Lindsay Hunter - Ugly Girls

“Well, hey, Pete,” Myra called over to him. She was behind the counter, working at facing all the bills in the drawer the same way, organizing the coins into little even piles in their trays.

“Hey,” he said, walking over. Myra could see that his shirt was the mesh kind, the kind football players wore, or bodybuilders. Or rednecks. He didn’t seem surprised to see her, but then again she’d probably told him where she worked. Or he’d seen her before. This was the only truck stop on this side of the highway for miles. Why was she trying so hard to convince herself he hadn’t been meaning to see her?

He was right at the counter now. Myra could smell lotion on him, Jergens, the same kind she used after a bath. He was the type to wear mesh sleeveless shirts and lotion himself up, an odd mix of vanities. It sent a little flare, a fiery wing, right up through her, knowing this about him.

“What can I do you for?” This was a saying she’d often heard Marshall use, a saying she hated. Marshall was the other cashier on busy mornings, a small man in huge glasses, his waxy fingers and effeminate voice also not doing him any favors. What can I do you for? It was like his shield, stopped customers in their tracks, usually made them smile. And now Myra was using it. What had gotten into her? She was not attracted to this man, this pudgy boy, as far as she knew. But she also knew that she wanted him to be attracted to her .

“I’m just here for some gas,” he said.

“And to see me?” she said, before she could stop herself. Still, it felt dangerous, the fun kind of dangerous, blurting things at this stranger. Seeing how he’d react.

“Well, of course,” he said. He put his elbows on the counter, leaned over. A gold cross on a thin chain, a woman’s necklace, really, spilled out of his shirt. In the clear light of day Myra could see how that cleft scar had made his upper lip look unnaturally full. She imagined kissing it, imagined it moving around her body like a bloated earthworm. She smiled to herself.

“You happy to see me?” he asked. Myra considered it. No, she didn’t feel happy. His presence made her nervous, the way she used to feel before Jim, when every man that came through the truck stop seemed like a real possibility. She liked having that back in her life, Lord help her.

“Not as happy as you are to see me, I see,” Myra answered, mirroring the close-lipped smile he wore, trying to look as confident as he did.

“I’m always happy to see pretty ladies,” he said, tucking the cross back inside his shirt.

Myra laughed. “You’re up to your elbows in bullshit, boy,” she said, but she knew it was clear he’d flattered her. Breaking her down inch by inch. Baby steps. Who used to say that? Jim. About her not drinking. Be patient, Myra. Baby steps. Thinking of him now was like seeing a fly drowned in your beer glass. It tainted the whole thing. The light coming in through the windows even seemed dulled by it, less sharp, less pleasing.

Pete spoke, and Myra snapped out of it, though she hadn’t heard him.

“I was asking if your daughter got to school this morning,” he said.

“So she said,” Myra answered. This man-boy was attracted to her daughter, that was clear. The thought didn’t alarm Myra. If he wanted to try something with Perry he’d have another think coming. Instead, she was starting to feel put off, like she was the momma he had to be polite to in order to get anywhere with her daughter. Like she was just something he had to get past.

“You sure do like asking about my daughter,” Myra said. Fun dangerous.

He backed up, straightened. “I’m just making small talk,” he said. “Plus you said how you worry about her, how she lies all the time.”

Myra didn’t remember saying anything like that. She also didn’t quite remember how she ended up in the bathtub, so it was possible. It was something she often thought about Perry, and so might very well confess it if she was relaxed enough. She walked from behind the counter, pretended to wipe down the doughnut case again. She wanted Pete to ask her about her , was what it really came down to. And because of that, she wanted him to leave. No longer the fun kind of dangerous, having these thoughts.

“These doughnuts sure do look good,” he said. “They look like just the thing.”

She didn’t remember telling him she worked here. And yet here he was, stopping in for a visit. What else didn’t she remember saying? Doing?

He moved toward her, putting his hand over her hand, which was on the door handle. He didn’t even use the wax paper, just reached in with his bare hand and took a glazed and a strawberry frosted, put his finger through their holes and held them up, stacked one on top of the other. Myra didn’t know if she was supposed to see something sexual in what he’d done, his finger in the holes, but she felt hot all over, she felt the flood of fever that always started a hangover. So here it was.

The phone was ringing, it was already past the second ring now. The sun had pulled up its ties. The truck stop looked dingy, tired. The smell of gasoline everywhere. The rag in Myra’s hand felt oily. The mercy had been fleeting.

“Ain’t you going to get that?” Pete asked.

She realized it was the perfect way to get rid of him, to answer the phone and tend to whoever it was with such thoroughness that he had no choice but to leave her to it. She walked around the counter, lifted up the receiver. “Byron’s Truck Stop, Myra speaking,” she said, forcing a shard of cheeriness into her voice.

“Myra, it’s me,” Jim said.

Now the fever spread into her hair, claiming her scalp. Jim never called her at work, not ever, he’d drive over sooner than he’d pick up the phone. She put her hand up to her mouth, she felt something coming and wanted to be able to hold it in. Pete took a bite from the stack on his finger.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, that shard of cheeriness in her gut now, slicing her up. “Where is she?”

“Dayna got caught stealing,” he said. “Perry threw something at a cashier. They’re both in the holding tank.”

His voice was flat, bored even, but Myra knew he was doing that for her benefit. Pete was at the counter now, obviously listening to her conversation. A blue sprinkle clung to his lip. Myra wanted to push it into the dent of his scar. Why wouldn’t he leave?

“I’m on my way over there,” Jim was saying. “You stay put. I’ll take care of it.”

“Let her stay there,” Myra heard herself saying. “Let her stay there a night.” The more she spoke, the more sure she felt about it. Pete mouthed, Where? The sprinkle fell to the counter. Arrested , Myra mouthed back. She wanted to shock him, wanted him to leave her be. His mouth opened wide, like he was shocked and impressed.

“You don’t mean that, Myra,” Jim said, in the same bored voice. “It ain’t a place for no teenage girl.”

Pete had walked over to the doughnut case, was working the doughnuts off his finger and into a bag. Myra watched him fog the glass door with his breath, write I O U with his fingertip.

Fuck you , she wanted to say. Two birds with one stone. Instead she said, “I don’t know what I mean.”

Pete waved, walked out, the doughnut bag swinging from his fingers.

“I’ll call you when I know more,” Jim said, and hung up.

In those first few years with Jim, they never hung up without saying Love you . It was as natural, as automatic, as saying Bye-bye . They hadn’t said it in years. Even so, every time they hung up Myra felt like something was missing, had been forgotten. And maybe that’s why Jim never called her. He felt it, too.