Round Rock (22 page)

She pulled over to the side of the road. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.” If she stayed absolutely still, she thought, she might not feel a thing.

R
ED RAY
found her twenty minutes later. The worst was over; that throat-corroding cry. She’d spat gobs of black-streaked mucus out the window and dried her eyes on her stinky, soot-smeared sleeve. Red peered in her window. “What are you doing in there?”

His T-shirt was so white it hurt to look at. “Thinking.”

“Coming up with anything?”

“No.”

“Sorry to hear about your trailer.”

“You already heard?”

“Welcome to Rito,” he said.

“And Lewis heard?”

“He left a while ago to give you a hand.”

She frowned, thinking this over. “I don’t think so. He saw me and took off. We had a fight and he didn’t want to see me. That’s pretty clear.”

Red watched her without speaking.

“I’m okay, now,” she said. “I really should get back.”

Red reached inside to touch Libby’s shoulder. “Let’s take my truck,” he said.

B
ILLIE
was waiting for them at the trailer, her truck bed stacked with empty 3-Bill brand orange boxes. Libby packed the boxes while Red and Billie loaded them onto their trucks, along with the salvageable furniture.

As she worked, Libby kept thinking she heard a car and hoped to see the Fairlane crest the hill. There was still time for him to relent—or was it “repent”? “Sorry, I choked,” he might say. “I flinched, but I’m here now, aren’t I?” She tried not to glance down the driveway too often, in keeping with the watched-pot principle. Also, she was embarrassed that, after all his antics, she still wanted Lewis to appear. She couldn’t help it. Some part of her—her heart or guts—hadn’t gotten the message yet, not quite. She found herself chanting under her breath what was surely a prayer, that Lewis would come, and come soon, before it was too late and this lapse became irreparable.

N
EXT STOP:
the laundromat. Though reluctant to leave her alone, Billie and Red agreed to take the boxes and furniture to Billie’s warehouse while Libby monitored ten loads of stinky wash. “I need time to myself,” she’d said. “
Please
.”

Once the clothes were sloshing, Libby walked up to the Mills. Why am I doing this? she wondered. Her trailer had burned, her life was in complete disarray, and all she could think about was
Lewis
? Clearly this was some kind of post-trauma derangement.

She wanted to find him at home and miraculously equipped with
a convincing explanation: his car exploded en route to her, he’d done an L.A. turnaround to fetch her bags of money, he had amnesia, anything. All she wanted was a wild story whose upshot was, We’re fine, we’re good, our future is bright.

She knocked, then tried his locked door. She stood in the hallway, approximately where she’d kicked him only twelve hours ago. “Oh, God.” She was talking out loud now, like a crazy person. “Don’t let this be happening. Not to me. Not right now. Not again.”

Hearing movement in the room, she became as quiet as air. She would wait him out, stand there motionless, barely breathing until he peeked to see if she’d gone. A knob squeaked and a door swung open—the one next to Lewis’s. An old man, his gray hair matted in clumps, staggered into the hall, legs hobbled by the pants around his ankles. His shirttails didn’t quite hide his genitals. He gazed at Libby without seeing her, slumped against the wall, and, with great concentration, began urinating on the carpet.

L
IBBY
transferred ten wet loads into five huge dryers. Red and Billie showed up in time to help her fold. Libby was so happy to see them, she grew weepy. They were such good friends. And such lousy laundry folders. Billie had never folded a thing in her life, and thanks to his military training, Red was so ultraprecise and slow that he probably didn’t fold ten items total.

Afterward, they went to Happy Yolanda’s for burritos. As soon as they ordered, Billie’s beeper went off. “Don’t say anything interesting,” she told them, and left to use the pay phone.

Red asked Libby about her insurance—she always forgot he was a lawyer. “The only thing that worries me,” she said, “is whether I took Stockton’s name off the policy.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Red said. “If there’s a hitch, I’ll handle it for you.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Everybody’s being so nice to me.”

“Why shouldn’t they?” he said. “Anyone who knows you wants to be nice to you.”

“Not Lewis.”

“Lewis’s difficulties in that regard have nothing to do with you.”

Libby hated to cry. It hurt, and the back of her throat was already raw, her sinuses already ached. She put her head in her hands.

Red smoothed her hair. “Lewis is a fool,” he said. “A
total
fool.”

Libby, surprised by the force of Red’s words, pulled back to look at him.

“Aw, c’mon,” he said. “It’s no secret, Libby. Hell. Ever since the day Lewis made a date with you, I’ve been kicking myself for not getting there first. Not that I deserve the time of day. But I am grateful for the time you give me.”

This made her cry even harder, only this time it didn’t feel so bad. Less bitter, as if she were a fountain of pure emotion. Red put his hand under her chin and lifted her face. All she could think was how blotchy and swollen she must look. She ducked her forehead against his shoulder. His hand slid over her hair again, a caress so comforting and tender that she sobbed aloud. Red kissed the side of her head and she lunged up, out of her chair, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him on the lips.

He clearly thought it was just a friendly buss, but she insisted, mashing her opened lips against his. Let him be shocked. After a very long moment—long enough to understand she was probably making a total fool of herself—his arms rose up and encircled her, and he actively began to kiss her back.

They stopped, each took a breath, and then
he
kissed
her
: calmly, nicely. How had she never noticed his lips were beautiful, full and pale? She thought, fleetingly, she might actually pass out from all the emotions rampaging inside her, then remembered Huey Labette’s zydeco song “Fat Guys Are Great Kissers.” This made her smile mid-kiss, which Red felt. They stopped, pulled apart, his eyes amused and electric-blue. She sat back down in her chair. “Yikes,” she said.

“Likewise,” he said.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said.

“Don’t look at me. My face is blotchy.”

“Not too bad.”

“At least I stopped crying,” she said, and reached for his hand, which he gave over. They held hands, a moment of insane happiness. Truly insane. “I’m probably certifiable right now.”

“I feel pretty good myself,” said Red.

Whole geographies were shifting inside her, washed by tidal waves of fear. She retrieved her hand.

“I wish Billie would get back, because I have no idea what to say or do next,” she said. “Can we talk a little more about the insurance?”

“Sure.” Red smiled at her.

She dug in her purse. “I thought I should take this before anybody else saw it.” She held her fist under Red’s face. Opening her hand, she revealed the fuse, exploded through its tinfoil casing.

Red closed his eyes. “Libby,” he said, “how long did you leave that thing in your box?”

“Just a few days, I think.”

“I’d say more like two weeks.”

“Don’t go bawling me out.”

“I’m not bawling anybody out. I’m just amazed. You better give it to me.” He went to pluck it from her palm, but she was quicker, and shoved it back in her purse.

“What do you want it for, anyway?” she asked.

“As your legal counsel, I want to be sure it’s in the right hands.”

Billie returned, sliding her chair out and sitting down. “Rogelio found a company to haul your trailer away. Is Thursday morning okay?”

“Fine,” Libby said. “If the insurance inspector gets there by then.”

Billie lifted her burrito, paused. “What’s going on? Did I miss something?”

Libby lowered her forehead to the tabletop.

“Billie,” Red said. “Eat your lunch.”

She obediently took a bite, and started talking with a full mouth. “If what I think is happening
is
happening, you have to let me know. I got fifty bucks riding on you two over at the grocería.”

“Eat,” said Red.

Libby, her face resting on the cool Formica, confronted these questions: Can a person change just like that? Can Red Ray go from being the fat old sidekick to someone’s favorite living thing?

I
N
L. A. it was the dregs of summer. Ninety-five degrees, with filthy, red-brown air and yellowing lawns. Never was Lewis so happy to see smog, and traffic, and poor Central American boys selling maps to the stars’ homes on Sunset Boulevard. In fact, only the stoplights bugged him. From Round Rock, it was four miles to the nearest stoplight, in downtown Rito; from Rito, another nine miles to the first Buchanan light. In Westwood there were stoplights on every corner, every few hundred yards something telling him what to do.

His philosophy professor’s house was barely visible from the street. Set back, shaded by enormous oaks, overgrown with ivy and shrubs, this was what real estate agents called a “hideaway charmer,” the perfect choice for an academic embarking on a second marriage with his student bride.

The yard was dusty, the leaves pinched from lack of water; hollyhocks were brown and long on the stalk. Ivy climbed over oak trees, camellia bushes, porch supports, alike. Sam’s vintage yellow-and-white Rover was in the driveway, its right fender battered and rusting from when he’d gone after it with a hammer one morning after it refused to start one time too many. Ringing the doorbell, Lewis could hear a television or radio humming loudly within. When nobody answered, he walked around to the side, tapped on the kitchen window. No response. The back door, however, was open.

His professor was asleep on the sofa in the living room, the TV blaring a talk show. A glass sweated on the end table.

“Yo, Sam,” Lewis said.

Sam opened his eyes. “Lewis,” he growled. “Shit, man.” He stood up, stretched for half a second, then walked over to give him a hug. Sam was a hugger. He was okay at it, nothing clingy or sexual. Like you were on his baseball team. Still, Lewis’s skin constricted: the guy reeked.

“When did you blow in?”

“Today. It was time to come home.”

“Terrific. Great to see you. I hope you’re staying here.” Sam picked up his sweating glass, drained it. “What do you want to drink?” Starting for the kitchen, he spoke over his shoulder. “Amanda’s gone, by the way.”

Lewis followed him. “On a trip?”

“Gone.” Sam stood at his kitchen counter and gave an unconvincing laugh. He scratched his stomach through his T-shirt. “She fell in love with her boss at the studio. Some asshole hyphenate. That’s writer-hyphen-producer.” He rubbed his head so his hair stood on end. He looked like a little boy.

“Sorry, man,” said Lewis.

Sam shrugged. “At least now you won’t have to stay in the garage. You can have her office.”

In the kitchen, Sam opened the cupboard where single-malt scotch, rare clear brandies, and private-stock bourbons were lined up like books on a shelf. Lewis stared, not so much with longing as with attention and respect: O
beautiful deadly spirits.

“What’s your pleasure?” said Sam.

“Water’s fine.”

“That’s right,” he said. “You’ve been drying out. There’s juice and beer in the fridge.” He pointed.

Lewis located a carton of orange juice in a near-empty refrigerator and handed it to Sam.

“I was surprised to hear you’re an alcoholic,” Sam said. “I mean you
drank. I
drink. Hell, we all drink. But I never noticed any problem.”

“I had three arrests involving drunkenness.”

“Not when you lived here.”

“I drank every day,” said Lewis.

“Who doesn’t?”

“My life was unmanageable. I lived in a garage, for God’s sake.”

“Only because Queen Bitch wouldn’t let you in the house.”

“It’s more than that,” Lewis muttered.

“If you say so.” Sam added a short burst of water to his scotch. “I never saw it.”

T
HE NEXT
day, after his former boss at the library agreed to give him another chance, Lewis drove over to Sunset to see his friend and fellow Ph.D. candidate Ed Hunkle, who tended bar in the lounge of a large, expensive hotel. Although the adjoining restaurant was busy, the cool, gray bar was empty. Ed threw back his head when Lewis walked in. “Hello, stranger!” he called, and laid a napkin on the bar. “What’ll it be? On me.”

“Coke,” Lewis said.

“
Coke?
”

“I haven’t had a drink in almost eight months.”

“I’ll be darned.” Ed squirted Coke from the gun. “So what’s new?”

All Lewis could think to say was, “I’m sober”—and hadn’t he already said so?

O
N
S
ATURDAY
night, Lewis drove to Brentwood for an AA meeting that proved to be an intimidating fashion show. The speaker, a studio executive with fourteen years of sobriety, called Alcoholics Anonymous a “womb of love” where people could discover their true human nature as affectionate, compassionate beings. Such talk made Lewis nervous. He remembered that today Lawrence was finally leaving Round Rock, after almost a year’s residency. Lewis had missed the standard farewell party with the crummy supermarket cake. He hadn’t gathered on the porch with the others to wave napkins and handkerchiefs like so many disconsolate war brides until Lawrence was gone from sight.

“We alcoholics routinely, constantly, save each other’s lives,” the speaker said. “If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.” Lewis slipped out before the closing prayer.

Sunday morning, Lewis read the paper and waited for Sam to appear. He wanted to take him out to breakfast. At noon, Lewis left the house alone, ate eggs in a coffee shop, then walked past closed shops down Westwood’s littered streets. He took himself to a movie, a thriller, and when he came out, the fog had rolled in. A gloomy darkness fell fast.