Authors: John Lutz
Whiffy glanced at Beth and grinned. He said, “Man don’t understand. I’m good as white here for two reasons, Carver. I got money, an’ I used to play pro ball. Came up from the minors to catch for the Atlanta Braves seven years ago. Went to bat a hunnerd an’ fifty times, till my elbow got broke by a hard-throwin’ Cardinals right-hander. Ended my career. Didn’t matter; I was only hittin’ .223, with thirty-five strikeouts, so the Braves were plannin’ on sendin’ me back down. Pitchers soon found out I had a blind spot. Couldn’t hit a high, tight fastball, which is why I got tagged with the name Whiffy. That’s what that right-hander threw me, an’ I was too slow to get outa the way, much less hit the ball.”
“You saying money and major-league status bought you respect here?”
“I’m sayin’ they made me
white.
These yahoos figure a black man’s inferior, so if one of us does better’n most white men in a way can’t be denied, it don’t tally with their thinkin’. So what they do is make him white in their minds, sort of. That way there’s no breakdown of their fucked-up logic. Don’t just happen here. Look around, you’ll see it all the time. There’s a story in baseball ’bout a manager didn’t want a black player on his team. Then the man hits a triple first time at bat. Manager jumps up an’ down an’ yells, ‘Looka that Cuban run!’ ”
Carver exchanged glances with Beth. She nodded, smiling sadly.
“It helps, too,” Whiffy said, “that I can still swing the bat well enough to break a few skulls if I got to. And they know I’ll swing it. What I’m tryin’ to get across to you is that this here’s a backwater town where interracial couples just ain’t gonna be accepted. An’ you two don’t have to be sleepin’ together; you just walk around together an’ some of the Neanderthals around here’ll be ready to lynch you both.”
“Like B.J. and Junior Brainard?”
“ ’Specially like them. They live in a rundown cabin out in the swamp an’ support themselves dealin’ dope an’ poachin’ ’gators. Get to know them two, an’ you might think the theory of evolution can work in reverse.”
Carver said, “What about the law here?”
“That’d be Chief Ellis Morgan an’ two part-time officers. He does what he can, but he’s an elected official, if you catch my meanin’.”
“He plays along with the bad guys.”
“No more’n he has to, but he plays.”
“How dangerous are the Brainard brothers?”
“They killed before, I’m sure of it. You run dope an’ you poach the way they do, murder can become part of the game. Swamp hides bodies an’ they never turn up.” He nodded toward Beth. “I don’t mean to shock the lady, but it’s a fact.”
Carver said, “She understands.”
Whiffy tilted his head to the side and stared at Beth. “Where’d you learn to be such a bad-ass in a fight, Miss?”
“My husband taught me. He thought it’d be good for me to know.”
“Husband?”
“Not me,” Carver said.
“You two made big enough fools outa the Brainards they ain’t gonna sleep well till they make things even. ’Specially Junior, bein’ fucked over like that by a woman. So if I was you, I’d finish whatever business I had in Dark Glades an’ move along without a forwardin’ address.”
Carver said, “Sound idea.”
“Some people I run from,” Beth said, “some I don’t.”
Whiffy shook his head. “That martial-arts shit don’t work against a shotgun.”
“Good point,” Carver said.
Whiffy said, “You got sense, man. Try to talk a little into her.”
Beth arched an eyebrow at Whiffy. “You’re still here, and you gotta use a baseball bat from time to time.”
“I got family roots here go back to Southern Reconstruction, honey, or I sure as hell’d be livin’ in Miami or someplace else where mosta the houses got indoor plumbin’.” He peered hard at Beth, then looked at Carver. “I ain’t convincin’ her, am I?”
“My guess is no.”
“Listen here,” Whiffy said, leaning so far back in his chair that Carver thought the rear legs would slide under on the smooth linoleum, “I don’t know what the relationship is between you two an’ don’t much care. But this ain’t an enlightened part of the world here. People are gonna assume the worst an’ act on it, an’ not necessarily accordin’ to law.”
Beth shot him an icy look. “We’re only business associates.”
“Just travelin’ through, I hope.”
“We plan on staying awhile,” she said firmly.
“Hmm. You two at the Casa Grande?”
“How’d you know?” Beth asked.
“Only real motel close in to town.”
Beth said, “Gonna be our home for a while.”
Whiffy drained his beer mug, let his chair drop forward on all four legs, then stood up. “The desk clerk at the Casa, little guy name of Watts, is a good man. You get in any kinda trouble over there, it’s somethin’ to keep in mind.”
Carver said, “Thanks, we will.”
“You folks go ahead an’ finish your supper now. We can warm it in the microwave if you want.”
“No thanks,” Beth said. “I worked up an appetite. I’d rather eat cold food than wait for hot.”
Carver looked at the congealing cream gravy on his chicken-fried steak. He waved Marlene over and handed her his plate. Beth took a huge bite of her hamburger and chewed lustily. He caught a hint of onion from across the table.
Whiffy said, “Marlene, you come get me if there’s any more trouble, you hear?”
“I hear, Whiffy.” She disappeared into the kitchen with Carver’s dinner.
Whiffy tucked his thumbs in the elastic waistband of his shorts. They sagged low. For a moment Carver thought the man might absently scratch his crotch, a major leaguer in the batter’s box. Habits died hard. But he released the waistband and it snapped loudly against his stomach. He said, “You folks best not stroll around an’ explore the town when you leave here.”
Carver said, “We’re going back to the motel.”
“Good,” Whiffy said. He looked at Beth and shook his head slowly. Then he walked toward the kitchen and the back exit, his hairless calf muscles bulging. His sweaty bare soles made soft ticking sounds on the linoleum with each step.
At the swinging doors behind the counter, he turned and said, “You two get back to the motel, you lock your doors.”
Carver said not to worry, that was in the plan.
Beth took another bite of hamburger.
Dolly Parton began singing again as Marlene brought Carver’s warmed-up supper.
After leaving Whiffy’s, Carver and Beth made one stop, at the ambitiously named but tiny Everglades Drug Emporium near the end of Cypress. The place had a plank floor, a glass-and-wood display case full of dusty bottles and discolored boxes. An old man in a yellowed white shirt and a string tie leaned near the cash register, waiting for them to decide what they wanted to buy. Next to him was a soda fountain with three stools. On a shelf behind it was one of those old green Hamilton Beach blenders used for making milkshakes in stainless-steel containers that kept them cold. Carver thought a milkshake here might taste good before they left town.
Beth bought a package of disposable razors and a tube of Colgate toothpaste. Carver picked up a bottle of Tylenol, in case the swamp humidity made his knee ache. He felt as if he might be forgetting something, but he couldn’t draw it to the top of his mind.
Then they bought some magazines to read. Carver picked out
Time
and
Newsweek.
Maybe he could figure out what the hell was going on in the world. Beth chose
Vogue
and
Money
, noticed Carver smiling, and told him if he laughed she’d kick him where it hurt the most.
He didn’t laugh.
That night she left the connecting door between their rooms standing open.
He realized what he should have bought at the drugstore.
W
HEN HE AWOKE SHE
was still in his bed, the white sheet pulled up to her chin, one long, golden leg protruding into the cool room and extending off the side of the mattress. Carver squinted against the brilliant morning light cascading through the crack between the drawn drapes and watched her sleep. Her eyes were closed lightly, the composition of her features calm. He remembered last night’s explosion of warm flesh and desperately seeking hands and tongues. How he’d lost himself in her. She didn’t seem like the same woman this morning, this long, evenly breathing image of calm.
Without opening her eyes she said, “I know you’re watching me, Carver.”
“How?”
“I can sense things like that. Being hunted gives that to you.”
He twisted his upper body and leaned sideways, making the bedsprings squeal, and kissed her on the lips.
When he drew back, she opened her eyes and stared at him, her dark pupils sparking with morning light. “Thanks, lover.”
He didn’t know what to say to such a simple and sincere expression of affection and appreciation. He was a little embarrassed and tried humor. “Last night means we gotta get married.” Lame.
“Can the bullshit, Carver.”
“Okay, canned.”
Mornings were something—mornings after certain nights before. He lay back and closed his eyes, listening. The air conditioner was humming away, but the swamp seemed very near, in the room with them, Insects screamed their perpetual frantic lament. Something grunted in the distance. A bullfrog was croaking nearby. Carver said, “Truly wild.”
She misunderstood, reaching a hand out from beneath the sheet and touching his arm. “No, you were gentle.”
He looked at her. “Last night was gentle?”
“Comparatively speaking.”
Carver thought about Roberto Gomez and liked him even less.
Beth slid both hands behind her head and lay staring up at the ceiling. “I had an uncle used to do a lotta fishing, Carver. He’d tell me that sometimes life was like a lake.”
“Deep,” Carver said.
She glanced over at him to see if he was trying to be funny again. He wasn’t sure himself. She said, “You fish in the Midwest and you learn something. In the spring, when the lakes thaw and warm up from the sun, the water in the bottom, below the frost line, has stayed warmer all winter and warms up even faster than the top half of the lake. The fire of summer’s stayed alive in it all those cold months. When it gets warm enough, it rises and the cooler water sinks. An inversion’s the technical term. The lake turns, as they say; bottom water on top, top water on the bottom, where it stays cooler all summer. That’s when the season’s really changed and the fishing gets good in the spring, soon as the lake turns. Well, sometimes people’s lives turn that same way. A kinda change brought on by a different season.”
“I’m not sure about that,” Carver said. “People aren’t lakes.”
“You don’t know till you fish.”
“People have control.” Then why did he feel guilty about betraying Edwina? And as worried as a high school kid after his first sexual experience?
She said, “I didn’t have control last night. You didn’t, either.”
“I wouldn’t argue.”
“Bet you wouldn’t.”
He shifted his weight on the bed. His lower leg accidentally touched hers. He left it there.
“Incidentally,” she said, “when Adam was born I had a tubal ligation; no way I can get pregnant again.”
Hmm. He scooted over to her. Kissed her on the lips, hard this time, using his tongue.
At first she didn’t respond. Then her long, lithe arms unwound from behind her head and wrapped around him. He heard the sheet rustling as she worked it off her body. She moaned and pressed the firm, eager length of herself against him. He lost control again.
After the initial rush of passion they made love very deliberately, savoring each other. When they were finished, Beth lay with her head resting sideways on Carver’s bare chest, as if listening to his heart. Her eyes were blank with passion spent. He’d given her the temporary escape she’d sought.
After a while she raised her face to his and kissed him, then swiveled her supple, dark body and stood up. Her thinness made her seem very tall. Even taller as she raised her arms and arched her back to stretch. She stood that way for a moment, arms out wide and hands dangling limply, a casual crucifixion.
She smiled down at him, then she bent at the waist, picked up her silk panties, and moved toward her room. As she walked away nude in the bright morning light, her lean, taut body writhed like dark flame.
Carver, breathless, said, “My God!”
She glanced back. “Huh?”
“Nothing.” He grinned at her.
She closed the connecting door, and five minutes later he heard her shower running.
Carver reached for his watch on the nightstand and angled it so its dial didn’t reflect light. Nine-thirty.
He sat up on the edge of the bed and pulled the phone to him. He couldn’t call Edwina at home; it was possible her line had been tapped by Gomez, or maybe even McGregor, trying to keep tabs on him. He direct-dialed the Quill Realty number.
Quill’s honey-voiced receptionist said Miss Talbot was in, asked who was calling, then told him just a minute and put him on hold. Muzak played, a neutered Rolling Stones number from the sixties. Moss had gathered.
The music stopped and Edwina’s voice said, “Fred?”
She sounded like a stranger. “Fred,” Carver confirmed.
“Where are you?”
“Can’t say.”
“Sure, I forgot.” Her voice was disinterested.
“I called to make sure you were all right.”
“You’re the one supposed to be in danger,” she said.
“Yeah, that’s true.”
“Fred?”
“Why do you keep saying that? Like you’re not sure it’s me?”
“I told Jack Lester I’d take the position in Hawaii, Fred.”
Just like that. Over the phone.
He didn’t feel guilty now. He felt injured deep inside, even though he’d expected this. Even, he knew, secretly hoped for it.
“Fred?”
“Christ, stop saying that!”
“Saying what?”
“My name.
“I’m sorry. But you understand my decision, don’t you?”
“I understand.” And he did, though not all of it. Maybe nobody ever really understood all of something like this.
“Gonna come with me?” she asked.
He didn’t hesitate. They both knew the answer. “No, I can’t.
“Why not?”
“A list of reasons. When do you leave?”