The Passenger (11 page)

I left my stale motel room and walked down the main road until I found a bar that looked like the kind of place you could get lost in. It was one of those sports bars with a cheap menu and expensive TVs. It was called Sidelines. I figured the patrons would be too interested in the games to bother with me. But I also figured since it was a notch above a dive, there was at least a chance I'd get ID'd, and I could take mine out for a spin.

An older gentleman was behind the bar. He had the kind of nose that let you know he'd sampled a fair share of his product in his day. A knot of high-volume men gathered in the back, playing pool and clocking the baseball game that was broadcast from the corner of the room.

I sat down at the bar next to a woman who looked like she'd forgotten her own name a few hours ago. I always had a policy when I worked at Frank's bar to tuck a woman in a cab long before she reached the point of no return.

“Welcome, darling, can I see some ID?”

I slipped Blue's Ohio driver's license out of my wallet and slid it across the bar. I felt my heart beat strong inside my chest, but then the old man slid it right back and said, “You're far from home.”

I took a breath to settle my nerves and said, “Road trip.”

“What can I get you?”

There was that decision again. Did I change my habits to adapt to my new person or were these details ultimately trivial? Fuck it. There was time enough to figure out who Debra Maze was. Right now,
I
needed a whiskey.

“Whiskey, neat.”

“Well okay?”

“Sure,” I said. I was pinching pennies these days.

“Name's Hal,” the bartender said as he served my drink. “Holler if you need anything.” Then he winked. It looked sinister, but I believe his intent was friendly. A wink is a difficult gesture to master and yet practiced by volumes of men who lack the panache to pull it off.

The lady a few bar stools away rested her head on the splintered wood and began to snore. I heard a man in the corner give some kind of doglike yelp after he failed to make his shot.

Then some other male voice shouted, “Blondie, come here and bring me some luck.”

Another man said, “Leave the woman be.”

Yet another voice in the low register said, “A woman like that should not be sitting alone.”

I took inventory of the bar to see whom the men might be speaking of. Other than a short phase in junior high school, after my mother gave me a brutal perm, I'd never been unsightly. I've heard myself described as pretty, handsome, easy on the eyes. But the only two men who ever thought I was truly beautiful were my daddy and Ryan; I don't believe I heard it after they were gone, even from Frank when he was courting me in that mild manner in which he courted. Only one other woman was in the bar besides me and the sleeping one. I couldn't comment on her looks; she was wearing a cumbersome neck brace, which is hardly an accessory that invites flirtation.

I'd never gotten the chance to turn Amelia Keen into a real person. She was still just a little bit more than a shell when I shed that disguise. And here I was again, trying on a new disguise that felt about as natural as that powdered orange juice I used to drink as a child.

One man unhitched himself from the knot of pool players and approached the bar. He was tall and lean and a bit weather-beaten, like an actor in an old western. His long-sleeved shirt retreated to his elbows, revealing the trail of a tribal tattoo that probably snaked up his entire torso, like overgrown ivy.

Hal was serving another customer, so the man reached over the bar, took a bottle of whiskey—better than the stuff I was drinking—and poured himself a shot. He let the bottle hover over my cordial glass.

“Can I buy you another?” Tribal Tattoo said.

“Looks like you're stealing another,” I said.

“Hal knows I'm good for it.”

“But I don't know what you're good for,” I said.

“That's because you've known me for less than a minute. I need at least two for a deep, personal connection.” The man refilled my drink and dropped a twenty on the bar. “This seat taken?”

“No,” I said. Because the seat wasn't taken, not because I wanted to encourage the man. I've never quite figured out a way to answer that question honestly and gain the desired result (man not sitting down). This time, it didn't make any difference; Tribal Tattoo sat down before I had time to respond.

He shoved his shirtsleeve above his elbow and lifted his glass to toast. “Bottoms up,” he said.

I clinked his glass because the last time I didn't clink a strange man's glass, he called me a bitch and things got out of hand. Sometimes it's easier to be agreeable, as long as the demands are reasonable. I'm generally willing to clink glasses with anyone, but I draw the line in other places.

“I hope you don't think I'm being forward, but you have the most . . . striking blue eyes I've ever seen.”

“Thank you,” I said, keeping my gaze on the bar.

Men are so easily drawn to fake things.

“I'm sure you hear that all the time.”

“Nope,” I said. “That would be the first.”

Tribal Tattoo thought I was being droll and laughed. “You're not going to make this easy on me, are you?”

I took a sip of my whiskey and said, “Thanks for the drink.”

One of the guys playing pool shouted, “Hey, Your Majesty, you're up.”

“Next game,” His Majesty said.

I offered a quizzical gaze and waited for an explanation.

“Name's King,” he said, with a note of tedium. “King Domenic Lowell. Just call me Domenic.”

He extended his hand; I shook it. He had a warm firm grip, but nothing showy.

“That's quite a name to live up to.”

“Tell me about it,” he said. “Now, what's your name?”

This used to be the easiest question under the sun. Now it was like a riddle trapped in a lockbox. I'd given the bartender my Debra ID, but I still wasn't certain this one would stick and I had to wonder whether it was wise tossing around a name that might be fraught with complications. That said, if you take too long to answer the question, it's going to sound like a lie even if it's the truth.

“Debra.”

It was the first time I'd said it as my own. It felt like a jacket that was a few sizes too small.

“A fine name,” Domenic said. “But it doesn't do you justice.”

Some fraction of my being enjoyed the flattery. The rest felt a danger as palpable as playing a drunken game of William Tell. What was it about blondness that jumbled men's brains? Half the blondes out there are chemically induced, and yet the result is exactly the same. How could I hide in plain sight if eyes were always trained on me? I would have to figure out a way to remedy this situation. But for now, in this bar, I accepted Domenic's flattery, because it had been so long since I'd been truly flattered and there was something about him beyond his square jaw and deep brown eyes. He seemed like the kind of man who had nothing to prove. I hadn't met one of those in ages. Sometimes I wondered if I ever had.

“It's my name, nonetheless,” I said.

“You new in town?”

“I'm just passing through,” I said.

“Where are you headed, Debra?”

“Jackson, probably. Not sure yet.” No point in conjuring yet another lie.

“What brings you to our fine state of Wyoming?”

“A job.”

“What kind of job?”

“Teacher,” I said. I have to admit it felt nice offering up a solid profession, even if it wasn't real yet.

“What grade?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“How else are we going to get to know each other?”

“Is that what we're doing?”

“Yes. I already know you better than I did when I first walked over.”

I guess I was staring at Domenic's tattoo because eye contact seemed unwise. He rolled up his sleeve a little more so I could get a better look. It was more elaborate than I thought.

“That must have hurt like hell,” I said. It's always best to steer the conversation away from yourself.

“You've been inked, I take it.”

“You inferred. I'm not sure I implied,” I said. Then it occurred to me that that was the kind of thing Blue might say.

“Well, have you?”

“Yes,” I said. I wondered whether it was wise to point out any identifying marks. I also wondered if a time would ever come when answering questions about myself wouldn't require laborious internal calculations.

“Where? Someplace decent or indecent?” he asked.

“Decent enough.”

“May I see?”

I nodded my head and finished my drink. Hal approached and asked if I wanted another. Domenic pointed to the top-shelf bourbon and ordered us both another round of drinks that were too costly for my new income bracket.

“Is it on your shoulder?”

“No.”

“Wrist?”

I lifted up my leg and rested it on Domenic's thigh.

“Ankle,” I said, pulling up my jeans, revealing three tiny Chinese symbols in red. It felt odd drawing attention to something I always tried to forget. Sometimes when I lived with Frank, I put a Band-Aid over it and pretended I had a cut.

“That's pretty,” said Domenic, but I could tell that he was disappointed. What a cliché. Then again, he had a tribal tattoo, so who was he to judge? “What does it mean?” he asked.

“It means nothing,” I said.

Domenic took in my response and then seemed to chew on it a bit. After a while, it had formed some kind of sense in his head.

“I think I understand you,” Domenic said. “But tell me the story.”

An old high school friend, Walt Burden, went out on the town one night and came upon a small group of Chinese tourists, one of whom struck a chord of desire in him so deep, he never dated a white girl again. When the tourist rebuffed his advances, he told her about how he wanted to get a tattoo of the Chinese symbol meaning “peace.”
Because no one had ever done that before.
He asked her to translate. The tourist girl wasn't giving him the time of day, but she did agree to draw the symbol for his tattoo on a napkin after his repeated pleas and an agreement that he would depart as soon as she did.

My friend Arthur Chang caught a glimpse of it in math class, and I could see him laughing to himself. I slipped Arthur a note: “What's so funny?” He said that Walt had no idea what words he had branded himself with, and then he told me.

Six months later, after a successful swim meet, my best friend, Melinda, insisted that we celebrate by getting tattoos to mark the occasion. We marched into a tattoo parlor with our respective designs. She got a dolphin—which she had decided two days earlier was her spirit animal. She wanted me to get a dolphin, too, but I didn't much like the idea of matching tattoos or spirit animals. I was distinctly aware that I was marking myself with a regrettable rite of passage, and I let it be just that. I had a photo of Walt's tattoo and asked the artist to duplicate it in miniature on the inside of my ankle.

I'm not sure why I wanted that tattoo more than a dolphin or a frog or Chinese symbols that meant something that was supposed to remind you to do things that come naturally, like breathing. But now it seems so apt that I chose these particular symbols, which literally mean “this means nothing.” Although when Melinda asked me what those symbols meant, I told her they meant “swim.”

I told Domenic the abbreviated version, minus the lie to Melinda; he smiled and nodded.

“That's a fine tattoo story. Better than most,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said, flattered.

It felt nice to speak the truth for once. I couldn't remember the last time I'd told a real story about myself to someone other than Blue. “Now, what's your excuse? You going to tell me you're two percent Cherokee or something?”

Domenic roared with laughter. It was a real, solid belly laugh. “Nah, nothing like that.”

“So then, why are you branded like every other man I meet?”

“Because the Forty-Niners lost the Super Bowl.”

“I can't see how far that ink travels—”

“I'd be happy to show you,” Domenic said.

“—but that's a lot of time sitting in a chair in minor agony because you lost a bet.”

Domenic finished his drink and said, “I'm a man of my word.”

I believed him. As you might imagine, men hadn't been on the top of my list for a very long time. I knew they weren't all bad, but I had come across a few who were so rotten that they tainted the rest of the pool. But as far as men went, Domenic seemed all right to me, as all right as a man you've known less than an hour can seem.

Hal stepped behind the bar again.

“Is His Majesty giving you any trouble?” he said. It was just something to say. He didn't mean it.

“Not just yet,” I said. “But I'll let you know.”

Domenic looked me straight in the eye. His eyes conveyed desire and curiosity, but there wasn't that ugliness you sometimes see when a man is trying to decide how much he can take from you. I tried not to avert my gaze, but that's all I'd been doing for the last three months. It was a tough habit to shake.

“Can I buy you a burger?” Domenic said.

“Huh?” I said. I had expected a question of a different variety.

“I'm starving. There's a diner down the road. They get a lot of things wrong, but for some reason their burgers are special. I wouldn't touch their meatloaf, and the chicken fried steak should be a health code violation.” He was just rattling on, waiting for me to answer.

“Yes,” I said.

Domenic's brand-new Ford F-150 was parked right outside the bar. He opened the passenger door, just like a gentleman. My heart started pumping as if I were on speed. It felt like the air had thinned and the only thing I could do to calm my nerves was walk away.