Jackie came back to the Light House trailer from Houston and said to hell with it—to hell with all of it—he was settling down. No more. Never again. He’d seen the light. He’d stayed too long. He was the old guy at the party.

Summer asked him what was the matter.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Jack stopped what he was doing: putting away his wallet, his cigarette lighter, a handful of pocket change. He looked Summer square in the eye, to let her know he meant business. “I don’t ever want to talk about it.”

Summer gave him his space. Jack could get a wee grumpy if she remained in his face after he’d started to sputter. However, she would prefer no chance of miscommunication.

“What do you mean, you’re done with all of it.”

“The whole kit and caboodle.” Jack pointed toward the loose board hiding the King James Version at the bottom of the steps. He pointed to the tray on the coffee table which had been reduced to stems and seeds. He pointed at the aspirin bottle filled with Valium. “I’m through with it. I want nothing more to do with it. I’ve said it before and I’m going to say it again: it is over. I’m going clean. I don’t want to so much as touch the shit. No more pot dealers. No more coke dealers. No more trips out of town to buy quantity and shitting my pants the whole way back because what we got in the trunk could make things federal. I’m settling down.”

Summer portioned her words piecemeal. “You’re settling down how?”

“I’ll tell you how.” Jack raised a finger to the air, as if teaching a class. “I’m going to ask Lindsay to be my steady lady. I’m going to start a life with her. Not a transient life full of fake identifications and idiot marks, but a real life. One where we go to a church we don’t believe and make friends with folks we don’t like and laugh at jokes that aren’t funny. Like normal people do.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about what happened in Houston?”

Jack cut a glance at her, but said nothing. He crawled into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. Summer watched as he drank it to the last drop.

“What about the rest of that kilo?” asked Summer. “What about all the marijuana? We’ve still got more than a pound.”

“It’s yours,” said Jack. “I hereby renounce any and all claims to the contraband purchased before this moment in time.” He checked his watch against the clock on the microwave. “You’re selling it all anyway. I want nothing more to do with it.”

“I think you need to sit down.”

Jack put a finger to his chin. “However, I am a bit low on funds, so if you could front me a hundred bucks until my first paycheck…”

“Paycheck?” Summer dropped her head into her hands and collapsed against the wood-paneled wall. “How the hell are you going to get a paycheck?”

“I’m going to get a job.”

Now, she’d heard it all. She looked him over—twitchy, sweaty, beady-eyed, and scared to all Armageddon—and couldn’t imagine a single white employer who’d take him. She thought hard about what skills he might possibly have. Sure, he may have thought he hung the moon, but last she checked, that got no man a job.

“I’m going to wait tables,” he said. “Or tend bar. I could do that, tend a bar. I’m real good at getting people fucked up so it’s high time I try it legal-like. Folks in need of a good time, look no further.”

“The decrease in pay will likely leave you rankled.”

“That’s what you think,” said Jack. “Bartenders make good money. And they don’t have to worry about going to jail or friends who will stab you in the back or…”

His eyes went somewhere far away.

Summer snapped her fingers until he drew focus on her.

“You should sleep and revisit this subject when you are sober.”

“I am sober.” His frisbee pupils told another tale. “Last time I snorted any E was hours ago and I took an Adderall to snap me awake.”

He’d never make it a week out there.

Summer had to agree. How long would Lindsay stay with him after she saw him fall into one of his fits? He’d go dipping into the cash register behind any bar he worked, so that plan was bound to fail as well. Summer knew he could do anything he set his mind to, but not anything.

He wouldn’t last a day.

Jack squeezed up the stairs, then back down and took a seat on the blue beanbag. He’d brought with him a picture frame, the one formerly holding the picture of Keith Richards he had cut from a magazine. With shaking hands, he removed the picture and carefully set it aside. He replaced it with a printed screenshot of Lindsay. It was a selfie. He rested his elbows on his knees and his chin within his hands while admiring the hell out of it.

Perhaps it’s best if we let him try.

 

SUMMER WISHED him well, but on the inside, wished he’d go fuck himself. She dialed Crunch and asked loud enough for Jack to hear if he’d come pick her up. Said she wanted to spend time with her real friends. Said she wanted to go somewhere to feel safe. Said she’d wait for him out front of the trailer, because she could no longer stand the air on the inside.

No sooner had she stepped into the moonlight and the stars and the last of the cicadas than did Lindsay come traipsing up the walk. She carried with her a bottle of wine which she held like a holy relic.

“Jack is making his special chicken,” Lindsay said. “I brought a Chardonnay because it goes well, but also because Jack said he likes a good Chardonnay.”

“Does he now?” snapped Summer. “Ain’t he full of surprises?”

Lindsay smiled, probably thinking she had one over on Summer. Probably thinking she knew Jackie better than anyone else, if for no other reason than because they’d swapped saliva and seminal fluids and god only knew what else. Probably thinking Summer wasn’t nothing but unwashed, surly shit.

But Lindsay was an idiot. Summer knew more than what he liked—swinging out over the creek in a tire, the Carolina chickadee, minor league baseball games, macaroni and cheese from a box, coffee with lots of cream and sugar, old sit-coms from the 1980s, fresh peaches, driving at night, the Pixies, that one time in Mississippi when they ate fried alligator tail and listened to an old-timey blues band and he got drunk and said, “Stormy, this is the best night in the entire world,” History Channel, bourbon, air-conditioning, classic rock, smoking from a pipe instead of a joint or a bong, being in control, thumb tacks instead of push pins, mayonnaise instead of mustard, boxer briefs instead of choosing one of the two, quiet in the mornings, shirts with collars…not a one of them being a bottle of bullshit Chardonnay—she knew his name. Not off the top of her head, but she knew it, and it for damn sure wasn’t Jack Jordan. Lindsay could stick his every appendage into her grimy little slit and would never know a fraction of what Summer could tell her.

Summer put a hand to Lindsay, at about the love handle. Felt the girl flinch.

“I don’t care what he says,” said Summer, “you should feel free to eat as much as you want. Don’t listen to how the media believes women should look. I bet you’re so much happier now—so much freer—since you no longer worry about your body image.”

Lindsay recoiled, as if slapped. She covered her midsection with her bony, bulimic arms.

“Us girls got to stick together,” Summer told her with a wink. “Don’t let the men tell us where to find happiness. Am I right, girl?”

“I…I, uh—”

“But if you ever did want a, you know—” she sniffled her nose two times hard “—then I’ll hook you up. Friend prices.”

Lindsay opened her mouth. She closed it.

“Enjoy your dinner.”

Summer waded down the switchback to wait for Crunch, closer to the highway, rather than do what she wanted, which was stomp out of the shadows and back into the Light House trailer. To throw a finger to his face and accuse him of bullshittery. For him to claim something so clearly devious as an affinity for Chardonnay—the smell of leather, paperback pulp novels, girls in sweaters, girls in yoga pants, girls with pigtails, driving ten miles over the speed limit, talk radio at night, winter as opposed to summer, rain as opposed to shine, not standing in line, the Rolling Stones, drinks with lots of ice, dirty jokes—only told her he was taking this to another level. This time, he might actually be serious.

No matter how much dope she and Crunch and Mike D and Crazy Carter smoked, no matter how many YouTube videos they sat around and laughed at, no matter how many times they listened to Summer’s extensive collection of bootlegged Grateful Dead cassette tapes…no matter how much coke or pills or booze…she could not shake it from her head.

He’s back there right now. He’s cooking that goddamn chicken dish, which is the only thing he knows how to cook. The one I taught him to make. The one he only makes for girls and sits about, listlessly bragging his statistics on how many times he’s cooked it versus how many times it’s gotten him laid. That stupid little girl will put that food in her stupid little mouth, then put her stupid little mouth on my Jackie. And soon they will be rutting away on the couch or, god forbid, the carpet, and next thing you know they will have a stupid little baby and move to a home closer to the school.

“There’s still a way to stop this,” Summer said aloud, and only one of the boys so much as cocked an eyebrow.

“Stop what?” asked Crunch.

“I need to borrow your car,” she told him. He lay supine on the run-ragged carpet of Dealer’s apartment and only stared at the popcorn ceiling as Summer rummaged the keys from his pocket. “I’ll bring it back torreckly.”

It’s so easy to forget Jack can’t read minds. It’s all a parlor trick. He’s anticipating basic human emotion and calculating the reactions. But just in case…just in case, think only about something else. Think about anything else… How about that time in New Orleans when we went out for drinks and the band came back to the house and we threw a party so big and they let him sing a song in the microphone and he said over and over it was the best party he’d ever been to and wouldn’t you believe, we threw it together? Remember how fun it was to watch him smile. Think about that, instead of the other, because what happens if you’re wrong and he really can read minds?

Summer found herself not back at the Light House trailer with Jack, but instead at the Circle K, and behind the counter was that old Muslim son of a bitch who never was any fun to run into after a night out. Bastard used his position behind the counter to cast judgment upon folks out for a good time, and some nights she could deal with it.

Not this one.

“Give me three packs of those things back yonder,” she said as she pointed a finger behind the counter. “That stuff they call Ivory Wave.”

The Muslim frowned. “Do you know what that is?”

“I ain’t got time for your bullshit tonight,” she snapped. “Shut the hell up and fork it over.”

The Muslim furrowed his dark brow and looked her over once or twice. His eyes shone like rubies. He had a snowy beard and he rubbed his palm into it.

“Satan’s plan is to excite enmity and hatred within you,” he said. “With intoxicants. To hinder you from remembrance of God and prayer.” He put both hands on the counter. “Will ye refrain?”

“Just give me the goddamn bath salts,” she spat. She turned her back to the counter and watched his reflection in the beer cooler glass down the aisle. She waited until he collected her purchase and rang up her order. She paid and left.

She didn’t care how she found them as she kicked open the door of the Light House trailer. Should they be fucking in some corner of a room or cooking their damn meal or canoodling out on the goddamn back stoop…she didn’t care in the slightest. She had a mission. She would not be sated.

Summer found them at the dinner table, supping by candlelight.

Bless their fucking hearts.

Jack stood from the table, a paper napkin still tucked into his belt. He raised out both hands like maybe Summer carried a scattergun, instead of two fresh-rolled joints.

“Summer,” he said, “please don’t start nothing. We’re having a nice, quiet dinner, and we—”

“Jackie, how dare you?” Summer smiled best she could, but this settled Lindsay none the better. She gathered what possessions she could and quarried them into her lap. “You always think the worst of me.”

“Well…I—”

“I’ve turned over a whole new leaf, Jackie.” She held out the two joints. “I meant to give you these earlier. Just something to help the two of you relax on your wonderful date.”

Jack cocked his head to the side. “What are you up to, Summer?”

“You hurt my feelings, Jackie,” she said. Through clenched teeth, she added, “Sometimes I think that’s all we do: hurt each other. This is where I put my foot down and end the cycle.”

She stole a look toward Lindsay, frightened in the corner. Her big eyes threatened to melt even Summer’s angry heart. Her grip on the twin joints weakened. She closed her eyes and swallowed at the nothing in her throat, and when she opened them again, she shoved the joints into Jack’s outstretched hand.

“And when you smoke them,” she said, “I want only that you should think of me.”

“Thanks, Summer,” said Jack.

Summer said not another word, simply went out the way she’d come. She drove directly to Matt and Kathy’s apartment, but did not get out of the car. Instead, she sat in the parking lot and rolled everything over and over in her mind. She could barely sit still, her ass shifting about and covering every inch of the driver’s seat. She squeezed her hands around the steering wheel and wished to the devil she could rip it directly from the dash. She thought of every message she’d ever received in life and weighed it against her own actions.

“Luther?”

She said it to an empty car. Her voice sounded alone and quiet, like a whisper in a cavern stretching from the very bowels of the earth to the first kiss of fresh air. It sounded like the last thing man would hear before the world was brushed into the dustpan.

“If you’re there, Luther…”

What are you doing?

Summer rubbed her eyes with her fists. She ran her fingers through the tangles in her hair and wished to tug it from her head in tufts. She lowered her face to the steering wheel and thought more than once about driving until she reached the ocean, then driving yet even further.

There is no Luther. That’s a story you make up for the tourists. That’s something you tell the kids. You don’t believe it because it’s another of your lies. It’s a fun lie, but a lie all the same, and the second you start to believe in it is the second you are no better than…

…Jack.

She felt it deep within her heart. She sat upright. It was like a voice had come from somewhere within the car—not a voice inside herself, mind you—but somewhere like the backseat or the hatchback or perhaps even from the air vents, but it was a voice tried and true and it said the words echoing through her brain like a thoughtless ricochet.

Jack is in trouble.

Summer did not stop to think. She nearly broke the key turning it in the ignition. She released the parking brake with all her might and thrust the car into drive. She aimed to kill any and all bystanders should they stand in her way as she careened down one street and then the other, and in no time whipped the car around the hairpins of the switchback then saw all she needed to see to make herself sick.

The front door of the Light House trailer stood wide open. The front windows were broken and the window shades had been pushed through the shattered glass.

Inside was dark, save for the flickering blue light from an overturned television set. They had been watching a sit-com with a laugh track, though Summer could find nothing funny as she crept on the balls of her feet toward the front door.

“Jack?” she called into the room. The only response was canned laughter from the television.

Summer did not realize until she stepped completely inside the trailer that she had yet to breathe since leaving the car. Glass crunched beneath her feet. The wood-paneled walls of the living room had been marked by hands and fingers with something a dull shade of red. Jack’s easy chair had been tossed aside.

“Jack? Dammit, Jack, if you two are funning with me…”

It was blood. The drops on the floor were blood. That which ran led to the kitchen was blood, and from the pale light of the TV, she could see a pool of it. So was that which smeared its way upstairs.

He’s up there.

In the kitchen, she heard a drawer slam shut. She heard another ripped from the counter, followed by a shower of forks and spoons and…

You’d better get upstairs.

She bounded up the steps on all fours.

“Jack! Say something if you’re okay!”

From Jack’s bedroom: “Summer?” He sounded weak. “Summer, please…”

More canned laughter from the television set.

“Jackie, hold on!” She reached the top of the stairs. “I’ll save you!”

Summer, behind you…

She spun and nearly fell. There was no use trying to keep air inside her throat. Below her, at the foot of the steps, was Lindsay. Or what Summer reckoned used to be Lindsay. Already a whip of a thing, she looked twenty pounds slighter soaking wet. Soaking wet with what was anyone’s guess, but if Summer had to put money on it, she’d suspect it was blood. Whatever it was, there was lots of it. It streaked her hair down the sides of her muck-spattered face. It drenched her shirt straight through to the skin. It dripped and puddled upon their linoleum floor.

Lindsay cast down her head, so that her eyes looked up with hate-fire. She carried something in her hand that caught the light of the TV screen. She showed teeth in her smile and it was with a voice summoned from the nethers that she grumbled:

“I’m a stupid, fat whore.”

Summer steadied herself by placing a hand on each wall of the stairwell.

“Come again, honey?”

Said the demon Lindsay, “I’m a fat, fat whore.”

“That’s no strike against you, girl.” Summer gulped. “With proper diet and exercise, you’ll clear that right up. You can have any man you want.”

Lindsay pointed toward the top of the stairs with that thing she held in her hand.

“What if the man I want,” she said, “got himself bled out like a pig?”

Summer bit down hard on her own tongue. The water in her eyes boiled hot.

“He was trying to control me,” the girl growled like a dog. “He was fattening me up so I would do what he commands.”

Summer swallowed. “That’s not true. Jack would never do that.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

The mirror cracked on the wall beside Summer. The power flickered, causing the television to strobe. Summer closed tight her eyes and curled into a tiny ball. She remained as such until she heard the demon Lindsay slough away through broken glass and debris.

She’s gone.

Summer took no time rushing the length of the tiny hallway and hurtling herself through the particle board door of Jack’s bedroom. It was dark, so she had to feel her way through the room, but it wasn’t long before she laid a hand upon his boot, then his leg, then for the love of all things holy, upon his sticky, slick midsection from which he bled like the dickens.

“She stabbed me, Summer.” He didn’t sound well. Jack’s voice trembled out his throat. “I don’t know what happened.”

“Jackie, I need you to hold still.” She put two fingers to his throat. His pulse ran races. “I got you.”

“I don’t know what I said.” He began to sob. “She just flipped out.”

All around them, the carpet grew sticky. She cradled his head against her chest. She stroked his hair. She hummed the melody to “Brokedown Palace.”

Mountains instead of beaches, blues music by black guys instead of white ones, guitar solos instead of drums, cherry-flavored lip balm, cherry-flavored sno-cones, cherry-flavored cough syrup, horror movies, breakfast sausage, driving through Kentucky because everything looks like a postcard, going fast, fast, fast…so fast…

“You have to help me,” Jack moaned. “You have to make it all better.”

“Summer’s got you,” she whispered between verses. “And I’m not going to let anything hurt you ever again.”