Kevin Sampsell - Portland Noir

Mrs. Petoskey said, “No, well, things change.” And she waved a hand over her cart, pulled on a face mask, and pushed on through a set of swinging doors. “Take care.” Her voice was muffled by the mask.

Tino said, “Didn’t she have cancer before?”

I didn’t remember, but she probably did.

Eileen was in bed, watching TV, same as everyone in every dank hole of a tavern all over town. Her head was shaved and bandaged. Her face was puffy. She’d put on makeup and it sat like paint over her drained skin.

I said, “They told me there was a dead hooker in here.”

Eileen said, “Thanks a lot. Got years ahead’a me.”

I said, “Isn’t that how every story goes?”

I gave her a kiss on her pale forehead. I wasn’t glad to see her, but that wasn’t her fault. She was the only patient in a room with two beds, wearing a powder-blue hospital gown. She leaned against pillows.

“’S good to see you,” she said. Her voice was slow and stuttery.

Tino pulled a can of beer from his paper bag.

Eileen asked, “How ’bout a cig-rette?” There were two No Smoking signs.

Tino pushed the door closed. I sat on the windowsill. Rebar leaned against the wall too close beside me. When Tino passed around the rest of the six-pack, I said, “This man’s got the shoes and the booze.” I wouldn’t’ve said it without a few drinks in me already, but I wanted a little space. To set Rebar back. I ran a hand over Tino’s shoulders, that bony armature of a human.

Rebar looked at the shoes, his shoes, on Tino’s feet, and he took a beer.

I said, “What about your bracelet?”

“I’ll try not to sweat.” Rebar tipped the can. He drank like drinking was breathing, like he’d been held under water and here was his can of air.

“Rebar just got out of the other one. On the hill,” Tino said.

“No kiddin’?” Eileen lit a cigarette, keeping an eye on the door. “Haven’t ’moked all day.”

“The alarm’ll go off,” I said.

“What’ll dey do if dey catch me-frow me out?” This was the lisp of her stroke, her brain stutter like a car with sugar in the tank.

I sat on the empty bed. Tightened my rain coat around me in case some fire alarm sprinklers went off. “What the hell happened?”

Eileen said, “Went out for drinks after work… my hands started feelin’ weird.”

Tino said, “Must’ve felt pretty weird if they brought you to Emergency.”

I felt my own hands, imagining my head as light, losing blood and circulation. I looked for Ray at the door, waited for the alarm to scream. I was ready to skedaddle.

“It was,” Eileen said. “Cut my head open like dis.” She drew an invisible L on the bandage, down from the top and across one side.

Rebar said, “How many channels you get?”

The dark circles under Eileen’s eyes made her beautiful, like a face-lift patient or a drug addict in treatment. She was being taken care of, and that meant cared for. The blue hospital robe rested against her skin at her clavicle in a way that said fragile and yet still living, meaning strong. Who would’ve known light blue and bandage white could be so dreamy?

I said, “You’re gorgeous.”

She patted the bed beside her. I lay down, watching out for tubes and her food tray. She said, “You know, Ray doesn’t talk about you at all.”

“Music to my ears.” I sipped my drink. Tapped the can.

Tino and Rebar watched TV like TV mattered.

She said, “I mean, he’s doing it on purpose. Like if he said your name, it’d all come back…”

My nail polish was chipped red. I chipped it off more, letting red flakes rest on Eileen’s white sheets.

She whispered, “If you wanted Ray back, you could do it.”

I said, “Don’t worry. I don’t take anything that doesn’t belong to me.”

“Since when?”

“Since now, okay? He’s yours.” My purse was bulging with the ashtray, the salt shaker, who knows what else.

Rebar crumpled his empty can. He made it small, and put it in his coat pocket. Tino hit the remote, changed the channel.

Rebar said, “Hey, who’s the asshole?”

Tino waved the remote, raised his hand. Asshole: present and accounted for.

I said, “You going to let him get away with that?” Like it mattered.

Rebar let the TV be his pacifier, eased into a new channel.

Tino changed channels again. I got up, off Eileen’s bed. I put a hand on Rebar’s arm, said, “Keep a level head.”

Rebar said, “What’re you, some kind of counselor?” He ran his fingers through my hair.

“I’ve got a few good tips.”

He let his fingers latch on, tug, and he laughed, like a joke, but he pulled my head back and my neck gave in so easily, Rebar’s face was close to mine. My hair was long, he held it, then he let go.

I was done there.

Time to go home, pack, get out of Rebar’s shack in the warehouse district. I said, “You need to manage yourself.”

And I moved away, behind Tino, behind Eileen’s bed, far from Rebar’s reach. I ran one arm over Tino’s shoulder and said, “Those shoes suit him better anyway. Don’t they?”

It wasn’t the shoes. It was everything. Rebar was a loaded gun.

“Have another beer.” I tossed one of the last two to Rebar. “Calm down. I’ll be back. Bathroom.” I shook the nearly empty can in my hand.

Eileen said, “Use mine.” She pointed to a door off the side of the room.

Eileen’s bathroom was small, like a bathroom on the back of a Greyhound, only clean. Everything was made out of stainless steel and pressed board. I looked for signs of a hidden camera in the ceiling. Maybe a hospital kept watch in stray corners. What did I know? A second door on the opposite side of the toilet’s small space meant a nurse or another patient could walk in, and I was afraid I’d touch something meant to stay clean. I wasn’t drunk, but was on my way, and drunk was where I’d rather be.

When I stood to flush, I saw I’d peed in an aluminum pan meant to catch a urine sample. The pan hung inside the toilet bowl. I’d peed in Eileen’s collection cup. For all I knew, Eileen’s pee was there too. I hadn’t looked first, and wouldn’t touch it afterwards. Eileen’s urine and mine, they’d go to the lab together.

Then I heard Ray. His hoarse voice. I heard him in the hall. He knocked on the door to Eileen’s room. He yelled, “Eileen? Baby? I’m here.” I didn’t run the water. I listened.

Tino yelled back “Baby, we’re all here.”

Eileen said, “Come on in, sweets.”

I listened for my own name, Vanessa, but didn’t hear it now. MEN WHO FATHER CHILDREN LIVE HERE . I read the words across the bathroom’s blank wall, saw those lines and jagged angles. The last time I’d seen Ray, he’d given me three hundred bucks and walked me to the Lovejoy clinic. What I didn’t tell him back then was, I’d already lost his kid. He left me on the corner, bleeding in ways he didn’t know anything about, with a pocketful of cash. Now he was back.

I tipped my beer can upside down over the urine collection tray, then put the can on the floor and crushed it.

On the other side of the door, Ray said, “Bushmills. Excellent stuff.”

Eileen laughed, said, “Blood thinners and painkillers.”

Rebar was a soft murmur at the far wall, saying things I couldn’t hear.

I turned the handle on the second door. The hallway was out there. I could walk out and keep going. I had my coat. We hadn’t gone so far I couldn’t walk home.

I leaned into the mirror, fixed my lipstick. Rebar, on the other side of the door, said, “You think you’re some kind of fucking comedian?”