walk by his door; he can hear them clearly:
“That’s fine. Let’s just worry about it in the morning. Jesus.”
“I’m just saying . . . ” This voice is a woman’s—the other one was a man’s.
“Goddamn, I’ve been driving all day, can we just—”
The words are cut to a dim muffle as the door to the room next to him thumps shut.
He closes his eyes.
This is the ritual. It never changes. Another night, another cheap motel, another shallow sleep with another restless day nipping at its heels. Now, one last thing before sleep: the prayer.
Hey, Lord.
Here we are again.
Bet you get tired of hearing from me.
Same old prayer as always.
Keep me alive, keep me breathin’.
Keep me believing.
Not much new, I guess, just another day
On the trail.
Keep Keisha well, Lord.
Hold her tight to you.
Keep her safe.
And if I can do her any good,
Bring me to her.
If I can’t do her any good,
At least let me see her bones once
Before I put her in the ground
Before they put me in the ground.
And when they do, please bring us both home,
Lord.
Thanks for your blessings.
You know I’m your servant.
Always have been,
In my way,
Always just been waiting for your bidding.
Waiting for you to touch me.
Or to answer me at all.
Still waiting.
Anyway.
God, bless the sinners,
And the believers,
And bless my Keisha.
Amen.
Ron opens his eyes. All is still. A truck rumbles past again. The far wall starts shaking, a rhythmic hammering. A breathy moaning, animal grunts. Every cheap adornment in the cheap room rattles.
Before he knows it, Ron is stifling tears. Embarrassed, he blinks them away, pulls his lips together tight. The muscles of his face quiver with tension. He tries to remember the last time he cried. It’s been a long time, he knows that much. Why now? Why here, finally?
Why anything?
The muscles of his face relax and his eyes stop blinking. He sits very still and stares at a picture on the wall in front of him across the darkened room. It’s a print of an abstract painting, which is to say a picture of nothing. He’s won the fight, knows he’s not going to cry tonight. The emotion has ebbed and left him vacant, an empty seashell washed up on a deserted beach. Not surprising that’s how he’d end up. He was never good for much anyway.
In five minutes, the screwing is over next door and his tears are forgotten. Another truck bellows past and Ron Bent falls asleep.
It’s dark in the Mason house. The fire has burned away to smoke. Caleb blinks in the dark. He hears Bean breathing next to him in long, even breaths. Outside, the wind gusts and a tree branch whispers against the window. When the wind dies away, Caleb hears something. The noise is tiny, barely a scratch in the surface of silence, and he pushes up on one elbow and cocks his head to listen intently, to be sure. Something is ticking. His first impulse is to look at the mantle—there was always an antique clock there, and a memory races through Caleb’s mind of his father winding it before bedtime with the slow, mechanical-sounding twist of a silver key. The clock is still on the mantle, its once-white face dark with dust, but even with no light Caleb can see that the pendulum is still. Tick, tick, tick. Caleb reaches for the flashlight—should be by his shoulder. His heart begins to feel tight with fear as his hand gropes the dirty rug, finding nothing. Then he finds it—it had only rolled a few feet away.
With a click, the light is on. Caleb glances over at Bean. There’s a glint of drool at the corner of his mouth, but he lies still and his breathing stays steady. For a minute, Caleb considers waking his friend, then decides against it. Tick, tick, tick. After all, he’s dragged Bean halfway across the country, and for what? To visit some crazy girl and squat in an abandoned building? Some vacation. Some friend. But at least he knows when to quit. They’ll buy a plane ticket tomorrow and be back in LA by happy hour.
“That’s fine. Let’s just worry about it in the morning. Jesus.”
“I’m just saying . . . ” This voice is a woman’s—the other one was a man’s.
“Goddamn, I’ve been driving all day, can we just—”
The words are cut to a dim muffle as the door to the room next to him thumps shut.
He closes his eyes.
This is the ritual. It never changes. Another night, another cheap motel, another shallow sleep with another restless day nipping at its heels. Now, one last thing before sleep: the prayer.
Hey, Lord.
Here we are again.
Bet you get tired of hearing from me.
Same old prayer as always.
Keep me alive, keep me breathin’.
Keep me believing.
Not much new, I guess, just another day
On the trail.
Keep Keisha well, Lord.
Hold her tight to you.
Keep her safe.
And if I can do her any good,
Bring me to her.
If I can’t do her any good,
At least let me see her bones once
Before I put her in the ground
Before they put me in the ground.
And when they do, please bring us both home,
Lord.
Thanks for your blessings.
You know I’m your servant.
Always have been,
In my way,
Always just been waiting for your bidding.
Waiting for you to touch me.
Or to answer me at all.
Still waiting.
Anyway.
God, bless the sinners,
And the believers,
And bless my Keisha.
Amen.
Ron opens his eyes. All is still. A truck rumbles past again. The far wall starts shaking, a rhythmic hammering. A breathy moaning, animal grunts. Every cheap adornment in the cheap room rattles.
Before he knows it, Ron is stifling tears. Embarrassed, he blinks them away, pulls his lips together tight. The muscles of his face quiver with tension. He tries to remember the last time he cried. It’s been a long time, he knows that much. Why now? Why here, finally?
Why anything?
The muscles of his face relax and his eyes stop blinking. He sits very still and stares at a picture on the wall in front of him across the darkened room. It’s a print of an abstract painting, which is to say a picture of nothing. He’s won the fight, knows he’s not going to cry tonight. The emotion has ebbed and left him vacant, an empty seashell washed up on a deserted beach. Not surprising that’s how he’d end up. He was never good for much anyway.
In five minutes, the screwing is over next door and his tears are forgotten. Another truck bellows past and Ron Bent falls asleep.
It’s dark in the Mason house. The fire has burned away to smoke. Caleb blinks in the dark. He hears Bean breathing next to him in long, even breaths. Outside, the wind gusts and a tree branch whispers against the window. When the wind dies away, Caleb hears something. The noise is tiny, barely a scratch in the surface of silence, and he pushes up on one elbow and cocks his head to listen intently, to be sure. Something is ticking. His first impulse is to look at the mantle—there was always an antique clock there, and a memory races through Caleb’s mind of his father winding it before bedtime with the slow, mechanical-sounding twist of a silver key. The clock is still on the mantle, its once-white face dark with dust, but even with no light Caleb can see that the pendulum is still. Tick, tick, tick. Caleb reaches for the flashlight—should be by his shoulder. His heart begins to feel tight with fear as his hand gropes the dirty rug, finding nothing. Then he finds it—it had only rolled a few feet away.
With a click, the light is on. Caleb glances over at Bean. There’s a glint of drool at the corner of his mouth, but he lies still and his breathing stays steady. For a minute, Caleb considers waking his friend, then decides against it. Tick, tick, tick. After all, he’s dragged Bean halfway across the country, and for what? To visit some crazy girl and squat in an abandoned building? Some vacation. Some friend. But at least he knows when to quit. They’ll buy a plane ticket tomorrow and be back in LA by happy hour.
Similar Books
