When Watched (6 page)

The joke was met with incredible disinterest. Peanut snatched the frames from her hand, untucked her T-shirt, and rubbed off the lenses. She handed them back to Frances without a word.

Soon they were riding past squat gray shopping centers, one after another, with slabs of dried grass in between.

“God. Walmart looks like a grocery store in a bad neighborhood,” said Frances.

“America
is
a bad neighborhood,” Peanut said flatly.

“Do we need anything from there? Maybe we should stop.”

“For what? A seven-foot box of cornflakes? No thanks,” Peanut said with satisfaction. She leaned back in her seat and repressed a smile.

Frances pulled a dry piece of skin off her lip and a dot of blood rose up in its place. She felt anxious beside Peanut, who sat with her arms folded, resonating anger. Often Peanut veered into dark moods without warning and Frances always knew she was being accused of something, though she rarely knew what. She wanted badly to touch Peanut, but knew she couldn't. She knew that in Peanut's stillness, an ambush was coming. “I want to look at you but I can't take my eyes off the road,” said Frances. “Whatever look you're giving me, I can feel it.”

“How does it feel?”

“Like standing next to a microwave.”

Peanut sat stiffly, wishing she could somehow prompt an apology from Frances without explaining how she felt. She bided her time like an animal, glancing out the window at fast-food signs cast with colored light. She felt sharp and focused whenever she was this angry and, in this way, partly enjoyed the eerie mood between them. Peanut visualized Frances in San Francisco, flirting with whole rooms of women, and then settling on one to lead back to her hotel room. The thought made Peanut sweat profusely. Her legs stuck to the vinyl seat, which had split in three places and been duct-taped. She forced her gaze onto passing discount stores, dark casinos with candy-bright signs. Then a strange smile crept across her face. Peanut tucked her hands under her thighs. “So were you a whore in San Francisco?” she asked in a hostile flirty tone.

“Is that what you want? You sound all turned on.”

“Come on, were you?”

“No. More of a bore than a whore.”

“You didn't flirt with anyone? I mean out of everyone you met, say you had to pick one—”

“But I don't have to. You are always demanding that I do this. It's so demented, Peanut. It's like you're baiting me to piss you off. And I'm not going to. I'm not some dog, okay? I'm sorry to disappoint you.”

“I just find it hard to believe. I mean, you can hardly contain yourself at parties. You walk around stroking your tie, waiting for someone to compliment you, and then lean into any woman who shows the slightest—”

Frances shot a glance at Peanut. “Look at you. You're all flushed. You're all jealous and turned on.”

“I am not turned on.” Peanut straightened her back. “I'm making a point.” She stared at Frances with a grim, determined expression. “So tell me who you found attractive in San Francisco.”

“Oh my God.” Frances sighed. “Okay. Emmet I guess.”

Peanut's eyes grew. “Who's Emmet?” she asked in an oddly cheerful tone that Frances knew could go dark at any moment. Peanut was always playful when gathering information about whomever Frances had paid particular attention to. She felt to Frances like someone holding a dagger behind a curtain.

“Just this drummer I like. He's a great guy.”

“Well he can get in line.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You think everyone's great. And you want to have sex with everyone. Men included, apparently.”

Frances opened her mouth to speak but stopped herself. It seemed like a lot of work.

Peanut looked out at crowds of cows in a field. The sun was setting. There was a glare of pink light in the rearview mirror. “What did you want to do to him?” she asked, fascinated.

“Nothing. I don't know. I was just curious. If I wasn't with you I probably would have fooled around with him. He seemed interested too.”

“Did you wish you weren't with me at that moment?” Peanut asked sternly, panic flashing in her eyes. “I mean, did you fantasize?”

“It's okay to fantasize. Are you saying you never fantasize?”

“Did you kiss him?”

“No. Not really. I mean, it was a friendly goodbye kiss.”

“Not really? Well it's a good thing I ask you these questions because otherwise I wouldn't have a fucking clue.” Peanut
looked fiercely at her legs. “You haven't slept with a man in over twenty years.”

“I didn't want to sleep with him. It was just a vague sort of animal interest. I'm attracted to men all the time but I don't want to see what they become in sex.” White headlights whooshed by. “I don't want to be
feminine
,” Frances said firmly. “I don't want to be the counterpart to their virility. I'd wind up feeling like some slain lamb.”

Peanut laughed, surprising both of them.

“I'm not kidding. I remember going to the butcher with my mom as a kid during the spring and seeing this skinned lamb in the window with an Easter lily in its mouth.”

“Jesus.”

“It was the early sixties.”

“I know that.”

Gram Parsons sang his last raspy heartsick song and the two didn't talk. Frances seemed to be controlling the silence between them and this maddened Peanut. She faced the window and cried discreetly, then patted her face with her fist.

Frances felt trapped in the car and wished she were home alone, away from Peanut, her vortex of need. She tunneled into herself and wrote a song.
She's a little biting daisy, tipping into insanity from seventeen directions. Bite. Bite. Bite.
Frances strained to commit the words to memory, hating Peanut for having two free hands and not knowing how to drive.

Soon they stopped at an Exxon gas station and went inside in silence, past glaring truckers with fat guts. Peanut bought a giant iced coffee and jalapeño potato chips. She walked back to the car in a huff and began eating the chips without pleasure, sipping coffee between bites.

A tall man tapped on her window. It was open a crack and
Peanut could hear him breathing. She looked up and a shrill, exhilarated look came across his face. He had a brown handlebar mustache and sunburned nose. Peanut looked away. The man was around Frances's age, she guessed, though he had aged differently, with his craggy face and distended stomach. He was ugly.

Previously, Peanut had considered people either young or old. If they were young, there were many stages to consider. But after fifty, she had never bothered to gauge one's exact age. She said
Santa
. She said
old
and looked away. After meeting Frances, however, this snide disregard had veered into complete fascination. She fixated on everyone over fifty. She measured gradations of oldness, tracking them on the street. She would see a white-haired man straining to climb a step and want to know how old he was. She would want to ask. To say, “Please, sir, I need to know. Because whatever age you say, I'll file it away and fear that year.” She also felt compelled to know the ages of white-haired people who were walking easily in hip outfits, maybe telling smart jokes. Frances was like that, a swarm of energy. She was attractive in her enthusiasm, which seemed unusual. Most masculine women appeared dour to Peanut, as if they believed that this sort of sulky demeanor was maleness. Peanut was too peevish herself to be near anyone like that.

The man with the brown mustache stared at Peanut for a long moment. He scratched his neck, then walked slowly to his truck. Peanut leaned her head on the cool window glass.

Frances had seen the man approach her car. She stood outside the gas station with a miserable look of concentration, holding her dim green travel mug and a bag of pretzel sticks. Frances imagined confronting him. Of course he would think she was Peanut's mother, or maybe her father. Probably he would stare stupidly, trying to decide which. Frances was continually
challenged to educate those who oppressed her, to talk openly about her genitals, and because of this she often resisted the urge to confront them at all. Frances found it ludicrous that she be perceived as a parent. She was no kind of parent and never had been.
Harrison Ford really
is
a father,
she thought.
Possibly even a grandfather, but he will never be called this.
In quiet agony, she sipped her coffee and considered man's eternal separateness from progeny.

Once inside the car, Frances tore open her bag of pretzels and ate several sticks, stealing glances at Peanut, her little foreboding face.

“What did that guy say to you?”

“He didn't say anything.”

“I
saw
him. He was standing by the window.” She ate another pretzel.

“He just stared. We didn't talk.” Peanut said, deliberately aloof. “He had a Bush/Cheney '04 bumper sticker on his truck.”

“It really seemed like he was talking to you.”

“Well he wasn't.”

The sun was almost gone and this made them both feel worse. Frances started the car and looked over at Peanut as they peeled out. “You have crumbs all over your shirt,” she said.

“Look at yourself.”

 • • • 

In Marietta they checked into a Best Western hotel, which was run by a bunch of smiling Christians.

“So, two single beds?” the blonde woman behind the counter asked. She wore a hideous white button-down blouse with a pink chest pocket.

“No, one king,” said Frances.

“It's the same price for two singles,” the woman said firmly, still smiling, determined to believe the two were poor and not perverted.

“One king,” Frances repeated and the woman's face changed. She was the sort of idiot whose thoughts may as well have boomed from a speaker on her forehead. Peanut and Frances watched her think about them.

The woman stared in amazement. “Alright then,” she said, collecting herself, and tensely typed something into her computer. She put a plastic card on the counter and pointed vaguely. “Up the stairs on your right.”

Frances wanted to smile.
This is the great thing about capitalism,
she thought.
Christians selling queers a bed. Nothing in the world exists but profit.

They dropped their bags off and went across the street to Outback Steakhouse. Peanut ordered a baked potato with sour cream and bacon bits. Frances ordered a full steak dinner. She had always been able to eat heartily under stress and Peanut found this unattractive, too warlike.

Peanut slouched, letting her long brown hair fall over one eye. Lewd, tawny light lit the exposed half of her face. “So you're not going to talk to me?” she asked, pissed to be the first to speak.

“You aren't saying anything either,” Frances said impassively.

“Well, I don't know what to say to you when you act like this.”

“What, like mean?”

“More like heartless. Like a piece of statuary.” Peanut stared at Frances. “It's like you're autistic.”

Frances smiled like a wolf. “Do you know what that means? To be autistic?”

“Of course I do. Don't quiz me.”

“Just tell me what you think it means.”

“It means someone who can, you know, rattle off all the prime numbers, but not, like, say hello.”

Frances chewed her steak and swallowed. “I'm like that?”

“Yeah.”

Frances was surprised by how much this hurt her feelings. She continued to eat and wanted to cry.

“I just wish you would speak,” said Peanut. “You could say anything.”

“No,” Frances snapped. She set her fork and knife down. “You want me to say something
specific
. You want to have a conversation where you write both sides, like a play.”

Peanut looked at her potato and wanted to shriek. It was true that she often staged conversations with the hope of eliciting particular responses from Frances, but for this she felt no remorse. It seemed to Peanut that Frances didn't know how to talk to people. She could be unduly frank, accidentally mean. She needed help.

 • • • 

On the table in their hotel room there were cheap butter cookies in a plastic wrapper. Beside them a card read,
To Our Guests: Because this hotel is a human institution to serve people, and not solely a money-making organization, we hope that the peace of Jesus Christ will rest on you while you are under our roof.

“You believe this shit,” Frances muttered. On the card she wrote:
This is actually really offensive to Jews and Muslims,
then sat in a maroon chair and ate both cookies.

Peanut was too tired to maintain her cold exterior. She turned on the television and took off all her clothes, then poured herself stomach-down into bed.

Frances apologized from the maroon chair, though she
still didn't know entirely what for. She walked to the bed and stood there.

White sheets covered Peanut's ass and legs. Blue TV light blinked on her back. She peered over one shoulder to see Frances's expression and then put her face back on the pillow.

Frances sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her head and back carefully, as if she were touching a terminally ill animal. Peanut's mouth fell open. She let out a little groan, loving to be touched this way, like she was sick and precious. She cried in a small way that soon opened into a breathy sob.

Peanut was flipped over and explored. She continued to cry and it felt fantastic. Between gasps she explained that the last few hours had been lonely. “And you should have called me back in San Francisco.”

Frances nodded sincerely. She was moved to see Peanut cry.

Peanut wiped her face with her fist and sat up, relieved enough to notice how uncomfortable she was. “I hate a tucked sheet,” she said and began tugging the sheets loose.