Three Twisted Stories Part 9

Charlie put his hand to his mouth. What the h.e.l.l was Salmeri doing putting his mouth on Charlie's? Jesus Christ, what if Thevis found out?

Thevis.

Charlie tried to sit up in bed. The pain was too much. His back was killing him like he'd lain on a bed of nails.

Deacon guided him back down. "Calm down, Charlie."

"You don't understand. I gotta get to work." Three days Charlie had been lying in this hospital. Three days while Thevis waited for him to deliver that Cadillac.

"It's all right," Deacon told him. "I took care of the suit in the back of your car."

Charlie wasn't relieved. "You didn't talk to-"

"No, Salmeri handled it." He dropped his cigarette into a c.o.ke can. "Lookit, I can take care of things while you're gone, all right? Don't sweat it."

"I'm gonna sweat it." Charlie grabbed the front of Deacon's s.h.i.+rt and pulled him down to the bed. "You listen to me, little brother. I'm still in charge of that place. I find one f.u.c.king thing ain't where it's supposed to be, I'll roast your c.o.c.k on a spit and serve it up at Sunday school. You hear me?"

A familiar fear flashed in Deacon's eyes. "Yeah, Charlie. I hear you."

"And you park your car in my f.u.c.king spot again, I'll slit your throat."

"Okay, Charlie." Deacon tried to stand. Charlie slowly let go, making it clear that he was in charge. "I'm sorry. It'll never happen again. Promise."

"d.a.m.n straight." Charlie put his hand to his chest. His heartbeat was back to normal. He was sweating like a man again.

"Hey, the game is on." Deacon picked up the remote control for the television. The tube popped on. He saw the NBC peac.o.c.k, then the Fulton County Stadium. "Check out that crowd. The whole place is full."

Charlie didn't give a s.h.i.+t about the crowd. All he wanted was for Aaron to hit the ball tonight so that tomorrow, people would be in the dealers.h.i.+p buying cars again. "Turn it off."

"Turn it off? Are you kidding me?"

"Do I look like I'm joking around?" Charlie tried to s.h.i.+ft in the bed. Between the IV in his arm and the leads going up to the heart monitor, he felt like a fish caught in a net. "Go watch it somewhere else."

Deacon's bottom lip went out the way it always did when he didn't get his way. His feet shuffled across the floor as he walked out of the room.

Charlie let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He reached under the sheet again just to make sure everything was connected the way it should be. He followed the IV tube going out of his arm to the clear liquid in the bottle above his head. What the h.e.l.l kind of s.h.i.+t were they pumping into him? LSD? Peyote?

He turned the TV back on and put the sound down low. The stadium wasn't just full; it was packed to the rafters. The camera panned across the Aaron family. Tommie Aaron, Hank's brother, was a ballplayer, too. The Deacon to Hank's Charlie.

Charlie chuckled. f.u.c.king Salmeri kissing him on the lips. That greaseball had it wrong. The world was not going to change because some black guy hit a white ball with a brown bat. Charlie Lam was going to be A-O-f.u.c.king-K.

"Mr. Lam?"

Charlie startled at the nurse who walked into the room. His heart flipped in his chest. His lungs seized. He gripped the railings on the side of the bed.

It was Jo.

She said, "The doctor told me to take out your catheter."

Charlie was breathing so hard that he couldn't make words.

"Don't worry, Mr. Lam. It won't hurt. I'll make sure of it."

"Jo," he said. "I know you. You-"

"Tried to buy that Mustang off the floor." She snapped on a pair of gloves. "Your brother said he could give me a deal, but I don't trade in that kind of currency."

"You're the blonde?" Charlie hadn't looked at her face, just her eyes, lips, and t.i.ts. Now that he had her right in front of him, it was the voice that jogged his memory. "I remember you."

"I bet you do."

The sheet flew back. Charlie watched her hands work. She was gentle. There was no pain when she pulled out the catheter. Just a trickle of urine and a twinge in his bladder.

She said, "You're the only patient I've ever had who tried to fight me during an alcohol rub."

"You rubbed me down?"

"Tried to. You kept telling me no and pus.h.i.+ng me away." She squeezed some ointment onto a long Q-tip, then dabbed it on his p.e.n.i.s. "This will keep out any bacteria."

Charlie didn't care about bacteria. He couldn't understand why in the h.e.l.l he'd tried to fight off this chick. She was gorgeous, even in the nurse's getup. Especially in the nurse's getup.

He asked, "This is your job?"

"Yep. Been doing it for five years. Went to school for it and everything." She tucked the sheet back around his waist. "And I have no plans to give it up, no matter what lucky fella comes along."

"Yeah," Charlie said, but he wasn't really listening. The top two b.u.t.tons of her dress were undone. He could see the edge of her bra when she leaned over to check the monitor and adjust his IV.

G.o.d help him, he could barely move in the bed, but Charlie was getting hard just looking at her. He asked, "You gotta guy, baby?"

"Nope."

"Pretty thing like you? I don't believe it."

"Believe it." She crossed her arms as she looked down at him. "Are you comfortable, Mr. Lam?"

"Not as comfortable as I'd be if you climbed in here beside me."

She laughed. "Mr. Lam, remember what I told you at the dealers.h.i.+p?"

Charlie smiled as he shook his head. He couldn't recall a word she'd said.

"I'm not a wh.o.r.e. I have morals."

" 'Course you do," Charlie said, though there was obviously something going on here. A gal that pretty only worked a job like this for one reason. Five years in, she should be up to her t.i.ts in doctors.

Maybe she liked them a bit more rough around the edges. He said, "You're gorgeous. You know that?"

"And you're a little fat. And you're old enough to be my father. And I think your fever's about to spike again."

Charlie heard maybe every other word. He rubbed his hand up her arm. It was always better when they were a challenge. "Come on, baby. Let's see if we can loosen those morals."

She gave a sigh of playful exasperation. "You didn't learn a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing, did you?"

Charlie let his hand slide to her hip. She didn't stop him, so he cupped her a.s.s cheek. Jesus, she was tight. He could feel the muscle working under his palm as she leaned over the bed. Charlie looked up at the glorious mounds of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He opened his mouth, but she pulled back before he could do anything with it.

She had his IV tube in one hand and a syringe in the other.

Charlie felt a flicker of panic. "What are you doing?"

She tapped her thumb against the tip of the plunger. "Oh, you're listening to me now, aren't you? Not blocking out the sound of my voice. Not leering at my chest. Lucky me. I've got your undivided attention."

He stared at the pink liquid in the syringe. "What is that?"

"It's the curse, Charlie. It's what sends you back."

His blood ran cold. "What?"

"You a.s.sholes think you're so f.u.c.king tough, but the minute the chips are down, you always, always, always take the easy way out."

"What are you-"

"You think a woman walks around all the time with a knife in her pocket? Some guy pushes her around or makes her feel threatened or tries to rape her and all she has to do is whip out that knife to stop it?" She answered her own question. "No, a.s.shole. She takes whatever the guy forces on her. She takes the pain and the humiliation and then she gets up for work the next morning. Or she goes to school. She takes care of her business. But she can't look her father in the eye. She can't tell her friends about it. She can't explain how she got caught up in the situation or why she was there in the first place or why she didn't fight more or why she fought too much." She shook her head. "Sweet Jesus, if only she'd had a handy-dandy knife."

"I don't-"

"You think a senior-year nursing student has a knife handy when a disgusting, middle-aged slumlord with a comb-over decides he's gonna take out the rent in p.u.s.s.y?"

She went quiet so he could answer.

Charlie didn't have an answer. He was listening to the Carpenters. "Ticket to Ride." The vegetable Jew in the next room. "Finkelmeyer."

"That a.s.shole. I thought you were the stupid one, Chicken Man. Every time he wakes up, he's the same jerk he was to begin with. He's never going to learn."

"Learn what?"

"What? What?" she mocked. "What do you say to a woman with two black eyes?"

He shook his head so furiously that saliva flew out of his mouth.

"You say, 'Why didn't you listen the first time?' " She threw back her head and laughed. "Get it? It's funny, right? It's funny because it actually happens. People never learn the first time, or the second time, or on and on and on. They don't really want to change. Especially the ones who know they need it. Am I right, sweetheart? Honey? Baby? b.i.t.c.h?"

"I did change!" Charlie screamed. "Please, you can't do this to me. Give me a chance to prove I changed!"

"All right." Jo seemed open to the idea. "You think you've learned so much about women. Answer this question for me: A woman has a knife in her pocket. Some a.s.shole forces her to do something she doesn't want to do. Tell me, why doesn't she use the knife?"

"But I used the-" Charlie stopped talking.

He hadn't used the knife on Salmeri. He'd used the knife on himself.

Why?

All he had to do was turn the knife the other way-stab Salmeri in the b.a.l.l.s instead of slicing the blade into his own stomach. The thought hadn't even occurred to Charlie. The only way he'd seen out of that situation was to punish himself.

Jo gave a slow, sad shake of her head. "It's a puzzle, ain't it? Treat somebody bad long enough, and guess what they start thinking they are?"

"I don't-" Charlie had to stop to swallow. "I don't know why you're doing this to me."

"Poor little Charlie. I know you don't know why. That's the problem." Jo nodded toward the syringe. "Maybe second time's the charm."

"No!" Charlie couldn't handle going back. Tears streamed down his face. "Lady, please, you can't do it."

"Tell that to Finkelmeyer. He's been here for five years."

"Oh, Jesus!" Charlie was crying for real now. "I've got a wife! A daughter!"

"A greedy girlfriend. A brother who's a borderline rapist. A baby sister who got caught trying to steal drugs from a cancer patient." Jo tapped her thumb on the plunger again. "Ready for round two?"

"Stop!" Charlie tried to sit up, but pain knifed into his back. "Please!"

"You know how to end it."

Charlie was sweating. His whole body started to tremble. The plunger was going down.

Jo said, "That's it, baby. Just relax into it."

His eyelids fluttered. He saw his hands on the Buick's steering wheel. He saw the ceiling above his hospital bed. He heard the heart monitor. He heard the car wheels thrum against the road. The Carpenters on the radio. "Please," he whispered. "Please-just tell me what to do."

"I'm only telling you because you won't remember." Jo's mouth went at his ear. Her hot breath burned his skin. "It's easy, Charlie. Just be one of those girls who lets him go deep."

Necessary Women.

I was fourteen years old when I watched my mama die. Her pale skin turned pasty as she clutched her throat, blood seeping through her fingers like she was squeezing a sponge instead of trying to hold on to her life. She was barely thirty years old when she pa.s.sed, but my daddy had put age on her. Streaks of silver shot through her dark hair like lines on a blackboard, and there was a hardness about her eyes that made you look away fast, before you could be drawn into the sadness.

I try not to think of Mama this way now. When I close my eyes, I think of Sat.u.r.day nights sitting on the floor in the living room, Mama in the chair behind me, brus.h.i.+ng my hair so it would look good for Sunday services. Mama wasn't particularly religious herself, but we lived in a small border town, smack on the line between Georgia and Alabama, and people would have talked. I'm glad we had nights like this, because now that she is gone, I can think back on it, sometimes even feel the bristles of the brush going through my hair and the soft touch of Mama's hand on my shoulder. It comforts me.

Our house was a three-room rectangle made of cement block, which trapped heat like a kiln. Thankfully, pecan trees shaded the roof so most days we didn't get the full intensity of the sun. In a county that routinely saw hundred-plus temperatures, this made a difference. Come summertime, we would pick the pecans, salt them, and sell them to vacationers on their way to the Florida Panhandle. Sometimes Daddy brought in peanuts, and Mama would boil them. I can still see her standing in front of the cauldron, stirring the peanuts with a long two-by-four, her s.h.i.+ns bright red from the open flame beneath the pot.

Our life had a settled routine to it, and while I can't say that we were happy, we made do with what we had. At night, sometimes we would hear people beeping their horns as they crossed into Alabama, and Mama would get a wistful look on her face. She never said anything, but I remember the first time I saw that look I got a pain in my gut as I realized that maybe Mama wasn't happy, that maybe she didn't want to be here with me and Daddy. Like most things, this pa.s.sed, and soon we learned to ignore the honking vacationers. Around about the middle of summer, every supper would go something like, "Pa.s.s the-" Honk-honk. Or, "Can I have some-" Toot-toot.

Daddy was a long-hauler, driving semis across the nation for this company or that, and he would be gone for weeks, sometimes months, at a time. Mostly when he was home I slept on the couch, but when he was gone, I would sleep with Mama in their bed. We would stay up at night talking about him, both missing him. I think these are the happiest memories I have of my mother. At night with the lights off, there was no work to do; no floors to scrub, meals to fix, s.h.i.+rts to iron. Mama had two jobs then, one cleaning the restrooms at the welcome center on the Alabama side, the other working nights at the laundry. When I would lay with her, I could smell an odd mixture of Clorox bleach and dry-cleaning solvent. I often think if that knife had not killed her, the chemicals she used would have sent her to an early grave.

About a week before she died, Mama had a talk with me. We had turned in early, just as the sun was dipping into the horizon, because Mama was due at work around four the next morning. A hard rain was sweeping across the tin roof, making shus.h.i.+ng noises to lull us to sleep. I was just about to nod off when Mama rolled over in bed, nudging me awake.