Final Vinyl Days (14 page)

She was dizzy by the time the carts began to slow and filed back onto the track. It was still dark, but she heard the one-armed boy again.
Let me go
, he said, and then the machinery screeched and whined.
Please, Mister
. Mister? Wasn't he the father? Wasn't he the person in charge? She thought she heard
Shut up
; she thought she heard
I'll break your goddamn neck
, but the PA system was announcing the license number of a car with its lights on and that it was one hour until closing. And there was old disco music blasting from the video arcade. She blinked against the bright fluorescent lights, the swarms of people in line for this ride, that game. A group of older children was dancing to that song, “YMCA.” She looked at Sam to see if he had heard what she heard, but he was laughing and begging to go again; everyone was laughing, talking, sighing with relief. She glanced up just in time to see the man and the boy exit the ride and head through the crowd. They walked fast, the man pulling the boy along. What had she witnessed? A threat? A warning? Her mind raced, conjuring every horror show she'd ever seen, every hideous news story. These evil people appeared normal on the surface,
but then enough time passed for neighbors' voices, and relatives', to worm out of the woodwork, to remember that the person was antisocial, had a volatile temper, had tortured animals as a kid, had no conscience, no respect for others. Were people guilty when they turned their heads and ignored all the signs? Was she?

They stumbled out of their cart and down the ramp, but by then the man and the boy had disappeared in the crowd. Though Sam begged for another ride, she dragged him by the hand up to the food counter and quietly tried to explain to the woman serving the sodas that she had heard a man threatening a child. “I threaten mine all day long,” the woman said and sighed. “If you don't do this, I'll never let you out of this house again.” Her lips turned downward as she reached to fill another cup.

The young security guard at the exit smiled at Charlotte while she stood near him, trying to decide if she should say anything to
him
. And what
was
he supposed to do? What was
she
supposed to do? Why would the guard be any more trustworthy than anybody else in the world? She shivered. In her mind, many minutes had already passed—enough time to pull a boy into a car, to tie him up, to slit his throat, to toss him out like a sack of garbage on the turnpike.

In spite of his protests, she pulled and held Sam close
as they lingered in the false comfort of the building. The huge fans were pumping in so much heat that children were sweaty and trying to get out of the coats their parents had just wrestled them into. She got her keys from her purse, set her finger on her alarm whistle, and convinced herself that it was not such a far walk. They would do it quickly, briskly. She would tell Sam they had to walk fast because it was so cold out and the blizzard was coming. In fact the snow was already starting, earlier than expected. Fine flakes and drops of frozen rain were falling on the cars' roofs and hoods. Already there was the silencing effect of the snow, and by tomorrow there would be three feet or more, drifts up to doors and windows. Jeff's new sports vehicle would allow him to pick Sam up right on time. She would be stranded.

She set their quick pace through the parked cars, eyes straight ahead, though she was aware of every sound. She kept expecting to see the man and the boy; she was expecting the worse. They crossed the slippery street and entered the empty satellite lot. She imagined figures crouched behind fenders, hiding under the driver's side and then reaching out and grabbing her by the ankle. Where was the car? What row? What row? She panicked. She pressed the button on her alarm, intentionally setting off her own car so that it wailed and called to her from the
darkness. “Hurry, hurry,” she said, and they ran toward the car down at the far end of the lot, windows already covered in a fine layer of white. She didn't turn her face to Sam's, afraid that he would see her fear and stop running. She wrenched open the car door on her side and pushed him in—too
hard
, he complained—and she slammed her door and pressed the automatic lock. The engine turned easily, and then she was able to let go and cry. She had reached the bottom of the long dark hole and now she would either remain there or begin working her way back to the surface. There was no magic potion; no incantation to make the world stop blinking, stop spinning. She could only hope that her body would keep moving—slow step by slow step—to the lines for the rest of the breathtaking rides. But for now, she was scared frozen, scared to death.

Your husband is cheating on us. I'm assuming that he hasn't told you yet. I'm the test wife and he tries everything out on me first, I mean
everything
. Remember when he got hooked on that massage oil that heats up with body temp? Now maybe you liked it, but I sure didn't. I got a rash, but of course, I have extremely sensitive skin and always have. I mean, I am Clinique all the way. If you were writing up this triangle (fast becoming a rectangle), then
you'd
be the one with sensitive skin, the fair, hothouse flower, and I'd be the scrub grass by the side of the road.

And look at you—some tan. I know that you go to Total Skin Care and get in the sunning beds. It's odd how
he tells me all about you. There have been many times when I've said, well, why don't you just go on home then? And of course, that's the ironic part, because he always does. But, girl, like are you thick? I would
know
if my man had been out messing around. Like I know your perfume—Chloe—and the fact that you have not picked up on my Shalimar is amazing. I wear the stuff the way it's supposed to be worn—heavy; I'm one of those women people ask not to be seated next to on the airplane. At my last clerical job they ran a ban on perfume in the workplace after I'd been there a week, so I had to quit on principle. That's me, a quitter; a principled quitter. When the going gets tough I get the hell out, always have.

I've come here today with a proposition for you, but before I get into that, I thought you might like to hear a bit about me. I'd think you'd want to, given that I know everything there is to know about you. I know your mama died last January, and I have to tell you that I almost called you up to give my condolences. I mean, I'd been hearing about how awful her illness was and how you were traveling back and forth to tend to her. I heard you on the answering machine many times when I'd be over here cooking dinner. I've got to tell you that I just love your kitchen—that commercial-size stove and those marble countertops. Was he feeling guilty when you all remodeled,
or what? You and I both have excellent and very similar tastes. Don't look at my hair. It's not a good day. You should see me when it's just cut and blown dry. Maybe I can show you some time.

Anyway, one of those nights when I heard you on the machine, you were crying so hard that I almost picked up, so strong was my urge to want to comfort you. When Mr. Big got home, I told him there was a message I felt he had to listen to right that minute, and of course, he did, but then did he call you? No, ma'am. And did he call to check on your son, who he had dumped off at the Anderson house and them not even home from work yet? I told him that if I had a son I believe I'd be more responsible with him, and he just pawed the air like I might be dumb. He must do that to you a lot, too. I'm sure he must. I even suggested I excuse myself, go to the mall or something so he could have his privacy but he just waved again and shrugged, like, ayyhh. Well, that was the first time I stopped and asked myself just who in the hell was this man I was sharing my (or
your
) bed with? I looked at him in a completely different way after that. I mean, how could he hear you sobbing and carrying on like that and not rush to call you? I see your surprise and I'm sorry. We all grow up and find out that the truth hurts. But here's some truth you might like. I did
not
sleep with him
in your bed that night. I faked myself a migraine (complete with blinding aura) and made him drive me straight home. Do you think
he
ever looked all around to make sure your neighbors weren't looking? Hell, no. Either too stupid or just didn't give a damn, I can't figure which. I moaned and groaned and talked of the bright lights I was seeing out of my right eye (I told him the left had already shut out in complete blindness), and honey, he drove faster than the speed of light. I have always noticed how men (at least the ones I've come into contact with) can't stand to observe pain. It just sends them right up a tree. I have also faked menstrual cramps with Mr. Big on several occasions, and so I know in great detail (he talks a hell of a lot, doesn't he?) that you have just terrible periods and always have. My bet is that you've faked your share, am I right? Well, either way, I know how you sometimes ask him to crush up some Valium into some juice that you sip through a straw so you don't have to sit up and straighten yourself out. Genius. Make that Mr. Big Ass work! But honey, I'm not so sure I'd trust him, you know? If I were you I might mix my own cocktails.

But enough about that, I wanted to tell you about me. Get yourself a drink if you like, or a cigarette. I know you smoke. He knows you smoke, even though you think he doesn't. I mean, the man is slow for sure, but he isn't completely
out of the loop. He has smelled it in your hair, even though he says you spray lots of hairspray and perfume (
he
doesn't know you wear Chloe—I do). So come on out in the open and just smoke. I smoked for years and I absolutely loved it. But I quit years ago. I am actually one of those who quit because of Yul Brynner coming on television and saying that, when I saw him there doing that ad, then it meant he was dead. Lord. That was a moving experience. I was holding a cigarette in my hand and was seven months pregnant (yes I have had a life, too), and I felt like Yul was looking directly into my eyes. Talk about an aura. Yul had an aura, and don't be like Mr. Big and make a joke about his baldness. I felt his soul reach out and grab me by the throat and say,
Put out the butt
. I went out on my back stoop, took one final drag (a long, delicious drag), and then I thumped that butt clean across the darkened backyard where it twinkled and glowed for just a brief second before dying.

If I was somebody who could like have one cookie at a time or could eat the designated portion written at the top of the recipe or on the side of the box, then I'd ask you to give me a cigarette, but we know better. If I had one cigarette, I'd have a carton. I have always told people that if I was ever given the bad news that my number had been drawn in that great bingo game we call fate and I only had
a little bit of time left, that I'd get me a cooler of beer and a carton of cigarettes and several bottles of Hawaiian Tropic (the oil with the red label for tropical-looking people), a tape deck with all my favorites from when I was a teenager: Pet Clark and Chad and Jeremy, you know my time, I'm a few years older than you, I think. And I'd just stretch out and offer myself to the sun; a burnt offering. Burnt, greased, and buzzing like a bee.

The baby? You're asking about
my
baby? Well, let's just say that if I had a baby then my last wish would be a very different one. But that's not something I like to talk about. I'll tell you what I did come to talk about. You see, I have been thinking that we should get rid of Mr. Big. That's right, don't look so shocked until you hear me out. It would be just like in that movie that came out a year or two ago, only I do not want to get into a lesbian entanglement with you. I mean, no offense or anything, it's just not my cup of tea. Actually I would like some of whatever you're drinking. Diet Coke is fine. Don't slip me a Mickey, okay? A joke, honey. That's a joke. I'm full of them. Probably every joke you've heard over the past eight years has been right from my mouth. Mr. Big has no sense of rhythm or timing—in
anything
, you know?

Truth is you look a far sight better than how he painted you, and you look a damn lot better than that
photo of you all in that church family book. I mean it made me sick to see Mr. Big Ass sitting there grinning like he was the best husband in the world when of course I knew the truth. Honey, there are facts and then there are facts, and the fact is that he is a loser with a capital
L
.

Arsenic is big where I'm from. I guess anywhere you've got a lot of pests there's a need for poison, and then maybe your perception of what constitutes a pest grows and changes over the years. There was a woman from a couple of towns over who went on a tear and fed arsenic to practically everybody she knew. If she had had herself a religious mission like Bo and Peep or Do and Mi, whatever those fools were called who tried to hitch a ride on the comet by committing suicide in new Nikes, or like that Waco freak, or, you know, that Jim guy with the Kool-Aid down in Guyana, she'd have gotten a lot of coverage—
People
magazine,
Prime Time
, you name it. When they finally wised up to her, she had enough ant killer stashed in her pantry to wipe out this whole county. It's big in this state. Cyanide, too, might be good because you've got that whiff of almond you might could hide in some baked goods. But I don't know how to get that.

I know what you're thinking, sister. I've been there. You see, your husband has been faithful to me for eight long years, and why he up and pulled this stunt I don't
know. Middle-age crazy, I suspect. Maybe he wanted somebody younger and shapelier. Maybe he wanted somebody a little more hot to trot like my oldest friend—practically a relative—who sleeps with anybody who can fog a mirror, and her own little lambs fast asleep in the very next room.

If I had had my own little lamb, my life would have been very different. And I was going to tell you about the real me, so I'll just begin before I go back to my plan. You keep thinking about it while I do my autobiography for you. You see, I think that my first knowledge that I would live the life I do is when I was in the eighth grade and my foot jumped right into a size nine shoe. Now I'm looking over and I see that you are about a seven and a half, which is a very safe place for a foot to be these days. That's a safe size. But I hit nine so fast and all of the women in my family said, “Where did she get that foot?” My brother called me Big Foot. My great-aunt said, “Oh my God in heaven, what if she grows into those?” This from a woman who was so wide, her butt took up a whole shopping aisle at the CVS. I mean, it isn't exactly like I came from aristocracy but they thought so, or at least they thought that a slim little petite foot meant that somebody way, way back stepped off the boat in some size fours.