Old Ghosts, page 4
“Del,” I said.
Her hooded eyes flickered, circled their way around me, looking for a crack. “Yeah?”
“Why are you here?”
“What did Chance tell you?”
“He wanted to turn Baltimore into Endor.”
“Still hasn’t let that go, has he?” She took a long inhale, tipped her head back and blew tiny puffs into the air. “He’s a business man. The housing market down here—”
I grabbed her wrists, bones twisting beneath my fingers. Her face broadcasted shock, but breath fell heavy from her nose, shuddering like when we used to make out. I could hear my teeth squeak as they ground against each other. The tang of saltwater and fumes in the air. She pressed her body against mine.
“I don’t want any part of your fucking drugs.” I tasted the words, felt every angle and corner. “Do not. Bring that shit. Around. My. Family.”
And somewhere in the remote crevices of my skull, where shadows were liquid and silverfish burrowed, where ghosts wailed, and hope was forbidden, we were already crushed against the side of a building, ravaging each other’s body.
“Is that what that is? You knocked up some dumb cunt trying to make a happy family, like getting puked on by some baby will erase everything you did and let you live like some fucking sitcom dad? And with Luz working in a community center? Jesus Shitting Christ, Beto, how generic can you be?”
I raised back my hand, bit down on my fist until the sensation passed. She only smiled. “You don’t ever put my wife’s name in your mouth, understand?”
“You haven’t changed, Beto. You’re the same as when you left.” She clucked her tongue. “You’ve always been and always will be one of us.”
“Things are different now,” I said, and most of me believed it. “I don’t need what you have any more. I don’t want it. And I don’t want you coming around trying to fuck up the one good thing I’ve got going just because you two are bored.”
“Fuck up what you’ve got?” She stepped toward me, her face inches away, close enough that I could see the makeup covering pores on her cheeks. “What if we came here just because we missed you?”
I snatched her cigarette and took a drag to disguise my trembling hands, instantly wanting to vomit on her shoes. Instead, I turned and kept walking, her heels clicking behind me. I tried to swallow but my throat wouldn’t work. I tried to disappear, but my heart wouldn’t stop. Luz rolled along my tongue.
Del’s body radiated heat next to mine. It made the air shimmer like the seconds before an explosion. Her hand brushed mine and, in my head, I pulled away. On the sidewalk, though, it brushed mine again. She laughed, voice undulating and unspooling down the street like a ribbon made of dried skin. I tried to ignore her, focus on the cadence of my footsteps, the frequency of the sidewalk cracks, but the laughing enveloped my head and I had to look up.
“You missed us too,” she said. “You want it to be like before. You’re practically broadcasting it.”
She smiled and winked, then laid her hands on my chest and I tumbled into the street.
The car’s hood coolly kissed the side of my face. If the sides of the street hadn’t been full, if the guy hadn’t been prowling the neighborhoods looking for an empty space, if the car hadn’t been creeping along, I would’ve been a splatter mark for some work-release inmate to remove. I only bounced off the guy’s fender and had an empty beer bottle thrown at me. Delilah merely smiled on the sidewalk, as if waiting for her prom date.
“What the fuck was that?” I could feel the vein throbbing in my neck, but my voice sounded shrill.
She knitted her fingers together. “I thought we just had a moment.”
“A moment? You fucking psychopath!”
Her face drooped, a puppy reprimanded for bringing in a dead bird as a gift. “I wasn’t being mean.”
“You pushed me into a fucking car!”
“Jesus, Beto. When did you become such a faggot?”
I opened my mouth, closed it. I bit my tongue, worried that the grotesqueness of the whole scene would cause me to laugh and I’d never be able to stop.
“You don’t have to be such a dick,” she said. “I was just flirting with you.”
Fingers splayed, I shoved my hand an inch from her eyes. “You see this. I am fucking married. I have a wife.”
She cinched my fingers between hers, pressed her face to mine. “What if I cut off that finger?” Onion and potato rode on her breath, flecks of emerald in her eyes. “Would you still have that boring-ass wife? Would you fuck me then?”
“Jesus, Del.” I stepped back, shook my hand from hers. “You are certifiable.”
“What the fuck ever.” A glob of spit landed on my boot. “I need to take care of something.” She whirled around and stomped down the street. My blood was bleach and head echoed with a thousand hammers falling yet I still had to consciously tell myself not to watch her as she walked away. I stood in the middle of the sidewalk, as if marooned. After a minute, I turned on my heels and headed the other way, fished my phone from my pocket as I walked.
Luz picked up on the fifth ring, thankfully; I was terrified of voicemail. I ducked into the alcove of an abandoned store to hear her better.
“Hola, bonita.”
“What’s up?”
“I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Scratching in the background, though I wasn’t completely sure it wasn’t in my head.
“You okay?”
“Sure.”
“You don’t sound okay.” I laid my forehead against the window of the store, feeling the halo of condensation form on the cold glass.
“Did you sign up for a mailing list or anything?”
“Not that I know of.”
“You sure?” Her voice had a frozen edge I hadn’t heard before.
“I think I’d remember.” I pulled the phone from my ear when she exhaled. Across the street, a little boy sat alone on a park bench with half an orange in each hand, vainly trying to put them back together.
“Well, I’ve gotten three spam calls about refinancing our house.”
“What house?”
“Exactly. I just…” The ice began to disintegrate, crackle, icicles dripping down her cheeks. “I feel like the universe is taunting us, you know? I mean, first the toilet, then the sink leaking, and with the exercises not working and I’m the only person who gives a shit about Hortencia or any of the kids and…” Breathy sobs punctuated her over-reactions. I caressed the mouthpiece, hoping she might feel it.
“It’ll be fine, honey. Don’t worry.” I waited for the long shudder that meant the tears were drying. “How about I come home early and make us dinner and we can write down everything that’s bothering you, so you don’t have to think about it anymore?” I learned that trick from her; she was good. If only I’d learned it earlier.
Okay, eked from her lips.
“I’ll see you in a little bit. I love you.”
“Te amo tantísimo, Beto. So much.”
We said goodbye and hung up. The condensation halo had grown too large. A single drip cut through the middle of my face.
I was convinced I was clairvoyant.
The whole walk back to the job, I counted my steps. To keep things ordered. To keep my brain occupied. I rounded the corner. Chance leaned against Dwaine’s truck, hat tipped back on his head, sipping coffee from a Dunkin Donuts cup. At least he’d finally found one. He spoke to a man whose back faced me. Over the man’s shoulder, he caught a glimpse of me, leaned in and spoke quickly, then patted the man’s shoulder. He hurried away, but I caught his profile. Pale, unhealthy skin. Like caulk.
Chance gave a broad smile as I approached, extended his arms to welcome me. On the lapel of his suit, a handprint filled with dust.
“Beto. How goes it?”
I took his cup and sipped from it, coughed after I swallowed the burn of whiskey. With squinted eyes, I said, “A little early, isn’t it?”
“It’s already three-thirty. Baltimore’s supposed to be a drinking town, right?” He laughed and cupped his arm around me, squeezed my shoulders.
Shit.
“What’s wrong?” I said, more out of a Boston reflex than actually wanting to know.
He kicked a pebble, a shard of glass. In a window upstairs, I saw Dwaine. Watching us. He cocked his head, inquisitive.
“Chance, I know you. Something isn’t right.”
He took a long drink from his cup and pulled me forward. “Actually, brother.”
Chapter 5
Faux-wood paneling clung to the walls of the diner; Masonite tables, a variation on the theme of Depression-era Oklahoma, and though I’d never set foot on the bare concrete floor the hushed vertigo of memory swirled around me. The sunlight died somewhere between the grease covering the windows and cigarette smoke replacing oxygen. That they didn’t give a flying fuck about the smoking ban enacted years before should’ve been enough of a hint that I shouldn’t have been here. Time had stolen half the letters on the menu board, but I gathered it didn’t really matter anyway. Chance said coffee and extended two fingers. I resisted the urge to wipe the bench before I sat.
He knitted his fingers together, like kneeling on a pew, like his sister did, and rested his wrists on the table’s edge. The top lay empty but for a bowl of sugar cubes. An ant crawled across the top. I listened to breath roll in and out of my mouth, to blood crashing inside my skull, hoping that if I ignored the taste of rust filling my throat, whatever fucked up thing inevitably about to happen might be avoided.
I swallowed.
“Beto, I need your help.”
Fuck.
I lit one of his cigarettes, felt my lungs grow heavy as if I’d swallowed all of the air in the diner. His lips rose in a smirk. “I don’t have much money, but I might be able to do a side job,” I said.
He pulled his head away from me. “What?”
“To make some money. So, you can borrow it.”
“Christ, I don’t need money.” He adjusted the lapels of his jacket, flicking away a piece of sawdust. “Do I look like I need money from you?”
He held up a finger to be quiet. The waiter dropped two chipped porcelain cups on the table, set a pot of coffee next to them and said something to Chance. I couldn’t understand the exchange, though if it was because they mumbled or because they were speaking Russian, I didn’t know. Either way, my hand found its way to my hip for the phantom gun I’d never carried but felt like I should’ve had and how I ever thought this was a smart idea was beyond me. Chance barked something at the waiter and he stepped away. The interior of the café tilted, sliding into the abyss. Maybe it was just in my head.
“Do I really look like I need money?”
“No more than usual.”
The cigarette made everything shimmer along the edges but holding it between my fingers, staring across the table through slitted eyes, dictating the terms to which business would be conducted, gave me in equal parts the feeling of power and control and nausea. Cigarettes. Acidic coffee. Chance. Old habits die hard, dragging you with them.
“Why would you say that?” He looked genuinely offended.
“Well, you said you needed help, and I’m broke, and Luz’s fully-functioning uterus isn’t the reason we’re childless at the moment, though I’ll be fucked in the ear of you think I’ll let you be a surrogate for us—”
“Beto—”
“And the only other reason you’d bring me to a diner that’s obviously a cover is to make a proposition regarding dealing, a.k.a. the thing about which I’ve explicitly told you numerous times to go fuck yourself.” I sipped my coffee. It’d been sitting on the burner too long. “I’m out and I’m done and I’m not going back. Is that clear enough?”
“We need someone that we can trust.” His expression was granite, as if I was a mannequin that had been discarded in his booth. The waiter wiped the main counter, staring at us from the top of his eyes.
“What the fuck did I just say?”
He moved his palms towards the table top, pushed lower your fucking voice through his teeth.
“Well what the fuck, Chance? You and your sister exchange notes on how to piss me off? You’re like the Jedi mind-trick of assholes.”
“We needed someone that we could trust, and you were the first person we thought of.”
“How many times have—”
“Calm down—”
“Just give me the courtesy of fucking off and leaving—”
Our voices, our threats, weaving together like some obscene heirloom tapestry passed from one generation of cannibals to the next. His fists on the table made coffee slosh out of our cups. Wiping the same spot on the counter, the waiter continued to stare at us.
“You—” his eyes becoming a web of scarlet threads, straining to keep his voice under control, “—You. Fucking. Owe me. Beto.”
“I owe you?” I think I actually snorted. “I owe you.” I bit back a laugh before it touched my lips. Shaking my head, I lifted the bottom of my shirt, showed him the wormhole the knife left when it exited my stomach. “I think we’re square on that.”
He ran his fingers over his mustache and laid his hat on the table, smiling like a dueler who just heard the other gun click. “No, son. That was for speaking out of turn just so you could make yourself look bigger. That was just business. This whole situation? This is for the fallout.”
He snapped at the waiter, pointed towards one of the windows. The waiter didn’t avert his eyes.
“That little setup you have,” he continued, “it’s nice. Romantic. Like all those stupid fucking movies you used to watch.” I started to protest but he cut me off. “But that is exactly what it is: a movie. Actors on a set. Maybe they don’t all know they’re actors, but it’s all make-believe. You weren’t made for that life, Beto. You’re one of us.”
I pushed words out between my teeth. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I don’t?” Chance placed his thumbs together, raised the tattoos to my eyes.
“Get your hands out of my face before I break them.” My voice came out as little more than a squeak.
“You ever seen these?”
I sipped my coffee, shook my head.
“You know that in prison, a guitar string and a Bic pen are a tattoo machine? That in prison, fresh piss is considered safe to sterilize with?”
I shrugged.
“You know how many stitches it takes to sew an adult male’s asshole back to its normal size?”
I stared directly into his pupils, didn’t blink.
“Too fucking many. Again, we need someone we can trust.” He took a gulp of hot coffee and laid a hand on mine. “We need family.”
“Family,” I said, my stomach boiling, caustic bubbles creeping up my throat. “I have a family now. I’m not doing this.”
He smirked that smirk he knew always burrowed beneath my skin. “That’s your call, but it’d be a shame if Luz ever found out about your past.”
His eyes bulged slightly, breath caught, and I shuddered and looked down and saw my hand clamped tight against his throat. “You will not go near her.”
He choked out, “You know I will if you don’t come with us.”
The diner contracted, thick, smoky air pressing against my skin. Threads of red veins spread through his eyes as his oxygen dwindled. Still, his expression didn’t change. He will do it, I realized. He will absolutely blow up my life if I don’t do this. This wasn’t love, despite his every utterance. It was pure manipulation.
I held tight for a beat longer then let go of his throat, knit my fingers together, and nodded. “Okay,” I whispered. “Okay.”
A burst of guttural exclamations mixed with the echo of boots as the waiter stomped to our table, waving his index finger at Chance like he was directing traffic. Chance swallowed, regaining his breath, regarding the man with little more than a blink. Still, the waiter continued to yell. It sounded accusatory. Another man in the far corner watched the scene deteriorate, shaking his head. He scratched his face with what looked like a steel claw.
The waiter towered over Chance, who uttered a few phrases between sips of coffee. The waiter leaned down to our level, yelling in Chance’s face, slamming a pot of coffee on the table. I was shocked it didn’t break. Chance ground his teeth together. He and Delilah always did that to calm themselves, but it never really worked and this too would end poorly.
It happened before I saw it happen. The waiter thumped his hand on Chance’s shoulder, finger wagging in his face. In one fluid motion, Chance set down his coffee cup, wrapped his fingers around the pot of hot coffee, and shattered it against the waiter’s face. Glass and blood glittered like crystalline confetti. Steaming liquid covered the floor, a Rorschach slash and all I could see was horror. The waiter stumbled back, blood streaming from his forehead. Chance looked at his hand, removed a shard of glass, said, “I shouldn’t have done that.”
He dug in his pocket, dropped two crumpled bills on the table and grabbed my arm. We left in such a rush that he forgot his hat.
One hundred-twenty dollars for two cups of shitty coffee.
The three of us, we grew up in good houses. Working-class, comfortable. There wasn’t much we wanted, nothing we needed. Their dad worked for the state, roads or highways or something. Their mom was a secretary at a law firm. She wore sequined shirts and hair pieces that looked exotic but were really bought from knockoff vendors in Jamaica Plains. My parents were the same. Equally average jobs, equally anonymous.
We re-enacted Star Wars in their backyard, built fortresses with couch cushions. We poked dead animals with sticks, trying to scare each other, and played hockey on the frozen streets of winter.
And with each step of my walk home to my beautiful wife, every time my foot slapped the concrete, every gust of wind that bit at my ears like metal-toothed mice, I tried to understand why I allowed myself to be swept along by the current of Miller, why I deemed it okay to shatter the promise I made to myself when I met Luz, why I allowed them to talk to me in the first place, why Chance was now decorated with Russian prison tattoos and fluent in the language.
