Lisa Unger - Black Out

As I wait, the memories start their parade. I can’t stop them. I lie down on the bed, the sheer force of their relentless march exhausting me. The articles say I watched as Marlowe tortured innocent girls, that I stood by and did nothing as he murdered them-convenience-store clerks, gas-station attendants, hotel maids. It’s true, without being the whole truth.

We traveled at night, stealing a new car every few days from roadside diners and rest stops along the highway. We stole mostly old junkers with empty soda cans on the floor and plastic Jesuses on the dash, pictures of toddlers tucked in the visor, piles of cigarette butts in the ashtrays. Each car had its particular aroma: cigars or vomit, bad perfume or sex. As Marlowe drove, I rummaged through the glove boxes, trying to figure out whose day we’d ruined, whether they had insurance and would be able to afford another car.

By the end of the second week, what little money we had was nearly gone; we’d had nothing but soda and vending-machine junk for days. We were hungry, our bodies starving for nutrients, and I was starting to feel desperate. We’d spent two nights in the car. When I managed to sleep, my dreams were wild, chaotic, punctuated by my mother screaming and the sound of gunfire, the smell of burning wood. The rest of the time, I moved through a kind of haze of fatigue, hunger, and fear. This is a nightmare, I’d tell myself. It isn’t happening.

I’d been in a kind of half sleep when we pulled up at the gas station. The clock on the dash read 2 A.M. I knew we didn’t have any money. I thought he was stopping to use the restroom. Then he pulled a gun from the duffel bag.

“We need money,” Marlowe said.

I stared at the gun. Its shape seemed natural in his hand. “What are you going to do?” I said with a laugh. “Rob the place?”

Marlowe rolled his eyes. “We’re fugitives,” he said sharply. “We’re wanted for murder. Robbing a gas station is nothing.”

I felt like he’d slapped me in the face. “We didn’t kill anyone,” I said. “Janet Parker killed Frank.”

“You let her onto the property, Ophelia,” he said nastily. “That makes you an accomplice.”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Yes,” he said, pulling something from the duffel bag. He handed it to me. It was a Florida newspaper. RUNAWAYS WANTED FOR QUESTIONING IN CONNECTION TO THE MURDER OF FRANK GEARY, the headline read.

“No,” I said again. The reality of our situation, of what I’d done, was settling into my body. Marlowe moved to get out of the car, but I grabbed his arm. “We’ll go to my father in New York. He’ll help us. We don’t need to do this.”

“We’re not going to make it to New York,” he said, pushing my hand away. “We’re out of gas. What do you think will happen then?”

“We’ll steal another car.”

He swept his hand around the empty gas-station lot. “Do you see another car?” he spit. “In a mile we’ll be stranded by the side of the road.”

I let go of a sob that had been dwelling in my chest. “I did what you told me to do!” I screamed through a sudden wash of tears. “I saw you talking to her! You planned everything with her! I just did what you told me to do!” It felt good to scream and sob, to release all my anger and fear.

Marlowe got very quiet in response. He lowered his voice to a whisper and moved his face in so close to mine that I could smell his rancid breath.

“I did this for you, Ophelia, to save you from Frank,” he said. “You wanted me to rescue you, to take you away? Well, I did that. All of this has been for you, you ungrateful little bitch.”

He had his hair back in a ponytail, and long strands were escaping. The dark circles under his eyes made him seem ghoulish. I turned away from him, my gut churning with fear and guilt and shame.

“Do you want me to go to jail? Do you want to go to jail?”

“No,” I managed, all my anger exhausted.

“Then fill the tank, get in the driver’s seat, and shut your fucking mouth,” he said. “Keep the engine running.”

He got out of the car then, and I watched him stride toward the building. I pulled the car over to the pump and did as I was told, keeping my eyes averted from the store. I didn’t want to see him hold a gun to someone. I didn’t want to see the fear on that person’s face. And I didn’t want to be the person who was waiting outside while he did that. When the tank was full, I got back into the car. As I sat there, “New Year’s Day” by U2 played on the radio; I sang along, with the harsh lights above me revealing all the ugliness of my situation. I almost put the car in gear and drove. It was another of those moments when if I’d acted differently, things might not have broken apart the way they did. I was still me in that second. I could still have saved Ophelia. But I didn’t.

I never thought to wonder why Marlowe didn’t bother to cover his face, or why he didn’t consider it an issue that I waited in plain sight with the car under the lights. When the shots rang out, I felt the vibrations in my bones. I sat there for a second, gripping the wheel, and felt any hope I had for my life drain from my body. Even then I could have run, gone to the police and taken my chances. Instead I got out of the car and walked through the glass doors of the gas station’s store.

Marlowe was behind the counter, taking money from the register. All I could see was the top of her head, her long golden hair soaking up the pooling black blood on the white linoleum floor.

“What happened?”

“Go back to the car,” he said quietly, not looking at me. “Now.”

I did as I was told. I sat in the driver’s seat for a long time. More than an hour. He came out finally, carrying bags filled with food-Twinkies, cans of pop, candy bars. When he got into the driver’s seat, nudging me back over to the passenger side, he presented me with a Snickers bar, my favorite, and that wide, charming smile that used to thrill me. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he said sweetly, leaning in and kissing me gently on the cheek. I clung to him, my lifeline, my only hope, even as my mind screamed, What did he do in there? “I know you’re scared. I am, too. We’ll go to your dad.”

“What did you do, Marlowe?” I finally managed to whisper into his hair. I felt his body go stiff, and he pulled away from me quickly.

“Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you,” he said, turning on the ignition.

I’d fallen into a hole, a slick-walled abyss, and there was no way for me to climb out of the darkness that was closing in around me. I look back on this as the moment when I started to fear him more than I loved him, when the part of me that still wanted to survive started to hate him. But I was too lost to know the difference.

“No one else will ever love you like I do,” he said darkly as we pulled onto the highway.

I’m not sure how many more women and girls there were. I remember flash details-garishly red lipstick, a turquoise barrette, a flower tattoo, sparkling pink nail polish badly applied. I hear a nervous giggle, a cry of terrible pain. These things stay with me.

When Gray comes home, I’ve moved out onto the balcony to listen to the Gulf, trying to remember more. He comes outside and sits next to me. For a second, my past and present mingle.

“I think our problems have been eliminated,” he says. He doesn’t reach for me or turn to face me. He is just a dark figure beside me, staring out at the sea.

“What happened?” I ask, dreading his answer. He doesn’t respond right away. Then, “Let’s just say I took care of it.”

“Gray.”

“Trust me.”

I think of my conversation with Ray Harrison at the rest stop, how tired and discouraged he seemed. Maybe he felt sorry for me. Maybe he decided to take what Gray offered and walk away. Or maybe he was planning to work other angles as well.