my neck. “You okay?” She hands me a washcloth and flushes the toilet. “You want something?”
I wipe my mouth and shake my head. I go to the sink and splash my face with cool water. The cold feels good on my skin. I turn to see her leaning against the door frame, her head tilted slightly to the side. “Don’t worry about him,” she whispers. “He’s all bluff.”
“Lucy!” he calls.
She rolls her eyes. “What do you want?” she yells, as if he’s a great distance away.
Silence.
She shakes her head at me, sighs, and disappears. I can hear their voices rising and falling in suppressed tones as I study myself in the dimly lit mirror. I look startled and young. The beige T-shirt I put on this morning is hot pink in the light spilling in from the hallway. My haircut still shocks me. “You’ll like her,” I hear Lucinda saying, her voice high and sharp, before their tones drop back down to murmurs. “You’ve got no fucking right,” she says. And a little later, “This is my place as much as yours!”
I close the bathroom door softly, lower the lid on the toilet and sit there in the dark, my face in my hands, trying to focus this kaleidoscope of sensations into a plan. I consider slipping out into the street and going back to my room, but the prospect of sleeping such a distance from a toilet seems dangerous. Besides, Gottlieb might actually be there, and I’m in no mood to deal with a haiku-obsessed rapist. I might rent a motel room, but this would take so much energy. I long for a dark room, binoculars, and a safe, anonymous window to look out from.
I hear the sound of their bodies moving: a thump against a wall, feet shuffling. Then Lucinda’s laughter rings out, stops short, and I hear breathing. I lift my face from my hands and sit there, perfectly still, listening hard. Nothing. I stand, wobble slightly, touch the wall for support. I go to the bathroom door and peek out carefully. The living room is still red, but now it’s empty. The bedroom door is open just a crack, and through it I catch a glimpse of Lucinda’s naked knee, then a flash of her dress. I stand there, holding my breath, listening to the silence of that ancient, dilapidated house. Then the bedsprings begin, barely audible and erratic at first. They get louder, faster, and finally fall into a rhythm as steady and relentless as rain.
I make my way into the living room, careful to move in silence. I lie down on the leather couch. It is hard and uninviting, like the couches in school infirmaries. The room spins around me. I close my eyes and try to make it stop. When it slows, I feel sleep pulling at me, making my body heavy. I let the creaking bedsprings lull me to sleep, until I’m dreaming of melting furniture and a hot, stinging rain.
CHAPTER 3
The Sex Queen of Fanny’s Barbecue Palace
Lucinda and I walk into Fanny’s Barbecue Palace at eight. It is brightly lit, with pink-checkered tablecloths and families eating piles of sauce-smeared ribs, getting their fingers sticky as their jaws chomp violently. The men at the tables look up at us quickly, then back down at their plates before their wives can notice. We make our way to the door at the back of the restaurant, which leads to the bar: orange vinyl stools, pool tables, loungy chairs before a dimly lit stage where the band is pausing between songs.
“Ready for more?” a man says into the mic. He is thin and freakishly tall, with a shock of white-blond hair and a gaunt face. He looks like a cross between David Bowie and Gumby. He reaches a lanky arm out and fingers a tuning peg. “We call this one ‘Fuck Sean Cassidy.’” He takes a pick from his pocket, poises it above the strings and glances at the other members; there’s a bald drummer behind a gleaming gold kit, and a badgerlike guy in black leather pants on bass. But the one I notice is Guitar Man. He’s wearing a thin cotton T-shirt and faded jeans. A red electric guitar hangs low on his hips, and his eyebrows furrow in concentration as he watches for his cue.
The lead singer mutters, “One two three,” and then they all seize their instruments like cavalry rushing into battle; their arms flail and their faces ball up like fists. Guitar Man is the only one who doesn’t look ridiculous; he stabs at the air with the neck of his instrument again and again, but somehow the aggressive gesture isn’t cliché, it’s plain sexy. The singer leans his long, gangly body toward the mic and screams words, but I have no idea if they mean anything; fucking pigs, he screams. Now now now, bend over, bend under, and later, when the song has gone on so long I fear I am trapped in a time warp—some ruthless hell of distorted audio-loops—he raises his voice to a feverish pitch that makes my throat feel sore, and cries, Fuck the Queen, fuck CBS, fuck Sean Cassidy, fuck YOUUUUUUUU! and just like that the whole thing slams to a halt.
Guitar Man looks up now, sees us and smiles. His face, beaded with sweat, glistens in the yellow lights; he pushes a strand of damp hair off his forehead. For a second, I think he’s looking at me. Only when I realize that his eyes are locked on Lucy does my pulse return to normal.
Another song begins, and the cocktail waitress comes over to take our orders. Lucy tells her we want Tanqueray and tonics. We don’t speak as we wait for our drinks to arrive; we just sit in the swivel chairs near the stage and let that huge wall of sound numb our senses. The lead singer is at once repulsive and compelling. He has a face that skids from pretty to ghastly so quickly, you cannot determine whether you really saw either. When the waitress puts our order down, I pay her, waving Lucy away when she tries to hand me a five. We touch the edges of our glasses together midair and drink.
On our second round, she scoots her chair over near mine and speaks directly into my ear. “That’s Danny Dog.” She nods at the lead singer. “He’s got two different colored eyes, like an Australian shepherd.” She gives me a meaningful look before adding, “He’s got real problems. If you’re a masochist, you’ll fall for him right off—though I don’t recommend it.”
“What about the others?” I ask.
“You could fuck them in a pinch,” she says. “But I don’t recommend that, either.”
I roll my eyes at her. “I mean, what are their names!”
“Oh. Right. Drummer’s Sparky. Total zero. Bill’s the rat-faced punk on bass. Ew. Don’t even get me started.” She lights a cigarette, waves it in the direction of Guitar Man. “Arlan, of course. But you live with him.”
In point of fact, this is the first time I learn his name, and for a moment the strangeness of my abrupt involvement with these people stuns me. Last night is still a blur of drinks and fragments—their matching black eyes, the taste of my own vomit, the sound of bedsprings creaking as I lay spinning in that dark red room. It all seems surreal and unreliable. In the morning, when I woke in a disheveled tangle on their hard black couch, Guitar Man was gone, and there was Lucy, clutching a mug of fresh, hot coffee in one hand, holding out three aspirin in the other. I struggled to keep my head from pounding louder than her words as she urged me again to move in with them. I didn’t really say yes, but I didn’t say no, either. She and I spent the day together. It was hot out; we floated in the lake outside of town, napping in the sunlight and drinking bottles of water to cure ourselves of the grimy film all that gin had left inside us.
“Hey,” she says. “I just got a new lipstick yesterday. Put it on for me, will you?” She takes a tube of lipstick from her pocket and hands it to me.
“What?”
“Put it on me—I can’t do it without a mirror.”
“But—the light’s so low,” I stammer. “Maybe you should do it in the bathroom.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “Put it on me, then I’ll put it on you.”
I uncap it and turn it until it rises from its canister. It’s hard to tell in this light, but it looks like a deep, rich scarlet—the sort of color I would never even consider wearing. I lean over and touch it carefully to her bottom lip. Her mouth has the bee-stung look of a porn star’s. I trace the upper lip now, making sure to stay within the lines. I rub my lips together, demonstrating, and she does the same. I nod my approval.
“Okay,” she says. “Now I’ll do you.”
“No thanks,” I say. “It’s not my color.”
“Come on,” she says. She downs the rest of her drink, leaving a red crescent against the rim of the glass. “A deal’s a deal.”
“No, really,” I say. “I don’t wear makeup.”
“That’s exactly the point,” she says. “You have to start doing the things you don’t do.” She snatches the lipstick from me and holds it close to my face, staring at my mouth.