Tyra slept late, woke to the sound of rain, and used both hands to hold her skull together. Curtains made a gray square in the dimness, and she imagined cool, wet rain, the patter of it on her face. It didn’t help. Curling into a ball, Tyra tried to stitch together the pieces of her night. She’d argued with Sara—nothing new—then stormed out, angry. That was early. Then what? Happy hour at the Tiki Lounge? That seemed right. Then pizza at Shakey’s, down the block, and ladies’ night at some club downtown. She remembered an empty dance floor, a seriously hot bartender, and some old guy making a play from the stool beside her. She had visions of cab rides and other dance floors and other bars. Eventually, she remembered the dude.
“Oh shit, the dude…”
That’s what she’d called him. He had a name, but it was something vanilla like Alex or Winston or Brad. He’d introduced himself with a name and a drink, and she’d said, Thanks, dude. He’d been tall—she remembered that—a tall guy with Jesus hair, a silk shirt, and something like a bearskin rug on his chest. After four tequila shots, Tyra had run fingers through that rug, and said, Dude … Later, there’d been dancing and kissing, a blur of streetlights from a van with shag carpet on the dash. It was a dude’s van. She remembered saying it. Dude, this is a dude’s van. She’d said the same word when he pumped up Jimi Hendrix, and when he lit a joint, and when he ran off the road trying to make the turn for Dairy Queen. It seemed the word had been her language last night. She’d laughed it, and said it soft, and panted it twice when he went downtown, her fingers curled in all that hair. Dude, dude …
But the dude was gone, and Tyra wasn’t sad about it. Out of bed, she drew the curtain and looked out at gray rain, a gray sky. She already wanted a drink.
No, she decided. Not today.
Pulling clothes from a pile on the floor, Tyra crept from the room. Her favorite diner was only two blocks down, but it felt like miles. Even after coffee, eggs, and cheese grits, she still felt less than human. But the rain had dwindled. The sun was trying.
She still couldn’t handle Sara.
A movie made better sense. That was another six blocks, but she made it in time for the early show, stopping at the posters to consider the choices.
THE GODFATHER
DELIVERANCE
She went for the second because Burt Reynolds looked good. When it was over, she bought candy and a Coke, and watched the other movie, too. It was cool inside. It was dark. Even so, it took two drinks at a local bistro before she was ready to try again with Sara. She was being so unfair! Tyra was trying to make her life a better thing.
Almost no drugs …
Less drinking, kind of …
She’d even considered calling the cops about the parked cars she’d hit. How many was it? Five? Six? Hell, she could have hit fifty. She could have killed someone.
Shit …
She dropped money on the bar.
Sara was right to be angry.
Telling herself that she was ready at last, Tyra aimed for the condo, but ended up walking four or five times around her own block, unready to go inside. It was dusk when she finally stopped and looked up at the light in Sara’s window. The shade was drawn, but she was there.
“Okay,” she said. “One more try.”
She kept her nerve all the way to Sara’s door. “Sara? Sweetheart? I know you’re in there.”
“Go away, Tyra.”
She knocked harder for a full minute. Eventually, she beat on the door. “For God’s sake, Sara, I’m trying to apologize. Open the door. Come on…” She stopped pounding, and spread her fingers on the wood. “Why won’t you talk to me?”
Not everyone would understand her need, but Sara was the gauge by which Tyra measured all the ways she’d screwed up in life: the bad boyfriends, the failed jobs. A silent treatment like this had only happened once before, when Tyra went beyond doing drugs, and tried to make a living selling them. She remembered the arguments, the screaming.
Your parents are rich. Ask them for the money!
But how could Tyra explain the debts? The kinds of people she owed? Her father owned his own business; he was a deacon of the church. Bad enough she’d dropped out of college …
“Do I need to beg, Sara? Is that what you want? I’ll beg. I swear I will.”
“You wouldn’t beg me if your life depended on it. You’re too proud and stubborn and spoiled.”
Tyra covered her mouth, choking down an unexpected sob as the dead bolt turned, and a crack appeared with Sara’s face behind it.
“You could have killed someone, you know.”
“I do know that, sweetheart. I promise I do.”
Sara opened the door all the way. She wore pajamas, an old robe. “Are you sober now?”
“Of course I am. I mean, two glasses of wine…” Tyra held her thumb and finger an inch apart. She wanted a smile, a hint of a smile. A smile meant forgiveness. Forgiveness meant she wouldn’t lose her only friend.
“I’ve seen you do some stupid shit, Tyra…”
“I know you have.”
“That biker last year. Kiting those checks. The heroin…”
“All in the past. I swear.” Tyra held up a hand and crossed her heart. Sara softened, but looked tired. That was on Tyra, too. “I’m a bad roommate, I know. I spend too much. I party. I keep you up.”
“You’re not bad,” Sara said. “It’s just that you have horrible judgment, no limits, and no consideration for others.”
“Let me make it up to you.”
“How?”
“Doughnuts. Krispy Kreme.”
“Well, if it’s Krispy Kreme…”
The smile appeared at last, and Tyra clapped with joy. “Yes! It’s a plan! We can stay up late, watch TV, whatever you want.”
“No drinking, though.”
“Cross my heart.” Tyra made another X on her chest. “Twenty minutes, yeah? I need to shower. I’m gross.”
“I’ll make tea.”
Tyra skipped to her room, and thought she might cry a little. She showered, then pulled on the flared jeans, the T-shirt with no bra. In the kitchen, Sara gave her a hug, and made it a good, tight one. “You know I love you. You just make bad choices.”
“Not after today. Hand to God. A new start.” A tear slipped out; Tyra didn’t fight it. “I’ll be right back with doughnuts.”
“Bring a dozen,” Sara said.
“A dozen. Check.”
“And get some for yourself.”
Sara blew a kiss, and Tyra left with the lightest step she’d had in days. In the night air, she actually laughed. “Get some for yourself…”
Fumbling with the keys, Tyra made it to the driveway. The Mercedes was too wrecked to be an option, so she slid behind the wheel of Sara’s Beetle, a little Volkswagen with pale cream paint and red, vinyl seats. Tyra locked the door and started the car, then saw the joint when she turned on the lights. It was only half a joint, maybe a third, the end of it blackened where Sara had crushed it against the bottom of the ashtray sometime days or weeks before. Tyra peered guiltily through the glass.
Only the doughnuts …
That lasted to the store and halfway back. The break came at a red light where pavement made a cross on the face of the city. It would be nice, she thought.
Get high …
Eat some doughnuts …
The light turned green, but there was no traffic, so Tyra kept her foot on the clutch, thinking about it.
It’s just a joint, right, not even a whole one …
The light turned again before she lit it.
“Ah … shit, yes.”
Smoke rolled out, and her head went back. She took another toke and drove with the windows down, finishing the joint in six blocks, then stopping at a gas station for chewing gum and eye drops. The cashier rang her up but did it slowly, his eyes on her face, her chest. “Anything else?”
“Camel Straights.”
“That’s it?”
Tyra paid the man, then made a peace sign, and pushed the door with her ass, liking how he watched, liking the buzz. From there, the drive was groovy. She didn’t care about Jason French—the fucker—her job, or her parents. Traffic thickened, but the music was good, and warm air brushed her face. By the time she reached the neighborhood, she was tapping the wheel and singing with the radio. On the final block, she slowed, too high and happy to notice the parked car or the men inside it. In the driveway, she got out of the Volkswagen, already practicing.
Am I high? Of course I’m not high …
Come on, Sara. Don’t be silly …
“Excuse me, miss?” A man’s voice broke Tyra’s concentration. He stood to the side of the driveway, looking apologetic in khakis, a button-down, and a bow tie. He said, “I’m sorry to bother you.” And Tyra thought: Sweet old man, somebody’s husband.
“Yes?”
He stepped onto the driveway. “Would you be good enough to look at a photograph for me?”
“I don’t understand.”
“It will take but a moment.”
The situation was strange, but the weed had been pretty strong. She thought, Okay, whatever … The photograph he showed her was small, but the streetlamp was close and bright enough.
“That’s Jason French.” Her mouth hardened into lines of sudden suspicion. “Did he send you? You can tell that son of a bitch he had his chance. Tell him he’s an asshole and he can go fuck himself. You can tell him that from me.”
“And you are…?”
“Tyra. Don’t pretend you don’t know.”
The small man nodded once, ignoring the anger, pocketing the photo. “Earlier, I saw a blond woman enter your condominium. Is she your roommate?”
Tyra squinted, confused by the questions and the fuzz in her head. “I don’t understand. What…?”
“Five-seven. Slender.”
Tyra started to nod, but something was off with the old man and his moment, and not because of the pot. His eyes didn’t match the clothing—they were too knowing—and he wasn’t that old, either, just seamed at the eyes, the corners of his mouth. “I’m going inside, now. My friend is waiting.”
“Sara, yes. She’s lovely. Really, truly … lovely.”
“How do you know her name?”
He shrugged, and Tyra stepped back, suddenly afraid. “Don’t come near me.”
“I won’t take a step.”
“Mister, I will scream.”
Showing small teeth, the man gestured with his right hand. “If you will look behind you.”
Tyra turned, and saw a second man, a giant with a wide face and shaggy hair. Behind him, the street was empty, and he knew it, too. The grin. The bright eyes. She thought, Mistake, misunderstanding.
The smaller man nodded as if sympathetic. “It’s best if you don’t fight.”
Tyra glanced at Sara’s window, so close. She wanted to run, but her feet were heavy. Like a dream, she thought; but the night was no dream. The big man said, “Hey, lady,” then hit her so fast and hard she went down on the concrete, a pain in her head as if something inside had broken. She tried to crawl, but hands caught her, and lifted her, and pushed her into the back seat of Sara’s car, down onto the floorboards. Even then, she could see the same window. It was Sara’s bedroom, the pretty one with pink walls and views into the park across the street. She stretched out a hand as someone outside said, “Follow me. Keep it slow. And here, you’ll need this.”
The car rocked as the big man climbed in, turned in his seat, and pointed a Polaroid camera. “Hold still.” There was a flash, a whirring sound. Still stretching for that far, high window, Tyra said her roommate’s name. “No talking. I don’t like talking.”
The little engine started, and he turned on the headlights. Tyra said Sara’s name again. She tried to scream it, but the big man twisted again, and found her throat with his hand. Tyra tried to fight, but he was strong and her fingers weak. They scraped an arm. Darkness flickered.
She opened her mouth, but had no air.
The darkness came again.
The darkness stayed.