Christopher Sorrentino - The Fugitives

“My marriage broke up,” he said with some spirit, “because I was fucking bored to death. My marriage broke up because it was a pain, literally. For ten years I had pain in my neck, pain in my upper back, pain in my lower back, pain in my hip. Ten years, mysterious pain, doctors, genuine Park Avenue specialists, shaking their heads, take more ibuprofen is what they said. I moved out and it just went away.”

“We should get going,” she said. “I’m surprised we haven’t passed out from carbon monoxide poisoning.”

“Wouldn’t you notice?”

“It’s colorless. And odorless. And it doesn’t irritate the lungs or nasal passages.”

“There must be symptoms.”

“If you got a headache right now, what would you attribute it to?”

“Your big mouth.”

Well, she had to laugh at that one. Then she sat for a moment, staring ahead through the windshield. She felt momentarily content. The car was warm, from the heat streaming through the vents and from the sunlight streaming through the windows.

“That was fun,” she announced.

A robin landed on the hood of the car and strutted across it. She watched him carefully. He turned, seemed to see her, then flew away.

“They don’t usually overwinter here,” she said. Mulligan seemed to shrug in response. “It’s a robin,” she informed him, faintly annoyed. Dutifully, he looked at the spot on the hood where the bird had landed. She put the car in gear. They drove in silence from the dunes back to Cherry City. She steered onto Division, passing the Dairy Lodge, shuttered for the winter, the Lions Club, the Lutheran church, the insane asylum where Andrew Meisler’s curated, value-added, irresistible conversation apparently would soon be raging. The town began to cohere into its own All-American et cetera: houses and service stations, dilapidated storefronts and shiny chains, bars and churches, good real estate and bad. At his direction, she steered onto Twelfth Street, drove through the next intersection, and came to a stop before a gray bungalow. A pickup was parked in the driveway. She noticed that he hadn’t shoveled the sidewalk or the path to the door.

“Do you want to come in?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I should be doing some work, I think.”

“How about dinner?”

“I really can’t.”

He grinned and theatrically threw up his hands. “Takeout again.”

She couldn’t tell if he was miffed or not. She looked past him at the house. A raw four-by-four substituted for one of the posts holding up the roof of the veranda, but otherwise it was a trim little house. She wondered what it was like inside. It was too dark to see through the windows.

“Well, eat something,” she advised. “We skipped lunch, remember?”

He grinned again — remembering — and got out of the car. “Are you here for a few days?”

“Not really.”

“But you’ll be back.”

“I’ll be back.”

“Can I get in touch with you?”

She looked in her wallet and pulled out Meisler’s card and wrote her e-mail address on the back. He studied the card curiously for a moment, both sides, and then stuffed it in his pocket. She waved and drove away, and in the rearview mirror she could see him standing at the edge of the snow-covered lawn, until he was out of sight and, presumably, she was too.

K ATlet Grandview carry her out of town and then headed south. She was on her way to Nebising, outmaneuvered by Becky, who claimed not to have received the photographs, said she didn’t have a phone that could receive them, said the signal was bad, said the Internet was out, said she had to come, could she please come. She drove into the thick of the blasted state. She was angry. This was exactly the showdown Becky’s appeal had been designed to lead her toward. She should have known and she was angry. At Leatonville she turned into the reservation and found her way to her own little parcel, a dozen or so houses with TV light flickering in the windows. She passed her old place. A scuffed and dusty Taurus was in the drive.

She parked behind a large pickup truck and climbed the steps to Becky’s house. On the porch rail there was a white mug with a broken handle. It was stuffed with cigarette butts and had the phrase “Fill This, Intern” printed on it. Kat stood looking at the welcome mat, which read “OH SHIT NOT YOU AGAIN.” She rang the bell.

“You showed up.”

Becky had put on about thirty pounds since Kat had last seen her, and she wasn’t wearing anything Kat would take the garbage out in, but she looked good. Hair was combed, shiny. Eyes clear, skin unblemished. Skintight jeans were clean and in good shape. Black cotton-poly top with three-quarter sleeves and floral embroidery fringing the (modestly) plunging neckline. A pair of rainbow-striped toe socks. Probably she’d dressed for her. Kat imagined that this was the picky way that the social workers who’d always popped in and out of Nebising had taken things in. She smiled and raised her arms for a hug, refraining from an assessment of the living room.

“Of course I did.”

“I knew I’d figure out a way to get you down here.”

“I would’ve come anyway.”

“Bullshit,” said Becky. “But no matter. You want coffee?” She headed for the kitchen without waiting for an answer and Kat took off her coat and hung it on one of the hooks mounted on the wall behind the door. She followed Becky to the kitchen, waiting at the breakfast bar that divided it from the living room while Becky filled two mugs. She put Kat’s in front of her and got out a box of sugar and a carton of whole milk. Kat ignored the sugar and poured milk into her coffee.

She asked, “Do you have a spoon?”

“You bet.” Becky opened the dishwasher and pulled out a spoon, then washed it by hand in the sink. She dried the spoon on a dishtowel and carried it over, dropping it directly into Kat’s mug.

“Where’s Brandon?” asked Kat.

“Out and about,” said Becky. “Don’t ask me. All into his own shit, that one.”

“I wish I’d had a chance to see him.”

“You never know. Comes and goes like this was a hotel. Just like my mom used to say about me, ennit?”

“Yep.”

“So you got some pictures to show me?”

“Right here.” Kat patted her bag.

“Let’s sit,” said Becky. Carrying her coffee, she came around the bar and crossed the carpet. She walked with the busy, measured tread heavy people sometimes had, and, like a train, sighed whenever she started or stopped. She set her mug on top of a large TV set and then dragged an ottoman from its place before a plump easy chair and positioned it in front of a big brown couch. She balanced the mug on the surface of the ottoman and then sat on the couch under a gigantic old mirror in a tarnished and chipped gilt frame. Kat remembered it. The three panels were divided by miniature Corinthian columns, and the large center panel was still missing its glass. Some stenciled numbers and the words GRAND RAPIDS, MICHwere visible on the masonite backing that showed through the empty frame. Kat sat next to her and began feeling in her bag for her phone.

“What’s that on your sleeve?”

Kat looked down and saw the crusted blob of Alexander’s semen. “From lunch, I guess.”

“Looks like jism.”

Kat laughed and scraped it off with a fingernail. “No such luck!”

“I should hope not.” Becky laughed too. “Come on, get this over with so we can do some serious catching up.”

Kat fixed a smile on her face and pulled up the photos on her phone, then passed it to Becky. She leaned over. “Here’s how you—”

“I know how to do it!” Becky said. Not annoyed, just emphatic. Kat raised her hands slightly in surrender and leaned back to watch Becky flip through the pictures.