Dana Spiotta - Eat the Document

Caroline barely turned toward the two men, and Berry gave a once-over to the whole room to check out who Caroline indicated.

“Like those two,” Berry said, turning back to Caroline. “Maybe.” Caroline glanced at the men again. Neither was actually very good looking, but they also weren’t unattractive. The men leaned back in their chairs and sipped at their beers and smoked.

The driving riff of a Creedence Clearwater Revival song came on over the speakers.

“We could just get high with them and see how we feel,” Caroline said. “Or we can get a motel room. I mean just us, if you want.” She realized then, in the course of speaking her last sentence and with a sigh of relief, that the thought of the unencumbered sex was enough really; she was almost ready to call it a night. She suspected that this was a real difference between men and women. How easy it was for her to live with the unrealized fantasy, already imagining the reality to be more complicated than sexy. The dynamics, for instance. They might both be more attracted to Berry, and they would be subtle about it (or not), but she would still pick up on it somehow. She would be with the disappointed one. Or up close they might not smell or taste good. Or they would do or say something hopelessly sad or corny. And then she would be stuck in some compromised position with these flawed fantasies. What were the chances they would not disappoint?

Now The Band was playing “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.”

Besides, so much of what seemed fun about the idea was feeling the desire of someone else for her. Because being wanted was an essential part of her desire. Having to deal with some man’s disappointment, no matter how faint, felt way too depressing.

That was what they looked like, these two men, like the studiously unscrubbed and unglamorous members of The Band. With the big, shaggy Civil War sideburns. What were they called? Muttonchops.

“We’ll see,” Berry said and held up her beer to Caroline. They tapped their glasses together and then took two foamy sips. She could feel, to the depths of her body and without even looking around, the stares of the two men. Caroline watched Berry glance toward the two men, who had now stopped smoking and seemed fully occupied with looking at them, half-smiling, one tilting his chair all the way back and the other leaning into his elbows on the table.

“Wow,” Berry said. She took a long swig of beer, and then Caroline looked past Berry’s shoulder, in the opposite direction of the men, and noticed what hung on the wall behind Berry.

The Rolling Stones’ “Tumbling Dice” started next, with its big raunch gospel chorus up front before the lead kicked in, and Berry sang along with the ohs of the female backup singers — except they were really front-up singers at this point — shaking her head back and forth, then switching to singing with the lead vocal when that kicked in, messing up the words.

The wall behind Berry was decorated with posters from the Wild West. A desperado-outlaw theme halfheartedly accomplished with Jesse James and Billy the Kid wanted posters. Caroline noticed a black-and-white poster that said “FBI Most Wanted” over a large picture of the Weather Underground siren Bernardine Dohrn. She was in a leather miniskirt and knee-high boots. It showed her fingerprints and vital stats just like a real FBI poster, but surely doctored to feature an alluring body shot of Dohrn instead of a mug shot. Caroline had seen the body shot before, of course, it was one of the reasons some women distrusted Dohrn, the way she seemed to play into the porno of outlaw chick with great legs. But she did look great, didn’t she? But Caroline was not thinking long about Dohrn because she soon noticed other, smaller FBI wanted posters. These were not altered but actual tear sheets, like at the post office. Some were covered over partially and hard to read. At Bernardine’s left toe she could see a poster of another woman fugitive, whom Caroline took several breathless seconds to realize was her, Mary Whittaker, a.k.a. Freya. It was, after all, her high school photograph, a photo five years old and not a picture she particularly cared for. But it looked remarkably like her. Anyone who saw it, particularly with her sitting right beside it or under it, would easily recognize her. Naturally no one was actually looking at the wall except Caroline, who felt her mouth slowly fall open.

“What is it?” Berry said.

Caroline shook her head and forced herself to turn her gaze back to Berry at the table. “Nothing.”

Berry glanced over her shoulder at the wall behind her and then back at Caroline. “What?”

“I don’t feel very good.” A completely true statement.

“You don’t?”

“Let’s leave.”

“Why?”

“Can we just go and get a motel or something? Can we just get out of here?” she said.

“What about the Allman Brothers over there?”

“Forget them. C’mon.”

They got a room in a small, clean motel with prints of the Erie Canal on the wall. Berry flipped on the TV. Caroline went to the bathroom and closed the door. She splashed water on her face. She let the water run and took several deep breaths, staring in the mirror. She looked like herself, no question about it. Everyone could see it, would see it, the whole town, the whole world. But would anyone notice her picture, so upstaged by dangerous Dohrn’s eye-enchanting legs?

They put the brown quilted bedspread on the floor in front of the TV. They sat cross-legged on it and smoked a joint. Caroline could feel her body slowly relax into the night. They watched Johnny Carson and then the late movie. They ate M&M’s candies one after the other and chased them with bottles of beer. And they talked to each other, or Berry talked and Caroline listened. Berry told her she didn’t want to spend the winter at the commune.

“Where do you want to go?” Caroline asked.

“You mean where do we want to go. I’m taking you with me.”

Caroline smiled and let Berry stroke her hair. She loved Berry, she did. She cared for her, she trusted her. And then Caroline made her mistake, or walked into it, or let it happen:

“What happened in the bar? Why did you look so upset? Were you thinking about Bobby?”

“Sort of.”

Berry looked at her, waiting. Sometimes you are expected to give something to people. It is hard to resist. Sometimes you might even trust people.

“Look, I haven’t been completely honest with you about my past. I want to be honest with you. I trust you. But what I tell you has to be a secret forever,” Caroline heard herself say. She sounded stern, even harsh.

Berry sat up, intent. “What! What is it?” she said.

“This is really serious.”

“I will never tell, I swear. I know what it is, though—”

“Listen—”

“You’re Bernardine Dohrn.” Berry laughed.

Caroline shook her head and looked at her hands. Later she would recall this moment and consider what had transpired. Everyone will swear never to tell and mean it. No one can resist, or very few people can resist, the chance to learn a secret. The question was, did Caroline, in her need to tell someone, think to explain to Berry what would potentially be at stake for Berry if she kept Caroline’s secret? Caroline didn’t think enough about it then, but she often thought about it later, after it was too late.

Caroline told her, Berry heard her.

That night Berry bathed Caroline in the warmth of acceptance and intimacy. Even, perhaps, admiration. But as Caroline tried to fall asleep, the relief of confidence faded. The fear set in. A person who knew your secrets stayed part of your life forever. She would always have to be connected to Berry.

When Caroline woke the next morning, it all came back to her. She watched Berry sleep and felt profound regret. Berry was as kind and benign and loyal as they came, but she had a big mouth, she would slip up, she would get drunk and tell a boyfriend. Caroline watched her sleep and sort of hated her, hated all her flaws and weaknesses.