Sue Grafton - L is for Lawless

"Yes, it is. It sounds grim."

Laura smiled. "I guess it does, doesn't it? Anyway, when I was growing up, Paul was critical, authoritarian. He ruled the roost. He nearly broke his arm patting himself on the back for all he did for us. In his own way, he was good to her. He never gave a shit about me, but to be fair about it, I'm sure I was a pain. Probably still am, if it comes to that." She leaned her head back against the seat. "Are you married?"

"I was." I held up two fingers.

"You were married twice? Me too. Once to a guy with a 'substance abuse' problem," she said, using her fingers to mark the phrase with quotes.

"Cocaine?"

"That and heroin. Speed, grass, stuff like that.

The other husband was a mama's boy. Jesus, he was weak. He got on my nerves because he was so insecure. He didn't know how to do anything. Plus, he needed all this reassurance. Like what do I know? I'm hardly in a position to make somebody else feel good."

"What about Gilbert?"

"He was great, at first. His problem is, he doesn't trust, you know? He doesn't know how to open up. He can really be so sweet. Sometimes when he drinks, he busts out crying like a baby. Breaks my heart."

"Along with your nose," I said.

We passed through Greenville, Brashear, Saltillo, and Mt. Vernon, crossing sparsely wooded farmland on gently rolling hills. Laura fell asleep with her head against the window. Traffic was light and the road was hypnotic. Twice I jerked myself awake, having dropped into a moment of micro-sleep. To keep alert, I reviewed my intellectual Atlas of Texarkana facts, discovering in the process that the entire category contained only two bits of information. First, the Arkansas-Texas state line bisects the town of Texarkana, so that half the population lives in Texas and half in Arkansas. And last, the town is the site of a Federal Correctional Institution, about which I knew nothing else. So much for that form of mental stimulation. On the outskirts of town, I pulled into an all-night filling station, where I stopped to stretch my legs. Ray was still dead to the world so Laura traded places with me and took the wheel. Laura pitched in five bucks and we bought exactly that much gas. It was close to ten-thirty when we crossed the state line, with approximately two hours to go until we reached Little Rock. I settled into the passenger seat, slouched on my spine, knees bent, my feet propped up on the dashboard. I crossed my arms for warmth. The remaining damp in my blazer enveloped me in a humid cloud of woolly smells. The drone of the engine combined with Ray's staccato snores had a tranquilizing effect. The next thing I knew I was drooling on myself. I put my feet down and sat up straight, feeling groggy and disoriented. We passed a highway sign that indicated we'd left U.S. 30 and were now heading north on U.S. 40. "How far to Little Rock?"

"We already passed Little Rock. This is Biscoe coming up."

"We passed Little Rock? I told you I wanted to stop," I whispered hoarsely.

"What was I supposed to do? You had the map and you were sound asleep. I had no idea where the airport was, and I didn't want to drive all over hell and gone trying to find it."

"Why not wake me?"

"I tried once. I said your name and got no response."

"Weren't there any road signs?"

"Not that I saw. Besides, they're not going to have any flights out at this hour. This is the boonies. Get a clue," she whispered back. She reverted to a normal tone, though she kept her voice down in deference to Ray. "It's time to find a motel so we can get a couple hours' sleep. I'm half dead. I about ran off the road more than once in the last hour."

I did a three-sixty scan of the terrain, spotting little in the dark beyond farms and occasional dense woods. "Take your pick," I said.

"There'll be a town coming up," she said without concern.

Sure enough, we came to a townlet with a one-story off-road motel, its vacancy sign winking. She pulled into a small gravel parking lot and got out. She turned her back to the car and reached up under her jumper, apparently removing a wad of cash from the belly harness she wore. I gave Ray a nudge and he rose from the depths like a diver in the process of decompressing.

I said, "Laura wants to stop. We're both beat."

"Fine with me," he said. He pulled himself into a sitting position, blinking with puzzlement. "We still in Texas?"

"This is Arkansas. We got Little Rock behind us and Memphis coming up."

"I thought you were leaving us."

"So did I."

He yawned, giving his face a dry rub with his hands. He squinted at his watch, trying to see the dial in the scanty light. "What time is it?"

"After one."

I could see Laura at the entrance to the motel lobby. The lights inside were dim, and the front door must have been locked because I saw her knock repeatedly, then cup her hands against the glass to peek in. Finally, some unhappy-looking soul emerged from the manager's office. Much animated conversation, hand gestures, and peering in our direction. Laura was admitted to the office, where I saw her at the counter, filling out the registration card. My guess was her being pregnant lent her an air of vulnerability, especially at this hour. A fistful of cash probably didn't hurt her cause. Moments later, she emerged from the office and returned to the car, dangling two room keys, which she handed to me as she got back behind the wheel. "Ray gets his own room. I can't sleep with that racket."

She started the car and pulled around to the rear. Ours were the last two rooms at the far end. There was only one other car and it had Iowa plates, so I figured we were temporarily safe from Gilbert. Ray hauled one of his bags from the trunk while Laura grabbed the duffel and I took the armload of damp clothes I'd dumped. Maybe hanging them up overnight would finish the drying process and render them wearable.

Ray paused at his door. "What time in the morning?"

"I think we should be on the road by six. If we're going, get on with it. No point fooling around," Laura said. "Open your drapes when you're up and we'll do likewise." She glanced at me. "Okay with you?"

"Sure, it's fine."

Ray disappeared into his room and I followed her into ours: two double beds and a drab interior complete with mustiness. If the color beige had an odor, it would smell like this. It looked like the kind of place where you wouldn't want to jump out of bed without making a noise first. Otherwise, you might inadvertently step on one of the scuttling hard-shelled bugs. The little fellow I saw had gotten trapped in the corner, where he was patiently pawing the walls like a dog wanting out. You can't squish those things without risking that sudden spurt of lemon pudding on the sole of your shoe. I hung my garments in the closet, after a gingerly inspection. No brown recluse spiders or furry rodents in evidence.

The bathroom boasted brown vinyl tile, a fiberglass shower enclosure, two plastic glasses wrapped in cellophane, and two paper-wrapped soaps the size of business cards. I pulled out my traveling toothbrush and weensy tube of toothpaste and brushed my teeth in wordless ecstasy. In the absence of a nightie, I slept in my (borrowed) underwear, folding the cotton coverlet in half for warmth. Laura went into the bathroom, piously shutting the door before she removed her belly harness. I was asleep within minutes and never heard her climb into her own creaking bed.

It was still dark when she bumped me at 5:45 a.m. "You want to shower first?" she asked.

"You go ahead."

The light blasted on in the bathroom, slanting across my face briefly before she closed the door. She'd opened the drapes, admitting illumination from the lights outside in the parking lot. Through the wall, I thought I could hear the shower next door, which meant Ray was awake. In prison, he'd probably always risen at this hour. Now a shower would be a luxury, since he'd have it to himself and wouldn't have to worry about sexual assault every time he dropped the soap. I raised up on one elbow and looked out at the auto body shop across the street. A forty-watt bulb burned above the service bay. Monday morning and where was I? I checked the printed match packet in the ashtray. Oh, yeah. Whiteley, Arkansas. I remembered the road sign outside of town claiming a population of 523. Probably an exaggeration. I felt a sudden surge of melancholy, longing for home. In the crazy days of my youth, before herpes and AIDS, I used to wake up occasionally in rooms like this one. There's a certain horror when you can't quite remember who's whistling so merrily behind the bathroom door. Often, when I found out, I couldn't help but question my taste in male companionship. It didn't take long to see morality as the quickest way to avoid self-loathing.