Phone ringing. God, I hate phone ringing. Consciousness fought sleep for ten or twelve jolts, almost lost, then floated to the surface. I moaned and knocked the phone off the nightstand onto the floor. The ringing died; a tiny voice came from under the bed.
“Billy. Billy G. goddammit. I know you’re in there. It’s important, Billy. Answer the damn phone.”
Billy? Some nuisances are easier dealt with than ignored. I slid half off the bed so my head hung down near the voice. Blood swept into my ears and the headache of a lifetime roared into the backs of my eyes.
“Huh?”
“Put Billy G Tanker on the phone. It’s an emergency.”
“No Billy here. I’m sleep.” I moved to hang up.
“He must be in there. We all saw him go in.”
“No Billy.”
“Listen, lady, this isn’t funny.”
Twisting my head, I saw yellow translucent shapes swimming around an unfamiliar room. No Billy in sight. My tongue tasted like old tinfoil. My skin stunk. When I raised myself back to bed level, the yellow spots turned black.
Bedroom was wrong. Walls puke green instead of logs. No cats. Loren should be making coffee. Jesus, my crotch hurt.
A body next to me rolled over with its mouth open.
Self-revulsion tidal-waved through my chest. The broken vacuum, Loren’s face when I hit him, the asphalt highway to Rock Springs, a marching storm, Mickey and Cassie on the phone, scotch, quarts of scotch—the bad dream was true.
I closed my eyes in hopes it would go away. “Jesus, what did I do this time?”
The voice on the phone begged, “Please, this is an emergency. Put Billy G on.”
The body was still there when my eyes opened. It chewed and mumbled in its sleep. Must be Billy G. I wondered where I got him. Or why. He was kind of cute, in a cleft-chin sort of way, but what a baby face. He couldn’t be young as he looked, my crotch hurt too much for that, but this Billy G was definitely a young one. Reminded me of a boyfriend Cassie or Connie had in the eighth grade. Son of a pawing psychoanalyst.
I shook the hairy arm draped over his forehead. “Are you Billy G?”
Both eyes popped open, staring at the ceiling. Green eyes, dazed green eyes.
“Phone’s for you,” I said.
“Phone?”
“Telephone.”
Naked, I slid from the bed into the bathroom. There’s no place like a bathroom for staring in the mirror and hating yourself in the morning. Weight on the palms of my hands, I leaned over the sink and looked at the slimy woman I’d turned into. Bruise-colored bags wilted under my eyes. Lines cracked from the edge of my mouth to saggy jawbones. My hair looked exhausted.
Yesterday, I lived in a cabin in the mountains, a cabin with a room all my own and a husband who knew what that meant. Today, I’m a hussy.
What would Loren think? What would Daddy think? I knew what Daddy would think. He’d tell Mama I finally reached my potential.
Not that this was the first time I’d ever woken up in the wicked woman position—motel room, dead bottle on the floor, hairy stranger in bed, awful odors. But it was the first time since that night in south Denver with Loren.
“You swore off meaningless one-nighters,” I said to the mirror. “You left Loren yesterday,” the mirror said back.
Hanging my head, I looked down at the dark drain, my hair draping onto the white porcelain of the sink.
Obviously, the situation called for one of two choices: I could wallow in self-hatred for days punishing myself with sugar suicide, or I could sit on the can, take my morning leak, and get on with life. Neither choice changed the past, so after-the-fact regrets seemed pretty much pointless. My eyes lifted back to stare at themselves in the mirror.
“Piss and get on with it.”
I left the bathroom to a full moon shot of Billy G’s backside. His voice came from under the bed. “Can’t find my boot.”
My jeans and shirt lay crumpled beneath a chair. Panties were nowhere in sight. “Your boot’s on the TV.”
Billy G pulled his pants on by hopping up and down on his right foot. “Thorne’s gone crazy in the bar. He’s screaming and shooting out windows.”
“Who’s shooting windows?”
“Thorne Axel. My boss, remember, I told you about him at dinner.”
“Dinner?”
“He owns the Flying Fist. I’ve got to help him.”
Vaguely, I recalled something about a hippie son and a cow-killer daughter. “He’s the one who’s been drunk for two days?”
“Three. Hurry it up, Lana Sue, we’ve got to save him.”
We? I sat in the angular motel chair and shrugged on my shirt. A wild man shooting windows sounded like just the sort of thing I should avoid, another version of Daddy and Loren, but I’ve always been intrigued by men going off the deep end. It couldn’t hurt to go down and add more male dramatics to my memory banks. At the very least, it put off for a while any decisions about returning to Loren or heading for Houston.
• • •
Shattered glass sparkled in the soft darkness of the bar, but it wasn’t from shot-out windows because the bar didn’t have windows. As Billy G and I stood in the entrance, a crack came from the far end of the room and a row of Cutty Sark bottles exploded over the bartender’s head.
A voice boomed from the dark. “Out, slime. All you parasites stay the hell away from me.”
A remarkably thin cowboy knelt behind the first table to our left. Another one had himself snaked in between the barstools and the bar. His hat had fallen off and rolled into the aisle.
“He cut himself, Billy, says he’s gonna die and he’ll shoot anyone tries to stop him.” I recognized the skinny cowboy as the voice on the phone.
“We could rush him when he reloads,” the hatless one said without conviction.
As my eyes grew accustomed to the dark I made out Thorne at the back table by the one-person bandstand. He was smoking a fat cigar that alternately lit bright and dimmed. For every one beat of the cigar, blood spurted twice in a high arc a couple feet over his outstretched left arm. The right hand moved from some kind of pistol to a bottle and back.
I turned to Billy G. “He’s not too close to death. Look at that blood pressure.”
Billy G had gone a cooked-lasagna-noodle color. “What happened?”
The hatless cowboy crammed against the bar wore silver spurs on filthy roach-killer boots and spoke in a natural whine common to men I generally can’t stand. “We drank shots all night, then Thorne went crazy and run off with that forty-five of his’n. We come back he was bleedin’ and wouldn’t let no one near him.”
I swung around to the bartender. He had three-inch sideburns and fuzzy hair that glimmered from his glass shower. “That bleedings got to be stopped or he’ll hurt himself. You got any bar towels?”
The bartender blinked once like an owl.
I shouted at him. “Bar towels, you know, rags to wipe up the mess.”
He looked down at the glass carpet. “You’ll never clean up this mess.”
“Jesus.” I looked at Billy G, but he was just a boy. Probably never even seen any real blood. Neither had I—not cut artery type blood—but somebody had to move or the old man would drain and keel over dead.
I peeled off my shirt and walked into the bar.
Billy G came to life. “Lana Sue, you’re naked.”
I wasn’t naked, but I was topless and that fact seemed to confuse Thorne. He pointed the pistol at my belly, then set the gun down long enough for a quick suck on the bottle, then pointed the pistol at my belly again.
“One more step and I’ll blow your tits off.”
“Bullshit.” The key in a showdown is self-confidence. Make the other guy think you aren’t scared silly. I walked right up, sat in the center of the blood spray, and pressed my shirt into the slash. He’d gone deep and made a mess out of the crook of his arm. On the table next to a half fifth of Ten High lay what looked like a set of brass knuckles with a razor blade on the back and a hook blade coming out the little finger side.
Thorne waved his gun at something behind me and growled, “Get back.” Whoever had followed me got back. Thorne looked at my hands on his arm. “You’re screwing up my death.”
When I shifted, a pump of blood spray got me right up the chest and into my face and mouth. I spit blood on the bandstand.
“Come on, Thorne, you aren’t committing suicide. This is a baby play for attention.”
Thorne put the pistol barrel in his mouth.
“Oh God,” I said, “please don’t.”
He took the pistol out again. “This isn’t what I expected.”
“Me either.”
“Just my luck. I’m killing myself and a beautiful woman with her tits hanging out walks in and saves me. We’ll have to get married now.”
“I’m already married.”
“So am I.”
My shirt was pretty much blood soaked by then. I rewadded it, pulling both sleeves over the flow. “I think you should go to the hospital.”
“No. That’s my crew back there. They’ll think I don’t know how to kill myself.”
I looked up at his face. The eyes were dark with heavy gray flecks, same as his hair and mustache. The skin showed rough brown and lined as if he’d spent his life outdoors. “Get through this as easily as possible,” I said. “In a week you’ll look back and be nothing but embarrassed.”
Thorne didn’t answer. Behind us I heard more and more people pushing through the door with What happened? Who’s that? Why’s she half naked? Without setting down the pistol, Thorne picked up the Ten High and swallowed.
“Mind if I have a poke at that bottle? My nerves are a little ragged this morning and you aren’t helping any.”
He glanced at me. “Suit yourself.”
“I don’t usually drink Ten High. There’s less calories in scotch.” I grabbed the bottle with my right hand and took a swig. My hand shook so the effect wasn’t quite what I’d intended.
My intention was to come on decisive and tough. Not that I felt that way, I felt on the verge of vomit, but suicides are anything but decisive. They waver—I want to die, I want to live, I’m confused—so they’ll generally follow any order they’re given. I figured between my tough act and boobs, I’d shock the old man into cooperation.
Thorne kept his tired eyes and the pistol aimed at the crowd behind me. “My wife left,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
“My kids are both spineless, useless brats.”
“I have two daughters myself.”
“Do they hate you?”
“One does. The other sleeps with my old boyfriend.”
“Both my kids hate me. And my wife.”
We each took another drink. I thought the blood might be clotting. Or he might be empty, the red stain had stopped spreading in my shirt. Way off, I heard a siren.
“You ever leave your husband?” Thorne asked.
“Yesterday.”
“Janey and I were married twenty-six years. I worked my tail off to give her what she wanted. I’m rich, did you know that? I’m richer’n shit.”
“Billy told me.”
“Who’s Billy?”
“Billy G, he works for you.”
“Seven or eight Billys work for me.”
The siren stopped out front. Thorne seemed to sag from exhaustion and lack of blood. “I wasted my life,” he said.
“It’s time to go to the hospital now.”
He smiled. It was a tired smile, weak with the lips pressed together, the smile of an unhappy person who still maintained a sense of the silliness of desperation. “Tell you what. I won’t kill myself if you’ll sleep with me tonight.”
“Nope.”
“No?”
“No, I won’t do it.”
“You’d rather see me dead?:
“I’d rather see you alive, but I won’t sleep with you. I don’t save men.”
He thought a minute. “What’s your name?”
“Lana Sue Paul.”
“Will you come to the hospital and talk to me? All I wanted was someone to talk to.”
Why not? “Okay.”
Thorne threw the gun over the bar, breaking some bottles and a mirror. Spectators moved in for the aftermath.
• • •
I won’t be blackmailed into sex ever again.
Ron said I owed it to him because he married me when I was pregnant and the pressures of his career made him nervous.
Mickey said if I didn’t screw him whenever he wanted, he’d just find someone who would.
Worst of all were those fake epileptic fits of Ace’s. I’m still not completely sure they were fake. He claimed frustration triggered a chemical reaction in his medulla oblongata. Hell, I don’t know.
Only Loren never demanded anything from me. He never threatened me with adultery. Never acted little boy hurt or put upon when I wasn’t in the mood. Loren seemed to realize my personal happiness was not solely dependent on him. Factors other than a mate can cause depression or distraction. Why can’t anyone else see that?
Maybe Loren wasn’t so wise, maybe he was thinking about God or something and didn’t notice me enough to get hurt. I don’t like to think so.
One thing for certain. I don’t sleep with anyone who holds suicide over my head as the if-you-don’t. Give in to that one and you’re fair game for every pitiful man on earth.
• • •
First I drove to McDonald’s for Chicken McNuggets and coffee. The girl at the drive-up window played it straight, as if serving bloody ax murderers was part of the training.
When she smiled, silver braces glittered in the sunlight. “Here’s your change, ma’am, have a nice day.”
I held out a gory hand. “Thanks.”
Billy G met me in the emergency waiting room at the hospital. The only other person in sight was a long-haired kid handcuffed to a pastel chair.
“Where’d you get that shirt?” Billy G asked.
“Bartender gave it to me. They sew up Thorne yet?”
“Your tits still show.”
“Blood makes the cotton sticky. You like it?” I held my arms out and turned.
“Looks majestic,” the longhair said. This wasn’t your average scuzball hippie. The kid’s hair hung way down his back, straight and golden blond. When he moved his head, it shimmered and rippled like a clean sheet you snap out a time or two before settling onto a queen-size bed. He even had dimples.
“You get a kick out of flashing your boobs at strangers? Is that it, a born cocktease?”
“Wait a minute.”
“Sit right there, woman, and don’t move. I’ll see what’s happening with Thorne.” Billy G wheeled and stalked away, leaving me too shocked to run hit him.
The arrogance of the little punk. The macho cowboy prickitude. There are women who enjoy being called woman. They think it shows more respect than girl or lady, but every time I’ve heard a man use the word it was in the directive—sit, woman—or possessive—my woman—and nobody directs or possesses Lana Sue Potts Paul.
As I steamed, all primed to lash out at the next male who got in my way, I became aware that the pretty longhair wanted to speak. He leaned as far forward as the cuffs would allow, watching with blue-eyed anticipation.
I stared at him. “What do you want?”
“You seem brought down, sister.” Same tone inflection as Jesus on The Books of the Bible on Cassette Mom listens to during soaps she isn’t interested in. When I didn’t speak, he continued: “The intensity of your vibrations is washing away my inner peace. That’s a lot of self to lay on another soul.”
Why is it the prettiest ones always turn out to be dopes? “Don’t talk to me anymore.”
The boy sat back and considered this a moment. “I respect your stance,” he said, “but I have a major problem and you’re my only means of salvation.”
Another one. Everywhere I turn, some man is calling me his means of salvation. “Do I look like a saint?” I held out bloody hands. “Huh? I left my husband yesterday and let an asshole rut on me all night and then a man I never even met spurts blood in my mouth. I don’t have any panties, my vacuum’s broke, I have a hangover that would kill a bull. I ate at McDonald’s for breakfast. I’m in no mood to be the salvation for some frybrain from a time capsule. No one talks like you, buddy. Your type got jobs ten years ago.”
Words stampeded from my mouth. In ninety seconds of continuous blather, I told the hippie about Loren’s search for God, Cassie running off with Mickey, my failure as a singer in Nashville, sugar, Roxanne, Daddy’s saffron obsession, Connie’s hatred, my problem with orgasms and strangers. I ended with Loren’s boy and how guilty I felt for replacing his first wife. I’d never told anybody that one before.
Talk about your captive audience. I felt so bad for this poor handcuffed love child that, out of breath, I ended with, “Okay, what can I do for you?”
He smiled like an angel. “I wasn’t certain you’d stop in time. If you make haste, you can save me from many years in prison.”
With his looks, he’d be dead in two weeks of prison. “Tell me what to do.”
The hippie spoke quickly. “These peace officers heavied out on me in the parking lot at the Minit Stop. They threatened a body search, so I swallowed an unopened pack of Freedent sugarless gum. They’re out finding a doctor and a stomach pump.”
“Why swallow all that gum?”
“I hoped to postpone the search. There’s an ounce of cocala in my back pocket.”
I never heard anyone say that before. “Cocaine?”
“The Andes call it cocala. I prefer the Indian word. Cocaine sounds unhealthy—like Coca-Cola.”
“How’re you going to dump the coke with your hands cuffed?”
“I prayed to Lord Caitanya that you might take it.”
This was interesting. “They’d put me in jail.”
“Why should anyone suspect you?” Other than a quart of blood down my front, I looked law-abiding. “Please, you’ll be saving me twenty to fifty years of imprisonment.”
“What do I do with an ounce of coke?” A stupid question, I admit.
“Snort it, flush it, sell it, I don’t care. Just hurry, I mean, make haste.”
So I did. I walked over, reached into the pretty hippie’s back pocket, pulled out a plastic Baggie full of sparkly white stuff, and stuck it into my front pocket. With time to spare. Five minutes later when a policeman came to lead him away, I sat on the other side of the room, thumbing through a copy of Country Living.
As he stood, the longhair looked at me and smiled like an angel again. “Peace be with you, sister. We shall meet once more in the astral.”
“Sure.”
• • •
Billy G, Thorne, and the skinny cowboy shuffled into the waiting room. Thorne’s left arm bulged from bandages and his face looked a bad gray—like when you put milk in old coffee.
The skinny cowboy grinned at my tits. “Twenty-one stitches and two pints of the red stuff. He’s good as new.”
“No, I’m not,” Thorne said. “I’m tired. Killing yourself is hard work.”
I stood. “They give you tranquilizers?”
“A few, but I’m not supposed to take them till I sober up.”
“How do you feel?”
“Sober.”
Billy G spoke: “Lana Sue, can’t you find another shirt?”
I said, “Shut up.”
Thorne glanced from me to Billy, but he didn’t say anything; I guess he was too worn out from his own melodrama to worry much about ours. “You have a car here?” he asked me.
“Out front.”
“Billy, drive my truck back to the ranch. I’ll ride with Mrs. Paul.” Thorne moved past me toward the door.
I said, “But—”
Billy G said, “But—”
Thorne stopped shuffling and turned on us. “Move it, I don’t have all day.”
Don’t have all day struck me as odd words to come from a man who’d just tried to die.
• • •
That’s how I found myself miles from anywhere I’d ever heard of, neck deep in a Cadillac-sized bathtub, being attended by an honest-to-God live-in maid. In Houston, our maid rode the bus over from the ghetto. She’d have walked off the job if I ever ordered her to draw a bath.
Maria was either amazingly tactful or preinformed. Had my boss come home wearing ten pounds of bandages and helped by a blood-caked stranger, I would have asked questions.
All Maria said was “Would you care for a bath, ma’am?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Thorne stood at the bottom of a wide hardwood staircase. He nodded a couple of times, focusing on me for the first time since we left the hospital. “See if any of Janey’s clothes fit her, Maria. There’s a closetful of old stuff from before the kids were born somewhere.”
“I know just where to find them,” Maria said.
Thorne started up the stairs. “I imagine she’s hungry too. Find something to feed her.”
“Will that be all?”
“You might fix me a drink.” Without speaking to me, Thorne clomped up the stairs.
I held out my hand to Maria. “I’m Lana Sue.”
“I know.” Maria was short, under five feet, but she wasn’t misproportioned like a dwarf or a midget, and her posture made me feel like a slouch. She led me into this bathroom straight out of a steaming ABC miniseries.
“You shouldn’t treat Thorne like you’re a slave and he’s Genghis Khan,” I said.
“Mr. Axel is my boss.”
“He’ll forget that if you don’t remind him.”
She laughed, high like a starling. “Why would I want Thorne to forget he’s my boss?”
“Be a woman instead of a servant. He’ll wonder what you want.”
That’s my method. Five minutes in the house and I was restraining the maid and, in my head, throwing out the stuffed animals on the walls and retiling the John floor. It was some John too. Sinks and mirrors and lights, little stools so you could poke at your face without standing up. The bathtub was a round, ceramic thing with steps and a handrail. It had a phone and a tape deck and a television with a VCR on top and a round mirror on the ceiling.
A dial between the tap and a cigarette lighter said I was soaking at 101 degrees Fahrenheit. Nice of someone to let me know. The bottom of the tub contoured itself around my back and neck, soothing away the killer hangover.
Maria brought in some clothes, a plaid shirt large enough for a logger and some green work pants with pockets down to the knees. “Do you mind eating supper in the kitchen?” Maria asked. “Mr. Axel isn’t having any and on Sundays we don’t make much fuss.”
“Sunday?”
“Today is Sunday.”
Christ, Loren was wearing off on me. I never forgot the day until he came along. If I’d stayed with him much longer, he’d have me right alongside, hanging out with dead writers and talking to the moon. Snuggling deeper into the tub, I raised the temperature to 103 and punched the whirlpool button.
“This is some bathroom,” I said to Maria. “I’m a John connoisseur and this is the fanciest yet. My mom would go nuts in here.”
Maria held up my shirt, eyeing the bloody stain. She was dark and self-contained-looking. I figured Maria for around Cassie and Connie’s age. “You should see the master bathroom upstairs. It has a built-in microwave oven.”
“Why?”
“Janey and Thorne lived out here six years in a cabin with only an outhouse over on the hill. When she was pregnant with E.T. her bladder distended or something and made the colon spastic. They pitched a tent for her up by the outhouse, then winter came and she carried a slop jar around the cabin. Now Janey doesn’t like going more than a few steps from a flush toilet.”
Maria hid her mouth with her hand as she giggled. “There are six in the house and two more in the barn.”
“I’d like to meet this woman.”
A frown jumped to Maria’s face. “I do not think so. The meeting would not be pleasant.”
That added a dimension to the arrangement. “Is she expected back soon?”
“She filled her handbag with credit cards and flew to Paris, France. The last thing I heard her say was that she’d never again play second fiddle to a steer. Can I bring you anything?”
“Is there any Grand Marnier around? I like Grand Marnier with a hot bath.”
“Of course, Mrs. Paul.”
“Call me Lana Sue.” I snuggled deeper into the tub. This was comfortable. I wondered if Thorne could work out a deal with someone at the nearest airport so we’d get a call should his wife decide to appear without notice. Surely she would arrive by plane.
The only tape in sight was the Sons of the Pioneers, Tumbling Tumbleweeds. I always was a sucker for simplicity and corn, so I plugged the tape in and closed my eyes to avoid the ceiling mirror. That mirror would be the first thing to come down if I chose to stick around.
If I chose to stick around—the idea was interesting. So far, I liked Thorne a lot. He was the Western authoritative innocent, straightforward and sincere, a king of the range type like Ben Cartwright, who’d suddenly realized good intentions, hard work, and sacrifice for tomorrow don’t make for a loving family. Without half trying, I could give him a pleasure jolt that would keep him going for years. The man deserved a little happiness. And while I was giving Thorne something to look back on in his old age, I could work in one hell of a vacation for myself. I could be matriarch of the prairies, queen of a ranch bigger than Delaware. Then, after a month or so—if Janey didn’t appear—I might go back and forgive Loren or go to Texas and let Daddy forgive me, or stay put and not have anybody forgive anything.
My nonfussy supper turned out to be a beautiful steak with asparagus tips, homemade french fries, and a four-color salad. I’ve always felt you can trust a person who calls the evening chowdown supper instead of dinner. They fall into my real category.
While I ate, Maria whipped together a batch of brownies. She was admirable all the way around, Maria.
“Mrs. Axel’s clothes don’t fit you well.” When she smiled, I could see brownie frosting on Maria’s front teeth.
“She must be a large woman.”
“Janey is very strong. My clothes might do better. Maybe you should try them.”
“You’re tiny, Maria. I’d rip the seams out of anything you wear.”
Her chin went up. “I’m bigger than I look.”
“Nobody can hide six inches of height.”
“Well, my boyfriend gave me his football jersey before he went out on the rigs. He was a fullback in high school. Second string.”
“If I can’t make it to town tomorrow, we’ll check this jersey out.”
A twenty-fiveish-looking girl walked in as I spoke. She was layered-flesh fat with short rat-brown hair and skin the texture and color of a used golf ball. She barked, “You’re moving in, then.”
“Thorne asked me to stay a few days until he gets better. Who’re you?”
The girl sneered. “What’s the matter with Daddy? He stub his little toe and can’t walk to the bar without help from a hooker? Mom’s been gone four days and the vultures are landing.”
In the silence, Maria said, “Can I fix you something, Darlene?”
“No. Why doesn’t she have clothes of her own? Daddy picking them up naked now? I suppose it cuts down on small talk.” She stalked to the refrigerator.
I chose to be pleasant. “Your father tried to kill himself. I helped him, but he bled on my clothes.”
Darlene blinked a couple times and the scowl softened for a moment. “Tried to kill himself?”
“We were in time.”
“How hard did he try to kill himself?”
“Couple of pints.”
“Let me guess. He cut himself in public, probably a bar. Good, safe place to drum up pity.”
“Something like that.”
Darlene returned to the table with a quart of mayonnaise. “I’m gay,” she said. She seemed to watch me, waiting for an effect.
“I don’t think so.”
“You calling me a liar?”
“My sister’s gay. Her friends are all nice to me, at first anyway. I don’t think you’re gay.”
“Latently, I am.” She opened the jar and spooned mayonnaise into her slit of a mouth. “He didn’t really try to kill himself. It was a show.”
“Aren’t you the one who shoots calves?”
“Yearlings.”
“Why would you want your father to kill himself?”
White glop flowed from spoon to face. “‘Cause I’m miserable and it’s his fault.”
“Why don’t you leave?”
Darlene’s mouthful of mayonnaise reminded me of a pimple joke we all told in junior high. She said, “Don’t be stupid.”
• • •
I found Thorne lying on the far end of a long leather couch that had spurs carved in the wood frame. Holding a glass in one hand, he stared at a soundless television screen.
“60 Minutes.” I recognized Mike Wallace.
“You feeling okay?” I settled into a high-back chair that matched the couch.
“I’m still here,” he answered, which didn’t exactly relate to my question. “You eat?” Thorne had an exhausted Roman senator look. The combination of weight, pride, and alcohol involved in holding together a dynasty does odd things to a man’s face and shoulders.
“Maria fed me.” I slouched into my favorite position—right leg over right chair arm, back against left chair arm, left foot dragging on the floor—and watched Mike interview an Arab. The Arab had a wide gap in his front teeth, which made him look sneaky.
“Ain’t Maria a doll?”
“You’re a fortunate man to have her.”
“You bet.” Thorne didn’t act too interested in whether I sat with him or not. I’ve never dealt well with being ignored.
“I met your daughter.”
He blinked and drank from the glass.
“She seems to resent my presence. I guess it’s because her mom just left.”
“Darlene hates Janey more than she hates me. Shot her in the back once with a twenty-two. Said Janey read her diary.” He paused for a drink. “What could be there to read, anyway?”
“Did it hurt Mrs. Axel?”
“Getting shot? Naw, Janey’s real strong. I cut the bullet out myself.” Thorne smiled, I suppose thinking of his wife’s back as he cut her open.
“Could I have a drink?”
“Bar’s over there.”
“You want a refresher?”
“Thanks, Jim Beam blends real nice with my new pills. I’m hardly miserable at all.”
As I poured the drinks, I thought about poor, fat Darlene shooting her mother. I tried to picture Daddy in our living room back home, cutting a bullet out of Mom’s back. Daddy would wear his doctor’s mask and sterilize a steak knife. Mom would cover all the furniture with newspapers.
“Does Darlene have a skin disease?” I asked.
“She’s coyote ugly, ain’t she?”
“You shouldn’t talk that way about your daughter. Maybe she’s sick.” I walked back to the couch and handed Thorne his glass, then sat on the end and propped his feet in my lap. While Thorne talked, I took off his boots. He wasn’t wearing socks.
“That ain’t sickness. It’s lack of sun. She eats and sleeps all day and wanders around the ranch all night. The hands are scared of her.”
“Why is Darlene so unhappy?”
Thorne drank awhile, considering the question. 60 Minutes ended and Murder, She Wrote came on, still without sound.
“Hell if I know,” Thorne said.
“Have you ever asked her?”
“No.”
“Lot of people talk if you ask questions.”
Thorne set his glass on the end table with a clink. He pulled his head up so he could see me better. “Listen here, Lana Ann.”
“Lana Sue.”
“Lana Sue, the complications surrounding this household took many years to build into the mess you see today. This ain’t no movie. You can’t waltz in here with folksy wisdom and common sense and make everybody dandy.”
“I’m sorry.”
“My wife didn’t just leave on the spur of the moment. I didn’t try to kill myself because I was drunk. Those aren’t phases my children are going through. You dropped from the sky into a fucked-up situation.”
“I’m sorry.”
Thorne settled back down into the couch. “All right. It’s not your fault. You’re the first good thing to come along in years. Just don’t think you can solve all our problems after two hours of hanging around.”
“Okay.”
“Christ, if it was that easy, I would kill myself.”
Thorne finished his drink and fell asleep. I sat, sucking ice cubes and watching the old lady solve the murder, which was about a rock star electrocuted on a hot mike. Even without sound, I knew who did it by the second commercial. The show went boring after that and I started to wonder about my own fucked-up situations with Loren, Cassie, and Daddy. Did I want to throw off all those complications and take on another, just as screwed-up set?
It’s like my mom. Mama watched every single episode of Guiding Light for eighteen years. Then, one Tuesday while Alan and Hope were discovering who Phillip’s real father was, she switched to Another World—without knowing any of the characters or their past and present loves or anything. Mom never went back.
Maybe some of Mama rubbed off on me after all. I never thought so before.
I smoked a couple of cigarettes and watched Thorne sleep. As he breathed, the ends of his mustache quivered a bit. A white scar creased his leathery tan from the bottom of one ear to his cheekbone. To me, Thorne looked strong and whole, a man in control of what happens to him. Nothing like a person who would grieve to the point of suicide. Suicides are supposed to be pale and meek—like Ann or my grandmother.
The arm must have hurt because Thorne rolled over a couple times trying it in different positions. Loren sleeps spread all over the bed, sometimes using me as a pillow. Ace always curled on his left side with his right leg thrown across my hip. I guess to keep me pinned down.
When I first ran away with Mickey he slept on his back, but after Jimi Hendrix died from choking on his own vomit Mickey rolled over. He was the only one of the bunch who snored much.
I hate to think it, but I don’t remember how Ron slept. Fourteen years together and I can’t picture the guy in bed.
Murder, She Wrote was followed by a detective show whose name I missed. Someone chased someone until a car exploded. I crawled along the couch and snuggled up next to Thorne’s body. His breathing shifted a moment, then his good arm came around my shoulders. As I drifted into sleep, I felt Maria cover us with a blanket. Loren would have almost approved.