Justin Tussing - Vexation Lullaby

“Of course.”

“But after I was born, you went back to the farm.”

“You know your grandparents. If we stayed with them, neither of us would have had any freedom.”

“Why didn’t you get a job?”

As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he knew he’d gone too far. He thought he could hear her heading outside. Was she leaving the house? Her studio? A thought crossed his mind: she was on her way to him.

“Can you understand that before you were born, I didn’t think about you? When I say that, I mean I didn’t think about you at all.”

What he understood was that Judith was always Judith.

Rosalyn and I forgo the hotel’s complimentary breakfast in favor of a French place a few blocks away that serves granola and fruit atop yogurt in cut-glass bowls — they squeeze their orange juice right before your eyes, in a device that might be the twin to a machine Patricia and I used at the print shop to punch three-inch-round campaign pins.

Funny how the past waits to greet you everywhere you go.

After our waitress buses the table, Rosalyn lifts a pill minder out of her purse, sets three tablets on the lip of the table, then replaces it. She picks up her water glass and washes the medications down with three quick gulps. I don’t ask what the pills are for. When she finishes, she says, “I reserved us a room in Lexington. I hope I’m not being too presumptuous.”

“So, I drive and you book the room, is that our arrangement?”

She makes me look at her. “Do we have an arrangement?”

“How long can you stick around?”

Her eyes drop. I suspect she heard a big question where I intended a smaller one.

When the check arrives, I slide a few bills under my coffee cup.

“You promised you’d meet my daughter.”

“In a moment of weakness,” she says, rising halfway from her seat. Then she sinks back down. When she reaches up to touch her forehead, I see her hand tremble.

I ask her if she’s feeling all right.

“I stood up too quickly.”

“Do you want to go back to our room?”

Rosalyn blushes.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“In The Holy Screw ,” Rosalyn says, “the narrator is surprised to find hickeys on her thighs and in the creases beneath her breasts. She accuses Ruben of being insatiable, but he explains that the marks are from bedbugs.” Rosalyn takes another sip of water. “Later, she calls him ‘Bedbug.’”

I offer to bring the car around and she doesn’t protest. As I jog back to the hotel, I’m reminded what a blessing it is to have a healthy body; I mustn’t forget that.

Rosalyn’s waiting at the curb when I pull up.

I roll down the passenger window. “Want a ride?”

“I’ve been warned about guys like you.”

“There aren’t any guys like me,” I say, shaking my head. We’re playing a game, but it’s not just a game. I lean over and open the door for her. “Get in.”

Merging onto I-71, the tractor trailers blasting past buffet my small car. Rosalyn reaches over and pats my thigh.

“Without giving too much away, could you explain how the The Holy Screw gets its title?” I ask.

“Of all people, you should know what a tricky business it is to decode a title.”

“It makes me think of those tamper-proof screws you find in airplanes or fastening bathroom stalls. Does the author believe that Ruben has some special attribute that enables him to move her, bind her, or free her, when other men couldn’t? If the author is the Holy Screw, I guess that would make Ruben the Holy Screwdriver.”

“I can’t tell if you’re serious,” she says, crooking her neck to look at me. “The book’s about sex. Ruben screws her and she awakens to the world and to herself.”

“Got it.”

Rosalyn laughs. “It’s not a meditation on Home Depot.”

A funny thing occurs to me: all this time, Gabby has been thinking her special friend is going to be the big surprise. She’s never going to forgive me.

“Now you’re laughing,” Rosalyn says, leaning over to grind her forehead into my shoulder.

Gabby is going to explode!

Peter decided to watch TV in his room. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to congratulate him on saving Cross’s life. The dark berry still pulsed inside Cross’s head. Assuming the world contained a premier basilar-artery specialist, Peter felt confident that he or she would hear from Ogata directly.

On the TV a guy with a skull as smooth as an artillery shell screamed at a smirking teenager. Peter had watched the show before; he’d seen the episode where the screamer’s wife, oldest daughter, and physician staged an intervention in the cardiac unit where he’d wound up after his third heart attack. Peter couldn’t recall where this particular episode fell in terms of the larger chronology. What he knew was that the teenager getting yelled at was the man’s son. The camera panned away from the action, to a poster behind the screamer, a picture of a donkey with its ears pulled back, its yellow teeth showing; the caption read, I Don’t Get Headaches, I GIVE Them!

Something thumped against Peter’s door. When he investigated, he found Bluto standing in the hall, in sweatpants, T-shirt, and a black blazer.

“You going to invite me in?”

Peter opened the door wide.

The tour manager came in. “Close the door, huh?”

“I can’t discuss anything without Cross’s permission.”

Bluto paused by the television. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“Why did Fletcher get fired?”

“Who you think scored the dope for Allie? Now, I like Fletcher. I’ve worked with the guy for almost ten years, but he should have known better. As soon as the show was over, I told him there was a ticket waiting for him at the airport. He didn’t get upset; he’s a professional.” Bluto pulled out a tin of breath mints; he popped one, then put the container back in his pocket. “I need a favor.”

Peter put his hands up. “I’m fresh out.”

“Listen to what I have to say. That was a nice trick you pulled off last night, but it’s not like you can go around saving his life every day.”

“I haven’t saved his life.”

“If a person claims you saved his life, then it’s at least partially true.”

“Not when one of you has the least idea what doctors do.”

“You mean besides hiding in their room and watching Motorcycle Humpers ?”

Peter clicked the TV off.

“I want you out of here,” Bluto said. “It’s nothing personal, but the sooner you leave, the sooner Allie’s liable to get bored and fly off.”

“So why don’t you talk to Allie?”

Bluto shook his head. “If you give the Big Man a wallet, he’s liable to lose it or throw it away. He can’t be bothered to hold on to a phone. The only thing he carries is this battered little address book he picked up in Marrakech forty years ago. That’s how he knows the addresses for his kids and his grandkids’ birthdays. That tattered book is how he can get in touch with Ogata and that shrimp lawyer.

“Four years ago he’s out taking a constitutional in Wyoming when some hick deputy picks him up for vagrancy. Cross doesn’t carry ID and they don’t believe him when he tells them who he is. They take him to the station and let him make a call. He pulls out that little book and he calls me. That’s how I found out I’d made it into his book. There aren’t fifty names in there and mine’s among them. Long after I’m dead and forgotten, that book will be in the Smithsonian. But if I pick a fight with Alistair, Cross will take out the nub of a pencil he carries, lick the tip, then scratch off my name. The next thing I know I’ll find myself in the Delta terminal with a one-way ticket home.”