Kelly Link: Get in Trouble: Stories

Meggie drops the robe, begins to apply sunblock to her arms and face. He notes the ways in which her body has changed. Thinks he might love her all the more for it, and hopes that this is true.

“Let me,” he says, and takes the bottle from her. Begins to rub lotion into her back.

She doesn’t flinch away. Why would she? They are friends.

She says, “Here’s the thing about Florida, Will. You get these storms, practically every day. But then they go away again.”

Her hands catch at his, slippery with the lotion. She says, “You must be tired. Take a nap. There’s herbal tea in the cupboards, pot and Ambien in the bedroom. We’re shooting all afternoon, straight through to evening. And then a barbecue — we’re filming that, too. You’re welcome to come out. It would be great publicity for us, of course. Our viewers would love it. But you’d have to do it naked like the rest of us. No clothes. No exceptions, Will. Not even for you.”

He rubs the rest of the sunblock into her shoulders. Would like nothing more than to rest his head on her shoulder.

“I love you, Meggie,” he says. “You know that, right?”

“I know. I love you, too, Will,” she says. The way she says it tells him everything.

The demon lover goes to lie down on Meggie’s bed, feeling a hundred years old. Dozes. Dreams about a bungalow in Venice Beach and Meggie and a girl. That was a long time ago.

There was a review of a play Meggie was in. Maybe ten years ago? It wasn’t a kind review, or even particularly intelligent, and yet the critic said something that still seems right to the demon lover. He said no matter what was happening in the play, Meggie’s performance suggested she was waiting for a bus. The demon lover thinks the critic got at something true there. Only, the demon lover has always thought that if Meggie was waiting for a bus, you had to wonder where that bus was going. If she was planning to throw herself under it.

When they first got together, the demon lover was pretty sure he was what Meggie had been waiting for. Maybe she thought so, too. They bought a house, a bungalow in Venice Beach. He wonders who lives there now.

When the demon lover wakes up, he takes off the T-shirt and cargo shorts. Leaves them folded neatly on the bed. He’ll have to find somewhere to sleep tonight. And soon. Day is becoming night.

Meat is cooking on a barbecue. The demon lover isn’t sure when he last ate. There’s bug spray beside the door. Ticklish on his balls. He feels just a little bit ridiculous. Surely this is a ter rible idea. The latest in a long series of terrible ideas. Only this time he knows there’s a camera.

The moment he steps outside Meggie’s trailer, a P.A. appears as if by magic. It’s what they do. Has him sign a pile of releases. Odd to stand here in the nude signing releases, but what the fuck. He thinks, I’ll go home tomorrow.

The P.A. is in her fifties. Unusual. There’s probably a story there, but who cares? He doesn’t. Of course she’s seen the fucking sex tape — it’s probably going to be the most popular movie he ever makes — but her expression suggests this is the very first time she’s ever seen the demon lover naked or rather that neither of them is naked at all.

While the demon lover signs — doesn’t bother to read anything, what does it matter now, anyway? — the P.A. talks about someone who hasn’t done something. Who isn’t where she ought to be. Some other gofer named Juliet. Where is she and what has she gone for? The P.A. is full of complaints.

The demon lover suggests the gofer may have been carried off by ghosts. The P.A. gives him an unfriendly look and continues to talk about people the demon lover doesn’t know, has no interest in.

“What’s spooky about you?” the demon lover asks. Because of course that’s the gimmick, producer down to best boy. Every woman and man uncanny.

“I had a near-death experience,” the P.A. says. She wiggles her arm. Shows off a long ropy burn. “Accidentally electrocuted myself. Got the whole tunnel and light thing. And I guess I scored okay with those cards when they auditioned me. The Zener cards?”

“So tell me,” the demon lover says. “What’s so fucking great about a tunnel and a light? That really the best they can do?”

“Yeah, well,” the P.A. says, a bite in her voice. “People like you probably get the red carpet and the limo.”

The demon lover has nothing to say to that.

“You seen anything here?” he tries instead. “Heard anything?”

“Meggie tell you about the skunks?” the P.A. says. Having snapped, now she will soothe. “Those babies. Tail up, the works, but nothing doing. Which about sums up this place. No ghosts. No read on the equipment. No hanky-panky, fiddle-faddle, or woo woo. Not even a cold spot.”

She says doubtfully, “But it’ll come together. You at this séance barbecue shindig will help. Naked vampire trumps nudist ghosts any day. Okay on your own? You go on down to the lake, I’ll call, let them know you’re on your way.”

Or he could just head for the car.

“Thanks,” the demon lover says.

But before he knows what he wants to do, here’s another someone. It’s a regular Pilgrim’s Progress. One of Fawn’s favorite books. This is a kid in his twenties. Good-looking in a familiar way. (Although is it okay to think this about another guy when you’re both naked? Not to mention: who looks a lot like you did once upon a time. Why not? We’re all naked here.)

“I know you,” the kid says.

The demon lover says, “Of course you do. You are?”

“Ray,” says the kid. He’s maybe twenty-five. His look says: You know who I am. “Meggie’s told me all about you.”

As if he doesn’t already know, the demon lover says, “So what do you do?”

The kid smiles an unlovely smile. Scratches at his groin luxuriously, maybe not on purpose. “Whatever needs to be done. That’s what I do.”

So he deals. There’s that pot in Meggie’s dresser.

Down at the lake people are playing volleyball in a pit with no net. Barbecuing. Someone talks to a camera, gestures at someone else. Someone somewhere smoking a joint. At this distance, not too close, not too near, twilight coming down, the demon lover takes in all of the breasts, asses, comical cocks, knobby knees, everything hidden now made plain. He notes with an experienced eye which breasts are real, which aren’t. Only a few of the women sport pubic hair. He’s never understood what that’s about. Some of the men are bare, too. O tempora, o mores.

“You like jokes?” Ray says, stopping to light a cigarette.

The demon lover could leave; he lingers. “Depends on the joke.” Really, he doesn’t. Especially the kind of jokes the ones who ask if you like jokes tell.

Ray says, “You’ll like this one. So there are these four guys. A kleptomaniac, a pyromaniac, um, a zoophile, and a masochist. This cat walks by and the klepto says he’d like to steal it. The pyro says he wants to set it on fire. The zoophile wants to fuck it. So the masochist, he looks at everybody, and he says, ‘Meow?’ ”

It’s a moderately funny joke. It might be a come-on.

The demon lover flicks a look from under his lashes. Suppresses the not-quite-queasy feeling he’s somehow traveled back in time to flirt with himself. Or the other way round.

He’d like to think he was even prettier than this kid. People used to stop and stare when he walked into a room. That was long before anyone knew who he was. He’s always been someone you look at longer than you should. He says, smiling, “I’ll bite. Which one are you?”

“Pardon?” Ray says. Blows smoke.

“Which one are you? The klepto, the pyro, the cat-fucker, the masochist?”