14

Evening. From his place on the ratty sofa, Ralph Angel watched Blue, on hands and knees, march Zach over a fortress of old Reader’s Digests and stacked cans of string beans.

“Got my Glock,” Blue chanted, imitating a grown man’s voice, “gotta get some money,” and Ralph Angel thought he’d have to mix more pop radio, maybe some jazz, in with the rap music. Blue looked up at him. “My stomach hurts.”

“Well, I warned you not to eat so much ice cream.”

Across the room, planted at Miss Honey’s feet, Micah looked up from her mystery and said, “When my stomach hurts, my mom gives me tea with lemon.”

Ralph Angel blinked at Micah, thought she looked exactly like Charley when she was that age. And for a moment, as it had so many times since he arrived, time pretzeled back on itself and he was nineteen again. He had given Charley a Christmas present he couldn’t afford—a chemistry set—along with a ten-dollar bill. He would never forget the way she’d looked up at him, her face aglow with gratitude and admiration, bright as the little white lights on the tree. The best gift ever, she’d said. A lot of good it had done him. Where was the gratitude now? Where was the admiration? All this time and Charley still hadn’t gotten back to him about working on the farm. He purposely didn’t come on like gangbusters with a lot of demands and accusations, even though the entire time they talked, he struggled against the darkness gathering like a storm inside him. He was polite. Have some cereal. Reasonable. Of course you should talk to Denton. Promised to be patient. Take your time. And for a few days, he’d thought the strategy worked. But lately, he’d begun to think Charley was avoiding him. She never had time to talk. Was always rushing out, saying she had to get back to the farm. And when she was around, usually for a few minutes in the morning, he overheard her telling ’Da what she’d learned. It was always, “Mr. Denton showed me how to do this” or “Now I know how to do that,” like he wasn’t sitting around all day, killing time, going crazy waiting for an answer.

“Micah,” Miss Honey said, waving the TV remote, “go get the pink medicine from under my bathroom sink.”

Ralph Angel motioned to Blue, said, “Come here, boy,” and when Blue climbed into his lap and folded himself over Ralph Angel’s shoulder, Ralph Angel slipped his hand under his son’s shirt and rubbed his back, trying to remember how Gwenna used to do it. “How’s that?” He patted Blue’s back.

“Pepto Bismol tastes like vomit,” Micah said, returning with a bright pink bottle.

“That’s very helpful,” Ralph Angel said, dryly. “I can’t thank you enough.” He turned Blue around, poured a capful of the pink liquid, and held it to Blue’s lips.

Blue eyed the bottle and whimpered. “I don’t want to vomit.” He pushed Ralph Angel’s hand away.

“It won’t make you vomit. She said it tastes like vomit, but it doesn’t. It’s just medicine. Come on now, open up.”

But Blue pressed his hands to his mouth, turned away. Medicine sloshed out of the cap, dribbled down Ralph Angel’s arm, across his pants, onto the sofa cushion. Ralph Angel drew in a shallow breath. It felt as though someone were picking a thread inside him, picking and picking, and now the stitch was coming lose, pulling through him in one ragged piece. “Goddamn it. Do you want to feel better or not?”

Which only made Blue start to cry.

“Good Lord, Ralph Angel.” Miss Honey slid out of her recliner and pulled Blue into her arms. “The child doesn’t know what he wants. Stop barking at him.” She backed into the recliner, pressed Blue to her chest. “How about a hot water bottle, chère? You might like that better.”

Ralph Angel looked at Miss Honey and felt his face get hot. He shouldn’t have answered the phone that day he saw her number come up; shouldn’t have let her talk him into coming back. He’d been fine out in Phoenix; okay, not perfect, but getting through the days, getting by. He’d managed to squeeze his life down into something small, something manageable, no more than he could handle. No big dreams. A postage stamp of a life. And to the extent he dreamed, it was of Billings and the life he’d make for them somehow. Why hadn’t Miss Honey just left them alone? But he’d come like she’d asked. Okay, maybe he wasn’t as good at this mothering stuff as Gwenna, but he didn’t have to sit around and be insulted.

“I’ll take it from here,” Ralph Angel said, rising, because this was how things started between them last time, and he was trying to be good. Last time, she got in his face with all her questions, pressed and pressed him to explain about his stash, and he’d felt like an animal being poked with a stick. Then she said she was disappointed, that he’d let the family down, which was exactly what his father had said when he found out about the tuition money. It was as though she’d opened the levee and all that darkness had rushed in and he was sucked under. He hadn’t meant to push her, but he couldn’t breathe, had just been trying to get some air. “Come on, buddy. I’ll read you a story.” He pried Blue from Miss Honey’s arms and ushered him out of the room.

•   •   •

In the back room, on the large bed, Ralph Angel pulled the sheet up around Blue’s waist. “Go to sleep.”

“But you said you’d read to me.”

Ralph Angel looked at his son. Yes, he’d said that, but off the cuff, as an excuse to get out of the den. Gwenna had always been the one to read bedtime stories. That was so long ago, though, he wondered if Blue even remembered. But now Blue was looking at him, watching, his eyes wide and expectant, as though he were waiting for Ralph Angel to do a magic trick. “Right. Well, uh, let’s see what we’ve got here.” Hollywood had stacked the few remaining boxes in the corner and Ralph Angel eyed them warily. Just the thought of sorting through them made him tired. He pulled the nightstand drawer open, saw a Bible, black and solemn, lying among the buttons, old church bulletins, broken pencils and ballpoints, and felt a dull, heavy feeling roll through him. He didn’t like to think about God. He glanced at the stack of boxes again, then reached for the Bible. “Scoot over.”

Blue sat up. “It doesn’t have any pictures.”

“I know,” Ralph Angel said, flipping the tissuey pages. “You’ll have to use your imagination. I’ll read an adventure story—about a boat.” And so, Ralph Angel turned to Genesis and began to read, or rather, began translating the old language. And it came to pass, when man began to multiply on the face of the earth . . . And God saw that the wickedness of man was great, and that every imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually . . . “Once upon a time,” Ralph Angel began, “the world was full of people doing bad things.”

“Bad things like what?” Blue said.

“I don’t know. Just bad things. Beating up on each other, stealing cars. Be quiet. Listen to the story.” And the Lord said, I will destroy man whom I have created from the face of the earth; both man and beast, and the creeping thing, and the fowl in the air . . . “So God, who had made the earth and all the people and all the animals in the first place, got real mad and decided to start over. He decided to make it rain until the whole earth was covered with water.”

“Could the people swim?”

“No, they couldn’t swim.”

“So they drowned?”

“Yeah. They all drowned.”

“Even the animals?”

“Sorry, buddy. Even the animals.”

“I don’t like this story.”

“Don’t worry, it gets better. Just listen.” Blue nuzzled against his arm, and he felt heat radiating off his son’s limbs. But Noah found grace in the eyes of the Lord . . . Grace in the eyes of the Lord. Ralph Angel read the line again and looked up from the page. He’d had the thought for a while now that the world was divided into two kinds of people—those who believed they were worthy of God’s grace and those who believed they weren’t. It wasn’t something to fight—it just was or wasn’t, much the way some people were natural-born leaders while others were born to follow, or the way some people’s bodies were built for long-distance running while others’ were built for sprinting. Was it destiny? Was it fate? He didn’t know. But reading the verse seemed to confirm that what he’d felt way down in the pit of his gut was true, and he knew, just like he knew his own name, what side of the line he was on, would always be on, and the same emptiness that opened within him as he stood in the minimart that day opened in him again.

“What happened next?” Blue shook his arm. “Why did you stop reading?”

“Sorry.” Ralph Angel found his place and forced himself to read more. And God said unto Noah . . . And thou shalt come into the ark. “But there was one man who was God’s favorite,” he said. “His name was Noah and he was a good guy, and God decided to let him and his family live. So he told Noah to build a big boat.”

“A speedboat?”

“No, a wooden boat. Bigger than this house.”

•   •   •

In the winking hours, Ralph Angel startled awake. The light was on and the Bible lay open on his lap. The clock radio read 12:28 a.m., and for a long time he sat listening to the night—the refrigerator humming through its cycles, the buzz of the streetlamp, the faint croak of frogs in the gully. The minutes dragged. He’d planned to wait up for Charley so that he could ask her again about a job, but it was too late now; he’d try to catch her in the morning. Right now, he had to get out of this room, out of the house.

•   •   •

In the dark, Ralph Angel eased the Impala’s door open, and was halfway down the block, past the old church and over the railroad tracks, before he turned on his headlights. On the open road, he picked up speed. Moths and beetles flitted across the narrow tunnels of his high beams, warm air spilled through the open window, the road unfurled like a length of movie reel.

At the junction, Ralph Angel headed east toward New Orleans, a two-hour drive, and was figuring where he could score when, in the distance, over the trees, the sky took on an eerie radiance. Gradually, the Indian casino came into view: gushing fountains that threw off a twenty-foot curtain of fine mist, the entrance a spectacle of neon lights and anodized metalwork. He rolled up alongside a Chevy Avalanche, its angular converted cab dwarfing the Impala.

The marquee flickered, and inside the slots rang nonstop, though the place wasn’t very crowded for a Saturday night. Half-empty gaming tables ran down the center of the room. Along one wall, a man sat heavily on his padded stool as a dealer, looking bored in her sequined vest, tossed cards beside his short stack of chips. Ralph Angel touched his back pocket, where a withered five and a few singles nested in his wallet.

For the next hour, Ralph Angel lingered over the hunched shoulders of the last determined blackjack players, then wandered into the private room where Vietnamese high-rollers flung down twenties and fifties at Mini Baccarat, and finally, drifted into the arcade where three gangly boys stomped out a sequence of steps as the Dance Dance Revolution machine pulsed out a techno groove. He dropped a quarter into the Alpine Ski Jump, watched it roll down the narrow ramp and through the fifty-point slot in the turning wheel. The game machine spat out a length of tickets as long as his arm. Surprised, he dug in his pocket for another quarter and tried again. Bingo! Another stretch of tickets.

In the end, Ralph Angel blew two dollars on the ridiculous game. He chose a large stuffed monkey, a rubber spider, and a pack of plastic zoo animals from the display of prizes before exhaustion overtook him and he wandered back into the casino, set the monkey on the floor between his legs, rested his head against a quarter slot called Money to Burn, the spider and zoo animals into a plastic bucket at his feet.

“Looks like you got lucky.”

Ralph Angel lifted his head. The woman before him held a cocktail tray against her square waist. She nodded at the prizes.

“I got ’em for my boy.”

“Guess you win the medal for Father of the Year.”

Ralph Angel eyed her. She wasn’t pretty—a little pale for his taste—but she wasn’t ugly either. Something about her, though, the way more teeth showed on one side of her mouth than the other when she smiled, reminded him of Gwenna. They’d had a good life once. They never meant to cross over.

“I’m just playing,” the woman said, laughing lightly. “Actually, I think it’s sweet.” She took a small pad from her apron pocket. “What can I get you?”

Ralph Angel took a moment to think. He’d snuck a couple six-packs into the back room then waited until Blue fell asleep, but it had been a long time since he’d had a real drink. Not since Phoenix.

“How about an Old Havana?”

The woman winked. “Coming right up.” Within seconds of her pressing the drink into his hands, Ralph Angel promptly drained the glass.

“My,” she said. “Aren’t we thirsty?”

He passed the glass back to her. “Can I get another?”

“That’s the point, isn’t it? Loosen you up so you’ll throw your money away?” She smiled that crooked smile again.

“Exactly.”

Another couple rounds of weak drinks, another hour of feeding the slots. Every time the woman came around to check on him, bring him a fresh drink, they’d talk for a few minutes. Nothing deep. Just bar talk. How big the last jackpot was, the last guy to get tossed out for counting cards, the most recent eighties has-been pop star to cycle through. She came by one last time before her shift ended.

“Nice talking to you.”

“Yeah, you, too.”

•   •   •

Three o’clock in the morning. Ralph Angel felt as if cinder blocks were strapped to his ankles as he pushed through the double doors, out into the neon glow.

The woman sat on the curb smoking. She’d traded her cocktail uniform for cutoffs and a T-shirt.

“Thought you’d be home by now,” Ralph Angel said.

“My ride bailed on me.” She waved vaguely and exhaled a stream of smoke. “I hate when this happens.” Flicked ash away and stared into the dark. “One of these days, I won’t have to put up with this bullshit. Gonna buy myself a little pickup, cherry red with a double cab.”

The woman’s skin looked ashier, rougher than it did inside. Sort of like Gwenna’s right before she went to the hospital the last time. Gwenna had had smooth, clear skin once. Like chocolate milk. She wore nice clothes, fixed her hair. They never meant to lose their house. They never meant to become junkies. They’d just wanted to take the edge off, get that warm feeling—pillows between them and the world. The day they released Gwenna from the hospital, her skin had cleared up a little, but she was still thin. Weighed ninety-eight pounds; a goddamn sparrow. After their last run, her lungs had filled with fluid, collapsed with infection. Close call, the doctor had said. The morning he picked her up, she claimed she felt stronger, but she couldn’t even lift Blue, who’d just turned four.

Ralph Angel looked down the service road for the flare of headlights. Nothing. He felt for his keys. “I can give you a lift.”

“You sure?” But she was already stubbing her cigarette out on the curb.

At the Impala, Ralph Angel cringed, seeing the trash on the floor, clothes strewn across the seat. “It’s a little junky.”

“No worries.”

He waited for her to set her purse on the floor before he closed her door.

•   •   •

Maybe it was some unarticulated relief at having secured a ride home, and maybe it was the feel of the velvety upholstery against her bare legs, Ralph Angel couldn’t be sure, but the gap between them seemed to narrow the farther they drove from the casino.

“I never got your name,” Ralph Angel said.

“It’s Amber.”

“Ralph Angel.”

“Ralph Angel.” She seemed to taste the words. “You a musician or something?”

“An engineer,” he said, then held his breath, startled by the words that had come out of his mouth. He waited for her to laugh or ask where he worked.

But all she said was “Cool,” and dug in her purse. Said, “You mind?” as she held up the cigarette. And when Ralph Angel shook his head no, she lit it, cracked her window, and blew a long stream of smoke as tendrils of her hair lifted in the breeze.

A jazzy melody oozed through the radio, followed soon after by the announcer’s silky voice. Ralph Angel relaxed back against his seat, wondering at what had just happened. He hadn’t planned to lie. All he said was what he wanted to be true, what would be true if his life had taken a different turn, and she’d accepted it. He didn’t believe in the power of positive thinking or any of that mumbo jumbo, but he felt different having said what he said.

Amber laced her fingers through the rods of his headrest. “I don’t know many engineers,” she said, closing the gap between them. She looked at him again.

And just like that, he was pulling off the road into a clearing beyond the barbed-wire fence, past trees nailed with POSTED signs, and Amber was, Jesus, already pulling down her shorts, raising her T-shirt to reveal her pale breasts. She climbed into his lap and straddled him, her back arched against the wheel. Ralph Angel closed his eyes, turned his face into her hair. It was curlier than Gwenna’s since Gwenna started giving herself perms, but had the same faintly floral smell. Ralph Angel remembered how once, during the good times, he came home from work and found Gwenna leaning over the kitchen sink, plastic gloves turned inside out on the counter, the lid off the jar of hair straightener.

“I thought that shit burned your scalp,” he’d said.

“I’m used to it,” Gwenna said, groping for the shampoo. He’d pushed the bottle toward her, then changed his mind, poured some in his hand, stood behind her, and massaged the shampoo into her hair, smelling lilac and honeysuckle. He felt her relax, letting him take over. Then he gathered a towel around her head and led her to the couch, watched as she pulled the comb through her hair, then plucked strands from the teeth and twisted them around her finger.

“We should take Blue to see your dad,” she’d said. Beads of cloudy water hung from the tips of her hair.

“Why would I do that?” He’d wiped the drop of water running down the side of her face. “He wasn’t interested in being a dad. Why would he be interested in being a grandfather?” But that was why he loved her. Because she saw his better self even when he couldn’t; because she always pushed him toward the light. I have more faith in you than I have in myself, he once told her.

•   •   •

Sonny Stitt played on the radio as the Impala slid over the country road, and Ralph Angel felt that a new day had broken.

Amber lit another cigarette. “What are you thinking about?”

“A poem I used to know.” Ralph Angel kept his eyes on the road. “My daddy taught it to me.” It was really Gwenna’s favorite poem. He’d memorized it when they were still dating and recited it the night he asked her to marry him. But he didn’t think Amber would appreciate that little factoid, that he was thinking about his wife, after what they just did.

“Let’s hear it.”

“That’s okay.”

“No, honest. I want to hear it.”

“Okay,” Ralph Angel said. “Here goes. Don’t laugh.

“So live, that when thy summons comes to join / The innumerable caravan, that moves / To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take / His chamber in the silent halls of death, / Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, / Scourged to his dungeon, but sustain’d and sooth’d / By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, / Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch / About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.”

“Damn,” Amber said.

“You didn’t like it.”

Amber shrugged. “I don’t know. I kind of like the ones that rhyme.”

They were on the outskirts of town when a car came out of nowhere and pulled on to the road, hung back for a while, but then closed the distance. In the rearview mirror, Ralph Angel made out rectangular headlights, a rack on the grille, the cruiser’s white hood glowing in his taillights. The blue and white lights flashed.

“Shit.”

Amber sat up straight, smoothed her hair as Ralph Angel steered onto the shoulder. He clamped his hands to the wheel, where he knew they’d be visible, watched in his side mirror as the trooper ran his plates then came up alongside the Impala, his palm resting lightly on the grip of his gun. He tried not to blink as the trooper shined the light in his face.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi. The arc of light swung past him, over the seat, across Amber’s lap and up into her pale face. Five Mississippi, six Mississippi. Seven Mississippi, eight.

“You all right, miss? You need some assistance?”

“No, Officer, I’m fine,” Amber said, her voice high and strained. Her accent thicker. “Just trying to get home.”

Nine Mississippi, ten Mississippi. Lights in Ralph Angel’s eyes again.

“License and registration, please.”

“Yes, sir.” Slowly, Ralph Angel reached into his back pocket. He thought about the car as he handed his license to the trooper and his mouth went dry as he played out the possibilities. Eleven Mississippi. Twelve Mississippi.

The trooper studied the photo. “California. You’re a long way from home.”

“Yes, sir.” Ralph Angel cleared his throat. “I’m visiting family.”

“This car belong to you?”

“No, sir. It’s a rental.” Thirteen Mississippi.

The trooper studied his license again. “And you drove all the way down here?”

“Yes, sir. Like I said, I’m visiting family.”

Fourteen Mississippi. Fifteen. The trooper looked up the road. “It’s a little late for you two to be out here, don’t you think?”

“Yes, sir. I’m just driving this young lady home.”

“You been drinking tonight?”

Sixteen Mississippi. How should he answer? Be careful. “I had one drink back at the casino, but that was awhile ago.”

Amber leaned forward, raised her hand against the hard beam of light. “He’s telling the truth, Officer. I work there. I’m the one who served him.”

Eighteen Mississippi.

“Because you were doing seventy-two coming into town,” the trooper said. “You know that?”

“No, sir, I didn’t. I guess I’m more tired than I thought.”

Nineteen Mississippi. Twenty. Twenty-one.

The trooper looked from Ralph Angel to Amber. He studied Ralph Angel’s license again, then handed it back. “I’m gonna let you go this time, but I want you to pay closer attention, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir, Officer. Thank you.”

“Y’all have a good night.”

Ralph Angel waited until the cruiser slid back onto the road, watched the taillights flicker as it disappeared over the rise, then let his head fall against the headrest. His heart beat so fast he thought he might faint. He hadn’t felt like that in a long time. Not since that night.

He and Gwenna had never bought from that house before, but word had it the stuff that came out of there was pure. Black tar. None of the cut-up shit those punks down on Central tried to pass off. They bought enough for a three-day run, then went over to the abandoned house down from the market. No gas, no electricity since the owners got evicted. A legless couch and a coffee table littered with stems, matches, and steel wool in the living room. Colder inside than out. They chose a bedroom facing the street so they could keep an eye on Blue, asleep in the car. Before he lit the pipe, he looked at Gwenna. Until the last run, she’d been going to meetings. She said the counselor, Linda, offered a lot of strategies for how to stay clean. Stay busy, Linda said. Surround yourself with positive people. He knew what that meant: changing the locks. He hadn’t wanted to get clean, but he didn’t want to be locked out either. So he begged her, took her hand. Come on. Just this once, then get clean if you want. He’d recited the poem and she’d smiled her crooked smile. He mixed the smack with a drop of water, flicked the lighter under the spoon and caught a whiff of vinegar.

When he woke, the room was dark. It took him a minute to remember where he was.

Baby?

No answer.

Hey, G, get up.

For a second, he thought maybe she’d left him, thought maybe she never took the syringe, drove off with Blue instead. He went to the window and saw the car on the street, its windows black beneath the streetlight. He turned back to the room and that’s when he saw her.

In the car, Blue was awake and crying. He’d soiled his pants. Ralph Angel held him anyway, pulled off Blue’s clothes and used a crumpled napkin to wipe the shit. He found one of Gwenna’s T-shirts in the backseat—it smelled like her—and wrapped it around Blue’s shoulders, dumped the soiled clothes in the gutter. He drove for a long time, not sure where to go. Kept thinking about the way she looked lying there on the floor—He shouldn’t have pushed her. But then again, he’d been so afraid she’d leave him behind. She’d always been the stronger one when it came down to it.

Blue had looked up at him. Where’s Mommy?

He shook his head. No more Mommy. Just you and me.

•   •   •

Ralph Angel and Amber rode in silence the rest of the way now, until Amber pointed to her turnoff.

“So maybe I’ll come by the casino sometime,” Ralph Angel said. “Take you to dinner after your shift.” In the light of her open door, he saw red creases on the sides of her legs where they pressed hard against the seats.

Amber glanced at the house. “No,” she said, “I don’t think it’d be a good idea. It’s nothing personal, honest. You seem like a nice guy.” She tossed her purse over her shoulder. “Thanks for the ride.”

“You bet.” Ralph Angel watched her walk down the driveway, her purse bouncing against her hip. He could still smell her hair.

On the road again, Ralph Angel turned the radio dial, trying to find the jazz station. He still felt jumpy from the encounter with the trooper, couldn’t believe how close he’d come. Nothing left now but to go home. They’d all be getting up soon, dressing for church. If he were religious, he’d say a prayer—Thanks for keeping my ass out of jail just now—maybe ask for a small blessing for Blue, ask Gwenna to forgive him. But he wasn’t a believer, hadn’t been for a long time. Ralph Angel rolled his window down and felt the early-morning air against his face. When he got home, he would ask Charley to cut him in on the farm. Because you couldn’t sit around hoping to get lucky or wishing for a miracle. You couldn’t sit around waiting for God’s grace.