Ryan Jahn - The Last Tomorrow

The orgasm arrives all at once, with almost no build-up.

He thrusts twice and it’s finished.

The blonde woman leans down and kisses his temple, her breasts pushing against his chest. Then she pulls herself off of him, walks to a sink against the far wall, grabs a washcloth from the counter, and wets it. She wipes between her legs, the inside of her thighs, her sex. She tosses the wet washcloth into a laundry pile in the corner. Seymour tries not to wonder how many sexual partners such a pile might account for. The blonde woman lets the dress fall.

‘I’m gonna head out,’ she says, ‘get cleaned up if you want to.’

Then she’s gone.

Seymour sits up on the cot. He looks down at his now flaccid penis wrapped in a glistening condom that seems, with his erection gone, far too large for what it’s wrapped around. The tip of the condom hangs down warm against his leg, filled with ejaculate. He knows he must remove it but doesn’t want to touch it. What if she’s diseased? He might get whatever she has on his fingers, and then, if he rubs his eyes, contract it. Can one get syphilis through the eye? He isn’t certain.

He shouldn’t have done this. He shouldn’t have let this happen.

He peels the condom off with two fingers and throws it into a trash can, then walks to the sink, cleans himself off with a wash cloth, and scrubs his hands vigorously, scraping beneath the nails.

He feels sick.

How is he going to sit across from his wife and eat meat loaf when he’s done what he’s done?

He zips up his pants and fastens his belt. He wonders if his underwear might smell like sex. He’ll have to throw them away. He doesn’t want Margaret to find them in the laundry if they do. What if she smells it on them?

He turns around and sees a poster hanging above the cot on which he lay with the blonde woman.

BEWARE OF CHANCE ACQUAINTANCES

it says in capital letters at the top, below which is a picture of a man with a mustache hitting on a young woman. And below that:

‘Pick up’ acquaintances often take girls autoriding to cafes, and to theaters with the intention of leading them into sexual relations. Disease or childbirth may follow.

Avoid the man who tries to take liberties with you. He is selfishly thoughtless and inconsiderate of you.

Believe no one who says it is necessary to indulge sex desire.

Know the men you associate with!

Seymour looks at the poster for a long time. Whoever tacked it on that particular wall above that particular cot meant it as some sort of joke, but he doesn’t find it the least bit amusing. It makes him feel ill.

He walks out of the back room and into the main bar, and then through the main bar to the front door. He doesn’t look around. He keeps his head down. He’s too embarrassed by what he’s done to look anyone in the eye, even unintentionally. They would immediately know every shameful thing he’s guilty of.

He cannot believe he let this happen. He cannot believe he did this.

He pushes through the door and out onto the sidewalk.

The sky overhead is dark but for the moon hanging like a paper lantern. The air is cool, but the breeze carries on it the scent of exhaust fumes.

‘You son of a bitch.’

His head snaps to the right, toward the sound of the voice. He blinks, trying to see clearly in the darkness. A hulking figure in a cowboy hat comes at him.

‘You motherfucker,’ the hulking figure says in a voice Seymour almost recognizes. Almost but not quite.

He takes a step back, puts up both hands.

Then the figure in the cowboy hat is upon him and the face beneath the hat is clearly visible. Leland Jones. His eyes are black with rage and glossy with drink. His fists are clenched.

Seymour takes a second step back, fear overwhelming him.

And then the violence begins.

5

Leland yanks the wheel to the right, but the goddamn pickup’s going too fast to make the turn. Instead of swinging into the driveway, it jumps up the curb and comes to a skidding stop in the middle of their front yard. Leland lets it stay there. He kills the engine and steps from the vehicle. His hands are covered in blood, some of it his own from split knuckles, most of it the district attorney’s. His face and shirt are speckled with more of it.

He walks to the front door and into the house. He stands by the doorway, sweaty and bloody and feeling frantic.

‘Viv,’ he says.

If she’s left for work he doesn’t know what he’ll do, but she shouldn’t have left quite yet. It’s too early. He tries to remember whether he saw her car parked out on the street, but isn’t sure. He didn’t look.

He calls her name again.

She walks out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her torso and another on her head. ‘What is it?’

‘Do you love me, darlin?’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Do you love me?’

‘Of course. What is it?’

‘Would you love me even if I done something terrible?’

‘Is that blood?’

‘I done something terrible. I need to leave town.’

‘What did you do?’

Leland licks his lips. His entire body shakes with adrenalin. He tries to calm himself, tries to think. He closes his eyes. He opens them. He can’t bring himself to tell her what he did.

‘You said you always wanted to see where I come from.’

Vivian, silent for a very long time, searches his face for answers.

Finally she nods.

‘Okay,’ she says.

1

Candice reaches into her dress and lifts her breasts, pushing them together to create more cleavage. They’re sticky with sweat and feel heavy in her hands. She leans forward slightly and looks at herself in the mirror, tries to smile but can’t make it look real, can’t bring light into her eyes. She hopes the makeup can at least hide their puffy redness, the fact that she’s been crying.

She’ll do the best she can tonight.

Maybe once the evening begins in earnest she’ll forget about her real life. Maybe the music, flirtation, dancing, and drinks, watered-down though they are, will help her briefly forget everything. She doesn’t think so, doesn’t think anything could make her forget that her husband is dead, doesn’t think anything could make her forget that her thirteen-year-old son is a murderer, or that he’s missing, doesn’t think even the junk Carl shoots into his veins could make her forget those things, but maybe she’s wrong. Maybe there will be a moment, just one, in which she’s able to feel like herself again. Maybe something will make her laugh. Or distract her enough that, for a time, she’s completely free of thought and worry.

She picks up a compact and clicks it open, loads the applicator with powder, and is bringing it toward her face when a knock at the front door stops her. She sets the compact back down on the counter.

She hopes she doesn’t find Carl on the other side. It’d be one thing if she didn’t care for him. She could slam the door in his face and that would be that. That’s the way it should be. But it was difficult to shut him out the way she did. It was difficult, and she doesn’t know if she has the strength to do it again. A big part of her wants him around to lean on. But she knows, too, that he isn’t really present most of the time. He’s only a husk, and there’s no point leaning on a husk. There’s nothing solid within to support you. It could blow away in the wind. Certainly it would crumble beneath your weight. You might as well try leaning on a column of smoke.

Anyway, she hopes it isn’t Carl.

She walks to the front door and looks through the peephole but sees no one and nothing but empty space. After a moment’s hesitation she pulls open the door. The welcome mat is empty but for a small bundle of white flowers. Several of them still have brown clods of dirt hanging from them, held in place by thin roots.