William had called at five for a table for four at six. He got the best table in the house as usual: the round and white by the bay window, a little apart from the others, facing the street behind the glass and the cars parked at the line of meters. The streetlights had not come on yet. The tablecloth fell off sharp and cast a blue edge on the blond wood floor. As the sun went down, the edge got wider and bluer, and would swallow the restaurant to the back wall.
Tweedy sipped opposite her husband, William, and William talked to Michael on his right, a new man from the Club. Tweedy’s hiccups were at eighteen-second intervals. The doctor had given her pills. She needed a refill. Her blouse was pinned at the neck with a sterling bee. Her hiccups were, for the most part, quiet and unoffending. The waiter refilled the wine with a twist of his wrist. He wore black and white and circled like a planet, pouring. He almost bowed in his duties but did not bow, while Tweedy’s busboy did seem to bow to the table as he delivered a new shaker of salt. His black pants were so big on his slender frame that the belt cinched tight was required. His white shirt billowed out over the belt. His father’s clothes, she thought, or stepfather’s. “Can I help you?” she wanted to say, poor thing. This boy needed some petting, anyone could see that. The waiter circled and poured. Her busboy was a beautiful boy, pink and blue in the face, with a basket of bread. At the other tables, he bowed and scraped crumbs into his hand.
Tweedy hiccuped. The waiter said, “More water?” and Tweedy said, “I have some, thank you,” but he filled her glass anyway and she hiccuped again.
“Poor dear,” said William, glancing at Tweedy. He leaned back toward Michael who was taller than William, thirty pounds lighter, still with a sense of future about him. William grasped at the air when he spoke. He reached at territory across the tablecloth. Michael’s hands chopped back. They talked the news of the week: the new trash contract Uptown, the judge off to jail, the council meeting gone so very amiss, bosses gumming the works, and how. The new blueprints of the footprint of the central headquarters were planned by the river with a fountain in the atrium, glass and more glass, a high-rent view. Tweedy hiccuped and sipped. “Poor dear.”
“We are awaiting our fourth,” William said to the waiter. He nodded at the empty seat at his left. Helene was always late.
“Have you tried holding your breath?” said Michael to Tweedy.
“She tried it in the car,” William told him. “Holding her breath hardly ever works for Tweedy.”
When Tweedy was a girl she had wanted things like tea parties and lemon cake. Michael straightened his tie. Tweedy dabbed her lips with the cloth napkin, a little smudge, what a shame. She had wanted clean white napkins and a husband with a crown on his head, crystal doorknobs to the powder rooms. Her busboy delivered napkins folded like tents to a table in the back. He was a lovely boy, that busboy.
“The election will be tight, I’ve heard that said,” said Michael to William and they got going about it. The side of Michael’s hand chopped the table. His hair was dyed black but his eyebrows were graying.
“I disagree completely,” said William. “Murdock will run away with it, I disagree.”
“I’ve heard it from several good sources at the Club,” said Michael.
“Well, you are so naive,” said William with a smile. “So young still.”
“No really! Just think of this, stop and think of this,” said Michael.
“Truly, you surprise me,” said William.
William went to the men’s room. Tweedy asked Michael after his family, what schools, what church, what street? William came back and looked at the door. Tweedy hiccuped after seventeen seconds. William looked at his watch.
“I’m sure she will be here soon,” said Tweedy. The men went on and Tweedy counted to fifteen seconds, a downward trend worth tending to. She excused herself to the powder room with a glass of water and her turquoise leather handbag. In a stall she bent over and drank all the water down, her head between her knees, her lips sucking on the far side of the glass. She looked in the mirror, her face, the bee at her neck. Someone else entered, a lady in pink, and they stood side by side in the mirror. Tweedy counted: twenty-four seconds this time.
“I know how to help you,” the pink lady said, “Honey and lemon will do the trick every time.”
“I’ll try it,” Tweedy said. Tweedy had tried honey and lemon a week ago, ten years ago, she would try again tomorrow.
The pink lady left.
Tweedy refilled her glass at the faucet. She drank between her legs and coughed. She returned to the table where the men were leaning together like old friends again, or better. It was true love over some debacle in Eureka last Sunday, the crash on some corner, the layoffs, the layout, the lineup of the new team, oh the taxi driver, yes, you should have seen this driver, the colonoscopy, the polyp presumed benign, the repaving of Main. Their heads were so close, perhaps Michael and William would nuzzle. William would run his hand through Michael’s stiff hair. Tweedy hoped so. That would be something worth seeing.
They did not nuzzle. The men sat back. They talked of the new steam room at the Club, all cedar with volcanic rocks from Hawaii, and about Art Beeker who died of an aneurysm. They were just talking to Art Beeker in the steam room last week. William and Michael both snapped their fingers to signify Art gone. No one could cure Art’s condition. No one knew. Tweedy dabbed her lips and looked for her busboy. He was bent over at a lady’s high-heeled shoe, patent leather and black. He knelt like praying to the shoe while saying something to the lady. He dabbed it with a tenderness she had not seen in years. A miracle. She might have married this skinny busboy.
Helene arrived. Helene was big and blonde, a Viking queen. Once Helene had had a small forest of hair on the right side of her chin. The small forest had suited her. Tweedy thought the spirit of the forest was still with Helene entirely. Men flared their nostrils when they looked at Helene.
“Helene, you look wonderful,” said William. He stood and they pecked lips. “How the hell is Jack?” he said. “Too bad he couldn’t come.” William held her waist just longer than necessary and made introductions to Michael, who flared and blinked Helene up and down.
“So sorry I’m late,” said Helene wearing red, a good color for her.
“But now we have you,” said William. “That’s all we want.”
“I could eat a horse,” said Helene and sat. “Where ever did you get it?” Helene asked pointing at Tweedy’s bee. Tweedy said, “Mother,” but that was not true at all. She did not remember where she got her bee. It appeared in her jewelry box one day, exactly how all things come.
“I saw your new car,” Helene said.
“Did you?” said William, with a twinkle.
“Very handsome,” said Michael.
“Very, very handsome,” Tweedy said. “William loves his car.”
The candles glowed on the tables across the room. Her busboy skated over the blond wood floor, between the tables in the hum of conversation. His sleeves were rolled up and made all the difference in the world. Then her busboy tripped on the mat near the double doors to the kitchen. The water in his pitcher sloshed up, a tidal wave in his pitcher, but did not spill, not a single drop.
Tweedy hiccuped and Helene said, “Has anyone tried pounding your back yet, dear?”
“That’s for coughing,” said Tweedy.
“Might not hurt to try,” said William.
“Or BOO! from behind the door? Have you tried that yet?” asked Helene.
“Not yet,” said Tweedy. “I don’t mind. And I don’t like a startle.”
“I’ve heard vinegar works for hiccups,” said Michael.
“Don’t be silly,” William said. “The doctor gave her some pills for it. She needs a refill.”
The others ordered meat and Tweedy ordered salad. She didn’t care for food anymore. Her head and arms and lungs were made of food and water. Why feed them? The waiter poured from a new bottle of wine that had a picture on the label of people bending and reaching through vines and leaves. The grapes were tiny circles, the faces were tiny circles. The faces looked as happy as the grapes. Tweedy knew not a single one of the tiny faces in the picture. The bottle seemed black until the flame on the table turned it green. Tweedy unbuttoned and buttoned her cuffs. She stretched her arms out to see if the wrists were even. Irritation of the eardrum can cause the hiccups, her doctor had told her. Carbonation. Standing up too fast, crying too loudly. She rubbed her ear. The river was rising. She checked her turquoise handbag. The bottle was still empty.
She stood with the handbag and went back to the powder room for another try at upside-down. Her busboy was lifting dishes from a vacated table to his tray. The tray was wide and heavy, too heavy, how could he? She passed him at the powder room door. He staggered, poor thing, and she did not help him with his dishes since helping a busboy with his dishes would not look right. He disappeared through the swinging doors to the kitchen. He should have a name. Someone in the kitchen might feed him. Someone should.
The doctor had said this: lack of water, too much water, eating too fast, laughing too hard, coughing too much, talking too much, burping, crying too loud. In the powder room she had forgotten the glass of water so she drank with her nose in the sink.
“It’s just math,” William was saying to Michael when she returned. “Simple math.”
“But the broader considerations!” Michael said. “Just think!”
“No reason to fuss so,” Helene said to William in a voice that petted his hot red neck.
“Hogwash,” said William.
“But you miss my point entirely! Miss my point,” Michael said. “Don’t you see?”
“I am not missing your point in the least,” said William.
Helene pressed William’s arm. “Come now.”
The doctor had said this too: lack of oxygen, lack of vitamins, clearing one’s throat, overstretching one’s neck, spicy food.
Tweedy cleared her throat. “I hope it’s not spicy.”
“Hogwash,” said William and pulled his arm from Helene.
Michael moved the salt and pepper around and around each other.
“Is this about the car?” Tweedy said. “William’s beautiful car?
“Of course not,” said William.
“It’s about math,” said Michael.
They all laughed about it.
Dinner came, they ate dinner. Tweedy ate her salad like a rabbit. Michael held his knife in the right and his fork in the left. “I picked this up in Europe,” he said, showing his teeth. He bit at the fork and not the meat at all. William’s fork stood vertical while he chewed. His knife stayed in his hand. He spoke to Helene when he was done chewing. The street was dark outside the window. The streetlights had come on. People passing made dull shapes behind the glass. The food was stiff and bland. At the head of a nearby table, a man with a roasted chicken spilled wine on a lady’s lap and the others at the table all groaned, “Oh dear,” “What a shame,” and handed napkins over. They gripped their glasses tighter and she blotted the split, the dip between her legs, and the busboy blushed when he took the napkins from the lady’s lap. He took the glass and the bundle away. Her busboy’s name might be Lawrence or Edgar or Geoffrey, tall and slender. The man with the roasted chicken told a story: there was man with no car who hitched rides by waving a gas can at oncoming cars.
“Gas Can Eddie,” said the man with the chicken. “This red can. I picked him up myself, no kidding.”
Everyone at the table laughed. “Think of a life like that,” someone said.
“A life like that,” Tweedy said. “A good life too.” She might have married that man with the roasted chicken. She might walk over and sit on his knee. It would take ten seconds.
“No kidding,” said a man. “Absolutely no kidding here.”
Helene told Tweedy of a girl on the news who had hiccups for five weeks straight. “They did shock therapy to stop it.”
The busboy brought more bread. The waiter poured. Michael asked William about the mayor’s right-hand man, a gesture of peace, and about paving the car park at the Club, which had been William’s pride and joy along with the backstabbing contractors, backscratching in back rooms, snake-in-the-grass amendments and substitutions, amen for asphalt. They chewed and chewed. William offered Helene a roll. Helene bit the roll tenderly at him and crumbs fell. Tweedy set her fork down. Her busboy came with his bronze wand. Once at a fondue dinner for eight, Helene had dropped a thick crust of bread from her fork into the bubbling cheese. With William on her right, they, according to the rules, had kissed. It was a good kiss and everyone watched it. Tweedy would give William to Helene if she could think of a graceful way to do it.
“You cannot imagine how smooth it drives,” William said leaning toward Helene.
“I’ve always dreamed of a spin in one,” Helene said. She leaned back toward William.
“It’s an excellent car, I admit,” Michael said to Helene. “An outstanding car.”
“An astonishing car,” Tweedy said.
“Tonight,” William said to Helene. “We’ll take you in the car.” He dropped the car keys by her plate. “We’ll take a spin. Take you home.”
“Can I drive it?” said Helene.
“Of course,” said William.
“Three’s a crowd,” said Tweedy. “Perhaps Michael will take me home.”
“Shifting’s a breeze with this transmission,” Michael said to Helene.
“This transmission’s new from previous models,” said William to Michael.
“Of course,” said Michael.
“The absolute most recent transmission,” Tweedy said. “Who wouldn’t love it?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Helene, as if driving this car was simply not possible. A dream that simply could not come true.
Tweedy picked up the keys. She set the keys in Helene’s lap.
“But it is possible,” Tweedy said. “Every dream can come true. As they told us as children.”
Tweedy had once tried it with another man. They had walked between the trees in the park, he read her poetry with his eyes welling as if the rhymes made sense to him: a Springer Spaniel of a man, that park, those trees, how silly. Once the man left his shirt at the house. Tweedy washed and ironed it, then hung the shirt in William’s closet by mistake. She found the shirt sprawled on the bed soon after with a note pinned, “Dear, this is not my size in the arms. Thanks, W.”
“So delicious, all of it,” said Tweedy. “Not spicy at all.”
William waved to the waiter, “I think we’re done here.”
But what had the Spaniel worn home? It had been fall and windy, too cold without a shirt. She had never thought of it. The busboy came with Tweedy’s turquoise handbag. He set it on the tablecloth. “It was found in the powder room,” he said, and Tweedy set the handbag in her lap and said, “Oh my goodness, thank you.”
“Oh dear,” said Helene.
“It must have happened a thousand times,” said William to the busboy.
Everyone smiled. “What a darling,” said Tweedy and snapped the turquoise mouth open and shut. Took a tissue.
Her busboy went away.
“What’s that busboy doing in the powder room anyway?” Michael said. He glared at the busboy’s slender back.
“Part of his duties, no doubt,” said Helene. “Some checklist or other.”
“Nothing sinister,” William said.
“Better check you haven’t been robbed,” Michael said to Tweedy. “Youths these days will do anything.”
“That boy?” Tweedy said and opened the bag again. “What could he want from me?” She rummaged through the handbag without looking. “That boy doesn’t even have a name.”
William snapped at the waiter, “Yes, we are done here, sir.” William pointed at the cluttered table and the waiter snapped at the busboy who was drinking water in the back of the restaurant by the kitchen doors. The busboy set the glass on an empty tray. Tweedy watched him weave through: Milton was a good name for the boy, a possibility. Or Pieter Van Something or Martin O’Somesuch or Marshall or Harlow, after her great grandpapa, or Harrison or Henderson, so many fine names are thoroughly monopolized: Will, for example, William. Willy. Tweedy was not a name at all, but appeared with the bee, still free, at large, at liberty, like Luther, Günter, Stieg, and Gustavo.
“That’s it,” she said. The busboy scurried away with some dirty dishes. “Run, Gustavo, Run!”
The dessert menu was typed out on a small white card as follows:
Crème Brûlée
Gâteau au Chocolat
Petite Lemon
Black Russian Tort
Pecan Tart
Vanilla Ice Cream, Local Sprig of Mint
“What will it be?” said William as the waiter stood by. “What’s good?”
“We have wonderful choices here,” said the waiter.
“Oh I love dessert,” said Helene, “I just love it.”
“Looks wonderful,” said Michael.
“What will it be?” said William.
“Anything at all for me,” said Tweedy. She set the menu down on a faint old stain.
“Shall we split a few?” asked Helene to the menu.
“Three will be fine,” said William, “after a meal like that one.”
“That’s fine,” said Michael. “Three for the four of us.”
“Wonderful,” said Helene. “I agree completely.”
“Tweedy dear?” said William.
“Anything at all,” said Tweedy.
“You had better come back,” said Helene to the waiter. The waiter went away.
“I always like their chocolate gateau here,” said William. “I say the gateau, it’s won awards, the crème brûlée too, and Helene, what do you like the looks of?”
“I’m for the Black Russian,” said Michael.
“I think I’m for the Petite Lemon,” Helene said.
“Fine, fine,” said William. “But we won’t need two chocolate cakes. Either the gateau or the Black Russian, but not both. Gateau is my favorite.”
“Sounds wonderful to me,” said Helene, and waved to the waiter.
“I’m for the Black Russian,” Michael said.
“Perhaps the waiter can bring the Black Russian,” said Tweedy. “I think we are decided.”
“Gateau is better,” said William.
“Or the busboy,” said Tweedy.
“Don’t complicate things, dear,” said Helene to Tweedy.
“Gateau,” said William to the waiter who had arrived. “And one crème brûlée and the lemon—”
“I’m having the Black Russian,” said Michael to the waiter. “I’ll have that with extra forks.”
“That’s four,” said William. “We don’t need four.”
“Can that busboy deliver the desserts?” said Tweedy to the waiter. He nodded, of course.
“My grandfather was from Kiev,” said Michael. “I’m settled on the Black Russian.”
“But I tell you, the gateau is the specialty here. You are new in town,” said William. “I know this place.”
“I’m fine with both cakes,” said Michael, “two chocolate cakes is fine with me.” He winked at Helene and she smiled back. “All of them are fine, I’m not picky.”
“Two chocolates is fine with me too,” said Helene. “And the crème brûlée.”
“Helene, really, see what I’m saying,” said William. “Two chocolates is no fun at all. And what of the lemon you wanted? Keep your backbone, dear, the lemon has several awards too.”
“I’m feeling chocolate tonight,” she said. “I’m for chocolate and more chocolate.”
Tweedy hiccuped at forty-one seconds, progress, progress.
William stood up and walked around the table. He pounded Tweedy three times on the back and returned to his seat. The waiter hovered ten feet off. The other tables were clearing. Empty chairs sprawled in disorder. Helene straightened the centerpiece, a vase shaped like a seal and a girl dancing in white porcelain. A red rose stood up between the partners.
Gustavo was far across the room. He piled himself with dirty plates in the crook of his arm, up the arm to the shoulder, the tray and the other arm, more and more. He slumped under the burden, the heaviest thing she had ever seen. Gustavo saving for college, or to take his girl to the prom, to get a tux and cummerbund to match her dress, blue blue, Gustavo blue, my blue darling. He’ll need better nutrition if he’s to get his way with her on prom night. Extra body fat. No girl likes a skinny boy. Gustavo tottered under dishes for her. He lifted goblets with smears and platters with blood still pooled with gravy and sprigs of garnish, all for her. All to crush her in the plush of the limo. Tweedy once dreamed so also. She could understand his error: that limo will cost him. How will he possibly get the limo, or equivalent? On his probable wages and meager tips doled out by stingy waiters and cooks? He will also need to tip the driver. The cap and suit are always extra. He must pay extra for the driver to bow to his girl, to open the door for her, to tuck her hem so the door won’t crush it. To show the depth of his feeling. The effect of her proximity to his body. To his lungs, diaphragm and extremities. I’m alive. Can you feel it? Is what the limo will express. He must pay and pay to lean on the girl on the bumper, hips and shoulders under blue satin, lips smeared pink. She will taste like pear. Poor Gustavo. He’d do better to drive the car himself. Forget the driver. Save the cash. The girl won’t mind. They never do. For a good life, a good girl will do anything.
The busboy stacked and stacked dishes. Impossible.
“Everyone needs help,” she said. “Everyone needs it sometimes.”
No one heard it. They were watching the busboy: the table, the room, the bee. Each with his own view and interpretation of the subject and meaning: He balanced the tray on the flat of his hand and swayed and tottered. He was a pyramid of dishes steering for the kitchen; the waiter gave a wide berth as Gustavo staggered under the weight. He tipped and swiveled at the double doors. Tweedy waited for his crash, his cacophony of china and silver and teacups, the whole world in the air. For once they will stop their chewing and chatter and look at him. A cure for hiccups is a bullet and a gun, a snakebite, a gas can. The people will push their plates away just as the dishes fly up, the first step to becoming shards, broken handles, and slivers of crystal, which will slide twenty feet under the tables, come to rest near a shoe in one second flat: an eternity. He will sweep it all up after, every fragment, while the tables snap-snap for the check and the waiter running: “no dessert for us, thank you, or you or you, no chocolate or lemon.” They will all go home. They will all go to bed, stupendous, awaiting destruction still, pale pink and polite.
Gustavo pushed open the double doors with his narrow backside. He twisted himself and the stack around him. He disappeared inside the light of the kitchen.
William slapped the table. “Have what you want then.” The waiter stood by.
“I think we need four,” said Helene.
“Four is absurd,” said William. He slapped the table.
“I want the Black Russian,” said Michael to the waiter.
“We know what you want,” said William.
“I’m talking to him,” said Michael of the waiter. “Black Russian, Black Russian, Black Russian.” Gustavo pushed silently through the double doors. His tray was empty again. He stood surveying the tables.
William held his head. Gustavo swept a dollar bill from a table while the waiter was distracted. Tweedy began to clap. “Bravo! Bravo!”
Helene said, “Perhaps the pecan tart.”
“My God,” said William.
“Art Beeker liked pecan pie,” said Michael.
“The man is dead,” said William, standing.
“And we will have the chocolate gateau as well,” said Helene.
“I won’t eat a bite of it,” said William. “Not one bite.”
“Do as you must,” said Helene.
Art Beeker had been a fair card player at the Club and he did not like dessert at all. Tweedy remembered this distinctly. Otherwise, Art was unmemorable, a fading man.
Helene ordered the pecan tart and the scoop of vanilla. The waiter asked Tweedy last, after a hiccup. She said, “I think I’ll try the powder room again,” and stood and ordered three vanillas with mint as she went. In the powder room Tweedy dug in her turquoise handbag. She wrote the note with lipstick on an envelope. Punctuation and style were simple and the envelope was old, flat and clean from a remote zippered pocket rarely opened. It had been waiting there blind to its future. At the table Tweedy ate the ice cream slowly, never with such pleasure. She tried each of three spoons laid out by her busboy. She drank long drinks of water between. She pulled the ice cream off the spoons to the ends of her lips. They turned white and cold. She could not come close to finishing. She offered to share half-heartedly. She licked her lips and a finger. She hiccuped.
Helene set the car keys by William’s plate. Gustavo cleared the plates around them. Then the check came.
“Fifteen percent, no more,” William said. “This waiter was only average.”
“In Europe a tip’s an insult,” Michael said. “They’d throw you in the back alley for fifteen percent.”
“Twenty is a minimum,” said Helene, on and on, so they never saw the handoff from Tweedy to busboy: the tray, the envelope, the lipstick words, and the turquoise keychain, which the busboy stuffed down the front of his pants. He already looked older.
“My spare set,” Tweedy whispered. “Follow me. Make it look convincing.”
The table was soon cleared.
Soon, in the alley, Gustavo with the envelope stood smoking. He was not usually one to smoke, but he puffed. The brick was hard on his shoulder. Busboy was only his first career. He read the lipstick words again.
“Take the Car . . . ,” said the envelope.
He watched the party of four under the awning, which was blue and white with lights on the skirting. The party parted, one couple walking one way and the other the other. Gustavo puffed. The chill shivered his skin, how surprising after the ovens and candles, the night of sweat and running. Michael and Helene stood beside the parking meter. They pecked, then Helene clicked away down the street.
“. . . Take the Girl,” the envelope continued.
Gustavo watched William find his keys and slip one in the door of the long creamy car in front of the deli. William opened the door for Tweedy then walked around the car and dropped into it. The car pulled out. The headlights slashed the bumpers and tires parked along the street and the glass in the storefronts. Gustavo rubbed the stub out on brick. Gustavo threw the stub on the dirt where it smoked long after he’d slipped in behind the wheel of his old Dodge Dart parked in the alley and followed the long creamy car.
The car made a few stops on the way home. The Dart pulled over and waited. Gustavo was not usually the type for rereading, for following strangers, for waiting outside on curbs and lighting another, but there was pleasure in all this new. He reread the envelope. All of it.
“Take the Car. Take the Girl. For a Good Life if you can,” it said.
At the liquor store William walked in then walked out with a bag. At the drugstore Tweedy walked in. A horse and buggy trotted past from the Bavarian Hotel on the corner. Gustavo had seen these horses hundreds of times but had never seen the mist made with their noses. How the buggy driver tapped their swaying hips with the crop, which was small and thin, just for show with horses so well-trained and obedient. Tweedy walked out of the drugstore with a bag. She stood under the awning. She watched the horses and listened to the clop of their shoes. When she saw the Dart across the street, she waved. The long creamy car pulled out and the Dart followed it.
Their home was seven turns away and had brick pillars in front and a hedge. The car turned in. No dogs came running, a good sign. The door opened to the light and then the door shut and the light went out. The Dart parked behind the hedge by the last pillar. Gustavo shuffled papers in his glove box, then the Dart pulled away.
Rivers are convincing in movies, he knew. Gustavo drove to the river. He took the frontage road that was tilted and ridged. He parked the Dart on the river’s edge next to old bridge pilings. The front tire rolled in and submerged. His shoes got wet climbing out.
The new bridge was lit up upstream. The headlights passed across and back. They lit up the river waves, the dots and dashes. He unscrewed the license plates with a screwdriver from the tool kit in the trunk.
“OK,” he said.
He found a triangle of glass in the sand, since sand and glass are convincing too as are blood and skin. He jabbed his arm with the glass in a hairless muscle, but the blood was meager. He cut over his eyebrow in the rearview mirror for more, a thin clean line, always a gusher according to movies and slap shots on the hockey pond as a boy when winter and blood were as entirely real as gangsters, as hurricanes, as gold and silver mines at the end of caves and no girls at all.
Fresh blood in the eye. He smeared the driver’s seat with it, a credible crime scene. He had always wanted one. And blood on the inside of the door, which they would dust for prints, and the steering wheel, which his ex-girlfriend would cry over if they even let her through the cordoned area. Most likely not. She was not immediate family. She’d been such a bitch at prom. That chess team captain with the big teeth. Envelopes need not be obeyed to the letter. One must use judgment, exercise freedom. He wiped his face on his sleeve. They would never look for him.
Gustavo scuffled with himself in the sand. From the marks the police would call it “an unsolved mugging”. He bashed the perfect old hood with a head-sized stone for extra credibility. He was sorry for the Dart, his grandmama’s, which refused reverse and always would now. He stuffed his tips in his pocket. He threw the wallet with the license in the driver’s seat, then rolled up the windows. He pushed the Dart further into the river, which was heavy and pushy. The waves sloshed over the windshield. He threw the triangle glass and stone in the river. The splashes disappeared. He walked out as far as he dared. He cleaned himself of the busboy.
Gustavo lifted the tool kit from the trunk. A Christmas gift from his father. He had really never used the tool kit, never held each tool in his hand and thought of potentials of wrenches and blades. He lifted out the gas can, water jug, and the little suitcase he always kept ready in case of sudden opportunity. He stopped to think. Mistakes are so easy and well-disguised. He leaned on the trunk. At critical times especially. He put the license plates in the little suitcase. He sat in the sand and stones and watched the cars on the new bridge. He listened to the water flow past him toward bigger rivers.
The little suitcase had a handle and wheels. He rolled it over the sand until he noticed the tracks the wheels were making. He carried the suitcase the rest of the way to the frontage road pavement, then went back to wipe the tracks away with his coat. He would wash the coat somewhere new, in some big-mouthed machine with washing instructions in a foreign language. He rolled the suitcase on the frontage road. He carried it when cutting through yards and parks. It was not heavy at all. The coat was tied around his waist. The neighborhood dogs barked on the end of their chains, collars tightening around the necks, as he slid past their backyards and back porches. His feet hurt.
At the car, he dug in his briefs for her turquoise keychain. The key turned in the lock like lemon meringue. He slid across the long creamy seat. He checked the glove box, which contained a man’s wallet filled with bills, some cookies in foil (cream custard-filled and ginger thins), and some assorted jewelry. He let the car roll backward. The driveway had just enough downward slope, not too fast or slow. His foot swung out the open door. His foot pushed the asphalt out to sea. His fingers crushed the envelope. He steered with his elbow. It was a heavy car, full of gas, and rolled well. It would sell for a bundle: Texas or Mexico. The Panama Canal. The moon was white. The car backed into the darkened street.
Everyone was sleeping.
No one to thank.
He unwrapped the foil. He wiped his mouth on his damp sleeve, swept the crumbs out the open door, pushed the car down the street, one hand on the wheel and one on the door frame, careful of the hinges, slow and peaceful under big heavy trees. He thanked the branches and leaves lit in elegant street lamps. He gave a thumbs-up to them.
At a safe distance, past the pillars and hedges, he pulled the door shut. The engine started like a maiden voyage. The headlights were excellent. The car was warm and comfortable, smelled nice like the powder room, and was big enough to sleep in.
Canada. Bolivia.
“OK. OK.”
He screwed on his old plates at an abandoned farm stand. He crunched last year’s kernels underfoot, soggy from recent heavy rains, sprouting pale thin legs in mud. He changed to high tops. He kicked a dried apple in the ditch. He set the envelope on the dash. He was not usually one for maps, for lines on paper claiming to lead somewhere.
The car pulled out south and ran well over the county line.
