SLEEPING ARRANGMENTS

IT WAS NIGH IMPOSSIBLE to spook Dade, he was the one who spooked people. Sleeping with Sherry came as near as he was ever going to get. He noticed her fumble under the pillow one night after they'd had wild sex, grabbed her hand, asked, playful,

“Whatcha hiding there, babe?”

And got the demented look, he'd seen it before on the lifers in lockup, the guys who were never getting out, it's not a hopelessness, it's an expression of knowing they're going to hell and just calculating how many they're taking along. He'd figured she'd stashed a little pick-me-up, some ludes, maybe, to keep the heebie-jeebies at bay, he certainly understood that gig. But this feral face, he was stunned, said,

“Whoa, lighten up, babe, I'm not gonna take anything away from you.”

The walking dead in the joint, you saw them at chow time, the way they protected a dish of rice pudding like it was the most precious item on earth. In the scheme of things there, it was close to that. She turned for a second and then a knife was at his throat, not just any old blade but a lethal double-edged piece of mayhem. Worse, it had the sheen of being well used. She snarled, in a tone like a rabid coyote,

“Don't you ever grab my hand, I'll slit you like a snake before you blink.”

Her eyes were virtual slits, and a dribble of spittle leaked from the corner of her mouth, the blade was still pushed into his throat so he said in his real mellow voice,

“Sure, babe, whatever you say.”

He wanted to go,

“Take a fucking chill pill.”

Her hand shook and he wondered if he'd have time to move, then suddenly a spasm hit her, and she dropped the knife, fell back to sleep. He waited a few minutes to make sure she was really out, even lifted the lid of her right eye, the eyeball had rolled all the way back, Like a corpse. He eased out of bed, got his Walther, racked the slide but gently, and for a brief moment, considered putting two in her demented skull.

Then his own particular brand of lunacy kicked in and he laughed out loud, said,

“What a rush.”

He poured a large shot of Wild Turkey, did a little meth, raised his glass, toasted her with,

“You crazy broad.”

From then on, after they made love or whatever you'd term a form of near mortal combat with sex, he'd slip out of bed, sleep on the floor. No sense in taking chances.

The morning after the knife incident, she woke and was her own sweet self, as if she had no memory of the event, she asked,

“You sleep good?”

Something like real affection in her voice, as if she actually cared, he said,

“Like a baby.”

And got a smile that was as close to sanity as he'd ever witness.

He kept the Walther under his own pillow from then on.