Now that she was officially single and unemployed, no longer in thrall to Big Swiss or a confidentiality agreement, she was free to explore, go wherever she wanted, talk to whomever she pleased, and so why was she standing here, of all places, in a narrow alley between two buildings?
To her right stood Cousin’s, one of the oldest and least celebrated bars in town. The outside reminded her of the long ash on Grandma’s cigarette: gray walls, dirty white trim, red neon sign in the window. She had the feeling she might get burned if she stepped inside, that her presence would be unwelcome, that she would be knocking over the ashtray, so to speak, which, as she could see through the dark glass, was overflowing with crushed butts, or at any rate a bunch of gray geriatrics sitting on stools made of marbled beige pleather. She imagined herself sitting among them, sipping a vodka soda and smoldering, wondering if she should finally extinguish herself.
On the other side of the alley, Cousin’s antithesis: Lil’ Deb’s Oasis, a queer restaurant and destination, welcoming and inclusive, the warmest lap in town but also as wet and alive as a jungle. Their wine descriptions were the best poetry in town, and the place was overflowing with pastels, pineapples, plantains, and performers, and here and there a pop of pink neon. She got the feeling she might drown in gender fluids if she stepped inside, or that her own gender, not all that solid to begin with, might deliquesce like fungi and stain the pink counter stool, but that it might be good for her, just what she needed. She stared at the bright fruit painted on the side of the building and wondered if she should cut her bangs.
Of course, she was more inclined to find friends in the fruit bowl than the ashtray, but would she fit in? She’d never claimed an identity for the same reasons she’d never gotten tattoos: she couldn’t imagine settling on anything. In the early nineties, when she’d had the energy for such things, she’d flirted with the idea of getting avocado halves tattooed on her elbows and embracing her bisexuality, but it had all been so rigid back then, so black-and-white, such a commitment, and avocados and bisexuals weren’t as cool as they were now, and only seemed to come from California. No one had wanted them on their toast, certainly. It was a consistency thing. They were treated with apprehension at best, or else outright discrimination from both the straight and gay communities. But now that she was oldish, the crowd in there youngish, and it was finally acceptable to be gayish, she might as well sit at the counter and eat some octopus. Right?
She walked into the ashtray instead. The drop ceiling was lit up with strings of colored lights—Christmas in late June—and there were a few small TVs showing harness racing, and a large flat-screen playing a boxing match. Everything was coated in sticky dust. Most of the stools were occupied at the horseshoe-shaped bar, but she found an empty one along the curve.
No one acknowledged her, not even the bartender, the only other woman there. “Caught Up in You” started playing through the speakers, and Greta studied the bartender for nearly the entire song, unnoticed. Her strawberry blonde hair had long white roots, and she wore low-rise jeans and a pink T-shirt with a desert-island cartoon printed on the front—a tiny island with a single palm tree, no castaways—over which ICELAND was printed in frosty blue letters. She was maybe fifty. Greta spent a little too long wondering if her shirt was a meaningless novelty, or if it was about climate change, or if she’d actually traveled to Iceland, and if so, what she’d done there. She had a habit of resting her hands on her hips when she talked to her customers, all of whom resembled old newspapers, and of laughing at her own jokes. Her laugh was manic and grating.
Without looking at Greta, the man sitting next to her said, “What’re you having?”
“Vodka soda,” Greta said.
“Vera,” he called to the bartender. “Get her a vodka soda.”
Greta expected a dirty look, but the bartender smiled benignly at her while pouring vodka into a pint glass.
“Lime?” the guy asked.
“Lemon,” Greta said, and the guy, her translator, paused before relaying the information, as if she’d asked for passion fruit or lychee. The guy was tan, broad, and muscular, with a creepy little ponytail, and he was watching the boxing match closely, as if he had money on it. He seemed to be drinking seltzer, but since the drinks came in pint glasses, maybe it was gin or vodka.
Vera delivered Greta’s drink. “Is my brother bothering you?”
Greta smiled and said no.
“Lemme know if he does,” Vera said, and wandered away.
A long minute passed during which Greta could feel individual hairs on her head turning white. She hadn’t anticipated sitting next to him. She’d been looking for Harvey Keitel in, say, The Piano, minus the face tattoos, because that’s who Big Swiss said he resembled, but of course Keith looked nothing like Harvey Keitel. Since his eyes were still glued to the TV, she risked a closer look. He didn’t look like anyone. Well, maybe James Caan? Taller, though, younger. And poorer, obviously, but with good posture. He wore a tight white tank top and fitted gray dress pants. Hadn’t Harvey Keitel worn something similar in Taxi Driver? She could see the resemblance now, though Keith wouldn’t have been caught dead in a fedora or pinkie rings. He was more like Mr. White from Reservoir Dogs, without the shirt and tie. He had presence, she decided, and seemed aware of every muscle in his body, including the ones in his hands and feet.
His hands. Red, swollen, very wide. Inevitably, she pictured them wrapped around Big Swiss’s pale neck, squeezing and releasing, and her own throat tightened. It was easy to imagine his hands doing violence but hard to imagine the look on his face. He had a calm, reasonable face, though she was only seeing his profile. He had yet to look directly at her. And sociopaths can be calm—c’mon. Look at Hannibal and his low heart rate.
She thought of Piñon, hopefully conked out in the antechamber, where she’d left him. They’d spent nearly every minute of the last two weeks together. Tonight was the first time Greta had left his side for more than twenty minutes. He wasn’t bouncing back the way he used to, and if the vet had reported the incident to the police, they’d never contacted her.
It occurred to her now that Keith was staring at the TV to avoid looking at her, that he couldn’t have cared less about boxing, that he knew exactly who Greta was because he’d been stalking her and Big Swiss for months, that he’d shot Greta’s dog in cold blood, and that he was hyperaware of his body because he was a bundle of nerves. But why had he spoken to her at all? To see if she knew who he was. She hadn’t known, obviously, but she knew now. Maybe he could sense that she’d recognized him and was praying that she wouldn’t call him out in front of his sister and all these newspapers. Of course, she wasn’t positive that he’d tried to kill Piñon, but it would be telling to see how he reacted if she said his name.
“Keith,” she said.
His face turned toward her slightly but his eyes remained on the screen.
“Huh?”
“That’s your name, right? Keith.”
“Uh-huh,” he said.
“Do you recognize me?”
He reluctantly glanced at her face and then quickly back at the screen.
“You recognize me, right?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Maybe,” he said. “Should I?”
“Well, yeah,” she said. “I’m Greta.”
He gave her a warm look. He thought he was being flirted with. She could mention Big Swiss and watch his face fall, or at least redden, or she could just cut to the chase.
“You shot the wrong dog,” Greta said.
“Excuse me?”
“You shot the wrong dog,” Greta repeated. “Two weeks ago. You meant to shoot the big silver one, but you shot the little guy instead. My guy.”
He laughed as if he’d misheard her. “Slow down. What now?”
“You shot my dog,” Greta said slowly. “With a gun. In the leg? Not hers—mine.”
Now he swiveled toward her and looked her in the eye. “Where you from, hon?”
“Oh, you know,” Greta said. “You know exactly where I live. Next to the firehouse. I’ve seen your truck across the street. You’ve probably seen me with her.”
“Who?”
“Her,” Greta said.
He winced and swiveled back to center. “Really not in the mood today, lady.”
“Yeah, well, you should know that my dog suffered. This was a really big setback for him. And me.”
“I love dogs,” he said. “I’d never shoot a dog. Never in a million years.”
He finished his drink, and Vera came over.
“One more?” she asked Keith.
“Twist my arm,” Keith said.
Vera walked away and poured too much gin into a pint glass.
“I’ll put it this way,” Keith said in a lowered voice. “I’d shoot you before I’d shoot any dog.”
Something moved in Greta’s stomach. Something sharp. She’d been leaning toward Keith without realizing it. She straightened and gulped down the rest of her drink.
“You heard what I said?” Keith asked, his voice still low.
Vera placed Keith’s drink in front of him, but Keith didn’t touch it.
“That’s how much I love animals,” Keith said in a regular voice. “I wouldn’t even shoot a deer, and they’re everywhere you look. I have six of them living in the bushes in my backyard. But I don’t hunt. I don’t even own a gun.”
“But your dog was obese,” Greta said. “And miserable. Remember? So, you don’t love dogs that much—”
“Lady,” he said. “Are you drunk? I don’t have a dog.”
He exchanged an exasperated look with one of the guys sitting on the other side of him. “Broads,” he seemed to say.
“Your old dog,” Greta said. “The one you had before you—”
“Look, I don’t know you, okay?” His voice was louder now. “I don’t know you, I don’t know your dog, I don’t know anything. I’m trying to watch this now.”
He shook his head and stared at the screen. The match was over and the ring was crowded with people.
“Great,” he said. “Terrific.”
“Stop following me,” Greta said.
“Get the fuck out of my face,” he said loudly. “Dumb city bitch. You don’t know where the fuck you’re at or who the fuck you’re talking to.”
Vera came over and cleared Greta’s glass. “All set?” she asked sweetly. “Drink’s on the house, okay? Don’t come back.”
Greta’s knees nearly buckled as she walked out of the bar, and she could hear Vera laughing.
HER HEART? Still in her mouth as she pulled into the driveway and saw Big Swiss’s car. They’d exchanged a few texts but hadn’t seen each other since the shooting, and it wasn’t like Big Swiss to show up without calling. Had something happened to Silas? Greta rushed inside.
Not only had Big Swiss let herself into the house; she lay diagonally on Greta’s bed, legs crossed at the ankle, arms behind her head, gazing at the cracked ceiling as if it were full of constellations, which she supposed it was.
“Where’s Silas?”
“Home,” Big Swiss said.
“What are you doing here?”
“Just checking up on you and Piñon.”
Greta poked her head into the antechamber—Piñon was sound asleep and snoring. Greta decided to sit in an armchair, a safe distance away from the bed and Big Swiss’s exposed pits. Her phone vibrated with a text from Sabine, who was halfway to Maine to eat steamers with old friends, as she did every summer, and wouldn’t be back for a few days.
“Where were you?” Big Swiss asked.
“Out,” Greta said.
“At a bar?”
“Yes,” Greta said.
“Did you meet anyone?”
Of course, now would be the time to tell Big Swiss that she’d met Keith, live and in person, along with his enchanting sister, that she’d gotten a good look at his carnie hands, his creepy ponytail, his barely suppressed rage. She was still rattled by the remark he’d made, “I’d shoot you before I’d shoot any dog,” which she believed to be true. Now that she thought about it, Vera was the one who’d seemed to recognize Greta. Maybe Vera was the stalker, the one to worry about. On the other hand, who confronts a violent ex-convict on his own turf and accuses him of attempted murder? Someone stupid, reckless, and insane. And deeply paranoid. You’re the stalker, Greta told herself. You’re the one to worry about.
“So?” Big Swiss said.
“I did meet someone,” Greta said.
“And?”
“Great guy,” Greta said. “Little over-the-hill, maybe.”
“You’re going back to men?”
“People,” Greta said, correcting her. “I’m open.”
“Are you open to me?”
“Depends. What do you want?”
“Who’re you texting?”
Greta was texting Sabine a bunch of animal emojis. Supposedly “the donks,” as Sabine kept referring to them, were arriving around the time Sabine would be back from Maine, but Greta didn’t want to share this news with Big Swiss. The donks were none of her business.
“Tell me,” Big Swiss said.
“Just making a note in my dream journal.”
Big Swiss backed off. For some reason, dreams were sacred to her.
“I’d like to take you up on your offer,” Big Swiss said. “The one from your email. You said I could… you know.”
“If you can’t even say it, maybe it’s not something you should be doing. Besides, that was before. Wouldn’t it feel silly at this point?”
Big Swiss sniffed. “I was thinking it might be… cathartic.”
For her, sure. For Greta, pure degradation. But maybe this was exactly what Greta deserved for acting on every whim and impulse, for making such a goddamn mess, for not considering the dignity of others—such as Luke, mainly, but also Keith, who was human, after all, and probably hadn’t shot her dog, and who had done his time. Had Greta done hers? She’d never been truly disgraced. Maybe this would lead to her deliverance.
Whatever, it was only a spanking. No need to be grandiose about it. She unbuttoned her pants, let them drop to the floor, and then draped herself over the bed’s iron footrail, which was more awkward than leaning over the side. An hour ago, she’d been sitting next to the man who’d broken Big Swiss’s face, and now she was waiting to be spanked by her. Not quite full circle, but it felt oddly… correct. Maybe this would lead to Big Swiss’s deliverance. Maybe after this they would both be free—
“Is this what they mean by ‘closure’?” Greta said.
“You said bare bottom,” Big Swiss said.
Greta pulled down her underwear. Big Swiss grabbed Greta’s wide wooden hairbrush and tested it on her open palm.
“No mercy,” Big Swiss said. “Right?”
“Yeah, yeah, but be quiet about it. Piñon’s sleeping.”
“What’s your safe word?”
“I don’t know,” Greta said. “ ‘Diarrhea’?”
Big Swiss smacked Greta’s right cheek, not once, not twice, but fifteen times—until it was sufficiently red and inflamed, Greta assumed—before moving to the other side. She seemed intent on distributing her blows evenly and with the same amount of force, and she wasn’t holding back. Greta hadn’t been spanked since kindergarten and never with a brush. It was both louder and more painful than she’d imagined, but Piñon didn’t bark. He didn’t even wake up.
“Does it hurt?” Big Swiss asked hopefully.
“Like a mother,” Greta said.
Big Swiss delivered several more vigorous whacks and then dropped the brush. She was panting. Greta twisted around slightly to gaze at her face. It was as red as Greta’s ass, and she’d never looked more… embodied.
“I’ll miss hearing you process this in therapy,” Greta said.
“Yeah, well, I quit,” Big Swiss said, still catching her breath. “I need to lie down for a minute.”
Big Swiss climbed onto the bed and lay on her side. She raised her arm, indicating that she wanted to be spooned. Greta pressed herself against Big Swiss’s back, like old times. She liked to pretend to be stuck to Big Swiss, in the same way dogs were knotted together after mating.
“Why’d you quit?” Greta asked. “I thought he was helping you, in his Om way.”
“I’m leaving for Ecuador in a week,” Big Swiss said. “I’m sick of talking about myself. But you—I was thinking the other day how difficult it must have been for you not to talk, not to tell me all the things you were transcribing. You must have dirt on everyone in town.”
“I do,” Greta said.
Big Swiss parted her legs just enough for Greta’s hand. Greta paused, but only for three seconds.
“I hope it’s as good as you remember,” Big Swiss said a few minutes later.
Greta removed her hand. She held it to her face and inhaled.
“Indeed,” Greta said.
“I’m not done with you,” Big Swiss said. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be.”
“Me neither, but I’m done sneaking around,” Greta said. “You should tell Luke about us before he hears it from someone else. You should tell him immediately. Tonight, as soon as you get home.”