Right Away Monday, page 31
—Too m-m-many c-cops on the Hill. These days anyhow. No one ever comes out here.
The last of ’is words h’echo round in my ’ead as ’e shuts the h’engine down and pulls the joint from ’is shirt pocket. There’re the lights to a few ’ouses a good ways down through the woods below us. From the time we left Kane’s a fog ’as settled h’over the ’arbour. No panoramic view tonight. My ’and firm on the door ’andle, ready to pull.
When Jim lights a match I’m kinda surprised to see ’ow bloodshot and sunken ’is h’eyes is. ’Ow come I never noticed it before? Prolly cause I never looked ’im in the h’eye till now. He takes a big draw h’on the joint and passes it to me, but my lust for a different ’eadspace is h’after leavin me now. I shakes my ’ead.
—Go on girl look. N-nice and m-m-mellow stuff this is.
’E ’olds the joint there like that and reaches h’under ’is seat with the h’other ’and. ’E comes back h’up with a flask of Smirnoff. ’E takes a slug, h’offers it to me. I’ve got my shoulder pressed to the door, my ’and grippin the ’andle.
—What’s wrong with ya girl? Thought you wanted…
—I changed my mind Jim. I—I need to go now.
His laugh at that, lecherous, a laugh you’d never believe ’im capable h’of. ’E takes h’another slug from the bottle and taps the h’ash from the joint h’onto the floor.
—Need to go. Th-that’s what they all says. N-need to go.
’E pounds h’on the steering wheel with ’is fist and I feels m’self lift h’off the seat for a second. My brain tells my ’and to pull on the ’andle, yank it, wrench the door open. But my ’and is not listening. It’s gone weak and shaky.
—Jim…
—Know my wife?
—Jim?
—Know what I’d like to do to her?
That sickness in ’is h’eyes, the red, raw vacancy. Same sick greed my “father” brought h’into my room for h’almost ten fucken years. Staggering ’ome from darts or men’s ’ockey and h’after a while not h’even bothering to check in h’on Mom first, to let ’er know ’e was ’ome, just ’ead straight for my room. My mother, not two feet from me h’on the h’other side h’of the wall, floatin in a Valium stupor. Or did she know? Did she h’always know?
Shhhhh, shhhhh, sweetheart, it’s h’only me.
That ’and h’over my mouth, h’engine grease and tobacco. That ’ot, sour breath in my nostrils while ’e pummeled ’is load ’ome. ’Ow it was h’always my fault, ’ow I h’asked for it. Nine times, not h’includin the countless pawings and nipple tweaks and fingerings and maulings h’on car rides, movie theatres and h’anywhere h’else ’e got me to ’isself for more than five minutes.
I can see ’is face now, clearly, for the first time since that day in court. Sobbin ’is black little ’eart out, ’umiliated by the h’ordeal of bein dragged to court for allegedly screwin ’is h’own daughter. When h’anyone could fucken h’easily see ’ow screwed h’up in the ’ead young Monica was. Lookit the fucken scars h’on ’er h’arms sure. The black lipstick and black hair and black black black h’outfits. She’s h’off’er ’ead sure.
Nine scars on my wrists. Shallow ones, h’attention wounds they’s called. The ’ole fucken town on ’is side, all ’is ’ockey buddies in court, some h’even cryin along with ’im. And didnt ’e forgive me then, right h’in fronta h’everyone, like the saint that ’e was. And my h’own mother, shakin ’er ’ead and ’olding his ’and. The fucken ’owls and sobs h’out of ’er when ’e was found not guilty.
And now that same sick, bottomless, sallow h’indifference in Jim McNaughton’s sagging, bloodshot h’eyes.
—Kn-know what I’d like to do to her? See her k-killed dead.
I pulls the ’andle and the car door falls h’open. I h’almost rolls h’onto the ground h’outside the Jeep. Jim’s claw h’on my leg.
—Monica?
’E’s h’after parkin the Jeep near a steep slope and I loses my footing, slides down h’over the loose gravel h’on my knees. I digs a slice of slate rock h’under the flesh of my knee but I can ’ardly feel it.
—For fuck sakes Monica…
’E comes round the passenger side and I picks h’up a rock ’bout the size h’of my fist. I ’olds it h’over my ’ead and takes h’aim. Will I kill ’im?
—Stay the fuck clear from me you sick bastard. I’ll split your face h’open!
He staggers backwards and leans h’against his Jeep and giggles.
—Jesus girl, it’s only me…
I lets fly with the rock. Jim ducks and the passenger window shatters.
—Jesus Christ woman! Are you off your head?
I turns and darts down through the woods towards the distant glow of a porch light.
—Monica?
Branches lashin at my h’eyes. There’s the lump in my throat, the ’eat, the pressure and I wish I could cry, I wish I could just h’explode. But I knows I cant. There’s a limp, a pain shootin from my knee to my ’ip, my h’ankle weakening with h’every stride. The porch lights not gettin no closer, the woods deepening, darkening. I wonder how Clayton really did get ’is limp.
I dont see the drop till it’s too late to stop m’self. The h’earth gives way beneath me, the tumble of loose rock and sod and sunbaked topsoil. Total darkness, just the sensation of falling forward. I reaches out blind for something to catch ’old of to lessen the h’impact of my comin fall.
There’s a deafening crack when my ’ead ’its. But I’m not too bad. I’m perfectly still. My leg seems like it shouldnt be h’able to go that way though. My ’eart is beatin. Feels like someone is sittin h’on my back, this weight h’on my spine. But there’s no pain. Something warm trickles down my neck h’inside my shirt and I ’ear my mother’s voice:
—Yay! Good girl…
I’m h’in the bathtub. She pours a bowl of water h’over my ’ead to wash the shampoo from my ’air. So warm. Calm. Safe. The plug for the tub ’as a chain with a yellow duck attached, bobbin in front of me, the h’eyes of the duck worn away.
The image fades, I reaches for it, tries to ’old it for a while. Cant keep it.
My body is burnin, itchy. I should ’ave brought my sweater.
—M-M-Monica?
Where’s that voice comin from? Monica?
A h’engine starts. Familiar. Wheels crunchin h’on gravel.
No one ever comes out here.
Moonlight. I’m in a clearing. Something ’bout fog.
I tries not to blink, it feels too ’eavy and it’s too ’ard to get my h’eyes back h’open, too ’ard too focus. Something moving next to my ’ead, nuzzling into a rotted h’old condom. Scorpion thing. H’earwig. Something? Devil’s coach horse! Right. The type of creature what Satan would deploy to drag ’is wagon ’ome h’after a long night of soul searching. Poor little guy, just wants to settle down and nest. I tries to breathe some ’ot h’air next to ’im. Breathin is ’ard. ’E raises ’is little pincers in warning. ’Ow very h’arrogant, ’ow ridiculous. I feels like laughin, but my face dont move and I ’ears no sound, like that part of my brain that would ’ave liked to laugh shut down years h’ago.
The rock cold and wet next to my cheek and I suddenly sees m’self, a powerful and lucid h’image of m’self, of what I must look like from h’above, from the sky h’overlookin the ’arbour—a woman down, fallen, broken in the woods.
What a perfect picture that would make.
29. Shitting on Your Own Doorstep
Monica. Dead. Prostituting herself up near Dead Man’s Pond. Imagine. Just think about it for a second. Her body starting to rot. Sweet Jesus. I barely knew her. The night she slipped me and Clayton the JD. Was that the last time I saw her? I try to remember the last thing I heard her say. Her last words. In my presence anyhow. I’m hoping it’ll come to me, and that it’ll be something worthwhile, maybe even insightful or…I dont know, sacred. But that’s never the way. Imagine though, lying up there in the woods rotting away while we’re all out knocking around town pouring beer down our throats.
The bar is full, but no one seems to be paying too much mind to the news. It’s just another Saturday in the city. I feel like jumping up on my barstool and demanding a moment of silence. I’d need a few more drinks for that though, and then it’d only come out wrong. Jim McNaughton seems to be the only one either bit upset over the whole thing. He’s been over in the corner bawling his face off for the past half hour, chain smoking and drinking the straight Dock. I should smack him one, cause I can see right through it. That’s the way some people are, they latches onto other people’s tragedies and misfortunes so they can have a good bawl over their own fucked-up situation. Maybe.
The cops were talking to Mike Quinn. He went up and cleared out this room Monica was renting above some whorehouse. Imagine. He’s apparently gonna pay for her funeral too. She’s already after being shipped home to B——, getting buried right next to her father I heard. They says he took a stroke or something when he got the news. Imagine. And prostituting? I mean, we all knew she was hard up for money, to go robbing the bar last month, but hooking? Must be the crack. Poor girl.
Clayton hasnt shown his face yet. I’m pretty sure he slept with Monica last year sometime. He said he did. He was cruel with her too, that night she quit the Hatchet and came upstairs. He was loaded, liquored up and saucy. She gave us the bottle we were drinking out of. And she was just wanting…I dont know.
Silas Lawlor is nowhere to be seen, bastard. Fired her so’s he could surround himself with all his little queenie-boys. He’ll get his.
I met Keith on his way out when I was coming in. I think him and Monica had a thing on the go for a while there. He was head to toe in black leather, had a bottle of Jim Beam his hand and his eyes were red and puffy, his nose swollen up. I havent seen him take a drink since I moved to Town. He’s supposed to be after giving it all up. He stopped when he saw me, I guess maybe because we knew each other years ago. Sometimes I feels so far away from home, from who I am and who I was, even though I’m only an hour’s drive away from the Shore. But we gets lost out here in the world. I knew he needed something from me. I stuck out my hand.
—Keith. Sorry. Sorry you lost your friend.
—Thanks Brent.
And he walked away then, kicked a beer bottle into the street and it shattered off a parked car. I could tell that he was going off somewhere and getting fucked right up, that he’d probably end up in the lockup or back in the mental. Isnt it funny that he said “thanks”? Thanks for what? My sorrow? Thanks for shaking my hand. Thank you for being sorry.
I couldnt finish my beer at the bar. So sick to death of beer. I tossed some change into the tip jar and went to go find Clayton, although I wasnt much in the mood for him either. I wont be around the apartment much longer. Gotta straighten myself up now. I’m gonna have to tell him, eventually, my news. He’ll be cracked. But Christ, we cant live like this forever can we? Look what happened to Monica.
I turn the corner into the alley and Clayton is there sitting on a pedal bike. That Charlene missus, I think she’s into the hard stuff, she’s whispering something in his ear and then gives him a little peck on the cheek and stumbles past me without saying hello. What a fucking hum of sweat and, and…something else off her. Jesus, I suppose he’s not screwing her? God knows what he’ll catch off her. He’s back-on to me. I could just walk away without letting him know I’m here. I should. He revs up the handle grip on the bike like it was a motorcycle, makes the sound and everything. The bike looks like a good one too. I’ve seen it left in the alley before, propped against the murals, never a lock on it. I can tell by the way his head rolls around, how loose his neck is, that he’s hammered. If he mentions Isadora I’ll hit him, I will. She’s not coming back Clayton, she’s gone, it’s not the end of the world, but hurry up and kill yourself if that’s what you need to do.
I mean, I got a nice little young one now that I’ve been knocking around with over the past few weeks, but I’ll be good and goddamned if I let her get under my skin enough to make me want to die. Besides, I’ll be heading off in a few months anyhow, so I cant let it get too out of hand. Clayton’s gonna be vicious when I tell him.
—Hey Clayton.
He lets his head fall back in the direction of my voice and then turns away again.
—Fuckin…look who it is. We’ll hafta slaughter a cow, or something. Slaughter something…
—Hear about Monica?
—Yeah. Well. That’s it.
That’s it. I suppose he’s right. But still, I feel like smashing his nose in, the way he dismisses it. All the nights upstairs with his big speeches about how fragile life is and how short our time is and the tears in his eyes when he’s getting on about how in a hundred years none of us are gonna be around and there’ll be no one to remember who we really are or were. And now Monica, his drinking buddy, his friend, his co-worker who he apparently slept with one time—and he cant face up to it. He wont. It’s not in him. He cant see past his own line of vision, like nothing exists outside his own head.
—Whose bike Clay?
—Wanna buy it?
—Who owns it?
—I fuckin owns it. I’m the one on it sure. Right?
I suppose he has a point there too.
—Wanna go up the road for a coffee or something?
I knew it was a stupid thing to ask before it was even out of my mouth. Stupid thing to ask Clayton anyhow. But I cant face the apartment, because I dont want to get in a situation with him where he can break down, and I dont want to go to a bar. I’m sick of it. All of it. Clayton looks at me like I’ve got something growing out the side of my head, then he busts out laughing, his roars echoing up through the alley and bouncing back and forth between the two buildings. He says the word “coffee,” over and over again, like I just told him the punchline to the funniest joke on the planet and he’s trying to get it right for when he wants to pass it along to someone else. He falls off the bike and lets it drop to the ground.
—Jesus, Clayton. That’s someone’s bike you know.
And I feels like such a shit again, cause the last time we were on the go was the night we ran across the tops of all the parked cars on Bond Street, stopping sometimes and jumping big dents into the roofs. And I did the most damage too, where he’s got the bad foot. I even kicked out a window and took a bunch of CDs out of the last car and set off an alarm. Tossed the CDs like Frisbees down over the rooftops of Victoria Street. Now here I am giving out to him about knocking over a pedal bike? He stands it upright, still giddy over the coffee thing and says:
—Wanna see something?
—What?
—Wait right here.
He hooks the bike up under his arm and staggers around the corner up over the iron steps to the apartment. I stand there, looking around to make sure no one is handy. A couple of minutes pass by and then he comes out onto the back roof of the apartment with the front wheel of the bike rested on the edge. He shouts down at me:
—Heads up!
Before I can think to talk him out of it he sends the bike flying off the roof down into the mouth of the alley. That’s a good fifty- or sixty-foot drop, easy. Earlier in the summer we used to climb the fire escape with our beer and sit up on the top roof, the very top, and drink and smoke. I brought the guitar up a few times too. Finish our beer and drill the empties way down onto Water Street and listen for people cursing or tires screeching. Wonder we never killed nobody. Wonder we werent locked up. I threw a floor-model TV off our back roof one time too, trying to impress a young one. How retarded was I getting on at all? I cant believe I went along with it all for as long as I did. But I suppose we all have to make these kinds of stopovers. And then there was the night we were going to try and make the jump over to the other rooftop. From up there it looks possible, but now that I get a good look from the ground I can see that we would have been killed. Or I would have been killed, I should say. I remember being so determined to make the jump, Clayton tormenting me, leaning out over the side saying how easy it was and that if he had two good legs he’d do it no sweat.
I watch the bike make its slow-motion plummet to the concrete below. The handlebars hook in the iron railing of our front steps and it does a little flip before landing hard on the back wheel, which explodes, the rim a sudden twisted and snarled mess and the brake cables snapping like bits of rotten string. Rotten. Monica. Rotting. I peek out around the corner towards the Hatchet, but no one seems to have heard anything. I look up at the window of the Closet but there’s no one about. Boot it now, up over the steps into the apartment before anyone sees me. Lock the doors behind me and wait it out. I know bloody well there’s going to be a sing-out over this.
Clayton’s already hauled a blanket around himself and curled up on the big red couch, the only thing left in the whole place that seems to have been spared his childish, destructive rampages since Isadora left. He even busted my stereo in half. I kick a bottle across the room. He snaps out of his haze and pokes his head up.
—Hey…look who it is…slaughter…
And then he’s out again. I go through to my room and pack a few things, then I lie down on the sweaty mattress and make a mental list of all the things I’ll have to do over the next few weeks. Passport, that’s the biggest thing. And I’ll need to put a few bucks away. I was thinking I might need to get stuff put in storage, but when I take stock of what I got, I’m sure I’ll pretty much be able to carry everything with me.
The rent is behind and, technically, I still live here. Maybe I’ll clear it up myself, a little consolation gift for Clayton, cause God only knows he’ll need it. I lay there, thinking about how to break all it to him, and after a while the sound of his drunken snores lull me off to sleep too.
