Stacking in Rivertown Page 21

  In the middle of the night, we both wake, kissing with violence, as though the dangers have taken us over. Biting and scratching, we push each other toward some edge over which we both tumble, making love like it’s a vicious thing, like we can save ourselves by hurting. I end up crying again, and she holds me, talking to me low in the darkness.

  The next few weeks are like floating down that river, the heat making us drowsy, dulling my edge with love. The only time I go to my apartment is to pick up more of my clothes.

  One morning I show up at her place dressed as Becker. I slouch around for her amusement. Miriam decides that she wants to be Becker. I dress her up.

  So for fun, Miriam and I begin gallivanting around the bay area, one or both of us dressed as Becker or Marty, as she dubs her new persona. She especially likes to be Marty with me as Becca.

  For her enjoyment, I wear a very short, tight skirt on these occasions. She pinches me on the ass as we sit in the park. “Now I’m a nobody just like everybody else,” she says, running a hand up my thigh.

  “Stop it.” I slap her hand.

  She takes to buying cigarettes, God forbid, pretending to smoke. She rolls the pack in her sleeve. I can’t believe I’m hanging out with someone like Marty.

  “You don’t have the right edge,” I say, pushing her hand off my thigh for the millionth time. A young married couple with two small children are staring. “You weren’t beaten enough as a child.”

  She puts her hand back. “Is that a clue, a Freudian slip?” She’s always egging me into giving her tidbits to feed her infinite curiosity about my past.

  I ignore her. “If you die of some terrible, disfiguring cancer from those things, I won’t come to your funeral.”

  The cigarette hangs from her lips. “Kiss me, babe.”

  At night we lie in darkness, letting the starlight or the moon flood the rooms. She’s had a baby grand brought in. As she sings, I lie on the couch, drenched by the river. It reminds me of Mama.

  “What?” Miriam says, running her hands over me. “Talk to me. What makes you so sad? It’s Violet, isn’t it?”

  I pull her close and lay my ear to her chest. Her heartbeat is full and strong. But I worry. My God-awful past. Where does a person even start? I have to admit, I’m feeling guilty about all that I’m keeping from her, but not guilty enough to start talking.

  Greg, Josh, Miriam, and I begin to hit the bars after closing Tutti, but it gets to be tiresome with so many people coming up to Miriam. She starts dressing as Marty, which Greg and Josh think is great fun. They convince Miriam to join them in coaxing me to dress up as Clarisse Broder.

  “Just once,” Josh begs as we’re all shopping together one evening. We’ve stopped for a bite to eat at a small place where the price for a cup of cappuccino should be considered a felony. “Climb out on the edge of the Golden Gate, Becca. You’ll give everybody heart attacks.” He waves his arms.

  “We’ll whisk you away before the police can arrest you,” Miriam adds as though it’s an afterthought.

  “Gee, thanks,” I say, finishing off my latte. “Why don’t we just drop this?” I leave the table.

  Later that night, Miriam won’t let it be.

  “What’s the big deal?” she says. “Why are you so angry about this?”

  “I’m not angry,” I yell. “I’m tired of it.”

  “Why is it different from being Becker or Marty?”

  “Because she was real. And those kids jumped off and got killed. I don’t think it’s funny.”

  She takes her stance with her arms crossed.

  “Why won’t you talk to me about your past?”

  “Why can’t you just drop it?” I scream. “Just leave me the fuck alone.”

  That’s when I leave, thinking I’m going to my apartment. But I’m overwhelmed with the push behind, the thing that chases. Because now I know. It’s Violet that races behind me. But I don’t want to see anymore. I don’t think I’ll survive it.

  I don’t go home. Instead, I roam around in the dark, ending up back at Miriam’s. She’s already conked out in bed. Before I know it, I find myself in the extra bedroom curling up on the floor of the closet. I keep the door cracked, but throw a blanket over myself, leaving enough space for me to look out into the room. The Walther is in my hand.

  “Where are you?”

  I lie still and close my eyes. She opens the closet door. “Jesus, Becca.” She kneels beside me and draws the blanket off my head. She kisses me.

  “Talk to me.”

  “I think I might do better alone right now.”

  She’s silent. “No. I’m not leaving you alone like this.” She lies down with her head in front of me. “Was it our fight? I didn’t mean to scare you. I won’t push you like that again.” She touches me. I cringe. She pulls back. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know.”

  “Maybe you should see your therapist more. You should listen to her. A psychiatrist might help.”

  “I’ll be fine tomorrow.” I pull the blanket back over my head. Miriam lifts the side of the blanket and fits her body into mine. I put my arm around her and cling to her warmth, clutching the Walther in my other hand. I’m so worried about the gym shoes. I don’t want them to discover Miriam.

  The next day, I convince Tom to go on another shooting spree, practicing on the moving targets. The whole thing disgusts Miriam, but she holds her tongue. I can see that our night in the closet worried her.

  Now if I have a day off, she drags me along to the studio with her. I’m amazed by the operation that surrounds her, musicians, sound engineers, marketing and image specialists, and so on, all geared toward taking one woman and a few songs, and turning it into wads of money. It has the flavor of a political machine.

  Johnson, her manager and producer, comes and goes, keeping an eye on the recording, but also setting up future tour dates, interviews, publicity events, you name it.

  “Johnson doesn’t like me,” I say.

  “He doesn’t like anybody. Real friendship just gets in his way. Think of him as a politician. The marketing, the interviews. It’s all just spin to him.”

  “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “I wouldn’t be where I am today without him.”

  “Which is where, exactly?” I find myself poking her on this point.

  She rolls her eyes at me. “I wouldn’t have met you if I wasn’t famous,” she says, scoring on me there, I have to admit.

  “Never know,” I say. “We might have met grazing the same Dumpster.”

  She doesn’t laugh. “Is that another one of your Freudian slips or are you jealous?” she says.

  “Yeah. I’m sure it’s jealousy.” I curse myself for having brought up Dumpsters again.

  But she gets quiet then. “Johnson’s worried about the gay thing.”

  “What gay thing?”

  “You and me, Dumbo.”

  “Oh. I never think of it that way. I just love you.”

  “Well, he’s worried that it will get around, slow down sales, interfere with my chances at a Grammy.”

  “I told you he didn’t like me.”

  “Oh, just forget it,” she says.

  “Are you worried?”

  “A little. I’ve always wanted a Grammy.”

  “God, what for? It’s just a weird costume ball and marketing ploy. Everybody sits around and admires each other.”

  “You know, you have a shitty attitude sometimes.”

  I bite my tongue. “If that’s what you want, Miriam, then I’ll help you.”

  She kisses me. “We have to start keeping a low profile.”

  “I’m good at that.”

  She looks at me suspiciously.

  As the weeks go by, the memories haunt. They come so quick that I don’t always know what’s happening. Some are of Violet, but others are of the basement, the rail, days spent in the box. I catch Burt watching me at work. And Miriam’s getting used to me “going away,” as she calls it.

 
“You’re seeing Violet again, aren’t you?”

  Why does she have to be so smart? I nod my head, unable to speak.

  “Becca, you know I love you. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, so why won’t you talk to me?”

  I lie my head down. Sometimes I cry. She wraps her arms around me and I rest in her scent, making sure she’s breathing.

  Thanksgiving flies by. We spend it with Josh and Greg. Miriam whips up a great Indian meal. No puffed-up turkey in sight. No cameras.

  I fall deeper in. The river presses close. Her eyes, her lips, the scent of her skin drags me, pushing me down, holding me under.

  11

  Johnson

  In December, as the rains begin to set up and the fog settles in, Miriam finishes recording. She wants to get out of town for a couple of days while she has a break in her schedule. She decides that we should go hiking.

  She hears about a redwood preserve somewhere in the Santa Cruz Mountains that has some great trails. She says, “Seclusion.” She says, “Great views.” She says, “Not far from the city.” The last sounds the best to me. I’ve never been on a vacation in my life, not that I remember anyway. It sounds exhausting.

  But then I find out about the gear. I learn about Gore-Tex and gaiters. Miriam gets me all set up.

  That’s when Johnson informs her that he’s arranged a photo shoot for promos. It’s the day we’re supposed to leave.

  “Shit,” I say when she informs me. “I told you he hates me.”

  “This doesn’t have a thing to do with you. And it’s in the city. So I do the shoot and then we leave for our hotel. You’ll come with me to the shoot.”

  “No. I don’t think I’d like it.”

  “I want you there. It’s hellish. If I can see you sitting nearby it will be better for me.”

  How can I say no?

  A day before we’re supposed to leave, I see a message from Beefy in the Times. It says, please call.

  I have a hard time getting away from Miriam. She’s become somewhat possessive of me. If she’d been Jeremy, I would have told her to sit. Stay. The problem with loving someone as smart as yourself is that you’re forced into too much honesty.

  I finally hit a nice abandoned area with a burned-out car and a phone booth that has seen better days.

  “Bates here.”

  “Hi, again.”

  “This connection is bad. Are you on the North Pole?”

  “As far as you’re concerned I am.”

  He doesn’t laugh.

  “I want you to come here and do a lineup.”

  “Wrong. Bzzz. You lose.”

  “Beth, this isn’t a game. We’ve narrowed it down here. Try to help us finger the guy. Think of all the kids he’s killed.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “All you have to do is run into the city and run out. We’ll bring you into the station under a blanket or something. It’ll be just you and me on the other side of the mirror. I promise you, no other cops. You take a look at our candidates and out you go, back into oblivion where you like it so much.”

  I’m thinking Southern Comfort. I’m thinking Uzi.

  “When?”

  He lets out a breath. “So you’ll do it?”

  “I’m not saying yes or no. I have to think about it. When do you want to do it?”

  “Any time, but we need two or three days notice to round up our suspects.”

  I chew my lip. I think I picked that up from Miriam. “I’m going away for a few days. I’ll make up my mind by the time I get back. That’s five days.”

  “I want to do it sooner than that.”

  “Tough,” I say. “You’ve waited five and a half years. You can wait five days.”

  “Fine. Just peachy. You want me to send you the pictures of Matt? Isn’t that how you knew him? Or the ones of Violet?”

  I hang up on him.

  At Tutti, I bitch around again. Miriam doesn’t show up tonight. She’s packing the Taurus since we have to leave early in the morning.

  Miriam is pleased with the car.

  “What else don’t I know about you?”

  “The Taurus is hardly me.”

  “In other words, a lot. Right?”

  “If you’re going to answer your own questions, why bother me with them?”

  “Maryland?” she says, looking at the plates. “I thought you were from Ohio,” she says.

  “I don’t tend to think of myself as being from any place in particular.”

  “Maryland?” she says again.

  After I close at Tutti, I check the Dumpster, this time taking extra care to search all the corners. Then I go to my place, feeling like a stranger there. I take out the picture of Mama and look at her for awhile, tears in my eyes. In the corner of the frame, I’ve stuck the school picture of Vin.

  Before I go to Miriam’s, I pack the shotgun and some extra rounds of ammo in my duffel bag. She can’t believe I own yet another gun. I pull the switchblade out of my purse, flipping it open. “Look at this,” I say.

  She rolls her eyes. “I feel like I’m going on vacation with Rambo.”

  “Who’s that?” I say.

  We drag out of bed about four in the morning, clean up, and eat a quick breakfast. Before we leave, I show her where I keep all my guns and ammo, just in case we need to blast our way out of somewhere. It doesn’t appear to help her feel safe in any way.

  We buzz into the city.

  I should have gotten the hint that it was going to be a bad day when I pull up at the photography studio and several photographers and reporters are waiting for Miriam. They start toward us. I jam the Taurus in gear and get the hell out of there.

  “What are you doing?” Miriam says. “That’s the place.”

  “Fine. I don’t want my face or my car getting splashed up in some magazine. I’ll drop you nearby and you can walk in.”

  She stares at me. “What’s the matter with a few pictures?”

  “You’re the one that said Johnson wanted to keep the gay thing quiet.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that.”

  I stew. “I just don’t want my picture taken.”

  “Or a picture of this car.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Okay. Drop me here. I’ll walk back. You can slip in later. But we’re talking about this tonight.”

  I nod.

  She leaves the car with her bag and I hide the Taurus in a parking garage, freaked about the reporters. By the time I get back, the coast is clear.

  A pert, smartly dressed young woman named Suzy leads me back to where they’re working on Miriam. I instantly hate what they’ve done to her face. Her ache is squashed, covered up by foundation. The lines of her face that show her depth and maturity have been erased. She’s looking more and more like a sex kitten.

  I don’t say a thing. It’s not my business.

  By eleven, after a lot of fussing, they start looking at the wardrobe, with Miriam asking my advice. I try to let her and Stewart, the main promo guy, decide, putting in my two cents only if it’s something I hate. By one, they’re ready for pictures.

  I’m exhausted.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask her as we head for the place where the cameras wait.

  “It will screw up the makeup,” she says.

  Good idea.

  So I sit in a corner and watch, swearing I’ll never do one of these with her again. That’s when Johnson shows up. He and Stewart huddle. Then he watches as they adjust lighting. When they’re in full swing, Johnson ambles over to me. He smiles, a strange thing to watch on his face. I don’t think his cheeks know how to act.

  “This is boring as hell,” he says. “You hungry?”

  I’m so famished my stomach hurts, but I sense that lunch with Johnson might be somewhat like dropping into a nest of water moccasins.

  “Not really,” I say.

  “Come on,” he says. “I know a good place nearby.”

  I don’t move, weighing out the
worst that could happen. I decide the worst would be if I shoot him, which wouldn’t be bad for me.