T. Boyle - Talk Talk

Two hundred dollars. That was the gate money they gave you when you walked out the door after eleven and a half months of chopping cabbage, dicing onions and sucking up the reek of the grill, burgers, dogs, sloppy Joe on a bun, strip steak that was like jerky softened in water and then jerked all over again. Most of the morons blew the whole two hundred the first day on women and drugs and then they were out on the street trying on one scam or another and the probation officer just begging for a chance to send them back up. But not Peck, not William Peck Wilson.

He went straight back to Peterskill-to the office park on Route 6 where the orthopedists and urologists and pediatricians had their offices. Out back were the Dumpsters. It took him maybe an hour, slinking around like an immigrant bagging cans for redemption, and he had what he wanted: a sheaf of discarded medical forms, replete with names, addresses, birth dates and social security numbers. Then he sat in a bar over a scotch and made a phone call to Dudley, the busboy, because he needed two things: a ride and a connection. Dudley, he reasoned, was the very man to hook him up with a false ID because Dudley had been clubbing since he was sixteen in a state where the drinking age was twenty-one, and he wasn't disappointed. For less than half his gate money, Peck was able to get himself a social security card and driver's license, with color photo, in the name of one of the patients at A&O Medical, and after that it was easy. He opened a checking account with the remaining hundred dollars and started writing checks for merchandise, which he turned around and sold for cash, installed himself in a hotel and applied for Visa and American Express cards. Once the cards arrived he took a cab out to the local Harley dealer. He'd always wanted a Harley, ever since he'd seen “Easy Rider” on TV as a kid, and Sandman had stoked him on the idea during their late-night fantasy excursions, a whole vista opening up in the shadows, blooming like a radiant perfect flower, the vision so intense he could feel the wind in his hair and see the sun spread like liquid gold across the road in front of him.

The dealer was a fat-faced longhair with what they called a hitch in his git-along, wearing a leather Harley jacket over an embroidered white shirt and some sort of racing medallion dangling on a cord from his throat. He was clueless, absolutely clueless. And Peck Wilson sat down with him and neatly signed all the paperwork in his new name, the credit references sterling, the bike-an Electra Glide in black with the Harley logo a sweet blaze of red on the swell of the fuel tank-being prepped even as they ran each other a line of bullshit about unholy speeds and wrecks and wild men they'd known, and then he swung a leg over the thing, fired it up with an annunciatory roar and blew on down the road and out of town. For good.

It wasn't quite dawn yet, the stars gone a shade paler in the eastern sky and Mount Tam to the west still an absence in the deep slough of dark and fog. Nothing had been moving fifteen minutes earlier when he'd backed out of the garage for a run to the coffee shop, and now, as the heavy wooden door slapped shut behind him, he eased himself out of the car with the cardboard tray-the same stuff they made egg cartons out of, and how was it he'd never noticed that before? Balanced there, in the molded slots, were two large double lattes and a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and a white paper bag of assorted croissants and half a dozen éclairs to glut Madison into a sugary road-enhanced daze. She didn't travel well, and that was going to be a problem, but Natalia had spent a couple hundred bucks on coloring books and a miniature farm set and videos for the TV monitor built into the back of the seat.

The coffee was hot, the croissants still warm, but instead of going right upstairs with them, he set the cardboard tray on the hood of the car and eased open the side door next to the garage. For a long moment he stood there, watching, listening, taking in the cold rich damp scent of the sea for the last time. And then, just to satisfy himself, he took a quick stroll through the lot, checking the cars that sat inert under the thin skin of the dew. He was calm, breathing easily, feeling optimistic about what lay ahead, though he hated having to leave-hated being forced out, hated the miserable interfering sons of bitches who'd come after him and turned everything upside down-and when he'd gone through the lot, he walked the gravel path all the way round the perimeter, the mist (what was it Madison called it? — the breath of the bay) rising up to envelop him and let him go again.

Natalia was perched on the edge of the couch, in a green velvet suit jacket, skirt, stockings, heels, waiting for him. She was applying her makeup-she never went anywhere, not even down to the corner store for a box of crackers, without her makeup-when he came through the door. She didn't smile. Didn't even look up from her compact. “Madison is still sleeping,” she said.

He set the tray down before her like the offering it was. “Good. Maybe I can just carry her out to the car and she won't wake up till we get to Tahoe, what do you think?”

She didn't answer. He'd packed everything the night before-early into the morning, actually, and he was exhausted, looking forward to the hotel, the fresh sheets, room service, the blissful anonymity-and he noticed with a tick of satisfaction that the new matching overnight bags, Natalia's and Madison's, had been set by the door. The hassling was over, the pouting, the arguments, the tears, the pleading and the demands, and the new phase was about to begin. They were minutes from being out of here, turn the key and never look back.

“I got her hot chocolate,” he said, “the kind she likes, from the bakery? And éclairs. For a special treat.”

Natalia was not the sort of mother to buzz over a child's sugar intake. To her mind, whatever you could squeeze out of a glutted overblown capitalistic society was a good in itself, and éclairs were the smallest expression of it. A look for him now, above the mirror. “Yes,” she said, faintly amused, conciliatory, “that is very nice. You are a very nice man”-and he could see she wanted to speak his name, wanted to say “Da-na,” but checked herself. She bent forward to remove the plastic lid of the takeout cup. “This is the double latte?”

“They both are.”

She brought the cup to her lips, the white foam clinging like drift to the waxen sheen of her lipstick before her tongue melted it away. The simple animal satisfactions, sugar, cream, caffeine. He reached for his own cup. The smell of coffee, reminiscent and forward-looking at the same time, filled the room. “Very nice,” she concluded, the fingers of one hand probing at the neck of the confectioner's bag even as she sipped at the latte and gave him a glossy uncomplicated smile.

They were complicit. He felt gratitude for that, for what she was giving up for him, for her trust and faith, and he swore to himself in that moment that he'd do everything in his power to live up to it. Easing himself down on the back of the sofa, he ran a hand over the side of her face, caressing an ear, letting her hair sift through his fingers. “I am,” he said. “I am a nice guy.” And he meant it.

The coffee was still warm in the pit of his stomach when he lifted Madison out of her bed and carried her down to the car. She'd folded herself up in the fetal position, her thumb in her mouth, hair fallen across her face in a silken swirl, and he took the blankets and bedding with her, one big bundle, the warmth rising from the furnace of her, her pupils roaming beneath the lids in dreamtime, and how could he not think of Sukie, of his own daughter, back in Peterskill and as remote from him as an alien on another planet? As he laid Madison across the backseat and folded the blankets over her bare feet, he had a fleeting picture of the two of them together, the two girls, at the park-at Depew Park, in Peterskill-running hand in hand through the dandelions and the long amber grass, white legs flashing in concert.