Collection (13 page)

I went back to the motel that night and waited in the lot next door.
 
I watched the girls move between the trucks, but I didn’t see Rochelle out there.
 
The light in Carl’s room was on, so I figured she was inside.
 
After a while I got out and took the tire iron from the back of my pick-up and headed over.

The door to his room was locked, so I stepped back and kicked it, hard.
 
It exploded in, slamming against the wall.
 
Carl was on the green couch, his head leaned back, a bag of ice over his eye.
 
His pants were off and Rochelle was kneeling between his legs.
 
When he saw me he tried to stand, but I moved fast, catching him across the face with the tire iron.
 

Carl fell over the side of the couch, slumping against the wall.

He didn’t move.

I pulled the couch back and took the heavy rubber band from my pocket.

“What the fuck are you doing?”
 
Rochelle reached for my arm.
 
“Leave him alone—”
 

I pulled away and slammed my elbow into her chest.
 
She made a low grunting sound and dropped, struggling for breath.

Carl was on his side.
 
I kicked him onto his back, and he made a slow moaning sound.
 
I reached between his legs, wrapped the band around his balls, tight, then pulled the hunting knife from my boot.

Rochelle tried to scream, but the sound was weak and painful.
 

I ignored her.

Carl’s balls were turning a deep purple, like a small eggplant.
 

I opened the knife.

He jumped when I cut.

Rochelle screamed and staggered into the bathroom.
 
I heard the water run, and when she came back she had an armful of towels.

I got out of her way.

“You think you’re a real man?”
 
She looked up at me, showed her teeth.
 
“You’re not a real man.
 
You don’t know what it means to be a real man.”

 
I waited in the doorway, watching her press the towels between his legs.
 
The faded green motel carpet grew dark under him.
 

“You’ll be just fine, sugar,” Rochelle was saying.
 
“You just rest now.”
 
She started humming a song to him that seemed familiar.
 
I thought it might’ve been Mockingbird, but it didn’t sound quite right.

I listened for a moment, then said, “What’s that you’re singing?”

She ignored me.
 
The towels between Carl’s legs were soaking through, dark and red, and her humming became closer to a low moan.
 
“Oh, sweet Christ,” she said, over and over.
 
“Oh, sweet fucking Christ.”

There was a lot of blood, and I figured the band had come off.
 
With cattle, that usually meant trouble, but there wasn’t much you could do.
 
I watched them for a while, but it didn’t take too long until I’d had enough.
 
I walked out, leaving them alone.

Once I was out the door, Rochelle yelled to me.
 
“You run away, Jack.
 
You just run.
 
You ain’t a real man.
 
You ain’t ever gonna be a real man, not ever!
 
You hear me?”

I heard her, but then, halfway to my truck, the wind picked up and I didn’t hear her anymore.
      

Folded Blue

H
arry opened the door.
 

Jules stood on the porch holding a brown paper bag.
 
“Thought we could throw back a few.”
 
He looked past Harry into the dark apartment.
 
“You alone?”

Harry nodded and stepped away from the door.

Jules came inside and went straight for the kitchen.
 
“Mind if I put these in the fridge?”

“Go ahead.”
 
Harry closed the door and walked back to the couch in the corner of the room.
 
The ashtray on the coffee table was full and overflowing.
 
“You bring any smokes?”

“I don’t smoke, man, you know that.”

Harry did know that, it was one of the reasons he didn’t like Jules.
 
For a drunk, Jules was far too concerned about his health to be that good of a friend.

Harry thumbed through the ash tray, picked out a half-smoked cigarette, blew off the filter and put it to his lips.
 
“You got a light?”

Jules came out of the kitchen with two beers and handed one to Harry.
 
“I think I might.”

“Doesn’t smoke, but carries a lighter.”

“No lighter,” he said.
 
“But these will work.”
 

He held out a black and gold pack of matches.
 
Harry knew them well.
 
They were from the Moonlight Tavern off 76th street.
 
Rita used to work there.

“When were you at the Moonlight?”

“I stop in now and then.”

“You see Rita?”

“Not for a couple days,” he said.
 
“She’s off somewhere, you know how she gets.”

Harry nodded and took a drink of his beer.
 
It was warm, but it tasted good.

Neither of them spoke.
  

Harry leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes.
 
Outside, the noise from the street drifted into the room like the sound of an angry sea.
 

Jules coughed.

Harry opened his eyes.
 
“You sick?”

“Nothing serious.”

“What’s nothing serious?”
 

“I don’t know,” Jules said.
 
“Nothing serious.”

“Don’t come over here when you’re sick.”

“Christ, Harry, it’s just allergies.
 
They always kick in come August.”

“If you say so.”

Jules shook his head.
 
“You’re a fucking hypochondriac, you know that?”

Harry ignored him.

They finished their beers and opened two more.
 

“You got plans tonight?” Jules asked.

“Just this.”

“What about later?
 
You feel like going out?”

“No.”

Jules paused, looked down at the bottle in his hand.
 
“Yeah, me neither.”
 

Outside, someone screamed, followed by laughter.

Harry finished his beer then got up and walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge.
 
There were two left.
 
He opened one, said, “Last two, you ready?”

“Keep it,” Jules said.
 
“I’m going to take off.”

Harry took the last beer back to the couch.
 
“Thanks for stopping by, Jules.”

“You sure I can’t get you to come along?”

“Come along where?”

“Anywhere,” he said.
 
“Just thought you might want to get out of here for a while.”

“No, I’m good.”

Jules stared at him for a moment then set his empty bottle on the floor beside the chair and stood up.
 
“If you change your mind—”

“Sure.”

Jules walked to the door and stopped.
 
“You know, Rita feels real bad about the other night.
 
She didn’t mean to embarrass you like that.”

Harry nodded.

“She thinks you’re a great guy, Harry, a sweetheart.” Jules hesitated.
 
“Just not her type.
 
You understand?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“She asks about you.”

Harry took a drink.
 
“Tell her I said hello.”

Jules nodded slowly.
 
“Sure, Harry.
 
I’ll tell her.”

Harry waited until he was alone, then got up and walked to the bathroom.
 
One of the fluorescent lights was out, and the remaining bulb buzzed behind the glass like a chorus of flies.
 

He sat on the edge of the toilet, pulled back the shower curtain, and looked down at Rita, naked and folded blue in a pool of red.
 

He stared at her, his pants growing painfully tight, then he stood and leaned over the tub, bracing himself against the shower wall, and unzipped.
 

After he finished, he cleaned himself up and walked back to the living room.
 

For the first time that night, everything was quiet.
 

Harry listened to the silence.
 
Then he twisted the cap off the last beer and drank.

The Firebird

J
uly.
 
Phoenix.
 
Hot.