Ryan Jahn - Low Life

‘Jeremy?’

It was Samantha. Of course. The police wouldn’t have a key. Her footsteps thudded across the hardwood floor, nearing him and growing louder.

The door was pushed open, squeaked open, brushed across the carpet, making a sound like leaves in a breeze, and a silhouette stood in the doorway, like a backlit gunman in an old Western movie who’s just shoved through the batwings.

‘Jeremy?’

‘I’m in bed.’

Simon sat up, putting his back against the headboard.

‘Do you mind if I turn on the light?’

‘Go ahead. How was the rest of the night?’

‘It was good. Too much talking. That Marlene Biskind turned out to be very nice. We exchanged information. I think we’re gonna have coffee tomorrow.’

The overhead light clicked on.

Samantha kicked off her shoes.

‘It was fun,’ she said, ‘but I’m glad it’s over. Are you feeling better?’

She looked at him for the first time since coming into the room. Her face blanched. Her mouth hung open and then snapped shut.

‘Oh my God.’

‘Is something the matter?’

‘Your hand.’

Simon lifted his hand up in front of his eyes and looked at it. It was gloved in blood, and the blood was running down his arm, tickling the thousands of blondish hairs beneath the sleeve of his shirt, which was stained red.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘That.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I hurt myself.’

‘How?’

‘Broke the medicine cabinet. It was – ’ he closed his eyes to think and then opened them again – ‘it was confusing me.’

He sat on the edge of the bathtub. He was wearing slacks and a white shirt. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. Samantha sat on the bathtub beside him, carefully picking shards of mirror from his flesh. Once she got the largest pieces out, she picked the tiny slivers from his hand with tweezers, and then wiped the blood away with cotton balls.

A shiver jerked through Simon’s body.

‘Hold still.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Are you cold?’

Simon nodded. ‘So your show went well?’

‘I told you it did. We sold out. I wasn’t expecting that at all.’ She went silent and continued wiping at his hand for a moment. Finally: ‘I want you to see Dr Zurasky tomorrow.’

‘He’s not that kind of doctor. He can’t do anything for my hand.’

‘It’s not your hand I’m worried about.’

‘I don’t trust him.’

Samantha wrapped gauze around Simon’s hand. The bottom layers turned red with blood as more of it oozed from beneath his flesh. She continued wrapping his hand until the gauze was thick enough that the blood didn’t soak through it.

‘I know that, Jeremy,’ she said. ‘You never trust anyone when you get like this. But you need to see him.’

She taped the gauze into place.

‘I’m not going to see him. Not as a patient, anyway.’

‘What does that mean?’

Simon shook his head but said nothing else.

‘You need to see someone.’

‘How can I see someone when I don’t know who can be trusted?’

Samantha let go of Simon’s hand. She sat staring for a moment, her eyes glazed over and far away. Her chin trembled. Then her body collapsed into itself as she let go of her posture – her shoulders drooping, her chin nearly resting on her chest – and she breathed out heavily through her nostrils. Then she looked up at Simon. The emotion was gone from her eyes. Her mouth was tight. She swallowed.

‘I don’t know if I can keep doing this, Jeremy,’ she said. ‘I can’t keep pretending you’re still the man I married. You’ve changed. I’m tired of picking up the pieces. I’m tired of having to pick up the pieces. I’m just – I’m fucking tired.’

After Samantha fell asleep Simon crawled out of bed and slipped back into his clothes, overcoat included. He picked it up from the back of the couch, where Kate had tossed it after pulling it off him, and put it on as he walked toward the door. He stepped out of the front door and into the night. He packed his cigarettes, slapping the packet against the back of his hand, opened it, put it to his mouth, pinched a filter between his teeth, and pulled the box away. He lighted his cigarette. He inhaled deeply and walked out to the sidewalk. The street was quiet, the world asleep all around him.

But something was wrong. Something out here had changed – in a bad way, in a way that had something to do with what was happening to him.

He closed his eyes and tried to create an image of what the street had looked like earlier, when he had left for the college this morning. He laid that image over what the street looked like right now, like a transparency, trying to see the difference. Something had been added or removed. Something had changed.

After a moment he knew. His Volvo was gone.

When he first arrived this morning he’d parked his Volvo on the street about six houses down, but now someone’s yellow Mustang was parked there.

Someone had taken it. Someone was manipulating things. Someone who could be in many places simultaneously, or coordinate several people.

He took a deep drag from his cigarette and exhaled through his nostrils.

He needed to walk, to think about this, to figure out what to do next. He started down the sidewalk, heading toward Colorado. He had no destination in mind. He just needed to move, to get blood flowing through his brain so he could think. He felt dull and stupid. He felt scared.

An engine roared to life, a pair of headlight beams splashed across his back. He froze a moment, considered glancing over his shoulder, but changed his mind. He would just keep walking, pretending he wasn’t bothered, and see what the car did. It was probably nothing, just some guy who worked nights. As he walked the car rolled along behind him. It didn’t gain speed and take off down the street. It simply followed.

Unable to resist any longer Simon glanced over his shoulder. A Cadillac – big and rectangular and funereal – was rolling along behind him. He thought it was black, but color was a strange thing beneath the light of the moon, and because of the headlights shining in his eyes he could not see who was driving.

He continued walking. No matter how much he tried to resist the urge to increase his speed, he found himself moving faster and faster. By the time he reached Colorado he was running, and still the Cadillac was behind him, following him.

He ran along Colorado, glancing behind him again and again as he did, feeling cool night air stinging his throat. The Cadillac was still there. It was in the right lane, simply following him, other cars swerving around it. He ran through the night from shadow to light, shadow to light, through the spotlights of the street lamps on the boulevard. A stitch sewed itself into his side. His legs started to feel rubbery and weak. Closed businesses sat dark on either side of him.

He turned down a side street and kept running. The car turned behind him and continued to follow.

A train was nearby. The sound of metal wheels rolling along metal tracks, the wind that the train’s motion was creating, the screech of the train braking.

He looked around, saw steps leading down to the Memorial Park train platform. He saw the light rail train stop and the doors open. It was only three cars long, as almost no one was using the metro at this late hour. A few people got on and a few people got off.

He leaped down the stairs, in two long strides, and ran for the train.

The doors closed when he was still ten feet away.

He pounded the button and the doors opened.

He looked over his shoulder and saw a shadowy figure in sunglasses and a black suit coming down the stairs toward the train, black tie flapping over the left shoulder.