is going to get blindsided by a drunk driver in five years, and suddenly she feels bad and tells him she’s sorry, but he doesn’t understand and tells her to shut up.
Arraignment came the morning before a judge who looked like he’d been out drinking the night before, a ragged, rumpled old gent. He told her that the charges were drunk driving, and driving without a license, and driving without insurance. Then it’s all done lickety-split and they shuttle her back to her kennel, where now she once again stands next to the barf-caked Cuban.
Now she waits to find out what’s next.
There comes a point when Officer Chihuly steps in, tells her it’s time for her one phone call if she wants it. He says she won’t need to post bail. Because this is her first offense – and a misdemeanor at that – they’ll release her on her own recognizance.
But, since the Red Rocket’s been impounded and she doesn’t have a license or any money…
Then he hands something to her through the chain link.
A couple of crumpled up pieces of paper.
“These were in your personal effects,” he says.
Three phone numbers.
Steve – er, Peter Lake.
Louis.
And Mother.
She smooshes her head against the chain-link. It mashes her nose. She gnaws on it like a beaver. “Thanks,” she mumbles, and she expects to be led out to a dirty pay phone that smells like chewing tobacco and misanthropy, but instead he just opens the gate six inches and hands in a portable wireless phone. Jail, it turns out, is far less like the movies than she expected.
The cop retreats ten feet, sits on a nearby folding chair.
Goddamnit.
She doesn’t want to call any of these.
She’s definitely not calling Peter. Which leaves her with two.
Calling either of those numbers means blacking out her shame sensors with the heel of a heavy boot – bashing them until they no longer recognize guilt as a speed bump to communication. That’s hard for her. Pulling teeth hard. Pulling out a wolf’s teeth while wearing mittens hard.
If she had the car, she could just ride on out of here. If she had the money, she’d call a cab. Hello, Rock. Please to meet Hard Place .
She growls.
Louis. OK. If she calls Louis, she’s going to have to tell him – what, exactly? Hey, big fella. Been a while! Remember how I abandoned you and haven’t called or written? I’ve really made some forward progress. Did I mention that I’m calling from jail?
And as for Mother…
Same conversation really. Except she’s been gone much, much longer. Been gone years. So much heinous fuckery to report on. So much disappointment. So much anger and resentment and abandonment. That relationship is a howling ghost in the void, so distant and strange it’s barely even real anymore.
Call Louis.
Or call her mother.
She winces. Like she’s trying to pass a kidney stone.
Fine. Fine .
She makes her choice.
She dials the phone.
PART THREE
VILLAGE BY THE SEA
INTERLUDE
NOW
“I wanna ask you some things,” Grosky says, pulling out a Luna bar and unwrapping it with all the grace of a baboon ripping apart an orange.
“It’s your dime,” Miriam growls.
“Some things about your… gift.”
“It isn’t a gift.”
“OK. Unpack that a little.”
“It isn’t fun. It sucks. The end.”
Vills smirks, and it’s the smirk someone wears when they’re trying to humor you but really they think you’re an asshole in ugly shoes. “That was a real good story, Miss Black.”
Grosky pulls off a little bit of the granola bar – something with chocolate chips in it, though Miriam catches a whiff of mint, too – and then he chucks it to her like he’s feeding an animal at the zoo.
He begins to eat the rest.
She takes it, sniffs it, pops it in her mouth. “Luna bars are for chicks, you know,” she says.
“What?” he says. “No, they’re not.”
“They are. They totally are. They’re marketed to women. They probably have like… estrogen in them or something. They
Arraignment came the morning before a judge who looked like he’d been out drinking the night before, a ragged, rumpled old gent. He told her that the charges were drunk driving, and driving without a license, and driving without insurance. Then it’s all done lickety-split and they shuttle her back to her kennel, where now she once again stands next to the barf-caked Cuban.
Now she waits to find out what’s next.
There comes a point when Officer Chihuly steps in, tells her it’s time for her one phone call if she wants it. He says she won’t need to post bail. Because this is her first offense – and a misdemeanor at that – they’ll release her on her own recognizance.
But, since the Red Rocket’s been impounded and she doesn’t have a license or any money…
Then he hands something to her through the chain link.
A couple of crumpled up pieces of paper.
“These were in your personal effects,” he says.
Three phone numbers.
Steve – er, Peter Lake.
Louis.
And Mother.
She smooshes her head against the chain-link. It mashes her nose. She gnaws on it like a beaver. “Thanks,” she mumbles, and she expects to be led out to a dirty pay phone that smells like chewing tobacco and misanthropy, but instead he just opens the gate six inches and hands in a portable wireless phone. Jail, it turns out, is far less like the movies than she expected.
The cop retreats ten feet, sits on a nearby folding chair.
Goddamnit.
She doesn’t want to call any of these.
She’s definitely not calling Peter. Which leaves her with two.
Calling either of those numbers means blacking out her shame sensors with the heel of a heavy boot – bashing them until they no longer recognize guilt as a speed bump to communication. That’s hard for her. Pulling teeth hard. Pulling out a wolf’s teeth while wearing mittens hard.
If she had the car, she could just ride on out of here. If she had the money, she’d call a cab. Hello, Rock. Please to meet Hard Place .
She growls.
Louis. OK. If she calls Louis, she’s going to have to tell him – what, exactly? Hey, big fella. Been a while! Remember how I abandoned you and haven’t called or written? I’ve really made some forward progress. Did I mention that I’m calling from jail?
And as for Mother…
Same conversation really. Except she’s been gone much, much longer. Been gone years. So much heinous fuckery to report on. So much disappointment. So much anger and resentment and abandonment. That relationship is a howling ghost in the void, so distant and strange it’s barely even real anymore.
Call Louis.
Or call her mother.
She winces. Like she’s trying to pass a kidney stone.
Fine. Fine .
She makes her choice.
She dials the phone.
PART THREE
VILLAGE BY THE SEA
INTERLUDE
NOW
“I wanna ask you some things,” Grosky says, pulling out a Luna bar and unwrapping it with all the grace of a baboon ripping apart an orange.
“It’s your dime,” Miriam growls.
“Some things about your… gift.”
“It isn’t a gift.”
“OK. Unpack that a little.”
“It isn’t fun. It sucks. The end.”
Vills smirks, and it’s the smirk someone wears when they’re trying to humor you but really they think you’re an asshole in ugly shoes. “That was a real good story, Miss Black.”
Grosky pulls off a little bit of the granola bar – something with chocolate chips in it, though Miriam catches a whiff of mint, too – and then he chucks it to her like he’s feeding an animal at the zoo.
He begins to eat the rest.
She takes it, sniffs it, pops it in her mouth. “Luna bars are for chicks, you know,” she says.
“What?” he says. “No, they’re not.”
“They are. They totally are. They’re marketed to women. They probably have like… estrogen in them or something. They
Similar Books
