Dark Rooms (33 page)

As I'm having this Pavlov's dog moment, the small voice at the back of my head starts up. My conscience, I guess.
Wow, terrific,
it's saying to me.
You're really managing your life responsibly here. Readdicting yourself to drugs?
That's
your solution to your problems?
Fuck, yes, readdicting myself to drugs is my solution to my problems. How else am I supposed to bear the pain? Just going to the bathroom is an emotional ordeal. I open the door, flip on the light, and a second later I'm sweating and dizzy, bent over as if I've been gut-punched, and all because I saw my face in the medicine cabinet mirror, and when I did I thought of Damon seeing my face underneath him in that guestroom bed.

Damon.

How did I miss it? How did I not sense something when we became friends? Or when we became more than? Which, reflecting back on it, was my doing. Sure, he responded willingly enough, but I was the one who went after him. Went after him like a dog going after meat. Jesus, I seduced my rapist. Does that qualify as ironic or is it just sad? Just sad, I decide. No, not just sad. Sad and screwed up and desperate and—

Oh, shut up. Shutupshutupshutup. The blood's hot in my cheeks, and my heart's beating rapidly, erratically, crazily, rising higher and higher until it's out of my rib cage, in my throat, and I wish I could just hack it up like a wad of phlegm, be done with it. To slow it down, I close my eyes, take deep breaths, one after another. Calmer, I check the clock on my bureau top. Three ten. Dad's usually out the door by three twenty. Ten minutes. That's how long I've got to think no thoughts for. After that, I have the task of copping from Ruben to keep me busy. After that, I can chase Benadryl with NyQuil some more. After that, the abortion. And after that, I'm home-free: drug-induced oblivion.

If I drop down the rabbit hole of benzodiazepines, though, how can I find out who killed Nica? The answer is, I can't. And that's okay with me. The simplest way to explain why that's so is to say things aren't the same. That statement might sound glib or tossed off, but it's neither; it's a truth, painful and hard-won. Something's gone out of me in the last few weeks, and its departure has left me changed. I'm not thinking of Nica every other second now. And when I do think of her, I think of her differently. Fucking a couple guys, if not at once, in awfully close proximity. And not just fucking them, fucking them up, too, making them fall in love with her, then dumping them without cause or explanation, leaving them heartbroken, confused, angry. Did it to her best girl friend, as well. So maybe her death was a kind of karmic justice, a case of reaping what you sow. And, yes, I realize she was as sinned against as sinning. Mom messed her up. She got a raw deal there, no question. But how much blame can you lay on other people? When does personal responsibility kick in? In any event, I'm done. I don't care anymore. I can't.

I look at the clock again. Three fifteen. Five minutes to go. To distract myself, I pick up the TV remote. I've just aimed it at the screen when I hear the doorbell. Dad. He must've left for work without taking his wallet and keys, a tic that's hardened into a habit in
the last six months. He's feeling bad for bugging me when I'm sick—with the flu, I told him, and he told Mrs. Sedgwick. I can tell by the tentative way he's ringing. If I don't answer, he won't hold it against me. And eventually he'll remember the extra house key taped to the underside of the mailbox. By that time, though, he might be late for his tutoring appointment. I don't want that, so I haul myself out of bed to let him in.

Except it isn't Dad asking to be let in. It's Damon.

Standing in the open doorway, I start to shake so hard the knob rattles in my hand. Dropping my eyes to the ground, I say, “What do you want?,” whispering because I'm afraid of what my voice will sound like if I try to speak.

“Grace,” he says.

All that's visible to me is his lower body and his limp hands, open and spread upward.

“Please,” he says. “Look at me.”

Unwillingly, I do.

“Grace,” he says again.

I wait for him to say something more. He doesn't, though. Our faces are now turned to each other. Yet, in a strange way, I feel as if I'm peering at him from behind my face, that my face, that both our faces, are just things placed between us—objects, like those masks on sticks. Our eyes, though, belong to us. And in his I see pain, glinting splinters of it in the dark brown halos of his irises. It's always been there, I realize. Can't miss it if you know how to look.

A hand touches my arm and I jump. Dad.

“Sweetheart?” he says. His eyes are swollen and I can smell the linden water he uses for shaving on top of the liquor from last night that his body hasn't yet metabolized.

“Oh, hey, Dad,” I say too brightly. “You remember Damon from school, don't you? He works with me now at Fargas Bonds.”

“How are you, Mr. Baker?”

“Fine, I'm doing . . .” Dad blinks, trails off into vagueness. He turns to me. “Sweetheart, what are you doing out of bed?”

“I'm going right back. Damon just came by to talk to me about work. He's leaving in a minute, though. What about you? Chandler then the Holiday Inn?”

“That's the plan.” He tries to smile but the muscles in his face don't quite cooperate.

“I'll see you later tonight then.”

He nods. Pats his thinning hair, his collar, making sure it's buttoned, his pockets. Then he leans over, pecks me dryly on the cheek. Damon and I watch as he gets into his station wagon, starts backing out. His saggy tailpipe hits the end of the driveway, sending up a shower of sparks he seems totally oblivious to.

When I turn back to Damon, I'm calmer, more in control of myself. I see right away that he's neither. His eyes are pouchy, bloodshot. And his fingers are twitching at his sides. “What do you want?” I say again, my voice stronger this time.

“To talk to you.”

“So talk.”

“Can I come inside?”

After a moment's hesitation, I hold open the door. As soon as Damon steps through it, I give him my back, start walking toward the kitchen. I open the fridge. Grab a Coke in one of those old-fashioned glass bottles. Twisting off the top, I carry it over to the table. He pulls out the seat opposite me, does a double take when he sees the image of my sister, large as life—larger—hanging above our heads, then shifts the angle of his chair so he's not directly facing it. As he gathers his thoughts, he brings his hands together, places them under his chin, like he's praying. The gesture makes me wonder if he prays for real, if he goes to church, believes in God.

At last he says, “At first I thought you knew. Why else would you have taken that shit job at Uncle Max's? Turns out I was half right.
You knew I was guilty. Just got the crime wrong.” His laugh is dry, sad. He shakes his head. “You have no idea how many times I almost told you. The way you looked at me, trusting me, thinking I was this upright person. It was killing me. But every time I opened my mouth, I shut it again. You were dealing with so much—your sister, dropping out of school, then the craziness with your mom. What if I was the thing that finally broke you? And then the closer we got, the more impossible it got to tell you, even though I nearly did in the Wendy's parking lot. I think I even started to believe that if I helped you solve Nica's murder then I'd right the balance. Dumb, huh?”

Rather than answer, I ask, “Why were you at Jamie's party? That wasn't your crowd.”

“I'd been out that night with Frankie and Justin Morales and a bunch of other guys, just cruising around in my car. We ran out of beer. Frankie remembered hearing something about a party at Jamie Amory's. I should've said no. But I couldn't think of a reason why I'd say no other than the real one and no way was I giving that up. So we went.” He looks at me. “You have to understand, I hadn't been doing so great since Nica died. I'd been insane about her, more insane about her than I'd ever been about any girl. Then she'd shit-canned me out of the blue, turned up dead the next morning. I'd failed her. I can't tell you how many hours I spent replaying that night in my head, thinking of all the things I should have done differently. I shouldn't have dropped her off at school like she asked me to, should have driven her straight to your house,
this
house, walked her up to the front door. Or I should have refused to take no for an answer, made her tell me why she was calling it off. I should have at least made her tell me who it was on the other end of the phone. Instead I did nothing. I did nothing because”—his voice turning sneering, sarcastic—“my feelings were hurt. She didn't want me anymore? Fine, I didn't want her anymore either. Yeah, right. I—” He breaks off.

I take a swallow of soda, feel the harsh, carbonated scrape of it
against the back of my throat. I wait. I'm starting to wonder if I'll have to give him another prompt, and then he's talking again, is letting it all out.

“So I had all these feelings and I couldn't talk to anyone about them because no one knew about Nica and me. I dealt with them by ignoring them, stuffing them down as deep as they would go. But the minute I stepped through that door, it was like they wouldn't stay down anymore. Sitting in a room with the guy that Nica had been in love with, probably still was in love with, was making me go nuts, really lose it. Justin's diabetic and can't drink. I figured he could drive us all home if I got wasted, which I went ahead and did. It didn't help, though. It made me feel worse if anything. I went to find Frankie and the rest of them, tell them we were leaving. I went to find Frankie and found Nica instead. Found you, I mean. You dressed as her.” He stops.

When he speaks again, his voice is barely audible, even in the silent kitchen. “I was on the second floor, at the back of the house. I saw a huge set of open windows or maybe they were a not-so-huge set of open doors—I couldn't tell—and I stood on this ledge thing looking out them. There you were, below. It was a strange scene. Spooky. It was dark and you were kneeling at the edge of the pool, by yourself. I turned on a light and called your name. You looked up at me, only it was too bright for you to see. Blood was on your lip and chin. Dirt, too. You were holding one of your hands funny. I jumped over the railing and helped you inside. I left you in an empty room full of books—a library, I guess—and went to the kitchen to get paper towels. When I came back, the room wasn't empty anymore. That fat piece of shit Ruben Samuelson was all over you.” Damon's eyes narrow in recalled anger. “He had one hand up your shirt, the other on your ass, tongue down your throat. When he noticed me standing there, he looked at me with this smirk, like maybe I wanted to join in on the fun. Crossing the room, I didn't know what I was going to do to him, just that he'd deserve it. He must've seen it in my face because he let go of you quick.”

I know what's coming. There's a dull ache in my stomach, though, anyway. Damon pauses, looking away from me over at
Nica's Dream
. He's still looking at it when he says, “All I was thinking was, a second chance. That's what I'm being given. I hadn't protected Nica when she needed it, but I could protect you. I'd been in a class with you and I'd seen how you were. You weren't wild like she was. You I could help. You'd let me help. I took you back upstairs. I saw this couple walking out of a room. I looked inside. It had a bed and a door with a lock. It was perfect. I cleaned you up as best I could with the paper towels. You seemed okay, like you just needed to rest. So I lay you down, dragged a trash can over in case you got sick, left a bottle of water for your hangover. Then, as I was getting ready to leave, you started talking, mumbling, so I had to bring my ear right up to your lips. ‘I'm sorry for what I did,' you said. ‘I didn't mean it. I love you, I love you.' Your eyes were closed when you were saying all this, so I knew you were talking in your sleep. No way were you talking to me.”

“I wasn't,” I say flatly. “I was talking to Jamie.”

Damon nods, keeps looking at the photograph. “But the crazy thing was, everything you were saying was what I wanted to hear. I'd imagined Nica saying almost those exact words to me. And then your face was coming toward me, that face that could have been her face, and you were kissing me with that mouth that could have been her mouth, and the way you smelled was just the way she smelled. It was like my life was turning into a dream and”—lifting his eyes to mine, his expression a mixture of anguish and astonishment, as if even he can't believe what he did—“I let it. I had sex with you. While you were unconscious, I had sex with you.”

He blinks, and I can see the sheen of water on his eyes. I feel my own eyes starting to get hot and wet. “If I kissed you, I was conscious,” I say, my throat tight around the words.

“You were really out of it.”

“So were you.”

“Not as out of it.” He takes a deep breath. When he releases it, it comes out loose and shaky.

I put my hand on his. “That's enough now,” I say softly. “You don't have to tell me any more.”

“No. I have to finish.”

Suddenly exhausted, I slump back in my chair and raise my hand in a go-ahead gesture.

“When it was over, I looked down at you and it was like I'd killed you. Your lip was split and your skin was puffy and soft. Too soft, like a dead girl's. There was blood trickling down your forehead and when I pushed back your hair to see where it was coming from, your hair came off in my hand. It was a wig. I knew it was a wig. But still, I freaked out.” He covers his face with his hands. “I left you there. I dressed myself, dressed you, booked it. When I crashed the car twenty minutes later and the cops showed up, slapped the cuffs on my wrist, I was sure it was murder I was getting hauled in for, not a DUI.”

These choked, hacking sounds start coming out of him, and I watch as his shoulders heave and tears gush through the slits of his fingers. And for the first time in my life I understand what it is to hate someone. This vision he's forced on me—a little girl lost, passed around and then passed out at a party she wasn't invited to, sodden underpants pulled up by the guy who'd screwed her while pretending she was somebody else, a creature sunk so low she was less human than thing, a living, breathing blow-up doll—it makes me sick. No person should be that helpless. That pathetic. That easy to hurt. And the only way I can make the hurt go away, I feel, I
know
, is to do some hurting of my own.