The Passenger (12 page)

Domenic slammed the door and followed after me.

“Sure, we can walk,” he said. “It's only two miles up this road.”

D
OMENIC
was right about the burgers, but I didn't care much for the ambiance. The bright lights of the diner were hardly flattering, and I didn't yet know how those blue contact lenses looked under the flickering glow of fluorescents. Every once in a while I caught Domenic giving me a sidelong glance, suspicious like. But I didn't know the guy, so maybe that was how he looked at people.

We were both hungry and ate in silence. When Domenic finished the last bite, he put his napkin on his plate and shoved it to the middle of the table. The waitress came by and asked if we needed anything else. Domenic complimented the chef and winked. On him it worked. The waitress dropped the check in front of the man. Domenic took it right away. I legitimately reached for my wallet, but he waved me off.

After the bill was dispensed with, Domenic leaned back in the booth, sated and lazy limbed. He smiled, a satisfied customer. “Debra, tell me something about yourself.”

Now, that's a hell of a question. Not one I was inclined to answer too ambitiously.

“These lights are giving me a headache,” I said.

“Then let's get out from under them.”

It was easy in the bar and then the diner. There was a point to our companionship. Out on the street, I felt unmoored. There were things I wanted, things I missed, that my brain fought strongly against. I felt heat on the back of my neck. Few men had stirred such a response. The last time I felt it was with my chiropractor, but it hadn't been nearly as strong as it was at that moment on the desolate sidewalk. It reminded me of high school crushes, the hot flash of desire that could make a task as simple as tying your shoelaces impossible. I remember Ryan passing by the window in English class. He looked at me and smiled. I returned my gaze to
The Great Gatsby
and read the same line over and over and over again. I still remember the line:

It takes two to make an accident.

It takes two to make an accident.

It takes two to make an accident.

When it came down to it, it took three.

Domenic and I were walking in the same direction, but it wasn't toward my hotel or the bar or any destination I was aware of. I thought I should take my leave, but he took my hand instead and led me across the street. It had been so long since another person had touched me, I was stunned by how warm he felt.

“Are we going somewhere?”

“That's up to you,” Domenic said.

I had changed direction enough in my life. Sometimes it was easier to follow the path that was paved for me. We walked in silence for a while, until Domenic stopped in front of a red door that adorned a Craftsman-style house. The moonlight cast enough of a glow on the home for me to see that it was painted blue with white trim, and looked old-fashioned, innocent, and well cared for.

“I live here,” Domenic said.

“Nice place,” I said.

“That's just the outside,” he said. “I can either walk you back to the bar or wherever you're staying, or you could come in for a cup of tea.”

“A cup of tea?”

“I have other things to drink too.”

“I see.”

He waited patiently for an answer. I was wary on principle. Men have done me wrong more than one too many times, but they aren't all bad, and Domenic seemed a step above anyone I had met in a while. Mind you, I hadn't known him that long and my instincts had once failed me so deeply I've still never quite forgiven them. But his hand felt so warm, and I was tired of being alone, always alone.

“I'll have some tea,” I said.

The inside of the house was like the outside, in that cared-for manner. The wide-plank wood floors looked smooth and shiny. The furniture, a mismatch of new and old, neither in fashion, was still well considered and polished to the bone. A few family photos were hung on the walls next to several thoughtfully framed amateurish paintings of flowers, all signed by an artist named Mary.

Domenic saw me looking at one of the paintings, a bowl of daisies. “I got a good deal on those,” he said.

“They're nice,” I said politely. They weren't not nice.

“My mother,” he said.

This made me like him more and less. He seemed harmless, for a complete stranger, maybe a little too harmless. While my mind was tumbling through dangerous scenarios, Domenic kissed me. He put one hand behind my neck and the other wrapped around my waist, and I felt human again. My needs were simple at that moment, not attached to a map with plots and schemes and an assortment of names.

His lips felt familiar. It wasn't one of those fumbling first kisses where you're all distracted by the details. Domenic pulled away and led me into the bedroom. I felt tingly and warm and expectant and safe, sensations that I thought might be lost to me forever.

And then I saw the gun and the badge on the dresser and I felt like I had just given blood, most of it. I must have visibly paled, because when Domenic turned to kiss me again, he took a step back.

“Are you all right, Debra?”

“Gun,” was all I could sputter out with my heart jackhammering inside me.

“I'm sorry,” Domenic said, opening the drawer and putting it inside. “It's okay, I'm a sheriff.”

“You didn't mention that in the bar,” I said.

“You didn't ask.”

“Don't most off-duty cops carry their weapon?”

“Some do, but everyone in town knows who I am, and it always seemed pessimistic to take my gun when I'm just having a drink with friends.”

I tried to breathe enough to catch my breath, but I was chasing oxygen like a marathoner.

“What's going on, Debra? Do you have something against cops?”

I sure did. But I didn't mention it. “I'm just not feeling very well. I think I better go.”

“I'll walk you back.”

“Not necessary,” I said.

“It's late,” he said.

I went to the front door and turned the knob. It was locked. The panic inside me was like an overflowing river. I fumbled with the lock. Domenic took my hands away and gave the knob a flick. He opened the door and gave me a wide berth. Until I stepped onto his porch in the cold night air, it was like I had been underwater in a swimming pool, having a breath-holding contest. I instantly felt better. Domenic noticed the look of relief on my face. He looked hurt.

He followed me back to the motel, I think just to make sure I returned safe. I stopped at the main lobby. I didn't want him to know what room I was in.

“Thank you,” I said. “For, uh—the burger and the company.”

“What just happened?”

“Nothing. I suddenly realized I shouldn't be alone with a stranger.”

“Okay,” Domenic said. “But let's say you pass through town again, we wouldn't be strangers then, would we?”

“I guess not,” I said.

He reached into his wallet and handed me his card. “If you ever need anything, my mobile number is on there.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Be careful out there,” he said. “The world is full of all kinds of people.”

“I figured that out a long time ago,” I said.

May 11, 2011

To: Ryan

From: Jo

Did you think I wouldn't find out? I'm the only secret anyone seems able to keep these days. Everything else is out there. One hour at the library computer, checking on old friends, and I find it. Photos of Logan and Edie on a romantic vacation in Big Sur. They look so happy. How did you let that happen?

I don't care what you have to do, what you have to tell her. Stop it.

Jo

June 10, 2011

To: Jo

From: Ryan

I tried. I tried before it started. I tried to stop it when I saw him look at her at the Sundowners that first time she came home after she quit college. Since I went to the hospital, people don't listen to me like they used to. I'm the crazy one. Logan's the strong, successful, responsible brother.

If it makes you feel any better, I think he's changed. Not that he's different inside, but he doesn't let that other part of him out as much. He might be good to her. I know that's not what you want to hear, but that's all I've got.

You seem to think that you can use me as a proxy. This isn't a game of chess where you can call out the moves and I'll just be the hand.

When someone is gone, and you're as good as dead here, you can't alter the course of events. If/when he does something wrong, I'll try to intervene.

June 15, 2011

To: Ryan

From: Jo

I take it married life is treating you well. I get it, you don't want to interrupt the status quo. Oh, and congratulations on your baby.

You always had a bit of a cowardly streak. I thought you'd grow out of it, not settle into it like a comfortable chair.

I haven't asked you for anything. Fix the problem. End them. If anything happens to Edie, it's on you. And I won't stay quiet this time.

Jo

M
Y
first outing as Debra Maze was a reminder that my life was like a game of Jenga: if one piece was out of place, my entire world could collapse. The next day, I shoved my close call with the police out of my mind and drove the final leg of my journey.

By the time I landed in Jackson, Wyoming, I was just about dead broke. I drove on my last tank of gas to half a dozen motels and tried to strike up a deal—a warm room for services rendered. I had promised myself I would steer clear of the sanitation industry, but it was the middle of May, the school year was almost over, and I needed some time to secure my identity as Debra Maze. I didn't see myself managing all of that while bedding down in my Cadillac. I made a deal with the owner of the Moose Lodge, just off Flat Creek Drive. I even managed to get a small stipend to supplement my temporary living situation.

There was one thing I knew for sure: if this plan was going to work, I needed to figure out how to look less like Blue and more like me. Every time I passed my reflection in the mirror, I saw deceit. If I couldn't buy the lie, there was no way I could expect anyone else to.

Blue had once told me that the best way to hide in plain sight was to get fat. So I purchased three six-packs of mini-doughnuts, the kind I devoured for breakfast in junior high until my swim coach suggested I use my calories for something more nutritious.

I left my honey-blond dye job intact and touched up my roots whenever they made an entrance. For a month I maintained a strict doughnut, pizza, French fry, and beer diet, eating until I wanted to puke every night. I gained twenty pounds in three weeks. Looking at my bloated red complexion in the mirror, I felt like I could cry. My sudden fleshiness trumped the blondness that once drew stares. I became more and more invisible with each pound I gained. Once I'd packed on more than twenty-five pounds, I went to the Wyoming DMV and applied for a driver's license, using Debra Maze's social security card and birth certificate as identification. Once again, I barely passed the written exam. I returned a few days later for the road test. I fared better on that, although it didn't bode well that I failed to answer when the examiner called my new name.

When the paperwork was complete, the clerk pointed me in the direction of the line for photos. I retreated to the bathroom, plucked out those blue contact lenses, and lined up for my picture. The photographer didn't pay much attention to my paperwork. He told me to smile; I didn't. Then I was instructed to wait two to four weeks.

It took two and a half weeks for my license to arrive. Cleaning other people's filth and waiting to be discovered as a fraud, then a murderer, then who knows what else, turned each twenty-four hours into a slow-motion vigil on the long hand of a clock. When the envelope arrived at my PO box, I half expected to open it and find an arrest warrant. But there I was: Debra Maze, five foot five, one hundred and fifty pounds. Blue eyes, blond hair. Only my eyes in the photo were brown.

It took another month to finish my transition into being a Debra Maze I could live with. I dyed my hair brown—I'd spent enough years of my life bleaching my roots every month and I left those blue contacts in their case. I still hoped that, one day, someone might look into my eyes and see who I really was. That couldn't happen if my eyes were as phony as a porcelain doll's.

I quit my sumo wrestler's diet right after my first visit to the DMV. I shed twenty pounds fast, but the last five took some work. The motel had a blinking neon sign for a swimming pool. It was indoors, overheated, and the smell of chlorine wafted through the dank air and stuck in your throat. Three freestyle strokes, turn and kick, and another three strokes and you'd already completed one lap. After eleven p.m., the pool was closed to motel guests, but I had the key. It took me twenty minutes to swim one hundred laps.

I remembered being fourteen and swimming in the Waki Reservoir, thinking it was all mine because nobody knew it quite like I did. Doing abbreviated laps in that confined turquoise cement space wasn't remotely liberating or exhilarating. It was a reminder of what my life had become, like sitting in a trash compactor as it's closing in. When I was young, I thought anything was possible. The world seemed so large and available. Mine for the taking. I wished I had taken more when I had the chance.

Summer in Jackson was bright and warm and the mountains glittered. After work I'd stroll around the town under the hot sun, trying to erase the memories of all of the rooms I'd just cleaned. Some days, I'd go to a bar or a café and pretend I was just another tourist.