Nitro Mountain (17 page)

“You crazy!” Terri slaps her hand over Eads's mouth.

“Must've been a fun night,” Jones says. “I'll try her room.”

At the end of the hallway he finds the door locked and hears the noise of a window unit rattling inside. He bangs on the door and tries the knob. “Natalie? It's me, your evil ex-husband. I'm here for my guitar case.”

He stands there with his ear to the door, nothing, then goes to the kitchen to find a drink and think about whether he shouldn't just break into her room. He feels like kicking something down.

He checks in the cupboard, but that's where
he
used to keep it. Under her rules of operation it's below the sink, where a bottle of bourbon is next to a can of Drano. While he's pouring whiskey into a can of flat Coke he found, an icy hand touches the back of his neck. Natalie. Her eyes raccooned in mascara. Lipstick smeared. Hair tangled into a nest atop her little head.

“Look,” Jones says, holding up both hands, “all I want—”

“Your case is fine. Have a good time being gone?”

She's still toasted, Jones can smell it.

Under the blanket, Eads whispers to Terri, “That's Natalie. Get her under here.”

“Don't pay them no mind,” Natalie says to Jones. “They just been to the Big Rock Candy Mountain.”

“If I'm interrupting something I can come back later.”

She tightens her hair. “Come back in the kitchen.”

“Just give me my case,” he says.

“We miss you,” she says, holding her breasts and moving them up and down. Jones follows her. She opens the fridge and takes out a tin can emptied of tomatoes and now full of red wine. The top's still hanging on where the can opener didn't catch. “Come back to my room,” she says.

“Look, I thought we settled this. I just need—”

“I know what you fucking need. So come back and get it.”

Jones pushes past her to the bedroom. His case better be in there.

She stays right on his heels down the hall. Her closet door's off its hinges and leaning against the window. No light ever gets in here. Jones sees the guitar case in the closet.

Natalie slams the door shut behind them. “Here I am,” she says.

He checks all five latches to make sure the case doesn't fly open, then takes it up by the leather handle. It molds to his hand. But Natalie's standing right behind him with the can of wine to her mouth. When she stops for a breath, Jones pushes her aside and opens the door.

“Just like trash,” she says. “That's how you're throwing me away. Like trash.”

He makes it down the hallway with her screaming on his heels, picks up the Coke can from the coffee table where he left it and throws it back. He turns and sees her standing in the dark. He feels the whiskey coming on. “Natalie,” he says. “Don't make it worse.”

She leans against the wall, unbuttons the top of her pants and yanks down her zipper. “I'm just trying to make it better.”

Knowing he's got a song to write helps him look at her and say, “No.”

“What's her name?” Natalie says.

“This is stupid.”

“Not as stupid as what I'm going to do if you don't tell me.” She points at the blanket.

“Have fun, then,” Jones says.

She jumps at him, and before he can move she tosses the rest of her wine in his face.

Eads starts laughing. “Come on over, y'all. Plenty of room.”

Jones wipes the wine from his eyes.

“Tell me what her name is,” she says.

He shouldn't say it. Everybody's listening. Don't do it.

A
rnett rears back to hit her with the pistol. She blocks her face, but nothing happens.

“God, fuck it,” he says. “You know I only do this because I love you. Everything I do, it's because I love you.”

“If you did, we wouldn't be here like this. You got me trapped in a motel room, and all you do is pretend you're gonna hit me? Do it or don't. Just quit pretending.”

“There ain't no going back.” He paces in front of her. “What's done is done.”

“It
ain't
done,” she says. “Please.”

“Say some more words and I'll put a bullet through your tongue. Say fucking words! You hear me now?”

“What am I supposed to do?” she says. “All you ever did was torture me.”

“Bull fucking horse shit.”

The gun's still on her but he seems to be listening now. “Put it down,” she says.

“You asked for every single thing I ever did to you.”

“Look at us,” she says. “You with a gun. How's this making things better?”

“Last night,” he says. “Let's start there and go backwards.”

“I was right here.”

“With who?”

“None of your business,” she says. “Besides, nobody.”

“Oh, it's definitely my business.” Arnett steps at her with the pillow and she pushes herself up, her knees hurting from sitting folded and all her nerves going, like she's about to shit herself. She grabs for the pillow, expecting a bullet, but he pulls it away. She lunges at him and a flashing explosion stops them both. The smell of burnt hair fills the room, a high-pitched ringing in her ears. Pieces from the wall behind her crumble onto the floor.

“I told you hush,” he says.

The shot glanced her shoulder, knocked her back a few feet. She puts her hand over the pain moving and growing like a burning web. “You shot me?” she says.

“No I didn't.”

She keeps her hand over the pumping blood. “God,” she says. “My God.”

“Always disagreeing with me. I give you a place to live, and all you give me is what?”

“I gotta sit down.”

“Do that.”

She folds into the chair over in the corner and it feels like her feet aren't there. This, she understands, is shock.

“Now.” Arnett puts the gun back in the fiddle case and locks it shut. “Let me go get you some water. I never shot a girl before.”

Instead, he takes a notepad from his pocket, picks up the phone and starts trying numbers, crashing the receiver back into the cradle every time nobody answers, until somebody finally does.

“Eads,” he says. “Arnett calling. Very serious question. You hear me? What? Wait.” He holds the receiver out from his face. “Shit-ass phone,” he says, and goes over to the keypad until he finds a button and hits it.

A man's voice talks through the static of the speakerphone: “Questions are serious because they're asking something.”

“Don't fuck with me, Eads,” Arnett says.

“Don't fuck with
me,
man! I paid your ass! These questions, they always ask people for, like, fucking answers.”

“You won't have to pay me for nothing, Eads, if you'd just shut up for a second. Zero payments.”

“Zero? Without any numbers in front?”

“None.”

“Listening.”

“Where's your car at? I need to borrow it. Can you bring it to me?”

“Is that really you, Arnett? Terri, it's him on the phone. Yeah! Bring us more Robot, Arnett!”

“It's me. Come on, man. Wake up. I need your car.”

“Me and Terri's locked, baby.”

“Your car,” Arnett says. “Tell me where it's at. I'll bring you both some Robot, for free, if you just tell me where your fucking car's at.”

“I have a car. Yes. Where you?”

“With Jennifer. Wake up and think. Tell me where your car is.”

“Jennifer. Woozy! Why didn't you say so? I was at Natalie's this morning, when this dude, Jones—you know him?”

“Fuck.” Jennifer tries to sit up but the walls are warped and the floor's slanted and the chair she's in keeps tumbling backwards.

“That sorry-ass country singer from Misty's,” Arnett says. “Yeah.”

“He came by fighting with Natalie. You should've heard them. She was yelling and throwing shit at him and then he starts telling her how he slept with some girl, some slut named Jennifer. This very morning. I didn't know if it was your Jennifer or not. But the name jumped out at Terri, and she told me I better tell you. Was it your Jennifer?”

“That's a good question,” Arnett says, looking straight at her. “Sounds to me like some cut-rate hunch.”

She puts her hands on the arms of the chair and warm blood pumps from her shoulder. Focus, she tells herself. Keep it together until this is over. It's almost over.

“Where's the Robot?” Eads says. “Come on, let's go. How the hell you gonna get it to us without a car?”

Arnett rips the phone cord from the wall.

Jennifer sees him go into the bathroom and then he comes out holding a plastic cup. He sets it on the table beside her. “Drink you some water,” he says, but she can barely understand. Everything's moving so fast now and he's talking about getting out of here before somebody comes knocking. “Where's the keys to your truck?” he says, and begins going through her purse. “They in your room?” Arnett dumps the purse onto the bed. Gum wrappers, ChapStick, receipts, a multi-tool, a wallet. He stuffs bills from the wallet into his pocket. There's her license. He'll leave that so the ambulance can identify her. He unzips an inside pocket in the purse, reaches in and feels the keys.

“Don't do me like this,” she says.

He tosses the keys in the air and snatches them. “Who'd you hook up with last night? Why's your face all busted? You been hooking? Who with? Tell me that.”

She tries to stand but can't. “That's my business,” she says. “And besides, I been right here the whole time.”

“With Jones.”

“Who's Jones?”

“Maybe you didn't get his name before he left this morning,” Arnett says. “Jones—Natalie's Jones?”

“I didn't do shit.”

“Your friendly friend you fucking fucked this morning,” Arnett says. “He plays at Misty's. Shitty-ass country. Don't worry if your mind's not working. That's what losing blood does to you. I'll find him for you.”

She picks up the cup of water, drinks and rests it between her legs. “I didn't.”

“You did. And I'm taking your truck.”

She winces, grips her arm. “I'm sorry.”

“Too late for that.” He brings her more water.

The wallpaper in here is playing tricks in her eyes. It's close and far away. Moving and still. Coming in and going out.

“Drink your water.”

“Arnett,” she says. “You go get somebody. I need help.”

He stands in the door looking back. A broken glow around his body. Bugs flying in around him. “I'm definitely going to go get somebody. Now drink your water.”