Hari Kunzru - Gods Without Men

“Yeah, he’s happy.”

Lisa wasn’t going to believe how well Raj was behaving. She’d think he was exaggerating, making it up to get on her good side. Lisa was the sole expert when it came to their son. Anything he told her was treated as provisional, as if he were some kind of assistant whose work had to be double-checked.

He and Nicky made small talk as they finished their food, mostly about cars. Nicky was cagey about the details of his career, so presumably his band wasn’t that big of a deal.

They drove back to the motel. Still no sign of Lisa. Raj was sleepy. Jaz put him straight to bed, thankful that he didn’t seem to be fretting. When he was sure he was down, he went over to the office and asked the tattooed night manager for the number of the county sheriff’s department. The switchboard passed him on to some deputy who said there’d been no traffic accidents, and no other reports of anyone matching the description of his wife. If Lisa hadn’t checked in by morning he should call again and they’d register her as missing, but until then it was too soon to get involved. The guy’s tone implied he’d heard the story a million times. Give her time to cool off, he suggested. Buy her flowers.

He made sure Raj was comfortable, and carried a chair outside. Should he start phoning hospitals? Nicky was standing by the pool, smoking a cigarette and looking up at the sky. He called over.

“Want a beer?”

“Sure.”

He opened the bottles with a plastic lighter, popping the caps onto the ground. They clinked necks. Jaz picked up the caps. Nicky drained most of his beer, and held his cigarette out to Jaz, who realized it was actually a joint.

“No, thanks.”

“Suit yourself. So, if you don’t mind me asking, why are you staying in a place like this? Doesn’t really seem like your scene.”

“Oh. Why?”

“Well, look at you. You’re not exactly the typical fifty-dollar-motel-room guest.”

Involuntarily, Jaz glanced down at himself — his polo shirt, his expensive loafers. He shrugged. “It’s mainly because of the boy. He can be — kind of a handful.”

“Seems like a nice enough lad.”

“The way he was tonight — I’ll be honest — it was unusual. We’ve been asked to leave places a couple times.”

“Yeah?”

“People complain. He gets so frustrated. He can be aggressive.”

“I would be.”

“Aggressive?”

“Frustrated. You know, if I was locked up inside that little head, trying to get out.”

“It puts a lot of pressure on my wife, him being the way he is.”

“So she does a runner once in a while?”

“She’s on a family errand.”

“Don’t worry, mate. She’ll come back. They always do.”

They sat in silence for a while, then Nicky said he had to make a call and loped off back to his room. Jaz watched the stars. They were so bright, they seemed to illuminate the scene in a way that wasn’t entirely physical.

Though it was late, the heat was still oppressive. He went inside and lay on the bed with the a/c up high, trying to read a book. The text swam in front of his eyes. Though the room had cable, most of the channels were snowy, and there didn’t seem to be much on except reality shows and telenovelas, so he opened up his laptop and connected to the motel’s patchy wireless. He surfed newsfeeds, stock tickers, a car site, some stupid blog of pictures of people dressed as Star Wars characters. It all led eventually to porn. Clicking through the forest of plastic vulvas just set him on edge: the relentless ramming of the animated tongues and penises, the woundlike holes. It looked like work, like a production line. Banner ads flashed migraine pink. He foraged halfheartedly under the waistband of his shorts, then slapped the laptop shut, unable to stomach another woman’s drugged sideways look to camera as another disembodied cock spurted over her face. He switched off the lights and tried to regulate his breathing, step himself down.

Come on, Lisa. Come back.

He closed his eyes. Sometime later he slept.

He woke up into a low-contrast world. Shades of gray, a room he didn’t recognize. The door handle turned. Trying to move quietly, a figure knocked against the door frame, making it vibrate.

“Lisa?”

She swore under her breath. “I’m tired. Let’s talk in the morning.”

“It is the morning. Where the hell have you been?” Sitting up now, trying to marshal himself.

“Shush. We’ll talk, but not now. OK? I can’t. Not now.”

“Just tell me where you were. I called the cops, Lisa. I was worried to death.”

“I need a shower.”

He got up, stood beside her, touched her bare shoulder. Up close she was an animal presence, sweating and shaky.

“Don’t,” she said, flinching.

His anger flared. “You stink of cigarettes. And booze. Were you in a bar? Christ, it was you. I thought I saw the car outside a bar downtown.”

“Don’t shout,” she hissed. “You’ll wake Raj.” She stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. He heard the sound of the shower. It ran ten, fifteen minutes. He began to wonder if she’d passed out and was about to get out of bed to check when the door opened. Without a word, still wrapped in a towel, she flung herself facedown on the mattress beside him.

“Lisa,” he said. “Talk to me.” It was no use: She’d passed out. He propped himself up on one elbow, ran his hand over her damp, naked flank. Her breathing was heavy and regular. He lay back down. After a while, she turned onto her back and began to snore.

Not long afterward, Raj woke up. Jaz let him crawl over Lisa, who moaned and raised her hands in feeble defense. Grimly satisfied, he pulled on a T-shirt and ambled over to the rec room to get coffee. The sun was already fierce. Back at the room he put a paper cup within reach of his wife, who’d rolled herself up into a cocoon of covers, a featureless hump that made a dull thud as it was battered, rhythmically and relentlessly, by their son.

“Coffee,” he told her. “On the side. Don’t knock it over.”

Her clothes were puddled on the floor by the bathroom sink. He picked them up, sniffed them. They didn’t smell like her. They were covered in sand.

He showered, going about his routine with defiant correctness, choosing a shirt and long pants, combing his hair. Businesslike; that’s how he wanted to be. Present without being present. When he was done, he cracked open the door, letting the full force of the heat fall on the bed.

“We need to get out of here.”

Blearily, Lisa sat up. Raj was pawing at her, cooing with pleasure. Jaz ripped the curtains open, forcing her to shield her eyes. She swung her feet to the floor and sat there for a moment, breathing in gulps of air. Then she pitched toward the bathroom and slammed the door shut. From inside came the sound of vomiting. Jaz hefted their cases onto the bed and began to toss in clothes and shoes. Lisa came out and pushed past him, retrieving underwear, a pair of shorts. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Well, you don’t actually want to stay in this dump, do you?”

“What about the park?”

“What about it?”

“Don’t you want to go?”

“You’re asking me if we’re going sightseeing? You have to be fucking kidding.”

“Please don’t shout.”

“Oh, have we got a sore head? Heavy night, was it? Where were you, Lisa? Where the fuck were you?”

“We should go to the park. We’re here anyway. I think we should go to the park.”

“I called the cops. I thought you’d had an accident. Raj and I were stranded here all day. We had to get a ride with this junkie-looking musician guy so your kid could get something to eat.”