Maryse Meijer - Heartbreaker - Stories

Sweetheart, listen, I said.

What? she asked. What now?

I took a deep breath. They’re saying it’s going to rain.

Rain? How much?

I don’t know. It could be a lot, I whispered.

She thought for a moment, and I could feel it, her thinking, the way her mind reached through the tips of her, feeling the sky for information.

A few days, she decided. At most.

They could be wrong, I said, black snot trembling on my lip. They’ve been wrong before.

No, John, she said, and her voice now was quiet, firm. There was nothing we could do to help each other. All we could do was wait for it to begin.

* * *

Ribs of white light cracked through the sky and we screamed. The clouds gushed; she sizzled like raw flesh slapped on a grill. A fire truck drove past on the road behind me, its sirens quiet, gloating. You fucking murdering fuckheads, I whispered, chin to my chest, my legs giving way. You bas tards.

It was the sixty-seventh day of her burning; I’d been awake for forty-eight hours, lying on my side on the ground somewhere in the foothills, the rain slashing through the soot on my skin. She blinked at me from the husks of trees, embers like eyes, a million of them, blinking, blinking, before going dark.

It’s so cold, John, she hissed, so faint I could barely hear her. I’m so cold.

* * *

The next night a small, hushed group gathered at the lookout, umbrellas open, hoods up and dripping. I was slumped on the other side of the guardrail, my back pressed against the cool metal. The fresh air slicing through the haze was hateful to me, as was the smell of coffee from the cups the others clutched; but even they could see how terrible it was. We stood like pilgrims beholding the body of a dragon, sober-faced; for a long time no one spoke. We watched the glitter of water falling in slow stabs from the sky. The hills were fireless as far as the eye could see.

Finally a child asked Is it over?

Yes, its father answered.

Thank God, someone else added. Then silence again. I held my head in my hands. I was dry inside, so dry I could burn. And I am burning still.

The girl works nights. In the middle of nowhere. She drives an hour to get to her job, an hour back. She can stand through her entire shift in silence, the way she is standing now. Dim white light spills down over her. The dessert freezer builds up ice. She is allowed to help herself to some chips or beef jerky or a cold drink. She likes how quiet it is, how dark it is. It is the quiet that brought her here.

* * *

The boys are driving in the young one’s black car. They know all about girls like her, girls who are alone, girls not beautiful, but not unattractive, either. In her uniform like a mechanic, blue, no name tag: hair like thick silk. No makeup.

Did you know testosterone is just, like, a drug? the tall one says.

Major drug, the youngest one says.

Turn the music down, the dark-haired one says. I can’t hear anything.

Shut your mouth, the young one replies, and turns the music up.

* * *

The storefront is humped concrete and plate glass; they can see the girl from the road, her ponytail in the window.

Hey, the tall one says, slapping the young one’s arm. Get off here.

What? the young one says, focused on a smear of road kill just beyond the steering wheel.

Don’t we need gas? the tall one asks, and when he points they all look.

Fuck yeah, the young one says, and pulls the car around. Three slow smiles stretch inside the car.

* * *

They pull in alongside the gas pumps. One of the overhead lamps is broken. They get out of the car in slow motion, like gangsters in a movie; in their heads music is playing. They hitch up their pants and push into the store. The air inside is cool, stale. They run their hands over everything: rows of gummy bears in plastic bags on pegboard, canned nuts settling in drifts of salt, bags of chips sagging on the shelves. In the beverage cases the energy drinks wink neon, lined two or three deep; cold shadows yawn behind them. The tall one spins a rack of maps and a postcard spills out of a broken pocket: Wish you were here! He kicks it under the ice cream freezer.

The girl watches them from behind the register, crowned by slots of cigarettes, her palms on the counter. The boys advance from different aisles; the youngest gets to her first, then the tall one. The dark-haired one, whose eyes are also dark, almost black, is last, his thumbnail raking across the face of the magazine display as he approaches.

Hey, the young one says, leaning over the counter, hip cocked.

Hi, the girl replies. She looks at each of them, in order, left to right. You need some gas? she asks.

Maybe, the young one says.

The dark-haired one slides a lotto ticket out of a stack near the girl’s fingers; digging a dime from his pocket he scratches the card, his tongue between his teeth. Beneath the silver foil he finds four clovers.

Shit, he says, rearing back with pleasure. What’d I win?

The girl reads the fine print. A dollar, she says.

The other boys laugh. She punches a button on the register; the drawer jumps open and the tall one leans to look inside.

How much you got in there?

I don’t know, she says. A few hundred, I guess. She talks slow, kind of quiet, but not shy; she looks them in the eyes and smiles.

What if we made you give it to us?

She blows on her bangs. You got a gun?

Maybe.

Then I guess I’d have to give it to you.

The tall one slips a dollar from the tray.

Nah, he says. But we won this fair enough, right? Snapping the bill in her face.

She flinches, giggling. He puts the bill in the take-a-penny-leave-a-penny tray.

You should get a tip jar, he says.

For real, the young one says. The tall one sucks his lips.

You smoke?

Sure, she replies.

You wanna smoke with us? It’s good shit, the dark-haired one says, his hips caressing the front of the counter. We promise.

Sounds great, she says, and if the boys were listening they could hear it — the wall clock telling them it is time to keep driving. But they aren’t listening. The blood roars in their ears.

I know a good place to do it, she says.

You’ve done this before? the tall one asks.

Sure, she says. Haven’t you?

The young one puts his hand next to hers, his pinkie dancing over the side of her palm. He looks at the others like, see? Easy.

* * *

Outside, moths swarm in flammable mass against the store windows. The empty parking lot glitters, a sea of spilled tar, and they cross it into the short strip of damp grass bordering the lot and the road. Dew licks their shoes; the tall boy dips his head to smoke but the young one puts his hand over the cigarette, folds it in his palm, drops it. The girl is in front, head down, ponytail swinging, as they walk beneath the concrete horizon of the overpass, where no cars move. The young one smiles and the tall one smiles, too; the dark-haired one lifts his shoulders inside his track jacket, cold from the inside.

* * *

Beneath the pass the girl stops. They’re standing in a stretch of soft dirt and stone hooded by the road: beyond the girl the boys can’t see anything but the dim skeleton of a chain-link fence. The girl faces the boys, and the young one rubs his toe in the dirt.

* * *

So is it good? she asks.

Is what good?

She blinks. Your trip, she says. You’re on a road trip, right?

The young one chuffs. We’re just driving.

Oh, she says. Cool.

What’s your name? the tall one asks. The girl cocks her head, small smile buzzing around her lips.

What’s yours? she replies.

You want us to guess? the dark-haired one asks, but the young one snorts, shakes his head.